*** On 4 September 2006, the late Maruma sent me ten of his poems. He had heard that I was putting together a collection of poems in English by Zimbabweans. For many-many reasons, I have not been able as yet to get the collection published. I have not given up. Among those who gave me poems are: Charles Mungoshi, Madlozi Moyo,Primrose Dzenga, Eresina Hwede, David Mungoshi, Alexander Kanengoni, Tinashe Muchuri,Ruzvidzo Mupfudza and Robert Muponde. I have picked out this poem below for you from amongst those I got from Maruma.
AN UNPREDICTABLE JOURNEY
(By the late Olley Maruma)
An unpredictable sail across the sea.
We all wish to be happy and free,
To live well and at great ease,
Free of the dark scourge of disease.
But how much desire do we have,
To help the unfortunate of the world?
For every peaceful knot you sail,
Some will be ravaged by the wind,
Leaving some broken ships behind.
Your journey may come to an end,
Before you are able to mend,
All the broken hearts you have hurt.
What will you think of as you go down?
Before chanting about your dreams,
Try to learn something about the world.
There is a chance your wishes may weld
Together with those of other men.
For it is people who are able to learn
How to empathise with the woes of other folk,
Who are elected to rule the world.
So, before you near the end
Of your many perils at sea,
You will discover that the key
To one of the hardest crafts
Of setting human hearts
On fire with electric love,
Is to learn how to hear.
As the annual seasons change,
You may be struck by a raging storm,
Far away from the land you call home.
It may be a storm with waves so high
Their crests lick the stars in the sky.
Sharp, gnawing pangs of hunger,
May then persuade you to crime.
Beware of living in a cut-throat world
Where you are always glorified.
People there are easily mollified
By a tasty piece of cake;
Because much of what they do is fake.
What they wish to do is live in a state
Of indolent contentment forever.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Olley Tsino Maruma dies
Today, Sunday 10 January 2010, The Sunday Mail has reported that Olley Maruma, the author of the novel, 'Coming Home' has died! He died on Thursday 7 January 2010 after a short illness. It means that Maruma died exactly as I uploaded the review of his book here! I didn't know that he had died. Only yesterday I wrote him an email asking him to read the review! Mourners are gathered at the same Avondale West address indicated in my last post. May Olley Maruma's soul rest in peace.
Friday, January 8, 2010
'Coming Home' by Olley Tsino Maruma
Title: Coming Home
Author:Olley Tsino Maruma
Publication dates: 2007 and 2008
Publisher: Gonamombe Press, Harare
Pages: 144
(Book Review by Memory Chirere)
Olley Tsino Maruma wears many hats; a journalist, a legal person, a filmmaker, a socio - political commentator of note and now, a novelist. His debut novel, Coming Home is bound to take him a step higher and broaden his circle of admirers.
Coming Home is about the return of one Simon Nyamadzawo to Zimbabwe Rhodesia after an eight-year exile in the United Kingdom. It is set during the last few months before the attainment of Zimbabwe’s independence.
Maruma has chosen a subject and circumstances that he understands very well because he went through more or less the same experiences as his major character.
The ‘return of the native’ is a subject that has fascinated writers for generations because the returnee is a man or woman who looks at home from the point of past-present, doing a mental and emotional audit. He sees what those who have always been here can never see. Sometimes, as in Chekhov, he asks for people who are long buried at the local cemetery.
The very dramatic few months before Zimbabwe’s independence have tended, ironically, to occupy a blind spot in literature. Coming Home is very unique and useful. It captures the troubled mood of Zimbabwe Rhodesia that emanates from the uncertainties of the internal settlement, the breath taking Lancaster talks and the subsequent ceasefire.
Simon comes back to a shell-shocked Salisbury, where one thinks twice before making a single step or statement. The beer flows easily but beneath every gulp lurks the unknown. There is a huge calm before the storm and the newcomer is torn between defiance and submission.
There is the distant dissatisfaction emanating from coming back home to pursue individual agendas when the forces that one fled in the first place are still holding forte. This is not the return of a hero. But Simon is well redeemed because at least his nationalist - leftist sentiments are on the side of History. For instance his open clash with a hard core Rhodesian journalist, in front of timid black journalists, places him on a higher pedestal in the bars. He represents the new breed of black men; cosmopolitan, well read, articulate and ‘cheeky’.
Simon boasts of a good understanding of the lopsided relations between the North and the South and already he anticipates the new neo colonial struggle that will come through attempting to open a minority economy to the povo.
The easy availability of beer and the occasional white female international journalist who throws herself at his feet leaves him wondering whether he is moving forward or backwards.
Maruma employs a laid back narrative, not hurrying to prescribe or taking obvious sides. In many ways this is a filmaker’s novel. The narrator has the eagle’s eye, seeing without being seen. Here as in Sembene Ousmane’s The Last Of The Empire, you are being invited to think along, rest, and make a cup of tea before you can quarrel or agree.
But has the character come back home, you ask. Well, there are suggestions in this book that coming back home is complex. Nobody really comes back to the same home after long exile.The last days of Zimbabwe Rhodesia provoke a sense of shock whose waves cause questions that demand hard answers. This novel is a good alternative to the usually tortuous biography.
For orders contact:
Olley Maruma
4 Devon Road,Avondale West, Harare, Zimbabwe
Phone:(263) 4-302809
Email: moonlght@mweb.co.zw
Author:Olley Tsino Maruma
Publication dates: 2007 and 2008
Publisher: Gonamombe Press, Harare
Pages: 144
(Book Review by Memory Chirere)
Olley Tsino Maruma wears many hats; a journalist, a legal person, a filmmaker, a socio - political commentator of note and now, a novelist. His debut novel, Coming Home is bound to take him a step higher and broaden his circle of admirers.
Coming Home is about the return of one Simon Nyamadzawo to Zimbabwe Rhodesia after an eight-year exile in the United Kingdom. It is set during the last few months before the attainment of Zimbabwe’s independence.
Maruma has chosen a subject and circumstances that he understands very well because he went through more or less the same experiences as his major character.
The ‘return of the native’ is a subject that has fascinated writers for generations because the returnee is a man or woman who looks at home from the point of past-present, doing a mental and emotional audit. He sees what those who have always been here can never see. Sometimes, as in Chekhov, he asks for people who are long buried at the local cemetery.
The very dramatic few months before Zimbabwe’s independence have tended, ironically, to occupy a blind spot in literature. Coming Home is very unique and useful. It captures the troubled mood of Zimbabwe Rhodesia that emanates from the uncertainties of the internal settlement, the breath taking Lancaster talks and the subsequent ceasefire.
Simon comes back to a shell-shocked Salisbury, where one thinks twice before making a single step or statement. The beer flows easily but beneath every gulp lurks the unknown. There is a huge calm before the storm and the newcomer is torn between defiance and submission.
There is the distant dissatisfaction emanating from coming back home to pursue individual agendas when the forces that one fled in the first place are still holding forte. This is not the return of a hero. But Simon is well redeemed because at least his nationalist - leftist sentiments are on the side of History. For instance his open clash with a hard core Rhodesian journalist, in front of timid black journalists, places him on a higher pedestal in the bars. He represents the new breed of black men; cosmopolitan, well read, articulate and ‘cheeky’.
Simon boasts of a good understanding of the lopsided relations between the North and the South and already he anticipates the new neo colonial struggle that will come through attempting to open a minority economy to the povo.
The easy availability of beer and the occasional white female international journalist who throws herself at his feet leaves him wondering whether he is moving forward or backwards.
Maruma employs a laid back narrative, not hurrying to prescribe or taking obvious sides. In many ways this is a filmaker’s novel. The narrator has the eagle’s eye, seeing without being seen. Here as in Sembene Ousmane’s The Last Of The Empire, you are being invited to think along, rest, and make a cup of tea before you can quarrel or agree.
But has the character come back home, you ask. Well, there are suggestions in this book that coming back home is complex. Nobody really comes back to the same home after long exile.The last days of Zimbabwe Rhodesia provoke a sense of shock whose waves cause questions that demand hard answers. This novel is a good alternative to the usually tortuous biography.
For orders contact:
Olley Maruma
4 Devon Road,Avondale West, Harare, Zimbabwe
Phone:(263) 4-302809
Email: moonlght@mweb.co.zw
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
A letter from a brother
A letter from a brother
(by Memory Chirere)
My brother’s letter to me
read: “Father says, ‘come home!”’
and down the lines, the fool added:
“Please, make sure you do not bring along your damn wife!
Just come home at once
because it is what father says.”
Then finally:
“We are all fed up of your antics!”
I saw the story inside the story
and tore the paper to pieces!
(by Memory Chirere)
My brother’s letter to me
read: “Father says, ‘come home!”’
and down the lines, the fool added:
“Please, make sure you do not bring along your damn wife!
Just come home at once
because it is what father says.”
Then finally:
“We are all fed up of your antics!”
I saw the story inside the story
and tore the paper to pieces!
Mira wega
Mira Wega
(naMemory Chirere)
Usandipe mhaka yokukuzvara:
Ndazvarwa; ndaitoti ndizvarewoka.
Ndoti ndizvare, ndoona ndazvara iwe!
Kuzvara kufamba murima, mwana.
Handina kukusarudza, mwana
Handina kukuveza nenhemo nembezo
Ndoti ndizvarewo, ndozvara iwe.
Uri chinhu chakaitika kwandiri
seZhizha, Matsutso neChirimo.
Simuka uende semauyiro ako,
Ridza mhere segurwe sepakutanga.
Tsvanzvadzirawo, utsvage nzira.
Kunga zvibhakera, kunga sepakutanga
urwe nerima nechiri murima.
Usandipe mhaka nokuti hapana mhaka
Ndoti ndizvarewo, ndozvara iwe.
Simuka utambewo mutambo wako.
Uri chinhu chakatambira mugwara rangu
Takangosangana murwendo rwapanyika.
Zamhu izamhu, sezamhu raizivei?
Ndokupa wosvetasveta, svavava.
Tsvaga rimwe zamhu ikoko kwandisiri.
Nyika zizamhu ramazamhu wani!
Mirawo wega, ndakakuzvara kare!
(naMemory Chirere)
Usandipe mhaka yokukuzvara:
Ndazvarwa; ndaitoti ndizvarewoka.
Ndoti ndizvare, ndoona ndazvara iwe!
Kuzvara kufamba murima, mwana.
Handina kukusarudza, mwana
Handina kukuveza nenhemo nembezo
Ndoti ndizvarewo, ndozvara iwe.
Uri chinhu chakaitika kwandiri
seZhizha, Matsutso neChirimo.
Simuka uende semauyiro ako,
Ridza mhere segurwe sepakutanga.
Tsvanzvadzirawo, utsvage nzira.
Kunga zvibhakera, kunga sepakutanga
urwe nerima nechiri murima.
Usandipe mhaka nokuti hapana mhaka
Ndoti ndizvarewo, ndozvara iwe.
Simuka utambewo mutambo wako.
Uri chinhu chakatambira mugwara rangu
Takangosangana murwendo rwapanyika.
Zamhu izamhu, sezamhu raizivei?
Ndokupa wosvetasveta, svavava.
Tsvaga rimwe zamhu ikoko kwandisiri.
Nyika zizamhu ramazamhu wani!
Mirawo wega, ndakakuzvara kare!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Watching
Watching
(a story By Memory Chirere)
The boy has been watching his parents, sometimes coming very close that he wonders if they are aware of his presence or are also quietly playing his game, better than him.
Where do they think he is? Or, do they think anything about him at all?
For days, he has spotted their two freshly built huts at the edge of the linear village along the dirt road. From his different hiding places, he can see smoke spiraling thinly from the fresh thatch of one of the huts. He only needs to go and knock on one of the doors and declare himself.
But, he holds on, despite the opposing impulses. He does not know why but he holds on, day by day; out in the bushes, his brown boots-turning gray; his hair – growing wild and his clothes – getting redder and redder with earth, sweat and the steaming heat. He does not know why but he feels angry and justifiable.
For food, he comes down to pick, break and eat water – melons in the nearby fields. For water, there is a stream nearby with the clearest and coolest water he has ever seen or tasted in his life.
From behind the rocks, he has seen his mother fetching water from the stream. His mother still has her wrinkles and dreamy eyes. When she lifts her tin full of water onto her head and faces his direction, he is not sure if she does not recognise him. Or, does she even see him?
She goes past the canopy trees at the caroling pace of a soft wind. He follows her up for a distance, once, almost shouting, “Mother!” but he dares not. I will wait, he resolves. “I must wait.”
In the morning he sees his father tethering two black goats by the edge of their still stump – studded compound. The boy remains stiff, behind a baobab tree where he has spent the night.
Then he wonders why, when his father comes back for the goats in the evening, he does not seem to notice the thorn – tree twigs the boy has gathered for the goats to pick at and nibble. Doesn’t he notice, or, is he playing mental games with the boy?
And they should notice the boy’s blanket spread out on the rock outcrop by the road where he spends the nights! But they just pass by, taking the slightest note, if any, causing the boy to recoil with disbelief as he watches from his hiding places.
Were they not even seeing the prints of his boots around the huts in the mornings? Fools! Or, as new comers here, do they think it is a custom of the locals to stray and walk around other people’s huts at night?
But he will not walk up to them at their open –door cooking fire and say, “I am here. I am your son! Someone told me that you came to settle here and I followed up from the city! Why did you leave without first sending word to me in the city centre?”
He does not want to do that. Never! Never! They may feel big and proud and unrepentant, he reasons. And they may never notice that he was now a man. “A man!” he pronounces it and dances on the spot.
“I hitch hiked all the way to this place. You can’t rid of me.” Will he say all that little-mouse-talk? Not him!
And what can they say to all that? What could his father, particularly, say when it was his constant unjustified beatings and harangue of the boy that made the boy walk out onto the streets?
Will his mother spring up and embrace him, as they say mothers do to their long lost sons? How can a mother spring up and embrace him who has not gone out to join any army or take up a job in any distant town? Even if she felt like it, would she parade such affection for the boy in front of her begrudging husband?
The boy shudders at the thought that his father was his mother’s husband. Husband! He has never associated that word with his father. He sympathizes with his father for not cutting the picture of a husband in a world where real fathers should be husbands.
The boy remains behind the bushes, the tall grass, the baobab tree and rock outcrops, playing hide and seek with his parents.
Then, a thought strikes him: someone will notice my game, one day. Someone must have spotted me by now! What if I am mistook for a thief, a thug or worse – a rapist… Wandering through the bush, that is when he comes to where his father is laying fast asleep on the ground, weary from the logs he has been cutting. The boy sees his father’s axe – resting against a tree.
He does not know why, but he grabs his father’s axe like a warrior. Its sharp edge glistens innocently in the noon day sun and the boy thinks that he has never had such an inspiring possession.
He looks down at his father’s exhausted figure. The man is snoring from inside his heavy remnant of a policeman’s tunic. There is the exposed part of his neck, bulging and collapsing, as he breathes.
Then it is just a thought: if only he can walk closer, raise the axe and let it descend on this bully’s neck! He will be avenged!
Soon it is not a thought anymore because he is beginning to do it! Standing above his father’s sprawled figure, feet astride, the boy raises the axe. It will be easy. Nobody will discover. So let the axe fall!
But, as animals sense intrusion, he turns suddenly, and what does he see? His own mother, balancing a plateful of boiled beans (his father’s meal) on her head. The boy does not know if his mother identifies him or understands what he was about to do with the axe because she just wails and skips backwards. The plate of beans slips and travels to the ground.
The boy sees the prostrate figure of his father stirring but he does not drop the axe. He only skips over two freshly cut logs and flees through the thicket.
That evening, the boy’s father and mother sees a small man with an axe slung across his shoulder, walking unassumingly, into the homestead.
His father grabs a smoldering log from the fire, stands firm and calls out a challenge, “Who goes there? I must warn you that I’m armed! You’ll have yourself to blame!”
It is only when the son says, “Batsi! It is me, Batsirai!” that his father relaxes and his mother rises from where she had slumped into a heap. His mother spreads out her arms and stiffens. Maybe she wants the boy to drop the axe from his shoulder, first and come to her willing arms.
(a story By Memory Chirere)
The boy has been watching his parents, sometimes coming very close that he wonders if they are aware of his presence or are also quietly playing his game, better than him.
Where do they think he is? Or, do they think anything about him at all?
For days, he has spotted their two freshly built huts at the edge of the linear village along the dirt road. From his different hiding places, he can see smoke spiraling thinly from the fresh thatch of one of the huts. He only needs to go and knock on one of the doors and declare himself.
But, he holds on, despite the opposing impulses. He does not know why but he holds on, day by day; out in the bushes, his brown boots-turning gray; his hair – growing wild and his clothes – getting redder and redder with earth, sweat and the steaming heat. He does not know why but he feels angry and justifiable.
For food, he comes down to pick, break and eat water – melons in the nearby fields. For water, there is a stream nearby with the clearest and coolest water he has ever seen or tasted in his life.
From behind the rocks, he has seen his mother fetching water from the stream. His mother still has her wrinkles and dreamy eyes. When she lifts her tin full of water onto her head and faces his direction, he is not sure if she does not recognise him. Or, does she even see him?
She goes past the canopy trees at the caroling pace of a soft wind. He follows her up for a distance, once, almost shouting, “Mother!” but he dares not. I will wait, he resolves. “I must wait.”
In the morning he sees his father tethering two black goats by the edge of their still stump – studded compound. The boy remains stiff, behind a baobab tree where he has spent the night.
Then he wonders why, when his father comes back for the goats in the evening, he does not seem to notice the thorn – tree twigs the boy has gathered for the goats to pick at and nibble. Doesn’t he notice, or, is he playing mental games with the boy?
And they should notice the boy’s blanket spread out on the rock outcrop by the road where he spends the nights! But they just pass by, taking the slightest note, if any, causing the boy to recoil with disbelief as he watches from his hiding places.
Were they not even seeing the prints of his boots around the huts in the mornings? Fools! Or, as new comers here, do they think it is a custom of the locals to stray and walk around other people’s huts at night?
But he will not walk up to them at their open –door cooking fire and say, “I am here. I am your son! Someone told me that you came to settle here and I followed up from the city! Why did you leave without first sending word to me in the city centre?”
He does not want to do that. Never! Never! They may feel big and proud and unrepentant, he reasons. And they may never notice that he was now a man. “A man!” he pronounces it and dances on the spot.
“I hitch hiked all the way to this place. You can’t rid of me.” Will he say all that little-mouse-talk? Not him!
And what can they say to all that? What could his father, particularly, say when it was his constant unjustified beatings and harangue of the boy that made the boy walk out onto the streets?
Will his mother spring up and embrace him, as they say mothers do to their long lost sons? How can a mother spring up and embrace him who has not gone out to join any army or take up a job in any distant town? Even if she felt like it, would she parade such affection for the boy in front of her begrudging husband?
The boy shudders at the thought that his father was his mother’s husband. Husband! He has never associated that word with his father. He sympathizes with his father for not cutting the picture of a husband in a world where real fathers should be husbands.
The boy remains behind the bushes, the tall grass, the baobab tree and rock outcrops, playing hide and seek with his parents.
Then, a thought strikes him: someone will notice my game, one day. Someone must have spotted me by now! What if I am mistook for a thief, a thug or worse – a rapist… Wandering through the bush, that is when he comes to where his father is laying fast asleep on the ground, weary from the logs he has been cutting. The boy sees his father’s axe – resting against a tree.
He does not know why, but he grabs his father’s axe like a warrior. Its sharp edge glistens innocently in the noon day sun and the boy thinks that he has never had such an inspiring possession.
He looks down at his father’s exhausted figure. The man is snoring from inside his heavy remnant of a policeman’s tunic. There is the exposed part of his neck, bulging and collapsing, as he breathes.
Then it is just a thought: if only he can walk closer, raise the axe and let it descend on this bully’s neck! He will be avenged!
Soon it is not a thought anymore because he is beginning to do it! Standing above his father’s sprawled figure, feet astride, the boy raises the axe. It will be easy. Nobody will discover. So let the axe fall!
But, as animals sense intrusion, he turns suddenly, and what does he see? His own mother, balancing a plateful of boiled beans (his father’s meal) on her head. The boy does not know if his mother identifies him or understands what he was about to do with the axe because she just wails and skips backwards. The plate of beans slips and travels to the ground.
The boy sees the prostrate figure of his father stirring but he does not drop the axe. He only skips over two freshly cut logs and flees through the thicket.
That evening, the boy’s father and mother sees a small man with an axe slung across his shoulder, walking unassumingly, into the homestead.
His father grabs a smoldering log from the fire, stands firm and calls out a challenge, “Who goes there? I must warn you that I’m armed! You’ll have yourself to blame!”
It is only when the son says, “Batsi! It is me, Batsirai!” that his father relaxes and his mother rises from where she had slumped into a heap. His mother spreads out her arms and stiffens. Maybe she wants the boy to drop the axe from his shoulder, first and come to her willing arms.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
SHADES OF DREAMS
COMING TO YOU IN MARCH 2010…
An Amakhosi Theatre Upstairs Production, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe
SHADES OF DREAMS
(By Christopher Mlalazi):chrismlalazi@gmail.com
Synopsis: A school teacher, a former money changer, and their wives. The economy of the country has collapsed with their dreams, both legal and illegal. Now a faint glimmer of hope has risen on the horizon, in the form of a newspaper report. With this newspaper report also comes a re-living of the long shadows of their dreams and fears for the future, for they have lost trust of the very essence of their positions on the footsteps of destiny, and also of each other.
Christopher Mlalazi
Studio 9
National Gallery In Bulawayo
75 Main Street
Bulawayo
Zimbabwe
cell: + 263912713004
landline +2630963949
WRITING AWARDS AND MENTIONS
1.Highly Recommended Citation -2004 Sable Lit (UK) short Story Competition
2. Shortlisted for the 2007 HSBC PEN SOUTH AFRICA WRITING COMPETITION
3. Winner of NAMA 2009 - Best First Creative Published Book.
4. 2009 OXFAM NOVIB PEN FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION AWARD at the Hague
5. Honorable Mention in the 2009 NOMA AWARD FOR BOOK PUBLISHING IN AFRICA
Get Christopher Mlalazi's books from these sites:
http://www.africanbookscollective.com/books/dancing-with-life
http://www.amazon.com/Many-Rivers-Christopher-Mlalazi/dp/095580826X
An Amakhosi Theatre Upstairs Production, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe
SHADES OF DREAMS
(By Christopher Mlalazi):chrismlalazi@gmail.com
Synopsis: A school teacher, a former money changer, and their wives. The economy of the country has collapsed with their dreams, both legal and illegal. Now a faint glimmer of hope has risen on the horizon, in the form of a newspaper report. With this newspaper report also comes a re-living of the long shadows of their dreams and fears for the future, for they have lost trust of the very essence of their positions on the footsteps of destiny, and also of each other.
Christopher Mlalazi
Studio 9
National Gallery In Bulawayo
75 Main Street
Bulawayo
Zimbabwe
cell: + 263912713004
landline +2630963949
WRITING AWARDS AND MENTIONS
1.Highly Recommended Citation -2004 Sable Lit (UK) short Story Competition
2. Shortlisted for the 2007 HSBC PEN SOUTH AFRICA WRITING COMPETITION
3. Winner of NAMA 2009 - Best First Creative Published Book.
4. 2009 OXFAM NOVIB PEN FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION AWARD at the Hague
5. Honorable Mention in the 2009 NOMA AWARD FOR BOOK PUBLISHING IN AFRICA
Get Christopher Mlalazi's books from these sites:
http://www.africanbookscollective.com/books/dancing-with-life
http://www.amazon.com/Many-Rivers-Christopher-Mlalazi/dp/095580826X
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