Waita hako Barry Lungu
Pandigere pano pachituro, ndakatarisa madziro. Akachena kuti mbuu. Hapana chimwe chiripo kunze kwe kakarenda kakati nama kunge kadzvanga. Ndikatarisa madziro, nguva dzose ndiko kandinoona. Kane mufano wemunhu agere pamutariro mudziva achi raura. Akandipira gotsi, saka hazvinyatsooneka kuti munhukadzi kana kuti munhurume.
Pandigere pano pachituro, ndikatarisa kurudyi ndinobva ndaona panze. Zuva riri kupinda nepa hwindo. Ndino ona matenga edzimba kusvika kuma gumo eziso. Ndiri paf’ro yechitatu. Dzimba dziri pedyo ndine maf’ro matatuwo. Pane imba yatakatarisana nayo, ndino ona mahwindo ayo, asi handiwone mukati. Ndinombo funga kuti vemo kana vachiringa kuno, vano ona mukati meyedu here. Semunhu ari kuraura uyo, akatipira gotsi, anofungidzira here kuti kunevanhu varikumuona. Read more
Ruby Magosvongwe and Steven Millhauser on the short story
There is much talk about the short story these days. The latest authoritative views about the genre are by University of Zimbabwe professor Ruby Magosvongwe and award-winning short story writer Steven Millhauser who presented the short story as more important than the novel.
Speaking at a high school short story contest award ceremony recently, Magosvongwe labelled Zimbabwe “a short story country.” To make such a claim, one has to have a strong reason, here is hers:
“Nearly every, I emphasise EVERY Zimbabwean who has become prominent today started with short stories or has a short story collection somewhere along the way. Here we go: Dambudzo Marechera’s House of Hunger, Charles Mungoshi’s Coming of the Dry Season, David Mungoshi’s Broken Dream and Other stories, Yvonne Vera’s Why Don’t You Carve Other Animals, Stanley Nyamfukudza’s Aftermaths, Chenjerai Hove’s Matende Mashava.” (Her full speech is on the Unofungei Fungai Blog).
But why is the short such an important genre in the literature of Zimbabwe and any country for that matter? Perhaps Steven Millhauser’s New York Times essay provides a possible answer: “The short story apologizes for nothing. It exults in its shortness…its greatness is its shortness.” Millhauser also points out that the difference between a short story and a novel is that the former concentrates on some small portion of the world, “but you will find, deep within it, nothing less than the world itself.” Basically, the short story, in its modesty, albeit pretenteous, is an addictive little outlet, enabling much to be said in a few words. A novel may thrash out with overconfidence and limitless indulgence, but the short story, says Millhauser, believes in hidden power, its brevity: “It wants to be a single word.” Read more on Wealth of Ideas
Sadza paChimanimani
Zvinoita sadza! Takangoti tichiburuka bhazi paChimanimani Town Center kwava kuchimhanyira kwaibva munhuwi waro. Ipapo ndanga ndabva mukusangana neumwe murume wechidiki seni, uyo anga andiona ndichidzedzerekera kumusuwo webhazi ndokuti, “Manangepi ishe?”
Ini ndokuchitiwo, “Tisu maticha matsva ekwaNdima.”
Akabva asimuka ndokunangawo mukova seni, apo bhazi ranga rozhamba rananga musika.
“Zvatoita tawandirira. Neniwo ndakananga kwaNdima; ndiri kunotanga basa paprimary.” Read more
A woman in rebirth
In the beginning is a word, and the word becomes a voice shut up in her bones; in a whisper, it weaves itself into her loins telling her to burst forth like a bud from her self-made cocoon.
She hurries away from the word wearing a resolve to find her lost seed. But her heart thickens within cobwebs hanging inside the crevices of her being. The voice groans inside her. With her left toe, she scribbles a note on the ground for her grandmother, and another for herself, and then she drags her feet, shoulders clumped as if she is carrying a heavy load. Read more
Making sense of Vongi
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She arrived on a Sunday, dressed up for church but not intending to go to any church. She just wanted to see her aunt, to show her that she was grown up, able to penetrate Harare on her own.
“But tell me, how did you make it? The last time I talked to brother he said no one knew where you were. Everyone kept their ears open for the day someone would announce the marriage ceremony, or to hear the worst of news,” Maiguru said.
“I was out and about, doing this and that,” she said.
I leaned closer to hear this.
“I knew, secretly, that you were up to some mischief. Now look who shows up at my door, in Harare, hundreds of kilometers away from Mazvihwa! How did you do this?”
Vongi laughed briefly, then she let her lip dangle to let a smile linger a little longer. Read more
Send my niece to a better school
When I left the country, they were only kids, running about in glee whenever I visited, chanting, “Sekuru! Sekuru vauya mhamha!” Then I would gather them, all four of them, and say, “Who’s ready for the supermarket?”, and like kindergarten kids, they would toss little hands in the air, screaming, “Me! Me!”
Now, a mere twelve years later, to hear that Emma has four children, Ella is already divorced and now heads a disrgruntled ex-wives mob mauler, and Enya fights daily with her husband over who should work and who should stay at home with the children (an unstated number of children), to hear all this about the three older E’s just makes me think that I must be old and that I have lived out of the country for too long. Then there is the youngest of the notorious E’s, Enji, who just told me today that she has turned sixteen. Read more
