Short Writings from Bulawayo

Description

Short Writings from Bulawayo won the Literature in English category at the 2005 Zimbabwe Book Publishers Association awards. It is a book of stories, poems and non-fiction pieces that are evocative of Zimbabwe's second city and its rural surroundings. The collection from 23 contributors tells of many things: of family and friendship, or fear and death, or witches and spirits, of hunger and drought, of dreams and aspirations, of leaving home and leaving Zimbabwe, of queues and loneliness, of football and bicycles and of growing old and of love. A unifying theme of many of the stories and poems is loss - of innocence, of purpose, of love, of culture, of belonging, and of life.

Sujets

• Literature

Informations

• Publié par: amabooks
• Date de parution: 15 août 2003
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780797444980
• Langue: English

Extrait

Short Writings
from
Bulawayo
Edited by Jane Morris
‘amaBooks
ISBN 0-7974-2540-3 ISBN 978-0-7974-4498-0
© This collection: ‘amaBooks, 2003
© Each contribution remains the copyright of the author
Published by ‘amaBooks P.O. Box AC1066, Ascot, Bulawayo email: [e-mail]
Cover painting by Anne Simone Hutton
‘amaBooks would like to express their thanks to HIVOS for making this publication possible.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Preface

Short Writings from Bulawayo is a book of stories, poems and non-fiction pieces. The collection tells of many things: of family and friendship, of fear and death, of witches and spirits, of hunger and drought, of dreams and aspirations, of leaving home and leaving Zimbabwe, of queues and loneliness, of football and bicycles, of growing old and of love. A unifying theme of many of the stories and poems is loss – of innocence, of purpose, of love, of culture, of belonging, of life. A reflection of our times.
Most of the writings are set in the homes, streets and bars of present day Bulawayo, or in the surrounding rural areas. We also get a glimpse through the eyes of the writers into the lives of different people at different times – from Makokoba in the 1920s, through Thorngrove of the 1950s to rural Matabeleland in the 1960s and 1980s.
The collection takes us from the elegiac quality of John Eppel’s Rain in Winter to the rumbustious energy of Spencer Crewe’s The Little House ; from the scholarly writing of Terence Ranger to the fertile imaginations of Christopher Mlalazi and Farai Mpofu. Some of the stories and poems will make you sad and some will make you smile.
The pieces were chosen for their good writing, but also to reflect and celebrate the diversity of life in and around the City of Bulawayo. The inspiration for the book was to give voice to new writers who might otherwise be unheard and, through their writing, to bring together the different communities that make up Bulawayo – to show that there is more to unite us than to divide us.
Contents
Shadows
Godfrey M. Sibanda
White Man Walking
John Eppel
The Little House
Spencer Crewe
Evil That Fathers Do
Mathew Chokuwenga
Longings
Judy Maphosa
Ever Smart
Pete Hutton
The Hand of Darkness
Christopher Mlalazi
Bush Cucumber
Anne Simone Hutton
The Bar
Tawanda Chipato
The Queue
Bryony Rheam
Rain in Winter
John Eppel
The Witch
Farai Mpofu
The Erl–king
Deon Marcus
True Love
Mzana Mthimkhulu
Man in Stocking
Anne Simone Hutton
A Seed of Hope
Masimba Manyonga
Reverie on a Dark Beauty
John S. Read
Bicycles and the Social History of Bulawayo
Terence Ranger
The Boxing Day Clashes of 1929
Pathisa Nyathi
One Man’s View of the World
A.D.C. Hyland 88
Developing Rhodes’ Grave
Jackson Ndlovu
On a Day Like This
Bhekilizwe Dube
Grandfather’s Birthday
Shirley Tarr
Bhalagwe
Shari Eppel
Mtagati Mkulu
Derek Huggins
Prima Donna
Deon Marcus
The Apple Tree
Deon Marcus
Tuli
Pete Hutton
Contributors
Shadows
Godfrey M. Sibanda
A cock crowed in the old woman’s dreams. It was a long, dry sound that petered out to three sharp knocks on the door of her hut. Instinctively, her eyes opened and she rasped out a question.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Luba.”
For a moment she remained motionless, her brain tugging at the winding, fragile threads of her memory. Luba. Her granddaughter, Lubalenkosi. Then it came to her in full force: Luba was leaving home . The old woman got up from her bed and lit a paraffin lamp before going to the door to admit Luba. The girl came in and unslung a black canvas bag from her shoulder. She went and sat on a reed mat near the bed. Her face, arms and legs were covered with a shining veneer of Vaseline. After closing the door, the old woman came and sat on the bed.
“Are you ready to go, Luba?”
“Yebo, gogo.”
“You have the fare for the bus?”
“I have everything, gogo.”
“And the bible I gave you yesterday, you have it as well?”
“It is in my bag, gogo.”
“Read it everyday, do you hear? Every time before you go to sleep.”
“I will try to, gogo.”
“And tell your uncle to send us some mealie meal.”
“I will tell him, gogo.”
“A fifty kilo bag, do you hear? What can ten kilos do for eleven stomachs?”
“It’s now ten stomachs, gogo.”
“Oh, how I forget my arithmetic. Eleven minus one Luba equals ten, heh-heh-heh!”
Lubalenkosi joined in the laughter. Afterwards the old woman continued with the instructions.
“If your uncle cannot send you to school, get a job and go to night school. Education is life, child of my child. Do not rush to get married, do you hear? Men are no good to anyone. They were no good to me, they were useless to your mother, they are not even good to themselves. Education, child of my child, and your Bible – that is all you need.”
She saw Luba smile and thought, the girl is not even listening; she will soon learn what I mean.
Outside in the darkness, the old woman heard some cocks crowing. The chickens were all that was left after three years of drought. The chickens, the hunger, and the dust. The dust raised by the young ones rushing to the cities to escape the poverty and the hopelessness. Already, six of her grandsons had joined others on the trek to Jo’burg, to Perdition. Some would never come back. Others would return in coffins, or as ailing, desiccated victims of this new disease. Now it was the girls’ turn to go. But Luba was only going as far as the city of Bulawayo, four hundred kilometres away.
The old woman stared through misty eyes at the flickering shadows on the wall behind the girl. She tried to reach out into their world and ask them: Are you good shadows or bad shadows? Will you take care of my Luba and accompany her back home, or will you desert her once you see the electric lights of the city? She is an intelligent child; please push her in the right direction. But the shadows remained locked up in their world, dancing to their mysterious tune and keeping all the answers to themselves. The old woman felt the shards of pain scratching at her eyes. It gave bad luck to cry when someone went to war: she struggled to contain her tears.
“Go well then, child of my child.”
“Stay well, gogo.”
“Is anyone accompanying you to the bus stop?”
“Yes, gogo. Thandi and George will take me as far as the bus stop.”
“Don’t forget to write.”
“I will write, gogo.”
Lubalenkosi rose to her feet and hugged her grandmother goodbye. Without another word, the girl walked out into the darkness, taking all her shadows with her.
Afterwards, when the old woman had sniffed all her pain into an old hankie, she blew out the paraffin lamp and returned to the solace of her blankets. Alone in her bed, the old woman fingered the rough beads of her rosary as the light of day slowly emerged from the darkness.