Mosi oa Tunya Review Issue #3

MOSI OA

t

Literary Review

TUNYA

he smoke that t hunders

Iss u e 3 * April 2 0 2 2

2022

NAMA

WINNERS

Batsirai E. Chigama

Bryony Rheam

Featured Author

Sue Nyathi

Featured Poet & Artist

Lin Barrie

IN MEMORIAM

Tafirenyika Lameck Kudzai

Tafadzwa Machingaidze

C O N T E N T S

OUR TEAM

Letter From the Editor

3

English Fiction

4

FOUNDER & EDITOR

TENDAI

MACHINGAIDZE

CO-FOUNDER & EDITOR

ELLEN

MACHINGAIDZE

ART DIRECTOR

BRANDON

PFUNDER

English Poetry

15

English Non-Fiction

21

Shona Fiction

25

Shona Children's Stories

35

Featured Artist & Poet

40

Featured Author

46

Featured Children's Story Writer

52

Mauya!

to the third issue of our multi-lingual,

pan-African, online literary magazine

from Zimbabwe.

Book Review

NAMA 2022

57

60

Call for Submission for Issue #3

65

COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY tendai machingaidze

african art icons by ev-da

BACK COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY bricolage

GRAPHIC DESIGN BY BRANDON PFUNDER

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Dear Family,

It is with great pleasure that we finally present Issue #3 of Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review.

In Issue #3, we are pleased to present work from writers and artists from Zimbabwe, Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda,

South Africa, Canada, and the UK. We are thrilled by the continued growth of our humble publication and we

want to thank you all for your continued support of Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review as we share the stunningly

rich and inspiring work of African writers and artists.

We had hoped to introduce work in Nambya in Issue #3, as part of our goal to publish writers in all 16 of

Zimbabwe’s official languages. Sadly however, we did not receive any submissions in Nambya - a testament to

the ongoing need to encourage and promote writing in local languages. In Issue #4, in addition to accepting

submissions in English, Shona, Ndebele, and Nambya, we will also be accepting submissions in Tonga.

We dedicate Issue #3 to Tafi, my older brother, whom we lost on 30 September 2021. He is remembered on the

cover of this issue doing what he loved best:

“Everyone thought Tafi’s full

name was Tafadzwa, but it

was only his fourth name.

Tafirenyika Lameck Kudzai

Tafadzwa Machingaidze was

the first born of Dr. and Mrs.

Machingaidze, the eldest of

four siblings, and husband to

Sheree Bailey Machingaidze.

Tafi’s name is synonymous

with BMX in Zimbabwe.

An expert rider and coach,

Tafi enriched the lives of

countless peers, children

and parents at Old Georgians

Sports Club and beyond. He

loved to travel, his skill on a

bike taking him to National

competitions in Zimbabwe

and World competitions

overseas.

ENGLISH

FICTION

Always questioning the

norm, Tafi loved to debate

everything from politics to

music to movies. We will

always remember Tafi for

his adventurous spirit and

larger-than-life personality

that made him the life of the

party wherever friends and

family were gathered.”

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We hope you enjoy reading

Issue #3 as much as we have

enjoyed curating it.

With love,

Tendai Machingaidze

1. I too, have a war to fight

2. The Identity of Grief

Chido Munangwa

Tanaka Chidora

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I too, have

a war

to fight

exerts a force on B, then B exerts an equal

but opposite force on A.

A writer for a daughter is not a part of the

equation.

“A journalist?” My voice is small, hesitant,

testing the ground on which I stand. My

eyes dart around the dull colored room, but

I see her scowling eyes. Blood rushes to my

ears. I almost faint. I make myself stand a

little taller and straighter.

Voice sterile, she demands, “And how much

does a journalist get paid?”

chido munangwa

PHOTOGRAPH BY rawpixel

“I- I don’t know.” You can’t sell a dream. It’s

priceless.

She snorts in disgust. “Is this my daughter?

You are not fit to be a journalist. You’re

not inquisitive. You cannot keep up with

the latest news and you are not good at

English. Your marks prove this.”

Someone needs to die, I decide, if I am to

be a writer. Poison is not exact. A gunshot

wound would be too quick. A grenade would

cause too many casualties. Finally, I settle on

chronic high blood pressure. The death would

not be mine, I vow.

My mother would die of embarrassment

if she had to say “My daughter is a writer.”

To her, being a writer is the last thing

she imagined her only daughter would

be. I’m sure when I was born instead of

“daughter,” she heard “doctor.” I would be

the reason for her death, not the killer. A

play of words, but true.

I know she is planning my death too.

Practically and logically. The death of this

notion that I can be a successful writer. I

believe I am in a liberation struggle like the

one that was fought to gain Zimbabwe’s

independence.

If I was alive then, would I have held a

gun like I was invincible? Would I have

worn trousers as if I was born a soldier?

Would I have crawled in the bushes with

determination on my weathered face?

With clarity, I can see myself as a female

speaker at a rally, motivating the female

civilians with words to be strong. My voice

would be steel and my motions serious,

yet my brown eyes would hold humor and

laughter.

There would be love, I tell myself, for war

cannot stop love. Quiet, brooding and

commanding. In three words I form the

picture of the man. And he would be from

the enemy side, I add. I swear my heart

just spoke. How would we meet? I prompt.

Excitement sizzles in me as I reach for

paper to write the story. Good grief! I won’t

be writing if I don’t plan murder. I blame

it all on those historical romances I read,

plus my tendency to daydream. I should be

borrowing strategies instead of weaving a

tale of love in the war.

I can pretend to die, I tell myself. It’s like

wearing camouflage. Liking the idea, I start

to mentally dig my own grave, choose a

new name and a new place to live.

“Tariro!” With seconds to spare before

my death, my mom summons me to her

bedroom. When I arrive, she is sitting at

her dressing table surrounded by expensive

perfume bottles, makeup, and a mirror. A

play of power.

“What do you want to be when you

grow up?”

I cringe. I dread this question. No one cares

what you want to be. What they want is

to make sure you have the right answer. I

hoped my brother would understand me

when I told him I wanted to be a writer. He

had been alarmed, but I dismissed it as he

pretended to nod. He had reported me to

our mother. “Traitor!” I want to scream.

Every war has its traitors, I guess.

You want to be a writer, my heart

encourages. My brain is more calculating,

so I let the silence stretch as if I had never

thought of the question before. My mom

knew me from the time I was in the womb.

I knew her too when I was in the womb. As

Newton’s third law of motion states: If A

I lock my mouth accepting the stab to my

heart. Tears fall down my face as I think

of the long road to freedom. A road I must

travel alone. Dead, I no longer hear what

she says to soften the blow.

My coffin is chosen. I must pursue

something in the Sciences. Preferably

Engineering. It pays well. Maybe I can write

a book about engineering.

I’m buried six feet under. I must delete all

the stories I have written. I have no use for

them now.

Jail. We meet in jail.

The thought creeps up to me suddenly

accompanied by detailed images. My

mother is still rambling on as the walls

of a cold, dark and dreary jail cell start to

appear around me.

A traitor. One of the men told them of our

location. Coward! My fingers grip the cold

bars in frustration. The same people I fight

for don’t have the will to fight for themselves

or to let us fight.

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“That won’t get you out?” I stare hard at the

man who spoke, sizing him from head to toe.

Another traitor. One of my people who would

rather work with the enemy than us. “Tell me

where the others are. We might let you go.’”

“Kill me.” Laughter rumbles through

me originating from hopelessness and

determination. A weird combination. That’s

when I see the twenty-something white man

behind him. Smiling. He nods in greeting

as he strolls forward. Before I can summon

refusal, I find myself nodding back. My heart

is knocking delightfully on my chest. Not

in fear, I realize with disgust. Anticipation.

I want to hear his voice. Does it match his

amused eyes and the impressive physique?

I shall not speak first, I promise myself

focusing on his knowledgeable smile. I give

one of my own smiles conveying confidence. I

hope.

“What are you smiling at, Tariro?”

I am still standing in front of my mother,

not in front of David, the man in charge

of the prison I was in and whom I was

attracted to. I cough and sniff, my hands

drying already dried tears and changing

the smile to a sad one. I am aiming for pity

so I blink rapidly so that fresh tears start

to fall. Without answering I calculatively

shrug.

“I hope this is the end of this madness. Get

out of my sight.”

I nod then shuffle out. Is this the end of

the liberation hero in me? Oh no! I answer

myself.

My liberation name will be “Red Sea.” Blood

will be my signature. I too have a war to fight.

I fight for my history and for my future.

Chido Munangwa is a Poet and

Indie Author who has self published

a paranormal romance series

on Smashwords under the pen

name Cora Sacha. She is currently

studying Radiography at the

University of Zimbabwe and loves

to write when she is not studying.

the

IDENTITY

of

GREIF

TANAKA CHIDORA

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PHOTOGRAPH BY andrey popov

8

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The crowd of mourners disperses from the

gate where the body-viewing exercise has

been taking place. A large number of the

mourners rush to the waiting Safe Journey

Funeral Services bus where, because of

COVID-19 regulations, only forty mourners

are allowed in, while the more fortunate

ones walk slowly to their cars. They engage

in a lot of chatter, catching up on the latest

gossip, or touching base after years of not

seeing each other. She stands beside you,

her face a slate on which various lines of

inscrutable emotion are scribbled. She had

insisted on going for the burial because she

wanted to use the opportunity to visit the

graves of her father and brother-in-law.

“I wonder what my father’s grave looks

like now,” her voice had bundled you out

of your reverie in the morning during

breakfast.

You stared at the grains of rice that

huddled in your plate to form a

congregation of lumps on whose crowns

rested bits and pieces of the onion and

tomato soup she had cooked to accompany

the rice. You were too drained to engage

in a conversation of that nature with her

so you just mumbled something about the

cemetery caretakers’ responsibility to keep

the graves intact. You were not sure of that

though but she latched onto it like it was a

divine promise or something.

“They do that?” she asked, her eyes lighting

up a bit.

“Yea, I think they do that.”

“You think? So you are not sure?”

Her voice had risen a little bit, with a tinge

of accusation in it. You hated the way

she was trying to corner you about those

graves, because you were too tired to think

of graves.

“Look, I don’t know,” you replied while

trying hard to slice through the heads of

impatience that were attempting to pop

up in your voice. “But I’m sure private

cemeteries are different from council

ones.”

It seemed like your response had pacified

her, so you tried hard to continue with

your breakfast. Before breakfast you had

checked the balance in your bank.

0.86.

You knew that this time around, there

would be no miracle. Your landlord had

suddenly started demanding his money

in US dollars. The paltry salary you had

received for the month from the university

where you work as a Temporary Lecturer

had only managed to pay the rent and

buy a few items on your wife’s grocery

list. There was nothing for the children

whose wardrobes needed to be revamped

against the encroaching hands of winter.

You had felt helpless as you stared at the

bank balance on the cracked screen of your

mobile phone. You did not know how you

were going to last the month. You needed

to go to work because the university

had ordered all lecturers to resume

classes regardless of the rising cases of

coronavirus. You do not have a car so you

rely on your friend’s. Because you do not

want to overstay your welcome, you had

promised your friend that you would send

some money to him for fuel. But you knew

that it was just a promise. You had not sent

anything to your wife’s widowed mother

and your own parents in the village. You

knew they would be expecting something.

But how were you going to tell them that

the country’s inflation had a mind of its

own?

“I want to go and see their graves today,”

she declared. “I will board the Safe Journey

Funeral Services bus and visit the graves

during the burial.”

“But you know you can’t do that,” you tried

to protest. “The family of the deceased will

think that you are insincere.”

“Do you have a better alternative?” she

asked, her voice a constellation of knives

flying in the wind. “Do you have a car? You

know there is no public transport because

of the lockdown. So how will you take me to

the graves if I do not use this opportunity?

Tell me!”

“The lockdown will end someday, honey,

and you will go.”

“When will it end? Huh? When?”

You stood up abruptly and went outside to

smoke. Recently, you have found yourself

reviving that old habit of yours. A cigarette

per day at first.

Then two.

Three.

Until you started to need them.

The first time she had found you smoking

and drinking, she accused you of duping

her into marrying you. You had met her in

church when you were trying to define who

you really were. You were tired of nightlife

and prostitutes. All you wanted then was

someone who would love you for you. That

was all.

You had found her – broken and humiliated

– and told yourself that you would do

anything for her. When you asked her to

marry you and she said yes, you knew

then that your life had begun. You were

only thirty. But somewhere along the way,

the route that was supposed to lead you

from that glorious beginning to a life of

unbounded happiness disappeared into

life’s underbrush just like that.

It had started with absences right after

your big wedding.

At first the absences had been minimal.

Visits to her parents one day per week.

Then three days.

Then four.

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Then she started sleeping over. A day. Two.

Three. A week. A week and a half…

When her brother-in-law died, she stayed

for two months to mourn him. You missed

her during those two months and looked

for something to hold on to while you

waited. That was how poetry found you,

haunting the house alone like a ghost.

You wondered why she didn’t trust crying

on your shoulder. When you missed the

church service for his funeral because you

had gone to bury your uncle in the village,

she scolded you and told you that you didn’t

care about her or her grief. Throughout

her brother-in-law’s funeral, you tried

to stand by her side but you always found

yourself a lone figure in the throng of

mourners, until you gave up altogether

and began to watch her cry. She never

stopped crying throughout the drive to the

cemetery, throughout the pastor’s sermon,

throughout all the graveside eulogies that

mourners were reciting, throughout the

drive back to her parents’ home.

She cried until she ended up in hospital

and you almost thought she was going to

lose the baby she was carrying.

Two months later, she came back home

and found you living in another world. You

had found an alternative to your loneliness

in poetry. Your pieces read like anatomies

of sadness. You found it very difficult to

write happy poems. When your readers

began to complain about your obsession

with desolation, you told them that if they

wanted happiness they should smoke weed,

or go to parties or something.

She used to dream of you until the day she

woke up in the middle of the night to tell

you that she had been with her brotherin-law

in her dreams. You wondered how

it was possible to be evicted out of her

dreams just like that. Things got really bad

when one day, during a quarrel about your

drinking and smoking, she told you that

you were different from her brother-in-law

and that you had duped her into marrying

you. You became depressed.

You tried to exorcise the depression out

of your being. It came out of you in dull

colours that splattered themselves onto

various pieces of paper. But every time the

demons came back and found her absent,

they invited their friends, relatives, and

enemies, and converted your head into a

tenement block. Then you decided that if

the Gadarene swine really drowned in an

ocean, all you needed was to drown the

depression in kegs of beer and you would

be fine.

It didn’t work.

It only worked to increase the distance

between you.

You started to hate her parents. What sort

of parents would marry off their daughter,

only to claim her back?

Then her father became sick and your

anger, embarrassed, packed its bags and

left. Her father spent his last days on earth

with you. You travelled all over the country

to find help for him. There were no doctors

in the public hospitals. They were fighting

a war with the government for refusing to

give them a pay rise. You even used a part

of the money you had received from selling

your broken car to try to find a cure for

him. But it did not work.

One day, he died. It was in November.

You buried him at the same cemetery

where your wife’s brother-in-law was

buried. And this time, she stayed away until

New Year. She only came back briefly a

day before her birthday and left a day after

her birthday, leaving behind the cake you

had bought for her. You spent Christmas

and New Year’s Eve alone. You thought of

divorce but the thought of your kids always

stopped you from going through with the

plan. So you held on.

You held on, until coronavirus happened,

until you found yourselves under the same

roof, with all the time in the world to be

together.

But, absences are not just physical.

As you wait for your turn to board the bus

that will carry you to your neighbour’s

burial, you try to find a name for what you

are feeling. You are not angry. You are not

sad. You are impatient. The list of people

who have left with her heart is growing

longer. Who knows who is going next?

Sometimes when she is with her people,

you feel shut out of their conversations and

wish you were elsewhere. A pub maybe. Or

writing those mournful poems of yours.

Or just sitting somewhere where you do

not have to be a witness to the bond of

a family that has not really allowed you

in, especially after your drinking habits

and dreadlocked head became public

knowledge. It is at times like this that you

get compared to the late son-in-law and

you become aware of how impossible it is

to win against the departed. You become

aware of the scrawny nature of your love

for her because her heart is elsewhere.

Today, it is with those two graves and

you know very well that you have to do

everything in your power to get her to

those graves or you will have a very difficult

time living under the same roof.

“We already have the stipulated number

of forty passengers in the bus,” a family

spokesperson announces. “So you need to

find alternative means of transport.”

She looks at you with eyes that are saying

something. A plea maybe. Or a command

for you to do something. But you turn away

from the bus and stand at a distance. She

advances towards you, her head extended

forward like she wants to rub it into your

face that you are being unhelpful.

“So are you going to stand there and do

nothing about it?” she asks.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask,

this time no longer keen on putting a little

finesse to your voice. “Is it a crime not to

have a car?”

“Do something! Is it because we are talking

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about my father’s and brother-in-law’s

graves that you look unconcerned? Would

you do the same if it were your mother’s

grave?”

“My mother is alive!” you speak under your

breath. “Why would you bring her into this

conversation?”

Mourners with masks that do not cover

their noses and mouths, but cover their

chins instead, continue to mill about. There

are no more cars to ferry mourners to the

cemetery. You sit on a cement slab by the

side of the road and wish you were at home

sleeping on the couch and playing lord over

the decoder’s remote. She comes and sits

beside you in silence for what seems like a

minute before speaking.

“How long are we going to sit here in the

sun? Couldn’t you at least find a place with

shade instead of bringing me here to fry in

the sun?”

You remain silent. When she discovers that

you do not want to speak, she stands up

and moves to the other side of the road and

sits there.

That is how your friend finds you when he

comes to give you a lift to the cemetery.

At the cemetery, you try to convince her

to attend the burial first then look for the

graves later, but she is adamant. You do not

want to cause a scene, so you accompany

her to the other side of the cemetery

where the graves are supposed to be. You

no longer have the grave numbers but you

clearly remember where you buried her

father. She does not believe you. You have

an argument concerning the location of her

father’s grave, so she storms off leaving you

standing in the midst of various mounds

underneath which dead people lie. You

watch her move towards the section where

her brother-in-law was buried.

Her father’s grave looks like a receding

anthill, although there is a lot of grass

growing on it. Most of the neighbouring

graves have tombstones on which epithets

are written in beautiful colours and

patterns. You try to imagine what he looks

like under that mound after all these

months, but you quickly abort the mission

of imagining because it seems sacrilegious.

No. Not sacrilegious. But…irrelevant? Yes.

Irrelevant. Irrelevant, because whatever

state he is in right now, he is not aware that

his daughter is ready to turn every grave

in the cemetery down side up in search of

him and her brother-in-law.

The makeshift plaque that bears his name

lies askew and only the tiniest tip of it

protrudes above the thick grass that has

grown on top of the grave. You bend down

and set it upright. The white inscription

on the plaque is still visible. You are the

one who bought the plaque the day he was

buried. You took a photo of it and posted

it as your WhatsApp status. At that time,

you were trying to reach out to her, to tell

her that you loved the same people that

she loved. But when, after the funeral, she

stayed until the following year, you realised

how futile your attempts were. There were

certain kinds of loving in whose matrices

you would never be a factor.

“…ashes to ashes…” the pastor’s perfectly

weighted voice gets carried by the wind to

where you are standing. A little while later,

you see dust rising into the air and know

that another mound has been added to the

many mounds that populate the cemetery.

The mourners start to drift back to the

idling bus and their cars. You search in

your pockets and retrieve a cigarette, but

there is no lighter or matchbox. You curse,

but decide to keep the cigarette stuck

between your lips while scanning the crowd

for the tell-tale signs of a smoker. You see

none and decide to put the cigarette back

into your pocket. You curse again under

your breath.

Dust to dust, you think to yourself. We

tread on dust all our lives, but go back to

hide in it when the journey comes to an

abrupt end. You chuckle at the irony of it

all. What makes you smile even more is the

thought that dust does not need to beg,

tear its skirts, plead or fight to prove its

importance. It is just there – to be trodden

on when we are arrogant and disrespectful,

or to cover us, when death humbles us.

The mourners have all but gone. You

wonder where she has gone because you

can’t see her in that vast field of graves.

Your friend is leaning against the car

waiting for you and staring at his phone.

You do not want to keep him waiting, but

there is nothing you can do now because

she is nowhere to be found. She is looking

for the graves she came to see. You know

her obsession with them has shut you out

and there is nothing you can do about it.

You need a beer. You drank a lot of it last

night after one of the mourners at your

neighbour’s funeral mistook you for a jolly

drinking mate. You tried your level best

to live up to the billing, but it wasn’t long

before the mourner got tired of you and left

a whole pack of beers untouched.

She finally appears from the other side of

the cemetery to which she had disappeared

earlier. You walk towards her intent on

telling her that she was wrong about the

location of her father’s grave, but she walks

past you as if she hasn’t seen you. There are

relics of tears in her eyes but you do not

ask her what the matter is. You have learnt

not to ask when it comes to these things.

She walks to the fresh mound underneath

which your neighbour lies and stands

there. You walk towards the mound and

stand beside her in silence.

“My brother-in-law’s grave had flowers,”

she finally speaks. “I do not know who put

them there. I called my sister and she said

she didn’t put the flowers there.”

You rummage around for something to

say, but you really do not know what to say,

so you remain silent. You want to tell her

about her father’s grave, that you found

it in the B–section of the cemetery, but

you decide not to. Maybe one day, you will

accompany her to see the grave. Today you

are done with graves.

She presses her chiffon to her eyes and

remains like that for a while. You put your

hand on her shoulder, but she turns away

from it. So you turn back and walk towards

the car.

You hear footsteps behind you as she

follows you home.

Tanaka Chidora is a writer from Zimbabwe currently

residing in Germany. He has so far published a collection

of poems titled Because Sadness is Beautiful? (2019).

Besides writing, Tanaka is also an academic with a PhD in

Literature from the University of the Free State in South

Africa (2018). He taught at the University of Zimbabwe

in the Department of English from

2014 to May, 2021 before moving to

Germany as a Humboldt fellow. In his

spare time, Tanaka loves to blog at:

www.litmindssite.wordpress.com.

The Right to

Forget You

from Technology &

Love

IZ MAZONI

Photo,

or it never happened.

I’d like to

remember

this moment.

Photo,

now the world knows.

ENGLISH

POETRY

What happens

when we

want to forget?

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1. The Right to Forget You

2. To Say We Have History

3. Neccesities

4. One

5. Wild Seed

Iz Mazoni

Iz Mazoni

Salimah Valiani

Marcel Aduda

George Munikwa

PHOTOGRAPH BY kev kombs

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Neccesities

Salimah Valiani

illustration BY enmaler

To say we have history

from Technology & Love

IZ MAZONti

is to say we have footprints

you and I

embedded in digital sand

we have pixels

you and I

colored to keep our moments

we have space

you and I

bonded in the cloud

and long after we get tired of each other

if silicon farms persist…

we have a chance

you and I

at this thing called forever

Iz Mazano is a Zimbabwean poet

based in Western Massachusetts

in the USA.

He writes poems of hope,

love, courage and questioning,

inspired by the state of young

people around the world. One

of his favorite things to do is to

experiment with audio visual

representations of poems.

He is currently working on his

first poetry collection which is

inspired by the way technology

shapes romantic relationships

in the modern age. You can

see more of his work at www.

izmazano.com.

It is to the point where I am not allowed

to pick-up a basket or use a grocery cart

I can only buy the things

I’m able to carry in my hands/arms

the other day

my hands and arms full

we desperately needed toilet paper

so I put the packet between my legs

and made my way to pay

I must have looked crazy

how to explain

it isn’t me

crazy with worry

now that I’ve been diagnosed with colon cancer

Salimah Valiani is an independent researcher, activist and poet. Born in Calgary, Canada,

of a Ugandan mother and Tanzanian father, like her parents, she was a young adult when

she left home. She thus began a journey of study and work which included extended

stops in Montreal, London (UK), New York City, Binghamton (USA), Toronto, Cape Town,

Ottawa, and now, Johannesburg. She is the author of 5 poetry collections, including the

just released, 29 leads to love (Inanna: 2021). Her story-poem, Dear South Africa, was one

of seven works selected for the 2019-2020 Praxis Magazine Chapbook Series.

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One

MARCEL ADUDA

WILD

SEED

GEORGE MUNIKWA

So loud is the silence

So peaceful is the violence

So vivid is the darkness

All brewing in his heart

His heart, so purple from beating himself over

unanswered questions

He sat there

With freezing faith and burning ambition in his

eyes

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You knew me and I knew you

in the bosom of her love, his hands

The One, The All

I promised to always find you

as we traveled outward

rushing down to the world

you giggled at my head strong start

before you took the plunge into the dark

Landing and searching from a far

with destiny in our hearts, our eyes met at last

and you reminded me of forever

The pledge we made,

the moment our souls emerged

Marcel Aduda is an artist, writer

and poet from Kenya. He writes

poems that reflect on the

diverse nature of human living,

focusing on the state of being,

love, and the afterlife. Marcel

infuses the best techniques of

writing, music and poetry, in his

works in order to transform the

reader's perception of reality.

photo-illustration by ehimetalor-akhere-unuabona

Before him

A thick forest

A road never traveled

A jungle to be cleared

For the pathway of generations

He sat there contemplating

How much sweat and energy to sacrifice

To appease the gods of fortunes

He sat there before a thick forest

Bare footed, yet

Thorns, vipers, and lions await

But there is no other way to the other side

Those before him never made a way

Not even a footpath

They left before he even knew of their existence

Leaving nothing, not even a name for him.

George Munikwa is a Zimbabwean

novice writer with a dozen of motivational

writings, poems and short stories tabled for

publication. He holds a Bachelor of Science

Honors Degree in Human Resources

Management from Great Zimbabwe

University and a post-grad Diploma in

Payroll Management from The Institute

of Payroll and Tax Administration. George

is also a fitness enthusiast. He currently

stays in Norton, his

hometown, where works

as a part-time data clerk

at Tsungirirai Welfare

Organisation.

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Readers –

Should Novelists

Protect Them?

kay

powell

ENGLISH

NON-FICTION

Someone in the publishing trade said to me, “A good writer cannot protect their readers or

their characters.”

At the time, I was working on the outline for the story that became Then a Wind Blew –

published by Weaver Press (Zimbabwe) and told by three women caught up in the final

brutal years of the Rhodesia/Zimbabwe war in the late 1970s – and I was musing about the

sensitivities of the potential readership.

1. Readers-Should Novelists Protect Them? IKay Powell

At that stage, the concept of ‘protecting your characters’ was an alien one. I hadn’t written

fiction before and was unaware of the way the characters you create tend to want to let go of

your hand at some point and evolve in ways you hadn’t planned. And, for the novel to work,

you have to let them go.

But ‘protecting your readers’ was something I’d given thought to. I wanted to tell a story

about a time and place I knew well, a story that would be difficult to read in parts, but would

be as true to people and events, attitudes and actions, as my research and my memory

dictated.

The potential readership would be very divided. In one corner, those who’d been caught up

in the war, as fighters, supporters, victims, onlookers. In the other corner, those who knew

little, if anything, about the war or the country in which it played out. So, differences in

knowledge and understanding within the readership would be immense.

More than that, the knowledge held by the group who’d been in or close to the war would

have been coloured by propaganda. All wars come with propaganda, this one was no

different. I’m talking here not only of the powerful propaganda machines built by the white

government and its opposing black guerrilla forces, but also of the propaganda put out by

the foreign media, which often took sides and suppressed what showed its ‘side’ up in a

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poor light. Thus, for years afterwards, many people still had difficulty separating fact from

propaganda fiction. Some, whatever ‘side’ they were on, still do.

By the time I’d written the final outline of Then a Wind Blew, and was ready to start writing,

I’d done a great amount of research, re-reading everything I had on the subject, reading all

that the British Library and other sources had to offer on the subject (including memoirs

of people who’d fought in the war, on either ‘side’), and meeting and corresponding with

people who’d researched the period. I felt as certain as I could be of the facts. Putting flesh

on the bones of those facts meant creating a credible plot and a cast of credible characters,

and for that I drew largely on first-hand experience.

When Then a Wind Blew was published earlier this year, typical responses from readers who

knew little about the war or the country included: “A thought-provoking and memorable

book, which both shocked and educated me in relation to the history of Rhodesia/

Zimbabwe.” “It exposed to me how little I knew of life in that country at the time, something

I should really rectify.”

Of those readers who’d been close to the war, some found the book enlightening and asked

why they hadn’t known more. “It’s not an easy book to read, but it shouldn’t be. It should

make us uncomfortable. It should be harrowing. Why didn’t we know more about what was

happening?” wrote a book blogger who’d assumed she’d known quite a lot about what was

happening.

Also wishing he’d known more was Matthew Parris (correspondent for The Times, brought

up in Rhodesia): “We who were close to it saw the Zimbabwean conflict as a man’s war. There

is no such thing, and Kay Powell has channelled the voices to tell us so: women’s voices, with

sad, brave, moving songs on their lips. How did we not hear them?”

Among other readers for whom Zimbabwe was – and in some cases still is – home, the issue

was not so much what they did or didn’t know, but whether or not I’d offered a balanced

picture.

Some said ‘no’. “I got the impression that you ‘had an agenda’ to present the colonisation of

the country as nothing but a Bad Thing, that the only good whites were expats, and that all

the blacks were subjugated into poverty.” “In her novel she calls the whites ‘settlers’ – you

can tell what side she was on.”

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It wasn’t long before I started to ask myself questions about whether I should compromise

on this character, that fact, so as to soften the edges a little, paint a less painful picture, a

less distasteful character. I hadn’t set out to shock or upset, only to tell the truth as I now

understood it, but whenever I tried to temper events or dilute characters, the prose rebelled,

sounded contrived.

At that point, someone said, “A good writer cannot protect their readers or their characters.”

And I saw that I had to rise above ‘protecting’ my readers and stay true to my characters

and to the time and place they inhabited. And so on I went, knowing that if/when the

novel was published, some would find in it much they knew but would have preferred left

unsaid, others would learn new things and either wish they hadn’t or be glad they had. And

there’d be those, inevitably, who’d continue to dispute the facts. “Lay the worst atrocities at

their door, not ours.” “There was no sexual harassment in the camps.” “The story that we

distributed lethally poisoned clothing among them is nonsense.” “Cutting off the lips and

limbs of our own people? – No, that was not our way.” And so on.

War creates its own culture. It sucks everyone within reach into that culture, distorting

norms, corrupting values, infecting everything, including truth. For some, as the author

Brian Chikwava noted in his review of Then a Wind Blew, “coming to terms with the

realisation that the capacity for brutality is not an exclusive feature of one group of people

can be overwhelming.”

Some said ‘yes’. “This was an excellent albeit distressing read… Kay Powell writes like an

artist who paints not because she wants to sell her paintings, but because it is an expression

of truth.” “Fiction is often a better vehicle than history books if it can get it right – this novel

really does that.” “The tragedy of the war for Zimbabwean independence seen from both

sides – a great work.”

There were also those who could not read the book because the idea of going back to those

times was too distressing. Interestingly, the people I know personally who have reacted this

way all still live in Zimbabwe and are all women. Among them is Judith Todd (daughter of a

former Prime Minister, Sir Garfield Todd; she was imprisoned by the Smith government).

For her and others in this group, the wounds of that war are still raw, and seeing its

repercussions still playing out all around them doesn’t help the healing.

The truth can be difficult to absorb and difficult to tell. That was certainly the case with this

novel. But the feeling I got when I’d finished writing it, knowing that I hadn’t compromised

on the characters or the readership, was a good one. And it has stayed with me.

Kay Powell was born in Zambia and grew up in Rhodesia. In 1968 she went to university

in the UK and became a social worker. She returned to Rhodesia for a few years in the

1970s, and her two daughters were born there. After a stint at Faber & Faber publishers in

London, she returned to Zimbabwe in 1981, first working for Macmillan, then co-founding

Quest, a publisher of non-fiction titles. Emigrating to England in 1988, Kay set up an agency

to provide publishing services to World Bank- and EU-funded international development

organisations. In 2008, her book on the use of English in the workplace, What Not To Write,

was published by Talisman, Singapore; now in its 9th edition, more than 40,000 copies

had been sold by the end of 2021. Then a Wind Blew is Kay’s first novel. She lives near

Cambridge, UK, with her husband, who is also a novelist.

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Ndiri

SHONA

FICTION

Pano

Hangu,

Mwanangu

Masimba musodza

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1. Ndiri Pano Hangu, Mwanangu Masimba Musodza

...akati, Baba vangu! Iye akati, Ndiripano hangu, mwanangu -

Mavambo 22:7

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PHOTOGRAPH BY ev dav

26

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“Kuri sei

kuchando?”

Mubvunzo

uyu

wakange usina

kunanganana neni,

asi kune mumwe

wevanyarikani vaive

pano pamhembero

yemafirimu yeChitungwiza

International Film

Festival. Zita rake ndakange

ndatorikoshiwa, asi zvainzi

ainge abuda muBeowulf: Return

to the Shieldlands, iyo yakagadzirwa

kuChando kwaaibvunzwa nezvako.

Zvanhasi zvekuona nekupenengura

mafirimu akasiyana zvakange

zvaperaVavenguva yekushamwaridzana

tichinwira hedu panerimwe bhawa

repaUnit L. Kuzvitutumadza

kwaaizvita, waiti zvimwe munyarikani

wedui uyu ndiye akange anyora

zvese nekuvamutambi mukuru

munaBeowulf macho. Bofu ranhonga

roro, asi ndiyewo watakange takwanisa

kuwanawo kuti apeChitungwiza

International Film Festival chiremera.

Vamwe vatambi vakazvarwa muno vane

mukurumbira mhiri kwamakungwa

vakanage vakasumwawo, ivo

vose ndokupindura vachiti vainge

vakabatikana panguva ino.

“Zviri kufaya kuchando,”

munyarikani wedu uya akapindura.

“Muchaona kuti mafirimu ari

kugadzirwa kuUK. mazuvano, haushayi

kana muZimba mumwe chete.”

“Hoo? Inga. Ko, zvinonzi wani

maZimba ari

kushupika ikoko?”

Handina kuda kucheuka

kuti ndione kuti ndiani

akange akanda mubvunzo uyu,

asi izwi iri raive rechikadzi.

“Aiwa, ndevaya vasati

vagadzirisa mapepa kuvatongi

venyika,” munyarikani uya akadaro.

“KuUK. kwedu, kana usina matsamba

anokupa ugari, haubvumidzwe

kushanda, kuvhura akaundi nebhangi,

kuvamba bhizinesi, kutoresa risinesi

rekutyaira mota kana kurenta imba. Saka

vamunonzwa kuti vashupika, ndicho

chikonzero. Hurumende yaMambokadzi

Elizabeth yaona kuti kudzinga vanhu

vakadai kunonetsa, yavekutora matanho

ekuti wega unoti ndakudzokera kumusha

kwangu!”

Kana nyaya dzevakapotera

kubva muZimbabwe dzatanga, hapana

anoda kusarira. Munyarikani wedu uya

akange akomberedzwa nevanhu vakati

wandei zvekuti ini pandakazocheuka,

chiso chake chakange chavharidzirwa

nemisoro yevaida kunyatsobata mazwi.

Asi, sezvo vanhu vakawanda vakange

vanyarara, vakanyatsoteya nzeve, uye

sezvo bhendi raititandadza rakange

rambotura mafemo, ndainzwa zvose

zvaaitaura.

“Ko, vapfanha vari kuita

musikanzwa ikoko?” Mumwe murume

akabvunza. “Hanzi majeri azara majaya

ekuZimbabwe.”

“A, manje pakadaro, mutemo

wekuUK. unoti anenge apara mhosva

yekuti angapike mwedzi gumi nembiri

anotofanira kudzingwa,” munyarikani

wedu akapindura.

“Tinaye kumaraini kwedu

mumwe akadzoka mwedzi wapfuura,”

mumwe murume akadaro. “Takanyara

tose, mwana akatanga azara paYoutube

nepaFacebook achinzi anetsa nekuba

muzvitoro. Saka akazosvitsa makore

ekuti anogona kupika jeri, ndokupara

imwe mhosva. Saka akabva akwidzwa

ndege. Tinaye kumaraini.”

“Haasiriye wekubuda pane

imwe webhusaiti achiedza kutsvetera

vanhu, achida kunzwirwa tsitsi?”

mumwe mukadzi akapindirawo

muhurukuro yacho. “Kwai hee,

amai vangu vakandidzinga pamba,

hupenyu hwandiomera, ndave kurwara

nepfungwa…”

“Ndinenge ndamuziva, asi

vakawanda, uye nyaya dzacho

dzakafanana,” mumwe murume akadaro.

“Wandiri kufunga anonzi Damien

Chiweshe.”

“Ehe, ndiye! Ndakaiverenga nyaya

iyoyo, ndikati inga vana vedu vave

mombe dzemashanga kuchando uku.”

“Asi, imi vanhu, makambozviona

kuti vakomana vese ava vamunoverenga

nezvavo, haumbonzwa nezvaana baba

vavo…..”

Ini hangu ndakange ndisisaterere.

Ndakange ndonzwa kuzarirwa, ndichiona

bhawa rese seraitenderera zvishoma

nezvishoma, dzamara rave kukwidibira

pamusoro pangu. Ndakanzwa mazwi

evaindibvunza kuti zvaita sei, asi

ndaivanzwa semazembera evanhu

vari kure. Ndaingodzedzereka kunge

chidhakwa, ndichisundana nevanhu

dzamara ndave panze. Ndakarohwa

nekamhepo, ndokuchitanga kunzwa njere

dzangu dzichidzoka. Asi dzakadzoka

nemisodzi, nekusuruwara kukuru,

kunge kwemunhu afirwa. Shoko rimwe

randakwanisa kuburitsa mumukanwa;

“Damien, mwanangu!”

Ipo pano pazvitoro zvepaUnit L

ndipo pandakasangana naNyasha, amai

vaDamien, makore makumi maviri

nembiri apfuura. Aibva kwatete vake

kwaainge atumwa, iniwo ndaitaipirwa

mutambo wangu pane kamwe kafemu

kaitaipira vanhu nekomupyuta. Ndaive

chikomana chaive nechishuviro

chekuva munyori wemitambo inobuda

padzangaradzimu, semunhu akange

aita kosi yekufundira basa iri. Uyuwo

Nyasha aidzokorodza fomu yechina,

asi akange atanga basa reusekiritari

kuHarare. Takadanana kwemakore

maviri. Asi, kwemakore maviri aya,

taimbosiyana kwemwedzi mbiri

kana nhatu, todzokerana. Chiitiko

ichi chaiwanzosangana nenguva

dzandaionekwa ndichitadza kuitira

mumwe wangu nyangwe zvidiki

zvaitarisirwa nemusikana wemudhorobha

kubva kune mukomana wake, zvinova

zvaitarisirwa zvakare nechita chose kana

chaiona mukomana nemusikana vari

murudo. Tikapinda mutaundi, totenderera

muzvitoro, ini ndorega kutiwo,

“Bhebhi, torawo mbatya dzakaturikwa

idzo, dzatove dzako.” Kana kuti poita

firimu yaaidisisa kuona, ini ndorega

kudoma zuva rataizoenda kunoiona.

Nyangwe kumukurudzira kwandaimuita

kuti achengetedze vhudzi rake

sezvarakasikwa riri, aifunga kuti kwangu

kwaive kutadza kuburitsa mari yekuti

anogadzirwa musoro chete. Hongu,

ndaive murombo. Basa randakange

ndasarudza, rekuva munyori wemitambo

nemafirimu, rakange risingabhadhare

semabhadhariro anoita mamwe mabasa

ekuti unotambira kupera kwemwedzi

kana kwesvondo. Redu rainge kuvhima

kwemadzisekuru edu. Raizadzisa tsumo

iya inoti, “Sango rinopa aneta.” Zvino,

mumwe wangu akange aneta, apo sango

riya hapana charaipa.

Ndakatengesa mutambo une

zvikamu tanhatu kuZBC, ndokuwana

muripo wangu we$36000. Mutambo

wangu wakafarirwa zvikuru, ndikabuda

mumamagazini nemapepanhau.

Mumwe aigadzirawo firimu yake,

uyo aive chizvarwa cheZimbabwe asi

achigara kuAmerika, akandipa basa

rekunyorawo rungano rwacho, nevimbiso

yekundibhadhara $100000, nechikamu

chemari yaaizowana hunge akwanisa

kutengesa firimu iyi kunze kwenyika. A,

zvaita sekunge ndakange ndabaya mhuka

huru zvino. Ini ndokubvisira Nyasha

uya, ndokumutora. Takabva kujecha,

ndokurenta furati kuma Avenues eHarare.

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Vabereki vangu, nehanzvadzi

yangu, Megenia, neshamwari dzangu,

vakaedza kunditsiura pamusana

pezano rangu iri rekunogara kutaundi.

Mari yandaivenayo yaikwana wani

kuti nditengewo sitendi nyangwe

muChitungwiza makare. Hongu, vaitaura

mashoko anovaka. Asi, nyangwe

mashoko anovaka haamisidzane

nemoyo wejaya riri murudo. Zvesitendi,

zvekunovaka kajuluka murenje, imba

ichivakwa, Nyasha akatsika madziro.

Zvingaite here izvozvo, kuti munyori

ane firimu raizoratidzwa kuAmerika

nedzimwe nyika dzakasimukira angagare

mujuluka, musango riri pakati peHarare

neChitungwiza? Zvanga zvisiri nani

here kuti tingogara mufurati medu

muya, tozotenga imba neimwe mari

yataizowana nefirimu yechipiri? Saka

sitendi iya hatina kutenga. Takaramba

tiine upenyu hwedu hwepamusoro.

Ndiro gore rakazvarwa Damien. Zita

iri rakabva pane kambo kaDMX

kataifarira. Ndiro gore randakatambira

shoko kubva kukambani yaigadzira

firimu iya yandakanyora, rekuti pakange

pasisina urongwa hwekupedzisa firimu

iya. Vakabva vanditumira mari yakange

yasara. Vakandipa mari yakange

yasara. Nekudona kwakange kwaita

mari yemuZimbabwe zvichienzana

neyekuAmerika, ndakawana yaidarika

$100000 iya yatakange tatenderana

zvakapetwa katatu. Taikwanisa kutenga

sitendi iya, asi nyaya yesitendi yakange

isingatangike mumba medu.

Mumabasa ekugadzirwa

kwemafirimu, hapana chinodzosa

munhu shure sekusapedziswa

kwefirimu yaunenge wamboshandira.

Izvi zvinokusiya usina muenzaniso

webasa rawakamboita waungashandise

mukutsvaga rimwe basa. Pamutambo

wePada yeUpenyu, ndakange ndatodzoka

muMamu1 chaimo. Ndakada kuti

nditsanangurire mumwe wangu

zvakange zvoiitika. Ziso raakandipa

ndiro riya rinopihwa mwana anenge

afoira kuchikoro nemubereki wake. Asi,

Nyasha akandishingisa kuti nditarisire

ramangwana rakanaka.

Ndakaita bishi rekutsvaga

mabasa aya ekunyora. Ndakawana

kamwe kaibhadhara US$100 chete.

Inga ndakange ndatove shumba iri

musango musina nhoro kana mbizi,

yotopona nyangwe nemakonzo

chete! Imwe pfungwa ikati tsvaga

rimwe basa. Sisi Megenia vakati

muroora ngaabatane navo mukuhodha

nekutengesa. Asi, chairambisa Nyasha

kuti aone zvaangaitewo semukadzi, kana

kudzokera kubasa raakasiya apo akaita

mimba yaDamien ndicho chainditadzisa

kutsvagawo rimwe basa. Nyasha

akange asingade. Aiona sezvaizotibvisa

chimiro kuti ini, munyori ane firimu

yaizobuda kuAmerika, ndigoonekwa

ndiri muhofisi ndakadzipwa huro

netayi kunge munhuwo. Pamwe

ndiko kudyiswa kwacho, asi zvido

zvaNyasha chete ndizvo zvaiitwa

mumba medu. Angu mazano airidzirwa

tsamwa kana kuchenamirwa. Ndikada

kusimudza musoro zvakanyanya,

taizosangana mumagumbeze. Ini ndini

ndaitozomunyengetedza, ndokumbira

ruregerero asi ndisingagone kureva

mhosva yandainge ndapara.

Kwangu kwaive kupenga

kwemunhu anomuka masikati, oda

kupedza basa raanofanira kuita zuva

iroro risati ravira. Kwangu kwaive

kuyedza kuvhara maburi emba yangu, asi

ndakanga ndakamirira kutorwa nenguva.

Zvinhu zvandaiona zvichiitika mudzimba

dzakawanda dzevezera redu, zvekuti

mukadzi anotanga kusaremekedza

murume wake kana muchato wake nekuti

murume wacho akange ave kushaya

mari. Mumwe musi, takashanyirwa

naAmaiguru Mai Samantha, mukoma

waNyasha, wekwababamukuru vake,

naBaba VaSamantha vacho. Vaigara

kumasabhabha echekumaodzanyemba

kweHarare. Mai Samantha naNyasha

vakange vasingawirirane zvavo;

vekumba kwaMai Samantha vaionekwa

nedzimwe hama dzavo sevaidada.

Nyasha aive neshungu dzekuvaratidza

kuti isuwo takange tisina nhamo, zvekuti

tainge takakodzera kufambidzana navo.

Shungu dzacho dzainge dzakanyanya,

kunge dzemutendi anoshuvira tsvete

kubva kuna mwari wake.

Baba VaSamantha vakange

vawana mukanha wekuenda kuUK. Asi,

mari yaidiwa kuti vhiza ribude ndiyo

yainetsa manje. Havaikwanisa kukwereta

here mari yekuAmerika, vozondipa

kupera kwegore, vave kuIngirandi? Uku

kwaingove kukumbira kwechirango,

mukoma nemunin’ina vakange

vatobvumirana. Ndakangoona ndega kuti

pano ndikaramba, ndinenge ndazvipa

gupuro, sekuzvipa gupuro kwakange

kwave kuita varume vakawanda vezera

rangu. Saka, ndakaburitsa bhurifukesi

yaichengeterwa maUS$ angu,

ndokuvaverengera $5000, ndokusara

ne$3000. Asi, hapana kudarika

mwedzi mina chaiyo isu tisisakwanise

rendi yefurati redu. Takambotanga

nemabhoyisikaya emasabhabha,

ndokuona kuti zvekudzokera kujecha

ndizvo zvataitokwanisa. Zvekubviswa

chimiro zvakange zvichatyisa here?

Ko, pane akange achiri kutondera

nezvefirimu yangu yekuAmerika?

Tadzoka kuChitungwiza, Nyasha

akanokumbira kubasa kwaaimboshanda,

ndokuripihwa basa rake riya. Ini ndini

ndaisara naDamien, ndichinyora zvakare

mumwe mutambo. Wakatengwa neZBC,

asi nekudonha kwakange kwaita

dhora remuZimbabwe, mari

yandakapihwa yaitove

zvayo mafufu

anofirwa negonzo.

Ukuwo, Nyasha

akatanga kunonoka

kubva kubasa.

Mabhazi ainetsa

mazuva ano,

nekushomeka

kwedhiziri

kwaiveko. Asi, ainge akwidziridzwa

nekuti akange ave kutenga mbatya

dzemuzvitoro zvepamusoro

zvekuHarare, uye aiunzawo twunonaka.

Aiti imwe yaive chenji yaisara pamari

yaaitumirwa naMai Samantha kubva

kuUK. kuti avafambire zvavaida kuno.

Asi, chikwereti changu chiya chainetsa

kubvunza.

Rimwe zuva, ndakasangana

nemumwe mukadzi aishanda

pamwechete naNyasha, mukadzi

uya ndokundibvunza kuti sei ndisina

kuuya kumabiko ekukambani kwavo

ekucherechedza makore makumi

maviri ayo muZimbabwe. Nyasha

akange asina kundiudza nezvemabiko

aya. Akangodzoka usiku, achiti basa

rakange ramuwandira zuva iroro. Gore

risati rapera, gore rechina kubva musi

watakasangana, takaparadzana naNyasha

uya, iye ndokudzokera kuma Avenues

naDamien. Mushure mazvo, akakwirawo

ndege, ndokutevera sisi vake kuUK. Ini,

ndakadzokera kumba kwevabereki.

Kuparadzana kwangu naNyasha

hakuna kunyanya kundirwadza.

Muchato wedu wakanga wasara nezita

chete, akange andiramba musi

wandakatambira

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shoko rekuti hapana firimu yaizobuda

kuAmerika. Vasikana vespidhi

ava havamiriri muchinda anenge

aponja mavhiri. Asi, shungu dzangu

dzaive pamwana wangu, Damien.

Ndaizvinyaradza nekucherechedza kuti

akange ari kuna amai vake, uye aive

kunyika ine mikana yekumusimudzira

kusvika pachidano chandaitadzawo. Asi,

zvaindibaya moyo kuti mwana wangu

ndakange ndisingamuone.

“Damien, mwanan’gu!”

Ndakasvika kumba ndichingochema.

Zvekuti pangave neaindiona

muchadima makare, ndakange ndisina

hanya nazvo. Ndakatozoti ndasvika

pagedhi rangu, ndakapukuta misodzi,

ndokuzvishingisawo semurume

mukuru. Ndaigara nemaroja chete

pamba apa, vabereki vangu vakange

vave nemunda pedyo neNorton. Sisi

Megenia, kana kuti Mai Kieran, vaigara

kuGreendale nemurume wavo, nevana

vavo vatatu. Munin’ina wangu, Joseph,

aive kuBotswana nemudzimai wakewo

nemwana wavo.

Ndakasvikowana Sisi Megenia

vakandimirira. Havana kuda kutambisa

nguva, vakabva vatanga nenyaya

yavainge vafambira. “Sekuru, zviri kunzi

Damien akadzoka.”

“Ndazvinzwa zvichitaurwa kuFilm

Festival,” ndakadaro. “Nyaya yafamba

nenyika.”

“Zvakaoma, Sekuru,” Mai Kieran

vakadaro. “Asi haaisi nyaya yaDamien

chete. Vakawanda vana vakaenda

mhiri naanamai vavo, ndokuita mombe

dzamashanga ikoko. Zvatinoona, mumba

hamudi kushaya baba.”

“Ko, zvainzi Nyasha akaroorwa

nemuNaija ikoko?” ndakabvunza.

Hanzvadzi yangu yakazunguza

musoro. “Sekuru, ndine shamwari mbiri

dziri kuManchester kwakare, mumwe

wacho anopinda chechi imwe naNyasha.

Vanoti ivo murume waNyasha akatanga

nemusi wekutanga chaiwo kuratidza

kuti anoda vana vake chete, uyu

akauya naamai vake chaive chisemwa.

Isuwo vakadzi, hatizive zvekutaura;

handiti akaudza murume uyu kuti

baba vaDamien irombe kuZimbabwe?

Saka wedu mwana ndizvo zvaaitukwa

nazvo, uri mwana werombe, amai

vako vakatotiza baba vako vakaitawo

rombo rakanaka rekuwana murume

akaita seni. Saka Damien uya akange

ave kuita tsika yekuuya kumba

kuzorara chete, imwe nguva aiwanikwa

mumigwagwa. Ndimo maakasangana

nevamwe vakangofananawo naye, ndivo

vakamupinza mukubatabata, zvinova

zvakamusungisa. Zvakare, pakauya

nguva yekuti vagadzirise mapepa eugari

muUK macho, babamudiki vaDamien

ava vakaramba kumubhadharira

mari yacho yaidiwa, dzamara nguva

yavaifanira kuzvigadzirisa yapfuura.

Saka vamwe vese vakava vagari

vemunyika iyi pamutemo, Damien

ndokusara. Zvakazobuda apedza chikoro,

ndokuona kuti akange asingakodzeri

kuenderera mberi sezvo akange asiri

mugari weUK.”

Nhoroondo iyi yaibaya moyo

wangu kunge pfumo kana bakatwa.

Kufunga kuti mwana wangu, ari

munyika ine huchi nemukaka kudai,

akakurira munhamo yekuti nherera iri

kuno ingati, “A, pfumvu yangu iri nani.”

Pese pandaishupika kuno, pandaishaya

chokudya, ndaingozvinyaradza

nemucherechedzo wekuti zvaivenani,

mwana wangu akange adya uye arara

pakanaka kwaainge ari. Ndakange

ndisingazive hangu kuti ainge adya here,

asi ndaingoti semunhu ari kuna amai

vake uye ari kunyika isina nzara, Damien

airarama upenyu wakareruka. Misodzi

iya yaivepedyo. Mumvura inopisa

yakange yosuka meso angu, ndaitomuona

mwana wangu, kunge ndiri kuona

dzangaradzimu. Ainge agere panze, iwe,

akabata shaya. Babamudiki vake, amai

vake, nevamwe vana vavo, vachipfuura

nepaaive, vachienda zvavo kunotandara.

Iye anenge anzi asare nekuti ainyadzisa

kufamba naye, mwana werombe.

Ko, dai Nyasha akangomudzosa

kuno kuZimbabwe! Hongu, ndaiverombe

zvangu, asi ndaive baba vake.

Handaizoshaya chekumupa. Uye,

aizokura murudo rwemubereki wake.

Zvino, chionai zvaitika. Mwana akapinda

mumatambudziko, dzamara iye wacho

atove dambudziko raifanira kubviswa

munyika.

“Sekuru, dai mambomira

zvekuchema zvamavekuita izvi,” Mai

Kieran vakadaro. “Hamusimi matanga

kuita mwana anoenda mhiri naamai

vake, odzoka ave mhuka. Iko kumaraini

kwedu, tine mukomana akadzoka

mwedzi wapfuura uyu. Achingosvika,

akange atobatana nendururani dzemuno,

vakomana veZed neBronco. Ambuya

nasekuru vake vakamutsiura, iye

ndokuzvisungirira.”

“Saka munoti hazvirwadze

here, nhai VaTete? Tinogaronzwa

nezvemarwadzo ekubereka evanamai,

asi edu anababa, hapana anomboanzwa!

Munoti pese apa, kubvira patakasiyana

naNyasha, handinawo kusuwa

mwana wangu here? Munoti ndizvo

zvandakamusikira izvozvo, kuti asangane

nematambudziko akadai?”

Sisi vakaona kuti pano pakange

pasina zvekuita kunze kwekundipa

nguva, shungu dzangu dziserere.

Ndakabowa zvomene usiku ihwowo.

Marwadzo andainge ndakapfimbika

kwemakore ese aya, akabuda kunge

urwa. Shoko rimwe randakaburitsa,

“Damien, mwana’ngu.”

Shungu dziya dzakaserera. Mai

Kieran vakaona kuti zvino ndakange

ndave kukwanisa kuteerera mazano

avaida kundipa. “Chinzwai, Sekuru.

Mwana ndewenyu. Torai mwana wenyu,

moona zvamungaite.”

“Mwana akavhiringwa

nevaimuchengeta, nenyika yaaigara.

Zvino, ndinotangira pai, nhai hanzvadzi

yangu?”

“Pamunenge matangira pacho,”

Mai Kieran vakadaro. “Mwana ari

kuda baba vake. Ari kuda kuti baba

vake vamuratidze gwara. Zvose

zvaakasangana nazvo muupenyu;

kurambwa nevadikani, kushorwa pakati

pechita, kusangana nezvibingidzo, inga

imi makazvionawo zvichiitika kwamuri.

Asi, imi makafamba negwara rinoita kuti

munhu akunde. Ndiro gwara raanoda

kuratidzwa. Hakuna mumwe munhu

angamuratidze kunze kwababa vake.

Ndosaka muri pano. Ndosaka aunzwa

munyika muno, muguta rino.”

“Saka ndoenda kumba

kwevabereki vaNyasha here?”

ndakabvunza.

“Kuti murwe navo zvakare?

Damien akura. Achakutsvagai ega.

Chenyu kugadzirira.”

Pakange pasisina chimwe chaida

kutaurwa. Nguva dzakange dzave kuti

10:45. Ndakange ndisingazive kuti

Sisi vaida kurara pano here, vofumira

kubasa. Zvekutyaira hambautare usiku

vakange vasingazvide zvachose. Vakange

varonga kuti muramu wavo, uyo aigara

kuUnit A, aizovaendesa kuGreendale.

Ndakavaperekedza, ndikavasiya

kuUnit A kuya. Runhare rwakatanga

kungiriridza ndichangopfuura Unit

F. Ndakarutambira. Ndakakwaziswa

nezwi raitaura Chirungu chekuAmerika.

Pekutanga, hatina kunzwana. Zvakatora

masekondi akatiwandei ndisati

ndacherechedza kuti “Chuck Chiweshey”

aibvunzwa nezvake ndini. “Chuck”

ndiro zita remadunurirwa raipihwa

munhu wese anonzi Charles kuAmerika.

Ndiro zita randaidaidzwa nechikwata

chakauya kubva kuAmerica kuzoshanda

pane firimu yandakanyora. “Chuck, ini

ndinonzi Bill Rosscliff. Ndini mukuru

wekambani inonzi Jombo Lombo Films.

Nyaya iripo ndeyekuti marimwezuro,

takatenga kodzero yekuchipedzisa firimu

inonzi The Go -To Guy.”

Ndakarohwa nehana. Pakange

papfuura makore mangani kubvira

pandakapedzisira kunzwa nezve The Go -

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"Chimbobatai

makadaro...

muno muZimbabwe ekuti ndiwane

vhiza rechimbi chimbi. Ndaifanira

kuenda kumahofisi aya nepassipoti

yangu mangwana chaiye. Ndichipedza

kutaura naVaRosscliff, ndakabva

ndarovera hanzvadzi yangu runhare.

Mai Kieran vakange vatovemunzira,

vachangoyambuka Manyame. Vakarova

mhururu, vakarumbidza mutupo wedu,

ndokutanga kurondedzera kunaTsano

vaityaira nhau dzavakange vatambira.

Ndakanzwa Tsano vachindikorokotedza,

asi Mai Kieran vakabva vakanda

muvhunzo mukuru. “Saka, mwana

muchaita sei, nhai, Sekuru? Kuti musiye

mukana wakadai uchienda, hazviite. Asi,

kuti musiye mwana panguva yakadai

futi…..”

“Chimbobatai makadaro, Sisi.”

Ndainge ndasvika pagedi repamba.

Murume akanyuka kubva mumvuri

wegedhi aive nechiso chababa vangu.

Ndakafunga mufananidzo wavo

wakatorwa vachiri chijaya chaienda

kukoreji. Takangoramba takatarisana,

tichimemana, umwe nemumwe ari ega

nepfungwa dzake.

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-To Guy? Kana gumi nesere chaiwo.

“Tanga tichitarisira kuburitsa firimu iyi,”

VaRosscliff vaya vakaenderera mberi.

“Asi, handizvo zvandakufonera. Isu

seJombo Lombo Films, tanga tichifunga

kuti tigadzire The Go -To Guy 2. Hameno

kana wanga uinewo mazano ekuti

yechipiri yaizofamba sei?”

“Kutaura chokwadi, changamire,

ndakange ndisina,” ndakadaro.

“Asi, taigona kutanga Owen

naCharis vavekugara semukadzi

nemurume, uyuSmiddy ave Gurukota

muHurumende. Poita zvinonetsa

kuWashington, D.C., zvinotuma Smiddy

kuti anotsvaga mazano kubva kunaOwen

zvakare.”

“Hamuonika! Ndiko kunonzi kuva

munyori uku! Chinzwa, Chuck, tikati isu

$25000 kozoti chikamu chepatinokohwa

tikatengesa firimu iyi, pakadii ipapo?”

Ko, pane imwe mhinduro ingabve

kune munhu akaita seni? Pandamuka

makuseni, ndaive ne$11 chaiyo.

Nyangwe dai VaRosscliffe ava vanga vati

vaida kundipa $100, handaimboiramba.

“Ane gushe anenguo,” vakuru vakadaro.

“Chinzwa, Chuck,” VaRosscliffe

vakadaro. “Isu tanga tafunga kuti uuye

kuno kuAmerika, womboita misanganoo

nesu. Zvakare, tinemba iri kuCalifornia,

yakatarisana nenyanza. Waigona

kumbogarako, uchinyora. Kwenguva

yaunenge uri kuno, tinenge tichikupa

mari yekudya. Kana zvichiita, ndikatoti

sekiritari wangu atotanga kufambisa basa

remavhiza racho nekutenga tiketi rako,

zvekutoti mangwana chaiye, unenge

wave kutokwira ndege.”

Ndakashaya kana neremuromo.

Changamire ava vanga vandibvira nepi,

chokwadi? Nemakore angu makumi

mana ekuzvarwa aya, nemakore makumi

maviri ndichidzungaira nemasango,

ndichitsvara tsvara kunge huku,

ndichifunidza pano nepano ndichitsvaga

chouviri, zvangu zvanga zvaita here?

Kwaita kunge kurota. Asi VaRosscliffe

vairevesa. Vakange vatoraira sekiritari

wavo kuti atumire matsamba

kumahofisi eMumiriri weAmerika

Masimba Musodza chizvarwa cheZimbabwe,

asi anogara zvake kuBhuriteni. Anenganoyorwa

dzakati wandei mururimi rweChiShona

neChirungu, uye nganopfupi dzake dzakatsikiswa

mumagazini enyika dzakasiyana nepadandira

remakomupyuta reIndaneti. Zvakare, anonyora

mitambo yemabhaisikopo nezvirongwa

zvepadzangaradzimu.

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Gonzo

naKiti

SOPHIa WEKWETE

SHONA

CHILDREN'S

STORIES

Kiti yakasangana neGonzo ikati “Nhasi

zvaita zvakanaka. Ndakuona! Nokuti

ndaishaiwa kuti ndokuonepi? Saka nhasi

tombotaurirana ndisati ndakudya.”

Gonzo wainge ongofemera pamusoro

nokutya, achihuta ari pamuromo wekiti

akarumwa nepadumbu.

Kiti akatizve, “Ini ndiri mupurisa wapano

pamusha. Ko, kumusha kwako ndokupi?

Gonzo wakakoniwa kudavira iyoyo

nguva nokuhuta. Ndokuzoti, “Ndinogara

mumakura mumwena.”

Kiti akati, “Ko, sei uchiuya kuno kuzoita

zvokuba? Haugoni kukumbira here kuti

vakupe kwazvo? Unobvarura masaga avo,

namatengu netswanda, nokudya

mbewu dzavo.”

1. Gonzo naKiti Sophia Wekwete

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Imwe Kiti yakabva yasvika mudura imomo

ikati, “Zvakadii mudura muno?”

“Ah! Mhoro Kiti. Wabvepiko manheru

ano?”

Gonzo rikati, “Isu tinongoba

chero patagona kuzarura. Kana

makonhi avo asina kusimba,

tinopaza nameno

topinda todya.”

Gozo rakaenderera mberi,

“Nokuti isu hatina munda kana

musha, tinorarama nokuba pose

pose kana vasingachengetedzi

zvinhu zvavo. Tinotoberekera

mumatura avo.”

“Ndanga ndiri kwaVaMuza. Vakatenga

magonhi matsva saka ndakona kupinda

ndikati regai ndingodzivairavo, kuda

ndigawana chokudya.”

“Wagona shamwari. Pano basa hobo.

Izvozvi ndakarindira kuti ndidye zvana

zveGonzo zvakaberekerwa muno. Uye

ndakamirira mai vacho kuti vadzoke.”

Kiti akabvunza, “Saka iwe

unotowa navana muno?”

Gonzo ndokuti, “Hongo.

Vari musaga iro rakasakara

rinamabarwe.”

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Pakashama Kiti muromo kuti

irume Gonzo zvakanaka,

Gonzo ndokuwuruka ndokutiza

achikwira nomumadziro edura.

Kiti yakasara yakatsamwa

chose, ikati “Ndicharinda

zvachose. Ndovata muno

ndichitsvaga vana

vake ndovadya.

illustrations BY Alya_del, arranged by b. prunder

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Kiti dziya dzichitaura, mai vezvigonzo

nyengu mudura muya. Kiti mbiri

ndokuvauraya nevana vavo, ndokudya

vachifara chose.

Mbuya Sophia Wekwete vanga vari mudzidzisi vemakore

akawanda. Vakafundira kuita mudzidzisi weDomestic

Science KuMorgenster Mission kuMasvingo. Vakadzidzisa

muzvikoro zvakawanda mudunhu rokwaGutu.

Mbuya Wekwete vanga vakadzidzira zvakare, Braille,

yavakadzidzisa kwechinguva paCopota School for the

Blind. Pamusoro peizvi vanga vari munhu akabata

nemadzimai amasangano akawanda, vachivadzidzisa

kubika, kuruka, kusona, nekuumba hari. Mbuya Wekwete

vaifarira kuimba vari muchoir vachitungamirira madzimai

eRuwadzano nebato revarwi muReformed Church.

Pamusoro pezvese izvi, Mbuya Wekwete vaifarira kunyora.

Vakanyora dzimwe ngano dzakatsikiswa nedzimwe zvinji

dzavakasiira mhuri yavo. Mbuya Wekwete vakashaika

mugore ra2019, vakasiya vana navazukuru vanoramba

vachinakidzwa nengano dzavo.

FEATURED

ARTIST

& POET

Lin Barrie

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Lin Barrie

Expressing her hopes, fears and love for our world ecosystems using her paintbrush, found

objects and her favourite old palette knife as drawing tools, Lin Barrie responds to the world

around her.

Lin believes that the essence of a landscape, person or animal can only truly be captured

by direct observation. That exploration, that direct and enquiring gaze, can then grow into

meaningful abstraction.

She immerses herself in her environment, in cycles of life, death, regeneration;

Landscapes, treescapes and skyscapes; skulls, shells and bones; Flora and Fauna; Humans at

rest and Humans in action; dreamers and dancers.

She states, “I feel an intimate connection with the natural world, ecosystems. From field

and life drawings, I create works on canvas, using oils and acrylics. I enjoy the immediacy

and abstract quality of my preferred tool, a treasured old palette knife inherited from my

father, to create expressive strokes”.

Biology was a passion for Lin during her school years. Plans to enter the world of science

were superseded only by the decision to pursue the lonely path of an artistic career! After

completing a Fine Art Diploma in printmaking, with painting and sculpture, at Durban

Art College in 1980, she gained experience as a textile designer, travelling extensively to

Europe and the Far East for business and pleasure. In 1991, after returning to Zimbabwe

from the Far East, and having explored Chinese brushstroke painting and Indonesian batik

techniques, she became a full time fine artist.

Lin Barrie divides her time between Harare, and the south east of Zimbabwe with her

life partner Clive Stockil, a respected conservationist and ardent spokesman for the rural

communities adjacent to the Save Valley Conservancy and Chilo Gorge Safari Lodge.

Check out Lin’s Blog and Facebook pages:

Lin's blog:

http://wildlifeandwilddogs.wordpress.com

Lin Barrie ART CATALOGUE:

http://wildlifeandwilddogs.wordpress.com/art/

Lin Barrie Art Facebook Page

https://www.facebook.com/LinBarrieArt/

At the market and masked,

none of us breathe deep.

Muzzled and muffled,

we recycle our own stale air

instead of stopping…

Stopping to smell.

Stopping to suck

the sweet scent of bunched flowers

harvested from the farm,

plucked from the garden.

AT THE

MARKET

LIN BARRIE

Flowers are livelihoods…

Livelihoods for industrious farmers who grow rows rows and more rows

of kaleidoscopic colour and scent.

Blossoms and greenery ripe for plucking,

packing,

and shipping,

to markets in far cities and suburbs.

Livelihoods for florists, stylists, event divas and upmarket coffee shops

who create bundles of celebration,

bunches of hope,

bouquets of scented sadness,

posies of love,

wreaths of loss and remembrance.

Livelihoods for street hawkers who count their pennies and buy chrysanthemums and

arum lilies at the flower market,

to sell as they crouch under patchy thatch shelters next to second hand clothes,

mobile phone chargers and plastic shoes at dusty roadside markets.

Livelihoods for the jobless who can count no pennies and who gather faded rejected

blooms from the market to sell somehow, somewhere.

Who gather, from the wild, protected flame lilies and leopard orchids.

Botanical attractions to sell on the side of potholed dusty roads or to hawk to slow

moving drivers at congested intersections.

Flowers are gifts…

fresh for giving,

faded for selling.

Flowers are

Solace to the bereaved,

Joy to the beloved,

Hope to the ill,

Sweet balm to the depressed.

A reminder to the cynical, to be less so.

Take off your mask, your muzzle…..

bury your nose

in the scent,

the petals

of a rose.

Take off your glasses, your rose-tinted spectacles…

rest your eyes

on the beauty,

the wonder

of a flower.

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FEATURED

AUTHOR

"A Family Affair"" In Conversation with

Sue Nyathi

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“A Family Affair”:

In Conversation

with Sue Nyathi

TM: Tell us about yourself - Where you are from; Where you studied;

Where you’ve worked; Where you are now.

SN: I hail from Bulawayo which is affectionately known as the City of

Kings, but I will add Queens too because we must pay homage to the

likes of Queen Lozikeyi. I always say I was born, bread and buttered,

in Bulawayo. As a child, I attended St Gabriel’s nursery school. Then I

completed my primary education at Carmel. I moved to Girls College

for my secondary education and completed my tertiary studies at the

National University of Science and Technology.

Contrary to my own desire to pursue a career in journalism, I actually

ended up studying towards a degree in Finance. I later completed a

Masters Degree in Finance and Investment. My working career began

in Corporate Finance with TN Financial Services. I then moved through

the organization trying my hand at different things from money market

dealing and asset management. After I left Zimbabwe in 2008, I joined

an economic development consulting firm in Johannesburg. I worked

there for five years until the birth of my son in 2014. It was during my

maternity leave that I got introduced to the writers’ room and I made

my writing debut on the eTV drama series titled Matatiele. When my son

was 1, I returned to the job market as an investment analyst in a stock

broking firm. I worked there until my 40th birthday and as fate would

have it, I retired from my financial career. I now write full time. By that

I mean I just pursue creative writing work while I focus on writing my

books.

TM: Talk to us about your storytelling journey. What propelled you to

start writing? Who/What inspired the stories in The Polygamist, The

Golddiggers, and A Family Affair?

What responses have you received from readers since the book came out? Why are such

conversations so important today?

SN: Readers either love the book or hate it. The ones that love it say they can resonate with

the characters in the book and that it is highly relatable to their own lives. The readers that

hate it often say they hate it on the basis of how I portray women as being oppressed and

lacking agency. However, in my defense, I say it’s because I am writing about the realism

reflected in society. I don’t think it’s where any of us would like to be, but it is what it is. So,

like I said, this book is a culmination of observations and experiences over 20 years, and

for me, nothing has really changed. I think conversations emanating from the book are

important because a lot of gender based violence is rooted in some of the toxic practices and

culture which are portrayed in the book.

TM: Talk to us about the playlist you curated on Spotify for A Family Affair?

SN: Thank you so much for paying attention to that list. The playlist I curated is the

soundtrack that goes with the chapters in the book. As you read each chapter, the

corresponding song mimics the theme. I really enjoyed putting that list together and spent

countless hours picking the songs and making sure they mirrored the chapter. I think I

should be a DJ in another life! I love music.

Listen to Sue’s Playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3lU015jJmjyRMof1BqXAKg?s

i=FphBcnfySPCIrWkIU0sk4Q&nd=1

SN: I was a writer from a very young age. Even as a child I would act out stories in my

playtime. When I was old enough, I stopped acting them out then started writing them

down. It started with cutting pictures out of magazines and writing stories around them.

The inclination was already there at a young age. Then I graduated to writing mini books

in high school which were circulated amongst my students. This is how Sue’s books gained

notoriety.

The Polygamist (2012) was inspired by my early working career in Harare, even though it was

actually 10 years later when I eventually sat down to write the book. The early 2000s were

a period of prosperity and progress in Zimbabwe. It was also the emergence of the black

entrepreneur. The story of a man with money which finances his insatiable lust for women is

a common narrative which explains why this book continues to be a bestseller even today, 9

years after publication.

The Gold Diggers (2018) is story of migration which was inspired by the xenophobic violence

that broke out in 2008 and has continued to resurface sporadically since then.

A Family Affair (2020) was inspired by my own life experiences and observations of a woman

growing up in a patriarchal society. I started the book when I was 20 when I was just starting

university and I completed it in 2020. So it was 20 years of work.

TM: Your latest novel, A Family Affair, explores the theme of “marriage” and the

complexities that African women have to navigate when it comes to romance and family.

TM: The Golddiggers was narrated by Malika Ndlovu in 2019. Were you involved in the

process of creating an audiobook version of your novel? Did you seek out a specific type of

voice? Any plans to have your other books narrated?

SN: I was not involved in the audio book production. It was an offer that was made to my

publisher, Pan Macmillan, and they took it up together with another author’s book. So they

were very much involved in scouting for the reader

and the voice that they wanted. I am personally not

an audio book fan; they fail to capture my attention,

my mind tends to wander. I received another offer

to convert the Polygamist into an audiobook, but

the cost of production was too high in contrast to

the returns, so I shelved it. I make more money

from physical book sales than I do with the audio

formats.

TM: What is your favorite book/Who is your

favourite author?

SN: I hate this question. I don’t have a favourite

book or author. The reason being that because

I read a lot I am always finding a new favourite

book. This year alone I have read over 5 brilliant

books and you want me to single it down to one??

Secondly, I shy away from having a “favourite

author” because I may have liked the one book by an author e.g. Purple Hibiscus by

Chimamanda, but I failed to get into her other books. Or with some authors, I simply have

not read their entire body of work, so it becomes difficult to make that call. Let’s just say I

have a great appreciation for a number of books and authors.

TM: What advice would you give to aspiring Zimbabwean authors seeking to get their work

published in Zimbabwe and abroad?

I don’t know if there is still a viable publishing industry in Zimbabwe. I know it had died

even during the time I was there. However, I am aware that there are many self-publishing

efforts on the ground which is also a viable way to get one’s work in print. The advice I can

impart to aspiring writers is based on what I call the three Ps: passion, perseverance and

persistence.

Passion. You got to love writing. If you are doing it for money or perceived monetary

benefits, then you are in the wrong profession. This is not to say the money won’t come.

But it’s to say, even if it doesn't come, your passion to write will continue to fuel you. I am

not one to romanticize poverty, but the reality is that the majority of African writers cannot

survive on writing alone, they have day jobs or a side hustle. Very few writers have the luxury

to live solely on their writing income. I am still aspiring towards that!

Perseverance. This is what will get you published. You need to be able to persevere through

the many drafts, the rejections.

Persistence. You got to keep at it. Even if doors are closed in your face, you just got to keep

at it. Writers write. It’s not just about

writing when you are inspired, it’s

writing every day even when you don’t

want to. It’s that discipline. It is the

persistence that will eventually pay off.

Writing is a process and the process is

the prize because that is what hones

your craft. We often think of being

published as the prize but even an

unpublished writer is still a writer.

FEATURED

CHILDREN'S

WRITER

Find out more about Sue Nyathi at:

https://suenyathi.co.za/

Qhawe!: In Conversation with

Nokuthula Mazibuko Msimang

Qhawe!:

In Conversation with

Nokuthula Mazibuko Msimang

TM: Tendai Machingaidze

NMM: Nokuthula Mazibuko Msimang

TM: Tell us about yourself - Where you are from; Where you studied; Where you’ve worked; Where you are now.

NMM: I was born and brewed in Soweto. When I dream – I am in Soweto. Stories and reading have

always been my joy and refuge. Before I could read I would pester my grannies for songs and

stories, and would get quite impatient when told that stories cannot be told in the daytime

because the listener will grow horns! When I learnt to read, I would sit for hours reading

fairy tales and Enid Blyton books. That is probably where my love of writing for young

readers was nurtured.

At university I studied English literature at the University of Cape Town and at the

University of the Western Cape. I obtained my PhD in African Literature at the Wits.

TM: You were recently appointed as the inaugural fellow for the University of

Pretoria Artist in Residence Fellowship Programme. Please tell us about the

programme and the work you will be doing?

NMM: The Fellowship will allow me the space to research the music and

extraordinary life of South African music legend and Africa’s first film star

Dolly Rathebe. Rathebe was part of an Arts renaissance in the 50s when

musicians like Miriam Makeba, Dorothy Masuka, Letta Mbulu, and Abigail

Kubheka were making music that would later be celebrated all over the

world. Of course there were the DRUM writers like Henry Nxumalo,

Eskia Mphahlele, Bloke Modisane, Bessie Head and others who were

documenting black city lives and recording history as it was unfolding.

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Dolly Rathebe was at the forefront of that

renaissance, and it is a great honor to be

afforded the space and time to reflect on

her music and artistry.

TM: You have written 6 books for young

readers. Talk to us about your storytelling

journey. Why write for young readers

specifically? What/Who has inspired each

of your books?

NMM: My first foray into youth literature

was as a co-editor of a poetry journal

for young readers in 1993. I co-edited

English Alive with Robin Malan for a

number of years. It was Robin Malan

who commissioned me to write a novella

for teenagers titled In the Fast Last. It

is about a young girl from Soweto who

struggles to make choices in the fast and

really dramatic life of Soweto parties

and good times. A Mozambican Summer

was inspired by my travels around our

beautiful continent. Love Songs for Nheti

is a collection of comic short stories

about a young girl, Nheti, growing up in

Soweto. Freedom Song is about the need

to safeguard our beautiful world for future

generations. Spring Offensive is a collective

biography about the teenagers who joined

the underground guerilla armies of

Umkhonto we Sizwe during the 1980s. My

latest book is about our Superhero gold

medalist middle distance runner Caster

Semenya.

TM: Your most recent book Qhawe!

Mokgadi Caster Semenya has been

translated into 11 South African Languages.

How did this come about? What has the

reception of the book been like in the

various languages?

NMM: I wrote Qhawe! Mokgadi Caster

Semenya in 2019, after talking to Semenya

and my good friend Becky Motumo

(Semenya’s manager) about the idea. They

both loved it. It was important for me to

get Semenya’s buy-in into the project, so

I would read drafts to her as I completed

them. She absolutely enjoys the book

and she is reading it to her children! The

support from Semenya and her team has

been fantastic.

My publisher Dusanka Stojakovic and I felt

strongly that the story must come out in all

11 official South African languages and be

enjoyed by children in their mother tongue.

The book is available on www.

newafricabooks.com as well as via www.

ethnikids.africa and at bookstores in South

Africa.

It is in 11 official languages and the

response from book lovers has been

amazing.

TM: Children’s books are unique in that

you have to work with an illustrator. What

was it like collaborating with Sanelisiwe

Singaphi?

NMM: Wow. Sanelisiwe Singaphi is pure

gold. I first saw her illustrations in a book

by historian Professor Nomalanga Mkhize

titled In Africa with Avi and Kumbi about

great African civilizations. And I thought,

she has to illustrate Qhawe! I managed to

get in touch with Singaphi, and the rest is

a children’s picture book that is a portable

art gallery. Her illustrations are vibrant,

beautiful and full of soul. She is an amazing

illustrator and an absolute delight to

collaborate with.

TM: Did you reach out to Caster Semenya

when you were writing the book? What has

her response been to the book?

NMM: I reached out to Caster Semenya

from the very beginning. The story was told

to me by Semenya of how she was as an

eight year old. I really wanted to capture

the spirit of those early years when she

was becoming a champion. I wanted to

understand what goes into becoming a

world champ. Does she rise and shine

to train early in the morning? Was she

naughty? Did she know she was special and

had a future as a world champ? Semenya

took me back to her childhood running in

her village in Limpopo Province. She took

me back to the love and security she felt at

home and in her community. She took me

back to being inspired by champion runner

Maria Mutola.

TM: What is your favorite book/Who is your

favorite author?

NMM: African classics I have read over

and over are: Bessie Head’s Collector Of

Treasures, Sol Plaatje’s Mhudi, Zukiswa

Wanner’s The Madams, Zakes Mda’s Ways

of Dying, Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall

Apart, Nawal El Saadawi’s God Dies by the

Nile, and Mariama Ba’s So Long A Letter.

TM: What can we expect from you in the

future?

NMM: I am immersed in the Story of Mam

Dolly Rathebe. Expect other treats as well.

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Going Home to Africa

BOOK

REVIEW

Going Home to Africa is the story of a 60 year old woman who dared to travel an

unprecedented journey to find her way back home. Driving over 20 000 km, over almost

nine months, from Europe, through 18 African countries, Dot Bekker returned home to

Zimbabwe after a 38 year absence.

In her must-read book, Dot chronicles the incredible adventure that she and BlueBelle

traversed from conception, to preparation, to execution. Dot openly shares the challenges

and triumphs of her voyage home, with tales of the places she visited and the people she met

along the way.

Going Home to Africa

by Dot Becker

“I want this book to demonstrate what you can do with

an idea, a dream or a thought. My absolute certainty that

somehow I could do this, despite not having the knowledge,

money or wherewithal to achieve it, should prove that if

an ordinary sixty-year-old woman could make something

extraordinary happen, then so can you.”

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Excerpt From: Dot Bekker. “Going Home to Africa - Special Edition (epub).” Apple Books.

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Dot’s narrative of her grand expedition will grip your soul and inspire you to

challenge yourself beyond your limits in order to realize your dreams.

Going Home to Africa is available in print and e-book formats. Take a chance and

embark on the adventure of a lifetime with Dot and BlueBelle. You will laugh. You

will cry. You will soar!

A percentage from the sale of this book supports Kusasa, a non-profit for the education

of high-achieving, vulnerable and disadvantaged girls in Zimbabwe. To find out more

visit www.kusasa.africa

NAMA

2022

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Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review would like to congratulate

Batsirai Chigama

and

Bryony Rheam

for winning literary awards at the 20th National Arts Council Merit Awards (NAMA). We look

forward to continuing to work with you in the future!

Batsirai E. Chigama -

Outstanding Poetry Book

For Women Trying to Breathe and Failing (It’s not your fault) - [Ntombekhaya Poetry]

In the past, self-published books were not given recognition. We have seen the closure of

many publishing houses in the country and the few remaining do not have the capacity to

accommodate the vast stories our nation has to tell. Slowly but surely self-publishing is

becoming the channel for most of our storytelling. Winning two NAMAs with my self-published

books is affirmation and acknowledgement that self-published stories have a place in the history

of our literature and that means a lot, not only to myself but the future of our storytelling in

general ~ Batsirai E. Chigama

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The National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA) is the premier award given by the National Arts

Council of Zimbabwe (NACZ) in recognition of outstanding achievements in the arts and

culture. The inaugural NAMA was held in February 2002 honouring artists who excelled

in 2001. Since then, NAMA award ceremonies have been held in February of each year to

recognise artists who would have excelled in the previous year. NAMA has reviewed its

categories for the 15th Edition and beyond after carrying some country wide consultative

forums.

NAMA aims to recognise outstanding talent and excellence in the different fields of

Zimbabwean art and culture.

NAMA hopes to achieve the following:

•Inspire Zimbabwean artists to strive for higher and original forms of artistic achievement

and excellence.

•Provide opportunity for the publicity and marketing of the arts locally and internationally.

•Encourage and attract more players to join the arts and culture sector.

•Confirm the arts and cultural industries as capable of improving the status and quality of

life of practitioners.

•Increase the appreciation, consumption and enjoyment of Zimbabwean art locally and

internationally.

Bryony Rheam -

Outstanding Fiction Book

All Come To Dust - [amaBooks]

I am delighted to have won this award. It is a great honour for me to be recognised by my own

country. I feel that All Come To Dust has been well-received and that many Zimbabwean readers

identify with the story. Knowing that there is an audience out there for my work, encourages me

to continue writing and to explore new subjects. When I finished writing All Come To Dust, I

didn't feel that I really wanted to write another crime novel, but now I see there is a market for

it, and also that crime is a good way of exploring social values and issues. A big thank you to my

publishers at amaBooks who always encourage me to keep writing and who look for different

opportunities for me to showcase my work ~ Bryony Rheam

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photo by the herald

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

FOR ISSUE #4

Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review (ISSN : 2710-2033) is a new and innovative pan-African,

multilingual journal for seasoned and budding storytellers. Founded by Tendai and Ellen

Machingaidze, a mother-daughter team from Zimbabwe, Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review will

be published bi-annually in January and June.

Many of Zimbabwe’s indigenous languages are not well represented in literature. We believe

that culture is embedded in language. As such, voices from Africa should be heard not

only in English, but in local languages as well. Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review is a unique

grassroots venture in that we aim to promote and publish writing in all 16 of Zimbabwe’s

official languages, beginning with English and Shona in the inaugural issue, the addition of

Ndebele in the second issue, and Nambya in the third issue. In the upcoming fourth issue,

we will be introducing our Tonga section of the magazine.

As “the smoke that thunders” rises from the great Batoka Gorge, so too the voices of Mama

Africa’s children will rise and be heard around the globe.

ELIGIBILITY

People born in Africa/born to a parent from Africa/have been a resident of an African

country, who are living on the continent or in the diaspora

Age 18 and over (except for designated competitions that will be announced)

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES for ISSUE #4

Original work only

Previously unpublished (this includes social media and blogs)

Only one submission per person per issue

Simultaneous submissions are permitted but should be retracted in writing via email when

accepted for publication elsewhere

The author/copyright owner agrees to license their work(s) to Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review

to exclusively publish online and distribute the work(s) throughout the world for a period of

six (6) months from the date of publication. After six months, the author/copyright owner is

free to publish the work(s) elsewhere provided they credit Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review as

the first publisher of the work(s).

Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review is a non-profit venture. We do not make any money from our

magazine or website. Our editors use their own time and resources to read, select, edit, and

publish submissions. As such, Mosi oa Tunya Literary Review does not pay its contributors.

Please note that we will only reply via email (after the submission deadline) if your work has

been accepted for publication. If you do not hear from us by the time the next issue of Mosi

oa Tunya Literary Review has been published, then your submission has not been accepted

for that issue. You will have to enter a new submission to be considered for publication in

issues that follow.

CATEGORIES:

Fiction

- English, Shona, Ndebele, Nambya,

or Tonga

- Title and Name of Author at top of

first page

- 3000-5000 words

- Typed, 12-point, Times New Roman

font, Single-spaced

Nonfiction


or Tonga

- Title and Name of Author at top of

first page

- 3000-5000 words

- Typed, 12-point, Times New Roman

font, Single-spaced

Children’s Stories


or Tonga

- Maximum 1500 words

- State target age group in body

of email

Poetry

- 1-3 poems


or Tonga

- Please provide titles for your poems

and for your mini collection

Photography/Drawings/Paintings

- Theme: "Africa in Bloom"

- Maximum 5 pieces

SUBMISSIONS CLOSE ON MAY 30, 2022

HOW TO SUBMIT:

Email your submission as an attachment

(.docx for written work/.jpg for pictures) to:

mosioatunyareview@gmail.com

Attach a photo/headshot of yourself (.jpg)

Include in the body of the email:

- Name and Age

- City, Country

- Phone number

- Biography in the same language as your

submission (Maximum 150 words)

Follow us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter

@MosioatunyaMag and check out our blog for

articles and interviews about Africa’s literary

scene. We look forward to partnering with you

to tell our stories to the world!

www.mosioatunyareview.com

Follow us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter @

MosioatunyaMag

mosioatunyareview@gmail.com

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ISSN : 2710-2033

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MOSI OA TUNYA

Literary Review

the smoke that thunders

Shona Fiction

Masimba Musodza

PAGE 26

Qhawe!

Nokuthula

Mazibuko Msimang

PAGE 53

Mosi oa Tunya Review Issue #3

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