I wonder why the grass is green and why the wind is never seen?

I WONDER
I wonder why the grass is green,

And why the wind is never seen?

Who taught the birds to build a nest,

And told the trees to take a rest?

O, when the moon is not quite round,

Where can the missing bit be found?

Who lights the stars, when they blow out,

And makes the lightning flash about?

Who paints the rainbow in the sky,

And hangs the fluffy clouds so high?

Why is it now, do you suppose,

That Dad won’t tell me, if he knows?

By Jeannie Kirby

How could I compete with Charles Mungoshi!: Mabasa

Talking to Beavan Tapureta in Bulawayo at the NAMA awards, Ignatius Mabasa who was joint winner with Charles Mungoshi in the Outstanding Fiction category, regrets having to be nominated alongside his mentor, Charles Mungoshi. He never dreamt of  competing with his elder. Read the full story here:
http://win-zimbabwe.blogspot.com/2014/02/13th-edition-of-national-arts-merit.html

Fragments from Zimbabwe war literature

‘Pebbles in a pothole’ By Charles Pfukwa...based on a TRUE story!

I QUICKLY crossed the road with Bvanyangu and looked for the land mine. It was just off the concrete apron of the bridge.
My heart sank and I knelt down almost in prayer.
The mine was there – it had not detonated.
I caught up with BV; a huge hulk of a man, over six feet tall.
Everything about him was massive, huge chest, bulging muscles.
He carried his LMG with ease as if it was an AK 47.
He wore this huge black hat that always reminded me of Zorro.
The only thing that was small on the jet black face were the eyes.
And in his fury they became smaller.
They were the only feature that betrayed his great concern for me.
I could feel his fury, his compassion as I was marching to my death.
After all, he had been there listening as Command decided that I should go and reset the mine.
Obviously some of the things that were said there were not very comradely, but he was man enough not to tell me – I could read between the lines.
BV was more than a comrade in arms, he was a brother.
We had come a long way together.
We had gone through the basic training together at Takawira Base One at Chimoio in the first four months of 1977.
Upon completion, he was one of those hefty graduates who were handpicked and sent for some semi-commando training at the new Takawira Base Two.
I was drafted into the engineering corps where we specialised in demolition and mine laying under the wise eye of Cde Paul Njiri Chibende (may his soul rest in peace.)
Three months later, we met again and were drafted into the same unit and we marched off to war.
We ended up in Makoni detachment under different commanders, but we met regularly until we teamed up in advance operations in the farms.
Our forays took us as far as Rusape and Headlands.
This particular mission was near Inyati Mine near Arnoldine Mission.
I suppose it was a painful experience to see someone so close, someone you had come a long way together marching to his death.
Yes war is about sacrifice, but marching to sure death is quite another matter.
“I will do it,” I declared in a low, dry voice.
He spun around and his eyes said it all as they retreated deep into their sockets.
He quickly recovered his composure and the frown turned into pity mingled with disbelief.
Already I was a piece of mangled flesh torn to pieces by some four kilos of TNT.
My heart was hanging in a tree, a hand here, an ear there, some hair here and a rag there, all covered by a fine layer of dust mingled with blood.
“I will see what can be done,” I repeated.
“Let’s move on.”
He turned and continued the march and never said a single word until we came to the landmine.
Now, as I looked at the pothole, groping for a solution, my mind wandered over a wide landscape and rested on events of the previous night.
A 15-strong squad had descended on the bridge on the still, moonless evening. While the rest took positions on both sides of the bridge, Mao and I selected a site just off the bridge suitable for laying the mine.
I flicked open the bayonet of my AK 47 submachine gun and prodded the gravel track.
I then examined the wheel ruts and then indicated to Mao the most suitable point. He looked around and then grunted in satisfaction.
I unslung the mine, produced a small hoe and began the task.
I carefully excavated the small hole which was about 20 cm wide and 20 cm deep.
I scooped the soil out and put it on a hessian bag that was laid out beside me.
When the hole was deep enough, I put in the mine.
Mao was not satisfied.
“That’s too shallow, add a few more inches,” he said.
I told him the hole was deep enough, but his reply came as an order and I complied.
I laid the mine and insulated it with plastic paper.
I covered it with soil and with that the task was complete. But I was still uneasy.
On my own, I could have done a better job.

THE little pothole yawning at me reminded me of the reality of the potential tragedy that was unfolding.
And I was the main actor in the drama albeit very unwillingly.
I snapped open the bayonet of my AK and gently poked the shallow pothole that marked where the mine was.
It was about five cm below the gravel surface.
I do not know how it had escaped detection.
But several vehicles had hit the rut.
It was only that their pressure was not sufficient enough to detonate the mine.
The mine was already set.
It was safely protected by three layers of thick plastic paper that had been firmly tucked into its sides.
We filled the sides of the hole with some gravel and pressed it down firmly to ensure that there was no movement.
Now this new complication, these wheels showed that it had been run over several times.
I had no solution to this problem.
Time was running out and there was no one to turn to.
This was my own calabash. I could not share it with anyone.
One man, one mine.
I had a special relationship with this mine.
It was an odd one from somewhere in Eastern Europe, probably Yugoslavian or Rumanian – definitely it was not Chinese or Russian. I had worked on those and detonated them successfully on the road from Baradzanwa to Rugoi Camp.
This one was an odd contraption about 15cm in diameter and 15cm deep.
It was smaller than the other versions, which resembled a wide shallow frying pan. This one looked like a one litre tin, or a small cylindrical pot.
The more popular versions had a detonator which was screwed in on top after setting it.
They were easier and safer to work on once placed in the hole.
This one was a different kettle of fish altogether.
It had a mechanical detonator with a crude mechanism.
The detonator was on top and kept in place by two metal strips that crossed.
These two strips were attached to the top of the mine by some clips.
The slightest touch on any part of the strips would activate detonator and that would be Armageddon.
I had carried this mine on my back when I came into the front, fresh from training about 14 months before.
This had given me enough time to examine and study it.
It fascinated me. How did it work?
I had spent hours examining it until it became my little toy.
It had gone several sections in the detachment until it was handed back to me.
Nobody wanted to use it.
No one could understand how it worked.
The Detachment Commander knew of my modest reputation as a mine layer, so he sent me with the instruction that I should lay it.
I would have done it successfully had it not been that little Cde Mao — now he did not want to come anywhere near it.
This was my problem.
“Bloody coward, son of a …,” I said.
I was interrupted by an urgent shout from a comrade safely under cover, well off the road: “Motor vehicle!”
I stared at him, paralysed by the urgency of his voice.
The sound of the truck galvanised me into action – it was approaching the bend.
I jumped to my feet and looked for the nearest cover.
There were two options, either I would scamper across the road and hide behind the bush.
The near side of the road was bare with the nearest cover 10m away.
I would not make it.
The approaching sound gave me the third option.
I would jump under the bridge.
But it was a big risk – if the mine detonated while I was under the bridge, that would be the end of me.
I had two choices; both of them not very pleasant- detection or detonation.
The truck put wings on my feet.
It was the immediate danger.
I took the third option and scurried under the bridge and held my breath.
Again, I found myself appealing to the ancestors.
The next 30 seconds were like an eternity to me.
I waited with bated breath as the rumble drew closer.
It was a heavy vehicle, probably with a trailer.
Some 24 wheels rumbled over the small bridge towards the mine.
The bridge shook and groaned under the weight of the vehicle.
I waited for the inevitable as twenty-four big wheels rolled towards the mine.

TWENTY four big wheels rolled past the bridge, past the mine and disappeared round the corner.
There was no time to contemplate what would have happened.
I crawled out from under the bridge and returned to my mine.
BV also crept out of cover and came forward only to stop at a safe distance from the mine.
All along I had been agonising over a solution.
Digging out the mine was no option.
I still loved my life.
I reopened my bayonet and again prodded.
The fresh tracks made by the heavy truck made it quite clear they had cut deep into the shallow pothole that held the mine.
A solution dawned upon me almost like the light Saul saw on his way to Damascus.
It did not come as a brain wave or some brilliant breathtaking revelation.
It was simple physics: The hole was too deep.
The pressure exerted by the vehicle was not sufficient to act on the detonator.
The soil we added acted as a cushion and absorbed all the pressure from the passing vehicles.
All I had to do was add some pebbles to the level of the gravel surface.
These pebbles, when pressed, would exert pressure on the detonator and the fireworks were sure to follow.
Using my bayonet, I gently prodded the pothole, loosening the soil that covered the mine.
I went down on my belly and gently scooped the soil out of the hole.
I took off my denim jacket and put the soil in it — I would need that soil later on.
I carefully removed all the soil until I had unearthed the plastic paper that acted as insulator.
I would go no further.
The plastic sheet had been neatly and tightly tucked into the sides of the mine – touching that would make me a war hero before I wanted to be one.
I could hardly conceal my excitement in finding this solution to an impossible problem.
I collected the two handfuls of stones about the size of pebbles and deftly laid them down in the hole.
BV should have thought I had gone mad as I wandered about the road picking up the pebbles.
I added another handful and arranged them neatly like a stone mason.
This was a deadly task, it needed care and diligence.
Satisfied with my effort, I stood back and took the soil on my jacket and sprinkled it over the rocks.
Very gently, I spread the soil to the level of the road surface.
I threw away the rest of the soil, shook my jacket and put it on.
There was one snag: It had rained and the soil was muddy.
Even in the darkness it was clear the road surface had been dug.
I had to sprinkle some water on the mine surface to obliterate any signs of mischief.
I had no container – I looked around – there was nothing I could use to hold just a drop of water.
The solution came from my head.
I took off my lovely canvas hat which had quite a history on its own and used it to fetch the water.
It was not the most fashionable headgear, but it served its purpose well.
It kept my head dry during the rain season.
I returned to my place of refuge with love and joy like that of an old bird that revisits its nest.
I scooped a hatful of water and sprinkled it on the surface.
Two more hatfuls made the job complete and I stepped back removing any signs of my presence using a branch.
I put on my headgear with pride and pleasure.
I wonder where I lost it.
It would have been a priceless souvenir now.
I walked to BV who had been watching the whole exercise from a safe distance and snapped a smart salute – operation over.
BV summoned the rest of the unit who had been covering both sides of the bridge and we marched back to base.
I was too tired, frustrated and annoyed to talk to anyone.
I nibbled a few morsels of sadza and went to sleep some distance from the rest of the unit.
I just wanted to be myself.
The mine exploded next morning at about 8:00am.
I was fast asleep – BV came with the good tidings, he was overjoyed.
For me, it was a shattering anticlimax and all the risks I had taken came like a flood into my mind.
“What exactly did you do?” he asked.
When I told him, his jaw sagged and he snorted: “Pebbles in a pothole? I can't believe it!"

++Appeared in The Patriot, January 2014. A version of this short story was published in The Horizon Magazine in 1996.

Only the survivor lives to face the vagaries of the day

Title: Kusara Kunze Huona

Author: Colette Choto Mutangadura

Publisher: Zimbabwe women Writers, 2013

pp105, isbn: 978-0-7974-5679-2
Colette Mutangadura's latest Shona novel, Kusara Kunze Huona is to date one of the very few fictional narratives in the Shona language to dwell extensively on what has come to be known as Zimbabwe’s decade of crisis. This is a period around 1998 to 2008. Whichever way it is considered, this Zimbabwean crisis is characterised by political strife, serious economic meltdown, an acute brain drain and the general collapse of public amenities that the country suffered.

An urban based widow and grandmother, vaHazvinei is caught up in this serious crisis. All her sons and their wives and all her daughters and their husbands fall victim, one after the other, to the Aids pandemic, leaving her with their numerous children  in the tiny two rooms of her four roomed old house in Joburg lines, Mbare Harare. There are some lodgers in the other two rooms and in this crisis, they pay her once in a long-long while.

Kusara Kunze Huona, a Shona saying precisely means that only those who survive live to face the vagaries of the day. This is exactly what happens to vaHazvinei. At a time when even the able bodied have nowhere to turn, the old lady swallows her lifelong pride and goes out to beg at Mbare Musika, with some of her grand children in tow.

Then one day she comes back home to find her fourteen year old grandson in the process of raping her seven year old granddaughter! The boy is from vaHazvinei's late daughter and the girl is from her late son's side. Will vaHazvinei report the poor boy to the police? Will vaHazvinei tell her injured granddaughter to keep quiet about it all? Will the girl’s school teacher keep quiet when she learns about this?

The marauding boy storms out returning only in the middle of the night, then going away for good to join the growing gangs of criminals of impoverished Harare. Soon he is into pickpocketting, carjacking, prostitution, drug abuse and the other numerous vices.

Meanwhile, the crisis rages on and there is Operation Murambatsvina, the political violence, the fast track land reform and the curious stories about the raping of men by women and vaHazvinei is caught in between. Will she survive with half a dozen orphans in Mbare? And… from nowhere, a friend of her late daughter bumps into the old lady.

Mutangadura is a traditional writer in that when you read her text, it feels like you are listening to a friend sitting on the other side of the hearth, telling a story. Her Shona language rings with the clear clarity associated with Shona griots. The novel begins abruptly with: VaHazvinei vakamuka ndokusaidzira magumbeze kumakumbo. Chimba chavo chekuMajubheki chakanga chasakara zvaisemesa. Vakagwabvura musoro wavo zvine simba vachiedza kunyaradza kuvava nokuswinya kwawainge woita. Mupumbuchena uyu akakwenya zvokuti dai raiva ganda rechidiki kana ropa ringadai rakaerera, asi nokuda kwokusharuka ganda ravo rakanga ratindivarara uyewo rasvava zvokuti ropa rakange rave shoma. (Old Hazvinei woke up with a start and pushed the blankets down to her feet. Her blasted house in Joburg lines was now old and filthy. She scratched her head vigorously, trying to silence some irritation. The old fellow scratched so hard that had it been young skin, blood could have oozed. Now her skin was old and wrinkled, betraying the little blood underneath.)

Mutangadura can be very dramatic, in a traditional Shona way:  Mbuya vakabuda panze kuti vaende kuchimbuzi. Vakatambirwa netsvina isina akamboona. Ndove yevanhu asi kunge danga renguruve, iro zimweya rinounza nhunzi dzorufu kase. Kwakange kusina mvura musiyo. Chembere yakaombera maoko, “Zvino ndizvo zvinonzi Harare izvi?...” (Grandma went out intending to go to the toilet. She was met with lots of human dung. Human dung that looked like pig dung and the smell that brings death everywhere. There was no tape water on that day. The old lady clapped her hands in exasperation and cried, “So this is what Harare has become?...”

However, the old woman’s thoughts as she watches a country in transition remain an upward quest. She is constantly looking for anything useful in this strife; a whisper, a pat on the back, some pumpkins, news about those in the Diaspora, dreams about a piece of land of her own, the smell of perfume that reminds her of any of her long gone children, awkward political slogans...She is always listening and wondering which side is right or wrong. Which side will triumph…when, why and how? Her mind is an encyclopaedia.

Published in several anthologies mostly by Zimbabwe Women Writers, Collette Choto Mutangadura was born on 19 March 1945 in Hwedza and has a lot of work accredited to her name. Mutangadura’s first novel Rinonyenga Rinhwarara – ‘A beggar humbles himself’, was published in 1983 by Mambo Press in association with the Literature Bureau is a love story. In 2007, she compiled traditional recipes by women from around Goromonzi area about 50 km east of Harare, Zimbabwe.  It is called ‘Kubika Machikichori' Shona for preparing delicious meals.

Her second novel, Rutendo: The Chief’s Granddaughter (2009) is about Rutendo, the most promising daughter of in an African village who comes home on holiday from a white man’s college to find her grandfather, the chief’s homestead guarded by white soldiers. It is during the bitter war of liberation in Rhodesia. Suddenly Rutendo's romance with the liberation movement in the village seems compromised as her heart wonders off into a white soldiers’ tent. She falls in love with the white soldier, Barry!

The author is one of the founders of Zimbabwe Women Writers (ZWW). Formed in 1990, (ZWW) is an arts and culture trust concerned particularly with the promotion of women’s literature in Zimbabwe.

Kusara Kunze Huona is particularly compelling and a must reader for those who want an insider’s insights into Zimbabwe’s so called decade of crisis.

(Reviewed by Memory Chirere)

University of Zimbabwe land conference: call for papers

UNIVERSITY OF ZIMBABWE: FACULTY OF ARTS 2014 INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE

Conference Theme: “Dialoguing Land and Indigenisation in Zimbabwe and the developing countries: A Multi-disciplinary Approach”

 Dates: 13th – 15th August 2014 Conference proceedings

 Venue: Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

 IMPORTANT DATES:

 28 February 2014 – SUBMISSION OF ABSTRACTS

 28 March 2014 - NOTIFICATION OF ACCEPTED ABSTRACTS

 28 June 2014 - SUBMISSION OF COMPLETED PAPERS

1. Background:
Cognisant of the recent ideas generated by Zimbabwe’s land reform programme and its regional and international impact, The Faculty of Arts, University of Zimbabwe, will host an international conference that will provide a platform for academics, researchers and post-graduate students from the University of Zimbabwe and other institutions, including Agricultural practitioners, to present well-researched papers, insights and case studies on the above theme. The aim of the conference is to provide an opportunity to academics and professionals from various fields of Human, Agricultural and Social Sciences to discuss Land and Indigenisation in ways that promote inter/cross-disciplinary interests and research. The conference’s objective is to dialogue on the afore-mentioned issues with a view to enhancing synergies across disciplines in serving their respective communities and nations. The book Zimbabwe takes back its land (2013) opened up debate internationally on Zimbabwe’s fast track land reform programme. This conference continues the debate. The authors Dr J. Hanlon, Dr J. Manjengwa and Ms T Smart of the book will be keynote speakers.

2. Motivation:

The richness of the Human and Social and Agricultural Sciences is embedded in the diverse material, cultural, spiritual and imaginative spaces manifest through languages, literatures, ideologies, religions, historical records, identities, politics and policy among other forms of media. For this reason, problematic conceptions and perceptions surrounding the subjects such as Land and Indigenisation within a global context embedded in the conference theme call for dialogue from a multi-disciplinary approach. Such dialogue is envisaged to dispel myths, enhance understanding, sharpen insights and court co-operation and reinvigoration of academia on issues that directly impact on people’s daily livelihoods and experiences in present day societies. It is also important to explore the idea of Human, Agricultural and Social Sciences as the vibrant cultural repertoires of many communities the world over, especially on matters pertaining to worldviews on Land and Indigenisation.

 

Papers are expected to be submitted in good time for presentation at the “Faculty of Arts International Conference which will take place from 13^th to 15^th August 2014 hosted by the Faculty of Arts, University of Zimbabwe at Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. This conference emphasises the need to academically engage each other’s presentation when dealing with how Human, Agricultural and Social Sciences approach issues of Land and Indigenisation in Zimbabwe and the developing countries within a global context.

3. Themes/Topics:

We will consider abstracts and papers dealing with, but not restricted to, the following topics

3.1 Information and Human Sciences

Information and knowledge management on Land and Indigenisation

·         Research trends on Land and Indigenisation within a global context

·         The politics of knowledge production in Human and Social Sciences

·         Ethics and Philosophy on Land and Indigenisation within a global context

·         Human and Social Sciences, Politics and the Law on Land and Indigenisation

·         Land, war, genocide and peace

·         Land, HIV/Aids and sustainable social development

·         Land, the Media and culture

·         Film and media on Land and Indigenisation within a global context

·         Visual arts, Land and Indigenisation

·         Performing Arts on Land and Indigenisation

·         Technology, Land Use and Management

·         Land and Urban Development

·         Managing the political economy of land in a global context

·         Case Studies

3.2 Land, Languages and Literary Discourses

 Traditional literature and land

·         Indigenous literature and land

·         Contemporary literature and land

·         Children’s literature and land

·         Women writers and land

·         Diaspora literature and land

·         African culture and land

·         Theories of literature and interpretation of ideologies on land and indigenisation within a  global context

·         Land, naming and identity

·         Land and Interface of the oral and the written literature

·         Memory, imagination and narrating the nation

3.3 Religion and Land

Theological perspectives on Land and Indigenisation within a global context

·         Land, identity and spirituality

·         Land and disability

·         Religion, law and land

·         Tradition and land

3.4 Land, Languages and Cross-border Identities

Land, Language and mobile communities

·         Land and citizenship

·         Land and trans-frontier  management

3.5 Land and Indigenisation: Connections and disconnections

Gendering Identities in African Arts and Humanities Studies

·         Connections and disconnections between African and Diasporan studies on land

            Languages and literary discourses in the mediation of the past and the future

·         Land and Heritage Management

·         Land and Conflict Management

3.6 Land and Agricultural Sciences

·         Small scale and large scale commercial farmers and land

·         Agricultural adaptation to climate change and climate variability

·         Practitioners and land

·         Land reform and Agricultural production and Markets

·         Land reform and Agricultural Economics

3.7 Multi –Inter- and Trans-disciplinary Approaches to Human and Social Sciences on

      Land and Indigenisation within a global context

 

·         Rethinking ideologies of Human and Social Sciences on Land and Indigenisation in the context of Globalisation

·         Roots and Routes of African cultural Renaissances and Land through Human and Social Sciences

·         Land, Indigenisation, Wealth Creation and Sustainable Human Development

·         Imagination, nation and literature on Land and Indigenisation within a global context

·         Land, Indigenous knowledge systems and Human, Agricultural and Social Sciences

·         Challenging normative theories of land and development through Human and Social Sciences

4. Outputs:

·         Site visits.

·         Conference proceedings containing abstracts and papers.

·         Good papers will be submitted for publication in refereed journals, eg. Development of Southern Africa, Journal of Southern African Studies and Zambezia.

·         We also anticipate publishing some of the outstanding papers in a volume or two of books carrying the conference theme as title.

5. Details concerning conference fees, accommodation and other related costs, including payment modes will be communicated to confirmed participants.

Abstracts of 250-300 words should be submitted to the Conference Committee: ruby.magosvongwe@yahoo.com; amupondi65@gmail.com; pedzimash@yahoo.com; gambahayaz@yahoo.com; imuwati@arts.uz.ac.zw; obertmlambo@gmail.com

Contact numbers: Faculty of Arts Office 00263 04 333529

Prof Pedzisai Mashiri: 00263 772 515953

Musa Zimunya and the guitar... once upon a time

(once upon a time...Musaemura Zimunya performing at Elliot College Hall, University of Kent at Canterbury, 1977.)

Poetry
Thought Tracks Longman, 1982. ISBN 0-582-78560-X

• Kingfisher, Jikinya and other poems Longman Zimbabwe, 1982. ISBN 0-582-60988-7
• Country Dawns and City Lights Longman Zimbabwe, 1985. ISBN 0-582-89525-1
• Perfect Poise College Press, 1993. ISBN 1-77900-147-9
• Selected Poems Longman, 1995

Short stories
Nightshift Longman, 1993. ISBN 1-77903-076-2

Literary criticism

Those Years of Drought and Hunger: The Birth of African Fiction in English in Zimbabwe 1982. ISBN 0-86922-183-3

As editor

And Now the Poets Speak Mambo Press, 1981. With Mudereri Khadani

• The Fate of Vultures: New Poetry of Africa Heinemann International, 1989. With Kofi Anyidoho and Peter Porter. ISBN 0-435-90550-3
• Birthright: Selection of Poems from Southern Africa Longman International Education, 1990. ISBN 0-582-89523-5

Important interview with Edmore Zvinonzwa: http://memorychirere.blogspot.com/2012/12/i-have-flown-around-world-on-wings-of.html
Important Zimunya email:
nyamuzi.suma@gmail.com

 

image of 1986 Zimbabwe writers meeting

                                                How many can you identify?