Dexter Zvicha is a fiction writer and political nerd. He is an MA and MPA graduate of the University of Delaware. He is interested in exploring the wild, grotesque and beautiful through poetry and short fiction. You can see more of his work on his blog thelitepassenger.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @LitePassenger.

The young brother sitting next to me nodded, flipped and tranced. He also kicked. The kicks followed the pastor’s reverberating hallelujah chant. Some of the kicks creased my shin. Yes, I felt some pain. I wanted to kick back but the calmness of the church and the dignified look on the faces of the bodies around the hall made retaliation difficult. It was church not a boxing ring; there was no kick for kick. I belched and relaxed. The brother nodded and shouted. He felt the word and the Pastor. I felt the buzz and the bladder crying for relief and mercy. In front was a teenage girl crying. An old man spotting a long beard and dressed in an oversized grey suit sat next to her. He rubbed her back and reassured her that everything was going to be fine; she was in the right place. She had sinned and regretted it. The old man must have been her father. A middle-aged woman sat next to them, fish-eyed. Was she the mother or the sister? Maybe she was her stepmom. Her stolid face was a sign. She felt the chronicles sermon too, she was touched. I felt the chronicles too. The crowd was animated. It chanted, cried and banged on the wooden benches. It was humbling. Homs felt it too. He felt Jackie. She was sitting in front, waiting for Tinashe, her Pastor husband. Read the story here. 

Linda Gabriel

Madzimai paanonyora nhetembo dzerudo vanenge vanonetseka kunyora vachinyatsobudisa zvavanonzwa kana vapinda murudo. Memory Chirere anovapa mhosva yekunyora pane imwe nguva savarume kwete samadzimai. Pane kuti ndakadya John vanonyora kuti ‘Ndakadyiwa naSara.’

Zvakadaro zvinoonekwa kuti pane mamwe madzimai anoburitsa zviri kutsi kwemoyo yawo munyaya dzerudo achishandisa rurimi rwechichiRungu. Madzimai akaita saPrimrose Dzenga naEve Nyemba vanonyatsobudisa shuviro dzavo dzavanadzo pamusoro pomurume wavanoda seapo Primrose anofananidza mudiwa wake semudavadi anoridza piyano apo anoti dai amupuruzira zvinyoronyoro semaridzire aanoita piano.

Linda Gabriel mumwe munyori wechidzimai apinda mundima yekunyora zviya zvinonzi zvireve-reve izvo zvinotarisirwa kuva mashoko anotauriranwa navadanani zviya kana vari vaviri muimba yakavanzika. Izvi zvinhu zvinonyenyeredzwa navamwe vanyori vechidzidzimai apo vanonyora nduri dzerudo. Ndakaita hurukuro naLinda Gabriel uyo anozivikanwa nezita reunyanduri rekuti  Poetic Angel maererano nokuti chii chakamusunda kuti anyore nduri idzi uye kuti sezvo atanga kuita hurukuro nenduri idzi pachikuva cheFacebook padandemutande anoda kuti zvisvikepi.

Tinashe Muchuri (TM): Wakadii hako Linda?

Linda Gabriel (LG): Ndinofara chose.

TM: Tati tikurukure nezvedanho rawatora iri rekudetemba uchinyatsoburitsa zviya zvisinganyotsobatwi navadetembi vechidzimai mururimi rwechiShona, chii chakakutusva kudaro?

LG: Tinashe, zvimwe zvinongouya ufunge. Gore rino chinangwa changu ndechekunyora nhetembo zhinji mururimi rweChiShona. Waiva uri musi weChipiri apo ndakanyora nhetembo yekutanga ndokuikanda pafacebook. Shamwari dzangu dzikawana zvekutaura, musi wechitatu ndakakandazve imwe nhetembo, shamwari dzangu Rudo Chakanyuka  na Patrick Mahlasela vakandikurudzira kuti dai ndaita riri dariro. Ndokutanga kwazvakaita. Uye dzimwe nyaya idzi handikwanise kudzinyora muchingezi, dzinongoda kunyorwa muchiShona ufunge

TM: Maonero ako Linda, chii chinoita kuti vananyanduri varege kunyora nyaya dzakadai dzine chekuita nemudzimba mururimi rwaamai?

LG: Ndovimba munyori mumwe nemumwe anoita sarudzo yezvaanoda kunyora uye kunyora zvaakasununguka nazvo. Ini hangu ndinokwanisa kunyora nezvenyaya idzi.

TM: Makare kwaiva nenduri dzemugudza umo madzimai aiita zvirevereve mukunakidzana navadiwa vavo, iye zvino varume vanotsutsumwa kuti mudzimba yangova mwiromwiro, madzimai mazhinji haachagoni kudetembera vadiwa vavo. Chingava chii chinoita kuti zvidaro?

LG: Ko imiwo varume muchiri kuita madanha here kumadzimai enyu? Chekutanga ini handisati ndava mumba. Chechipiri ini ndakarerwa mumhuri yezvizvarwa zveku Malawi, saka kupindura mubvunzo kunoti netsei, asi ndinofunga kuti kushanduka kuri kuita kurarama kwedu ndiko kunogona kuchikonzera izvi. Parizvino hukama hwana tete nevazukuru vavo hwava hushoma, ndinofunga tete ndivo vaiva nebasa iri, kuudza ini mwanasikana zvinoitwa kana ndava mumba. Dzidziso iyi ichiri kuitika here? Kwete!

TM: Ndima yawatanga iyi, kunyanya nyaya yebarika iyi inogona kukushoresa nevamwe vanoti murume umwe anofanira kumira nemudzimai umwe. Iwe unotii naavo vanodaro uye kana nguva yekushorwa yava kuuya wakaronga kuivhika sei?

LG:  Apa unoreva kushorwa ini saLinda here kana kuti kushorwa kwezviri munhetembo idzi?

TM: Zvose.

LG: Kana kuri kushorwa saLinda, handina zvekuita uye handisi kuzozvidya moyo. Vanhu vanogona kunge vasina kunzwisisa kuti pandinonyora ini ndenge ndiri mumuriri wevamwe vanhu vanenge vari mumamiriro ezvinhu zvakasiyan-siyana.  Munhetembo yebarika iya, ini ndaiburitsawo nyaya dzevamwe dzandinonzwa kwete kuti ini ndinoda barika. Asiwo Tinashe kana vamwe varida, vawirirana iyi inyaya yavo.  Saka vaya vachada kushora vasashora munyori, asi kushora nyaya iri munhetembo.

TM: Ndima yauri kurima iyi ine kurwisana nedzidziso yezvitendero, unoona sei zvitendero zvisingabvumiri madzimai akati wandei?

LG: Apa panoti netsei nekuti dzidziso ndeimwe nyaya, zviri kuitika mukurarama ndeimwe nyaya. Vanhu dzidziso yechitendero chavo vanenge vachiiziva, asi vanoitevedzera here? Changu kunyora zviri kuitika bedzi!

TM: Pane nyaya yediaspora yaunobata mune imwe yenduri dzako: Unoiona sei yevarume vanosiya madzimai kumusha vachiti vanoenda kunoshavira mhuri ivo vozodzoka vava nemamwe madzimai emari yekuwanda iyi vachiramba vavakasiya vavimbisa rugare kumusha?

LG: Iyi inyaya yakaoma, ndosaka ndakainyora kuti ndinzwewo pfungwa dzevamwe. Asiwo kana munhu wawana mumwe zviri nani kusunungura uye waunenge wakasiya kumusha. Uye Tinashe, havasi varume chete, kunewo vakadzi vakawanda vakasiya mhuri dzavo–nyaya dzavo tinodzinzwa uye ndichadzinyora munguva iri kutevera

TM: Mudzimba munei chawaona chakakodzera kuti muitirwe nduri idzi?

LG: Dingindira renduri dzangu parizvino rudo. Ini handisati ndava mumba, apa ndiri kunyora zvinowanikwa murudo nezvinoitika pakudanana mumaonero andinozviita. Vamwewo vane maonero akasiyana.

TM: Pachikuva chepeji yako wakadura pachena kuti uchange uchibata nyaya dzinodzimba vamwe vanhu. Sei wazvipira kudzimba vanhu?

LG: Munduri idzi ini ndiri kunyora nyaya yezviri kuitika muhupenyu hwedu, tisade kuvanza kana kunyepera kuti hazvisi kuitika. Vachadzimbikana regai ndigare ndati ndine hurombo, iniwo sanyanduri ndiri kungonyorawo. Pane imwe nguva chokwadi chinodzimba asi ini hapana wandinopa mhosva. Zvikonzero zvakawanda zvinoita kuti vanhu vawanikwe mumamiriro ezvinhu akadai, asi vakawanda vavo kutsvaga ndaramo.

TM: Vamwe vachakuti unokara zvinhu; semunyori unoiona sei nyaya iyi?

LG: Pane asingade here kana mukana uripo? Kumajaji ndinoti vasati vajaja vatange vanzwisisa nyaya yemunhu wacho, vakainzwisisa vozvibvunzawo kuti vari ivo vari panyaya yakadai vaizoita sei?

TM: Vanoverenga vanoti pane madzimai mashoma chose kusvika pari zvino vane zvinyorwa zvakatsikiswa vanonyora zvavanonzwa maererano nenyaya dzerudo, iwe ndokuva wekutanga kunyora mururimi rwechiShona. Muono wako nendima iyi unosvikepi ?

LG: Kutaura kudai tiri mushishi yekuronga – ‘Kuzeya nhetembo naNyanduri Linda Gabriel – Live’, kureva kuti nduri dzatinozeya mukati mevhiki pafesibhuku, ndichange ndichipefoma kune vaoni uye tonzwa kubva kwavari pfungwa dzavo. Tichange tichiita ma live pefomenzi aya munzvimbo dzakasiyana-siyana. Chisuwo changu kuti panoperawo gore ndikwanise kuburitsa bhuku renduri idzi. Kutanga rinenge riri rangu chete. Ndichakokorodza nduri dzese dzandiri kushandisa pa fesibhuku, ndodziisa mubhuku rimwe.

Rimwe renduri dzaLinda Gabriel rinonzi:

Swedera Pedyo Neni

Ko nhai mudiwa.

zvakaipei kana ndikati swedera pedyo neni,

uswedere pedyo kuti undipewo

zvako zviya?

Undibate zvinyoro nyoro,

zvakaporera,

zvinotekenyedza,

zvinozipa,

zvinodakadza,

zvine hunyanzvi!

Nyatsoswedera,

ndoda chipfuva chako chive pane change,

mazamu angu neako ave mapatya,

hana yangu irove pamusoro peyako.

Yorova sendinomhanyiswa,

makumbo nemaoko zvobvunda.

Zvakaipei kana, ndikati swedera pedyo neni

muimba yokubikira,

vana vasipo?

Maoko ako onyatsotamba pamuviri wangu,

uchizevezera nyaya dzerudo munzeve dzangu.

Uchinyatso zuwa kuti uchandiita sei,

ini ndichinyatsoteerera pamwe nekunyerekedzwa.

Saka zvakaipei kana ndikati, swedera pedyo neni

muimba yokugeza.

Ndikukweshe musana,

topupumisa sipo,

undibate muchiuno ndikuvhurire,

undibate ndikutambire?

Titambe chitsvambe nechihwande-hwande chavakuru.

Saka nhai Mudiwa,

zvakaipei kana ndikati, swedera pedyo neni?

Crymio Kutyauripo

Kutyauripo, the Custodian of Shona Cultural Values

CHINUA Achebe writes in “African Writers Talking” (1972:7) that: “. . . what I think a novelist can teach is something very fundamental, namely to indicate to his readers, to put it crudely that we in Africa did not hear of culture for the first time from Europeans;” because we have always followed our own cultural way of life and worshipped God, the creator in our own way.

Artists as the custodians of the mores and values obtaining in their unique cultures should debunk the glorification of Western values and the demonisation of African belief systems. Chenjerai Hove points out in Palaver Finish (2002:57) that: “I always tell people that if they want to know about the history of a country, do not go to the history books, go to the fiction. Fiction is not fiction. It is the substance and heartbeat of a people’s life, here, now and in the past.” Suffice it to say that the best way of getting information on a people’s culture is a perusal of their literary texts; artists should rise to the occasion and fill in the yawning gap that historians leave in their quest to shape the future through the analysis of the past and its integration with the present.

Chinweuzu et al (1985) concur that the artist in the traditional milieu has always functioned as the custodian of the mores and values of his people. There is no better way of highlighting the African story than telling it in indigenous languages, which is the reason why Ngugi WaThiong’o has vowed to use Gikuyu as a vehicle to ferry his thematic concerns on the Kenyan experience. According to him the decolonization of Africa from the clutches of Western hegemony and stereotyping begins with the decolonisation of the mind; which is only possible through the shunning of Western languages in telling the African story. However, in a world where the reading culture is on the downward trajectory, publishing in indigenous languages might sound the death knell on reading per se, as the world has become a single village, some may argue.

It is worth noting though, that the preservation of culture begins with the preservation of language, which is its major informant. The death of language is the demise of culture and whatever it stands for, because African folklore, folk-song, proverbs and idioms which make up oral literature, heightens the understanding of the African’s world view. It is through these variables that African literacy may be discernible — the reading of the matrices that inform their world and not the Western idea of literacy-which calls for the deciphering of alien letters. In the Zimbabwean experience, books like Giles Kuimba’s “Tambaoga Mwanangu” (1968), Ignatius M. Zvarevashe’s “Gonawapotera” (1978) and Patrick Chakaipa’s “Karikoga Gumi Remiseve” (1958) play a significant role in the preservation of African religion and culture. The rising crop of Zimbabwean writers, with the exception of Memory Chirere who has been consistent in the use of both Shona and English in his work, is motivated by commercial gain at the expense of artistic value. Their preoccupation seem to be skewed in favour of the one who pays the piper, as opposed to the one whose story they purport to tell as is evident in the dubious awards they pursue.

In a society whose level of sophistication is measured by western knowledge acquired, foreign cultures presumed to be known and alien cities travelled to, Crymio Kutyauripo arrives on the literary platform with a gargantuan stride. His debut novel “Museve Usingapotse” (2014) compellingly captures the African story in an untainted way. Rarely do débutantes make such an impact that Kutyauripo has had at the Bookstore, and he can only do more. Told in the third person narrative technique, the book combines the macabre, sombre, gloomy and sordid with the glee, rapturous, tantalising and ennobling in such an adept way that leaves the reader aghast. His narrative skill, cultural depth, an infinite source of indigenous words, proverbs and idioms; descriptive prowess and attention to detail consumes the reader into the world of yore with such abandon that one might not want to be jogged into the present one of woes.

As a wordsmith, the artist uses powerful and original language which befits the setting that he uses; pre-colonial Zimbabwe. His subduing of the movement of the plot through fracturing it into different episodes which interact and merge into one discourse, creation of suspense sustained through the use of symbolical elements obtaining in the setting preferred and powerful descriptive language, makes the reading of the story not only captivating but didactic. Aptly playing his role as a custodian of the cultural mores and values of his people, Kutyauripo highlights the essence of culture in moulding the individual, and how African religion can be used in his/her redemption. He explores the rich African cultural landscape, untainted by foreign influence to demystify the cultural bankruptcy brought by colonialism. His world is a true African one whose hope is only manifest in its own sensibilities. The writer examines how African religion through the invocation of ancestral spirits has always been used to bring communion among the living and the dead. Traditional ceremonies like the burial of a chief, the rain-maker’s rituals as well as rites to bring the spirit of the dead to the fold play an integral part in establishing this fruitful communion.

Although Katyauripo’s offering can be read from a pre-colonial view point, the issues that pervade it are relevant in our world today. His exploration of the demonic, pervasive, brutal, corrupt and deceitful nature of power central to the story also focuses telescopic lenses on today’s power politics. The struggle for power which causes the assassination of Chief Chakaingeisu at the hands of his trusted nephew Pondai sets the train of events in motion, as his son Karinge seeks to avenge his death. After usurping power through the help of a neighbouring avaricious chief Mupambi, Pondai seeks to assassinate Karinge who escapes to Chief Tineshungu’s chiefdom. The heir apparent convinces the chief to help him in his quest. However, the chief though willing to help, has something else up his sleeve, as he seeks to settle old scores with Mupambi. Meanwhile, Chief Mupambi raids Chief Mushoshoma’s land and his land in turn is ambushed by Karinge and his forces. The heinous and brutal battles pitting the four chiefdoms establish Karinge as the victor through the support of his ancestral spirits. He subsequently installs his friends as chiefs in the conquered lands. However, although culture is a prerequisite in moulding the individual, it is sometimes oppressive and can be a damper on progress, and it is this that the writer is contemptuous of. The cruel and avaricious Chief Mupambi uses culture to justify his canal desires and to oppress his subjects. Women especially suffer the brunt of culture as they are mutilated and have their three front teeth knocked out once they get married. Soldiers are also branded like animals to separate them from enemies. Chief Tineshungu uses witchcraft to subdue his subjects; and as is the case in Chakaingesu’s land, albinos and twins are an abomination; hence they have to be killed at birth. The glorification of polygamy is also oppressive to women as they are used as pawns in the power struggles obtaining in these societies. Progressive societies borrow some good aspects of other cultures and merge them with their own because culture is not static but dynamic. On the other hand, although the protagonist wins back his inheritance and brings his sisters to safety, his installation of puppet chiefs in the conquered lands defeats the tenets of democracy and legitimacy which he purports to be championing, which may also cause problems in the future, as foretold by the oracle Matose. He is only 25 years old and his friends are just about that age, therefore this over-reliance on the ebullience and exuberance of youth is a bane on societal regeneration. They need the wisdom of age and experience and not spiritual guidance alone.

Notwithstanding the glitches associated with teething, Crymio Katyauripo’s “Museve Usingapotse” (2014) remains a shoulder above the rest in the new generation of Zimbabwean writers, as he establishes himself as a true custodian of the culture of his people.

Economics professor Smile Dube reviews Benjamin Sibanda’s debut novel When Freedom Came, which is set in Zimbabwe after 1980. Starting in the 1970s, when young university students left the then Rhodesia to pursue their education in England, the book covers the life of a young man who has returned to a newly independent Zimbabwe, to advance his dreams in a land of new opportunities. As Smile Dube reveals in this review, returning to Zimbabwe was one of the biggest mistakes the protagonist made. Read this incisive review here. 

Take a collection of colorful, madcap characters linked by a Family House and the despotic grandfather, part god, part politician, and part semi-benevolent dictator, who rules the house. Add a rich sense of culture peppered by local dialect, humor, and the scents of cook fires and earthy, delicious foods. Spice with a hint of political commentary, a dash of folklore, and a sprinkling of miracles and magical realism. Stir with a clear sense of joy and love, a celebration of a place and its people, and what results is E. C. Osondu’s debut novel, This House Is Not For Sale.

The novel consists of a series of tales, each one a sort of fable, moving inside the larger arc of the life of a legendary house known as the Family House. The house is in an unnamed African country abutting the Atlantic Ocean. The setting is an unnamed village with charismatic, opportunistic inhabitants and a sprawling array of shops and businesses. The tales are bookended by the beginning of the Family House, “How The House Came To Be,” and its demise, “How The House Came To Be No More.” The patriarch of the house is Grandpa, and the narrator is his grandson, who was “brought to the Family House over the long summer holidays” and appears more as the spinner of the stories, akin to Odysseus’s Muse, than a central character. The house came into existence, the narrator says, when a, “brave ancestor of ours who was also a respected and feared juju man” dreams that he will be crowned king and travels to a distant land. There, he persuades the existing king to build him a mansion on the outskirts of his kingdom.

Inside the compound lives a bustling community of relatives and non-relatives, some of whom are in hiding, some of whom work to repay debts owed to Grandpa that can never be repaid, perhaps, as it was said, because Grandpa jinxed the owners of the debt. There is Ndoza the shopkeeper who is caught stealing from the sales money and is forced to parade half-naked through the streets to teach others a lesson about thievery. There is Ibe, a boy the narrator’s age, who comes to the house with his mother when his father takes a second wife and brings with him a host of talismans and fantastic tales of sorcery. There is Gramophone, who fled to the Family House after having killed a man because, “there was only one place on this earth where no arm no matter how long could reach him, and that was the Family House.” There is Tata, who gives her dead child to the river goddess in exchange for the gift of prophecy. Throughout, town gossip swirls about the house, some saying it is evil, a place of witchery and supernatural business, others saying Grandpa opens his arms to those in need, albeit at a price profitable to him.

Osondu’s style is firmly rooted in Nigerian oral tradition. “My parents are very good storytellers,” he told Marie-Claire Wilson in his Spike Magazine interview. “Folktales were a big part of my growing up.” The is particularly evident in Ibe’s story with its hypnotic cadence, fantastical lore, and continual repetition of the phrase, “Ibe said.” But Raymond Carver, with his sparsity of language and “sense of narrative,” as Osondu told me, is also a strong influence. “I think you’ll see there is a mix of the two cultures in my stories,” he states in his Spike Magazine interview.

The title of the book, Osondu told Marie-Claire Wilson, comes from a scam in Nigeria where people try to sell houses that don’t belong to them.  In response, homeowners put up signs saying, “This House Is Not For Sale.” With good-humored jabs at a corrupt political system, Osondu expands on this theme by painting a picture of scams, bribes, and suspect deals that are negotiated from inside the Family House. Grandpa knows his way around the government, the military, and the police, and he is always able to arrange solutions to problems that are mutually beneficial to him and to his residents.

The characters in This House Is Not For Sale are deeply flawed. They are greedy, deceitful, quick to commit “crimes of passion,” or overly ambitious. And yet, Osondu brings them all to life with love. The dialogue, flavored by its ever-present chorus of unnamed voices, sparkles with humor, playful wickedness, and zest. Osondu gives us a strong and joyful sense of place in this novel. It is clearly a place he cherishes, and one that we, as readers, will come away cherishing as well.

About the Reviewer

Naomi Benaron’s debut novel Running the Rift won the 2010 Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction. Her short story collection, Love Letters from a Fat Man, won the 2006 Sharat Chandra Prize for Fiction. Her fiction, poetry, and reviews appear in many in print and online journals. Currently, she teaches writing online for UCLA Extension Writers’ Program and is a mentor for the Afghan Women’s Writing Project.

[This review was originally published in Bookbrowse Journal]

Photo credit: Caine Prize

I was one of the participants of the 2015 Caine Prize Writers Workshop, held in Elmina, a picturesque coastal town in Ghana, from April 6 to 19. I travelled from Douala on Ethiopian Airlines, so I spent the night in Addis Ababa and boarded the long flight to Accra the next morning. We landed at the Kutoka International Airport in Accra in the afternoon and I proceeded to Immigration, to get my Visa stamped, since what I used to travel was a pre-arranged Visa. What impressed me first about KIA is its decent infrastructure and neat, interior designing.

An immigration officer looked at me and said, “You’re a nice guy!” I was taken aback. Immigration officers in my country don’t lavish such beautiful compliments on anyone. They are either non-committal to you or they scold you.

So I asked him,“Why do you say that?”

“There are some people that when you see them, you begin to shiver. But you! I don’t think so. Where are you from?”

“Cameroon,” I answered.

“It doesn’t matter where you are from, you’re a nice guy.” I felt flattered. Being airport staff myself, I knew he said that from his profiling of me, with respect to fake documents or illegalities.

The second officer who stamped my Visa pronounced my town of birth with a certain familiarity that something told me that he knew the place,

“Nkiacha, born in Kumba!” I halted, trying not to think of the exaggerated infamous stories of my birth place. But as he returned my passport, he added,

“I attended CPC Bali.”

“Oh! Really! Good to know.”

(CPC Bali is one of the first Secondary schools in Anglophone Cameroon.) We spoke French briefly after that. The “nice guy” one warmed up to my chat so much he even gave me his phone number.

I left for the arrival hall. A gentleman gave me a cart, placed my bags on it and told me,

“Welcome to Ghana”. It was another commendable act of gallantry. So off I went thinking about first impressions. “Ghanaians are generally hospitable, friendly people, birthplace of pan-Africanism really.” Then a voice boomed,

“This way sir, Customs.” (Damn it.)

“Okay.”

“Anything to declare? Currency? Goods?” the man asked, his eyes on my bags.

“Nothing. Only clothing.”

“So where are you from?” he asked, spotting my foreign accent.

“Cameroon.”

He sighed.  “You people came here in 2008 and eliminated Ghana in the semi-final of the Africa Cup of Nations,” he snapped and flung his hand away dismissively. The unexpected reproach made me laugh, as I remembered the 1-0 defeat. An eight year grudge! Does he know our team has suddenly become the dead lions?

“I’m sorry about that.”

Okay, first impressions. “Hospitable, gentle Ghanaians, customs officer exclusive.”

I noted again that, Ghanaians generally speak their native languages among themselves, more than they speak English, especially twi. (I later learnt about others like Fante, Hausa, Ewe, Ga etc.) Once I was out of the arrival hall, I spotted my name on a piece of paper, held by the Hotel staff who came to pick me up. I shook his hand and saw another invitee, Malawian writer, Jonathan Mbuna and we were both driven to the Coconut Grove Regency in Accra.

Accra looked like the better behaved twin of my city, Douala, Cameroon’s economic capital. The commercial hustle and bustle was palpable. There were throngs of people in every street corner and avenue. I saw a multitude of impressive buildings and neat wide roads, garnished by lots of traffic lights and a glut of cars and taxis plying them. I noticed that the colour of their taxis is a mixture of grey and yellow, unlike ours which are plain yellow. The names of the businesses were entertainment; Downhill Virgins, Shalom fast food, Glee Oil etc. We drove past the state house and I was puzzled it is along the road. Ours is a swanky mansion safely tucked away from public view in Yaoundé. The Accra presidency looks more statehouse like, with its pentagon like, slightly circular frame and grayish compartments and floors, surrounded by high flying Ghanaian flags. Accra is also a city with better architectural symmetry than Douala. Traffic lights at almost every junction guide movement, especially during hold ups. Though there weren’t any traffic jams as we smoothly made our way to the Regency.

I introduced myself to the other wordsmiths and director of the Caine Prize, Lizzy Attree who had all spent the night there. Some of us had already met virtually, so it was a boon to actually meet in person. After lunch, we all hopped onto two buses and began our long drive to Elmina, the coastal town in the Central region where we were based. Brainy conversations trickled on all subjects in our bus and I was impressed by the intellect of young Efemia Chela who sat next to me, telling me about Ghanaian life.

“Oh look,” she quickly pointed at a boy selling West African garden snails in a bowl and I gasped at their gigantic size as we drove past. I was asked about writing in English and not French, since I am from a “Francophone country”. I explained that I write in English which I am more versed in and some French which I studied in school. But I am Anglophone Cameroonian, though living and working in a Francophone city. Little correction, Cameroon is a bilingual country, though predominantly Francophone.

Our conversation sort of paused when we drove past a car accident scene. Pede Hollist finally broke the silence a few minutes later,

“I noticed we were all quiet. So what inference can we draw from that?”

“It was heart breaking. But it seemed nobody died, only injuries. I saw a lady with some blood on her body,” someone answered. That was the only sad moment in our bus trip. Nature consoled us with scenic views of lagoons, fresh foliage and beautiful villages like Winneba and Anomabo, where we saw a clown who had disguised like a woman at a small beach party. We drove along the coastline, where hundreds of wild coconut trees lined the seashore and its waters breathed fresh breeze on us. The bluish green sea was quite a sight, as its gruff water currents splashed noisily against the shores, leaving behind a meshwork of brown seaweeds. After three and a half hours, we finally arrived at the eye catching, Coconut Grove Beach Resort Elmina, a plush seaside hotel built in a grove of wild coconut trees. It has entertained guests such as Kofi Annan, Serena Williams and Bono.  After checking into our rooms, we later had dinner and chatted at length, to know ourselves better.

There was a lot of entertainment the next day; delicious food and wine, swimming in the beautiful ocean, table tennis, crocodile viewing in the pond and horse riding. I rode a horse for my first time and saw my first donkey too. We all assembled in the conference hall at 5.00PM and our facilitator, wonderful Sudanese novelist and first winner of the Caine Prize, Leila Abouleila, gave us a guided imagery writing exercise to do, to send us into writing gear. We wrote and read the short pieces. From the readings and discussion of the short stories we intended writing, it was already evident how different and unique we all were. Our second facilitator, South African novelist, Zukiswa Wanner joined us two days later and she was another amazing and funny writer to complete the very panafrican group of fictioneers.

So it was on. We wrote and wrote and wrote. Each evening, there were readings of work in progress by three writers. The facilitators gave feedback, suggestions and positive criticisms to make the stories better. The other writers did too. Each reader had the option to either accept, modify or reject the suggestions. I worked on one short story and stuck with it all along. I judged most of the feedback to my story helpful. Apart from the facilitators, I also profited from the knowledge of writers/teachers like Diane Awerbuck and Pede Hollist. The workshop was also an opportunity for me to network with other writers and understand their different creative processes. By the time our stories were concluded, it was no surprise that the range was so wide; from realist fiction to science fiction, tragedy to comedy, stories set in the earth’s water bodies to high up in the air, aboard a plane, to be published along with the 5 shortlisted stories this year in the Caine anthology in July by New Internationalist. Don’t miss out on that literary feast!

Apart from writing, there were other events that spiced up the workshop. Some of us did radio interviews on City 93.5 FM organized by Writers Project Ghana. I did mine with Jonathan Mbuna and Akwaeke Emezi. We generally talked about our writing journeys and Caine prize workshop experience. Four other writers had done theirs at the Regency in Accra the night before I arrived. The proprietor of the hotel, businessman, Mr. Kwesi Nduom also came to see us, to encourage our work and said he wished we attained all our objectives. Groupe Nduom was also a sponsor of this year’s workshop, together with a couple of other funders.

Acclaimed Ghanaian writer, Kojo Laing also visited us one Monday. Before he started his conversation, he looked at Ghanaian writer, Jonathan Dotse and I sitting next to each other and asked if we were twins. I laughed and said, I never even knew Dotse before the workshop. He talked about his writing, precisely his love for poetry which led him to writing prose. He said he writes his novels the same way he writes poetry. His main interest is surrealism. And he is very stubborn, he doesn’t listen to any writing suggestions. He told us too, without boastfulness, that he doesn’t submit his work to publishers. They usually write to him asking for his manuscripts to publish. And I remember thinking, “that’s such a luxury!” He talked about his beliefs surrounding death and cremations. Then he took a photo with us after the talk and joined us for lunch before leaving.

“She was a rolling stone in the hands of men.” Wow! But there was a scene where a character received a “wonderful slap” and I gasped. Before we left, we informed the headmaster about some children’s short story competitions and urged the girls to submit their stories online.We also visited some secondary schools in groups, to talk about writing and reading and to encourage the students to do so. I visited the Catholic Girls Secondary School, Elmina with Zukiswa, Dotse and Akwaeke. I read to the students from my children’s short story illustrations book, “The Golden Baobab Tree” and they enjoyed it. The girls showed so much interest in the book, relishing the cartoon illustrations and passing it on, so I gifted my copy to the school. We asked if they had written any short stories that they could share with us. They were initially shy but soon warmed up to Zukiswa’s arresting presence and produced three stories, read by three different authors. We were impressed by their writing skills. Akwaeke never forgot a beautiful line from one of the girls’ stories about a promiscuous female character,

On our last Wednesday, we travelled to the village of Kakum and visited the Kakum National Park. It is a protected forest which is home to the forest elephant, yellow b acked duiker, 300 species of birds and 600 species of butterflies. The forest guide told us it was unlikely that we were going to see the animals because they are mostly nocturnal and human noise scares them away, so they hide. The marvel of the park is the canopy walk 250 metres above sea level and above the forest. The canopy walk is done on eight hanging bridges, linked atop the forest’s tallest trees. The view of the forest from above is really stunning but equally terrifying. It is a vast expanse of lush greenery that spreads on all sides, as if you were watching it from a helicopter. But the amazing part of the whole thing is that, no matter how hard you look below, you cannot see the forest floor, only tree tops in the middle layer. The more you look, the scarier it becomes, coupled with the fact that the bridges swing. We did the canopy walk successfully. There have been zero accidents since construction. The bridges are safe and undergo maintenance often.

Next up, we proceeded to Cape Coast to visit the Cape Coast Castle near the sea. It was built around 1760 by the Portuguese as a trade centre for gold, ivory and later slaves from many parts of Africa. It was finally ceased by the British. There are canons around it. Even the cannon balls are still there. A fort was built nearby, where soldiers were stationed, to fend off any impending European attack. The castle guide took us through the dark dungeons and cells and told us the gruesome slave stories, about men and women who were packed in there and they lived in the most horrible conditions, defecating, peeing and menstruating on themselves, with little food and water. The women were raped repeatedly. The ones who resisted rape were locked in dark cells and starved to death. Stubborn men also faced the same treatment. And when they died, their corpses were never buried. They were all thrown into the nearby sea.

But the tough ones who clung onto hope and survived, walked through the “Door of no return” in heavy metal chains, onto ships anchored near the castle and sailed off to America and the Caribbean.  At that moment, you ceased to be Fanti, Ga, Hausa, Ewe, Akan and other African tribes. Your name faded. Your tribesmen and family became a memory, your identity flickered out like a burnt candle, your language slowly disappeared like a sinking ship (for you were with other Africans who didn’t speak your mother tongue) and the Cape Coast beach became a mirage that disappeared too, as the ship slowly sailed away. You simply became “slave”, toiling for the rest of your life on never ending plantations overseas. The castle visit is a terrible experience. It has pulled hundreds of people to tears.

We didn’t visit the oldest castle in Ghana, the Elmina Castle, as a group because of time. That didn’t go down well with me. “How can we live in Elmina without visiting the five century old castle?” I wondered aloud to Kenyan writer, Kiprop Kimutai. So a few days later, Kiprop and I did a private paid trip to the grand old castle. It was built way back in 1482 by the Portuguese (who shipped their slaves to Brazil.) It was later captured by the Dutch in 1637, (who shipped their slaves to Suriname and Guiana) and then purchased by the British in 1872. Though the British shipped their slaves to America and the Caribbean from other castles, they never did so at Elmina Castle.

Elmina is a bigger castle than Cape Coast but it has fewer canons. However, there is Fort Jaego nearby, where European soldiers guarded the castle. It is as brutish as Cape Coast, perhaps even more. There is a female dungeon there where the scent of feces, urine and blood is still intact till date. The third and smallest castle exists in Accra but none of us visited it. I heard it has little grandeur and isn’t as historic as the aforementioned ones.

Back at the Coconut Grove, we submitted our final drafts to the facilitators and witnessed a spectacular traditional dance by the Akumapa Culture Group on our last afternoon. They were men who danced traditional rhythms so acrobatically and engulfed fire sticks in their mouths. I froze when I heard one drum rhythm which was so close to that of the Nteuh dance from my tribe. I joined the men and played the drums, before heading out to our bonfire night with calabashes of fresh palm wine. And there was dancing, a lot of contemporary African music.

The next day, we bade painful “au revoir” to Coconut Grove Hotel Elmina and traveled back to the Regency in Accra to prepare for our literary event at the Goethe Institute. There were speeches by Prudential Plc representatives, this year’s main sponsor of our workshop and by Lizzy Attree. After that, Kiprop, Leila and Zukiswa did readings of their works to great applause. A panel discussion of African Literature by Pede Hollist, Nana Nyarko Boateng, Jonathan Dotse, Jonathan Mbuna and myself followed. The audience was engaging with questions about our writing perspectives and the literary scene back in our various countries. There were also book sales, book signings, meet ups and chats. The event ended on a high note, which was also formally, the end of our workshop.

As I embarked the bus to the airport the next morning, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction, after participating in one of the prestigious creative writing workshops in Africa, in that hospitable land of Kwame Nkrummah, where many people and even the signposts tell you “Akwaaba” (welcome) and the people are always ready to make you their “Charle” (friend).

Every year the African continent holds its breath as we wait for the announcement. We’ve blogged the stories, Googled the authors, engaged in furious debate about the style of writing, about the story, about the author. Then the tweet drops, the website is updated and we all find out who won the Caine Prize.

The Caine is the most prestigious award that an African can win. It translates to real prize money, recognition, and renown, the staples of success for any author anywhere in the World.

Last year, those who were interested were treated to an interesting conversation about the Caine prize. Prominent blogger, Ikhide Ikheloa, and celebrated author, Binyavanga Wainaina, engaged in a debate about the relevance of the Caine Prize to African authors. Interested parties stayed glued to their cell phones, madly retweeting and favoriting what was said, but it uncovered something uncomfortable that we have decided to ignore – in the eyes of African readers (and the rest of the World), the non-African prize legitimizes the the nominated African authors.

Legitimacy is the act of being legitimate, of being lawful or in accordance with rules, principles, standards. Legitimacy imbues honor and respectability that would have not otherwise been bestowed upon the person in question.

For example, a degree from an accredited (legitimate) University renders a person legitimate. Said person has acted in accordance with certain rules, principles and standards, as set out by the University, and can present their certificate of legitimacy in order to acquire a job.

The Caine prize has done this for the authors who have either been nominated for the prize or have won it. The legitimacy bestowed upon the author is one that is respected by the buyer looking for books on the shelf or surfing for their next read on Goodreads or Amazon. This particular fact is hard to dispute. It may not translate into millions of dollars in sales, but it provides an air of respectability and authority.

This is not a critique of the Caine prize. It was set up by someone who was interested in reading literature that was coming out of Africa and awarding excellence. This was not a bad thing to do. It has highlighted good written work by African authors who would have otherwise not been able to take their rightful place on an international stage.

The problem with the Caine prize has nothing to do with the prize or the people who sit on the juries, or those who administer the prize. Indeed it is easier to point the finger at the “outsider” rather than looking at our own issues with legitimacy.

I would like to acknowledge that non-African prizes for African literature written in any language have proven to be problematic. In 2006, Jose Luandino Vieira, an Angolan author refused to accept the most prestigious prize for Africans who write in Portuguese, citing personal and intimate reasons, which have been speculated to be the result of the apartheid regime in Angola, perpetuated by Portugal. This is also seen in authors from Algeria where there has been a long history of raging against Francophone literary prizes

But let’s get back to legitimacy. The World in which we live is centered around the notion of legitimacy. What expertise can you prove in order to speak or act on particular issues? Who has noticed your work? Where is your proof? All these questions demand confirmation; they demand legitimacy.

This is the struggle in which we are locked, collectively as Africans who love  African literature and those who create African literature. Legitimacy, honor, and respectability. Unfortunately, it seems that the only legitimacy we recognize is that which is provided by non-African prizes.

In an attempt to engage African readers of African literature in any conversation about literary prizes, two major prizes float to the top. The Nobel Prize for literature and the Caine Prize. There does not seem to be any recognition of literature that has gained the notice or praise of African literary prizes. The recently awarded Etisalat prize barely passed with a whimper, and mentioning the inaugural Jalada Prize for African Literature brings the cicadas and crickets out. Do we even know if there was another winner of the Kwani Manuscript prize?

Why? Why is it that African prizes get such little notice? Shall we blame this on the media in an age where we get our news from blogs, twitter, and facebook? Are they responsible? Do we blame the award administrators themselves because their press conferences and media coverage is insufficient to reach our television sets? Who do we blame for the collective apathy towards African prizes for African literature?

And yet, like crabs in a bucket, we will climb over each other to craft stories written to satisfy the non-African gaze. We still explain our burial practices, our marriage ceremonies, our cultural shock in foreign lands, our corrupt leaders, our trip to the witch doctor, painting caricature after caricature in an effort to find the magic formula that will snag the elusive prize. Crafted, not for the consumption of our neighbours, or a young cousin struggling with the ravages of puberty, or to create a hero for children to emulate, but for the enjoyment of the non-African.

Again, I would like to stress that this is not the problem of the non-African. This is a symptom of our own underlying prejudice towards those things that are non-African in nature. African authors tell other stories all the time. Those that catapult them to international fame are, intentionally or otherwise, honed to satisfy non-African gaze which has proven to be biased or problematic.

For the struggling author, toiling in obscurity in their parents’ home, working late into the night to complete a manuscript for publication, reading rejection letter after rejection letter, the non-African literary prize becomes the holy grail. Proof to all and sundry, that their chosen profession, their passion, is legitimate.

Tackling the pricklier issue is much more difficult. The non-African gaze. Dr. Joy DeGruy, a well respected sociologist and psychologist in the United States of America, has studied the effects of cognitive dissonance and post traumatic slave syndrome in the relationship between the descendants of Africans and those of the Europeans. Much of what she says is applicable to the relationship between Africa and their former colonialist masters.

Without realizing it, we hold biases within ourselves about the value of the African gaze versus the non-African gaze. This is not an issue that is comfortable to talk about because none of us want to be accused of biases against our own people. To solve the clashing contradiction of our own thoughts, we engage in behavior that justifies our stance. Something else must be wrong. The media is not telling us anything. The award administrators are not working hard enough to publicize their award. Anything to satisfy the dissonance bothering our conscience. This is the result of years of colonialism spoken about in great talks, such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Commonwealth speech that did not get quite as many “likes” or “shares” as her TED talk did.

The characteristics attributed to us (lazy, corrupt, hyper sexual, child-like minds, unable to feel pain or grieve) have seeped into our own perceptions and have given rise to the notion that non-African prizes awarded to African fiction imply that the work is superior. Without conscious thought, we have relegated the African to the last place, the last position.

Healing must come from ourselves; recognition and acknowledgement that we have been affected by colonialism and colonialist thought. Then we must begin the tough journey of reclaiming pride in ourselves, in our ability to be equal players in a field previously dominated by others without the need to have them legitimize our work. We must value ourselves, our words, our culture, our humanity, and each other.

In order for us to provide our own legitimacy, create the market where African authors thrive, we (Africans) must acknowledge our own creators by providing them with the means to create more. This will be evident when bookstores in Africa finally stock literature from all African countries, when we are able to provide precursors to dreams for future generations and when the question about the Caine or Nobel or Commonwealth ceases to take prominence in our discussions.

In celebration of awards given by us, for us, here is a brief list of some of the African literary prizes awarded to African writers of literature.

• African Literature Prize

• Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation
• Bessie Head Literature Award
• Brunel University African Poetry Prize

• Caine Prize

• Engineer Mohammed Bashir Karaye Prize for Hausa Writing
• Etisalat Prize for Literature

• The Golden Baobab Prize
• Grand prix littéraire d‘Afrique noire

• Jalada Prize for Literature
• Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature
• Lotus Prize for Literature
• The Maskew Miller Longman Literature Awards
• MNet Literary Awards

• Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature
• Nigeria Prize for Literature
• Noma Award for Publishing in Africa

• Template:Tchicaya U Tam‘si Prize for African Poetry
• Tchicaya U Tam‘si Prize for African Poetry

• Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa
• The Writivism Short Story Prize Summary of the conversation between Ikhide Ikheloa and Binyavanga Wainaina. http://brittlepaper.com/2014/10/ikhide-ikheloa-binyavanga-caine-prize-cainerversation/Jose Luandino Vieira refuses Portugal’s top literature award https://youtu.be/XRQ-Ci6LwVwChimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Commonwealth Lecture 2012 https://youtu.be/vmsYJDP8g2U
• Post Traumatic Slave Disorder, by Joy De Gruy Leary
• http://www.booktrade.info/index.php/showcomments/8707

About the Writer

Gloria Bwandungi Mugarura is a story teller and a passionate advocate for the spreading of African literature World wide. Her days are spent looking after her garden, taming her obsession for organized spaces, baking, making meaningful connections with other African writers, and writing.

The results are out, and the winning story, “Caterer, Caterer”,  is by Nigerian writer Pemi Aguda. The story, along with four others shortlisted for the Prize, is published here. Pemi Aguda writes short stories and flash fiction. Her stories have appeared in The Kalahari Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Prufrock Magazine, The Wrong Quarterly and the TNC anthology ‘These Words Expose Us’ among others. Aguda received the award at the Writivism Festival on June 21, in Kampala, Uganda.

They are building a church. They say it is going to be bigger than both the whole of Sabo and Ladoja joined together. They say it will rise so high that we will not be able to see the hills of Agbara that touch the sky in the distance; that it will be so tall that it can only force our eyes to go up. To God.

I don’t know anything about buildings. All I know is the smack- ing of fists against our wooden door if we do not pay the landlord rent on time. I also know food. I know ponmo that squishes between your teeth, so tender that you close your eyes. I know smoky jollof rice with grains that do not hold on to each other in solidarity. I know efo riro that will dribble out the side of your mouth so that your wife knows that you tasted another woman’s kitchen and found it superior to hers.

It is why I am in this Keke Maruwa that is hurtling down the street, entering every pothole on the road as if its tyres are suicidal. We have seen no other person since we turned into this narrow, winding road and the engine of the Keke Maruwa echoes in the emptiness.

I have been called to cook for the people celebrating the laying of the foundation for this church that will be taller and bigger than all the buildings I have ever seen. My husband does not like the church people – Pastor Pascal and his flock. But the money I get will pay the rent. Twice.

Biyi says to me, “Why is a man who can talk to God wearing a green suit? Why hasn’t God told him that he looks like the spirogyra that dances in our gutters?”

And I say to Biyi, “Na you know.”

Read the full story here.

Matt Prater is a poet and writer from Saltville, VA (US). His work has appeared in journals throughout his native Appalachia, including in Appalachian Heritage, Appalachian Journal, drafthorse, Floyd County Moonshine, The Hollins Critic, James Dickey Review, Kudzu, Motif, Now & Then, The Pikeville Review, Revolution John, Still: The Journal, and Town Creek Poetry, among other publications. Winner of the James Still Prize for Short Story and the George Scarbrough Prize for Poetry, he has taught at universities throughout the region, including at Appalachian State, Bluefield College, Emory & Henry College, and King University. He is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Virginia Tech. Read his poems here. 

Judith grew up in Polokwane, South Africa. She lived in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe for two years before moving back to her hometown in 1994. She worked as a proofreader at a newspaper printing company and has since been a writing housewife. Her writings have appeared in Vision Magazine, Ancient Paths Christian Literary Magazine, The Kalahari Review and Brittle Paper.

Informant

(Part 1)

I’ve heard of the word “ambiance”. I wouldn’t say The Waterhole had ambiance but it reminded me of an oasis in the desert… or a waterhole in the bushveld. Most of the locals were farmers – stock breeders. They were in the habit of leaving their caps (the ones that had the farm’s name embroidered on them) nailed to the wall behind the sleeper wood counter.

After doing the purchases, I returned to the cool, semi-dark interior of the pub where I handled the administration of the stock myself. You just couldn’t trust the first young girlie that came knocking for a barmaid position: They came and went like the flies in summer.

Later on in the evening, the pub was filled with rowdy customers. On nights like these, I played a mixed C.D. of artists of the eighties and turned up the volume. The smoke of the cigarette brands mingled and burned the eyes of the non-smokers. There was a non-smoking sign up a few months ago but the guys took it down while I was busy with the pub lunches.

Stewart was sitting in his usual spot, swaying on a barstool. He was telling anyone who would listen of the time he stuffed a streepsak[*] full of dagga in his fireplace when he thought the cops were after him. “That,” he said “was a bad idea – I hot-boxed the whole house.” I’ve had to ask him to leave a few times but Stewart was not one to bear grudges, he always came back.

I threw out one troublemaker later that evening and by one o’ clock, I was ready to lock up and go to bed. I waited for two guys at the pool table to finish their game. Stewart’s head was hanging on his chest. “Hey,” I slapped his meaty shoulder, “time to go.” Even though he looked very drunk, his eyes focused fine and his speech was not slurred when he asked to use the phone.

“No.”

“Please, man,” he glanced across the empty tables at the two guys, “I don’t have airtime.”

“Stewart, it’s one o’ clock in the morning.”

“I know – it’s urgent. Please, Ricky.”

“Richard,” I corrected him. “Fine,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

I polished the counter while Stewart whispered over the phone in the kitchen to a Mister Rapholo. The two guys lay their cues on the green felt, exchanged a complicated handshake and beat their chests in what seemed to me an immature way to end a pool game. Stewart staggered out of the door after knocking over a chair.

The next day, I left the girlie on her own in the pub while I had lunch at a steak house in town with an old chom of mine. After we ordered our steaks and chips, I leaned back in the chair and looked out of the windows at the parking area and who should I see other than Stewart.

He made his way to the door of the restaurant and sat in the far corner of the steak house with his back towards me. His faded shorts receded below what was considered decent coverage by even the most primitive of people. As I shook my head, a man who looked like a government official approached Stewart and pulled out the chair opposite him. I wondered where the guy managed to find a belt that could cover his girth. They greeted like old familiars. Stewart’s friend was carrying something in a folded plastic packet. “Another round,” the waiter announced while he opened our lagers and poured them into our glasses with just the right amount of foam near the rim of the glass.

“I think I should fire the girlie and get this guy at the pub,” I told my chom, Joe.

He shrugged. “You need something there for the guys to look at….”

I kept glancing at Stewart and his new-found friend… I don’t know if it was curiosity, or his exposed behind, or a sick mixture of both that made me look but I noticed that only the government official ordered. As soon as the plate of pap and chicken arrived, Stewart took the plastic packet on the table and waddled out of the restaurant on his gout-swollen ankles.

A few days later, Joe came to the pub for a beer.

“Do you remember the two guys who were playing pool here last week?” he asked.

“Humf, you mean the two city boys?”

“Ja, with the spiky hair,” he leaned forward, “they got arrested last night.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. For… um,” he looked around to see if anybody was listening, “for dealing in rhino horn.”

“Né?” I took a swig at the bottle. “Whose rhino?”

“Don’t know. Maybe mine,” he leaned back, “could even be mine.”

I shook my head, “You should know, Joe, because if you stand in the middle of your farm you can see all the animals on it. And those things you pointed out as rhinos looked a hell of a lot like ant hills to me.” Joe’s new money sometimes added tails of exaggerated length to all his stories.

That evening, Stewart was intent on getting drunk. He even bought a few rounds of Springbokkies for everybody. Word got around and soon, The Waterhole was filled to capacity. Some of the guys even had to stand outside, so they made a fire. I’m not one to complain about good business, but the women… As soon as even one person equipped with breasts so much as walked from the door to the counter, you saw – or felt – a change come over the guys. It was if the hairs on their necks bristled in competitive aggression towards each other as they stared at her back. She could be as ugly as a warthog but in no time, fists would be flying and I would have to sort things out.

Well, I could tell that this evening would be no different from the others. I soon asked three guys and a large woman in a tight tank top (her hair was bleached blond a few months ago and the dark roots clung to her skull like seaweed) to leave.

As I saw them out, a BMW with four passengers skid to a halt, throwing up dust near the fire – it floated before the headlights and deposited itself on the shoes of those seeking companionship in the solidarity of the flames. Amid a few curses slung in their direction, the four men brushed past me into the pub. The warm glow reflected off their dark, shaved heads. I hurried back to the counter – the guys would be happy to get rid of these gangster- looking Nigerians themselves if they didn’t behave. Business petered out by about only two o’ clock and the girlie was complaining about sore feet. I turned the music off and sent everybody home.

“Ricky,” Stewart stood up from the barstool.

“Go home, Stewart.”

“Ricky, can I use your phone?”

“Richard …” I rubbed one eye with my thumb and the other with my index finger, “You know what – there – use the phone. The sooner you get away from here the better for both of us.”

“Thanks, Ricky.”

I stood by while he had a short conversation with Mister Rapholo. “Hey, Ricky. Do you think those Nigerians will be back?”

“What? I don’t know, now get the hell out.”

“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up in primeval submission and backed away from me.

I grabbed the broom to clear the tiled floor of the evening’s ash, stompies[†] and broken glass shards and thought of Stewart and all the strange goings-on of late. He seemed to have eavesdropped on the two city boys who got arrested soon afterwards and then he received payment from some sort of government official… Tonight, he was asking questions about people I wouldn’t want drinking tea with my grandmother.

I swept the rubbish on a heap behind the counter where the girlie would see it the next day and locked up.

Outside, Stewart’s jaloppy was parked in its usual spot against the wall of The Waterhole. The side-mirror on the left and the passenger door were a different colour since the day he parked too close to the wall. He had replaced the banged-up bits with parts he bought at a scrap yard.

“Stewart… have you got car trouble again?” I asked.

He didn’t answer and I expected him to be passed out in the car. I was busy wiping the dust off the window with my jacket sleeve when I heard a groan. “Stewart?” I walked around the car and found him lying face in the dirt on the passenger side. His hair glistened and his collar was seeped in blood. The space between the car and the wall was cramped but I somehow managed to help Stewart to his knees and carry him over my shoulder. Army training was crap but it was something you never forgot. It was always under your skin, like fingernails I thought as I panted under Stewart’s weight. For a split second, I pictured Stewart on the back of my bakkie but hell, cold water could sort out anything, even if the seats were new.

Stewart’s eyes were already swollen shut and his nose looked worse than that cocky laaity’s a few weeks ago did. Where his shirt was torn, I could see blue-black bruises.

I thought it best to take him to the provincial hospital. I filled in the forms handed to me by the apathetic desk clerk and left him there. The doctor seemed good.

I went to visit him the next evening.

“What happened last night?”

The poor bugger couldn’t talk well and I missed half the story. I made out, though, that the gangsters ambushed him in the dark and beat him seven shades from Sunday. The bone in his left arm was splintered.

“Ricky …” Stewart’s eyes seemed watery, “I don’t know … If you didn’t show up when you did….”

“Ja, well …” I cleared my throat. “It wouldn’t have been good for the pub if they’d killed you.”

I stopped at the police station and opened a case file for Stewart. Constable Lesiba Semenya said he would stop by at the hospital himself to get a statement from Stewart. They were hot on the trail of four Nigerian men suspected of dealing in uncut diamonds and drugs and my description of them matched those of the suspects’. The girlie resigned as soon as I got back to The Waterhole, something about a boyfriend and unsafe. I wasn’t unhappy to see the back of her… I decided I would speak to the waiter at the restaurant as soon as I was in town again.

I needed to go to town a week later because the stock ran low. I first went to visit Stewart before sorting out all the other things – I knew I wouldn’t feel up for a visit at the hospital after I’d dealt with long queues, traffic, and incompetence at the wholesalers and the like.

Even though he still had a few superficial bruises on his face, Stewart was sitting up in bed with a Bible on his lap. He did not notice me.

“Whatchu doing, Stewart?”

“Hey, Ricky,” he beamed, “I was just thinking about you.”

I looked at the open Bible.

“A man came in here a few nights ago … Probably saw I had no visitors, I don’t know. He gave me this,” he looked at the Bible. “Ricky?”

I pulled up a chair.

“I was wondering … Could you take me to church on Sunday? I can’t drive yet with this arm….”

“Yes of course, Stewart,” heck, I figured it would be okay. I hadn’t been to church since a chom of mine got married a few years ago.

We drove with the passenger window open and Stewart’s cast and brace almost hit a few stop signs on the way there.

The church he wanted to go to was not like the traditional churches I remembered from my childhood. During the service, I’d been to the bathroom and as I approached the aisle we were sitting in, the preacher walked up to Stewart.

“Have you accepted Jesus in your heart, my friend?”

Stewart looked down at his clasped hands. He nodded at first, then shook his head.

“Come here,” the preacher led Stewart by his hand into the aisle. He turned around and kneeled in front of Stewart.

Stewart knelt as well, leaning on the preacher as he did so. The preacher embraced him and they prayed. I watched as the tears streamed down Stewart’s red cheeks. They were oblivious to everybody around them. The preacher and Stewart got to their feet – he said something to Stewart and hugged him.

Stewart’s managed to get his life back on track, so to speak. He’s become a tracker again, even teaches the local people about the veld and the animals. I still have to chase Stewart away from the pub sometimes because he’s got it into his head to preach to my customers.

(Part II)

The shade cast by the thatch roof of The Waterhole enveloped anybody entering it from the brightness of the bushveld sun. A paved pathway led you past a little decorative dam lined with rock art. The faint aroma of the dried thatching grass mingled with that of the tarred wooden poles and you knew you were home, even if the bushveld was never your home. The deafening love songs of the cicadas in the acacia trees faded as one walked up to the bar.

Around brunch time one Saturday, a woman from the city walked out of the sunlight into The Waterhole. It looked as if she hadn’t thrown on the first thing in her cupboard. Her hair was cut in a short bob and tucked behind her ears. She wore a long white gypsy skirt and high heels – very much overdressed for The Waterhole. She did not look left or right as she sauntered up to the bar, “A Lemon Spritz, please,” she said.

“Hey?” Quentin asked.

“Soda water with a sprits of le-mon,” she shaped her mouth on the last word, accentuating the syllables.

I continued to polish glasses while he scurried around in search of fresh lemon. Quentin was worth more to me than all the girlies that had ever worked at The Waterhole put together. He handled difficult women customers – they seemed to prefer him anyway. Also, I didn’t always have to worry about the male customers making insinuations of a sexual nature to Quentin. Anyway, if they did, he could take care of himself. Quentin presented her drink to her, “Soda water with a slice of lemon,” he said.

The woman from the city smiled in a dissatisfied way and seated herself at a table close to the bar.

Quentin and I exchanged glances – he shrugged and switched the radio on.

Two of the locals planted themselves at the bar and their conversation drifted along the tides of Foreigners and Mallard Ducks when a tall guy came through the same door as the woman had. The light blue shirt he wore strained at the buttons around his midriff. My guess was that if you compared this oke to a photo taken of him in grade 1, the only difference would be that he would have grown taller and broader.

“Hello, Diane, you’re looking good. How have you been?” he asked in a loud voice. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to find you here.”

She gave the small smile I saw earlier and embraced him. “Hey, thank you. You look good too,” she touched her nose. “What have you been up to?”

He then launched into an eleven-minute recital about what he had been up to.

After my first yawn, another townie dressed in biker’s leathers showed up. He pulled up a chair and sat with Diane and the loud guy. They greeted him as Anthony. “Reunion?” Quentin asked.

I shrugged.

The loud guy, Neil, asked about the leathers.

“Oh, I worked at a scrap yard, saved up, and bought a caravan and a bike,” he answered.

“Hey, Richard,” one of the locals called me. They were munching biltong, cut into thick pieces with a pocket knife. “What would you do?”

“About what?” I asked.

“What would you do if you found mallard ducks at your dam? The guy from the Fauna and Flora says it’s an invasive species and we should shoot them on sight.”

“I would feed them pap.”

They looked at each other. “Why?”

“To fatten them up so I can sell them to you as chicken and chips.” I busied myself in the kitchen with preparations for the pub lunch. After the plates were out, I went back to the bar.

“Richard, we’re running out of change and Coke,” Quentin straightened up from where he was crouching under the bar to retrieve packets of coins. As I glanced over the patrons in a quick head count, my eyes caught Diane’s. She looked at me and then gave a slow smile. I grabbed the bakkie’s keys and rushed outside.

“Hey, Ricky,” Stewart called as he locked his car.

“Dammit Stewart, if it’s not the women inside, it’s you outside. What do you want?”

Stewart laughed. “Where are you going?”

“To town, to fetch change and Coke,” I said.

“I’ll help load the Cokes, if you want,” Stewart offered.

I managed to finish the errands in town in a little over two hours. When we got back to The Waterhole, only Diane and Neil were left from the morning’s reunion trio. A bunch of locals had drifted in, though, and it was busy.

“Am I glad to see you,” Quentin said as I packed the cases of cold drink in the storeroom. “That Neil-guy is tendering for a hiding.”

“Well, what’s the woman still doing here?” To me, the root of all evil was not money.

Quentin laughed. “Looks like she’s been waiting for someone.”

“Lucky for you I have this thing about swearing.” I offloaded all the cases and after I entered everything on the inventory, I helped Quentin in the bar.

“You know I’ve always loved you, Diane,” Neil was shouting.

“Neil, you’re drunk.” Diane looked at me over the rim of her glass. She did not bat her eyes like other women did.

“I tell you the truth, why don’t you beleev me?” to the dismay of everybody in the bar, Neil started sobbing.

“That’s it,” in four strides, I was at the table next to Neil, “time for you to go, buddy.” Neil nodded and I walked him out. Stewart had gone home so I phoned him to come and get the drunk. Stewart did stuff like that – he gave them coffee and what not.

Sometimes you saw them again, sometimes you didn’t.

Diane made herself comfortable on a bar stool. “I waited a long time for you,” she said.

“Listen, woman – I was busy.”

[*] grain-bag

[†] cigarette butts

In the fiction section, we present a new short story by Bongani Sibanda, entitled “The Preventer of Disasters“.  Bongani is a Zimbabwean writer based in Johannesburg, South Africa.  Born in 1990, at a village in Mat. South, he has been writing since he was a child in primary school. His short stories have appeared in two of weaver press anthologies. He has a collection of short stories due to be published in March 2016 by weaver press.  He is also working on a fantasy novel. Musoke, his short story published by tuck magazine, was longlisted for the 2015 ABR Elizabeth Jolley short story prize.

The Preventer of Disasters

Things changed from the time the Preventer of Disasters’ eyes started glowing. That was one hundred and sixty seven years since he acquired his extraordinary abilities. Magical years had passed; people had started to die forever. Everyone who trod on fire was now burnt; he who stabbed himself felt the pain. There were no longer blue-winged men flying about, nor riveting baritones of men squabbling about this and that in the clouds. The world was now cold and magicless as had always been.

Yet there still existed the legacy of the long gone magic days, for example, men with penises that touched the ground and women with revoltingly stuck out buttocks, who descended from the adulterous lot that was cursed as wizardry proliferated during the era of magic. And, worst of it, were the constant threats of apocalyptic natural disasters which had come about because many years ago, during the era of magic, the warring wizards’ fight with natural disasters had gone out of hand and ended up making the occurrence of natural disasters automatic regularities. So it was these disasters that Thembani, son of Mabutho, aka the Preventer of Disasters, from Matabeleland, lived to fight more than a century and a half later because he had volunteered to swallow four eggs of a cobra given him by the ingenious wizard of Maputo that bestowed him the powers to save humanity at the expense of his own well being. Hence his remote Shashe residence in which he lived wifeless and childless and comfortless, with a diet of clay and leaves of fruit trees he planted in his yard. And the reward of supernatural powers and an everlasting life. Read the full story here.

Refiloe Mabejane (née Letokoto) is a writer based in Maseru, Lesotho. A writer of mainly poetry and creative non-fiction in the past, she recently branched into fiction. Refiloe decided to pursue fiction because it promised her liberty to write about reality without the burden of truth, a decision she feels has taken her on the most exciting albeit challenging path yet.  Ms. Mabejane hopes to advance Lesotho further in world literature, filling the tragic void of the Kingdom in the Sky’s low representation in internationally recognised literary voices.

The Bang

She looked like a happy-eyed sunflower the day they came, carrot braids laid from her smiling face by a brown headband.  His uncle had called the night before to say they would come to her house to respond to the letter informing them of the “damage” by their son.  Mosa just wanted tradition swept out of the way of their desire as she smoothed her thick eyebrows in front of the oak wood bordered bedroom mirror. Their talks would usher her onto the path her mother had drummed into her, that which draws the line between the decent women and the others.

The cream walls of their small house too patiently waited to meet her mother’s ululation when the delegation proposed the natural thing for them to do about this “lucky accident”.  She was ready, ready especially for the moment after their talks when she would be called in to meet her future in-laws. Mosa, a darker shade of the yellow of her dress, was yet to come across a heart not won by the beauty of her dimpled face.

The roar of Moliko’s mother’s Cressida announced the arrival, the very car whose backseat witnessed the makings of what her as yet flat belly was brewing.  Her friends said that making love in a car was bad luck, and cars in which people made love were bound to have accidents soon after.  But two years since its grey and navy blue upholstered backseat became acquainted with their excited nakedness, terene was evidently still going strong save for the odd cough here and there.  Her mother too did not spare her the occasional “no man who respects you would bed you in a car” speech, but what did she know about the kind of fire between them?

When she finally marched into the small lounge leading the entourage ages after Mosa heard terene’s growl, brown Seshoeshoe-dressed ’Mamoliko looked on the extreme end of whatever a woman who is about to negotiate mahali for her son looks like.  Mosa didn’t know what, but as she peeped from the corridor she was nagged by the smell of something.  And it was not pretty, like this woman whose stature alone was so hectic one would think she wouldn’t feel the need to wear a glare like that she wore before Mosa’s mother’s smiling face as she sank onto their sofa.  Was Moliko even supposed to be part of his own marriage talks?
Moliko, smaller by his mother’s side on the flowery double couch, did not look like anything. Why was Thabo with them, Mosa wondered as he and the big man appeared, possibly the uncle who had made the call?  She was stripped of the luxury to ponder further as no pleasantries were exchanged before ’Mamoliko plunged to the point in her coarse voice reminiscent of an old Kwaito artist’s,

“We are here in response to your letter, ’Mamosa.  I am accompanied by my brother, Pule and brother-in-law Thabo as being a widow I am now under the care of these men. I am ’Mamoliko, the boy over there’s mother.  AbutiPule, please continue,”

“Yes my sister,” Pule, eyes alert, tone unambiguous, “We are here to inform you that we will pay the cows for damages, but our son cannot marry a woman whose leg has been broken.  Our boy has to marry a girl, not the woman whose case we are here about, who has already bore a child.” Big Man threw his almost square face in Moliko’s direction.

“Mosa and I never talked marriage as we were not serious and I’ve never wanted to marry someone who already has a child,” Moliko’s mouth spoke though it refused to open, and with his titled head and eyes popping into the air, he looked absent.

“You never wanted to marry, but were quite happy to fuck a woman with a child, is that what you want to tell me?” The policewoman in ’Mamosa sprang out, cheeks quivering, finger pointed at the young man whose tongue lay motionless on the floor of his mouth.

Mosa retreated from the edge of the wall, covering her mouth to stop the hard beating heart from escaping through it.  Even the smell of her mother’s signature beef dish, slow stewed from the early hours for her would be in-laws, suddenly seemed hostile, overpowering.  She held her breath, trying to remember who she was, and why she stood there eavesdropping on these people, why they were insulting her in her own mother’s house.  Everything she thought she knew suddenly was no knowledge at all.  Moliko had said he accepted Thuto!  How come he had never said all this?  They were fine!  They were fine enough to have unprotected sex!

“Having a boy will make it difficult to catch one”.   “No man wants to raise another man’s man”.  “A man is more likely to adopt a girl as his”.  These warnings gushed back to her in a much less orderly fashion, jumbled unlike they had come out of friends’ mouths when Thabo made her pregnant in the beginning of her B. Comm. degree at the National University of Lesotho.   It was rare as the truth from most Mosotho men’s mouth for a boy to be the undesired gender.  But for a single woman naturally hoping as every other Mosotho woman for marriage, it was, well, catastrophic.

Thabo had distanced herself back then just as he was distancing himself now from the dirt flying about the room.  His head rarely rose as he clasped obsessively his – unknown to the others – dirty hands together and apart.  He had left Mosa to mire a tale about a fellow student whose family had migrated to South Africa after she fell pregnant.  She never would have told ’Mamosa who the father was.  Not ’Mamosa, whose husband had left for another woman when Mosa was just a toddler. Her mother had developed a nonnegotiable disgust for infidelity, regularly expressed with terrifying passion. She would often dive into these sole sessions about how ’Manyeo was sleeping with ’Mamang-mang’s husband and we all know men are animals but “what I can never understand is a woman who allows such a man to degrade her to that level”.  She was so passionate you would be forgiven for thinking the police uniform she wore was actually for the Infidelity department, not one of superintendent in the Homicide department.

“I could just kill them all, these people who just for sex will destroy homes, break people!” she would bark, lashing at the sweat dots like transparent beads that would have formed on her forehead in this self-inflicted rage over these stories she carried home, that somehow felt like her own.  “That’s one thing you must never do, ausi, don’t ever break anyone’s family – you grew up without a father because of a woman like that.”

But Mosa scarcely qualified as a woman the day she stopped by Thabo’s office for clarification on an assignment.  Her seventeen-year-old mind had spared no place before for a married man.  Not even one as fresh looking, who although her father’s age, looked nothing like the pictures of her unkempt, scrawny father. Thabo was a well-built once high school sport victor who became victorious over her the same afternoon.  She snapped back to sense naked in his arms on the floor of his office.  But sense as it turned out  stood no chance against the sophistication and charm of the fair skinned Economist, and theirs became the most open secret of the semester joining the hoard of lecturer-student relationships on campus.  Until it happened.  Then they became nothing.

And there he now sat behind his rectangular eyeglasses, head bowed in her mother’s lounge, saying nothing.  Mosa couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She wanted to die.  She would tell them to ask Thabo. Ask Thabo who broke her leg. Ask Thabo why Thuto’s father was never known, why the boy had his lazy eyes.  She would show them, teach them to judge. He would raise his head then. He would speak then. He would explain why she was not good enough for his nephew when it was he with his grown man hands who had made her so, long before she was old enough to know what she should and should not desire.

She marched from the corner she’d just backed into, to her mother’s closet.  Had Thabo known that she was with his nephew all along, that it was her family they were bound for? Did he think she would remain silent as before?  With the pistol nestled on her thighs, she typed a text message to her mother on her phone. “Ask Thabo who broke my leg and why Thuto has his eyes. Let him tell you who made me damaged goods.”  The bang that swallowed her mother’s gasp in the other room was deafening, final.  What Mosa didn’t know, as she pulled the trigger on the roof of her mouth, was that the work of the pistol would not be done for the afternoon.

Gloria D. Gonsalves (Gonsalves is both her maiden name and her pen name) writes with a passion for making a positive difference in the lives of every person who reads what she writes and in the lives of all whom she aims to support through writing. Devoted to writing poetry and tales for children and adults, her literary works aim to support humanitarian projects and inspire creativity in others, especially children.

Not just a writer, Gloria is a creative promoter for writing itself: She has founded World Children’s Poetry Day (WoChiPoDa), an initiative aimed at instilling the love of poetry in young people. She is also the potent force behind “Africa Is Not What You Know,” a global campaign for Africa, for every human who respects and loves Africa to highlight the positive aspects of Africa and change the media’s insistent and distorted focus on Africa as backwards. By profession, Gloria is a creative writer, proofreader and editor, with a diverse background of experience in support roles for multilateral diplomacy, management of official documents, air travel operations, tourism operations, incentive travel and events coordination.

HER WRITINGS

Gloria’s adult books include I am Tausi , a memoir, and The Wisdom Huntress: Anthology of Thoughts and Narrations , as well as two books of poetry: “MAHABA” Prints in My Heart and Mists of Sense Require Fierce Poesy , her latest work.

Her children’s books, illustrated by children with parental consent, include Danloria: The Secret Forest of Germania , a children’s fable; Swahili Folklore: A Compilation of Animal Facts, Folktales, Nursery Rhymes and Songs , and Diamonds Forever , a book of poetry.

Gloria’s children’s books use stories and drawings to lead the reader to become a part of the story. By having children participate in the literary work, she inspires them to want to be involved, arousing their interest in reading and writing more creative works.

Gloria is also a contributing author and poet to online magazines, platforms and journals including AuthorHouse Author’s Digest , When Women Waken Journal , Naturewriting.com , Kalahari Review , Badilisha Poetry , SIBYL Magazine and Plum Tree Books . Occasionally she writes opinion pieces for newspapers. She also writes about nature snapshots for her blog, an inspiration from her husband (and personal lawyer), who enjoys flower arrangements.

BEGINNINGS

Originally from Korogwe, Tanzania, Gloria lived there for 27 years before migrating to Europe for further studies. She was bo rn to Tanzanian parents; her paternal grandfather was from Goa, India; she has lived in Ireland, and today she is a German citizen. Yet her soul still lives in Tanzania.

Gloria (children call her Auntie Glo) attended primary and secondary school at Kifungilo Girls’ School, which shaped her love for reading English books and writing. While there, she read novels as a way to improve her English language skills. During her second year of secondary school, she participated in an English essay competition, winning third place and with it a cherished Bible. The positive result of that competition led her to complete a dramatic play, which with assistance from her teacher became a special program for visiting schools. It was also a motivation for her to keep writing in the English language.

Years later, while pursuing her Masters degree in Environmental Sciences at the University of Cologne, she discovered blogging and began sharing her poems. A friend suggested she compile her poems into a book. Gloria listened to that precious advice but did not act on it immediately.

Instead, treading cautiously, she chose first a short story that she had written for an online magazine. She randomly chose an English publisher in Poland. She sent the story, and it was picked, “Editor’s Choice of the Week.” There would be no stopping her after this. She was committed to writing.

THE HUMANITARIAN CONNECTION

Gloria’s deepest aspirations for humanitarianism come from her African and global experience, and she is always seeking ways to use her writing to support humanitarian related projects.

Her first attempt to merge her passion for writing with humanitarian causes was in 2009, when she hosted a themed party (African Safari Party) to launch what was, by then, her three published books. She raised 500 Euros and donated to a primary school in her hometown Korogwe, the funds going towards providing the school a comfortable learning environment for students. In 2010, Gloria considered cofounding a company that would channel profits from her books to charity causes. Yet she realized that coordinating fundraising events required fulltime commitment and dedication, which she was unable to give due to her job demands as a full time employee. If she gave up her job, however, she would lose her salary, which largely supports her writing passion.

So she came up with another idea. Since publishing her first book in 2006, Gloria has never cashed any of her books’ royalty cheques. In July 2012, Gloria attempted to cash the different cheques (with minimal amounts) to UNICEF. She immediately realized, however, that cashing in small amounts cost more than the amount to be received. Not giving up, she continued to toy with the idea of supporting an existing cause. Meanwhile, she came across an online article calling for submissions related to the SOS Sahel project. She contributed two poems, which are featured in an anthology consisting of poetry, art, music and photography. All proceeds of this collection will go to SOS Sahel.

In October 2012, Gloria saw a tweeted message about RABMAD, acronym for Read A Book, Make A Difference, an online network ( www.rabmad.com ) that promotes authors who donate a percentage of their books’ sales to their own charity or cause. An idea vividly formed in Gloria’s mind: She could buy a bulk of her own books at an author’s discounted price and sell them for a profit, a portion of which would be donated to an existing humanitarian cause. Overjoyed and grateful for that tweeted message, Gloria kicked off the idea with her newly published book The Wisdom Huntress . For every copy sold directly by her, she donates a portion to Tanzania Albino Charity.

Through the profits of her books as well as direct donation of books, Gloria primarily supports Children and women related causes or those who are sidelined by society or suffer unequal treatment, such as albinos and LGBTs.

ADVOCACY

In 2014, Gloria founded World Children’s Poetry Day (WoChiPoDa). World Children’s Poetry Day (WoChiPoDa) is a day dedicated to children’s poetry. This day is celebrated on the first Saturday of October. On this day children learn to experience poetry in fun ways. Children can recite poems written all by themselves. Listeners can be family, friends, schoolmates, teachers or anyone else. And all this is done next to a big fire, lantern or candles. The first WoChiPoDa was celebrated last year on Saturday, 4 October 2014.

Although there is a World Poetry Day, celebrated annually on 21 March, that day only gives an opportunity for children to be introduced to poetry in classrooms. Gloria realizes that there’s an important element missing. Poetry is treated as being boring and dull by young minds. Children therefore need to learn and experience poetry in a fun way other than through school curricula or what is written for them by adults. So Gloria believes that a day dedicated to poetry written and read by children in its entirety is absolutely necessary. For more about the WoChiPoDa initiative, visit www.wochipoda.com

Previously, in 2013, Gloria created a global campaign, “Africa Is Not What You Know,” a plea to rise and uplift what Africa already has – and what the media has not a clue about, preferring to further a stereotype of backwards Africa. Whenever she can in her online platforms, especially related to literary works, she highlights the positive aspects of Africa and urges others to do likewise. (From 2013 to 2014, she had a Facebook page for this global call.)

EDUCATION 

Gloria attained her Bachelor of Science Degree in Tourism Marketing from Dublin Institute of Technology, Dublin, Ireland, and her Master of Science Degree in Environmental Sciences from Cologne University, Cologne, Germany. She also holds an S.A.C. Diploma in Professional Proofreading and Editing from Stonebridge Associated Colleges, United Kingdom.

ᵿ ᵿ ᵿ ᵿ ᵿ ᵿ

Gloria says, “Writing is not only a pastime I passionately enjoy,” but also one that requires tremendous courage. “The courage to – expose thoughts in public, accept rejection, accept criticism, make mistakes, resolve own problems, find own style and keep writing. As long as it is a passion and I place no limits to my imagination, I will never run out of a desire to write.”

Gloria now resides with her husband in Koenigswinter, Germany.

Born in Masvingo Province in Mwenezi District, Idzai Iris Mushayabasa holds a Bachelor of Arts General Degree (English and Linguistics) from the University of Zimbabwe and has taught at Vurasha Secondary School in Mberengwa, Mwenezi High School and Chibaya Secondary School in Masvingo Province. She is a new poet and writer who has three of her poems, Ndotamba Mutambiroyi, Panzvimbo and Wotokwinya Chimhandara  published in Dzinonyandura, Svinga Renduri an anthology by  263 set for 2016 -17 Advanced Level public examinations. Her passion for the advancement and promotion of languages and African culture among today’s youth is strongly painted in her poems and writings on social networks.Her poems  probe into issues related to culture and identity. She also gives remarkable attention to women’s problems especially in marriage. Read the story here.

Pemi Aguda writes short stories and flash fiction. We have published her before, and now she returns with another touching story entitled “Help Jimi Help Himself”.  Her stories have appeared online and off – in literary journals and anthologies. Her short story “Caterer, Caterer” won the 2015 Writivism Short Story Prize; published in Munyori Journal and the Roses for Betty anthology.

Help Jimi Help Himself

You crack the door open and the room turns silent. You push the door wider to find them all staring at you. Your eyes find the ground; and then you lift them back up- to the familiar downturn of your father’s lips. They etch a sad curve in his wrinkled face and his eyes look straight into you, assuring you of the part you have played in carving happiness out of his face.

“Good evening,” you say as your knees lower to rest on the thinning green rug. This position reminds you of younger years and scolding and punishment and oh, the childish eloquence when defending your little brother. These old feelings have found you kneeling again in your father’s house and they stir again in your chest, twenty years later – because you know Jimi is the reason they have called you. Read the full story here.

HARARE, ZIMBABWE:  Weaver Press has launched a new short story anthology entitled  Writing Mystery and Mayhem.  This is a genre collection which features mystery stories by twelve writers, one of whom is late poet Freedom Nyamubaya’s son, Naishe Hassim.

Speaking on the sidelines of the launch of Writing Mystery and Mayhem held at the Zimbabwe-German Society in Harare on November 10, Naishe said, “I owe it to my mother. She always encouraged me to write. I got it from her.”

His short story Tsikamutanda also won third prize from an organisation called Konrad –Adenauer- Stiftung Foundation which supported the publication of the anthology. Authors Goddess Bvukutwa and Donna Kirstein shared the first prize for their stories A Late Arrival and They Only Come Out At Night respectively. Automatically, there was no second prize.

The anthology editor Irene Staunton said that the three winning short stories were only based on the Foundation’s judgment. The Foundation’s Projects Coordinator Winnie Tshuma who presented the prizes at the launch, told about 50 delegates that a special edition of Writing Mystery and Mayhem has also been made with its own different cover for distribution in Germany by the Foundation.

Four of the twelve authors featured in the anthology were part of a panel chaired by Weaver Press’s Murray McCartney, who asked each of them to select and read a favourite story (not their own) and explain why they chose the story. The panel discussion helped to introduce the audience to the mystery, horror and suspenseful drama that is in the anthology.

Again, fond memories of the late Freedom Nyamubaya were re-ignited when Naishe’s short story “Tsikamutanda” turned out to be Isabella Matambanadzo’s favourite piece. A feminist activist, Matambanadzo said she liked “Tsikamutanda” because “it was written by someone who is actually our son, Naishe Hassan Nyamubaya”.

“I chose Naishe’s short story because I met him when he was still very young. He liked dancing and traveling. I was also impressed by the writing voice he has inherited from his mother,” said Matambanadzo. She also said she believes that the late Freedom T.V Nyamubaya’s legacy as an activist, liberation struggle veteran and writer is in the gifted hands of her son.

She added that the story “Tsikamutanda” very well reflects “the metaphysical moment Zimbabwe is going through where everything is now about witchcraft, goblins, spirits and religious extremism, things we feel but cannot see”. Isabella Matambanadzo’s own short story in the anthology is titled Message in a Bottle.

Harare-based writer, Farai Mudzingwa, whose short story in the anthology is titled “Sizwe Burning”, said that one of the key elements of a mystery is the actual mystery itself, the unknown. He chose to read Valerie Tagwira’s short story “The Way of Revenge”, and to support his understanding of a mystery, he described Tagwira as having achieved the skill of generating reader anticipation without being overbearing. Mudzingwa also said he liked “The Way of Revenge” because of its authentic setting, singling out as an example the author’s description of a sanitary lane which in Shona unofficial lingo is popularly known as “sendiraini”.

“I grew up in the 80’s in Chegutu and a sanitary lane is a quintessential feature of a township,” said Mudzingwa. “The Way of Revenge” is set in Mbare, a busy high-density suburb hugging the fringes of the Harare CBD.

Twenty-eight-old Goddess Bvukutwa’s favourite short story from the collection is “Heaven’s Embassy” written by Chris Wilson. Bvukutwa’s brief analysis of “Heaven’s Embassy” somehow corresponded with Isabella Matambanadzo’s take on “Tsikamutanda” (by Naishe Nyamubaya). Both stories seem to be hinged on religious or spiritual zealotry.

She cleverly observed the connections between the current ‘waiting’ situation in her country Zimbabwe, a situation born of timidity, and the story’s theme of religious fanaticism.

“It’s similar to the Zim situation where we are waiting for something to happen. Characters like Mai Jane allow us to look at ourselves as Zimbabweans – we are timid, pushed in a corner, unable to confront the rich and powerful because they make us tremble more than we already are,” said Bvukutwa.

Mrs. Chipunza, the main character in “Heaven’s Embassy”, is a leader of a church of the same name. Bvukutwa said what the name implies that no one will get to Heaven unless they pass through Mrs. Chipunza’s church. This, she observed, relates very well to the land grab era in Zimbabwe in which one could not get land unless they belonged to a certain party.

The bone of contention in the short story is based on the money ‘seeded’ by Mai Jane in the church. As a poor, quiet person, Mai Jane waits for her blessings to come but after a long period of waiting, nothing happens until the pressure is built for her to confront Mrs. Chipunza with other church women. And yet, the women tremble before Mrs. Chipunza, making their ‘coup’ a failure, said Bvukutwa.

“We are the Mai Jane’s, unable to confront the powerful,” she said.

Jonathan Brakarsh, whose short story in the anthology is titled “The General’s Gun”, picked out as his favourite Donna Kirstein’s story “They Only Come Out At Night”.  If there are any more horror stories in the anthology, they may not be as intensely horrific as Kirstein’s story which deals about the abduction and murder of Albino children.

Brakarsh said as a child psychologist by training, he was drawn to the short story by its unusual gothic style.

“It’s an unusual horror story. In most horror stories, you are flying over the narrative landscape and it’s a pleasant ride and often an unforgettable story. With “They Only Come Out at Night”, the plain slowly veers off course and by the time you land and disembark, you realize you are in a hostile territory; a territory hostile to what you believed is right about the world. The ones you once had sympathy for, you no longer have sympathy for and you start questioning the nature of evil. One other thing I liked about this story is the hyper-realism of the detail and malevolence,” said Brakarsh.

Indeed, after reading “They Only Come Out At Night”, you may want to take a brief break from reading just to think over how it could be that a little child, full with innocence and trust, loses life in the hands of her teacher who is part of a secret network that is being paid lots of money for murdering albinos.  Vicki, a small student, is murdered by her teacher Geoffrey, who as the story begins, seems to be a gentle and kind person.

The launch, attended by various notable personalities from the book industry, proved a successful teaser owing to the way it was programmed.  One budding writer named Sabina Isha said it was an interesting evening for her. “A wonderful evening, intelligent writing and I learnt about African writing. I liked the tale about goblins and witchcraft – it made me shake with fear!” she said.

Here is a new short story by Lennon Mhishi, a Zimbabwean-born being currently residing in London.

You came to me, hair filled with wood dust and fragments of wood shavings, and those smells of the furniture workshop that stuck to you like a tick. I sunk my face into your chest. What is in the plastic bag, you asked. You have to guess, I replied. Those huge nostrils of yours could not miss the smell of peanut butter. A slice of a smile appeared on your face as you told me there must be some peanut butter. I was happy, and delighted, and so eager for you to taste my cooking, I just blurted it out, not waiting for you to keep guessing.

We went and sat under some nearby trees. You took a big stone to sit on, and I admonished you for sitting on these stones which made your buttocks so dark and hard. Not that I minded. We ate and talked, and watched a colony of ants, masvosve, follow each other up a tree. It was a marvel to see the order, the diligence with which they passed a piece of an object from one to the other. There is that saying, kuita mubatirapamwe semasvosve, you reminded me. Working together like ants. If only our government were as diligent as ordered as masvosve. Or even as tiny, then we could just crush them! We laughed at the misery of being governed by fools. READ THE FULL STORY HERE.

 

Nhlanhla Junior Ngulube says of himself: “My name is Nhlanhla Junior Ngulube. I was born in Zimbabwe, raised in Johannesburg, and now live in China where I am pursuing my Masters degree. I hold an undergraduate degree in Accounting (With honors in Finance) from the University Of Cape Town. Writing, however, remains my primordial love, I particularly love writing about relationships as my subject matter.”  Read his story here.