Convicted of journalism
WE were quaffing ice-cold beers, braaing and listening to Paradzai Mesi’s latest album “Chenjera Kukangira Pakatsvira Dzimwe” outside a dingy bottle store at 8 Miles Shopping Centre in Waterfalls, popularly known as “KwaMutsvairo”, when an acquaintance ventured by and tawdrily warned those I was with to mind whatever they were saying since they were in the company of a journalist.
“Ngwarirai kubuditswa mupepa nezidhafu korera iro (Be careful that stocky fellow will publish you in the paper),” he purred before disappearing into the crowd.
The coarse words were to change the mood of those around me to the point that whenever I took out my phone from the pocket to check time, they felt I was recording them.
The more I bought beers, the lesser they drank for fear of being recorded/quoted in their intoxicated state.
Such are the occupational hazards of being a journalist.
You can never be out and about enjoying yourself without being pointed fingers at.
It is difficult to be accepted as well-meaning by members of the community because there is a lot of mistrust among the people about what journalism means.
To them it is not about informing, entertaining and educating the masses.
It is more about spying on them.
A good number of people think journalists double as State agents who can make someone disappear. What a misconception!
Popularly known as “reporter”, “mutapi wenhau”, “mupepeti”, “munyori”, “tsemurazi”, “Ziana” or “Vemakuhwa”, being a journalist comes with a lot of responsibility, but the communities in which we operate simply do not understand us.
It is difficult to find accommodation if you work for a newspaper or a broadcasting station because landlords fear you will use your job to avoid paying rent.
“Imba yanga iripo zvayo, asi nekwamunoshanda uko mukuwasha dai mambotsvaga henyu kumwe (I have space available, but with the kind of job you do, please try to find accommodation elsewhere),” some property owners will tell you.
“I cannot bear staying with a journalist in my house. I feel my privacy being invaded and it makes me feel as though I am a prisoner in my house,” you are told.
Your wife and children are also affected. Each time people get an opportunity, they will ask what time you leave home, get home or even the food you eat.
At parties, weddings and funerals, all eyes will be on you. Journalists have over the years gained notoriety for being people of loose morals, whose work routines expose them to HIV and Aids, and this, by and large, makes it difficult for most of them to find love.
“Why are you trying to sacrifice your soul? Falling in love with a journalist is just like signing a death warrant. Such men and women are promiscuous and these are the last sort of people to fall in love with. Kudanana nareporter? Asi kuti wakudawo zvakao kungofawo; nyika yakurwadza,” you hear some women saying to each other while selling bananas by the roadside.
“These people travel a lot and the prospects of them being faithful to one partner are next to zero. If you can help it, stay away from them,” I heard an aunt telling her niece within earshot.
During these days when things are scarce owing to the Covid-19-induced lockdown, most businesspeople will offer to sell you whatever you want, provided you do not ask them questions or you have nothing to do
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