Kungoenda...translated by Primrose Dzenga

Leaving, just like that
Translated from Shona to English by Primrose Dzenga
Original title: ‘Zvakanaka sei kungoenda’
by Memory Chirere, from collection, Shamhu yeZera Renyu (2023)

O, how nice it would be
just to go
and go—
leaving behind this damn city,

just like that.

During the evening news hour,
I will not be here.

They will be surprised—
because I never miss the news.
My place will be empty.

They’ll think-

Maybe he went out to relax
and he’ll come back soon

a little tipsy.

But come morning…
and I won’t be there
my pillow untouched.

They’ll try to call
but

my phone will be off.
They’ll hear that tiny woman’s voice:

“The number you have dialed

is unreachable.
Please, try again later.”

They will call…
and call again.
Still nothing—nothing.

Nothing.

They will wait,
thinking

maybe I’ll call back.

By the time they search for me

in my office,
I’ll be far, far away—
(maybe somewhere around Dotito

past Kadohwata, going…)

Then back here- maybe they would have seen that I am not even in the office.

My desk would be orderly.

I’ll have crossed the river

and kept going…

They’ll not find me at my desk.
My table—neatly arranged.
They’ll find my pen
marking a place in the book I was reading:

Page 36,
just before page 37.

And on page 37,
they’ll see the line from

my favourite author

scribbled in ink:

“I am afraid of fear because it frightens me.”

They’ll look at my teacup-
and find dried tea leaves
from days

and days ago.

On their way out,
they’ll find my jacket
hanging behind the door,
draped the way it always is,
right shoulder drooping—
as if I were still wearing it.

And in their minds,
they’ll see me walking…walking,
the way I walk
Like a man who has wandered all night,
shoes sloshing,

Swaying to the left to the right

to the left to the right…
heading away, going, and going—
 away from this giant city.

By then, I will have gone as far as Pachanza,
gazing at the mountains of my boyhood—
the Mavhuradonha mountains!

Mavhuradonhaaaaa!

Back in the city,
they’ll call again,
and that same woman will reply:

“The number you have dialed is unreachable.
Please try again later.”

They will curse,
but

my photo on the wall

will still be smiling.
They’ll say to it,
“This kind of joke is not funny.”

They’ll ask my friends about me.
and someone will say:
“I last saw him walking down the office steps,
reading what looked like a newspaper.”

My students will say:
“We last saw him
when he said, ‘a poem is like a crab—
it walks sideways
but tells its children to walk straight.”’

They’ll check the car park.
My car will still be there.
Doors unlocked—
because the damn old thing does not lock.

They’ll rummage through the glove box
for clues—
finding only
the power bill number
and the water bill number.

By then,
I will have passed Mukumbura,
almost reaching Putukezi (Mozambique)—
going far, far, far.

Those who love me
will begin to gather in this giant city

as if there is a wedding party.

Some will open my chicken coop,

and feed my chickens,
clumsily scattering the grain.

They’ll watch the chickens feed—
like witches
slurping a witch trap potion.

People will hear of my disappearance
on the radio.
They’ll remember all the useless stories I told,
 and shed tiny little tears,
then wipe them away.

Some will recall

what I stopped them from doing,
swallow their saliva,
and hope I never come back.

Some will rejoice:
“He was too much!”

But someone will see somebody

walking on the street in my style
but coming up close realizing:
Ours is thick but not as stout!

Some will hear a voice outside
that sounds like mine—
draw the curtain, open the window,
and see the fishmonger instead.
And how joyful I’ll be by then,
so far from this giant city,
walking, walking and walking.

How many times have I wanted to go—
and failed?

I will remember everyone briefly,
look back once—
but because I’ll be too far,
I’ll say:

What did you expect me to do?

You won’t hear me anymore.
By then,
I’ll be staring, melding into darkness—
darkness ahead,
darkness behind.

Time drifts, my dear,
and a man—
may just disappear,
my friend.

But I will fold my hat
and tuck it under my arm,
or maybe
lay it gently on the wet earth.

For a journey this long
doesn’t require excess baggage.

 

+The translator of this piece, Primrose Dzenga, is an award-winning poet, storyteller, author and development scholar. Her work on Privilege of Articulation examines the impact of voice on systems and interventions.

+ Memory Chirere is a Zimbabwean poet and his Shamhu YeZera renyu won a national arts merit award in 2023.

 

Zvakanaka sei kungoenda

nekuenda nekuenda…

ndichisiya zidhorobha rino?

Panguva yenhau dzemanheru

ndinenge ndisisipo.

Hakuna anozvifungira

nokuti handipotse nhau dzemanheru.

Panvimbo yangu panenge pasina munhu.

Vachati kune kwandiri kutandara

saka ndichadzoka ndanwira nwira.

Pavanozomuka rechimangwana

Ndinenge ndisipo.

Piro yangu isina kurarirwa

inovabaya moyo. 

Pavanozama kundifonera

vanonzwa foni yangu yakadzimwa

vongopindurwa nekamukadzi kaye

kuti: munhu wamuri kuda haabatike

zamai kufona zvakare gare gare.

Vagofona vagofona.

Warawara!

Vanofunga kuti ndichafona.

Vozoona kuti handisi kufona.

(Pavanozonditsvaga kuhofisi kwangu

ndinenge ndave sekwaDotito

ndinodarika Kadohwata ndichienda…)

Ndipo pavanoona ndisimo muhofisi.

Patebhuru  panenge pakarongedzwa.

Vachaona penzura iri pakati pebhuku

randaiverenga papeji 36.

Pamhiri papeji 38

vachaona ndakamaka maka neingi

mazwi emunyori wandinodisisa

ekuti: ndinotya kutya nokuti kunotyisa.

Vachatarisa kapu yangu yeputugadzike

voona yakaomerera masamba emazuva nemazuva.

Pakubuda muhofisi mangu vachaona jasi rangu

riri seri kwegonhi senguva dzose

richirembedza bendekete rerudyi semaitiro angu.

Mundangariro vachandiona ndichifamba

mufambiro wangu wemunhu ararirofamba

seya seya, seya seya

shangu dzangu dzichigwedezeka

ndichienda nokuenda

ndichisiya zidhorobha rino.

(Ipapo ndinenge ndave sekwaPachanza

Ndichitarisa makomo ehujaya hwangu:

Makomo eMavhuradonha.)

Muzidhorobha rino vachafona zvakare

vachingopindurwa nekamukadzi kaye

kuti: munhu wamuri kuda haabatike

zamai kufona zvakare gare gare.

Vanobva varidza tsamwa

pikicha yangu ichinyemwerera kumadziro.

Vachabvunza zvishamwari zvangu

voudzwa kuti ndakapedzisira kuonekwa

ndichidzika mastepisi epaohofisi

ndichiverenga chinhu chainge pepanhau.

Vadzidzi vangu vachataura kuti:

vakapedzisira kundiona

musi wandaiti:detembo rinoita segakanje

kufamba nedivi asi richiti vana varo vasadaro.

Vachaenda mupaki voona chimota changu.

Madhoo haana kukiiwa nekuti hachikiike.

Vachagwedebudza kabhineti kutsvaga humbowo

Vowana nhamba dzemagetsi nedzemvura chete.

(Izvozvo ndinenge ndodarika Mukumbura

Ndinenge ndovavarira Putukezi)

Vanondida muzidhorobha rino

vachatanga kuungana sepamuchato.

Pane vachavhurira huku dzandinochengeta

vozama kudzifidha.

Vachadziona dzichidya chikafu

kunge varoyi vari kunwa muteyo.

Pane vachanzwa nezvekushaikwa kwangu pawairesi.

votondera tunyaya tusina basa twandaiita navo

vobva vadonhedza tumisodzi.

Pane vachatondera zvandaivatadzisa kuita

vomedza mate vachiti dai ndikasadzoka

Vanotoita pati!

Pane vachaona munhu anenge ini achizvifambira

vave pedyo naye voona kuti handisirini.

“Wedu mukobvu asi haana kuzokorawo kudai!”

Pane vachanzwa munhu achitaura

panze nenzwi rinenge rangu!

Vachavhura ketani

Vovhura hwindo

voona  murume anotengesa hove

kwete ini!

Zvinozondifadza sei ndave kure

nezidhorobha rino

ndichienda kudaro.

Kangani ndichida kuenda ndichitadza?

Ndichatondera munhu wose munguva pfupi.

Ndichacheuka

asi nokuti ndinenge ndave kure

ndichangoti: “Maida kuti ndiite sei?”

Saka hamundinzwe.

Izvozvo ndinenge ndatarisana nemhindo.

Kumberi mhindo.

Kumashure mhindo.

Ndichapeta heti yangu

ndoiisa muhapwa

kana kuikanda pasi

nokuti rwendo rurefu harudi

katundu

kasina

basa.