海角大神

Progress Garakara felt a jolt of pain run through her, and she knew.

It was time.

In her modest home on the outskirts of Zimbabwe鈥檚 capital, she waddled across the bedroom to where she kept the small bag she鈥檇 packed weeks before.

Then she called to a tenant who lived in the next room.听鈥淭he baby is coming,鈥� she told her. As dawn rose over the city in a smear of wood-smoke, dust, and car exhaust, the two women, along with Progress鈥� husband, Alfred, set off on foot for the Edith Opperman maternity hospital, a mile away.听 听

Fifteen miles to the South, in the scrappy dormitory town of Chitungwiza, Moreblessing Mutsakani had already arrived at the labor ward of the town鈥檚 hospital.

On a long narrow bed in a long narrow room, she lay still, watching the nurses shuffle past in their immaculately clean white uniforms, their conversation floating over her in a gauzy haze. Parliament鈥�special session鈥�impeachment.听Then the nurses鈥� words slipped out of reach: another contraction had seized her. Moreblessing breathed sharply and quickly and waited for it to pass.

In Mbare, Alfred left his wife at the hospital gate and returned home to wait.

Across town in the suburb of Epworth, Moreblessing鈥檚 husband, Joseph, waited too.

In the maternity wards at Chitungwiza and Edith Opperman, the nurses and midwives were waiting as well, though for more than babies. That afternoon, Zimbabwe鈥檚 parliament was scheduled to begin a process that only days earlier would have seemed as unlikely as an alien landing.

Parliament was going to impeach Robert Mugabe, the ancient autocrat who had ruled the country for longer than most of the hospital staff had been alive.

At Edith Opperman, a small, crackly radio blared hourly news briefings. 鈥淛ust don鈥檛 name her Grace 鈥� she鈥檒l come out spoiled!鈥� the nurses joked with their patients. Grace Mugabe, the president鈥檚 high-spending wife, was one of the most unpopular 鈥� and powerful 鈥� figures in the country. A week earlier such a joke would have been unthinkable.

Around听8 a.m.听that morning, Nov. 21,听2017, Moreblessing gave birth to Meryl Mutsakani, tiny and wailing and perfect. 鈥淪he came a week early,鈥� her mother says. 鈥淟ike there was something she didn鈥檛 want to miss.鈥�

Three hours later, Aleeya Nokutenda Garakara was born at Edith Opperman.

And then, at听5:41 p.m. on the evening of the two baby girls鈥� first day of life, the news came from parliament. It spread across Chitungwiza in a flurry of text messages and buzzing cell phones. Outside Edith Opperman, there were whoops of joy and jubilant car horns.

After 37 years, seven months, and three days as the leader of Zimbabwe, Robert Gabriel Mugabe had resigned.

A prayer for the future

鈥淲elcome to all the Zimbabwean children born on this day,鈥� wrote the Zimbabwean novelist NoViolet Bulawayo on her Facebook page that evening. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e our most precious, most untarnished promise, may you never see what we've seen, may you know, finally, a Great Zimbabwe.鈥�

May you never see what we鈥檝e seen.

For the听Mutsakanis, this was their prayer too.

Meryl, may you never watch your mother die of a minor infection when the local public hospital ran out of a simple medicine to treat it, as your father did. (鈥淓ver since then, I hated my country,鈥� Joseph says.)听听

May you never have to give up a dream of becoming a secretary, like your mother did (鈥淭hose days that was the best job,鈥� Moreblessing says, 鈥渁 good white collar job,鈥�) because there just isn鈥檛 the money for you to study for that long.

May you go to the kind of school your parents went to 鈥� the kind you get when your new country鈥檚 leader and his wife are both revolutionaries and former school teachers 鈥� not the kind your five older siblings go to now, tattered and expensive and neglected, the kind you get when your revolutionary president has outlived the revolution and refuses to go away.

听May you know, finally, a Great Zimbabwe.

A corner turned?

If he could give his daughter Aleeya any life, Alfred says, it would be the one he knew in his youth, before Zimbabwe鈥檚 collapse into economic ruin.

听鈥淲e took our tea with liver and sausage and bologna,鈥� he remembers. The family lived in a three-bedroom house in Mbare 鈥� the same house he and Progress brought Aleeya home to last week. And on paydays his father, a mechanic for John Deere, took them into town and let them pick out a new piece of clothing.

When Alfred was eight, in April 1980, the country鈥檚 grinding guerilla war came to an end at last, and Robert Mugabe, a leader of the liberation struggle, became the country鈥檚 first prime minister.

鈥淲e were very optimistic,鈥� Alfred says. And it stayed that way for years. But then 鈥渢hings started changing bit by bit, slowly, so that people couldn鈥檛 see the direction things were going until it had already happened.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥� was ethnic cleansing, a brutal military campaign by Mugabe鈥檚 forces against Zimbabwe鈥檚 minority Ndebele ethnic group in the mid-1980s said to have killed as many as 20,000 people. 鈥淚t鈥� was his program of 鈥渇ast-track land reform鈥� in the early 2000s, in which government supporters violently forced thousands of white farmers off their land without compensation, sending the country鈥檚 economy spiraling. 鈥淚t鈥� was hyperinflation, which hit 79.6 billion percent in late 2008.

As all these things changed, so did the shape of what Alfred felt he could hope for 鈥� for himself and his family.

He became a security guard. Progress worked as a trader 鈥� buying cheap Chinese clothes across the border in South Africa and selling them in Zimbabwe. But Alfred eventually lost his job, and they ran out of money to keep her business going. By the time Progress gave birth to their first daughter, Aisha, in 2006, the couple couldn鈥檛 afford the $25 the hospital charged for delivery. They still haven鈥檛 managed to pay that bill.

A decade later, when Progress found out she was pregnant again, the couple fretted. Their only income now came from a small hair salon they ran from a shack outside their house. And even the little money they had was hard to get at.

By then, Zimbabwe had all but run out of hard currency. Alfred would queue for hours at the bank to take out $30 鈥� the maximum allowed. Sometimes they gave it to him in 10 cent coins. Sometimes by the time he got to the front of the line there wasn鈥檛 any money left in the bank at all.

鈥淭hings were really tough for us,鈥� Alfred says.

Then, a week before Progress gave birth, the couple were home when they heard a bizarre news report. Tanks were idling on the outskirts of the capital.

The next morning, Alfred switched on ZBC 鈥� the state broadcaster 鈥� to find not a news bulletin, but a tape loop of liberation songs.

He woke his sleeping wife.听鈥淪omething is happening,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 think Mugabe is going.鈥�

鈥淚f my time was further away, I would have been out in the streets right then,鈥� Progress says.

Instead, she and Alfred followed events from their living room, glued to the TV, as Mr. Mugabe鈥檚 rule crumbled over the next few days. And then they stopped watching the news. They had something 鈥� or rather, someone 鈥� else more important to attend to.

The day after they brought their daughter home, as Zimbabweans flooded the streets in a kind of spontaneous, country-wide block party, the couple chose her a name.

They would call her Aleeya. And as a middle name, they picked听Nokutenda 鈥� the Shona word for听鈥渇aith.鈥�

It wasn鈥檛 as though they were na茂ve, Progress says. They knew the new president would be a member of Mugabe鈥檚 old guard. They knew that nothing would change overnight. Still, they wanted to choose a name that, each time they spoke it, would be a kind of prayer for Zimbabwe鈥檚 future.听听

鈥淗er name is for faith in a new beginning,鈥� Progress says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 total faith that this is our beginning.鈥�