I walked through the gate with a loaf underneath my arm and found my granddad in his usual spot outside, soaking up some vitamin D. His signature banana smile widened as I walked up to him.
“Vatotenga chingwa?” he asked. I usually went to get bread first thing in the morning, as Sekuru wanted his tea before 9 a.m. I nodded and sat beside him.
“It’s good now that it’s coming sliced,” I said.
“Your uncles used to fight a lot over bread,” he said. “The slices were never really uniform. They caused me and your grandmother headaches with their endless bickering. I ended up ignoring them. Whoever wins wins. I had no patience like your gogo.”
He laughed a bit and leaned back in his chair. I wondered how Uncle Trust ever managed to stand a chance against the bulkier Uncle Gift. I would definitely tease him on that next time I saw them.
“You boys don’t know what bread used to be,” Sekuru continued. His voice was sharp as Steve Nicol analyzing a match on ESPN football. “Back then, we didn’t wake up to phone alarms. We woke up to the Mitchell’s truck.
“Before the sun cleared the Murahwa mountains, around three in the morning, you’d hear it. First the engine growling in the distance. Then the breaks squeaking. Then the clang of those back doors opening and closing as deliveries got under way.”
He paused.
“For all of us in Chikanga, Sakubva, or Dangamvura, that sound meant one thing. Fresh bread was here.”
I could almost picture it. Growing up my mom used to pack meat cutlets in Mitchell’s paper bags, so I had rough idea of kwaMicho’s packaging.
“Most people were still asleep, but those Mitchell’s boys were already loading crates and shouting to each other. They’d stack loaf after loaf, all of it fresh from the ovens. Then they rolled it through the streets to the tuckshops & supermarkets. We usually got it from kwaVaChibaya. For some reason Chibaya’s tuckshop always got first priority. I used to send your uncles there to get two loaves. Your mom wasn’t spared either. She’d wake up and make a cup of tea. She hated it initially but eventually got used it. I liked the bread when it was still warm, watching the morning news on ZBC TV. Oh my dear kids, the truck pulled them out of bed before their mother called them.”
“So was it only Mitchell’s?” I inquired, knowing the old man was in story mode now.
“No no no, don’t get me wrong. Mitchell’s was king, but it wasn’t the only bakery in town. Manica Bakers had their own routes and their own loyal customers. Then there was the one on the main street, Galas if I remember well. The building that now houses Stanbic Bank, opposite Chicken Inn? That’s where Galas was. You should have seen the queues there before public holidays. The line would wrap around the corner. Most people, particularly the rural folk from Marange and Bocha, would hoard loaves to have enough for the holiday. But people still used to say, ‘If you want the real bread, go to kwaMicho (Mitchell’s).'”
“What made it so special?”
“The crust,” he replied without hesitation. “It crackled when you tore it apart.” He chuckled.” The inside was soft enough to melt in your mouth. “We ended up taking turns on who got the crust, to end the Chimurenga Micho. It cost thirty-five cents. It was worth every cent.
“But Mitchell’s wasn’t the only name people respected,” he continued, smiling, reminiscing. “Omar’s was good too. Very good. In fact, Omar’s reminds me of the boys at Mutare Boys’ High.”
“One of my friends, Norman, used to work as driver at Mutare Boys’ High,” I said. “Norman told me every morning one of the boys would collect money by the entrance.”
“‘Ngatiunganidze mari yechingwa boysss!'” Sekuru mimicked the announcement. I laughed.
“Coins and banknotes moved down the aisle,” he went on. “By the time the bus reached town, one unlucky fellow would be chosen to jump off near Omar’s.”
“Unlucky? How?”
“He had to carry all the bread! He’d run into the bakery, buy six or seven loaves, tuck them under his arm, then walk the rest of the way to school.”
Granddad paused as though watching the scene unfold before him.
“By first break, those loaves would be gone. Completely gone. Torn apart and shared between friends. Some boys had peanut butter. Some had jam, if they were lucky. The teachers pretended not to notice the crumbs all over the desks.”
He shook his head affectionately.
“Norman used to say that bread was better than anything being sold at the school tuckshop,” I said. “He was shocked at how this exercise brought the boys together. It unified them; it taught them to trust each other. That’s how every day started before the siren brought them to their desks.”
“Mitchell’s, Manica, Galas, Omar’s… Those bakeries carried Mutare from post-independence through the 90s.” His voice softened. “Then the 2000s came. The economy changed. Small bakeries started disappearing. The big trucks stopped rumbling through our neighborhoods early in the morning.”
He attention shifted towards the loaf beside me.
“Now we have new players. Bakers Inn, Proton, Lobels. Their crates are everywhere. The bread comes sliced, sealed in plastic, stacked neatly on supermarket shelves.”
He picked up the loaf and turned it over in his hands.
“It’s efficient. It’s convenient.”
He ran his thumb along the packaging.
“But it doesn’t make you pull on a jersey at five in the morning and run to the tuckshop before the last warm loaf is gone. It doesn’t stain your school shirt with red jam. And it certainly doesn’t make an entire school bus smell like a bakery at seven in the morning.”
“That must have been a great time.”
“Unoona mzaya, Mitchell’s and Omar’s weren’t just bakeries,” he said quietly. “They were part of life. It was far from perfect and ideal but we enjoyed it!”
“Should I get you some tea now, Sekuru?”
“Oh yes please, my child!”
“And the crust as well?”
The old man burst into laughter…
“Careful, mwana waAlice, careful now, young man!” he warned as I headed to the kitchen.
