Three farmers in Zimbabwe reflect on the challenges they face

Prior to independence in 1980, Zimbabwe's peasant farmers, who make up 80 percent of the population, were forced to live on the worst half of the country's land, while a handful of whites, mostly commercial-farmers, occupied the rest. At independence, the government embarked on an ambitious scheme to resettle peasant farmers on land bought back from white commercial farmers, but due to financial constraints, only one quarter of the targeted amount of land was reacquired.

Land hunger is still a major problem in the former blacks-only zones, now called "communal areas." But by increasing agricultural extension services, marketing facilities and loans to small-scale farmers, the government has managed to substantially increase the productivity of this sector, which now supplies half of all the marketed maize.

As in many other African countries, women play a key role in this sector. The profiles on these pages are of women in one of each of the three categories of small-scale farming in independent Zimbabwe: communal, "squatter" and resettlement scheme farmers.

Their circumstances are reflective both of the challenges facing all farmers in Zimbabwe and of their own particular situations. All interviews are translated from Shona, the language spoken by the majority of the people in Zimbabwe.

Grace Kurenzvi

"Wc are married to the soil"

Grace Kurenzvi, a tall and eloquent woman with a tough streak born of years of hardship, works a four-hectare plot of land in one of the communal areas of Gazaland district. Kurenzvi, with six children and an aged mother, is the breadwinner for seven people, and although she supplements her income through teaching junior high school, farming is her foremost occupation.

"Out here in the rural area," she says lightheartedly, "we are married to the soil. Farming is our work and our entertainment."
But Kurenzvi faces her fair share of problems. Last year, during the country's worst drought in 40 years, she reaped a meager ten bags of maize (about one ton) from her plot — enough to feed her family, but with nothing left over.

Input prices up

For Kurenzvi maize is becoming increasingly less viable. The price of fertilizer has gone up fivefold since independence, and she has to pay US $1.20 per bag. Although in a good year she can reap 40 bags of maize, she would only make a profit of US $200.

Kurenzvi has tried her hand at sunflower seeds in response to the increased price for oil seeds. "But in the end," she says, "I fed them to the chickens, because the cost of transport was such that I would have made a 100 per cent loss.

"This year," she continues, "I have had to cut down on inputs by about 20 percent because I did not make any money at all from last year's crop. I could have taken a loan from the (parastatal) agricultural finance corporation, but I don't want to be saddled with interest payments, especially if the drought repeats itself.

"My plan is to just grow enough maize for the family's needs. If I do have surplus maize, them I will feed it to my livestock (seven cows and some chickens)."

Does Kurenzvi feel at a disadvantage because she is a woman? "No, not really," she says. "I compete with male farmers in every respect. There is really nothing that I am not able to do."

Eliza Dhliwayo

"We always knew we would have to work hard"

Eliza Dhliwayo comes from the southern highlands of Zimbabwe. She and her husband separated many years ago, and she spent much of her time during the Zimbabwe independence war helping the nationalist guerrillas. In 1980 she returned to her parents' farm. After they died she found herself landless, as the land automatically went to her brother, under traditional law. Dhliwayo is currently a "squatter" on a steep, two hectare piece of ground.

"This is the land that the local chief and authorities agreed that I can stay on. I hope I am allowed to stay here, so that I can support myself and my two (teenage) daughters," says Dhliwayo, a tall, slim woman with a determined look and firm voice.

Supplementing an income

Last year, during the drought, she managed to reap only one bag of maize. "I had to buy extra food," she says. "I do a little sewing, and to supplement the income, I act as an agent for people wishing to sell handicrafts in Harare and Bulsesyo."

But she would like to make a living from her plot of land and this year, with the help of transport provided by local businessmen, she had bought one bag of fertilizer. "Even though I did not have much money, I know that fertilizer is important, because the soil here is old and worn," she explains. "If I could get four bags of fertilizer, and if the rains were good, I could harvest 20 bags of maize from this plot. That would give me a surplus of 15 bags, and I would try to sell it at the grain marketing board (GMB). The good thing about the GMB is that you can get rid of ail your maize at once. I don't have adequate storage.

"The most important thing is to have access to inputs. I don't mind paying for
fertilizer, but it should be nearby. I would also like a loan to fence my plot, because other people's cattle come in and cause me a lot of difficulty".

Is she bitter that the independence she fought for has not brought her more? "We always knew that we would have to work hard. Nothing ever comes easy."

Selina Bangira

"We are not only working for ourselves."

For many years, Selina Bangira, a middle-aged widow who never had any children, worked out a living by working a small section of her peasant father's farm. Soon after independence in 1980, however, she was chosen to move into a former white farm district in the Gazaland district.

Here, she has a homestead - four hectares of land and eight head of cattle. Not long ago, her biggest dream came true when the social services department permitted her to adopt a child from a nearby mission orphanage. The
graying but vibrant woman — with her three-month-old daughter, Nesta, is building a future on land once denied to this country's majority population.

"God has been very gracious to me," says Bangira with gleaming eyes. "He has given me a child. He has given me land to work on. Those in the communal areas live on rocky soil. Here, there are parts where the soil is so deep and rich that anything will grow."

Loan payments amount

Yet even here, life is not always easy. "In 1980, I took a loan to buy inputs," Bangira recalls. "It was over Z $200 (US $120).

For me, that was a lot of money, and it was the first time I had ever bought fertilizer and seed. Everything went well the following year, but then the drought struck. I still have not finished paying off my loan, and the longer I wait, the more the interest grows.

"A lot of farmers here are moving into other crops like sunflowers and peanuts. Others are going into crops like cotton and tobacco, which are more profitable, to help them pay off their loans.

"My problem is that as I have no family—other than little Nesta, I can only go into these crops by hiring labour. One way that the government could help widows like myself would be by providing tractors to plow the land."

What of the future? "I have to try and grow something to sell every year," says Bangira, "because we in the resettlement schemes are also charged with helping feed the nation."

Source:
Saiiti Ya Sili: A Tanzanian Women's Magazine Nov. 1989, no. 7
Published by: Tanzania Media Women's Association (TAMWA) P.O. Box 6143 Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania