When you see a vendor, support them. I’m not saying give them a million dollars—just respect their hustle. Because let me tell you: it’s not easy out there on the streets. From 2005 to 2009, I lived a life many wouldn’t survive. My battlefield? Corner Patrenda and Willovale, the university of survival and resilience.
In 2006, demand for doughnuts was so high at kwaMusoja, you had to be there by 5:00 AM sharp—kana wasvika 5:15, sorry, try again tomorrow. But I was staying in Glen View 1, so that meant walking in the dark, dodging dogs, drunkards, and disappearing shadows. We didn’t have torches. We had faith.
And you think winter is bad now? 2006 was a whole horror movie. I didn’t even own a jersey. I would wear two shirts—one for hope, and the other for courage. My teeth would do a drum solo every morning, chiii chiii chiii, sounding like an old Kombi trying to start.
Hunger? Don’t even start. After people chewed sugarcane, tisu taipedza left overs. You had to be smart—don’t take the ones with lipstick or tooth marks. Select the clean ones, rinse with imagination, and eat like royalty.
But customers? Aiwaaa! They would say:
“Ah vendor haafaniri kuita charge yakadai.”
“Ndokusaka musina kudzidza marombe!”
Yes, we were insulted. They took our goods and never paid. They treated us like we were born to suffer. But we had hope. We believed one day the table would turn—and it did.
And don’t get me started on police raids. Sometimes they would just show up like ZESA during load shedding: unexpected and destructive. Vanotora zvinhu, vozvipa mumota yavo, voseka voti “musatengesa pano!” Next day, you start again. Selling bananas with tears in your eyes and hope in your chest.
I was arrested countless times. But the worst was in 2009, when I got arrested for selling airtime. I was buying for $5, selling for $6.
And boom—vakandirova 40 cuts under my feet. Ndakangoti, “Mweya wangu buda zvakanaka.” I even promised God I’d stop selling if I survived. Spoiler alert: I didn’t stop.
Some days I’d say, “Ndachoka boss,” but the next morning I was back again, selling with a limp and a smile.
So today, let it be known:
I refuse to be called “Sir”, “Mr”, “Doctor”, “Boss”, “CEO”, or even “Managing Director.”
Those titles don’t define me.
Call me what I truly am—a Vendor.
Ndiri chibereko chestreet.
I am proud of my journey. I carry the dust of Harare’s pavements in my soul. I didn’t just pass through the streets—I was built by them.
And until my last breath, I will fight for the dignity of every vendor. I will tell their story. I will stand with them.
Because marombe haapondwe.
To all vendors out there, ndimi heroes. You may not wear suits, but you wear scars of survival. You may not drive fancy cars, but you drive economies.
And to customers: don’t bargain with someone selling tomatoes to send their child to school.
Support vendors.
Respect the hustle.
Because behind every table of bananas and airtime lies a story of resilience, pain, and relentless hope.
Marombe haapondwe
