By Kudzai Mashingaidze
There’s another one – Dhara Fafa, as he’s known by those who still venerate him for what he purports to be, or simply Fafa, by those like us to whom the illusions he fabricates have long since evaporated.
Though Fafa and Majebhu live more than 400 kilometers away from each other and have obviously never met, their lying trait has an uncanny resemblance- habitual, compulsive, devoid of any clear motive, and even more curiously, consistent and believable despite being totally shameless and outrageous in it’s fantastical, impossible exaggerations.
While knowingly lying to you, they begin to believe their own lies, and make a convincing act about it. And worse, even if you know they’re liars, you’re still drawn to a certain charisma about them which makes you crave to be lied to even more.
Fafa is a US Navy SEAL. Yes, you heard me right: that simple man white in hair and beard but, like many other people of pure Mashona blood, dark brown in complexion, usually wearing a dirt-brown sweater, dark blue track-bottom and the type of bathroom slippers popularly called “pumps,” is serving in the army of the United States of America! Moreover he’s no ordinary soldier. He’s way more than that.
We’re at Mkoba 16 shops, and the TV in Oceans bar where I meet with people like Fafa along the big, tiled counter, is tuned to Aljazeera channel. Most of the noise is coming from arguments about whether it’s Iran or America winning the current war. I venture to express my opinion.
“This whole argument is unnecessary” I say, “I think people are being manipulated to polarize along their religious and political -“
I don’t get to finish the statement. And here’s another trait of this archetype: he doesn’t give you a chance, he’s always the one to be speaking, forcing his stories down your throat.
“Wait and see!” Fafa interjects, “This war hasn’t started at all. Very soon you’ll see us coming in.”
He pulls a drag of his Madison cigarette.
“You see those troops in camouflage” Fafa explains, “Those are just regular, general duty soldiers. Those are the ones we send upfront. And we have the US marines, a branch of Special Forces which is better trained. But even those are nothing compared to navy SEALS.”
Fafa doesn’t care whether or not you believe his story. Even if you openly express your real misgivings through an incredulous frown, he ploughs on unabated.
“As for us, we come in when it becomes really serious. You don’t see us SEALs getting involved at this stage. We’re trained for special operations. Did I tell you what I did one day, when I was driving a BTR80, that amphibious vehicle, during the Panama Canal campaign. Our wing was the one which-“
“Oh yes you told me the story, umm check my beer please” I cut him out, dashing towards the urinary section in order to escape from this story which I’m being told for the umpteenth time.
On returning to sit on my stool, I try to change the topic as I marvel at an advanced helicopter presently showing on TV.
“Where’s all this technology coming from?” I ask, “All these futuristic designs?”
“Come on Gunny,” he drawls. “These Seahawks have been around for a long time. MH60. These are the ones we were using in Pakistan when we took out Osama bin Laden. I was part of the operation”
Fafa’s stock pile of self-acclaimed heroics is inexhaustible – crash-landing a mig29 fighter jet while working as a test pilot at Nevada air base, being received by a retinue of cabinet ministers at Harare international airport as he was descending the steps of an aeroplane on his return from Yugoslavia, and so forth.
Fafa’s got evidence: there are pictures in his phone, where he’s astride a motorcycle, he says this is when he was based at Nevada; another picture of him at a beach, that’s in Sydney, Australia, where he worked on a secret mission too classified to be disclosed; there’s a younger version of him holding hands with a beautiful woman, that’s a south African Minister’s daughter he was dating way back when he was on an assignment in Durban.
Fafa’s got an answer to every question you can ask, you might be looking for a grinding mill, a mobile stone crusher, a combine harvester, a vintage car- anything- and usually he’s got it himself or in other instances he knows a guy dealing with that, he promises to call you tomorrow.
Rumour has it that he’s truly in some underground service, and all his apparent simplicity is part of the disguise. I’ve noticed too that he’s impressively muscular, giving weight to his own frequent assertions about not to being an ordinary civilian. Even as he walks he’s got a perfect military poise.
His claim of being unchallenged when it comes to actual fist action is admissible if you just look at his knuckles, which are rough and swollen. He fears no one, and if you make any stupid move he can smash you to pieces. This I know and have witnessed myself. I have to admit there’s a time I was convinced there’s really more to Dhara Fafa.
Anyway, that was then. Those times are past, and now I have to ask, isn’t it necessary to introduce a law meant to somehow punish anyone caught to be a chronic liar? Imagine if Majebhu, Fafa and others of their type are locked up in one room, and left to drink freely and talk among themselves. What kind of conversations, what kind of a furore do you see erupting?
Well, before I mention what I saw when I made a surprise visit to his place, we can just do a little maths: take the 5 years he worked at Nevada, 5 years in Durban, 7 years in Australia, 5 years in Yugoslavia, 5 in Pakistan, and add the already established 11 years on his current job which we now know, and you have 38 years of working!
I made a surprise visit to his rented place in Mkoba 19. He was in the bathroom, and when I knocked on the door and he recognized me through chinks in the old wooden door, he told me to enter and wait for him in the sitting room. His work ID happened to be on the table. His date of birth – 12/02/88 means in 2017 when he joined his present company he was 29. Now he’s 38, hence he’s not as old and experienced as he claims, and the white hair and beard are obviously a syndrome of premature greying of hair. He has to be muscular because, as the bus conductor of an AVM bus, he not only engages in daily brawls with competitor touts at ranks and other bus loading points during fights for scarce customers, he also has to hoist the sacks of maize, potatoes and other such heavy luggages onto the carrier of the bus, packing up the belongings of passengers en route along the rural dust road from Manoti to Gokwe, where resides his employer of 11 years, Munodawakafa Bus services.
“I know Fafa’s family,” confides Jedza, another beer hall crony of mine, “He’s got two brothers. The elder one is a high ranking officer, a colonel in the ZNA, and the younger, is an Air force cadet. He used to stay with his elder brother at 2 Brigade in Harare.”
