Budding Love by William Tekede

The date is 25 December 1982. I woke up with a strict schedule in mind. It had taken us a lot of time planning how we would spend the two most important days of December, Christmas and Boxing day.

When I rose from the new reed mat bed that my father had made me days before my arrival from boarding school, my backside was itching. It was nothing serious but the effect of the new acquisition that had drawn bezier curves on my body. The mat had proved too rough for comfort in a night that had proved too cold for comfort. Its discomfort was not a result of poor workmanship. My father would make them with expertise that was the envy of the community.

I had not made the traditional fire to warm my room that night. I had come home outside normal hours. It had rained cats and dogs and the firewood was wet. Because of the great expectations of the coming two days, especially those of this morning, I had offered myself to the unkind weather that I had borne with stupid courage. The only blanket I was using was very thin with one big hole. I would fold it into two halves every night. The side with a big hole would cover my under side while I would cover my top side with the other half and coil into foetus position every night. In later life this became my popular two–in–one blanket that proved not so useful that night.

Since my arrival from Gweru exactly five days before, we had been working in the fields like slaves, so we could cover up and enjoy the Christmas days. I had met my friend Joshua once briefly since my arrival. Our second meeting was on this Christmas day’s eve. We quickly exchanged updates and spent the rest of the time fine-tuning our movements of the next two days. Top on the agenda were two subjects, Mary and Betty.

I remember very well how Joshua had confirmed it that night. That Mary had finally given in to my proposal. The knowledge that I had won her heart sent chills down my spine. When I asked Joshua why she hadn’t replied my letter, all he could say was,

“...listen, Mary is dying to see you. She thinks now that you are in boarding school, you are the smartest boy she would go along with in this community. She even told George in public to stop bothering her since she is now in love with you. The only reason she couldn’t reply to your letter is that she didn’t have a postage stamp, but I had already given her the envelope that I had made at her request.”

At that moment I could feel my hair rising. What had triggered this hair rising, I was not sure. Was it excitement that I was in love or the mention of George and his loss? I got my mind mixed up.

George had always been an enemy. Firstly because he came from another village and had belonged to the rival camp that was our target. Whether it was about playing football or village fights he had always belonged to the opposition. Secondly, the bad blood between us became a catalyst when he became a rival suitor and sealed our hatred of one another.

Nyaradzai, his sister had always been a stumbling block in class. We were in the same class throughout our primary education. Joshua was a brilliant scholar who always came first in our class and she would come second while I would take a distant third position. The only time I had ever trounced her was when I had cheated on an end of year grade three mathematics test. It was a planned defeat. Since the three of us were in group A, it was easy. We had planned that Joshua would reveal his answers to enable me to copy and that was successful. I remember her sobbing when the results were called out on prize giving day while we enjoyed the proceedings and walked up the podium to receive our prizes.

Mary was the daughter of Reverend Munyoro, while her friend Betty was the second daughter of Elder Ruzivo and both belonged to the Girls on the Move movement in their church. We understood it to be a church ruling that girls would be expected to move in groups of not less than three. We knew that separating the two girls from their group was not just difficult but almost impossible given their reputation and status. All we wanted was time, alone with the two girls. What we would do with them none of us paid attention to that. I had saved enough money from the bus fare that I had been given and that would be enough to buy some biscuits and sweets for the four of us.

The road to the township passes through my place. We planned that Joshua would come to my place or if he was late he would find me at our usual spot where we would wait for Mary, Betty and... who else? We didn’t know. Passing on the message to Mary was easy. It was traditional that on such days like Christmas days, good neighbours would feast together. Adults and children would do this in the morning before visiting the township, the center for the best entertainment of the day. Joshua and Mary’s families were good neighbours. They belonged to the same church. We concluded that Joshua’s sister would deliver to Mary the message of our planned meeting during the morning feast. On Boxing Day, we planned to square it up with George if he interrupted and spoiled our Christmas day.

After rising and stretching myself, I could feel the itching of those mat lines easing. I was still standing before the door rubbing my eyes. The room was still very dark. When I opened the door I could tell it was dawn. I went out and after peeing, I got back into my room and sat upon the mat. I could not afford to sleep any more. My mind was set on the apple of my eye, Mary. The prospect of meeting her was fascinating but each time I thought about it, I found myself shaking, scared and with goose pimples all over my body. I found it very strange that my body was reacting in that manner.

The noise of birds started filtering through the small window or rather a hole in the wall, and I knew it was time to get up and start preparing for the day. My first task was to slaughter a goat that would provide meat for the day. The billy goat had been identified the day before. Although I was supposed to assist my big brother with the slaughtering, I took it upon myself to do it. I thought I was old enough to do it and did not need to disturb my already married brother from his sleep. The pushing factor was that schedule I didn’t want disturbed.

When my brother woke up soon after sunrise, he found me carrying a big dish with a carcass in it and heading towards the kitchen door.

“Oh! You are already done?” was all he could say.

He went back into his hut and shut the door before I even responded. When I entered the kitchen, fire was already lit and water in a big black tin was boiling. On my way out, I met my brother’s wife just outside the door carrying a bucket full of fresh water drawn from a well six hundred meters away.

After exchanging some good mornings, she passed a comment, that I was an early riser unlike Baba Matwins, my brother, who is always late even when he knows there is something to be done early. She added that it was the reason why they were struggling to make ends meet even with putting enough food on the table to feed their two daughters. She wished she had a son who would grow up to be like me. I only promised her things would be better and did not say much. Not that I didn’t care but that my mind was programmed for the day.

I had accomplished my official duty for the day. I didn’t have to graze goats and cattle that day. My two nephews had been tasked with that although it was my duty. I went back into my room, not that the house had many rooms but was just a one room round hut we had used with my brother. Now that he was married, he had given up his ownership through being weaned, leaving me to be the only owner. I took a towel and bath soap, bolted out and headed for the stream east of our homestead.

When I reached the stream at the point where we used to take our bath, the water was covered with a soapy mist. This place was meant to be used by male members of our family. It was a rule enshrined in the unwritten constitution of our family.

There was a big boulder at the edge of the pool that extended to cover about a quarter of it. The bigger portion of it was immersed but would always have a small part sprouting out. Without paying much attention to anything within the surroundings, I leaped on to that important part of the big rock.

I had already taken off my clothes. Upon landing on the right spot, a bull frog jumped into the water and swarms across to the other edge of the pool. It left me off balance and frightened. I hadn’t noticed it sitting on the rock when I hoped on and had missed it by a second. If it had taken a slow flight, I would have crashed it to death on the spot. Instead, I was the one standing and trembling. I quickly got off the spot and armed myself with two big stones. I took aim and with one strong throw I sent the poor creature sprawling and floating down stream lifeless.

Shortly afterwards, I was on my way home. I noticed something silver lying still across the foot path. When I got closer to it, I discovered that it was a blind worm (Tsukukuviri). Bad omen was registered in my mind; though I could not remember from earlier teachings, whether this would be true when the worm is found still or in motion. I simply stepped off and proceeded.

When I reached home, my father had yoked two of our well trained and loyal beasts and was pulling a cultivator. The mere sight of it got me upset. I knew that timetable was now rendered useless.

He must have realized it when he called me and told me it was a small piece of land that needed to be worked on. I simply hung my towel on the wash line and off we went to the fields.

What was meant to be a small piece took us close to four hours. When we took a small break at some point I got a small lecture of cautioned praise about my official business of the day. The cultivation business was an after thought.

“Son, you did the goat slaughtering well. That’s what a man ought to do. You are doing better than your brother. The only problem is that you did it too early as if you had stolen the goat and it was on the wrong place. Animal blood should not be spilled about our homestead, it’s a taboo (zvinoyera) and besides, you ruined the goat skin your mother wanted to use for a mat. I am happy with your work my son”, he concluded.

Most of the time during the lecture I was nodding my head. He had no problems with this for he knew I was a young man of few words. When the cultivation was over, it was 11:32 AM.

Unyoking Bishop and Voster, I drove them across the same stream I had taken bath earlier on that morning. The two beasts joined the rest of the other animals. On my way back, I washed my legs and hands in the same stream. When I reached home, food was ready. Although I was in a hurry, I did a good job devouring it. After that I stashed some red hot ashes into the iron and took it to press the clothes that I meant to use for the occasion.

Other than my school uniform, it was the only decent set I had. The brown safari suit had been bought for me by my brother from his demobilization money he got paid when he left the army. I was pressing with a wet towel covering the portion of the suit that I was working on. Soon the exercise was over but not without a blemish.

A piece of ash had dropped on to the inner side of the lower part of the right leg of the trousers leaving a hole that anyone observant would see. I cursed my carelessness but was still confident, that I would be outstandingly dressed. Not many if any, young boys and men would afford such luxury. I was dressed to impress Mary and that’s all I wanted. With a few coins making music in my pocket I left with my head raised high.

I had concluded that Joshua was already waiting at the meeting point and that I was the one late. I was one hour behind schedule. When I reached at our spot I almost called, “Joshua”, as if I had seen him. Until today, I don’t remember whether I did it or not. But Joshua was nowhere near to answer. While in that state of puzzlement, I heard voices from a group of some happy girls coming up the hill. If I had been on the right spot I would have seen them all. We had used that spot as our observation post on many occasions.

I ran furtively towards that spot I didn’t want anyone noticing and I took the advantage of the neck high grass. Out of those voices none seems to be that of Mary. Only once did I hear the one I assumed to be that of Betty. I was not certain but that voice gave me the assurance I needed.

When I reached the desired point, I went flat on my stomach. Taking cover like a lion preying on a herd of water-bucks, I waited for what was coming my way.

A few minutes later, the group passed by. I slowly rose, taking advantage of a dense shrub. I was standing on the tips of my school shoes peeping to see if my queen was there. Once again the spying business had begun, and it was the first time I was doing it alone.

At first I didn’t recognise any of the girls. Most of them were dressed in unusually clean clothes. A few had new dresses. On my second attempt I saw someone looking backwards with expectant eyes. My heart was pumping fast such that I could hear the sound of my heartbeat. I quickly ducked fearing someone would spot me. It had been some time since I had met these community girls and they must have changed a bit. But that someone I saw surely had a good looking face.

When I went for a third peep, two girls had stopped and seemed to be engaged in some discussion. Both were looking back exploring. That is when I noticed and realised that it was Mary and Betty. There was no doubt that the message got to them with the precision that we expected. Mary was the last word for beauty. She looked stunning.

There was a big improvement on Betty compared to when I last saw her first term. I had spent the second term holiday in Gweru. My sister who was married and living in this town had received a letter from home with clear instructions. Never was she to send me home for there was little work to be done and that it could also save money for the third term.

When the news was delivered, it bothered me a lot. All they think I want to go home for was work, work, work and nothing else but work. How mistaken they were. I had also wanted much more than work. My sister knew as much as everyone, that all I wanted this time of the year was to meet my dear friend Joshua. That was not a secret and anyone who knew us did not need to guess on what bound us two together in our companionship.

The point that they had missed was that the two of us had been working on developing partnerships. The same partnerships that growing up boys of our ages would be engaged with the opposite sex. With that at the back of my mind, I had drafted and dispatched that letter to her. It had never been replied to but here I was bearing its full consequences.

Here I was, facing my partner. The result of a protracted process of negotiating that was brokered by Joshua. Where was he to cement this relationship? I didn’t want to disappoint her, yet I could not stand to face her in the absence of my broker.

I again went down with some chills I couldn’t explain gripping my whole body. I remained down there much longer this time hoping Joshua would pop up. Suddenly I heard the sound of something moving towards me and concluded that Joshua had finally made it. I was wrong. It was a calf that had gone astray.

I had taken a sitting position now that the girls had gone past, and would not notice anything now. There was some distance between us that prevented any form of visibility.

Suddenly a mouse ran across right in front of me. Before I could even wink, I saw a snake in hot pursuit. I jumped, screaming and running towards the path. It was only when I got to this path and ran some fifty or so meters towards the township, that I remembered to check whether the two most important girls were still there. But I was now standing right at the place where they had been standing a few minutes ago. The few leaves and pieces of grass on the ground confirmed my judgement. They were nowhere to be found. They were with the rest of the group afar. That’s when I realised I had spent so much time low down after my last peep.

I was now thinking how I would have met Mary in that frightened state, had they waited there a little longer. What kind of a man would she think I was? A man who is supposed to be the defender of his family running right into her arms possibly knocking her down in flight from a snake. But that very morning I had vented my anger on that defenceless bull frog. I cursed and told myself that I was stupid.

A group of some boys caught up with me. They were happy to see me. But still Joshua was not there. I enquired his whereabouts from his young brother Tatenda who was part of this group. He only could reveal that his big brother had left home to catch a bath early in the morning and had still not come back when he left. He assumed like any other member of their family that the two of us were together.

By now we were very close to the township. We could see from a distance that the place was already full. The sound of music and that of the other people singing along could be heard very clearly.

I was the centre of attraction with everyone wanting to know how I was fairing in boarding school. I was already getting annoyed with questioning that went on. Even some distant friends were getting closer. I didn’t need the attention at this point in time. All I wanted was Joshua’s or rather Mary’s company. None of the two were around and that dampened my spirit.

But I knew Mary was there for sure, yet I could not get anywhere closer to her without Joshua. Despite his confirmation, I still could not face my sweetheart alone.

I saw that group of girls I had seen earlier on enter Bobby's shop. They still were moving in a wave clinging together. The reason I noticed them was the two girls who had been engaged in a small talk before my flight. I had spotted what dresses they were donning and that could never have been a case of mistaken identity.

I reassessed my dressing and found out that my safari suit top had green stains on the top pocket. I reviewed events that had taken place at the observation post. Whoever did not look close would think it was a decoration of some sort. I didn’t bother much about the stains. I could tell that I was dressed much better than most guys around. Whether it was psychological or real I still don’t know.

Bobby’s shop was the most popular. I didn’t want to go there when everybody in our group seemed to be heading towards that direction. It was a strange thought. A moment ago, I had seen who I wanted to be with the rest of the day enter that shop. So, why this sudden strange feeling, I could not understand it. Looking towards the same direction, I saw George’s company enter the same shop and I knew what they were after.

They could have entered there for any other reasons. But I didn’t want them in there at this point in time. I could feel some little sweat on my brow. I was angry. My pulse raced I wanted to charge into that shop.

The voice of my cousin's brother greeting distracted me. It was our first meeting since my arrival. I was happy to meet him but could not show him my complete happiness. He was a relief but not what I wanted at this point in time. While we were standing there, that group of girls came out of the shop moving towards our direction. We had gone past two other small grocery shops.

When they were marching past us, Betty stopped and asked me where Joshua was. Mary pretended to want to walk past slowly without saying anything. I only gathered the courage to say, “Hello Mary”. She responded with a low voice accompanied by a deep prolonged smile. The dimple in her right cheek was the centre of my attraction. She was very shy and so was I. I was mesmerised.

The answer that I gave to Betty’s question on the whereabouts of Joshua, I suppose was satisfactory. No sooner did the two girls go past us. I wanted to see much more of them but they were gone, gone with the wind.

“I meant to ask you about your friend Joshua,” my cousin brother Runyararo enquired. “Is he the reason you don’t look happy?”

“You know what it is like between me and Joshua, don’t you?” was my response.

When I told him I was expecting Joshua to join us soon he simply nodded his head. When I said us I didn’t mean him included as he assumed. I meant myself, Joshua and the two lover birds that had just flown past us. I was still staring in the same direction, but they were long gone. I only started to move when George’s group was passing by quite some distance from us.

It was good to see them maintain their position. Battle axes were drawn. There was no doubt about the existence of the invisible rift that existed between us. By now, Joshua was the only member missing in my group.

We spend the rest of the day playing the cats and dogs game. Two rival groups having a common subject. The only highlight of the day was when I bought a packet of some Marie biscuits and a bottle of Fanta that were delivered to Mary by the messenger girl. The same girl who had delivered the message about our failed meeting had to do it again. When the delivery was made, she acknowledged by half raising her hand and waving weakly. That indeed sent me on cloud nine. My spirits were raised high, knowing the deal had been sealed.

Those eats had almost wiped my purse and it would have been depressing if they were rejected. I bought a few Mazadzadama (apricot sweets) with what coins I had left. We had to break these into several pieces and shared them among my group of ten boys. We were all satisfied.

When I got home late that evening, Joshua’s father was seated with my father. The two were having tea. A medium sized plate full of roasted goat meat had been placed closer to Joshua’s father. I knew the man liked meat a lot and there was nothing sinister about my observation. All I got was a warning never to come home as late as that time and I was sent looking for some pepper and more salt. I made the delivery within seconds and went back into the kitchen to get my supper.

When I entered the Kitchen my young sister aged seven years, was complaining about how I had failed to buy her anything and yet, she had seen me buy biscuits and a bottle of Fanta that I had given to Joshua’s young sister. Chipo was refusing to serve me food and mother was telling her to stop her nonsense.

I was enjoying my dinner when my mother started telling me about how I had ruined that goat skin she had wanted for a mat. That’s when I knew it was meant to be a New Year gift for the District Pastor. She was not angry and did not show any signs of bitterness. It was now, that it got registered in my mind. I had broken so many traditions that morning.

“You saw Joshua’s father seated in the Dare with your father”, she inquired.

She was telling me what she knew I had witnessed moments before or was it a question. His visit was nothing unusual as far as I was concerned.

“Yes”, I answered.

“Joshua had not been seen since he left home this morning. He hasn’t eaten his breakfast and everyone is now worried about his whereabouts”.

Her remarks about everyone being worried sent me brainstorming. I hadn’t thought much about anything other than his failure to fulfil our appointment. He hadn’t done anything like that before.

“Don’t you worry much my son. Joshua might have gone to visit his uncle in defiance of his father’s order.”

It was at that point that I realized I had stopped eating. If anyone was worried, then I must have been the one worried most. Not that I sensed any danger. I couldn’t fathom why Joshua would choose to desert me at that crucial time in my life. After all, we had spent so much time that evening planning and why he didn’t tell me about his plan did not make sense to me. Was he jealous about my Mary? But he was the broker and would not have done such a good job if my thinking was right. So he was keeping a secret from me, we shall see.

With that in mind, I went sleeping. I knew my position very well and there was no preparation to be done. So I threw my body on there with the full knowledge that everything I needed was in place. I was feeling with my fingers to find the corner of the blanket that I needed when I heard the sound of the mat screeching underneath. I realized I was not in boarding school and not on that bunk bed.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep. For a very long time I had my eyes closed but very much awake. At one time I had them open and gazing into the roof above. The sound of a bat flying in and out through that hole in the wall was nothing unusual. I couldn’t see anything in that darkness. I gave up sleeping and set up with my back against the wall. I kept shifting positions until I had a dream.

In that dream, we were playing the game:

“Sarura Wako” “Choose your girl”

“Kadeya -deya anendoro chena” “The beautiful one with a white crown”

“Wangu mutsvuku” “My girl is light”

“Kadeya -deya anendoro chena” “The beautiful one with a white crown”

“Anozora ambi” “She wears Ambi”

“Kadeya -deya anendoro chena” “The beautiful one with a white crown”

“Handeyi Darlee” “Lets’ go my darling”

“Kadeya -deya anendoro chena” “The beautiful one with a white crown”

Mary and I were hopping away from the line where other girls still stood. I had chosen her and grabbed her without breaching any of the game’s rules. In no time, George had his hands on my throat and Joshua was restraining him. He had pinned me down. Then I saw Mary approaching with that deep smile that she had let out once. The dimple was much deeper this time. The next moment George was about to plant his bloody mouth on her lips. Mary turned her head aside and was calling my name. I sprung off the ground charging like a wounded tiger and head buttered him.

When I woke, my brother was shaking my whole body. My head was killing me. I couldn’t figure out what time it was. The mere presence of my brother gave me the assurance that it must have been late in the morning.

“The whole community is up looking for your friend Joshua and here you are screaming your lungs out in your sleep”, was all he could say.

By the time we reached Joshua’s place, Headman Chigutiro was addressing many people who were gathered there. They had searched everywhere and were now exhausted. Even the little ones had played their part except me. So I was the odd one. I got sight of Joshua’s uncle among the crowd. I was a bit relieved. I explored further but could not find him. I felt like wanting to throw up.

When we got nearer, Headman Chigutiro’s last words were that he had sent a Jinda (Messenger) to Magunje Growth point. Apparently he had been sent to inform the police about the missing Joshua.

Everyone was distracted by young boys who had been sent to tender goats. They were running back screaming.

One of the goats had given birth to two kids. The kid had to be named Boxer later in life. Apparently, when they went into the enclosure to help the kids out, they had seen something very strange and frightening. That strange thing was Joshua’s corpse; it was hanging from a pole that spanned this enclosure, to give support to the roof.

When the police got his body out much later that afternoon, Joshua’s mother was still wailing uncontrollably.

“I told you Mangwiro. That snake you killed in the morning, Mhunzamusha (Family Destroyer) is no good. Look now what has happened to my son? Ngozi dzekwenyu Mangwiro dzandidyira mwana wangu.” (avenging spirits haunting your family have killed my son).

It was sad. I couldn’t watch her in that state of pain. Mangwiro Munyoro, Joshua’s father looked sad but composed. It was all hysterical. I felt some stomach pains and ended up with a runny tummy.

Joshua had written a letter that was found in the back pocket of his sports short that he wore under an old trouser he had put on that morning. All I remembered from the contents of that letter were the words, “...I have decided to join my sister Pamhidzai.” My good friend Joshua had signed his death certificate. I had lost him in the misty of my newly found love. It was a third suicide in the family in recent years.

“Ngozi?,” whatever it was, my friend, my dear friend Joshua was gone and gone for good.

On her face I couldn’t read anything. It looked just plain. There was not even a trace of that dimple. If anything, she looked like that bull frog had looked like just before I killed it. I wasn’t angry. Her shining eyes gave me hope. I knew I wanted more, much more that her posture couldn’t reveal now. A lot of what I wanted was lying under her skin. She remained my girl, the delight of my eyes and the desire of my heart, and at that moment Joshua and Betty were born again.

Budding Love was written by William Tekede.

Copyright William Tekede 2009.

William Tekede was delivered on 16 June in the winter of 1967. He was born in the round pole and dagga hut, the family kitchen on Welcombe or Boss Mhosi’s farm which lies west of Karoi town along the road leading to Magunje Growth Point. The farm was popularly known as Mhondoro Farm.

In 1973, William started his primary education at Sengwe Primary School. This was after the family had left farm employment and resettled under chief Nyamhunga in the Hurungwe Tribal Trust Land. One Thursday afternoon in June 1978 the school was closed down at the height of the liberation struggle. This development saw William out of school for two years until 1980 when he resumed his education and enrolling for grade six at the same school. After completing grade seven, I then went on to do my secondary education at Pakame Secondary School in Shurugwi from 1982 to 1985. I enrolled to study Librarianship at Harare Polytechnic College from 1987 to 1989 and went back to further my studies from 2002 -2003. I worked in the Ministry of Home Affairs, Department of National Archives of Zimbabwe from June 1990 to September 2006. After 16 years of continuous service at the Archives, I relinquished my position as Acting Chief Librarian and joined National University of Science and Technology in Bulawayo in the city of kings on 2nd October 2006. In June 2008, I was seconded to run the newly established Graduate School of Business Library (GSB) where I am currently working as the GSB Librarian.

Discovering my potential as a writer came about while I was in secondary school. I used to enjoy writing shona poetry which captured the interest of my subject teacher as well as that of my classmates. This interest was watered down by lack of opportunities to publish until late 1990s when I started writing in English for the National Archives newsletter. That experience was a stepping stone. Before this, I used to write a lot in shona until one day I decided to take some of my works to Mai Chisamba. I remember visiting her at the Examinations Branch in Mount Pleasant and my works instantly captured her attention. This visit led to the canned broadcast on ZTV (AM Zimbabwe) of my presentation of one of my shona piece titled “Munhu hunhu” towards end of 1999. That experience was a great motivator. But due to pressure of work at the time I slithered. One day in 2004 some primary school children visited the National Archives to research on one of our national heroes as a school project. It was embarrassing to note that there was very little information available. It was then that I decided to write an article urging Zimbabweans to consider depositing historical material with the Archives. Fortunately it was published in the Herald on 15 September 2004. I followed up on this one with another one which was also published in the same paper on 23 September 2004. A few more others followed suite. That marked the beginning of my relationship with the press.

When I moved to Bulawayo in October 2006, I continued writing and sending my contributions to Chronicle and most of them are published. I enjoy doing this as a public/social service. Sometime in 2007, I received an e-mail from an ex-workmate at National Archives now living abroad who is a renowned author at Storytime informing me about her publications. When I started reading Sarudzayi Chifamba-Barnes’s works on the internet, my interest to write short stories was re-activated. I wrote three which I sent to Ivor W. Hartmann without expecting much out of it. But when he responded inviting me to join storytime authors, I felt like it was a call for me to unleash whatever was hidden under the screen of my intellectual stone. I feel being published on storytime is a result of my retrospective desire to become a writer that I have turned out to be and think that I can express myself much better in poetry. For now I think I will concentrate in this area and will strive to continue writing verses in English and Shona.

A Writer's Lot by Zukiswa Wanner

So here I am in Sun City. I could tell you about all of them in my sleep but, I won’t. Well not a lot. I would rather tell you about the guy who landed me here.

It always began with emails.

“Dear Mr. Dube,
I am a journalist from New York Times/Times/Newsweek/Le Monde/The Guardian” etcetera etcetera. Then there are the flattering platitudes about how the journalist loves my first work of fiction, Township Stories. And then, inevitably it ends, “I will be in Johannesburg from ____________ to ____________ and would love to interview you as one of the literary torchbearers in post-apartheid South Africa.”

This story has been selected for the StoryTime anthology African Roar 2011, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

A Writer's Lot was written by Zukiswa Wanner.

Copyright Zukiswa Wanner 2009.

Zukiswa Wanner is a Joburg-residing novelist, blogger, and short-story writer and more of her writings can be seen at her blog at African Writing Online.

Zukiswa was born in Zambia to a South African father and a Zimbabwean mother. Her mother claims that she has been rebellious ever since her birth at the momentous time of the Soweto Uprisings.

Her primary and high school education was undertaken in Zimbabwe. An only child, Wanner insisted on studying her journalism undergraduate degree at Hawaii Pacific University in Honolulu – allegedly because she wanted to learn more about the fascinating Kanaka Maoli’s (native Hawaiian) rich history, but in actual fact because that was the only place she knew where her parents did not have friends.

Craving independence and restless by nature, Zukiswa also lived in England for a time. However, she now insists that she is permanently tied to the cultural capital of the world, Johannesburg, where she lives with her son, her computer and her fridge.

Her debut novel, The Madams, published in November 2006, dealt with racial role reversals in post-apartheid South Africa. She has also written numerous short stories for the amusement of her Johannesburg comrades in ink and drink AKA the JDL, although Zukiswa herself claims not to drink – much. In addition to writing fiction, she has also contributed essays to Oprah, Elle and Juice magazines, and literary reviews and essays to Afropolitan and Sunday Independent.

Behind Every Successful Man is her second novel. A funky, witty tale of a mother turned entrepreneur – to the great exasperation of Andile, her husband and BEE tycoon.

Zukiswa is a founder member of the ReadSA initiative, a campaign encouraging South Africa to read South African works, together with other South African writers.

Her third novel, Men of the South, came out in June 2010.

Witch's Brew by Ruzvidzo Mupfudza

Whenever I saw the jagged pieces of a broken heart swirling in the depth of her dark soft doe-like eyes, I knew Mai Chamboko was not a witch. But many people said she was. I guess that is why there were echoes of pain in her eyes. When I asked her why her eyes were so sad, she sighed and whispered, “Ah, my little husband, perhaps it is because I yearn for understanding... and peace... things very few are willing to give.”

This story has been selected for the StoryTime anthology African Roar 2011, please go to the African Roar site for more info.

Witch's Brew was written by Ruzvidzo Mupfudza.

Copyright Ruzvidzo Mupfudza 2009.

Born in Zimbabwe in 1971, Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza developed a passion for the art of story telling and a love for the written word at a tender age. Long before he was literate he would gaze with fascination at the beauty of the written word on scraps of paper, old magazines, newspapers, books, et al and by the time he was in the third grade was a passionate wide reader, whose reading material was more often than not way beyond his scope.

It was also at this time that he started writing his own stories, spurred by a vivid imagination and his already entrenched reading culture. After studying Literature in English at the University of Zimbabwe, he worked, for eight years, as a high school English Language and Literature in English teacher before moving to Zimbabwe’s national television broadcaster where he worked as Chief Producer of Social and Cultural programmes for children. After that spell, his perennial wanderlust saw him move on to the world of advertising, where he worked as a copywriter for a local advertising agency.

It was not long before he packed his creative bags and joined the mainstream print media as an Assistant Editor, specialising in feature writing and covering the arts for a Zimbabwean daily and weekly paper. He eventually became the Acting Editor of the weekly Sunday paper until its demise in 2007. There was a particularly rough patch where he survived through the benevolence of friends, his art and freelancing. In 2008 he returned to the world of advertising.

His poetry, essays and short stories have been published in Zimbabwe and abroad. His early poetry started appearing in the University of Zimbabwe English Department’s literary magazine, The Bloom, national and international magazines, as well as on the poetryinternational.org - zimbabwe website. His stories appear in the following anthologies, A Roof to Repair (Harare: College Press), Creatures Great and Small (Gweru: Mambo Press 2000), Writing Still: New Stories from Zimbabwe (Harare: Weaver Press, 2003), Writing Now: More Stories from Zimbabwe (Harare: Weaver Press, 2005), and Dreams, Miracles and Jazz: New Adventures in African Writing (Northlands: Picador Africa, 2008). A revised version of his story, “The Mender of Broken Soles” has been published online by SABLE Literary Magazine. He has also been interviewed on Conversations with Writers and Kubatana.net, and also occasionally, when the spirit moves him, blogs on www.zimbablog.com.

Sadly Ruzvidzo passed away on the 3rd of May 2010, he will be sorely missed, a great loss for Literature and Zimbabwe. May his works live on in our hearts and minds forever.

David's Dad by Afam Akeh

I am in a bicycle shed with some of the parents. Others spread out in talking groups around the school grounds, enough parents to fill several classrooms. Closing time at Gotham Primary is busy. I feel strange, almost removed, as if here and not here. I can hear every sound or think I can. It feels that way in my throbbing head.

There had been warm greetings. I responded to the How are yous? with cheery Fine, thank yous. A smile is always possible. They all know I have been away from the school for the past week because of David, my son. Some are surprised to see me now but no one is making me talk about him, about the trouble they think I must be going through. It is polite society at the school. No one wants to be seen as prying, or going too far.

I hear a familiar voice and turn to look at the woman with the voice. All the parents know Julie’s Mum – or know her voice. And some dread it. But, really, Julie’s Mum is easy listening – doesn’t talk politics, talks the weather. I focus on her. I hear her and also hear the pounding in my head. David had pointed her out to me in his first week at school so I could thank her for inviting him to Julie’s birthday party. I notice she is wearing a casual pink top, the one she frequently wears to Gotham. I look briefly at her pointing fingers, and then at her face, and again at her dress. Something about her distracting presence is soothing, almost pleasant. Pink is one of the favoured colours among the parents. There is a lot of black too. And white. I am dressed in black.

There are thrice as many mums as dads at these gatherings. Parents who come to drop off or collect their children at the school are known by their children’s names. There is Julie’s Mum. Peter’s Mum. Tonia’s Dad. Sometimes for Sagasi a Step-Dad, or for Marie, the Nan. I am David’s Dad to everyone at the school – teachers, pupils and parents.

Here and there, classroom doors open and release uniformed children to
their parents, but David’s classroom door remains shut. Some other parents,
including Julie’s Mum, are also waiting for that door to open.

“I now think our children are the cause of these delays.”

Julie’s Mum is speaking to Gavin’s Mum, who seems distracted or displeased, and not really interested in conversation. Taller, in sober black and white dress, Gavin’s Mum is not like Julie’s Mum. She is standing closest to me, mostly silent, her eyes fixed on a group of toddlers, who are hop, skip, jumping at the play field. A few are kicking a ball and running, or playing ‘Tag’ and running, or just running. Children are always running.

“I used to think it was the teachers but Miss Gobson has been doing better with the time since our children passed out of her class.”

“Yes,” says Gavin’s Mum, craning her neck to get an improved view of the activities at the play field. She is doing what some parents do to Julie’s Mum. If they do not want a conversation with her, they might nod, even say “Yes” to her, but that does not mean their thoughts are with her, or that they are listening to all she is saying.

“Yes,” Gavin’s Mum says again in automatic response to whatever Julie’s Mum is saying. But Julie’s Mum now knows Gavin’s Mum is not really listening to her. She continues speaking, but makes it known she is no longer speaking just to Gavin’s Mum. She is speaking to anyone who may be as troubled as she is by the frequent late closing of some classes at the school.

“Our kids will be having late dinners at this rate...”

The brief silence following this last word from Julie’s Mum makes it clear to all Gavin’s Mum is now out of it, and that she is passing on her turn to respond. I wait, and Julie’s Mum waits too.

“You may be right too about our kids. They’ve got to be the ones slowing down their teachers. I know my David takes his time getting ready.”

“Julie’s the same...”

David. I light up suddenly and look around at the mention of my son’s name, as though roused from some guilty nap – like one caught sleeping on duty. Then I realise the woman now speaking to Julie’s mum is referring to her own David, the other David at the school, David Vorrel – not my son, David Drabble. David Vorrel’s mum is dressed in pink like Julie’s Mum, and seems quite happy chatting with her, unlike Gavin’s Mum. I notice that Julie’s Mum now has her back turned to Gavin’s Mum and is leaning away from her and towards David Vorrel’s Mum. I wonder briefly whether Gavin’s Mum is being punished for her earlier attitude to Julie’s Mum.

My head aches. I shut my eyes to cushion the pain. My head is where all my hurt has gone, and I feel like it wants to stop thinking, stop calculating and understanding, stop making sense of anything the eyes are showing to it. It feels heavy, or feels like I am forcing it to work for me.

“My Julie’s a real peach, she is... except when you want her to hurry down her cornflakes... hmn!”

Julie’s Mum has found her perfect listener in David Vorrel’s Mum, and is quickly growing into her subject.

“Go on, Julie, I says to her. Go on darling… Eat your cornflakes or we’ll be late to your school this morning. I push the plate close to her, you understand? ‘Cause all she’s doing is dippping her spoon into the bowl, bringing it out, putting it into her mouth – without even a flake of cereal in it!”

She wags her right hand in mock exasperation for the benefit of the attentive Mrs Vorrell. Then she begins a reprise of some earlier dialogue with her daughter, first mimicking Julie’s voice, then speaking as her own self...

“I don’t like milk, mummy... It tastes disgusting, mummy.

“Milk is wonderful, honey. Milk is good for you.”

“Milk is yucky!”

“Really? But you have milk in chocolate, and you like it, don’t you?”

“Chocolate is yummy... But milk is yucky!”

David Vorrell’s Mum is finding this performance by Julie’s Mum really funny, and both women now collapse in giggles over the expert opinion of the young Julie at breakfast as played by her mum.

“Milk is yucky… but chocolate is yummy!” David Vorrel’s Mum is taking her turn at being Julie, triggering off another round of giggles.

Even Gavin’s Mum seems to join the fun, but it is not clear that she is laughing with the two women rather than at them.

I crave this distraction from those around me. It hurts my head but what is already in my head hurts even more. A child suddenly screams in the play field and everyone turns towards that direction. Gavin’s Mum is already half-running or quickstepping towards the fallen boy. It is Ben. I know him by name but not by face. Ben is Gavin’s younger brother, too young to be in the school himself but usually with mum on her school trips. I learned all this from my son David.

Attention is drawn away from the field as a classroom door opens and another set of pupils is allowed out.

“Ah!”

Julie’s Mum is pleased. These are the children we have been waiting for. The girl Julie is first out. Her mum wants to draw our attention to this. But parents have eyes only for their own children when classroom doors open at closing time. I wait and do not move from where I stand. David, my David, would usually come out at the end of that disorderly queue. Sometimes he would come out tossing bits of school uniform on his body or dragging them along. I wait and watch Gavin’s Mum fuss over her two boys, especially Ben, who had fallen in the playground. I watch them leave.

“Bye, David’s Dad. See you next time.”

It is young David Vorrel, being pulled along by his mother. He attempts to stop, staring up at me, as if I might somehow help to unravel some mystery. But his mother is in a hurry. She smiles apologetically at me, rolling her eyes.

“Bye, David,” I respond, waving.

Some parents do not leave immediately with their children. I watch them at play, becoming children for the benefit of their little ones. David had not come out of the classroom with his classmates. I let it come slowly to me – the finality of it. In the past David would walk out at closing time with his classmates, crying “Daddy!” as he dumped his bags and lunch box, and all the warm clothing he would not wear, into my willing hands, trundling off as I followed slowly behind.

I observe the emptying school grounds and slowly accept that I have to move from my rooted spot and go home without David. I move a first step and walk with slow feet towards the school gates. There is much noise from the street but what I really hear is the struggle in my head. I continue in this way, thinking my steps along. Outside the school gates I stand for a moment looking at the spot in the public park where I would habitually leave my car. It is not there now. It was towed to a garage by a salvage truck. I suffer a relapse and see a flash of the moment I crawled out of its wreck, then tried to pull David out. I breathe in heavily, thinking for the moment I might still need a doctor. Then I breathe out dismissing the idea.

“It’s only stress,” I say, loud enough to hear, not meaning to. The last doctor said so.

Stressssss... I hear the word echo in my head.

Now that the distractions of the school are over I feel again that sensation of not owning my head – as if it owns itself, as if it can make itself stop doing what I want, and do only what it wants. David’s face flashes into memory but I walk on. I think – because that is what comes readily to mind – if I can get home and have a hot bath I will feel better.

David's Dad was written by Afam Akeh.

Copyright Afam Akeh 2009.

Afam Akeh is the author of Stolen Moments (1988), a collection of poems. His poems, stories, essays and work in journalism have won awards and appeared in various journals and anthologies.

He has qualifications in Political Science, Publishing and Creative Writing from Oxford Brookes University and the University of Ibadan. Founding Editor of African Writing, he is working on new projects for the development and promotion of poetry from Africa.

Letter Home, a second collection of poems, and How to Read African Poetry, a collection of personal and literary essays, will be published in 2011.

Parade Boys is from a collection in progress with the working title Oxonians, intended as a centenarian tribute to Joycean aesthetics and the achievement of his collection, Dubliners (1914).

God Sees Backward by Emmanuel Iduma

They thought his death was the final thing God was to do before he ended the world. So they made mourning faces at the street, their signature of grief everywhere, walls and doors, streets, and even people. This was the weight of grief, that when she heard it her cloth loosened first, then she fell to the floor. And at that point, her nearby son did not care what he saw beneath her cloth, for in grief there is no shame. In essence, there was an impregnable void when they heard of his death, when they heard that he died on a rope and in someone’s mind there was the question, why did he chose a rope and not a gun? The impregnable void had its own images: that he smiled when the rope caught up with his neck. That he made a smiling face at the world, that he was willing to die. People said ah, oh, he has left his family, what a terrible and irresponsible thing for a man to do, and what a terrible way to die.

Ro died in the air. The myth repeated about dying in the air was that it suspended people between heaven and earth; those who died in the air could not remain on earth and neither was heaven possible for them. The third place was hell, which was more reasonable considering what they did, the abomination involved. So Ro died in the air. He died after looking sideways and then upwards, standing on the high stool and then circling his head with the rope. He looked sideways and then upwards again with the rope not fully circling his head. This was the point when he thought his last thoughts. Words that rushed into his head like bubbles, million fragments and journeys of his life until that moment when the rope was around his neck. And just before he knocked the high stool away, he stopped to look at the incision on his wrist. Then he looked away. Just at the moment when he knocked the high stool away he thought he saw the face of his father on the incision.

Ro and his wife had gazed into the river together the night before, gazed at the stars far away, and then at themselves. His wife said, you are not saying anything, you are just looking. In response, he held her hands and let the tears fall, heavy. It fell on her shoulders. Her mouth was parched and heavy, she did not know why, and so she could say nothing. All the years they had been married and they still came to the river before bed and watched it together, like an unending rite. And all the years just this once he had not said anything about the stars.

The same silence with his sons, two sons, that evening. The same silence when he just sat on the high stool and heard the older one say, Papa, you are not going to the family meeting? Both sons were standing on his left and right. He placed his hands on each of them, just a simple touch on their shoulders, a simple touch that lingered. He held back the large waters forming in his eyes. The older son saw the discomposure and held his brother and they walked inside.

Inside the older son said in a whisper, Papa is behaving strange, these days. The younger responded with a nod, and both fell on their bed, tattered with age, and let their thoughts fly.

Earlier that day there had been the final meeting about the land. So many cramped into the court. Ro at a corner with just his wife, just the two of them, in contrast to the myriads of people gathered for the other man, Olisa. Myriads, because all of a sudden it was Ro and his wife on a bench alone. This aloneness, thought Ro, determined everything. The Judge saying, this land does not belong to your family. It belongs to Olisa’s family. And if we see you on it again, we would assume you are looking for trouble because he and his wife were alone, sitting apart from the myriads for Olisa. The court ended and there were still two of them alone, the myriads gone. The people Olisa would have gathered because his money could gather them, money could gather anything. Two of them now alone, silent, the stares and ululating voices that came from Olisa’s victory still plastered on their faces. Olisa had even jeered at him. Ro soon covered his face with his hands, sighing and sighing, and then silent and then standing, then finally walking. His wife stood too and followed her husband. It seemed the silence stayed back on the bench they had sat. But soon the silence was conquered when it began to talk with the mouth of lizards scurrying across the floor.

Only two days ago before the silence talked there was Ro’s family meeting. Family meant those that remained from the major family crowd that had migrated to seek greener lands. Family meant those that could dare belong to the family, because there is something wrong when a family is notorious for its poverty. When elders can only say about the family I knew his grandfather and he was poor. Ha! What a curse? And so in the family meeting, a meeting that an uncle and a nephew and another distant uncle summoned Ro, the oldest uncle said, you are bringing shame to this family. And before it was long the uncle added, see what you have done to the land? See how you have messed up with Olisa. But typical of Ro he soon got tired of the meeting and walked away, not having said anything, not having wanted to say anything.

The family meeting came because there were serious rumours that Olisa was using his large influence to acquire a land that was not his. And everyone that repeated the rumour said we know that this land belongs to Ro’s family. So why is he so stupid to let it go away from him? He is a coward.

Ro’s wife reported what people said about the lingering land case. That was when he told her, in a voice that was she thought did not belong to him: it is better for me to die than to lose that land to Olisa. I cannot fail my sons. We have nothing, and I am sorry for marrying you into my poverty. But I have that land. And nobody is going to take it from me.

What Ro had not told her was that the same day he had met with Olisa very close to the land. Ro was leaving and Olisa was coming with some of his people, for people always followed him, people always followed money. There was an exchange of look by both of them, an exchange that resulted into something like the devil swallowing the cloud one day so that everyone would have full view of heaven. Soon the words came from Olisa, what are you doing in my land? Ro was raged, your land? What makes it your land? Olisa’s people already began to show eagerness to use their fists, but Olisa replied in a voice that even Ro thought was inappropriate, I cannot drag this land with you. But I can kill you and that would end this nonsense. Ro’s great virtue was walking away. So he walked away from Olisa and turned his face just at the moment Olisa was entering the land.

Back there when he was in the land, he looked at his hand and saw the incision. And then he looked up again, to see the land stretch in its fullness, to let it overwhelm him until he could look no longer, until the voice of his father clouded his head like a thousand cobwebs. That day, his father had taken him to the land to see it, to let him know. This land belongs to our family. I don’t know how long I have left with this sickness. So the land has come to you and you must swear you would guard it with your life. Yes, your life. I swore the same too, and I have kept it until now. And the swearing was done right there in the land, blood was involved. Ro’s father showed him his own incision, a testimony of when he swore. You must carry your own mark too. They found a sharp piece of metal and while Ro was biting his lips in pain, his father was saying this land is the only thing we have. There may be no money, no honour. But this land. We must not let it go. All this Ro remembered when he stood on the land again, many years now past, and the last thing he did before moving out was wiping a stubborn tear that fell from his eyes but clustered on his face.

That morning his wife had dreamt that he was walking backwards for a long time and that he could see from his back. Somehow, he was moving forward with his backward movement, such that the back was the front and the front was the back. When she told him this dream, he could only think about his father, and then the land, then his sons, then about God—who knows and sees all the past, especially whether the land belonged to his family or not.

God Sees Backward was written by Emmanuel Iduma.

Copyright Emmanuel Iduma 2009.

Emmanuel Iduma has been published online and in print. His stories have been accepted for two forthcoming anthologies this year, Speaking for the Generation: Contemporary Short Stories from Africa (2009) and World Englishes Literature Nigerian Anthology. While studying for his LL.B. in Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, he is working on a novel.

To the Woods with a Girl by Masimba Musodza

What is wrong with putting a penis inside a girl who badly wants you to? This was the question that occurred to Dennis as he realised that he was going to have sex with this girl he had just met. It was a question that he knew the answer already (sheer professional integrity, she could get pregnant, she could be a lot younger than she looks and you could get done for statutory rape and end up in that place where you came to know all about a very different sort of rape, she could have an STD, all the underage girls that had sex with grown men had STDs, just last week, Phillip at the school got syphilis from a 13-year old) but it was also a question he had never asked himself.

It was the second day of his two-week leave. Dennis had stepped out of the house he shared with his older brother and his family in the comparatively well-to-do Unit C area of Seke, Chitungwiza and decided to take a walk. Not just a walk, but a walk through parts of town that he hadn’t seen in a long while. The two-room core houses and rows of shacks that comprised Unit N across the clearing seemed a good a place as any.

It was a clear afternoon; the sun was a fiery, yellow monocle in a clear blue sky. The clearing that separated Unit C from N was dry, although the grass was a lush green. There was plenty of water just below the ground, during the rainy season most of this was bog or shallow pond and you could fill a sack with catfish. People waited for the water table to recede, and coaxed the moist, sewage-enriched soil to yield a vital augment to the urban food requirement.

As he approached Unit N, children who attended the morning session poured out of the school in garrulous, playful groups. Their counterparts on their way to school met them on the roads. This was how many urban areas in Zimbabwe cope with the swelling population; by having some kids come in the morning, and some in the afternoon.

He noticed her because she was staring at him as he walked past her. Apart from the fact that she was not in uniform, and she was alone, there did not appear to be anything unusual about her. Yet, she caught his eye with that look on her face, the look of a little girl lost. A look that said, say hi to me, or I will accuse you on the Day of Judgement of being mean to a little girl who has never harmed you or given the impression that she wished to.

Dennis stopped and took in the plain afro, the round, pretty face with the large, appealing eyes. He noticed that her lips were chapped. But his eyes wandered further south. She wore a dark blue jumper, the front of which was occupied by two orange-sized mounds. Further south, the jumper hugged her yellow-spotted skirt, emphasizing the swell of her hips. Her crotch was guarded by the plastic folder she held pressed against herself.

She probably drove every boy in class wild, but Dennis did not feel anything except a mild curiosity as to why she had sought him with her eyes. Maybe after she left school, got a job and learned to re-package herself, then Dennis would be on her case. Might even end up marrying her.

But for now, he just wondered what the hell she was staring at him for like that and why she had this smile. “Do you know Sticks?” she asked.

“Sticks?”

She nodded. “You know, my boyfriend. Sticks.”

Dennis thought for a bit then asked, “And why should I know Sticks?”

“Everybody knows Sticks,” she said.

“Well, I don’t,” Dennis pointed out.

“Probably because you don’t live in Unit N,” she said. “Sticks is a famous sculptor. He carves stones at a friend’s house in Unit L.”

“This isn’t Unit L, my dear,” Dennis said.

“I know. But this is where he lives. I guess he is avoiding me. Ah, well, I guess I have to go back home.”

But she remained standing there, beaming up at him. “Finished college?” he blurted, surprised that he had just tried conversation with a little girl. There was something likeable about her. Something innocuous and ordinary, a fact needlessly enforced by the presence of dozens of her clones on that same road going to or coming from school. Yet, there was a momentary hardness in her eyes that made his spine chill.

“Yes,” she answered, beginning to walk towards the clearing.

Dennis found himself falling in beside her, that brief moment of apprehension vanishing. “I’m Dennis,” he said. “It’s my day off, so I just thought I’d take a little walk. I’m a teacher”

“And I’m Sakile,” she said. “I live in Unit K. I go to college at Makoni Shopping Centre, and I passed through to check on Sticks. I haven’t seen him at his workshop in days, so I wondered if he was ill or something. He wasn’t home. I guess a girl can take a hint.”

He laughed at the look of despondency as she said the last sentence. She clicked her tongue indignantly. “Of course, you’d find it funny. All guys are the same. When you get what you want, you don’t even stop to see if you can get more.”

“Oh, come on, Sakile,” Dennis said. “You’re too young to have fixed ideas about guys.”

They were now on the path towards Unit K. It was not an often-used path, most people who went in that direction used the built road. During the rainy season, and for many months after, this area of the clearing was under water. The bushes were thicker here, and there were many boulders. At night, when it was passable, you stood a chance of being mugged or raped or both. During the day, many couples met there, but mostly it served as a public toilet. Thrice, Dennis and Sakile had to sidestep phenomenally massive lumps of human peanut butter on the path.

As they crossed the little stream, he held her hand. As she came on to the bank, she almost fell and he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. Her breasts strained against that jumper and prodded his chest. His hands reached lower and grabbed her backside. A soft moan escaped his lips as he savoured the soft heaviness of those two mounds of flesh. In his pants, his erection pushed against his clothing for space.

Then, the moment was broken as two elderly women emerged from round the bend. They wore the white garments of devotees of one of the Vapositori churches. Dennis and Sakile let go of each other, and the women passed them, staring straight ahead.

As they walked on, Dennis put his arm around her waist. For someone who had been looking for her boyfriend barely ten minutes ago, she was being very compliant. Dennis decided she was one of those really loose girls who had a steady boyfriend but screwed any one who wanted to screw. He also decided that he wanted to screw her.

Yet, the morality section of his compartmentalised mind was in vehement protest. This was a school kid, seventeen at the most, naive in the ways of the world, vulnerable and all that. As the catchword of the anti-child sexual abuse campaign went, Dai ari mwana wako wainzwa sei? If she was your daughter they had done that to, how would you feel?

Well, she wasn’t. If he had a daughter, Miss Dennis would not go in to bushes with guys she had just met. And she wouldn’t have a boyfriend named Sticks.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.

“Done what?” asked Dennis.

“Touch me like that,” Sakile replied. “Now you’ve got me all stirred up.”

He stopped, astonished. “That just happened. I didn’t mean, I mean, you were looking for your boyfriend...” Dennis could have kicked himself right now. Why was he explaining himself to a kid?

But she wasn’t a kid was she? In many ways, she was grown up. She was older than he was in certain respects. Six years at boarding school had seen to that.

“This is what I was saying about you men being all the same!” she scolded. “You touch me up, and then you just leave me. It’s like starting a car and then just let the engine run. But you guys don’t care about a girl’s feelings, do you?”

He stared at her, a searching glance. Was she really inviting him to take advantage of her? No, actually, she had invited him back there. Now she was upset with him for not taking her up on her offer.

“Look, do you want to have sex with me or not?” she spelt it out.

“Yes,” he croaked.

She climbed up on to a boulder, and looked around. “There’s a little clearing there. I could lean against the boulder and you can do me from behind. I love that.”

She caught him staring, and spread her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “What now?”

“I don’t have a condom,” Dennis said. He was feeling very small, like that time when he was six his aunt forced him to share a bath with his seven-year old cousin Noreen and she had showed him things, laughing at his lack of experience. For that he could not blame boarding school but the fact that his parents did not allow him to watch television after eight o’clock.

She dipped a hand in her folder and pulled out one. “I hunt with salt in my pocket,” she said, and disappeared on the other side.

The old ChiShona proverb usually meant that someone was prepared for success. He wondered what she meant precisely in this case. With his erection pointing the way, Dennis clambered up the boulder after his new mate and pushed the question from his mind.


The crowd that gathered at the stream that morning to stare in morbid fascination at the human hand stuck in a small, overhanging tree stood barely two metres thick, but well over ten metres from the actual grisly scene. For once, the uniformed police did not have a battle on their hands keeping the crowd at bay. Every one wanted to see the hand, impaled to the tree by its thorns, its mate floating in a pool in the stream, the head resting on top of the now blood-stained boulder with its eyes gouged out and its mouth fixed in a scream. In time, they would find the torso in Mrs Mathema’s garden. One of the legs rested behind the boulder, like an amputee’s prosthetic just waiting for when he needed it again. The other was stuck in another tree and would not be found until the planting season when the ground around the tree was tilled.

Every one wanted to see all those things, but no one wanted to come near them.
CID Inspector (Homicide) Ignatius Kasu arrived at the stream at about nine a.m. He was looking at the hand in the tree when his local counterpart, Insp. Dube emerged from the bushes with a uniformed detail.

“What do you think?” Insp. Dube greeted his colleague from Harare.

“Yep, it’s our man, alright,” he said. “As I told my chief, we are dealing with a serial killer. It is time we got the psychiatrists and forensics experts in on this. Have you got eye-witnesses?”

“Oh, we’ve been busy, sir,” said Dube. “The victim is Dennis Chimonyo, of House number 45472, Unit C, Seke. Just across there where the houses start. Witnesses say they saw him in Unit N last afternoon, in the company of a non-descript girl.”

Kasu’s heart lurched. Dube noticed the reaction. “Two women mapositori say a man fitting his description was cavorting with a girl at around the time he was seen in Unit N.”

Kasu pulled Dube aside, looking around to make sure no one was in earshot. “The other guy, the teacher in Macheke was also last seen with a girl. Our first victim, the teacher in Nyazura, was embroiled in a dispute with the father of a girl he was having an affair with. The father wanted him to make an honest girl of her or he would have him arrested for statutory rape. The teacher said he didn’t like the girl any more because he suspected she had mental health problems. When the man was found dead, Nyazura police charged the father with the murder but he had an alibi. I wonder where the girl is.”

Dube had tried to mask his horror at the macabre scene behind him. Now, this added shock was too much for him. “Are you suggesting... Are you saying this could be the work of a school girl?”

Kasu nodded grimly.

“But how would she get her victims?” Dube protested.

“By making them think she was the victim,” said Kasu. “Come on, let’s wrap this. Have your men secure this place for the forensics people and interview witnesses. I’m going to call Nyazura and get them to find out what happened to Sakile Maposa.”

Behind them, more of Dennis’ relatives had arrived and begun to put up the customary but most heart-rending wailing.

To the Woods with a Girl was written by Masimba Musodza.

Copyright Masimba Musodza 2009.

I was born in 1976, as independence and all it offered to an erstwhile disenfranchised Black majority dawned on the country now known as Zimbabwe. I was educated at Avondale Primary School, Harare, and St Mary Magdalene's High School in Nyanga. Then I went to Film School, majoring in Screenwriting and Directing. So, while I am only just emerging in the literary world, I have been a writer for film and television for a while now.

I am the author of The Man who turned into a Rastafarian, an anthology of short-stories. A novel is due to published before the end of the year. I am now working on a ChiShona language novel that I think will push and redefine the boundaries of the genre. I also write essays of interest to adherents of the Rastafarian Faith.

The Nameless Voice by Fungai Machirori

Sarudzai squatted and felt between her legs for what she hoped she had not imagined. Ordinarily, she was not prone to hallucinating, yet she understood what tricks an anxious mind could play on a person of a nervous disposition such as her own.

But she wasn’t willing to believe that the moistness squelching into her underwear, as she walked along, had been such a figment of her imagination.

And so she had stopped - expectant and fearful - at the public toilet. There, she entered one of the cubicles reeking with the stench of human excrement and hastily ploughed two fingers into her underwear. As she drew them back, she observed the red sticky mess of blood spread between her quivering fingers.

“Thank you God,” she sighed out heavily.

And suddenly, as if time were impatient to make its presence known again, Sarudzai remembered where she was.

The cackling of the fruit and vegetable vendors flooded through the high opened window above her head as the sight and smell of streams of urine about her feet began to make her feel nauseous.

With her clean hand, she quickly rummaged through her handbag for the roll of tissue she always carried with her. When she found it, she dotted her fingers onto a piece she had deftly torn off, and proceeded to wrap several more layers of the coarse paper around her hand to make a thick makeshift pad to place in her underwear.

She tried to flush the used tissue down the toilet, but nothing would come out of its tank except an irritable gurgle, and a solitary dribble of water, much like how her father’s spells of a chesty cough reached their climax.

Fortunately, there was a steadier stream of water from the tap – enough just to wash away the scarlet remnants of blood still on her fingers.

Mounted just above the tap was a hazy mirror with a diagonal crack from the top right corner all the way down to the bottom left. As distorted as she knew her reflected face would appear, she still took a moment to look into it.

Is this who you have become, Sarudzai?

It was a voice inside herself speaking – at once her own voice, and yet also, that of a foreign entity interrogating her.

She blinked hard and then re-opened her eyes to stare at the mess of pimples that gave the skin on her forehead and cheeks its uneven texture. Two, one on her left cheek and another just above her right eyebrow, were visibly pregnant with pus.

The only kind of pregnancy she could tolerate.

As another whiff of the stench from the toilets blew its way to Sarudzai, she remembered once more that this was not the place for intimate questioning of one’s soul.

Quickly, she patted her wet hands against her jeans and began to walk back towards the sunlit exit, back into the world of anonymous people going about their way.

She didn’t notice much today. In fact, she hadn’t been aware of the many things happening around her for the last month-and-a-half.

With a growing heaviness and vacant gloss to her eyes, she had forced her body to function mechanically, like the worn pistons of a car engine.

She would have preferred to lay in her bed, semi-conscious, with the lavender curtains of her bedroom drawn tight so as not to let in any light. She would also have preferred that her mother and father disappear without trace, along with the anxiety and guilt that churned a sour heat throughout her stomach.

“Final year can’t be easy, mwan’angu[1],” her mother would sometimes remember to empathise, almost as mechanically as many of Sarudzai’s statements had become. Too occupied with her own distresses, Sarudzai knew that her mother’s were not sincere words, but rather, phrases offered to create some semblance of normality within a home quickly disintegrating.

Somehow, Sarudzai had managed to force her body to function; forced her mouth to grind and swallow tasteless food; forced her voice to speak when it was required of her; forced her hand to write down notes during bland lectures; forced her nerve to harden in preparation for any eventuality.

And so, for the last month, she had not noticed the purple hue of jacarandas light up the rejuvenated skyline on the way between the crowded taxi rank and her home. Also, she hadn’t noticed the re-painted shop front of the popular superette that she and many of her friends had often stopped at to buy snacks and drinks in the past.

Once a fading avocado-green colour, the words ‘Misheck’s Delights’ were now inscribed onto the window in royal blue paint. Inside, the shelves gleamed with the kaleidoscope colours of a variety of groceries – from detergent, soups, crisps, biscuits and juices - all imported from South Africa. A thick knot of customers rummaged along the narrow aisles as a row of four till operators showed their backs to the front of the shop. The nimble movements of their fingers, quickly counting through notes of American money, showed that business was booming once more for Misheck who, as rumour had it, had been on the verge of selling his shop space after initially failing to secure a licence from the Reserve Bank to sell goods in US dollars.

Sarudzai hadn’t noticed the jacarandas because she had stopped looking up as she walked, favouring instead to watch the movements of her feet as they tainted the ground with her steps. And she hadn’t noticed the new lease of life over Misheck’s enterprise because she had become so engrossed in her own world of chaos that she had excluded herself from some of the external world’s daily rituals of order and normality.

Yet still, with the burden of worry lifted from heart, she didn’t notice much today.

Perhaps this was due to the speed at which her heart still rapped against her chest and the relief taking on more and more words in her mind as she realised that she was not pregnant, that she would not bring shame to her mother and pave the way for similar acts of moral decadence for her younger sisters.

But perhaps, it was also the fact that even with this freeing certainty, nothing could mend the gaping hole in her soul.

Nothing could make the pain disappear.

The only thing Sarudzai now noticed on her daily blur of walks was when she reached the dingy entrance to her family’s block of flats. They lived in a quiet part of town in a brick-face row of apartments that each had three bedrooms, low ceilings and walls so slim that Sarudzai could listen to the neighbours’ conversations through the wall that separated her bedroom for theirs.

Once home, there was no privacy that she could escape into. She had always known that. And she had never minded it. Her sister, Tafadzwa was an outspoken 17-year-old who always had stories to share about celebrities’ lives, her difficult boyfriend and the clique of snobs in her class. Rumbidzai, the youngest child, was far less talkative but always ready to confide the worries swelling in her 13-year-old mind to Sarudzai.

She was the older sister that they looked up to, even if they never said it. Only her mother reminded her, especially in times when her father would awaken the whole house with an endless sequence of spluttering and coughing.

“Get him some water, Saru,” her mother would instruct her as she got her husband to sit up in their bed. Sarudzai would always be the first one at her parents door, while Tafadzwa and Rumbidzai, their faces burdened with the suddenness of fear-interrupted sleep, would peer worriedly along the corridor from their room.

“Be strong Saru,” her mother would further instruct her as she handed her the glass and pitcher of water. “Tafadzwa and Rumbi look up to you, remember. Don’t let them get panicked.”

Sarudzai had felt a deep resentment at her mother’s words. Why should she act normal when she realised that the situation was far from being that?

For almost a year, her father’s cough had roused the family from late-night sleep, like the howls of an evil phantom. The very first time, the spell lasted at least two hours with her father spitting out lurid mixtures of mucus and blood the colour of ruddy soil. Everyone, except her mother, was in anxious tears.

When Sarudzai suggested that they rush him to an emergency room, her mother agreed. But her father waved his hand in protest.

“No,” he said, hoarsely, in between more wheezing. “That will only kill me!”

Droplets of sweat had collected along his forehead and his breathing was hard, as though something within was trying to suffocate him.

Yet still, his protest had been resolute.

Benignly, Sarudzai’s mother had yielded, not once questioning that her husband might be delusional, and had told Sarudzai to get her sisters back to bed.

“Wipe those tears,” she had ordered. “Your sisters look up to you.”

And that was when the resentful feeling had first throbbed within her.

“She looks up to you too,” Robert had reasoned. “That’s why she needs to see you be strong. Without that, she will crumble.”

Robert always spoke his words with a certainty about them, never suggesting answers but making statements as inarguable facts.

Sarudzai felt instant relief at having confided in Robert. At first, she had kept quiet about her father’s coughing episodes. But after the fourth one, during which he had again refused to be seen by a doctor - and her mother told her to be strong because her sisters looked up to her - she had decided that she could no longer carry her burden in silence.

“Do you think…”

“No, Saru,” Robert said, intercepting her train of thought, “I know that’s why.”

She couldn’t tell him about her father’s belief that the persistent cough was in fact a curse put on him by a bitter former workmate, that his refusal to be seen by a doctor was born of his conviction that this workmate had hexed all of Harare’s doctors so that they would all give him poison instead of real medicine. She feared that that sort of information would chase Robert off, and instead kept it to herself.

Sarudzai longed to feel safe, to not have to hear her mother’s suppressed sobs through the thin walls almost every night as she stayed up to read her lecture notes and write her assignments.

She longed for her mother to stop believing her father’s imaginings and cease wasting money on visiting n’angas[2] and buying potions to protect him from the ‘evil wiles’ of his calculating former workmate.

Sarudzai longed for the madness and uncertainty to end.

And she could only finally cry in Robert’s arms, even if she didn’t tell him the full extent of her pain.

It was when she reached such points of weakness that Robert’s body pressing against hers felt like the strength that she required. Through some language that only their bodies understood, Robert was able to waft waves of pleasure from himself into her, slowly at first until finally, her whole body crackled with electric passion as he infused himself within her.

Only Robert understood. Only he had been inside of her, replacing her pain with pure pleasure.

Sometimes, she thought her mother could tell. Sarudzai was always home late on weekends when Robert would invite her to the room he rented in a large house in one of the low-density suburbs. She thought her mother could smell the release of love on her clothes, or see the glow radiating from her soul from having had Robert inside of her.

But if she could, she never said anything.

Instead, after formal greetings, Sarudzai would slip on her apron and set to work on preparing the evening meal in complete silence.

Saturday suppers was always set for four people, as her father was never home early, instead keeping late hours at the beer hall with his drinking buddies. Her mother had tried to tell him that it was not good for him to continue to drink with his cough as bad as it was.

But he had told her off.

“Hey, I told you that this cough will only go away once the herbs have cured me,” he would shout with his finger pointed and his eyes bulging and gawking at his wife. “Besides, that is what this spirit wants. It wants me to stop living my life and die!”

Sarudzai wondered why her mother accepted any of her father’s rantings. The story behind his cough was absurd, too unbelievable even for her youngest sister, she was sure.

More likely, the spell over him was a virus that Sarudzai’s father was trying to keep away from his wife.

But still, he claimed that Mataire, the man he had worked with during his time as a mechanic for a big motor repairs warehouse, had cast a spell on him for reporting Mataire to a supervisor for taking cuts from customers for certain jobs which he went on to conduct privately.

For this, Mataire had lost his job and had disappeared with a threat.

“This is not the last of me,” he had apparently warned Sarudzai’s father.

Why the effects of a spell would only manifest themselves three years later was unfathomable to Sarudzai. And why her father hadn’t blamed his own dismissal, a year after Mataire’s, on the same spell was not comprehensible.

Surely that would have made more sense than blaming him for a wicked cough so many years later – a cough that sapped so much of the meagre salary her mother made as a secretary.

But by now, she knew well that her mother would accept anything her father told her as fact. As a child, Sarudzai remembered her father berating her mother for being ugly, a bad wife, a whore, and many other things that Sarudzai could now not remember.

Once, her father told her mother that she was incompetent for not bearing him any sons. All the while, her mother agreed with his statements with the same acceptance that a child displays when told he is bad or naughty.

For this, Sarudzai didn’t love her father.

And she loved her mother a little less for not leaving him, for accepting his witchcraft stories and other nonsense, and expecting Sarudzai to be strong enough to tolerate it all, just like her.

“You are working hard Saru,” her mother would always say, attributing her daughter’s weekend lateness to excessive studying. “God will reward us with a first class degree here.”

It was times when her mother said things like that that Sarudzai was sure she knew the truth; that she had not been engrossed in schoolwork, but had instead been under a man moaning, heaving, loving.

Maybe, Sarudzai thought to herself, her mother only said such things to make her feel so guilty that she would repent from her ways.

But Robert had become such an immoveable part of her being that even the guilt she felt at having forbidden sex with him was laced with unbridled joy.

Robert was the man Sarudzai intended to marry. She envisioned no traditional marriage ceremony though, as she couldn’t bear the thought of her father receiving the fruits of Robert’s family’s labour on her behalf. She would only allow for the ceremony if it ended with exchanges of token gifts of little value – like clothes or accessories – but not if it entailed the expansive payment of money or livestock as bride price.

In her mind, she pictured a grand church wedding. The theme colour would be lilac and Tafadzwa would be her maid of honour. Her favourite uncle, Kuda, would give her away as hopefully by then, her father would be too frail from his cough to attend. Better still, she imagined he might be dead.

The couple would honeymoon at the Victoria Falls or in Cape Town, if they had saved enough money, and spend all day long naked alongside each other, unlike now when they had to steal such intimate moments together.

A baby would follow one or two years later; a boy with a fancy western name like Damian or Connor, who would be born at a private clinic in South Africa.

Sarudzai had never shared these fantasies with Robert because of the real possibility that they might never materialise.

She liked to think there was a 50-50 chance that she might win Robert over. But in reality, she knew she more likely held less than a quarter of a chance of tearing Robert’s affection from her best friend, Sandra.

Sandra had left for Britain two years before, with both Robert’s engagement ring on her ring finger and a feeling of apprehension about their future.

“What if he finds someone else while I am gone?” she asked Sarudzai in the honest way that she admitted all of her fears to her.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sarudzai remembered telling her. “That boy is crazy for you.”

The words brought a smile to Sandra’s face.

She steeled her resolve to go with the main reason being that she had to work to make as much money for their future as possible. Her aunt had found her a job in an old people’s home in Brighton and assured her that the money was far better for saving than the worthless Zimbabwe dollars that she was making as a general nurse at one of the government hospitals.

Robert had also urged her to go insisting that once he was done with his masters’ degree and able to look for a computer technology job abroad, he would follow. Alternatively, they had hoped that two years down the line, things in Zimbabwe would be much better and that Sandra would be able to return home.

To show his commitment to their relationship, Robert had used the few savings he had to buy Sandra a pure gold band that served as an engagement ring.

He would wait until they were reunited, as would she.

“Take care of Robert for me,” Sandra had asked of Sarudzai on the morning that she left, teary eyed and reluctant to leave the only world she knew.

“I will,” Sarudzai promised, hugging her friend close and letting her tears trickle down her cheeks and onto Sandra’s pink cotton shirt.

Sarudzai had never imagined, never wished to take care of Robert in the way that she now did.

In fact, for a very long time, she had drifted from her friendship with him, since Sandra, the cohesive factor between them, was no longer there.

An email and a text message here and there were their erratic form of communication.

Only when they met up at a braai, with Robert in the company of an attractive woman, did she realise that she had reneged on her promise to her friend to ‘take care of Robert’, words which really meant that she was supposed to monitor his activity for any irregularity.

Since Sandra had gone, Sarudzai has sent her reassuring reports that Robert was being a good boy, but had never verified these statements.

And now, before her was seeming evidence that Robert was acting on the contrary.

Upon noticing her, his first move was to take her aside and explain who the woman was. Before he had even spoken, the look of guilt on his face had warned her of the words that would proceed from his mouth.

“It’s been so long without her,” he explained. “I get lonely and I don’t know what to do.”

Sarudzai felt a righteous anger on behalf of a friend, and yet also an explicable pang of jealousy.

Why can’t you come to me instead?

The question swelled in her mind, but she didn’t give it voice.

Instead, she promised not to tell Sandra about the whole issue as long as he stopped the relationship.

Robert – his love for her best friend still evident even in the breathless way he said her name – promised to end the fling.

“Sandra deserves better than me,” he said. “But I love her so much.”

Another pang, this time of envy, stabbed at Sarudzai

“Let’s hang out on Saturday,” she heard her own voice speak up, sounding foreign and far too bold.

Later on, she reasoned that she had only offered her company in order to ensure that she could help keep Robert on the straight and narrow. But in the moment that she made the suggestion to him, she knew that she only did so to quell her own jealousy and tear Robert away from the mystery woman he had brought with him.

And that was how their own infidelity to Sandra began. Slowly at first, with hanging out and chatting about life. Until gradually, there were hugs, lingering touches, protracted glances and then at last, that invigorating kiss of their lips, throbbing with forbidden desire.

With an awkward feeling of guilt and satisfaction, Sarudzai had left Robert’s place. Yes she had betrayed her best friend’s trust, but at the same time, she had conquered Robert – a deeply handsome and charming young man any woman would be lucky to have look at her.

Soon after the incident, she found more and more untrue excuses to use to avoid Sandra. The internet was down hence her delay in responding to emails, and no, she never received her text messages.

With each lie, the rift in their communication widened.

The point was never to hurt Sandra, but to heal Sarudzai. At home, her life was careening out of control as her resentment towards her parents grew. Strength was the gospel her mother preached to her, and yet she had every reason to be weak, to hurt, to lay herself open and bare ready to receive an elixir to her pain.

To her, Robert was that remedy. As he pulsed inside of her, she felt light, released of her burdens; loved.

She knew that that love was already tainted by deception. And it did not need further harm caused by a baby forming as the forbidden fruit of a selfish love.

As she waited – days and weeks – for the relief of menstruation to begin its work within her womb, she considered the many repercussions of its failure to do so.

The shame of a mother deceived and a friend betrayed. The look of disappointment and distrust setting within her little sisters’ eyes. The thought of being as good a liar as her father. And even more painful, the thought of losing Robert’s affection.

She detested herself.

But still, something within her found a way to force her to continue on; to force her to make her mouth grind and swallow tasteless food; to force her voice to speak when it was required of her; to force her hand to write down notes during bland lectures; to force her nerve to harden in preparation for any eventuality.

Yet as she got the reassuring sign that nature had not in fact betrayed her, Sarudzai began to realise that this only marked the beginning of her preparation. There were many more hurts to be dealt with, many more questions to be answered, like the one the nameless voice had asked her in that toilet of filth and fear and false freedom.

Is this who you have become, Sarudzai?



[1] my child

[2] traditional healers

The Nameless Voice was written by Fungai Machirori.

Copyright Fungai Machirori 2009.

Writing about myself.

What a deeply challenging task. When asked to go back in time and tell someone about me, I am never too sure where and when to begin. Should I start with my birth date – April 2, 1984 – or with the beginnings of my passion for writing – which emerged around the time I was 12? Should I tell you about all the frustrating challenges or just about the deeply fulfilling successes?

I am never too sure.

And so I make a calculated guess at what might be interesting for you to learn about me.

I distinctly remember how, as a young girl, I always seemed to have my head buried in a book. It was torture for my older sister as I always recited what I had read to her on our long morning walk to school. I little realised that that natural inclination towards books was grooming me towards creating my own worlds of poetry and prose.

Throughout school, I always did well in literature and won a few inter-schools prizes along the way. But at 19, out of school and trying to make sense of myself, I realised that the world of arching birches and gargling brooks bore no resemblance to my own lived existence. I realised that though my writing was eloquent, it was not true to me as a young Zimbabwean going through the political and financial turmoil that marked our nation’s entry into the new millennium.

So, I would say that my writing career truly began in 2003, when I let go of my false existence and embraced the contemplative, and at times morose and even comic, voice that I recognise as my own.

At 21, I was privileged to participate in the British Council ‘Crossing Borders’ project – a project which sought to link Zimbabwe’s creative writers with mentors from Britain. It was a great privilege for me to sit at the same table as Zimbabwe’s most acclaimed talents – who included Chris Mlalazi, Raisedon Baya, Masimba Biriwasha and Megan Allardice – and have my young voice be heard among theirs.

Simply put, my career has grown exponentially since then. In 2006, a short story I wrote placed second in the national Intwasa short story writing competition – a deeply exciting achievement for me. As a result, I had a short story published by amaBooks in the anthology ‘Long Time Coming: Short Writings from Zimbabwe’. My poetry has been published by the British Council, and I am currently working with three other Zimbabwean women to have an anthology of our poems published in 2010. Also, I am working on my first novel – which I hope to have published in 2010.

Besides being a creative writer, I am also a journalist and blogger with a special focus on HIV, AIDS and gender issues. Thus far, I have been recognised for an Africa-wide award for excellence in HIV and AIDS reporting by the African Network for Strategic Communication in Health and Development (AfriComNet). The prize, which I won as a wide-eyed 23-year-old has done a world of good for my confidence in my journalistic writing.

I am thankful to God, each day that I can see the potential in everything I happen upon to become a story, an article, a poem.

I know that I am on the right course with my life because each day is so full of ideas and alive with adventure.