Thursday, July 31, 2014

Bhuku Risina Basa: now in the UK!

Bhuku Risina Basa is now available in the UK. Get in touch with Dr. Robert Masunga in Birmingham for your copy, if you are in the UK or in the neighbourhood. Email: Meanwhile I will be reading from the Zimbabwean version of Bhuku Risina Basa for the first time at the on-going ZIBF's Literary Evening  event on Friday, 1 August 2014, 05pm at the Book Café, Harare.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Zimbabwe International Book Fair countdown


THEME : “Indigenous Languages, Literature, Art and Knowledge Systems of Africa”
ZIBFA invites all interested parties to participate in the special six-day event as follows:
“EXHIBITION” Venue: Harare Gardens, Julius Nyerere Way
ADMISSION FREE!!! to the Exhibition
Dates: 30 July 2014: Open to Traders Only
31 July – 2 August 2014: Open to Students and The Public
Time: 1000 – 1700hrs
“INDABA CONFERENCE” Venue: Crowne Plaza Hotel : By Registration
Day 1: 28 July 2014 0815 - 1700hrs
Ø Indigenous Languages and Knowledge Systems………………
Ø Language, Folk Art and the African World View…………….
Ø Indigenous Knowledge Systems………………………………...
Day 2: 29 July 2014 0830 - 1700hrs
Ø The Language of Indigenous Religions…………………………
Ø Health Lessons from Indigenous African Traditions………….
Ø African Heritages………………………………………………...
Ø Intellectual Property and Copyright…………………………...
Ø Indigenous Languages and Literatures………………………...
‘‘YOUNG PERSONS’ INDABA’’: Creative Writing in Indigenous Languages
Date: 30 July 2014 By Registration
0830 - 1630hrs at Crowne Plaza Hotel
‘‘WRITERS’ WORKSHOP’’: Maximizing on Mother Tongue Writings Through Value Addition
Date: 2 August 2014 By Invitation
If you wish to participate please register for the workshops by 17 July 2014 to avoid disappointment!!
1000 - 1600hrs 31 July – 2 August 2014 ADMISSION FREE!!!
For further details contact us at ZIBFA on: 04 702104, 7041


Thursday, June 5, 2014

the elderly characters in Gabriel García Márquez's short stories

The Nobel Prize winning Gabriel García Márquez who died on 17 April 2014 was considered by many as the greatest author ever in the Spanish language.

 Marquez’s most successful work as a writer is the long and expansive novel,  One Hundred Years of Solitude which became a huge success in the years after its publication in 1967 selling more than 10 million copies in more than 30 languages! It made García Márquez a leader of the Latin American literary "boom" and an international phenomenon.

 His novels, The Autumn of the Patriarch” (1975) and Love in the Time of Cholera (1985) are some of his greatest masterpieces. But his short stories are also some of the world’s best. My favourite, Strange Pigrims, published originally in Spanish in 1992 constitutes the author’s fourth short story collection. In Strange Pilgrims, the reader finds Garcia Marquez’s Latin American characters doing their best to survive on European soil.

Of all these character, Marquez’s elderly ones are more intriguing. They reveal certain internal resources which they have been scarcely aware of or unable to use before, bringing out how it sometimes feels to be old in a world that scarcely notices the challenges of ageing.

 Maria dos Prazeres
Maria dos Prazeres, protagonist of the story bearing her name, is a Brazilian mulatto woman living in Barcelona. She is a self- retired whore in her seventies who is planning for her imminent death, which was revealed to her in a dream. Maria is removed from her own country (Brazil) when her mother sold her to a Turkish official, who after enjoying her without pity, abandons her, leaving her “with no money, no language and no  name”. (p109) Now, old and seemingly useless to herself, Maria goes about the business of deciding on her funeral with matter-of-fact efficiency.

She has already purchased her burial plot and taught her dog, Noi, who sheds real tears, to locate the plot in the cemetery and cry over her grave. She has also made arrangements for a neighbour girl to take care of Noi after she dies and to let him loose on Sundays so that the dog can visit her tomb. Then, one rainy night, she and Noi hitch a ride home to get out of the weather. Maria trembles in the darkness, certain that the mysterious man who gives them a lift and asks to come up to her apartment is the Grim Reaper himself. Then, to her delight and surprise, she realizes that the stranger is actually a customer.

However, this story’s potency lies in the intricate ways in which the author gradually builds up towards the fact that; Maria does not know herself anymore because of her calendar age.

When she hitches a ride in the car of an unknown young man, in a raging storm at first, ‘she felt she was in a strange, happy world where everything was arranged ahead of time.’(p112) This is the magical moment for her because it pushes her away from brooding over old age and subsequent death.  She even feels ‘intimidated by her misery.’(p112) and on looking closely at the man, ‘she thought he was not handsome but had a distinctive kind of charm.’ (p113) When the man furtively looks at her ‘she felt ugly and pitiful.’ (p113) And ‘she regretted still being alive at her age.’ (p113)

This means that she is, unknown to herself, still on the lookout for a man. When the man decides to respect her and drive her right to her front door instead of letting her off at the corner, she looks at him and sees ‘a male stare that took her breath away.’ He asks profusely to come in and join her even when she protests against it.(p113)And when he demonstrates his desire for her by insisting on locking up the car and following her upstairs, for apparent passionate sex, ‘she knew it had been worth waiting for so many years…’ (p115)
Bon Voyage, Mr. President
In the opening short story to Strange Pilgrims, “Bon Voyage, Mr. President,” a deposed Latin American president is in Geneva for medical advice and treatment concerning a mysterious ailment. An ambulance driver, who happens to be a fellow countryman, takes his opportunity to ingratiate himself with the former leader, hoping to turn their friendship to his advantage. The ageing ex-president is not wealthy as thought, but destitute, and must be supported by his newfound acquaintances. Upon rescinding his ban on vice: drinking, eating red meat, smoking, eating shellfish and others, he finds happiness in friendship and being alive despite old age and being forced out of his country. Homero, the ambulance driver for the hospital in which the deposed president is being cured, has arranged with a funeral parlor to hawk its services to mortally ill patients and plans to sell the former politician a complete package, including embalming and repatriation.

 The story begins with:

He sat on a wooden bench under the yellow leaves in the deserted park, contemplating the dusty swans with both his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane, and thinking about death. (p3)

The above lines create an image of a very spent, lonely and tired person and from the onset; one guesses correctly that this must be an old person in distress and regret. But there remains, for a discerning reader; visible traces of a life of vigour, careful self- cultivation, glory and plenty rioting from underneath this wreck:

He had the arrogant mustache of a musketeer, abundant blue-black hair with romantic waves, a harpist’s hands with the widower’s wedding band on his left finger and joyful eyes. (p4)

Then the cruellest sentence in this arrangement tries to supersede all that: ‘The years of glory and power had been left behind forever, and now only the years of his death remained.’ (p3) Beneath that, is even a crueller rendition of the plight of the old man. He suffers from an insistently ‘devious’ pain whose position in his body the doctors had not been able to locate in both Martinique and Geneva. As they search for it very actively all over his body, they go to and fro almost like officers after a criminal:

They looked for the pain in his liver, his kidneys, his pancreas, his prostate, wherever it was not. Until that bitter Thursday, when he had made an appointment… at the neurology department with the least well-known of the many physicians who had seen him… (p4)

And when they locate it, it is as if the old man’s pain is a little devious animal, as hideous as it is devious. It is described as a very active thing with a youthful life of its own:

“Your pain is here,” he (neurologist) said…His pain was improbable and devious, and sometimes seemed to be in his ribs on the right side and sometimes in his lower abdomen, and often it caught him off guard with a sudden stab in the groin. The doctor listened to him without moving, the pointer motionless on the screen. “That is why it eluded us for so long,” he said. (p5)

 One has a feeling that the old man is crushed. At his advanced age; he cannot undergo an operation whose results are certain, cannot afford the fees for the operation all by himself, needs moral support which he cannot mobilise at this point since he is a stranger in Geneva and worse, a deposed president.

But the old man is intrinsically as indefatigable and daring too as the pain in his body. In the face of apparent doom, his whole life drama replays and recreates itself, seemingly pathetic but blest with an uncanny ability to ride through a storm.

He becomes more resolute, returning to the coffee that health experts had previously managed to turn him away from. He becomes realistic, agreeing to acquaint with Homerio and wife and eventually allowing them, when the worst comes to hand over jewellery and personal accessories to them to sell in order to raise his operation fees. He strips himself for the sake of his health. Homerio’s wife, Lazara eventually realises that the old man is still the graceful, cunning and calculating politician of old in spite of his ill health, old age, loneliness and poverty. To her, he gradually moves from being a ‘What a son of a bitch!’(p24) to being, as she admits to herself:

…one of the best looking men she had ever seen, with a devastating seductive power and a stud’s virility. “Just as he is now, old and fucked up, he must still be a tiger in bed,” she said. (p24)

After his five hours of surgery and subsequent recuperation, the old man demonstrates a vicious desire for life and it is said that: ‘He devoted himself to his rehabilitative exercises with military rigor…’ (p33)  He struggles on until his return to the Caribbean and subsequently moots a return to politics. Lazara’s description of him is one of the most memorable sentences in this story: ‘My God! Nothing can kill that man.’ (p34)

The seeming defeat of Maria and that of the deposed President is only an initial outlook. The resilience and constant retreat to the drawing board that you see in the elderly characters in these stories, confirm in a huge way the views that- just as sure as there is loss, there are gains that come with old age. These gains have been largely overlooked. Although young people, for example, may be fast and agile, they lack experience and knowledge. Their futures demand that they focus on their own personal advancement more than that of the broader community. The impressive physical resilience in the young is not matched by the emotional resilience, which comes much later in life. Marquez’s elders crawl towards a certain destination and new pedestals
+(By Memory Chirere)  

Monday, May 26, 2014

written isiNdebele is too conservative:Thabisani Ndlovu

                                                     (picture: Dr. Thabisani Ndlovu)
 The state of isiNdebele literature and language: lessons from the translation of Where to Now? Short Stories from Zimbabwe by - Thabisani Ndlovu.
Translating Where to Now, Short Stories from Zimbabwe (2011) to Siqondephi Manje? Indatshana ZaseZimbabwe (2014), made me realise how conservative written isiNdebele is, to a point where the written form is far from the spoken.

It cannot be otherwise given that in some cases, the most recent novel set for Ordinary and Advanced level is fifteen years old. This is not to say that the spoken variety must find its way into written form wholesale. It is to say that there are contexts that require us to use common forms of expression and not the “correct” but archaic forms.  I realised that if I had insisted on such “correctness,” the translation would have been stilted and substandard, thus ruining the beautiful stories.

The translation experience made me aware that there are many words that should have found their way into the isiNdebele lexicon a long time ago, words that some purists claim are not proper isiNdebele words. In other words, part of the poverty of written isiNdebele is a limited vocabulary due to inflexibility. The Zimbabwe School Examinations Council (Zimsec) is partly responsible for the rigidity by discouraging words and forms of expression the candidates are familiar with – and here, I am talking about acceptable words and forms as will be discussed below.

In its spoken form, isiNdebele language is very well, far from being sickly; in fact, it is lively – at home and abroad. The language has, just like any other, varieties, including slang. Just as obtains in the speaking of any language, there are clear instances of ungrammaticality, which of course, should be corrected. To broadly speak of isiNdebele dying is, most likely, to speak of archaisms falling out of use, as archaisms do. Otherwise, for the most part, just like most languages, isiNdebele has shown great creativity and evolved. Our greatest worry should be that we do not have as many publications of creative writing as we should, especially current and inspired publications in this language.

Indeed, one of the contributing writers, Mzana Mthimkhulu, commented at the launch that it was strange but exciting to read the translation of his story in isiNdebele for the translation read like the original. His English story had been “translated back into isiNdebele, the initial language and context of imagining it.”

NoViolet Bulawayo, renowned author of We Need New Names (2013), makes a similar observation about her story in the collection when she writes on her Facebook page, “my English has Ndebele influences so to see ‘Snapshots’ translated into Ndebele is like a translation of a translation.” 

What is even more intriguing and fascinating about Siqondephi Manje? (2014) is that the authors in this compilation come from different linguistic, ‘ethnic’ and ‘racial’ backgrounds, making for a rich tapestry of subject matter, point of view and narrative technique.  These are contemporary and exciting stories with many cross-cultural influences to reflect the fluidity of life within and outside the borders of Zimbabwe; a fluidity of which the Ndebele people are part of.  As such, the stories are modern as are most of the experiences. For example, there are stories about migrating within Southern Africa and beyond, to England. We get a story about the xenophobic attacks against Zimbabweans in South Africa, and another about undertaking care work in England.

In English, the stories in Where to Now (2011) are riveting.  They take one through a journey of mixed emotions– laughter, sadness and anxiety are some of the few emotions.  They all demonstrate immense creativity.  Some flout rules of punctuation  whereas others use various forms of narration except the linear and those that use creative ways of stitching narrative and narrative time I captured these techniques in isiNdebele as closely to the original as I could. The result points to the exciting possibilities there are in writing in isiNdebele. Another important observation to make is that much as the source language (English) and target language (isiNdebele) belong to different cultural groups, hence different norms and idioms, there is also a lot that is common. The experiences in the stories are Zimbabwean, or are inspired by different forms of Zimbabweanness. This expands our ways of thinking about Ndebeleness, language and culture.

There were a couple of charges against the very essence of translation by one of the panellists at the ZIBF workshop, Felix Moyo – a television actor, publisher and “specialist” in isiNdebele. The drift of his speech was that isiNdebele literature can only improve if Ndebele people write their own literature from scratch. In his words, the translation amounted to “borrowed robes.”  He wanted the Ndebele to wear their “amabhetshu” (animal skins that were worn by men before Western clothing), even though he was wearing a jacket and tie. Indeed, he  pooh-poohed the effort and likened it to child’s play – “Asizanga dlala lapha” (We are not here to play), after my paper about the translation of Siqondephi Manje (2014). I am using Moyo’s example as it encapsulates some of the very attitudes and practices by those who consider themselves the custodians of isiNdebele, that have led to the arrested development of the language and its literature.

Those who are familiar with global literature will know that part of the reason English literature became dominant is because of translating works from other languages, notably French, Russian and German. Authors such as the Dane Hans Christaian Andersen, the French men Voltaire and Albert Camus, the German Franz Kafka as well as the Russians Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Nikolai Gogol and Anton Chekhov, just to name a representative sample, became inspirations to generations of writers writing in English both inside and outside the UK. In Zimbabwe, Tsanga Yembeu (1987), the translation of Ngugi waThiongo’s A Grain of Wheat (1967), stands out as one text that has positively influenced a lot of writers in chiShona, including the translator, Charles Mungoshi. Recently, Tom Matshakayile Ndlovu translated Yvonne Vera’s The Stone Virgins (2002), and rendered it as Izintombi Zamatshe Ezimsulwa (2011).

The only worry we should have about translations is their quality. Good translations can only augment literature in the target language and, in the presence of a well-developed reading culture, also foster good writing. The insularity that is being championed by those such as Moyo can only entrench the sorry state of isiNdebele literature. In fact, realising the value of translating interesting literary texts from one language to another, Gudhlanga and Makaudze (2007: 13) write that “The quantitative and qualitative boom in Shona fiction could be promoted by the establishment of a Translation Centre, one where trained and experienced translators translate good works of art from English into Shona.” The same can be said about isiNdebele literature.

At the Zimbabwe International Book Fair workshop as well at the launch of Siqondephi Manje?  (2014) I gave examples of words that were to be found in the book. Words such as “iphephabheki” (derived from paper bag) and “suphamakhethi” (supermarket). The audience’s reaction in both instances, was to say to vehemently declare that these two are not isiNdebele words. Even when I pointed to the audience at the launch that I had known “iphephabheki” for more than thirty years, and even when some of them admitted to using the word just about every day for the same length of time if not longer, there was still an insistence by others that it was not an isiNdebele word. They proffered “umgodla” instead, which is not the same thing as “iphephabheki.” When I pointed out that this word is found in the siNdebele dictionary, more than three quarters of the audience at the book launch did not believe that. Indeed, the word is entered on page 193.

It  turned out that those who professed to be fundis in the language did not have isiNdebele dictionaries, a situation which obtained at three schools I visited – teachers of isiNdebele, including the Heads of that department, did not have dictionaries in the language. To their credit though, some of these educators were frustrated by the inflexibility of the marking scheme, a marking scheme that said a word like “iphephabheki,” once used in a composition, should be marked as an error. Interestingly, the definition of “iphephabheki” in the isiNdebele dictionary is, I am convinced, wrong. The entry reads: “Iphephabheki ngumgodla wephepha olengiswayo.” But this word is used by isiNdebele speakers to refer to a plastic bag used to carry one’s shopping; a plastic bag usually re-used not only for carrying purchases but just about anything – books to school, vegetables, clothes and a myriad of other things. The entry needs to be revised.

Other words that the audience at the launch were convinced were not proper isiNdebele and were not in the isiNdebele lexicon are listed below and next to them, the page number where it is entered in the siNdebele dictionary. The words are: “isuphamakhethi” (supermarket) (p.265), “iwindiskirini” (windscreen) (p.276), “ilayini” (line or queue) (p.131), “ibhimu” (refuse bin) (p. 96), “idindindi” (lively party) (104), “rusa” (rust) (p.372), “joyina” (to join) (p.286), “iphakhi” (park) (p.192). These are words that teachers would mark as incorrect the instant they appear in pupils’ compositions, irrespective of the context and words that some “masters” of the language will not touch with ten poles. This, needless to say, results in very stilted writing, making pupils think that written isiNdebele is difficult, archaic and uninteresting.

One is reminded of NAMA winning author Ignatius Mabasa at ZIBF 2013 when he pointed out that educationists are “conspiring to destroy mother languages [like chiShona] by making it difficult at school,” resulting in students shunning vernacular languages at high school, “citing them as complex subjects” (  Accessed 24 February 2014).

There are two instructive observations one can make here. The first is that Isichazamazwi sesiNdebele (2001) or isiNdebele Dictionary is a good lexicon. But it is not used effectively. It is the storehouse for words in the language and should be referred to in order to establish the existence or non-existence of particular words as well as their usage in various contexts – just as we do with English. If educators and self-styled masters in the language determine (one has to ask from where and how they derive their standards) what is permissible in the language without referring to Isichazamazwi sesiNdebele (2001), it means that we are not tapping into already existing and systematic work in compiling and growing the vocabulary in the language. It also means that in the absence of the dictionary or ignoring the dictionary, decisions on the use of the Ndebele language are nothing more than thumb sucking exercises. More significantly, it means less words to use by the speakers and writers of the language (when ironically those words appear in their lexicon), resulting in stifled creativity.

One of the clear tasks of isiNdebele is to grow its corpus.  Languages that have done this successfully, especially English, have demonstrated a “readiness to absorb words from foreign tongues, or to make new ones where existing terms are not adequate” (Rajarajeswari and Mohana, 2013:41). Indeed, as Bryson (2009) observes, about half the words in English are, etymologically speaking, not English. English and other languages like it, grow their vocabularies unapologetically, the result being that “every year new words appear, while others extend or change their meaning” (Rajarajeswari and Mohana, 2013:41).

While I acknowledge that the isiNdebele lexicon is robust, more can still be done. Note that it was compiled fifteen years ago. Clearly there are financial challenges that hamper constant updating of the siNdebele corpus. But if we are serious about developing the language, one of the key things is to invest in updating the lexicon and promoting its use through constant reference to it and by so doing turn the dictionary into the linguistic compass that it should be. When one considers that every year new words appear in the English lexicon, it does not take much imagination to see how far behind isiNdebele is.

 There is a list of words I used in the translation, Siqondephi Manje? which should have found their way into the siNdebele dictionary by now. I will give a couple of examples. It is a good thing that we have in Isichazamazwi sesiNdebele (2001) words that address technological advances such as “imeyili” (e-mail) (p.140). Missing are words “imeseji” or “i-esemesi.” We also have to think of new orthographies. Whereas before we did not have nouns with two vowels following each other, now we do. I suggest a space between the two vowels. Another example of such a word would be “i-oyili” (oil). Perhaps because of a lack of such facility, Isichazamazwi sesiNdebele (2001) has the entry “oyila” (to oil) (p.348) but no entry for the noun. Similarly, there are words such as “khasitoma” (customer) (p.125) and “phasipoti” (passport) (p.193). Much as I appreciate the siNdebelerisation of these words by insisting on the initial “i”s in both words, the resultant words do not reflect how they are usually pronounced.  We say “iphaspoti” and “ikhastoma.” Similarly, all speakers of isiNdebele know “ifriji” (fridge).  Hardly anyone refers to it as “ifiriji” as that becomes a chiShona pronunciation once we insert an “i” after the “f.” Another similar situation obtains with the word “phethuro” (petrol) (p.192). When pronounced with a “u” the word sounds like chiShona. In any case, everyday pronunciation of this word is minus the “u” to give “phethro.”  In direct speech, this is how I have written such words in Siqondephi Manje? (2014), to capture how they are pronounced.

 Other words that should have gone into the lexicon by now include “irali” (a rally), given that we already have entries such as “irakhethi” (tennis racket) (p.200). Words like “shayina” (to polish or to show off), iphikhinikhi, (picnic), diza (pay a bribe), “irayothi” (riot), “i-intanethi (internet), “isikulufizi” (school fees), “idriphu” (drip) – after all we have words such as “diritsha” (move in reverse) –“glu” (glue), “ok’sijini” or “okisijini” (oxygen).

One of the charges levelled at Siqondephi Manje? (2014) at the ZIBF workshop and the launch of the book was that it was a bastardisation, dilution and corruption of isiNdebele. I am using just a few of many words that were uttered to register unhappiness, concern and in some cases, outright dismissal. Interestingly, these judgements came from people who had not read the translation.

Even if they had, it was apparent, from a show of hands that the majority did not have Isichazamazwi sesiNdebele (2001) and if they did, they were not using it at all. On what basis then, were they making their judgements and prescriptions? Who or what had empowered them to make those pronouncements? All kinds of answers explain the kind of entitlement I am describing, except scholarly argument. Here, I am reminded of a comment made by one of the participants, author Godfrey Muyambo. Talking of some of the difficulties of publishing in isiNdebele, he cited how one’s surname, and he gave his as an example, together with the fact that he is known to be of Venda origin, has always been a disadvantage. Even where he did manage to publish his works, they would get attacked at a personal level, to a point where students in the exam would attack Muyambo as a least fit person to write ‘proper’ isiNdebele because of his background.

 In the end, we have exam responses that are not engaging with the text on its merits but the supposed unsuitability of the writer to write isiNdebele.  Thus, we have a caucus of people who imagine they are the custodians of the language who sadly, do not do much research and are set in their ways. But a language, and I did make this point at the launch, belongs to all the people who speak it and there should be healthy and informed debates instead of “dictatorships” founded on seniority, family name and other  spurious claims

Not surprisingly, Siqondephi Manje? (2014) was discussed by some purists in relation to the 2013 Zimsec isiNdebele examination.  The examinations council was accused of killing isiNdebele, insulting the Ndebele people by portraying them as a people who love using vulgar or “gutter language” (Mpofu in Southern Eye, 25 October 2013). Ironically, most of those who complained about the “bad” examination paper had not seen it, let alone read it. Some went as far as signing a petition without reading the Grade 7 paper. Isaac Mpofu, veteran isiNdebele writer, registered his discontent about the Grade 7 isiNdebele paper and concluded, “Our desire is that our children learn to speak good Ndebele language within the context of our culture” (Mpofu in Southern Eye, 25 October 2013). Indeed, the Grade 7 paper works towards that end.

For the benefit of those without access to the examination paper in question, there are two situations that caused all the brouhaha.  The first is a passage that captures touting for a fifteen-seater public taxi, popularly known as a kombi, as well as taking a ride in the same vehicle. The aim is clearly to alert pupils to varieties of isiNdebele, including slang. The tout asks a traveller, “Yeyi baba[1] uyahamba ngapho?” (Yeyi there baba, are you going to town?”  to which the men the question is directed at indicates that he is indeed going to town. The tout then turns the driver and says, “Misa jeki[2] utopi[3] uyahamaba” (Stop the car jeki, the topi is going to town.) When the tout addresses the man, he uses language that will not offend someone of the man’s age. He does show some respect. When the tout turns to talk to the driver who is his age mate, there is code-switching and slang comes in. No one can deny that this is a typical conversation between a tout and a potential passenger and then tout and kombi driver. The rest of the passage is written in beautiful siNdebele, with not one more slang word. The point was to show that Ndebele does have varieties in its spoken and written form, including slang; that the language is alive and creative. One is reminded of why languages such as English even have dictionaries of slang as well as of synonyms. What controls language use or diction is context. A puritan attitude towards certain forms of the language is tantamount to the English expression of shooting oneself in the foot. At worst, it is a display of sheer ignorance concerning principles of language and language use.

The second instance that seems to have invoked the ire of commentators like Mpofu need not have done so at all. Mpofu writes how isiNdebele is a language that shows a lot of respect.  The sub-heading of that section with the word “likhikhitha” (is a prostitute/ woman of loose morals) instructs the students: “Phana ibala elihloniphayo endaweni yaleli elidwetshwe umzila” (Give a euphemistic term in place of the underlined word). That question is teaching pupils to use respectful words in place of less respectful ones. Words like “umangumba” and “yisifebe” are already euphemisms compared to the stronger form, “iwule” (slut, prostitute) which is not used in the question. To claim that twelve and thirteen year olds have never heard these words is to be dishonest, to put it mildly. With regard to Siqondephi Manje? readers will find words such as   “hlanza” (vomit), “izibunu” (buttocks) and others like them. These words are not used gratuitously.  Using euphemisms in their place would have distorted the tone and meaning of some stories resulting in a stilted and terrible translation.

Let us take “izibunu” (buttocks). It is common to hear people say of children with inadequate clothing, “abantwana bahamba ngezibunu egcekeni” (children wear worn-out clothes that show their buttocks). Likewise, “olezibunu ezinkulu ngolezibunu ezinkulu; ongalazo kalazo” (whoever has big buttocks is said to have such and the same for small or smaller buttocks) – that is how Ndebele people speak without any profanity implied in most contexts.  I am thinking specifically about events and contexts in the stories contained here.  For example, an angry character should appear as such through the language he or she uses.  Needless to say the language should suit that character.  As a translator, one of my key duties is to make sure that the translation is as close to the original text as possible, having of course, taken into account the cultural context of the Ndebele people. In any case, we have in our families, those with a penchant for saucy language and older persons seem to acquire a licence to utter obscenities at will. We need to be honest about what we mean by Ndebele culture; which in the first place cannot be represented by one person’s family or a clique of self-declared experts. Similarly, isiNdebele differs from region to region.

The discontent about the Grade 7 paper is instructive in the way it reveals some enduring and simmering issues in Matabeleland in general.  A number of people at the launch expressed worry about the teaching of isiNdebele by chiShona speaking teachers, some of whom only have a smattering of isiNdebele. They asked what the Ministry of Education was doing about that situation. Unsurprisingly, there was insinuation, in the discussion of the Grade 7 examination, that the paper had been set by people whose first language is not isiNdebele (possibly chiShona speaking?) hence the “poor” quality of the language in the paper and also “insult” to the Mthwakazi nation. The more the discussion unfolded, the more one realised that there was a conflation of issues.

The obliquely stated issues included unhappiness that chiShona speaking people now dominate tertiary institutions (see also Accessed 22 February 2014), government departments and other areas of work at the expense of the isiNdebele speaking populace. These issues are tied to slow development in the province and the memory of Gukurahundi. All these are legitimate issues.  Their crystallisation results in a rather extreme form of nationalism that wants to insist on “purity” of identity, privileging amongst other things, language. To that end, Felix Moyo urged Ndebeles: “protect your language,” at the ZIBF workshop. Similarly, a young contributor passionately declared: “We are compromising too much. Mina ngifuna isiNdebele sabokhulu.” (I want the isiNdebele of my forefathers). While I understand these strong sentiments, I hope those who utter them realise that they are inimical to language growth; that in fact, they contradict the discourse of pride in one’s language. I also hope that for purposes of growing isiNdebele, we can separate issues and zero into the singular task of analysing the language and finding ways of making it more expressive in its written form.   

It was thus heartening to note that Pathisa Nyathi, celebrated historian and one proud of his Ndebele heritage, stressed the need for flexibility regarding isiNdebele at the launch of Siqondephi Manje? (2014). He warned of an accelerated demise of isiNdebele in the absence of open-mindedness, adaptability and creativity. From the younger audience, some also lauded the translation as the kind of work in isiNdebele they would easily identify with and enjoy. After listening to some readings from the text, a group of pupils asked how they could write similar language as they had heard from the readings and not be penalised by teachers. In short, they were attracted to the language and style in the writings. One of the key aims in the writing of isiNdebele is exactly that – to capture and captivate a younger audience. This can be done by writing relevant stories using a mixture of “classical” isiNdebele and a contemporary version of the language. It is a commendable thing to note that the book can also be bought on line. But what will make people buy the book is not its migration to a technological space but its quality. The same applies to future texts of isiNdebele. What will recommend them is quality. At the moment, that quality is low but Siondephi Manje? (2014) is a significant effort towards improving the quality of written isiNdebele. One speaker at the ZIBF said he appreciated the effort that had gone into Siqondephi Manje (2014) but felt that Ndebeles were “not ready for this kind of writing.” Those who will read the book will find that Ndebeles have always been ready “for this kind of writing” – it is an honest linguistic and cultural interpretation; it is a mixture of the old and the new – just the way it should be.

It is clear that we need more fiction in isiNdebele and that fiction had better be of good quality – exciting and inspiring to both younger and older readers. That is also how you grow a crop of inspired writers. As things stand, there is first and foremost a dire need for a robust dialogue and debate about isiNdebele language and lexicon. What is needed is a creative standardisation process. Our university professors in this subject are quiet and have been for a long time. Equally important, we need to have at school and university levels, courses on creative writing in indigenous languages. 

Times change and so do people and their languages. That is how English grew – borrowing words and quickly incorporating them into the English lexicon. Some people say isiNdebele is dying. What I agree with them is that we have a dearth of books in the language, publications of such being too few and far between. But the language itself is very much alive and vibrant.   A language that grows is one that is in constant and creative use, whose lexicon evolves with time. In its written form, such a language should reveal the creativity of the people who speak it and in particular, the novel ways in which those people capture experiences.  Once this is achieved, it will inspire other writers to be even more creative.
+ + Thabisani Ndlovu is with the Wits Centre for Diversity Studies, University of the Witwatersrand, South Africa. This is an abridged version of a paper based on Zimbabwe International Book Fair (ZIBF) Workshop – 28 March 2014, and launch of Siqondephi Manje? Indatshana ZaseZimbabwe (2014), 29 March 2014. Contact:






Friday, May 9, 2014

Author of Mapatya used to read aloud to the whole village

                                        (Lexta Mafumhe Mutasa)

The late writer Nobert Mafumhe Mutasa, the author of the iconic Shona novel “Mapatya”, was a man who was as intriguing in life as in all his works. This is what his son, Lexta Mafumhe Mutasa, a well-known actor, told writers at an event in Harare recently.
“Mapatya”, Mutasa’s first book published in 1978, was written when the author was only in Form Two.

Lexta himself gripped local viewers with his deep rhythmic Shona language in the television saga “Tiriparwendo” in which he featured as the character Dapi. People will remember him saying: “Ndinokushagada ukashisha semashakada!”

Lexta is also a performance poet and was a script writer for the local soap Studio 263 with about 500 episodes penned by him.

As an artist in his own right, Lexta is haunted by his father’s shadow as he cannot separate himself from the great name Mutasa.

“I am a very haunted artist. I cannot escape the shadow of my father just like children of late great musicians who have embarked on music. They cannot hold a show without playing their father’s music, otherwise it will be no show,” said Lexta at the writers’ meeting organised by Zimbabwe Writers Association under the theme “Writers’ Families Reminisce”.

He likened himself to children of the Dembos and Chimbetus whose fathers (Leonard Dembo and Simon Chimbetu) are known musical greats in Zimbabwe.

Lexta’s father, Nobert Mutasa, who died in 2004, was a polygamist with eight wives and about fifty two children with Lexta born of the first wife. Mutasa penned eleven books including the old world trilogy “Mapatya”, “Runako Munjodzi” and “Hondo Huru”. Some of his books were popular as Shona literature study material for Zimbabwean schools.

Lexta spoke at length about how his father valued his art, his writing tendencies and his relationship with family.

“He went to Kutama College where he was influenced by another writer, Patrick Chakaipa and a certain Catholic father. When he got to Form Two, he wanted to study Shona but he discovered that there was lack of reading material in that language and tasked himself to bridging the gap by writing “Mapatya” and the other books that followed it,” said Lexta.

Asked about his father’s favourite writing time, Lexta revealed that Mutasa liked to compose during the night when there is less noise and when he would be in communion with his soul.

“But I noticed he wrote all the time. Having a personal driver when he was Chief Executive Officer at Shurugwi Rural District Council was an advantage for him because he would write even when in the car. And when I sometimes looked at his notes afterwards, his cursive handwriting looked like that of a bus conductor who writes bus tickets while the bus is moving,” Lexta added.

Mutasa loved and cared for his children and he balanced his time between family and writing.

Lexta would attend the same school with 10 or more of his siblings and people expected them to wear rags but that didn’t happen because his father made sure his kids always had adequate school uniform and fees.

“He united all his wives and children that after his death, we have been united even stronger,” said Lexta.

He also said he saw real love between his father and all his wives.

“It appears as if when my father wanted to take a new wife, he would first check if the woman could read his books. He possibly tested each of his fiancés with some of his manuscripts during dating, to see if they qualified. There was no book published which his wives would not have gone through as a manuscript,” said Lexta.

Mutasa’s works, like other old world novels by authors of his generation, use songs. Lexta said his father would make sure his wives sang them loud to him as a way of assessing them.

Lexta “joked” that his father’s wives made up a happy and critical choir for all the songs he incorporated in his works.

As he was blessed with the sweetest of Shona language, Nobert Mutasa was always invited to speak at funerals because when he spoke, mourners would forget they were at a funeral and they were persuaded to celebrate the life of the deceased.

Lexta said his father, a devoted follower of the Shona tradition, would sometimes invite the whole village to public readings of of his books before and even after they were published. Mutasa would slaughter a beast and brew beer for his listeners who included the young and old of the village. Then he would read out  from his books (without a loud speaker) to the whole village and the audience's response was always amazing. They would relate to some of the characters and events in the stories.

Lexta, who is also a poet, writer and gifted Shona “linguist”, said when his father died he left no will and therefore his creative unpublished works remained scattered within his family and up to now, no one has taken the initiative to gather them for possible publication.

“Most of the family members and relatives like to associate with the popularity of the name Mutasa but only a few have actually read his works or think about keeping his legacy in different ways. Much of the blame is on us the family,” said Lexta.

Mutasa’s immense contribution to Zimbabwean literature was visible in “the golden ages” of the Shona novel, during which period also emerged the first generation of black Zimbabwean writers.

Although it’s sad that his family, aware of such greatness of their father, has detached itself from his writing legacy, Lexta is determined to carry it forward.

“When my father died, he already knew that I was to follow in his footsteps. He would even publicly say that I was the one whom he wanted to carry on with his writing legacy. Sadly, this is not in a written will,” said Lexta.

On being asked (by one writer at the gathering) what may happen to the late writer's unpublished work and his whole literary estate and his advice to other living writers, Lexta said he also needed advice on how to set up a trust which could help organise Mutasa’s unpublished works and speak with one voice in matters regarding his writing. This, he said, would also influence living writers to take responsibility of their works beyond death.

The eleventh book by Mutasa was a Shona children’s story titled “Kushereketa Kwepwere Nemapere” which Lexta said he helped his father translate into English and it was published by Zimbabwe Publishing House (ZPH) as “The Dangerous Journey” in 2000.

While family trusts may ease the tension of negotiating with publishers for royalties, and maybe pose an answer to the “writers” trouble in paradise” as Lexta described the problems families face after the death of a published writer, they (the trusts) can only stand through family, corporate and national support.

Musaemura Zimunya who attended the writers’ meeting said in the absence of a trust or authentic heir to the deceased writer’s estate, the situation becomes 'oxygen to corruption.'

One publisher who confided in Zimunya told him that “writers are their worst enemies” in the sense that they do not leave wills when they die.

“Zimbabwe at the very moment is awash with conmen and some of them (who are at times employees in the publishing houses) connive with children of the deceased writers to get royalties from publishers without the knowledge of the deserving heirs,” said Zimunya.

Zimunya added that in such situations, family conventions involving spouses of the deceased need to be held to resolve family differences related with the literary estate.
By Beavan Tapureta
+ first appeared on:

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

My father used to say

My father used to say,
'Don’t run.’

My father used to say,
'Don’t talk.’
My father used to say,
‘Scare birds.’

So be:
It is sky and brook and bird
And tree.

(By David McCord)

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

My old man, Marquez is gone: Barbra Manyarara

OBITUARY: Gabriel Garcia Marquez (27 March 1927- 17 April 2014)
By Barbra C. Manyarara
The news of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s passing on Thursday 17 April 2014 quickly filtered down to me although I was far away from media access. Two of my undergrads sent me messages of condolences, followed by another two from family overseas. They had been purchasing most of my study material on this writer, seeing as Amazon will not deliver to Zimbabwe. Each of the messages started with, “Mama, mudhara wenyu afa.” (Mom, your old man is dead.) Another of my callers was my own hubby telling me, “Your old man is gone,” to which I retorted, “I thought you were my old man!”

To all these concerns I made the gentle reminder that Gabriel Garcia Marquez has only been promoted to a better place without pain because authors do not die, they live on through our reading of their works. All these messages recognise the special relationship I have with Gabriel Garcia Marquez for I have spent the last three years studying his representations of sexualities in several of his works.  

Literarily, I first met Gabriel Garcia Marquez when I was recovering quite unsatisfactorily, (according to my doctor), from a life-saving op and running out of satisfying reading material. In the end it was a choice between a lame copy of Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967) or Voltaire (without the benefit of even schoolgirl French). My copy of One Hundred Years clothed with the usual Penguin austerity starts with page 377, so I meet Jose Arcadio at a moment when he has taken up with children in a relationship whose significance at this point, I have no idea of at all. Still I am intrigued and flip through to discover that after page 422, there is page 41. From page 41, I could now read through to the end, that is, back to page 422 again. Despite missing that poignant first sentence, “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice,” I was fascinated!

Once I was back on my feet, it was imperative that I find a complete copy and was fortunate enough to be loaned a Harper Perennial, complete with the Buendia family tree. Finally able to satisfy my curiosity and typically an academic mercenary at heart, I did a quick paper on a linguistically determined understanding of the concept of time in the novel One Hundred Years. It did not stop there. With quiet but steady fascination, I began to “eat, drink” and “sleep” Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The result: I am studying for a D. Litt et Phil on this man’s representations of sexualities in some of his novels. Studying Garcia Marquez’s works privately was just not possible. All good things become better when shared; I soon introduced the author to undergrads.

It was at the Catholic University in Zimbabwe that I sneaked Garcia Marquez’s The incredible and sad tale of innocent Erendira and her heartless grandmother (1972) into the course, African American and Caribbean literature, and got away with it. Although I would have liked Isabel Allende to keep Garcia Marquez company, geophysical specificity of the course boundaries prevented such an adventure. I have yet to design a course that can justify the inclusion of the two magical realists and those of Africa and the rest of the world, that is, where the magical exists alongside the ordinary. This tale made the students rather sad, perhaps they over-concentrated on the sadness of the story’s title, the grandmother’s cruelty and perhaps the reality of commercial sexual exploitation of children but they still enjoyed it and were talking of hunting down its film version(s).

For me, the value of Garcia Marquez’s work will always lie in his metaphoric representations of thematic concerns in modes that are accessible linguistically and stylistically. His use of metonymy balances his expression of ideas that ordinarily might be thought offensive in some way. From this point, Garcia Marquez’s works regularly grace my reading lists for literary theory or any other courses open to his inclusion whether on the basis of period, region or any other category. Thus Garcia Marquez ignited my fascination for Latin American literature and in turn, a better appreciation of literatures from nearer home and from rest of the developing world.
And for this gift I say, “Rest in eternal peace Gabriel Garcia Marquez.”
++Barbra C. Manyarara is Lecturer in 'English Language and Literature Teaching' at the University of Zimbabwe.