When my father came home after drinking beer, he would arrive intoxicated, singing:
Nhai, Zaranyika! Hey, Zaranyika!
Waiti kune rima You said it was dark
Zvino ndauya nepi? So how did I get home?
He would sing as he walked, until he arrived at the house. Then we would know he was drunk. Once he got there, he would send my younger brother Palmer, whom he called “Munhukwaye.” He would say, “Munhukwaye! Go and roll me a cigarette.” Then he would smoke his cigarette. Once he had finished, that is when he would take his mukube and play.
This was so exciting, because my father never talked much; he was very quiet. He was so quiet that if you sat with him, there wasn’t ever much to talk about. If you told an interesting story and he so much as smiled and said, “Oh,” that was enough – at least he had smiled. So, he was someone who didn’t talk much.
So, whenever he ended up picking up his mukube when he was drunk, oh, we had to smile. He would be telling us all kinds of interesting things, and we wondered, was this our father? He would play his mukube, finish playing, and go to bed. That was the end of the evening.
I have a mukube simply so that I can maintain my father’s instrument, and keep one in my home with me. So, that is how I came to seek one out, and stay with it. And now, it is being recorded; my father has come back!