The Mummy Returns
They called me a rovha, a vernacular bastardisation for loafer. They did not mean it literally, of course, but they were not particularly affectionate when using it either. It was a term labelled on anybody who was neither going to school nor formally enslaved (I mean employed, but what is the fucking difference) those days – even one who, like me, had just finished writing his O Levels and would be waiting for the results so he could decide what to do with his life after. I guess it was one of those colonial relics we could not shake off our body politic. Loafer. I was a bloody loafer. So, during those blissful three months between November and January when I was waiting for those results 15 years ago, I might as well have been a useless village hobo who was good for naught except being a nuisance at beer parties. Except I didn't drink. I didn‟t mind either; it was a perfect time for me to catch up with Shimmer and Tsodzo and Mungoshi and a whole lot of my Wordsworthian fri