Long ago, in the time when the hills still whispered at dawn and children’s feet knew every path to the fields, there lived a people who believed a lie about themselves.
They said, “We grew up poor,” and they said it so often they almost believed it. But the land knew better. The trees knew better. The elders, sitting by the fire with eyes clouded by years, would smile and shake their heads. “You do not see your wealth,” they’d say, “because it does not jingle in your pocket. It grows from the soil.”
Back then, mornings did not begin with bread and margarine alone. The tables were set by the earth itself. There were pumpkins steaming from the ashes, sweet potatoes pulled warm from the ground, mutakura and madhumbe that tasted of home, roasted maize with kernels still popping, groundnuts cracking between fingers, and fruit that dripped juice onto bare feet.
The smell of Makoni, Mukuyu or Zumbani tea rose with the first light, mixed with milk straight from the cows that grazed nearby. The tea leaves had never seen a factory, never been touched by preservatives or chemicals. They were picked from the bush that morning, and the milk was still warm from the udder. Every meal was complete, and without knowing it, they were eating food the world now calls organic-food people today pay a fortune for in sealed packets.
And the eating never really stopped.
Between meals, the forest and the fields became the cupboard with no doors. Children climbed trees for maroro, tsambatsi, nhengeni, checheni, and fruits with names too many to count. Watermelons lay so thick in the fields that a boy could split one open just to wash sticky hands with the juice. Mashonja or Cucumbers grew wild and cool, scattered like green gifts. No one counted calories. No one worried about vitamins. Nature had already counted for them, and found them rich.
When a child’s head ached or an elder’s joints grew stiff, they did not run to distant pharmacies. Their homes were small hospitals, filled with knowledge older than any certificate. Chifumuro was their instant painkiller. Custard apple leaves and roots eased women through childbirth. Nhundurwa cleansed infections before they could take hold. Every tree, every root, every leaf and herb had a use, a name, a story passed from grandmother to mother to child. The old ones in the homestead were doctors before the world decided paper mattered more than wisdom.
Even brushing teeth came from the bush. A twig of muchakata, muroro, mukute served as both brush and paste. It scrubbed clean, and its juice left the gums strong. Simple, effective, and free.
Vegetables were never a side dish pushed to the edge of the plate. They were part of every meal, every day. Fruits were not luxuries saved for once a month. They surrounded the homesteads, falling ripe and waiting. Bodies grew strong on natural food, fresh air, hard work, and movement. No one sat all day staring at screens. The immune system was built slowly, by living with the land, not against it.
At supper, they ate their African brown rice and the small traditional grains, foods now sold in the cities with the label “superfood” and a price to match. What was once ordinary on their tables is now rare and expensive elsewhere.
They had cattle that lowed at dawn. Gardens that never slept. Fresh milk, fertile soil, firewood stacked high, rivers that sang at night, open spaces that let the wind run free, elders whose words weighed more than silver, and a community that shared a pot and a problem. Maybe they lacked money. But they never lacked life.
The greatest trick ever played on them was the whisper that wealth only looks like supermarkets, fast food, Wi-Fi, and imported ways of living. Yet today, many who wear that face walk thin on processed food, heavy on stress, surrounded by medicine bottles, loneliness, and debt.
Communities were not poor. They were naturally wealthy, but too close to the treasure to recognize it.
Compiled by Bright Barwe
