Mhenenguro

A conversation with my loved little mother When I first saw my little mother, I was also a little boy. Fifth or fourth grade I think. She was a lovely little girl from the city. She knew her other name which was erased when her birth was baked at the registry offices. ‘Ndinonzi Melisa Magumbo follow me’, said her when introducing herself. And being attracted to creativity, I loved her from that day onwards. This is not the story of the story but allow me to give this background so that maybe my little non-sense will make sense to you. Fate separated us for a few years from this encounter of little son and little mother. I will not bother you with the details of the separation but with our lovely r-union. We met again, in the year 2007 in the month of August. She was still bright. Now in grade five, I think. It was a brief reunion which was rekindled on the first day of the year 2009 when she was doing grade 7. She scooped the number of points as mine though not as balanced ...

What else is there for a ‘bookshit’ locked down like the cheerer of the global and national events such as Easter, Ramadan, soccer and our very own independence. The novel citizens could not allow me to forget 18 April. A day strangely recognised as the birthday of Zimbabwe. A day that makes it difficult to imagine baby Zimbabwe in a free-way. What is the ‘bookshit’ saying by free-way? Waaaaaal I sometimes feel a disconnection between the historical interpretation of the facts of Zimbabwe in relation to the maintenance of the borders and systems that sustains the parameters of the nation as country and state. This is not why I am here to preach about. I am here to commit a crime by sharing you the words by some literary citizens in the Zimbabwean literary texts I have in my library as of today. I will put less analysis to the extracts. WHOSE LAND IS IT ANYWAY Interesting ideas about the day and its precursor; the war comes out of the imaginations and conversations of Benjam...

Waiting Here we are!! At Bole International Airport. I think. i always lose sense of place and time. They are of little consequence to me. I pay much focus on the insignificant occurrences around. Things only known to the tiny CCTV cameras and other insignificant figures around me.  An Ethiopian Catholic Church priest is holding his precious bible. Being the Crayie I always am, always crazy for inked paper. It doesn't matter you inked it with what; as long it reflects the letters of the languages that the little world I was thrown into imposed on my poor language acquisition device, me I send my eyes and ‘thief’ into the pages. I have also mastered the way of peeping into people’s phone messages. It doesn't matter if I fail to connect your infatuations, lies, deception, joys, ‘sads’, sorrows I just look and look away, look away then look again. During one of my great discoveries through texts peep I saw them quarreling in French these love birds. One of the quarrel...

Chennels in Muponde and Primorac (2005) edited Versions of Zimbabwe: New approaches to literature chose to entitle his contribution ‘Self-representation and national memory: white autobiographies in Zimbabwe.’ Chennels’ title aptly captures the soul of white authored texts that emerged in Zimbabwe after the historic and much publicised and debated Zimbabwean land reform programme. The exercise provided fertile ground for new and interesting authorship by the affected white land owners. This is not to remove equally interesting black-Zimbabwean authors about the same event from the scene. In these ‘white’ writings, there emerged interesting dimensions of issues to do with skin pigment and its relationship to ownership, law, power, identity and belonging among many other themes.   This adds an interesting flare that fascinates readership and audience of Zimbabwean literature. One such author who offers scintillating dimensions of the epoch is Douglas Rogers in his book The La...