Zimbabwe: Essays, Non Fictions and Letters

Rinos Mwanaka

Description

Tendai Rinos Mwanaka wrote letters to Robert Mugabe, Constantine Chiwenga, Morgan Tsvangirai, The Zimbabweans, Emerson Mnangagwa, Nelson Chamisa, The Police, and in between infused the letters with deeply literary and psychoanalytic essays on the motivations of political players in Zimbabwe. Using this nonfiction literary form, the letter writing form, to protest against Robert Mugabe and the Mugabeism the letters were initially written to protest against Mugabe's continuing clinging to power, the collection has been expanded to include other issues related to Zimbabwe society. As the country moves towards a better multiparty democracy if there is change in thinking in these very important facets shaping Zimbabwe such as constitutionalism and rule of law, change and devolution of government, developmental agenda, and freedom of expression and association.

Sujets

• Political Science
• African
• World

Informations

• Publié par: Mwanaka Media and Publishing Pvt Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781779272768
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

:

Zimbabwe Beyond Robert Mugabe

T ENDAI R INOS M WANAKA

ZIMBABWE: BEYOND ROBERT MUGABE * Essays, Non Fictions and Letters *

Tendai Rinos Mwanaka

Mwanaka Media and Publishing Pvt Ltd, Chitungwiza Zimbabwe * Creativity, Wisdom and Beauty

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Publisher:Mmap Mwanaka Media and Publishing Pvt Ltd 24 Svosve Road, Zengeza 1 Chitungwiza Zimbabwe [e-mail] [e-mail] https://www.mmapublishing.org www.africanbookscollective.com/publishers/mwanaka-media-and-publishing https://facebook.com/MwanakaMediaAndPublishing/ Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective [e-mail] www.africanbookscollective.com ISBN: 978-1-77924-320-1 EAN: 9781779243201 ©Tendai Rinos Mwanaka 2022 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher DISCLAIMER All views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views ofMmap.

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Table of Contents Introduction…………………………………………………………iv Silence………………………………………………………………..1 The Portrait of………………………………………………………..6 Revisiting: The Portrait Of………………………………………….11 Dear Robert Mugabe: Identification With Right…………………….13 Rantings of a Raving Pen……………………………………………20 And this was his only apology……………………………………….34 Dear Morgan Tsvangirai: Don’t Be Used Again!.....................................35 Laughings of the Mad Dog………………………………………….45 Dear Zimbabweans: Bucking The Predeterminism Trend…………...64 An Unfinished Circle………………………………………………..74 Dear Emerson Mnangagwa: End Mugabeism!.........................................77 Doors……………………………………………………………….97 Dear Constantino Chiwenga and ZNA: The Rule of The Pen!...........100 Mother’s Body……………………………………………………..108 Dear Nelson Chamisa: Stop the Lies……………………………….114 Dear Policeman: From Police State to People State………………..120 2017 Zimbabwe Military Coup Overview………………………….123 Strengthening the “Fourth Organ” of the State…………………….132 Ingrain Constitutionalism in Church and Cultural Structures………137 Fallacy of the Opposition MDC and Democracy in Zimbabwe……144 Screw the Zimbabwean……………………………………………162 It stirs, it stirs, it stirs……………………………………………….164 Mmap Nonfiction and Academic books…………………………....168

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Introduction wrote letters to Robert Mugabe, Constantine Chiwenga, them I I infused these letters with deeply literary and psychoanalytic Morgan Tsvangirai, The Zimbabweans, Emerson Mnangagwa, Nelson Chamisa, The Police, and in between essays on what motivated the players in Zimbabwe to do what they did or are doing. I want to use this nonfiction literary form, the letter writing form, to protest against Robert Mugabe and the Mugabeism, our ever-present jailer! The mistake we can now make is to think it’s over just because Mugabe eventually left. The system is still the same that has been used by Mugabe to subject the country under his vicious thump. Until we have changed the whole system, there is no reason we should start to have faith with just a change of faces in the ZANU-PF. I started writing these letters to protest against Mugabe’s continuing clinging to power in 2017 but I have expanded this to include a lot other issues, issues to do with the system, culture, church etc... Zimbabwe will move towards a better multiparty democracy if there is change in thinking in these very important facets shaping Zimbabwe. Each letter will tackle each of the important issues at the heart ofZimbabwe: Beyond Robert Mugabe;and rule of constitutionalism law, change and devolution of government, developmental agenda, and freedom of expression and association. Let’s be confident that the religion of resistance will always triumph over the technology of repression. This act of collecting them into a book is equivalent to posting them; I am posting these letters into the wind, and let the wind carry forward my messages to the world over. I know that even a rock dreams that it was a mountain, that’s why we have stone heads on top of mountains. Instead of reaching outward to change the world and

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scare off, I am looking inward to experience it, to change myself and others, to create authentic lasting power. I just write down what was in my heart as if I was just writing it to myself, or just reading the situation to myself. When we create authentic power again and again, we become authentically connected and powerful. This exercise is also an opportunity for each of us to process the anger and pain we have against Robert Mugabe. The streets are ready for us. I will use this process to heal and find peace with myself again. It is a chance to love ourselves again, and find faith in this country we call home, which Mugabe has made his playground.Trust the grate’s fire to again allow songs in Zimbabwean homes!

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Silence or some years I have been a great desert of silence, green silence, screaming silence, painful silence; building F extensions into my own heart, making many divisions (departments, ministries and organisations) of silence. I had been logging silence like a seed into the embryo of silence I had in every of those divisions of silence my heart. My heart had been galloping with me, filling itself up with silence. No one was astriding it. Read this book, perhaps you will figure out how the plot will unfold, or fold back into itself? Perhaps this silence in my heart will put present’s fear of the past, and of the future, out of my heart. But I still have this unwavering idea that it’s up to me, not anyone else, for me to free myself from this harsh and demanding bandage of silence. This silence simply has to oblige me at some point. Of course, this silence has been very calculating, in buying me into submissiveness, into quietness, too. Now the words inside my heart are cursing themselves without even saying a single thought. So, this goes on and on for some long minutes. I have happened upon this deep silence. This is the silence: of the silence of inner landscapes. It is eternal silence. How much can I now be able to let you see? I start to measure silence for you. Frame it well inside the walls of my heart. No mouth opens in my heart, no window opens, nothing inside my heart is removed, and nothing is added inside me. Everything is the voice of silence; my silences are many silenced words. The silence in

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my heart is like pins and needles- ice shards in my heart. I am a silent being. I am not becoming. The inside of my heart is now the most silent place in my whole being. Only I can decide to continue sharing it with you. There is no speech flowing through these divisions in my heart, but only murmurs of un-speech. The murmurs are so soft and seem to take me inside my heart by hand. Yet, they do not silence the borders of these divisions of silence, in my heart. These are the borders that have separated me from myself. I am not here. I am not there. I am entrapped within these multiple borders of silences. Whilst the silence is crowding upon me, crowds and crowds of silence, the language of silence becomes the language commanding me to pour out my soul, until I gather some sound in my heart. So that the silence inside my heart started commanding me,speak, speak, speak… This speaking is a major ceremony among the living, but there are still gaps inside my heart that even these sweetened words couldn’t bridge, the empty gaps that should have filled up my mind. They are many, many silences, in these gaps; the silence as of the thunderclaps. They are a few other sounds in this universe that threatens silence like thunderclaps. Using these scented snippets that have already escaped from me; a voice has come to me: it is a voice capable of the greatest tenderness and wander from a hard suffered unsparing awareness of displacement and loss and; to live in the danger again! This voice, like the silence, is a major ceremony among the living too, the silence in the voice is part of talking and to talk is to risk. What?

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The silence of an unknown prisoner, abandoned to humiliations, is enough to open me up to some kind of a talk. I hope I won’t forget the silence whilst talking and to transmit to it so that I can manage to resound to my story. I find something irresistible and begin to crawl towards it. I find my tongue in writing these words, these feelings, in the shades of grey; in writing of the tell-tale scars and lines, in the telling of the silences of my life. I am sorry and regretful that this is all that is coming out of me, at this moment. There are no barriers anymore in me but the silence that I have always carried with me, for all of my life. It thrusts everything aside. It’s not so much shadows that I now hold. My mouth, void of teeth, is a gapping crater. The alleyways are dark, wooden doors opening and closing with this telling. It seems I have been making paths inside me just as they have been paths outside of me. Complex writings- threatening- it is the idea of never being spoken to again in life. Yet, I am talking. It is an ultimate human punishment, not to be talked to, exclusion..., nonexistence, I know that. The illegible letters are harsh, but the meanings remain unknown and lost to anything; or to anyone, until one has had to go through those same silences. Some silences are irretrievable... the silences of broken things, betrayal, death. These silences haunt us. They are no answers, no replies and in these silences something usually arrives. One night, one good night ringed out to me. I found my thoughts totally blocked, totally jammed with memories and feelings of the past. The noise and chaos caused was so bad. The nouns popped up again and again, their instructions specific, but swarming with words, with people, with people ideas. My heart was beginning to choke; calling this

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night away. My heart was the echo of nothing. Neither my heart’s cracked stones nor my heart’s sharp turns could help me lift this decree from me. My language became deaf. When something like that happens, you retreat into a place within yourself that no one else can reach. What was once a sanctuary becomes a prison? That meant your heart couldn’t recognise how and when the external time had been passing. You would go to the bathroom at one point and look deeper into your own eyes in the mirror, but you are too troubled to really figure out what question you were hoping to answer. You also know, you have to lose yourself before you could find someone else who looks back in the mirror, even if it is you in the mirror. You couldn’t also realise that the inner time, in your heart, had all along been stationary, creating these difficulties of time adjustments! Part of me had been growing yet another part of me had been refusing to grow. Some of the divisions of my heart had been growing yet some divisions had not been growing. That was not the entity I had owned all those years of silence. That division of my heart that allows the sense of belonging was also flooded with too many thoughts, with too many silences. It consisted basically of an immense knot of roads of silences, north and south, east and west, overlapping silences too. My heart had not been missing the words but it had been dangerously adding unexpected vibes, too; less concrete of their old speech. My heart had not known that I had returned to my heart. I tried to lubricate every road with words. I also tried to thrust my hands into the soft mulch of these familiar words, and that’s the

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