It was 8am, Monday: I was on my way to work in Harare’s central business district when I noticed a long and winding queue of people outside the OK Supermarket on First Street.
People were pushing and shoving one another in the queue. The crowd was shouting at the top of their voices like people attending a political rally. When I got closer I heard two women and a man quarrelling over who should be served first. Another group shouted at queue jumpers.
They were queuing for mealie-meal — now one of the scarcest resources in Zimbabwe. Since I’d also run out of it, I decided to join the line. I soon found out that the other reason for the throng was that the mealie-meal on sale was cheap at the price — Z$700-million for a 20kg bag of Red Seal Roller Meal, instead of Z$1,2-billion on the black market for the same quantity.
It didn’t take long for members of the police and armed forces to arrive — not to quell the noisy crowd, but to force their way to the front of the queue. The police were heavily armed with guns and batons and they beat anyone who tried to challenge them about queue-jumping. The supermarket manager took his time to open up. I’d been in the queue almost four hours now and I was worried about how late I would be for work. But informing my boss would mean leaving the line.
Food queues have become a great platform for ordinary people to discuss their views and feelings about the socio-economic and political situation in the country. Ninety-nine percent of people in the queue were crying foul; others were even mobilising people in the queue to rebel against the government.
Finally the supermarket manager and his staff started serving customers. Each person was told he or she would be allowed to buy only a single 20kg bag. Police and soldiers got first preference.
During the process a pregnant woman queuing for her 20kg fell down and gave birth on the pavement to a bouncing baby boy. People in the crowd assisted with the birth and some rushed off to call for an ambulance. The rest stood around shouting suggestions for the baby’s name.
Some said he should be called ”Queue”; others said ”Strive”.
I had been standing in line now for almost five hours and was about to give up when I finally got to the head of the queue and managed to buy a 20kg bag and rush to work. My bosses were cool — they joked about me doing my shopping in office hours, but they understood. Everybody’s in the same boat.
This is what people all over the country experience every day to get basics such as cooking oil and sugar.
On another day I joined a long queue thinking it was for bread, realising belatedly that people in line looked sadder than they should. I had actually joined a queue for people doing a body-viewing at a funeral parlour.
Patrick Phiri is a librarian and is reading for a BA degree in media studies. He lives in Harare
