NoViolet blogs

... In the presence of greatness

2012-02-22T23:15:00.000-05:00

so i hung out with three brilliant and great writers today, in an office once occupied by Nabokov. i was trying to be part of the conversation, but then i was also trying to listen to the air. coz there was something in it, something akin to the outer glow i used to see in the pictures of those golden boys with wings when i was a kid. besides that, there was this strange humanity, a solid stubborn grace of sorts. and tomorrow, i’ll be in the presence of Edwidge Danticat as she visits my class for 50 minutes. i am humbled, for i know, already, that it will be a transformative experience, that she bears her own kinds of gifts that will leave me fortunate. beautiful as it all is, these are also complicated and challenging moments for me coz somewhere in it all, i’m particularly aware that this is not supposed to be a time of awe and excitement for me, aware of how extremely expensive the moments and that I have to somehow earn them.

... On Zimbabwe's women of Doors of Hope

2012-02-20T23:38:00.001-05:00

This is for Zimbabwe’s political rape victims, most recently in the tragic 2008 election and its aftermath. For Zimbabwe’s leadership and justice system that failed and continues to fail them. For the perpetrators who walk free today while their victims live in prisons of trauma and justice denied, those men who forgot who birthed them, who cried for them, who raised them, who blessed them. This is also for our silence, then and now – may we remember that it will not protect us.

To help the women of Doors of Hope, please reach them at doorsofhopetrust@yahoo.com or doorofhopetrust@yahoo.com. You may also get in touch with Rutendo Munengami, rutendomunengami@gmail.com.

And finally, please read about Doors of Hope (here) from this amazing role model of mine whose blog post inspired this prose poem.

These great houses may be made of stone but these doors—these doors, Jesus, these doors are made of hope. Approach softly. Walk like whispering. Fold your wings, take off your shoes and wear flowers and feathers on your feet, hang your head, no, Do not. Dare. Walk. Tall. But first, Phakamisan’ iflagi, Simudzai mureza, Lift high this flag of Zimbabwe, lift-lift-lift, send it soaring to the sun so the fathers and sons of the soil can see this brilliant red stripe, song of the blood spilled during the war on these women’s bodies yes there is a country like that and it is my country.

Or have you forgotten? Or do you remember? How in 2008, when bullets were pointed to the ballot, that weapons were poised between women’s legs. Picture Queens beaten and subdued, dressed in dark dresses of desperation the color of a crying Congo, made in Zimbabwe. By our own. Hear the country’s cock crow thrice and sons singing denial songs with knife-like voices slitting grace in the throat—You are not my sister, You are not my mother, You are not my aunty:

And there, in the country of her skull, under African skies, she is battlefield, she is enemy. Lift high the flag of Zimbabwe, lift-lift-lift, send it soaring to the sun and open the gates and let the sons of the soil come marching in. Hail the black kings, beat the drums of war. Rip her dress of prayers, spread her legs, smash her cries against the houses of stones. It’s 2009, the red stripe of the Zimbabwean flag is for the blood spilled during the war on our women’s bodies. And beneath it, black. For. Our. Silences.

language

2012-02-18T22:34:00.000-05:00

Hitting Georgetown

2012-02-13T20:34:00.001-05:00

“I always assume that a good book is more intelligent than its author. It can say things that the writer is not aware of.” Umberto Eco.

Word. So I am humbled by brilliant discussions of “Hitting Budapest” at Georgetown University especially for how they are confirming that yes, my work is more intelligent than I am, which I kind of already suspected. I guess a writer writes and the reader comes and flicks the switch, bathes the text in an awesome light. To that end this class called “Empathy and Activism” blew me away with some sharp readings. Like, I learned about the weight of Darling actually declaring her name toward the end of the story, to the significance of Stina saying “let’s run” … a moment of urgency that’s quickly undermined by the fact that they actually don’t escape the situation, they only run back to the dead woman, to the emptiness and ghostlike-ness of Budapest and the issue of who/what is real or not and why, to the significance of the mythical Dudu the bird story, a story that the kids hear from one of the grandmothers, coming into the larger narrative, to the significance of Budapest as a site where these kids not only come to steal but to articulate their dreams. Just delicious, delicious stuff, the problem is I’m tempted to take the novel apart (yet again!) coz I’m excited about some of the things I'm learning.

Winners

2012-02-13T08:58:00.002-05:00

Congratulations Zambia for clinching the Africa Cup of Nations, what an amazing, inspiring win. Chipolopolo, our new champions! They were small, they were unknown, they were not expected to prevail, they were against “giants,” but then they fought till the very end. And in that resilience, champions were born.

What an honor to the spirits of the original team who perished in the 1993 crash in Gabon— Efford Chabala, Richard Mwanza, John Soko, Whiteson Changwe, Robert Watyakeni, Estone Mulenga, Derby Makinka, Moses Chikwalakwala, Wisdom Chansa, Kelvin Mutale, Timothy Mwitwa, Numba Mwila, Samuel Chomba, Moses Masuwa, Kenani Simambe, Godfrey Kangwa, Winter Mumba and Patrick Banda - along with Zambian Football Association president Michael Mwape and coaches Godfrey Chitalu and Alex Chola. Close to two decades on, the new boys have written the first team in the sun. and our heads are tilted skyward... in respect.

Georgetown.

2012-02-12T22:30:00.002-05:00

2012-02-12T09:04:00.000-05:00

"Bittersweet memories that is all I'm taking with me. So, goodbye. Please, don't cry..."

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 4TH FEMRITE REGIONAL WOMEN WRITERS' RESIDENCY, NOVEMBER 2012

2012-02-11T14:53:00.002-05:00

Uganda Women Writers Association (FEMRITE) calls for submissions for her 4th Regional Women Writers Residence to be held in November 2012. This is an inspiring initiative that brings together upcoming African women writers. The main objectives of the residency are:

- To bring established writers to mentor upcoming African women writers
- To give upcoming Ugandan women writers the opportunity to interact with women writers from the continent
- To give African women writers conducive space and time pursue their writing projects
- To create opportunities for inter-cultural discourse among women writers
- To strengthen collaboration among women writersâ€™ initiatives in Africa
- To generate short stories for publication in an anthology

At the end of the residence, we expect the writers to have:
1. had mentoring sessions with an established writer
2. improved at least one of their writing projects
3. enriched each otherâ€™s manuscripts through discussion
4. submitted their improved short story for the residency anthology

HOW TO APPLY
Interested women are required to submit;
1. Part of a novel / short Story collection in WORD document (40 pages, typed in Times New Roman, font 12, 1.5 spacing).
2. A short story for publication in the residency anthology
3. A brief bio (not more than 10 lines)

This call is open to African women living on the continent. Writers already attached to writers groups in their countries are encouraged to apply.

Deadline for submissions is 30th April 2012

Please Note:
1. All applicants will receive notification by email once their manuscripts are received.
2. The Residency targets 15 writers
3. The Residency will last two weeks in November 2012
4. Successful applicants will be notified by 30th August 2012.
5. Successful published applicants will be kindly requested to donate copies of their works to the FEMRITE Resource Centre
6. Applicants should not have published more than one book.
7. FEMRITE will solicit support to meet costs of travel, accommodation, & meals.

For inquiries and submissions, please email info@femriteug.org. Also check out their website here.

t.i.r.e.d.

2012-02-01T20:21:00.002-05:00

2012-01-29T19:19:00.000-05:00

What I want is universal hungering, universal thirsting.
My ear to the ground, I hear tomorrow pass. --Aimé Césaire

2012-01-26T21:29:00.003-05:00

because lately its been so hard to smile. the sunshine, dimmer. feel better baba wami.

... Of flight cancellations

2012-01-20T01:18:00.000-05:00

We are currently stranded in Detroit, spending night here. Ithaca weather, please :( That said, I'm still on my high from my University of British Columbia trip and I stand inspired!

Humbled by the Africa Awareness Initiative at the University of British Columbia

2012-01-18T23:05:00.003-05:00

Thank you so very much for such a great opportunity to both share and learn from inspiring students and thinkers. My education is still going on, and today was a day of such practical and enriching learning from me, and to that end the Q&A after the keynote was simply wonderful. I spoke, yes, but I was also challenged, through your questions and insights, in ways that will indeed help me look within as I embark on my journey into action, into putting my talents and mind to work for a transformative education. Even as I feel that the University of British Columbia can do more to expand its African Studies Program, I still admire and recognize the profound efforts and strides of AAI; it's not often that I meet such an inspiring group of young people and yes, you have done, and are doing your part; may your calls be rewarded because they are legitimate; I stand with you. Love, brilliance, and Africa. NoViolet.

... Supporting Africa Awareness Initiative at the University of British Columbia

2012-01-15T21:25:00.002-05:00

NoViolet Bulawayo is honored to be speaking at the University of British Columbia as part of Africa Awareness Initiative Conference week. “Open a Book, Read Africa: Reflections on the Importance of African Literature in Western Higher Education.” Come through if you're in the area.

Visit the Africa Awareness Initiative website for information here.

... dear Mamma—

2012-01-11T13:21:00.000-05:00

Diaspora Christmas (read NoViolet in Africa Report)

2011-12-23T09:53:00.000-05:00

Come December the year folds its wings like a great, tired bird, and they return home for Christmas.

One minute its quiet and the next they are swarming spewing spilling, just eating up the place and squeezing breath out of the air. When the air gags and chokes they just keep squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. Diaspora; they are famished for their land and are savage in their love and they don’t care if they draw blood.

The ones from South Africa always get here first like somebody set their feet on fire and pointed them to the road.

Big luggage. Trendy clothes. Quick accents. Gleaming cars thunder down location streets and drench us in dust. We give way; we are neither upset nor envious because we know they do not own the cars, that they’ll never own them. When these ones speak to us with those new accents the weight of feathers they never meet our eyes. Likewise, we find other places to look—the elegant color of a printed shirt, the pointed tip of a shoe, the magnificent glint of an earring. We are careful not to let our eyes rest too long on the scars on their bodies. We also do not ask about the ones never to return, those who perished in the shanty fires over there, bodies burned black because they came from another country.

(read the rest here)

... Deep Ndebele words for the day

2011-12-22T21:36:00.005-05:00

Umbobozehluzo…........... someone who can’t keep a secret.

Impehlacwathi…............... something that’s a cause for conflict.

Izoco…............................. Intense anger.

Umthathanduku…............ the last food/beer before people disperse.

Uthwadlabula……............ an extremely tall person.

Imfahlalana…................... a tiny wee bit of money.

Izululezandla…................. a gun.

Umchibidolo……............. large herds of animals.

Ihapuhaphu…................... a quick person.

Untshangantshanga …....... a disorganized person, goes all over the place without clear direction.

... pops makes my birthday

2011-12-11T00:06:00.004-05:00

and a few hours ago, we were like boys together, on the phone. like homegirls. just me and my pops. talking shit and serious stuff and laughing. talking about how the election is gonna go. the president. satanists. the opposition. culture. christians. death. gays and lesbians. America. Islam. heathens. colonization. me talking about my birthday, though i don't think he knows off the top of his head how old i am exactly, and what it means (i think he prefers me his kid always, like i'm not supposed to grow(!)). him talking about his birthday, which apparently means more coz he shares it with Jesus. me saying, wait up pops, how did people know of dates back then (in '38) somebody maybe confused it, and him saying, coz my father was edmacated, anyway that sounds like jealous talk from folks who wish they were born on the 25th, he said, coz we do tease like we're boys, like we're girls. me and my pops. my phone tripping, beats of conversation skipped on my end but me connecting the dots still coz he speaks in long winded sentences, never a clipped lines man unless he's mad. and we were like boys together on the phone. like homegirls. the knots in my heart untangling at last, me laughing all my little anxieties away and feeling quite ok about my birthday after all. me getting off the phone and feeling like my birthday after all, and going out to dinner with a friend, somebody else's father, and blowing out a candle and taking a pic with a blackberry phone, talking politics and Africa and constitutions. talking Zambian politics. the differences between the set ups of west African and southern African cities. Edgar Hoover. talking. on my birthday. no sweet nothings. just me and these two beautiful fathers who made my day.

2011-12-07T18:30:00.000-05:00

... NoViolet Reviewed @ Kinna Reads

2011-12-05T13:47:00.001-05:00

"NoViolet Bulawayo’s Main, like Vera’s Selborne, is a vivid snapshot of a particular period in Zimbabwe’s history. Both writers look expansively at the lives on the streets of Bulawayo. The two pieces together chart a course through Zimbabwe’s socioeconomic history over a span of 50 years. And both are absolutely delightful and powerful. Main, though, is sobering. Perhaps because it the more contemporary of the two. Vera’s rendering of Selborne is deceptively beautiful; a calm before the storm of violence in The Stone Virgins. Bulawayo’s use of a ravaged, harassed woman as a metaphor for Main is simply brilliant. Her language, style of writing… Main is simply an excellent story."

read the rest here.

... Africa IS AIDS to ME (this AIDS day)

2011-11-30T18:07:00.007-05:00

This AIDS day I am remembering my brother Ronald (Nene) who died in 1997; the passage below is about the moment I found out what really ate Nene.

“Shortly after Ronald’s death, when I was going through my father’s drawer one day, an act I regularly carried out because it was a useful way of finding about things my father would never discuss, I ran into Ronald’s death certificate. I remember being perplexed; even though I knew that every person had a birth certificate, it had never occurred to me that something like a death certificate existed. And so it was with curiosity that my eyes quickly scanned the document, quickly, so I wouldn’t get caught and be in trouble. And there, at the bottom of the crisp paper, right next to where it said, Cause of death, were the words, HIV-AIDS. Nkosi yami. No words. There were no words, and there were no words, and there were no words.”

Word.

This AIDS day I am remembering my sister No. Dear sister, at least with Ronald I saw him get sick. Even when I still bleed, I tell myself that he fought, and that he did not win. But with you, daughter of mother, Jesus, with you— azomi izinyembezi.

This AIDS day I remember my Babomdala and my Mamomdala. Babomdala, you were our beautiful king and without you the great kingdom fell. Mamomdala; you were the most golden woman I ever knew, thank you for mothering us.

This AIDS day I remember three cousins, all Ronald’s generation; they were beautiful boys together, grew up beautiful together, died beautiful together. This AIDS day I remember uncles and aunts, I remember friends; I count my dead on my fingers and short toes and they are not enough.

This AIDS day I am heartbroken.

This AIDS day I am angry.

This AIDS day I am helpless.

This AIDS day I am fearful.

This AIDS day I am hopeful.

This AIDS day I light a candle for all who have died. This AIDS day I stand in solidarity with all those who have lost loved ones to AIDS. This AIDS day I am grateful to all those who fight for a cure. This AIDS day I say a prayer for those who are positive. This AIDS I encourage people to use protection and get tested. This AIDS day I tell anyone who cares to listen to put their lives first.

This AIDS day I would like to say to annoying people who think when we write we are exploiting Africa’s misfortunes; Africa IS AIDS to ME motherfuckers; I have all these scars from it, tears in my footsteps, graves in my soul from it. This AIDS day you can kiss my ~~ass~~ AIDS wounds and let me write what I want.

And to that end: A short-short story. If you've read Hitting Budapest, this is the woman the gang finds hanging in a tree.

Treewoman

People earn their names when they are born, but Treewoman earned hers the day she died. The children who found her hanging in a mopane tree gave her the name just before stealing her red, size 8 ½ Gucci shoes. Their instincts said it was the least they could do, to give her a name before robbing her. Afterward, the children ran to Paradise to alert the adults about the woman in the tree, and by the time Bornfree and Messenger climbed the mopane to cut the rope and let the body drop, everybody knew the woman by Treewoman; it did not matter she had been called Sodade before.

Mavava, Sodade’s mother, stumbled over the –Tree part of her daughter’s brand new English name, but because she was determined, she rehearsed it over and over, churning it between her tongue and her eleven remaining teeth like a sweet seed until it finally came out right. Tree. Woman. Treewoman. Woman in a tree. Mavava was grateful: to the mopane on which her daughter had hung herself, to the English name that promised her daughter a brand new history, and to the children who had named her. It meant people would at least talk about a different cause of death.

As far as Mavava was concerned, hanging, or anything for that matter, was better than the Disease. And she knew the Disease, knew it like a second skin. It had eaten the fruit of her womb, every one of her six children, the boys: Nkosana and Nkululeko and Nkosikhona, and the girls: Sihle and Sinothando and now Sodade, all of them dead before a single hair on their head turned grey; Mavava knew the Disease very well.

She knew just how it devoured the body like a possessed fiend, every inch of it; the smiling face, the thick hips, the anthills of breasts, the mountain of a behind, the jungle of hair, everything—everything gone so you would not know the person, not recognize the terrible bones, the detailed curves of the skull, the sharp jut of a cheekbone, brow, hip, knee, rib, the skin like discarded cloth, eyes drowning in sockets. Yes, Mavava knew the Disease, and felt hanging, or anything for that matter, was far much better. Now she could at least look Paradise in the eye and accept the people’s stunned condolences, her white head, exempt from shame, held somewhat high.

NoViolet in The Guardian

2011-11-29T10:20:00.007-05:00

NoViolet Bulawayo: Foreign literature is always going to contain some alien social conventions - but they aren't really a barrier to readers. Check out The Guardian (here) for my response to Binyavanga Wainana's take on what he terms the "Insularity of British literature."

2011-11-25T00:27:00.000-05:00

A silent secret poem for a single pair of stilled ears, a breathless rhythm for a solitary waltz where she becomes a child-bride dressed in sunset. Empty the river and gather the tears, there is nothing else to say. Hamba kahle... hamba kahle.

nostalgic NoViolet

2011-11-19T21:13:00.005-05:00

... It (America) is a beautiful country and it has given me so, so much and hence I have grown to love it, but it doesn’t quite speak to me as does the country of my birth. I am a perpetual outsider. I can’t walk like I own the earth here, because my forefathers were not kings here. I can’t stand on the street and ask a question in my language here, I can’t buy roasted maize at a corner here, I can’t whoop a kid who deserves to be whooped without being arrested here, I can’t do water behind a tree here. Perhaps this has more to do with the person I am versus the place. Nothing totally replaces home for me so that the way I process life here is through what’s missing from it. Living, in a way, becomes a form of mourning and Christ, that can be hard...

2011-10-26T20:16:00.000-04:00

"Till November I'll be gone till November I'll be gone till November, till November, I'll be gone till November I'll be gone till November... till November."

... we're brinking baby

2011-10-25T07:08:00.003-04:00

"I was into storytelling and writing as early as primary school, mostly because I was raised on orature. But I didn’t know then that I’d eventually live for writing, because growing up I never saw writers around me, and anyway, we were raised to pursue “traditional, sensible careers.” Writing wasn’t one of them." Read the rest of NoViolet's BrInk interview here...

2011-10-19T23:21:00.002-04:00

The Chimurenga Chronicle

2011-10-17T06:39:00.000-04:00

Chimurenga’s new publishing project takes the form of a once-off, one-day-only edition of a fictional newspaper to be released on “Black Wednesday”, October 19th 2011 – a historic day in South Africa that marks the banning of numerous Black Consciousness organisations and independent newspapers by the apartheid regime. Please see attached for more details.

Titled the Chimurenga Chronic, the project is an intervention into the newspaper as a vehicle of knowledge production and dissemination. Editor Ntone Edjabe explains, “Knowledge produced by Africans is always curtailed towards simplicity because we are trapped in the logic of emergency. At Chimurenga we’re constantly trying to create beyond this shut hole of relevance. There is indeed famine and war but there is also life. There is also innovation, thinking, dreams – all the things that make life. Our project is to articulate this complexity.”

The Chronic is a pan African production that locates itself directly inside the crisis of relevance by provoking and challenging mainstream perceptions, accounts, representations and narrations of history.

“The objective is not to revisit the past to bring about closure,” says Edjabe, “but rather to provoke and challenge our perception, in order to imagine a new foundation from which we can think and act within our current context.”

Chimurenga, the 2011 Prince Claus Fund principal recipient, is a Cape Town based non for profit, pan African journal on arts, culture, politics and writing in Africa and the Diaspora.

For more information about the Chimurenga Chronic please contact Terry Ayugi at:

Email: info@chimurenga.co.za

Tel: +2721 4224168

Or visit the project’s website at:

www.chimurenganewsroom.org.za

... NoViolet Bulawayo in Newsweek: The city: Bulawayo

2011-10-04T09:28:00.001-04:00

Bulawayo starts in the sky, a solid shade so alive they had to nickname the city “Bluez.” It’s at the very end of the ’90s and the decade is packing its bags. Does Bulawayo know? That not too many years from now, when we vote for change and it refuses to come, when things fall apart and scatter and we’re singing the blues—does it know that its people will dream of this time?

The city center is a tight fist; it’s easy to walk and be done with before you know it. When you enter the city through Third Avenue, your combi taxi will spit you ategodini, the taxi rank where people arrive and leave from western townships with names like Luveve, Lobengula, Gwabalanda, Nguboyenja, Magwegwe; names that speak of the Ndebele king’s offspring—this is consolation, the weight of heritage.

If it happens to be on a weekend and the city’s most popular football team, the Highlanders, has won a match, then egodini and this part of the city center are a beautiful bedlam. Hooting cars clog the streets, young men shout and whistle and wave their shirts in the air, supporters clad in black and white (the team’s colors) celebrate, and music blares from car stereos.

When you get out of your combi, you will follow the spine of Lobengula Street upward, to the right. During the day the city is all bodies and bustling. On this street are shops like (read the rest in Newsweek).

... deep Ndebele words for the day

2011-10-03T07:41:00.000-04:00

isidlukuladlwedlwe................ one who forcefully takes people's things

umgod'onganukwanja............ a chick who doesn't get any game

amanqampunampumulo........ opening remarks

uMdabulangcubula................ the Creator/God

isigqabhozi........................... a very big hole

injavunjavu........................... nasty food

ufahlasi................................ a tall, skinny person

isidlelane.............................. a good neighbor

ukugwanqa.............................soliciting information

amandongomane.................. peanuts

amaphambili...........................the first milk from the first cow during milking, also a man's below the belt.

ps: to proper learn Ndebele, do to this awesome site.

... for Owen Maseko, 2010

2011-10-03T07:13:00.003-04:00

Zim visual and installation artist, Owen Maseko, makes a visual interpretation of a scene from NoViolet Bulawayo's "Snapshots" at the Byo launch of "Where to Now?" by amabooks on 09-24-2011. Maseko is of course one of our most renowned artists, but he has also been persecuted by the Zimbabwean government for his Gukurahundi exhibition (read more here), a reminder that as Zim artists, we are not free. Below is a poem I wrote during his incarceration in 2010.

----------

they say Owen Maseko
be causing trouble—like,
undermining the authority
of the president, like
brushes and colors in hand,
he be painting truth, making truth, like,
shedding dark blood, digging old skulls
unburying the murdered, imagine that,
like giving them bright-red voices,
after all these years - almost 30 solid,
saying their names, hanging the dead
on a clothesline for all to see,
like nobody didn’t teach him - didn't tell him
Zim is a land of silent silence,
where they edit expression on final cut pro
with police whips and guns and prisons
people living hand to mouth,
famished for rights, for freedom,
for the sound of their own true voices
see us walk like zombies in Zim, like
paralyzed by fear of the state in Zim
we could flee our shadows in Zim,
we see nothing, we hear nothing in Zim
let them silence us, beat us in Zim, like
what does freedom matter in Zim?, like
we have Owen Maseko to show, right
now here’s staring at a blank cell
reading the writing on the wall
scribbled in blood, left hand too,
“Jestina Mukoko was here” like
we have Gukurahundi to show
we have murambatsvina to show
we have persecuted whites to show
we have the 2008 election to show
but you can’t ask us nothing coz
we won’t say nothing, but like,
in our dreams though, we roar with rage,
wave bloodied shirts in the wind,
wave Gukurahundi skulls and femurs,
we knock down prisons, like, we throw
rocks at police, we gut jails, like,
we protest until they free Owen Maseko,
in our dreams we are almost brave, and
the president is an old man who fears our power. © NVB

T.i.r.e.d.

2011-09-30T16:51:00.000-04:00

... In America '08 (a sample)

2011-09-29T14:11:00.002-04:00

In America ‘08

~2~

America surprised us at first. If you were not happy with your body you could go to a doctor for instance and say: doctor, I was born in the wrong body, make me right, doctor, I don’t like this nose, these breasts, these lips. We looked at people sending their aging parents away to be taken care of by strangers. We looked at dogs living like people: dogs living inside people’s houses, dogs sleeping in beds, dogs taking pills when they were sick – just like people. We looked at parents not being allowed to beat their own children. We looked at strange things like these, things we had never seen in our lives and said, what kind of land is this, just what kind of land?

~3~

Because we were not in our country we could not use our own languages, and so when we spoke our voices came out bruised. When we talked our tongues thrashed madly in our mouths, staggered like drunken men. Because we were not using our languages we said things we did not mean, what we really wanted to say remained folded inside, trapped. In America we did not always have the words. It was only when we were by ourselves that we spoke in our real voices. When we were alone we summoned the horses of our languages and mounted their backs and galloped past skyscrapers. Always, we were reluctant to come back down.

~6~

In America we took our dreams, looked them tenderly as if they were newly-born children, and put them away; we would not be pursuing them. We would never be the things we had wanted to be: doctors, lawyers, teachers, engineers. No school for us, we worked. Our social security cards said, Valid for work only with INS authorization, but we gritted our teeth and broke the law and worked, what else could we do? What could we have done? What could anybody have done? And because we were breaking the law, our heads fell with shame; we had never broken any laws before, dropped because we were no longer people; were now illegals.

In America appears in the current issue of Callaloo.

... tunes for SA

2011-09-26T02:55:00.005-04:00

my final reading at Open Book was dedicated to all my people who have been murdered in South Africa’s xenophobic violence. there are things i’ve wanted to read on this soil, and i did, my chest crowded with the dried up dreams of wronged ghosts, my people, yes, with my little words in their best order, i, daughter, sister, mourned you with the dignity you were not allowed:

Give me the softest petals to cover this patch of reddened South African soil, give me milk for these weeping wounds in the air, give me balm for the unheard cries, give me silk for these tears, bring out a dress of stars for this soul. Do not play Nkosi’ sikelel’ iAfrica while I find the words with which to tell Farai’s mother how her son was not mauled by animals of the wild, how her beautiful black son was butchered by black children black boys black girls black men black women, no he was not butchered by beasts. I’ll tell her, Mai Fari, he was not from there, he was wrong there, he was not wanted there, he did not belong there, he was hated there. There there there that place where Zimbabwean blood has been spilled there, has quenched greedy machetes there, has flowed like rivers there, has decorated leaves and grass and stones there, where Zimbabwean bodies have burned there, have roasted there. I’ll tell her he died because they forgot he was made in the image of God there, that he was innocent there, that he was just a perfect mother’s boy there, they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot Farai’s life was sacred there.

_______

The Watcher

He stands by the window, an old revolver in hand, and watches them come up. Even in the boiling sun they walk as cats do in the rain: drenched, timid, careful. Walking like whispering. Zimbabweans. Just crossed over – he has seen others like them. Many others. Watching from this same window. Seen them seep into his country like water. He knows he will see even more; they never stop coming, they are a tide.

His window faces a tight-fisted stretch of open country—all brown and dry and un-giving. And then there is the dusty road that spans like God’s belt all the way to Johannesburg and beyond. Red and endless. Always the Zimbabweans emerge like apparitions from the bush after crossing the broad Limpopo River. When the Limpopo is full he can stand at this window and listen to it heaving, churning log-bearing muddy waters like a strong-limbed washer woman, famished crocodiles holding their breath somewhere deep inside her belly.

But this has never stopped them, the Zimbabweans. They plunge into the Limpopo, sometimes drowning, and, if they survive, rise like mists from the water to cut holes in the border fence into his country. Then they plough through the jungle, and then eventually onto this very road that runs in front of his house. Headed to Jo’burg. What puzzles him, what he would really like to find out, is howthey leave no footprints on the earth, make no mark, and drop nothing. And how it is that when they walk, like whispering, they do not cast shadows on the earth.

He has been standing at the window long enough for him not to know how long it has been. But what he knows with certainty is that he needs to sit down and rest his screaming knees. Yet somehow he cannot pull himself from the window, so he merely shifts the weight on his feet, holds the gun tighter. He dug it out of his storage after that boy Jo told him how some of them had tried to break into his house the week before. Bloody criminals. If they think they can just break into his country, and then into his house, he will show them. Just let them try it. Let them

try. Read the rest here:

2011-09-24T05:40:00.002-04:00

2011-09-13T23:58:00.002-04:00

death all round at the mo. like flowers. they are beautiful, they are stunning.

... Country called English

2011-09-12T23:51:00.001-04:00

In this country called English, my papers are fake. Have you seen me do a fatal accent dance and tripping over myself, the record going what, what, what did you say? Here, I stay away from the edge coz I know all about falling and bruising my meaning, why, move my silence to the side and see all my scars. In this country called English, every time after we speak and you are gone I put away my fake papers and tell you all the things I meant to say in my language, under that syringa tree, when I am my real self and I am for real.

... deep Ndebele words for the day

2011-09-10T10:03:00.000-04:00

igcikwane......................virus

ivilavoxo........................lazybones

empondozankomo..........wee hours of the morning

ukuqwenga....................to rip something to pieces

ubabangibone................a spectacle

ubuzikazikane................tickling/itching sensation

ibizombumbulu..............fake name

ukuklenyeza...................chewing a fatty something

ubugubhagubha..............overly happy

inyamfokwe....................a lazy person

ukushendeza..................to have a secret lover

ubhuqukudla..................a greedy, lazy person

ubuthumuthumu.............doing something in a hurry

ibhuklwana.....................a well-built person

ps: this page won't teach you Ndebele; for that check out this awesome site.

... of true heartbreaks

2011-09-01T20:31:00.001-04:00

Okwamanje we gather the bloodied tatters that are our hearts and stare helplessly. Helplessly. Tears questions regrets confusion. Akulamasiza. Mhlaba, we mhlaba uyahlaba ... who are we lapha kwakho? Kambe siyini? Wahamba Sjabu, sakusoma, singanakile. May you find comfort in God's arms. Rest in Peace.

... writer at work

2011-08-31T18:33:00.001-04:00

The fast is over. The spirits have come. There will be blood and pages. Facebook profiles deactivated. Phone switched off. Emails unanswered. And we wont stop till the cooking stones turn to pulp.

diaspora '08

2011-08-28T06:12:00.004-04:00

illegal, visas expired,

we perch like lost doves

on frosted branches

of alien trees whose names

we don’t know, lands

and lands away from home,

we are the strange, foreign fruit.

we laugh into our armpits

so we are not heard,

walking like the winds -

breathing like stones

to stay unseen.

like starved mongrels,

we run to unwanted jobs

we mind crazies, clean poop

in nursing homes, break backs

push, shove, anything

we will do anything

to western union money home

to waiting, famished families.

dizzy for the homeland,

we google, we facebook, we msn

we see violence, cholera outbreaks,

hunger, Aids, human rights violations

we log off, hang our heads in pain,

sleep with eyes wide open,

we dream in tears, Jesus we dream

in tears - © nvb

T.i.r.e.d.

2011-08-27T23:12:00.000-04:00

2011-08-22T17:52:00.008-04:00

And there are times like these when you come back to haunt the geography of my face … frayed frayed moments of you confronting me in the mirror: jut of cheekbone, glare of eye, bared teeth, this is you in me and I’m neither beautiful nor ugly; I’m just you, brother, you remembering yourself on me so that I hold the sad, sad epitaph that is my face and grieve all over, so that I relieve the long nights again, so that its pain and pain again, so that we are back there again, there, where you were Lazarus lying there lifeless but wasn’t no Jesus around to raise you—

2011-08-22T00:44:00.000-04:00

Libya Libya! Because there is no night ever so long that does not end with dawn. Amandla!

... more snapshots

2011-08-17T23:54:00.000-04:00

The sun is ravishing the red earth when your mother carries her black suitcase on her head and walks out of the house like a bad disease. She is also walking out of her history, which is this: she has woken up everyday around 6 in the morning and swept the floors of the house and scrubbed them with a wet cloth and applied black cobra polish and then shined the floor on her knees before going out to sweep the yard. She has cooked meals everyday in the kitchen and sprinkled holy water on the walls of the house each night before going to bed. She has brought up all her three children within those walls, and knelt on the floor everyday to hold the dish for her husband (whose smoking she did not like) so he could wash his hands before taking the meals she has prepared, and she has also counted her blessings and fears and hopes and dreams in that house.

This is your mother’s history, but it doesn’t matter now since she is walking out of it because it is all tied to a house that was never hers to begin with. That day you will also learn, without being told, that women come from their fathers’ houses to live in their husbands’ houses. They claim nothing, just like the sun that daily descends to warm and caress and enliven, only to go back to its mother as naked as it came, with not even a token of thank you. Uncle Mandla is standing there by the door to make sure that your mother doesn’t try to sneak away with neither token nor part of her history because he knows that a woman with her large breasts can sneak something in her bra—

(from "snapshots" which appears in the recently launched anthology, Where to Now? by amaBooks. More here). Anyway these days I'm into pictures and writing shorts to pictures. What I want at the moment is to find a photographer to collaborate and do stuff with but that might take a lot. So little time!

... child soldier

2011-08-17T23:20:00.001-04:00

see him play on red-red playgrounds,

missing gaze in his eyes, real toys spitting fire,

bomb-carrying, gun-wielding boy-Messiah

in flesh and blood and war, childhood denied,

no longer the boyish dream of riding a blue bike

behind Bells Boulevard to the beach,

not even the magic of a first, misspelled love letter,

written in black, butchered English to a pretty little girl

in a white dress, see him do his math without any help,

1+1= 20 muthafuckaz shot in the heart,

baa baa black sheep have you any guns???

2011-08-15T03:25:00.001-04:00

family.

... currently

2011-08-07T10:38:00.002-04:00

we are jet lagged, unmotivated, and don't really wanna do anything. this better be very temporary coz I don't have the time. Grrrrrr.

2011-08-03T23:03:00.003-04:00

... soulfood.

2011-08-02T04:05:00.001-04:00

"woh yeh woh yeh uyimbube mama... "

... Where to Now?

2011-07-31T07:34:00.002-04:00

So this is the title of the latest Zimbabwean short fiction anthology from amaBooks, an independent press run by Jane Morris. The book just dropped only recently and of course I'm looking forward to reading and finding out what Zimbabweans are writing now, and where the literature is going. As somebody writing from the diaspora of course I'm glad to be a part; projects like these connect me to other Zimbabwean writers and allow me to be read by my peoples at home.

This is what the anthology promises: "In these pages you will meet the prostitute who gets the better of her brothers when they try to marry her off, the wife who is absolved of the charge of adultery, the hero who drowns in a bowser of cheap beer and the poetry slammer who does not get to perform his final poem. And many more." The writers in the mix are Raisedon Baya, NoViolet Bulawayo, Diana Charsley, Mapfumo Clement Chihota, Murenga Joseph Chikowero, John Eppel, Fungai Rufaro Machirori, Barbara Mhangami-Ruwende, Christopher Mlalazi, Mzana Mthimkhulu, Blessing Musariri, Nyevero Muza, Thabisani Ndlovu, Bryony Rheam, Novuyo Rosa Tshuma, Sandisile Tshuma. There you have it. Zimlit!

... sicko

2011-07-25T08:16:00.004-04:00

So the plan was to enjoy this place before I fly back to Ithaca but it appears I'm spending most of the time bedridden with some version of flu. I think it's getting close to a week of me trying to be patient and trying not to complain and trying to take it like a man and all but hayi ah, something's gotta give. I'll say too that I'm shocked by the disrespect; like, doesn't this flu thing know I won the Caine Prize?

I have, however been slowing down and clearing my head (which I really needed to do, sudden hecticness, when you are not used to it, can be too much), and even more importantly, I've been doing some work which I'm not sure I would have pulled off had I been running around. This part at least makes me happy especially because I'm digging what I'm working on; It's always a good sign when I can afford to feel this way.

So from my bed it looks sunny outside but I'm not even getting excited because I know what this sun is trying to do. The sun here is something else o, and I will not even say anything about the rain :)

... NoViolet gives thanks

2011-07-15T20:54:00.007-04:00

So I’ve really been blessed with such an outpouring of love over the past few days, I’m talking about more love than I know what to do with. Love from all over. Thank you so much to every single person who has reached out—writing is a solitary endeavor and so your messages feel like a party and a sister can’t really ask for more. I also want to take this opportunity to thank all my Zimbabwean peoples, you know, there is something golden about your own people rooting for you for the simple fact that you are one of them. This blesses me, makes me proud, makes me afford to hold my head high even as I walk these foreign lands coz I know that I am from a people who, in moments of beauty, will hold a sister to the sun. You just can’t touch that, what a wonderful gift! Ngiyabonga...Ndinotenda.... And lastly, I notice that most of my facebook friends are from Africa, and I'm not counting those in beerhalls and shebeens or who live next door to my facebook fans. This for me is major, not only because it's my own celebrating me again, but it reminds me (lest I grow big headed and forget) that my fan base starts in Africa. I am an African writer among other things because Africa sings me its own. May I have the common sense to remember this beautiful fact always!

2011-07-04T15:34:00.000-04:00

... picked

2011-07-04T00:44:00.002-04:00

“We too bleed through our eyes, our severed heart cries, with our mouths...ask why? Why? OH! Why? As we try to register yet another black on black carnage! Where is the love?” Fungai Oliver Maboreke.

This project was inspired by the death of Farai Kujirichita whose murder was made too raw and intimate by the fact that it was captured on camera so that I, like many, lived Farai’s dying moments here. Farai is not the first, and he will not be the last; the Xenophobic killings of immigrants continues in South Africa’s shanties, their unfortunate deaths an injustice that cracks the shell of our humanity. After watching the video I made an appeal to facebook friends to respond to the xenophobic murders in writing; we join hands in poetry, pain and prayer in the following creative quilt.

Many thanks to these poets and writers for their participation: J.S. Makokha (Kenya), Deejay Busang (South Africa), Fungai Oliver Maboreke, the late Julius Chingono, Barbara Mhangami, Sandi Tshuma, Fungai Machirori, Novuyo Tshuma, Emanuel Sigauke, and NoViolet Bulawayo (Zimbabwe).

__________________________________________________

Picked (for South Africa)

Dream I:

In the land of the humane Bishnoi

a land distant, ancient, in holy India,

old sands sing in chambers of arid winds

about the beauty of life, as a lone woman

in sari scarlet, feeds a gazelle kid, her triplets

too, with milk drops off two big but lean breasts.

Life here, human or beast, a source of peace...

Dream II:

In another land, one antique too,

a land inside us all, kids of africa,

new winds howl in chambers of arid hearts,

about the beauty of death, as yet a human

on a liquid shroud of innocent blood, his own...

dies, under weights of whispers in another mob justice.

Life here, a nightmare-come-true, in any Bishnoiland....

Dream III:

In the land of poetry
, now home of emotion,

a place where words live before life on earth;

here, where divine voices explaining all truth

are born in vast nests of vast galaxies divine;

here, where all words are born that become life,

planting seeds of life as genesis, across blue planets,

all the Gods are silent now...as another innocent life

is lost, on a shanty street in adolescent Mandelalands....

Where they are picked

maimed by mines

crossing borders

from troubled nations.

They are picked across the border

murdered in the streets

where they are squatters.

They are picked

at boundaries

picked by flooded rivers

attempting to swim

across borders.

They are picked

by crocodiles

crossing borders

that are rivers.

They are picked

across the border

picking their lives

in trash bins

picking comfort

in drain pipes.

They are picked

in foreign lands

picketing host politicians

who cannot

accommodate them anymore.

They are picked, singing sad songs,

Hear them sing, hear:

Song 1:

The hounds of hell nip at my feet.

I run, I slip, I fall on the street.

My knees are scraped, crunching on gravel,

My breath is fast and burns my lungs, my airways.

I run, I slip, I fall on the street.

I look up, eyes beseeching,

My brother, myself, help me!

He walks by, his face unspeaking, his eyes unsmiling.

I run, I slip, I fall on the street.

I tug at her skirt, my hand is bleeding

I am cut, I am hurt.

My sister, help me I entreat

She shakes me off and hastily retreats.

I run, I slip, I fall on the street.

I am broken, my spirit fails me.

My eyes meet hostility, the hatred suffocates me,

Assails me, pummels my body, my soul.

Long before the sharp searing slice of the machete,

Way before the dull thud of stones on my flesh

The crackle of sticks on my bones, I have died.

The merciless have killed my hope,

The merciless have strangled my strength to run,

My desire to survive, my hunger to live.

I don’t run, I give in to the merciless, on the street.

My blood, which stains stones and quenches the thirsty earth, your blood.

The tears flooding my soul are your tears.

The screams caught in the back of my throat are your screams.

Blood is red, it is not a foreigner,

Tears of pain and pain itself are not foreigners.

Death who is common to all, is not a foreigner.

Here I succumb to the stench of poverty

Stench of depravity

Stench of viciousness

Stench of sickness,

Stench of hatred

I succumb, a brother’s

prayer in my ears:

Song II:

I do not want to die and so if you do this I will run. Through the grimy, untarred sewage strewn streets of this township, past runny-nosed, barefoot children too young to see the sky turn black, I will run. And as you chase after me chanting words full of poison, hate and ugliness, I the kwerekwere, the insufferable brother born to another mother, will run from the shack I call home that you in your rage will have set ablaze. Then, as Thabo, John, Tshepo and Mandla join in the senseless chase, I will falter for just a moment, stunned at the vicious treachery of people who have lived with me as friends, not just neighbours. But what is this? What does it mean? Does it mean nothing to you that I have been here at your side day after day, queuing at the taxi rank, drinking at our secret spot and debating if ‘Amakhosi’ or ‘Ama-Buccaneer’ will win the Soweto derby this football season? As my feet pound on the dirt, my eyes will see not the way ahead, but fleeting images of walking this very route just yesterday with you and you and you, tired after a long day at work in the city that promised us gold but has eaten our souls instead. Tearing past Aus’ Lulu’s spaza shop, where I bought matches to light my paraffin lamp just the other day, I will hope briefly for this warm-hearted woman to offer me protection and talk you out of your insanity… This rock of a woman, who has smiled and offered me credit on her delicious warm vetkoeks that have sustained me and saved me from the grip of hunger, will not smile at me today. Today she will not see in me a faithful customer. Her own suffering and torture forgotten, Lulu will become an enabler and the catalyst of the worst day of my life. She will not use the position of respect and favour she holds amongst the rabid pack that bays for my blood to plead my case for mercy. Oh no. She will choose rather to swing her motherly arms out to throw paraffin on the back of my shirt. As the warm slipperiness clings to my skin and I inhale noxious vapours I will ask myself, What have I done?

What have I done? what

are you killing me for? who will,

tell my mother, tell my father tell

my people? what will you tell your children?

what will this do for you? how will you

look at yourselves tomorrow, standing

in front of mirrors gazing at your eyes

like mine, face like mine, at skin, black

like mine? What will you say, tomorrow?

Tomorrow, I can still hear myself shouting, singing, 

I can still hear myself sayin 'f*ckof, This is not your home' 

All I thought was, 'we just are threatening them' until... 

Until I saw objects being thrown at him.. 

Until I saw him being kicked everywhere.. 

Until I saw blood running out of his nose, ears, eyes, arms, legs 

Then reality hit me and I began to realise... 

This is not a threat, but inhumanity  

I backed off trying to gather all this ...don't even know what to call it 

I saw him lying down; I saw his eyes wide open, yet closed and crying blood 

I heard his voice crying 'No please, I'm sorry' 

I felt his heart saying 'please tell them to stop' 

I felt a tear burning my heart and I couldn't do anything .. Or that's what I thought   

If I stop them, they'll be on me 

They'll be crucifying me together with him 

Now...now I wish they did, and this regret won't be there 

The guy who use to do my garden, shoes, hair was being killed 

If only I........If only I fought as an African, 

If only I stopped the petrol from ... from reaching his African soul, 

Then things would be different 

I saw the guy next to me making a flame out of a stick 

The stick that was thrown to the petrolled African 

I saw the flame all over his bruised body, mouth still crying and heart saying

'Please tell them to stop'  

I saw his family through his flame crying, 'we losing our only bread winner 

We losing our dad, we losing our uncle, we losing our teacher, we losing our husband, we losing our....we losing our black brother  

Please someone tell me how to forget this, how 

to rewind things, how to bring him to life again 

All I want is just to say....I'm sorry 

I'm sorry I betrayed you as an African 

I'm sorry I was not firm enough to stop it 

I'm sorry for being influenced against you 

I'm sorry for..... I guess it's too late now.

Dream IV:

And in a land of rage and rainbows

brothers and borders, flowers and flames

a dead cow rises to chew the cud,

the aftertaste is burned bitter blood

I know why I remember this land,

this is where we came to sit down

by bloodied rivers, dipped tired feet

in the mouths of sad poets singingpraying:

Give me the softest petals to cover this patch of reddened South African soil, give me milk for these weeping wounds, give me balm for the unheard cries, give me silk for these tears, bring out a dress of stars for this soul. Do not play Nkosi’ sikelel’ iAfrica while I find the words with which to tell Farai’s mother how her son was not mauled by animals of the wild, how her beautiful black son was butchered by black children black boys black girls black men black women, no he was not butchered by beasts. I’ll tell her, Mai Fari, he was not from there, he was wrong there, he was not wanted there, he did not belong there, he was hated there. There there there that place where Zimbabwean blood has been spilled there, has quenched greedy machetes there, has flowed like rivers there, has decorated leaves and grass and stones there, where Zimbabwean bodies have burned there, have roasted there. I’ll tell her he died because they forgot he was made in the image of God there, that he was innocent there, that he was just a perfect mother’s boy there, they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot Farai’s life was sacred there.

And they forgot again when they struck that stick of matches and let it catch flame against bare black skin. Did you see him fall to his knees – that man on fire scorching blacker than the hearts that watched?

Give me the petals from the flower that grows from the soils his ashes feed…Yes, give me its petals so that I may wipe his mother’s tears with them and bind the wounds festering in the hearts of his brothers and sisters. But no, do not sever the plant’s roots. Let his ashes feed the earth. Let the flower grow there, but do not leave its petals in bloom, for this is what it is to be foreign – to grow in distant soils but always bring your glory back home so we may –

Sing song sung for many suns

Sung in fluttering hearts,

dying in glare of sun

Speak up speak up! Yet –

Soft sound cedes to Serpent hisssss

Sweat – red as blood – seeps through hatred sores

Sows seeds of Sorrow

That

Sway in wind like stalks in

Mourning

Speak up speak up! Yet –

Several Suns later here we are

…..Once more

Slopping through soapy waters of

Sorrow

Sun Shines Shanty like Silver

Beneath

Chanting masses Fisted Hands

(Pamberi! – Have we been here before?)

Punch in Gut

Insipid stares

Death Dances

In Delightful Seduction

....(Varoyi Naked on Grave)....

Sing song sung for many suns

Sung in fluttering hearts dying in glare of sun

For when new sun rises on the morrow

To stain sky with pale-lit sorrow

We shall – you and I –

Have forgotten

The man we watched die on the brow

Bludgeoned black by Brutes we saw before

Bitter day Back in ’08—

... proverb of the day

2011-07-02T07:55:00.001-04:00

No matter how hot your anger is, it cannot cook yams.

... snapshot of Snapshots

2011-07-02T07:42:00.002-04:00

So I have 3 pieces coming out this summer; 2 in anthologies in Zim, and one in Callaloo. I don't know which one is my favorite but the Callaloo folks gave me the most ridiculous review I’ve ever gotten… the sad thing is it was anonymous and I’ll never know who reviewed my story. Anyway, that review left me stunned and terrified in a good way so I can’t wait for folks to read “In America.” I’ll post an excerpt when it comes out and if I’m in the mood.

Below is a snapshot of “Snapshots,” printed first in the 2009 SA Pen anthology and coming out this summer in a Zim anthology by amabooks, I forget what’s its called. Snapshots still holds a special place in my heart coz it was really my first publicly recognized joint as it was shortlisted in the 2009 SA Pen Award when I was husselin and trying to make a $ out of 50 cents. I’m still husselin, ink on my calloused fingers and all but least now I have 53 cents. It never ends baby baybay.

_______________________________________________

When you hear your father is dead you at first don’t really know how to behave because nobody you know has died before, and Anesu has told you almost everything there is to know about everything except what is to be done when your own father dies. It is only when you see all the crying going on around you that you realize you are supposed to cry live tears. Your mother wails the loudest, dressed head to toe in black mourning clothes which you think very much become her brown skin. It is a new thing to see her cry like that and somehow, you are fascinated and want to touch her tears.

Rose is busy crying too, and you think she appears important, her head covered in a black, mourning scarf and looking almost like a woman. Why didn’t she get you a scarf so you could look like a woman too? You also wonder what your brother Vulindlela would do if he were here, what would Vu do? Would he really cry, and would he cry like a man, and how do men cry since they are not allowed to shed tears?

Many of your relatives come for your father’s funeral, some you know, some you don’t know, and some you like, some you don’t like. Funerals usually take three or four days but your father’s takes only one day because what will the mourners eat? Plus, there is not enough water and electricity to have a regular funeral. Your relatives put their money together and buy your father a brown pine coffin. You aren’t supposed to see dead people because you are a child but then they forget to tell you and Rose not to come in when all the adults are filing into the sitting room for body viewing. You stand at the back of the line and follow everybody else to look.

You have never seen your father look like this and seeing him lying there, dressed as if he is going somewhere important, like a wedding, you realize that he is a beautiful man. His face is still and relaxed, no creases from worrying about where he will get his Kingsgates and with what money, and his lips for once are sealed and not half open to let out cigarette smoke.

When everybody has gone back to wherever they came from, except the male relatives from your father’s side of the family, you are suddenly afraid. Maybe it’s because they have those stern faces that refuse to smile. They discuss your father’s death, which to them is suspicious because how can he, SaVu, die so young, not even fifty, how could that happen? There is no logical explanation except the one they know between themselves, and so it is decided that your mother must leave; she was a bad wife and bad mother after all, look now where is the sole heir? Didn’t she chase him away to South Africa so she can inherit the house after her husband died of the muti she was mixing with his food?

Your mother is told to pack her bags and leave the house because your uncle Mandla, your father’s youngest brother, will soon be moving in as is the custom. You and Rose (who are staying because who doesn’t know the children belong to the man’s family?) stand by the window, looking and listening as your mother’s fate is being discussed. You can see your mother, seated there on the floor with her head bent and looking like a setting sun, facing all those men who are seated on chairs and looking important. They are your grandfather, your father’s brothers and his cousins and some of them you don’t really know.

... of sunrises

2011-07-01T00:25:00.000-04:00

It’s been a crazy, dizzying, terrible and humbling week that left me feeling small and useless and doing some downright insane shit that I can’t even remember doing but hey, life will make you lose it. This post could have been a long and painful joint but what’s the use when we are here now, laughing now, healthy now, happy now, Grateful now. What a week. Jesus Jesus Jesus, What a week! May we remember every road travelled, may we be humbled, may we count our blessings, may we be thankful.

2011-06-27T00:16:00.002-04:00

2011-06-27T00:10:00.000-04:00

... heave

2011-06-22T20:51:00.007-04:00

... poetry quilt

2011-06-19T15:23:00.003-04:00

As a follow up to the Song for Farai Kujirichita post below, I invite all my writer friends and whoever is interested to respond in creative writing to this unfortunate case of Xenophobic violence. I’ve already started with a short piece of prose poety, you may write a paragraph/poem of your own and inbox it. I’ll then paste everything together so we have a creative quilt. Thank you.

... proverb of the day

2011-06-18T23:51:00.000-04:00

If you climb up a tree, you must climb down the same tree.

... big riddim

2011-06-18T14:26:00.002-04:00

The first time I heard this song I wanted to swallow and keep it inside me never mind I had and still have no idea what it means. As a matter of fact I don't think I want to know; that's where some of the haunting comes from. And then there is the voice, Jesus Jesus Jesus, the voice.

... Song for Farai Kujirichita

2011-06-17T09:34:00.012-04:00

Below is my response to a video I recently saw of the murder of a young Zimbabwean immigrant, Farai Kujirichita in South Africa, you can read his story here. There’s a terrible black child called Xenophobia in SA, and decency and compassion and kindness and humanity are not his virtues. When I blogged during the Xenophobic attacks of ’08 I was shocked and hurt and livid; today—today I’m just numbed coz I’m learning my pain and anger are not enough, will not change things or bring back the dead. I feel like I’ve been beaten and shoved in a corner, and there are the deepest wounds in my heart. This is my sad song for Farai; this is my sad song. Nkosi Sikelela all my Zimbabwean brothers and sisters in the South African shanties. Ngiyakhala.

___________________________________________________

Give me the softest petals to cover this patch of reddened South African soil, give me milk for these weeping wounds in the air, give me balm for the unheard cries, give me silk for these tears, bring out a dress of stars for this soul. Do not play Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica while I find the words with which to tell Farai’s mother how her son was not mauled by animals of the wild, how her beautiful black son was butchered by black children black boys black girls black men black women, no he was not butchered by beasts. I’ll tell her, Mai Fari, he was not from there, he was wrong there, he was not wanted there, he did not belong there, he was hated there. There there there that place where Zimbabwean blood has been spilled there, has quenched greedy machetes there, has flowed like rivers there, has decorated leaves and grass and stones there, where Zimbabwean bodies have burned there, have roasted there. I’ll tell her he died because they forgot he was made in the image of God there, that he was innocent there, that he was just a perfect mother’s boy there, they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot they forgot Farai’s life was sacred there.

... waiting

2011-06-16T10:18:00.008-04:00

For the second half of my story to arrive so I can play with my pad and pen. I dare not write it myself lest I fuck it up. So here I am. Here waiting. Here waiting for it to arrive. The second half of my story. Waiting.
-----------
edited at 10:32a to say: I'm going to wait for it at the park. Then I can watch people. At the park. While I wait.

2:43p. It's still not here, but I started to revise the first half. Will eat junk food (will start working out tomorrow promith) then go somewhere. To wait. Waiting for the second half.

11:38p. And the waiting continues. That, my friends, is a day in the life of a writer. The story refused to come so for today we hang our gloves. Some writers can force it but I'm not that talented; a story has to come to me when it wants and on its terms. Reading myself to sleep (Miguel Street) and tomorrow we wait some more.

9:43p. A day later, the waiting ends. The other half comes from a very unlikely source and is creepily coincidental with the first half, as if today had read what I wrote and then decided to happen, but not without fucking me up first. This will be one of my most expensive stories in the sense that it took me to be taken to a place of pissed-offness, rage and disappointment in order to write. I think years from now i'll remember today.

... of a dope Kenyan scholar poet

2011-06-16T10:04:00.001-04:00

This is for me an exciting poet to watch, and his stuff always leaves me stunned and breathless all at once. I had the honor of reviewing Nest of Stones:

Nest of Stones is a riveting portrait of the poet as the soul of a nation. This is a book that strips Kenya naked and holds it to the sun--beauty, bruises and all. Where Makokha deals with the troubled politics of his homeland, notably violence and corruption, the reading is poignant and haunting, and there are indeed moments where blood seems to ooze from the poems to stain the reader's conscience. The lines between the personal and the group/nation are constantly blending and bleeding in the collection, and one is made aware of how identity can be simultaneously a blessing and a burden. Specific as Makokha's poems are, there are refreshing moments when they cross borders to allude to Zimbabwe, Somalia, and Germany, reminding me of what it means to be both African and human. There are small moments of lightness and tenderness, but overall this is a collection that is deep. Makokha's language is intense and strikingly beautiful, and the interesting spin to form tells us that we are in the presence of a fresh, modern, and dynamic voice. One of the most compelling books I have ever read. Buy it here.

... Sis Joh

2011-06-15T10:53:00.000-04:00

The pain in your voice is the most terrible poetry :(

... deep Ndebele words for the day

2011-06-13T10:39:00.004-04:00

ixhaphaxhapha ............... a clumpsy person.
izanankande...................... an adoptee.
utshingitshane..................... something that moves at a terrific speed.
umgodoyi.......................... a "useless" dog, ngengokuthi nxa usemazweni anjengabo Melika njalonjalo, ubelenja yakho ehlala endlini, engazingeliyo akuqakathekile ukuthi ingabangangesilwane, ethi kulokuba izingele isebenze ukudlala lamathoyi kanye lokubukela iTV okokuthi icina isazi ukuthi uhlelo oluthile luphuma nini, njalo othi uhamba layo phandle uyibophele intambo entanyeni ngoba ifuna ukukhokhelwa sankomo. Akutsho mina kutsho idifinitshini. Ngibongile you are welcome.

ps: this page will not teach you Ndebele; for that, check out this awesome site.

... w.o.r.k.

2011-06-13T01:02:00.009-04:00

Ok, we've had our break and played enough. Now we need to get back to Work. It looks like there will be blood but you do what you gotta do. I'mma hustle till my pens break or I do.

... the droves, 2010 (from the old blog, written when Zim was on fire)

2011-06-12T14:48:00.012-04:00

Look at them leaving in droves, the children of the land, just look at them leaving in droves. Those with nothing are crossing borders. Those with strength are crossing borders. Those with ambitions are crossing borders. Those with hopes are crossing borders. Those with loss are crossing borders. Moving, running, emigrating, going, deserting, walking, quitting, flying, fleeing— to all over, to countries near and far, to countries unheard of, to countries whose names they cannot pronounce. They are leaving in droves.

When things fall apart the children of the land scurry and scatter like insects quitting a blazing jungle. They flee their own wretched land so their hunger may be pacified in foreign lands, so maybe their tears are wiped away in strange lands, that the wounds of their despair are bandaged in faraway lands, so their blistered prayers are muttered to alien gods – on the cold earths of queer lands, that the cracks of their hopes are mended by strange threads, in the darkness of alien lands.

Look at the children of the land leaving in droves; leaving their own land with shock on their faces and blood in their hearts and hunger in their stomachs and grief in their footsteps. This is the hardest thing they have ever done and they know it. They are leaving their mothers and fathers and children behind, leaving their umbilical chords underneath the soil, leaving the bones of their ancestors in the earth, leaving everything that makes them who and what they are, leaving because it is no longer possible to stay.

They will never be the same again because you just cannot be the same once you leave who and what you are behind. You cannot be the same because you will never find the self you leave behind waiting for you in a strange new land. You cannot be the same, you just cannot be the same. Such leaving is also a kind of dying, and you are the corpse and the mourner and the grave and the ghost all at once. Look at them leaving in droves despite knowing they will be welcomed with restraint in those strange lands because they do not belong, knowing they will have to sit on one butt cheek in those lands because they must not sit comfortably in a land that is not their own lest they be asked to rise and leave, knowing they will speak in dampened whispers because they must not let their voices drown those of the owners of the land, knowing they will have to walk on their toes because they must not leave footprints on the new earth lest they be mistaken for those who want to claim the land as theirs. Look at them leaving in droves, arm in arm with loss and totally lost, look at them leaving in droves, just look at them.

...by the rivers of the diaspora, there we sat down

maiwe kani we wept, when we remembered Zim,

how can we sing Phakamisan' iflagi inna dem strange lands...

... game over

2011-06-12T00:22:00.008-04:00

Back in Ithaca. Dog tired, didn't sleep last night, drove to Chicago Midway at 3am. The good thing is when you're with your favorite people it doesn't even matter. Had a nice break with my amazing, amazing family (though I'm bummed out about not staying to enjoy the Kzoo reggae fest with them) which makes coming to an empty apartment feel so wretched. It's wretched.

... ... Téa Obreht Wins the Orange Prize!

2011-06-09T09:05:00.016-04:00

Yes she just did, and it's fucking incredible! Major big ups for Téa, whose awesome debut novel, The Tiger's Wife, has really been on fire. May I also say it feels good to see a Cornellian repping!

... my girls growing up

2011-06-07T22:59:00.094-04:00

Akasi turned 13 today. I have no idea when it happened; for the past eight years I've really seen all my girls in stolen snatches on my school breaks. This time, though, is sobering; I found all the four on the brink of womanhood. Yes, it (womanhood) is a car parked in the driveway right now and the girls are inside and I've just been told to get in and fasten my seat belt. I have no idea what kind of ride its gonna be, but I'm hoping everybody enjoys it. Big up to Joe and Khanyi, lisebenzile bodadewethu, njalo liyasebenza, and while you're at it you make me proud.

... a coming out

2011-06-06T18:59:00.039-04:00

Today I told my father for the first time that I'm a writer. I didn't exactly put it like that, in fact the wording was tricky I could feel myself struggling; I mean its fine and all in the English language but to me it makes less sense in my mother-tongue. I therefore told my father what I've "just done," which is to finish a novel, and that I'll be going to London because blah-blah-blah. These are all tangibles I guess, easier to deal with than "writer" since really anybody can pull out a pen and sit with a paper and call themselves a writer. But anyway that's a different issue, the thing is I've always dreaded the moment - I mean my father and I did, after all, and along with some people, share the dream that I'd one day be a lawyer. But that was before I grew up and came to terms with what I was put in this world to do, before my first creative writing class that was followed by another and another and then another until I didn't know how to stop, before writing possessed me and wouldn't let me go like a jealous love. I imagine, being the smart man he is, my father had already figured out that particular dream got deferred (I mean I wasn't talking about law school or anything) but at the same time he must have been, and lol, probably still is wondering what I'm trying to do with my damn life. Writer. He didn't exactly address the news itself (I guess he was busy with important stuff that he was understandably mad about) though he did say at one point that he preferred to hear things from me first, lol, as if this whole writer business is actually a "thing" :) But yea, he was right, if it came from somewhere else it would have been a big production, and I realized that it could happen anytime so I had to come out quick. I must say he didn't freak out or anything (though I may find myself fielding questions down the road), but still my heart broke for him somehow. For his dream that never got to happen. Yes, my heart broke, though I know it didn't need to because I know he'll always be happy as long as I do my best. Hopefully when he reads my work in print, if ever it gets to that (he is a serious reader; that's where I got some my love for books and storytelling) he'll find it a worthy exchange. I can't wait to have him as a reader and critic though, this is the man who edited my first speech for a public speaking contest when I was at Njube High School. I remember I was twelve. I remember my speech was entitled "Wild Creations." I remember it went something like "The flowing waters of the Victoria Falls. A wide variety of animals, great and small. The trees. Beautiful birds, and the rivers running by..." I remember each night we stayed up after our humble supper, and after I'd done the dishes, to go over the speech. I remember the contest was held at David Livingstone and I came first in the juniors category. I remember my father was proud of me. I remember when I was in doubt my father was always there to look at my stuff, and that I came first in every public contest throughout my High School career. I remember that when I started writing poetry, perhaps because my instincts told me it was private business, I did not share it with my father. I remember, though, that when grandmother died I wrote a poem for her in my planbook and when I showed it to my father, hoping he's read and give me back my book on the spot, he kept the thing and took it ekhaya eGwanda. I remember not realizing the significance, but instead freaking out that my father would inevitably read my other stuff (that he wasn't supposed to read!). I don't remember him talking about the other poems upon his return (but I'm sure, because he read everything in sight, that he read the whole thing) but I remember him telling me he had read my grandmother's poem out loud at her grave, and how he was proud of me for writing it ― I doubt this is where I intended to go with this post, but hell, my father groomed and raised a writer wether he meant to or not. Thank you so much dad, I wouldn't be what I am. You know it and I know it....

... ghost

2011-06-06T01:11:00.003-04:00

Returning to old spaces, like this. I'm a ghost, yes. Driving down these empty streets. They were our poetry once. Do you know we lived and died here?

... road trip

2011-06-03T16:00:00.003-04:00

Chicago and Kzoo, here I come!

... Brenda Fassie in my yard (from the old blog, just coz I ❤ maBrrr)

2011-06-02T18:51:00.001-04:00

I was maybe in the third grade here, growing up at Ross Camp, black city of cops and coal, where I played in the dirt till I looked like I lived in sin, and my dad came from work and said things like "you know you are the dirtiest child enkambeni la?" ha-ha (sorry dad :) and I looked at him and thought "pshhhh, wharrrrrrrrever dude," where Sbho, before she became my best friend, kicked my ass real bad in a terrible fight that was never followed by any more fights, up until today I remember that childhood fight and swear never to fight again, us there, at Ross Camp, dancing to Brenda's Wedding Day downstairs, where those cats, Mzondi and Max took out their bangin' stereo and shyt went down every Friday and Saturday; dancing like we were getting paid, like dance would take us to heaven, rehearsing wedding steps for weddings we'd never be in... and there, when Brenda screamed "Halaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala!" we thrust our hands towards God and became smoother than butterflies in flight, me and onz with names like Bo, Esther, Murwira, Middy, Lorina, Ncane, Takwana, Muridzi, Hlanganani, Verona, Melissa, at Ross camp where we went to weddings at Blue Lamp and Beit Hall, where NaNqo and SaNqo had a wedding coming up and we stayed Fri-Sat-Sun, dancing our little asses off like we wanted our legs to break, at Ross Camp, where my sister Ke sang "Early on Monday morning, police arrested my brother-" and when years later I found out it was a Brenda joint I loved her more, her music even morer. Brenda. Ross Camp. Dancing. Living. Brenda. Never Die.

... view from my window

2011-06-02T18:21:00.002-04:00

I took these from my kitchen window sometime this past week; this guy could have been posing for me.

... the returned

2011-06-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

So I’m blogging again. School's out for three months, and while I've started a couple of projects that'll probably take a good chunk of my time, I feel the itch to do this. When I yanked my previous blog about a year ago the justification was that I was writing a novel and the blog was distracting. Any other person would have simply left it intact but apparently I'm not any other person. I knew I’d be cheating on my novel and time by coming back to the thing when I should've been doing real writing. It wasn't in vain though; I recently finished my manuscript. Goal met. Will I yank this one when the writing gets too demanding? Possibly. I hope this doesn't speak to how I'll deal with my children when I become a busy mom, but in the meantime, azikhiphe. Can I just say blogger has sexied it up while I was gone, I'm digging the templates and whatnot!