Mutare, Zimbabwe
October 15, 1991
Parents and relatives of the pupils filled the lush green hockey fields of Mutare Girls’ High. Many of them had traveled a great distance to attend the year-end prize-giving. Tarisai Mukombachoto’s parents sat in the front row. They’d never been to such an event. The two rarely left their rural village. They’d definitely never set foot on the grounds of a place as auspicious as Mutare Girls’ High. Opened in 1959, Mutare Girls’ High, or MG as they called it, was constructed along the lines of its sister school, Wolverhampton Girls’ in England. The founders named the buildings at Mutare after famous British settlers who came to Zimbabwe in the late 1800s and early 1900s: Alfred Beit, David Livingstone, Allan Wilson. The student residences took the names of famous English cities: Manchester, Liverpool, and the one where Tarisai lived: Cornwall Hall.
During colonial days only white girls attended MG. But when Zimbabwe became independent in 1980, schools opened up to all students. A flood of talented young black girls rushed to enroll at MG. Most of them came from the newly emerging elite. Their parents were lawyers, certified accountants, medical doctors. Many worked in the higher echelons of the government bureaucracy—positions previously reserved for whites. The children of the elite arrived at MG in their parents’ Peugeots, Audis, and Mercedes Benzes, sporting portable stereos and a collection of the latest cassettes from America: Lionel Richie, Atlantic Starr, Michael Jackson.
But the school offered a few scholarships to girls who otherwise could not afford the levy and the uniforms MG required. In 1987 Tarisai Mukombachoto earned one of those scholarships by submitting an essay explaining why attending this prestigious institution would be the first step toward lifting her and her family out of the “misery of crushing rural poverty.”
For the next six years, while her classmates fretted about the boys at the high school just up the road and strove to master the latest dance steps to their music, Tarisai lived for her academic work. In her first two years at the high school she struggled. Many of her classmates had lived overseas before 1980. They spoke English better than the local languages of Shona and Ndebele. They had educated parents who’d spent hours assisting them with their homework during primary school days. Since all of the classes at MG were done in English, they had an advantage over Tarisai. But none of them loved to read and solve mathematical problems as much as Tarisai. She’d spend her Saturday nights reading Charles Dickens or practicing how to bisect an angle with a compass while the other girls hunted for potential boyfriends.
By her third year she was the number one student in the entire class. She even surpassed Sheila Chikomba, who’d grown up in the UK and whose father, Dr. Phineas Chikomba, was a former professor of chemistry at Cambridge University.
In her final year the teachers and principal selected Tarisai to be head girl. She was the first black to fill this position in the history of MG. One of the head girl’s many responsibilities was to give an address to the crowd that gathered at the prize-giving ceremony. On this occasion not only were the family and friends of students in attendance; the British high commissioner had come all the way from Harare to be the guest of honor.
The day started with some songs by the school choir, then a speech by the principal. Finally Tarisai’s turn came. She walked to the podium fully mindful of the erect posture her teachers had encouraged throughout her time at MG. By now Tarisai had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, though in her red school skirt, white blouse, pink blazer, and straw bowler hat, she still looked like a girl. Other pupils envied her long-legged, rounded figure, her flawless mocha skin. Tarisai was oblivious to such issues. She wore no perfume and kept her hair in a short Afro, just like when she first arrived at MG. For her, only schoolwork mattered.
Tarisai surveyed the faces of the hundreds of people seated in folding chairs across the well-manicured grass. Though her parents had worn the best clothes they could find in the village, they were no match for the sea of stylish suits, silk ties, and imported dresses donned by most of the crowd. Tarisai didn’t care. Her parents were happy and proud of their daughter. One day she would earn enough money to buy them outfits even finer than those of the high commissioner and his wife.
Tarisai had never used a microphone before. As she began her speech by acknowledging the presence of the high commissioner, the power of her English almost frightened her. She no longer spoke like a rural schoolgirl but had picked up the intonation of the many white teachers at MG. She spoke, as the local people described it, “through the nose.”
Her mother couldn’t understand a word her daughter said. The father managed to grab bits and pieces. Still, both beamed with pride, confident that their child would one day bring great wealth and happiness to their family. When Tarisai and her brother were young, her parents expected that Garikai, being the boy, would be the one on whom the family’s future would depend. Now they counted on Tarisai. No one else. When they were too old to plow or weed their fields, Tarisai would provide.
“My fellow students,” said Tarisai, “we have an obligation. As successful students in our newly independent country, we must use our wisdom and our knowledge to build up this great land of ours. In the past, doors were closed to African girls. Today they are all wide open. We must burst through those doors and show the world that a Zimbabwean girl can achieve anything that any man or woman anywhere can achieve. If we apply our minds we can become doctors, lawyers, accountants, scientists, even astronauts. Let us set our sights very high and never give up our goals. That is the message and the challenge I put to you today. Rise to greatness, my fellow students. Opportunity is in your hands.”
Tarisai’s parents led the clapping. They applauded so long and hard that it almost bruised their field-hardened hands. Their daughter had done them so proud. She was destined for great things in life, of that there was no doubt.