We parked 9km away from Humanikwa village in Buhera and walked the rest of the journey to his homestead to bury an icon who to me was not just a boss, but a friend and a father.
By Luke Tamborinyoka
A long line of vehicles stretched for almost 20km as the world descended in this village in Buhera West, some 242km south-east of Harare. The human and vehicular traffic left one in rapt wonderment, leaving no doubt whatsoever this was nothing less than a hero’s burial.
Political parties were represented from Kenya to Namibia, from South Africa to Zambia, while leaders of at least 13 political parties in Zimbabwe came to bury him. The world was represented, as diplomats came in droves, while ordinary people came from all over the country to pay their last respects to this doyen of our time; this undisputed icon of our democratic struggle.
That the leaders of almost all political parties came to bury him, including Zanu PF that was represented by its chairperson Oppah Muchinguri-Kashiri, spoke to the kaleidoscopic nature of Morgan Tsvangirai’s politics; the cosmopolitan appeal his brand enthused to the diverse spectrum of our society and the entire global community.
Indeed, the fact that his personal friend Oliver Mtukudzi turned up and could afford to belch to bemused mourners a few lyrics from the legendary song Neria spoke to the broad magnetic field to which brand Tsvangirai appealed.
I remembered one afternoon as we walked along a street in Brentford in West London in the United Kingdom, when a motorist of Asian descent abruptly stopped his car in the middle of the road. He came out and said “I reckon you are Mr Tsvangirai. I just want a selfie with you. Your unstinting courage has always inspired me.”
Such was the magic appeal of brand Tsvangirai.
As they prepared to lower his coffin, I felt that a part of me was about to be buried as well, for the mouth that speaketh had always been in many ways a part of the body that was now being interred.
We had spent many years, many months, many weeks; indeed many days together and I could not help feel a swelling wetness in my eyes.
As his spokesperson for over a decade, here was a man I knew so well, a man whose feelings and inner thoughts I had come to know as if they were my own.
So intricate was our relationship that he would even entrust me to speak for him on filial family matters that would otherwise be entrusted to a family spokesperson. He would tell his brothers to deflect and defer even intimate personal issues to my attention, as he did in 2012 when he was deemed to have married one Lorcadia Karimatsenga Tembo.
Such was the nature of my relationship to this man.
At the burial in Buhera on Tuesday, Kenyan main opposition Orange Democratic Movement leader Raila Odinga wowed the crowd and spoke of his long-standing relationship with the late MDC leader.
A representative of the Democratic Alliance of South Africa said Tsvangirai was an icon of democracy not only in Zimbabwe, but in Africa and the world.
Arthur Mutambara bemoaned why Zanu PF would fake love for a man they brutalised during a long political career spanning over 30 years.
Joyce Mujuru said she felt it was time to further strengthen the alliance ties with the MDC following a memorandum of understanding she signed with the late people’s hero.
And then, the man of the moment, Nelson Chamisa, rose to the dais and charmed the assorted crowd of 20 000 people in his usual oratory laced with humorous banter.
He thanked the Tsvangirai family for bequeathing a hero to the nation, referred to the huge turnout of diplomats as a mark of the icon’s global appeal and warned Muchinguri-Kashiri to start bidding goodbye to an entrenched political life and brace for a new dispensation come the next election.
Chamisa spoke about the MDC “character” which he said encapsulated values such as tolerance, inclusivity and non-violence. He had to intervene to allow Muchinguri-Kashiri to finish his speech after MDC mourners, for long victims of Zanu PF violence, had not taken kindly to being addressed by a representative of a party that had killed, maimed, taped and tortured them over the years.
As I mused over the mammoth crowd in attendance, I was reminded of how my boss had speculated that mourners at his death would not surpass the huge crowd that had turned up at the funeral of his late wife, Susan Nyaradzo.
In his forthcoming book Service and Sacrifice, Tsvangirai dedicates a whole chapter to the woman he loved, his wife for 31 years and mother to his children. In the forthcoming book, he looks back at the huge turn-out at his late funeral in March 2009 and gambles to assert that his own death might not muster the same crowd.
He writes in chapter of 2 of his book, Service and Sacrifice: “Even I myself, when I finally depart to meet my maker, do not think I will ever evoke the massive outpouring of love and grief that I witnessed in Buhera in March 2009.
Even an elderly neighbour, whose thriving groundnuts were ravenously pillaged by the mourners, remarked that “I could have been prime minister of the land and a popular politician in the country, but even my own death would never touch the shores of the country’s emotions as Susan’s had done”.
I mused over this section of the book on Tuesday and concluded that both my boss and the elderly woman were dead wrong. Indeed, his death has proved that he is the hero of heroes, a man of honour and valour.
The wide span of his appeal will not be bettered for a long to come, considering that his crowd was genuine and was devoid of force-marched attendees.
Tsvangirai’s funeral, just like that of Nelson Mandela, proved that hero status is never conferred. Hero status is earned and can never be conferred by a motley crowd calling itself the politburo or some such fancy name.
Just as Mandela’s death brought the world to a tiny and remote village, the huge turnout at Tsvangirai’s burial showed the futility of sitting in our motley political groups and purporting to “confer” or “give” hero status to individuals. Tsvangirai showed that heroism is earned in one’s lifetime and not “conferred” posthumously.
Tsvangirai’s life touched souls just as his death broke many hearts. That even those who imprisoned and brutally assaulted him over the years could not afford to ignore him in his death speaks to the vastness of his character and the ineradicability of his huge impact on the national narrative.
As the solemn church chorus soothed hearts and reverberated in the tent, where his huge ornate casket markedly and starkly lay in arrogant valediction, I remembered him telling me that mother fate had always thrown him at the deep end.
As they lowered his body into the bowels of the loam soils besides his late wife Susan, I knew that mother fate was again throwing him to the deep end, this time literally.
In his final days, my name had the misfortune of invoking needless controversy for unstintingly and faithfully amplifying his message, as I have faithfully done for more than a decade.
I wish to conclude this valedictory piece by promising that in the not-so-distant future, I will be relaying to you Tsvangirai, in his own voice, divulging the succession permutations and his succession preferences. That revelation will put paid to any doubts about the satisfaction of Tsvangirai’s spirit at what is about to unravel.
That revelation is a function I promised him I would posthumously execute as a valediction to my role as his spokesperson. I know he died a frustrated man by being precluded from seeing and talking to those he loved — those he wanted around him in his final hours.
For the record — and without going into details — I know this because he told me himself.
Go well, gallant son of Zimbabwe.