Chairman of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) Mallam Nuhu Ribadu yesterday (9 January 2007) vowed to stop any corrupt politician from contesting forthcoming general elections, saying that such persons can run but cannot hide.

Carry me softly through the night
On the slightest breeze hold me tight
Lest I be blown away
And from your side
Depart

In a world so torn and angry
Walk with me –hold my hand
I am a child in the eyes of your love
I shall stand back tenderly
And let all sorrow and fear depart

Let your tender sigh
Let the memory of you
Carry me softly
Through the night
Hold me
As I tenderly hold
The memory of you

• Victor Mavedzenge is a Harare base visual artist, comedian, poet and actor who was in the play Territory which was featured at the 2006 Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Writing in Zimbabwe seems to be experiencing an upsurge. There are obviously huge problems for publishers – few people have any spare cash to buy anything but the bare essentials for survival, and few bookshops in Zimbabwe stock any books that are not set school texts. Writers too are affected by the struggle for survival – paper and pens are expensive, let alone computers, which are beyond the reach of the majority, and there are few outlets for their work. But writers are writing, and publishers publishing.

Over the last three years, five collections of short writings have been published by two publishers: Short Writings from Bulawayo I, II and III from amaBooks and Writing Still and Writing Now from Weaver Press. This piece focuses on the Short Writings from Bulawayo series.

Many pieces in these anthologies document the effects of the crisis in Zimbabwe in stories and poetry. Writers are reflecting what they see happening around them day after day - the human suffering resulting from government policies. This is particularly pronounced in the most recent of these collections, Short Writings from Bulawayo III.

The effects of Operation Murambatsvina or ‘clear out rubbish’, where hundreds of thousands of people were made homeless, are seen through the eyes of those at the receiving end of the destruction in the work of Diana Charsley, in her short story Forgiveness, as their homes are razed to the ground.

It is not only the newer writers who record the present moment. Established writers like John Eppel and Albert Nyathi document, through poetry, record the destruction of communities and vendors losing their livelihoods. John Eppel in Sonnet with One Unstated Line:

‘Hear the cry of hornbills lost in yards
of rubble and rags, to split the ears
of those who stand and watch; and the guards
unguarded, hammering, hammering.’

and Albert Nyathi in Ode to Departed Writers:

‘Operation Murambatsvina came
With a large broom called bulldozer
And the new townships which were blessed
With the cutting of ribbons were all gone
Africa Unity Square had roses
And now it is clean again’

Writers are looking at issues hitherto largely avoided in fiction. In Thabisani Ndlovu’s powerful story The Boy with a Crooked Head, the violence inflicted on the people of Matabeleland during Gukurahundi is seen through the eyes of a child – ‘I wonder why Uncle Vikitha, a useless person, was made to disappear … by soldiers who looked like us but spoke our language in a funny way.’

Christopher Mlalazi’s id i weaves together, in a nightmare township landscape, the realities of Murambatsvina and the present hardships with the effects on a family of the atrocities committed in 1980’s Matabeleland: ‘My brother’s problem is not hereditary, it’s the army and what they did out there that did that to his head.’

Mlalazi again turns to Murambatsvina in his piece The Bulldozers are Coming, published in the 14 December 2006 edition of The Zimbabwean, where he documents the effects of the ‘clean up’ on a woman who miscarries.

The land issue appears in several stories. Catherine Buckle’s Full Circle in Short Writings from Bulawayo II shows the pain of dislocation experienced by both a white farmer thrown off her farm and a black woman subsequently thrown off her small plot on the same farm. Masimba Manyonga’s A Seed of Hope in the first Short Writings from Bulawayo details the hopes and the despair of an impoverished ex-combatant farmer as he journeys from his rural home to the streets of Bulawayo, where his finds evidence of economic breakdown wherever he looks. Fiction that documents what the writer sees happening around them is often more accessible than history and is able to capture the human story.

Even in the midst of the tragedy of Zimbabwe, there is still humour in the collections, in some of the township characters of Christopher Mlalazi and in the protagonist in Godfrey Sibanda’s The Coming. In The Coming, the narrator is unable to attend the Great Leader’s rally because of diarrhoea; his excuse is mocked by one of the youths who has the task of rounding up everyone to attend the rally: ‘The Great Leader is coming and you want me to believe there’s suddenly an epidemic in this town. And the epidemic only affects members of the Opposition Party.’ Mzana Mthimkhulu’s writings can always be relied upon to bring a touch of humour, such as in his depiction of an eager young boy in a school choir competition in The Concert.

However, poverty, despair, hopelessness, AIDS, loss, queues – the suffering of the people - are recurring themes in much of the writing. Juba, in Farai Mpofu’s story Whirlwinds, in Short Writings from Bulawayo II, walks the streets looking for, and failing to find, permanent employment, despite his qualifications. In the end, he decides to ‘rob three or four of those township dwellers, raise enough money to go to Johannesburg, and graduate into the world of crime.’

Ignatius Mabasa’s character in Paying to Die has ‘never had the guts to go and get tested.’ Instead, he seems ‘to have decided to help the disease he believes is there, by living carelessly.’ The mother, in Judy Maposa’s One by One My Leaves Fall, loses all four of her children. ‘One by one my leaves withered and fell. All dead. All gone.’

In Pentecost Mate’s Pay Day the people in queues ‘are mostly quiet because there is nothing left to talk about. They have talked about price rises, about shortages of basic commodities, about the changing laws and rules that govern them, about the taxes they pay…. They have talked about the fuel crisis … about power cuts, water cuts…. And about salaries below the poverty line, about the huge sums of money they owe….’

As would be expected, queues have become a ubiquitous topic. In John Eppel’s My Dustbin, poverty and hunger drive children to rifle through dustbins:

'These children have acquired the patience of queueing;
children of the neighbourhood; suburban;
queueing at my bin for a lucky dip.’

Phillip Chidavaenzi writing in the Sunday Mirror comments, ‘the economic hardships in Zimbabwe today continue to offer a fertile template for literary works. … (These collections of short writings) have given a whole new generation of Zimbabwean writers that could have remained in the wilderness the space to display their wares and in the process make their claim on Zimbabwe’s literary space.’

Many of the writers whose work was first featured in the Short Writings from Bulawayo series have gone on to ‘claim the space’: Christopher Mlalazi has had short stories published in the Edinburgh Review and in the Caine Prize anthology, The Obituary Tango, Deon Marcus’s poetry collection Sonatas has won first prize for poetry and drama at the Zimbabwe Book Publishers Association awards and for Best First Book at the National Arts Merit Awads, and several writers have had stories published in Writing Now and in other collections.

There will be more writing from many of the authors featured in the Short Writings from Bulawayo series to look forward to. Bryony Rheam, Christopher Mlalazi and Raisedon Baya have novels either completed or at the finishing stages, Thabisani Ndlovu and Mzana Mthimkhulu, amongst others, have collections of short stories awaiting publication. John Eppel has a new short writings collection, White Man Crawling, due to be published in 2007.

The writing of now is naturally a reflection of our times. A unifying theme in many of the stories and poems is loss – of livelihood, of innocence, of purpose, of freedom, of love, of belonging, of culture, of home, of country, of life. A reflection of our times. ‘Dreams shattered beyond repair.’ (Tawanda Chipato, from Hope, Short Writings from Bulawayo II)

• Jane Morris is an editor with amaBooks, publishers of Short Writings from Bulawayo I, II and III.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Chaltone Tshabangu interrogates the social role of women in traditional African marriages. Commenting on what is expected of women, Tshabangu writes: “A decent woman sits like this; legs tucked beneath her like so, or legs stretched out before her, thus. Always covered.”

Sit down Lulu, sit down. What time is it? Good. Thixo! You have been busy this morning, eh? Now, what have you done since daybreak? No, don’t tell me. I will tell you. You woke up at third cock-crow and made a fire in the kitchen. You heated bathing water for the children, swept the kitchen and washed the plates. That is good, daughter of my mother, except for one thing; those plates should have been washed yesterday. Hen-roaches must be forced to lug their shiny brown suitcases elsewhere. I must state the obvious, even if you dislike it – that saying about cleanliness and godliness? Thiiixo, where would we be without stating the obvious?

Sit up straight, Lulu! Ah! A decent woman sits like this; legs tucked beneath her like so, or legs stretched out before her, thus. Always covered. And never, never sit on a stool in the presence of men. Mother must be getting old. If you must sit on a chair, sit nicely, don’t squat or perch as if you are negotiating the hole of a pit-latrine, or sit as if there are thorns between your thighs. Do it! Now! Yes, like that. What is the use of a wife who sits as if she wants to trap the sun with her nether parts?

Right. You swept the yard, at the same time prepared porridge for the children. You bathed the children, dressed them up for school, watched them eat and saw them off. Good. Then you went to the river to collect water.

How many buckets did you bring? Three? Not bad, but not enough to fill up the drum. Anyway, you heated bathing water for father, went to the bush to collect firewood and now, you are preparing breakfast for everyone.

Admirable, daughter of my mother. Admirable. Except for one other thing; I never saw you, and I have been watching you closely, I never saw you wash either your face or, Jehova ka Shadreck lo Misheck lo Abednigo, your hands! You do right to squirm. I saw you go behind a bush. I don’t know what you did there. You know what you did there. You are a big girl now. A woman. Lulu, there is no point in being neat by half. Thiiixo! Everything is important, child of my mother; when to bath and how to bath, how often as well as changing your knicker and so forth. Hmm?

And, mntaka S’gugude, do something about your fingernails! Yeyi! You have been digging up roots or what? Look, that body of yours must be treated with respect, girl. And nobody else will do that better than yourself! Don’t treat your body with contempt, child. What use is reckless attention? Thix’! Treat it with respect and you will be amazed at what it will do for you. Hmm?

Yet I must warn you, mother’s child, it will not be easy. Yes, there will be long, sweet moments. You smile. Yes, smile. Keep smiling, sis. But, there will be long, terrible days too.

Everybody hates dirt, I think. Well, except for Vundla, who enjoys his home and wife inspite of what we both know. That woman is what is called inuku. Don’t laugh. I could say isinyefu, but that would be too severe. Besides, she is good hearted. God does not give you everything, nkazana. But the point is be …? Yes. Be clean. As clean as? There's my girl! No woman has a cleaner size nine.

Men detest badly cooked food. So do I. So do you. Do that and your food will get cold on the table. Ever heard the indaba called ‘The Slammed Door’? Perhaps not. Never mind. If you like talking, and I know you do, teach yourself to listen and consider your views. Nag him if you will, but at the right time, at the proper setting. Yes, there is a time for everything, even for nagging! It does get things done you know, sometimes. Overdo it, he will walk out of the house, the door is likely to be slammed and you may earn yourself tingling ears and a swollen upper lip. Besides, you never know what he might bring back; another beating or worse.

In marriage, winning isn’t everything. Besides, you can win, quietly, every time, without being like the pee of a drunkard about it. Always remember that. As for friends, well, you are a married woman now. Some friends are like Joel's boots, which stink worse when he's wearing them. Others are like honey - sweet to the tongue but the stomach can only take this much before it brings up what you ate during that drought. And yet others are like your own shadow - they will stay peacefully with you and you will never tire of them.

Need I say more? He will get you what you need, if he can, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing to waste. In fact, it will do you well to conserve, conserve, conserve, for that is life. Use your hands. I don’t think that your ambition is limited to being a mere ‘goal-keeper’. Be as independent as decorum allows and he will respect you more.

Oh, another thing, his relatives are your relatives. You will treat them no differently from your own. But, I have no fears for you in that respect.

You know him, he likes his beer. Be glad that he does not smoke. Ever been kissed by a combination of masese and Shamrock? Remember Joe, my Joe? Hee hee. Thixo! Don’t ask. However, remember; you can’t win everything.

As for bedroom matters, I have nothing to say but this; be clean. Each man takes to his bed with relish, unless he is sick or something is distracting him. Can be very energetic too, even by the standards of your age. Hee hee. You have been taught how to handle a man – I bet there is no better teacher than Aunty Eliza. Yes? Take it from me, the most ridiculous things that Aunty Eliza taught you are the most important! Hee hee. Now, that is a powerful tool you have there, sister. But you cannot use it to hold him at ransom. Weeeell, maybe once, but at your own risk. Oh, I suggest that you take a dish of water, a towel and soap. Never mind any peculiarities, as long as they don’t hurt you, or demean you. But, each man his madness. Have fun, that is what sex is all about. Hee hee hee.

Lulu, I suppose you are still… intact? What are you laughing at? I am serious! Of course it is important! Well, not very important I should think, but it has its advantages. What’s that you said? Oh, I don’t know, but it is important, somehow. It reflects well on our family, does it not?

The important thing, my sister - children. All marriages need children… everybody needs children, I think. If there is anything God believes in, it is children. Children, they are the only viable faith! I hope you understand. Life! Aaah!

Come here. Come outside with me. Look at all this, this parched selfish land that gives us sustenance grudgingly. Yet, is it that it is selfish? Is it that it is entirely barren? Completely inadequate for our dreams? No. Never! Why? Because we have grown up on inadequacy. We have grown strong on pain and pain has become something else, which we embrace with a smiling fortitude. Look at the sky above us, these trees and burnt grasses… this is home. All these things around us are prayer. Over there, the graves of our fathers, those mountains and the scorched river beds - our home, our prayer. We address our lives the same manner we address our ancestors; with prayer, with ancient resonances which the elements understand. All these things pray along with us. Winds blow and in a while, dust settles. There is a meaning in all these things; there is a meaning in what we seek to achieve. The occasional storm, laughter, pain, suffering, joy… joy… we lay our fears and tears at the feet of the most feared god… especially us, women, you and I. We are the lips, the tongue, the very mouth that fashions the words to move men and persuade gods. We are prayer. Like this land that brings forth, though grudgingly, we women must also bring forth, abundantly.

I pray that that prayer becomes the stuff on which your children, our children, will grow strong upon. Inhale with me, is this not fresh air? We make it fresh by our laughter, women laughter. We make this horrible land beautiful for our husbands, our parents, our children and even for those who have gone before us. So, sister, in making your man happy, you will also be making us happy and our prayer all the purer and certain to obtain blessings. We must seek happiness, for it will not come to us all the time.

Why am I repeating myself about prayer? Because it means that we are not alone. It also means that we cannot take our lives and the gifts we have been given, for granted. There are things we can be proud of, as mothers, and you are going to make a mother of us, yet. But, there is a pride that will never allow us to remain committed and sane enough to keep the family together. Beware. Also, there is a despondency which will not allow those who have not been given particular gifts to lead sane lives. I can no more shake my fist at the sky, spit on the graves of our ancestors than clap my hands for myself and tell my heart that I care not. I have realised that even though in my hands I cup a gift I have received quietly, I can only move on and hope.

Even though my hands remain cupped, as though I have received nothing yet, it is because of hope, not greed. I have also realised that it is possible to refuse what you have been granted. Fortunately I have also been made to realise that it is possible to turn whichever way and still remain insane - and that the insanity itself, could be a gift. So, I have accepted mine and my hands cup a different song entirely. But, enough for now.

Remember, even the juiciest mopani caterpillar has thorns. One day you will have children and one day, perhaps, you will be different. We must change, but it is our responsibility to let dogs eat their own vomit and not to help them lap it up. What I am trying to say… what am I saying? I am not trying, I am telling you this; one day there will be hate between us. It is to be expected. But it cannot be allowed to overshadow what we seek to do here. No matter what happens, I shall remain your sister. S’khova is a good man… in fact, he is far better than most men we know, certainly better than that boyfriend of yours whose major kick is njuga. Yes yes you part ways with that crook a long time ago but he lived for njuga anyway. And, I wonder how you managed to hold him off for so long, he must have been an insistent type that one. What was his name by the way? Almost? Almost what? Hee hee!

I know your man; he is a good man. His mother, well, you know her. His sisters, now. His sisters are mean, venous bats who will not hesitate to criticize and condemn. Don’t mind them. Their families broke down nineteen-long-ago, when animals could speak. Anyway, I will be there to help you.

Hand me that cup of water. Thanks. I talk too much eh? Daughter of my mother, I am glad of what you have decided to do. I am particularly grateful because it is you Lulu, and not somebody else, not any of our sisters but you. Thank you.

So, get ready woman, today you will meet your husband, my husband. Our husband. Hurry up, Thixx! You don’t want to keep your husband waiting, do you?

What if you what? Fail to have children? Sister, we will crawl beneath that bridge when we get to it. Move it, girl!

• Chaltone Tshabangu is a Bulawayo based writer. He has in the past participated in the British Council sponsored Crossing Borders project and last year was a joint winner of the BBC World Service Short Story Award.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

References:

The words in italics are from the Ndebele language:
Thixo – God.
Jehova ka Shadreck… - God of Shadreck, Misheck and Abednigo.
Mntaka S’gugude – child of S’gugude
Inuku – very lazy person, dirty.
Isinyefu – worse than inuku.
Masese – opaque millet beer.
Njuga – game of cards, bets are placed.

Christopher Mlalazi explores the consequences of dissent under an intolerant society. Through the lives of Bakithi and Bongani, Mlalazi outlines what it means to be a dissenter, the unintended effects this may have on the family of the dissenter and the tragic consequences that dissenters face in an undemocratic society.

They had been moving across the river for some time now, when, suddenly, Bongani threw his hands into the air, and his body disappeared with a splash under the water.

Bakithi’s heart lurched, and he heaved himself towards where Bongani’s head had disappeared. Just as suddenly, Bongani’s head and shoulders erupted out of the water in a shower of spray. He gasped and spluttered water. He was clutching his now dripping wet bundle of clothes to his chest. Bakithi gripped Bongani’s shoulder. In his left hand he also held an identical bundle. ‘What happened?’ he asked, his breathing heavy.

‘I slipped on a stone!’ Bongani cried out, his left hand wiping water back over his head.

‘Be careful,’ Bakithi said, then caution took over as he remembered that sound carried easily over water, especially at night, and his voice dropped lower. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

The moon disappeared behind a large chunk of scudding cloud, shaped like the head of a snarling lion, and complete darkness engulfed them. ‘Which way?’ Bongani’s voice asked from the darkness. A night bird shrieked above them, the sound amplified, as if the darkness had tried to do something terrible to it.

‘What do you mean?’
‘Which direction?’ Bongani’s voice was faint. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Me also.’
‘What are we going to do?’

The stricken moon re-appeared. Bakithi quickly looked around him. He thought he could see the two banks on either side of the moon washed river, darker smudges in the darkness ahead and behind them against the lighter sky.

‘I can see!’ Bongani cried out.
‘So can I,’ Bakithi’s voice was solemn.
‘So let’s get going!’
‘Which way? The banks look all the same to me.’

There was silence, and below it the drone of mosquitoes that relentlessly attacked their ears. ‘You are right,’ Bongani broke the silence. ‘And we have no time to lose - remember the crocodiles?’ He voiced both their unspoken fear. He looked at the surface of the water, trying to see underneath it – but it was as good as looking into a mirror. And the part of his body submerged into the water felt so exposed, as if it was hanging down into nothingness.

Bakithi did not reply. Instead, he reached for Bongani's free hand and gripped it in his. And so the twin brothers stood hand in hand in the moon-washed chest high water, drawing comfort from their physical contact, as they had once done so in the sacred waters of the womb. Bakithi looked up at the moon, as if trying to draw inspiration from it. It disappeared behind another cloud, as if to disassociate itself from their plight, plunging them into darkness yet again. A shooting star defiantly streaked across a gap behind the scudding clouds. Bongani whispered softly, his eyes on it, ‘Protection -!’ and the comet winked out.

‘What?’ Bakithi asked.
‘A shooting star,’ Bongani whispered.

‘I also saw it also,’ Bakithi whispered back. ‘But it disappeared before I could think of a wish.’ The moon appeared again. ‘Listen Bongani,’ there was an urgency in Bakithi’s voice. ‘I think I can feel the current. The river is flowing that way.’ He pointed with a finger. Bongani held his breath, and tried to feel the water with his body. Was it moving? It felt, and looked, still to him.

‘That is downstream,’ Bakithi was saying, still pointing. ‘The east. So, if you face downstream,’ he turned and faced his downstream. ‘The South African border is on the right hand side. Let’s go.’ Without warning, Bongani disappeared into the water again, this time silently. Bakithi instinctively grabbed out. His hand fastened on a wrist. He felt another greater force pulling the other way, the water churned, a scaled tail flashed above it -and his heart went cold. The moon disappeared.

Bongani’s head broke surface, he screamed, and disappeared again. Bakithi still clung to his arm with all his strength, now using both hands – he had cast his bundle of clothing away. Bongani’s screams tore up the night whenever his head appeared above the water. Overhead in the troubled sky, the moon quickly appeared from behind a smudge of cloud, bathing the world, and the grim battle in the river, one of many in the world, in its pale light.

Suddenly, the force pulling Bongani the other way ceased. The hard pulling Bakithi was caught by surprise, and he almost fell backwards. He pulled the hysterically screaming Bongani against his chest, and wrapped his arms around him. ‘Go that way!’ he yelled into Bongani’s ear, pushing him hard in the direction he assumed was the one they had come from, where lay home – he was no longer sure now - the home they were fleeing from, that, the last time they had seen it, had been in flames.

Three days previously, Bakithi had jerked to wakefulness late in the night, to the sound of loud singing outside his hut. A chill had crept down his back, for right away he knew. Sethu had woken up after him, and she had held his hand in a tight grip, the whites of her wide opened eyes showing in the darkness.

‘What is it?’ she had whispered, fear in her voice Their one year old child, Sipho, who slept next to the wall so he could not fall off the single bed, had started screaming shrilly. ‘Come out, sell outs!’ A voice had shouted above the singing. ‘We are dead,’ Sethu had announced.

The singing was now an uproar, and the earth resounded to the stamp of feet. Bakithi had stood up from the bed. He had groped for his trousers on the wall, where he hung them from a nail. He had taken the trousers and, as he was pulling it on, a whiff of smoke had reached his nostrils, and a familiar crackle. Shirtless, he had rushed to the door and flung it open.

His mouth had opened in shock. Across the yard, the roof of his twin brother’s hut was ablaze, orange flames that leapt joyously to the sky, lighting the yard and the singing crowd in gold. Some of them held flaming torches aloft, like initiates of a satanic cult. A fleck of soot had floated past his eye, and he had looked up.

‘Hayi aah!’ He had grunted in further shock. The thatch of the roof of his hut was ablaze too! He had gone back into the hut, the light from outside now casting a faint light into it. Sethu was scrambling into a dress. He had grabbed the screaming child from the bed, took Sethu’s hand and they had rushed outside, where they were immediately surrounded by the singing mob, most of them youths. His mother and two sisters, his twin brother Bongani, also shirtless, with his wife and two infant children, stood in the middle of this circle. Tears streamed down the cheeks of Bakithi’s mother.

An elderly man had stepped forward, carrying a pistol. Bakithi knew his name. He was called Ninja, the leader of the forest camp. The rest of the group also carried an assortment of weapons that ranged from stones, sticks to iron bars. Ninja was dressed in green military trousers tucked into boots, a black t-shirt, and a black beret. ‘You thought we wouldn’t know, dog!’ Ninja had addressed Bakithi. Sparks crackled above the flames that devoured the huts, seeming to reach out at the stars that blinked in disbelief from the sky.

‘Why are you burning my home?’ Bakithi’s mother, maSibanda, had cried out. ‘Because of these dogs,’ Ninja had spat, pointing his gun at Bakithi and Bongani. ‘They will see tonight, stinking sell-outs!’ One of the youths had unraveled a poster in front of Bakithi. On it was written in bold red letters; SAY NO NOW!

‘This is your work!’ Ninja had accused the twins. ‘You were seen. Deny it.’ He had cocked his pistol. The twins had not replied, but just looked sullenly at the poster, Bakithi rocking the crying baby against his naked chest. Bakithi’s mind had flashed to the other posters hidden in the forest. Posters he instinctively knew they would never put up again.

Ninja had smiled, a gap toothed smile. ‘Say no now,’ he had said, then seized a burning torch from one of the youths and walked towards his mother’s hut, which was still untouched by flame, the torch held above his head. ‘No!’ the twins, their two wives and maSibanda, had all cried out with one voice. Laughing, Ninja had thrown the flaming torch at the roof, and the dry thatch had immediately caught fire.

A sobbing maSibanda had watched her two boys led away by the militia, and she wept fresh tears for them. Her husband had been taken exactly the same way by the soldiers a decade and a half ago, and she never saw him again. And that man who had burnt her hut had been leading them, although younger then. She could not forget his face, especially that gap toothed leer. It was seared into her memory with the hot branding iron of rape. And the crime her husband had committed had been ‘harboring dissidents’, although the said dissidents had forced their way into their kraal, forced them to cook food for them, and then, after eating, had left - after threatening them not to say anything to the soldiers when they tracked them there. Her husband had told the soldiers all this - with a gun pressed to her head – when they had come the following day on the spoor of the dissidents, but still, they had taken him away, just like a lot of other villagers had been, after Ninja had pulled her into a hut and forced himself on her.

The twins were force marched by the singing mob away from the village, and deep into the mopani forest, boots on their posteriors urging them on. They passed darkened homesteads, dogs barked at them, stones were thrown at them by the youths, and finally, an hour later, they came to the camp. It was a hastily made pen of thorns bushes, a few weeks - and terror - old, and they were thrown inside it. A fire was burning in its middle under a fig tree, with some other youths sitting around it, passing a mug of what was obviously the local illicit brew around.

Their hands were lashed with ropes to overhanging branches of the fig tree. Then, the youths still singing loudly, and Ninja, now carrying a sjambok, had stood before them. ‘Who gave you the posters?’ he had asked Bongani first.

Bongani had not replied. Ninja had regarded Bongani silently for a moment, and then he had turned to Bakithi. ‘Who gave you the posters, my twin?’ Bakithi had also not replied.

Ninja had held up his free left hand, and a joint had been instantly pressed into it from behind. He had taken a deep hissing pull, his eyes still on the twins, then he had held up his hand and the joint had been taken away. His eyes had still not left the twins, as if sizing them. ‘I asked who gave you the posters?’ he had finally shouted. The twins had just looked sullenly at him without replying. ‘Water,’ Ninja had said, and, as if from nowhere, two youths carrying plastic buckets had stepped before the twins. They had thrown the water at the twins, drenching them, and then stepped back.

Then Ninja had whipped their upper bodies, one after the other, with the sjambok almost to tatters, all the while accusing them of being ‘fucking sellouts.’ Later, the tormentors had withdrawn from the pen, and closed the entrance with a thorn bush, leaving the twins still tied to the tree, almost unconscious with pain. As the night lightened to dawn, the drunken singing and arguing outside the pen had died down. The fire in the pen had also been reduced to a few glowing embers and ashes, but the twins, faced with the ugly reality of unceremoniously visiting the underworld, were still wide awake in their bonds.

Then a bush at the side of the pen had moved, and opened. Bongani had been the first to see it, and he had whispered at Bakithi to look in that direction. Then an old woman had crept in trough the gap. A superstitious terror gripping their hearts, the twins had watched her approach them. She had got nearer, and they had both recognized her. It was their mother’s sister Rebecca, a childless widow who lived alone in a nearby kraal. She was renowned in the village for not taking nonsense from anyone in the village, and conducted herself almost like a man. She carried a gleaming knife in her hand. Without any word to the twins, she had cut them free from the tree, and immediately fled out through the gap again, her skirts flying.

When the twins had cautiously emerged from the gap, she was nowhere in sight, and their captors were also out of sight on the other side. Two hours of hard running later, headed south away from the village, and the sun now risen to a bright morning, Bakithi and Bongani had stood shirtless under the shade of a mopani tree, sweat coursing down their bodies, stinging their whip wounds.

‘What are we going to do now?’ A worried Bongani had asked his twin. His mind was on their kin they had left behind in the burning kraal last night. ‘We have no choice,’ Bakithi had replied. ‘Let’s head for the border and follow the others across.’ ‘What about our families?’ But there was no answer from Bongani. A hard three days walk later, the twins were crossing the river.

Bakithi whirled around and faced the place where he thought the crocodile could be lurking. He was yelling and splashing the water with his hands, at the same time retreating slowly backwards. A whimpering Bongani desperately splashed away in the direction his twin brother had pushed him towards. His right leg felt not there, and a great big fire where he thought it had been.

Two hops away, and the yelling behind him suddenly stopped. He looked back in the moonlight Bakithi had disappeared. ‘Bakithi!’ he screamed hoarsely.

A great force thudded into Bongani’s left leg under the water. Teeth clamped on his knee, shattering bone, and he was violently twisted under. The last thing the young man saw was the silver eye of the moon silently watching him from the troubled sky.

• Chris Mlalazi is a playwright and fiction writer from Bulawayo. His work has been featured in the Crossing Borders project and several publications. His story, Broken Wings has been shortlisted for the HSBC/SA PEN Literary Award 2007.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Nyevero Muza relives the siege. “It was Kumarukesheni where the siege had assumed a brutal appearance. Those who had, when the times were still good, spread spurious roots into land they did not own and called that land equally pretentious names, or those who owned land by wartime credentials, were unceremoniously uprooted and their settlements instantly razed to the ground by ravenous fires or front-end loaders.”

As they poured into the school’s well-manicured grounds in their crispy winter uniforms, the children were blissfully unaware of the future that myself and others of my generation, as parents were conjuring up for them. In the sky a thick blanket hung, still smelling of years gone up in smoke.

The feeling of anxiety was unmistakeable, in spite of the laughter and chatter of a schoolyard. The siege was getting more pronounced by the day; seizing all those who tried to escape and throwing them right back into the centre. I turned my back on the school and commanded the car to join the slow, procession of other cars that unerringly and dutifully transported people from homes to their jobs in the offices and factories of Harare.

I inched forward until I discovered the cause of the agonisingly slow speed of traffic. An accident! A Nissan Sunny had smashed into the back of a VW. The owners, still unable to believe their joint lack of luck so early in the morning, were negotiating a truce at the side of the road. The police had been notified but having been informed that no one was injured, would probably turn up years later, panting from cycling Chinese-made “mountain bikes” to remove cobwebs from the scene of the accident and open a docket for yet another case of “driving without due care.

As I manoeuvred past the scene, taking care not to run over bits of broken glass and twisted metal on the tarmac, I promised myself that I should never have to find myself entangled in such a situation so early in the morning.

Further down, a snaking queue of motor vehicles of all shapes and sizes, now close to 2 kilometres long and still growing, was forming itself on the side of the road. The forlorn looks on the faces of the owners of the cars or their agents said that they were not looking forward to whatever they had joined the queue for. I traced the queue until it veered to my right and found its way into the police station where it disintegrated into several other smaller queues. The motorists were waiting their turn to be subjected to thinly veiled arrogance disguised as traffic policemen, which one had to contend with before having their car cleared. Those who knew someone or could pay the required amount of money did not have to deal with the queue; the policemen simply came to them.

As I eased the car into the road that would soon swallow me and throw me up right in the middle of the city centre, I saw people waiting alongside the road for anything with four wheels to rescue them from the tyranny of waiting, roadside dust and early morning sun. They thumbed for lifts, stretching their hands right into the road. I didn’t stop; they stared at me open-mouthed, unable to comprehend why a lone motorist should choose to abandon them like that. Didn’t I know that they had money to pay me for my troubles? Didn’t I know that they had jobs to go to too, and bosses to contend with when they eventually arrived late for work, as they were bound to? Didn’t I know that they too had, like me, families to feed?

On the other side of the road, women from the market waited with their prized assorted wares – tomatoes, shrivelled vegetables, onions, avocado pears, maputi – which they hoped to sell at a profit at small stalls back in the kumarukesheni and eke out an honest living for their families. Soon an old battered Peugeot 504 would pull up and inexplicably gobble all of them and their wares and take them back to a more familiar environment.

It was Kumarukesheni where the siege had assumed a brutal appearance. Those who had, when the times were still good, spread spurious roots into land they did not own and called that land equally pretentious names, or those who owned land by wartime credentials, were unceremoniously uprooted and their settlements instantly razed to the ground by ravenous fires or front-end loaders. Now these people carried their battered egos, some in their hands, some in hired trucks and yet others in ubiquitous pushcarts as they receded to the barrenness of rural homes to stare defeat in the face and face an uncertain future.

And there were the policemen keeping peace. Every tenth person you saw was one.

I expected getting into the city centre to provide some sense of relief for my harangued nerves, but the city itself was a sorry sight. It had been relieved of what the owners of the country - the murambas3 of this world called tsvina4: flea-market operators, black market foreign currency dealers, drug peddlers, flower vendors, street kids, prostitutes and common criminals all in one fell swoop.

Flea markets that had once been teeming with all manner of life were now deserted, empty shells that told a story. Hopes and dreams had been ambushed by a merciless clean up exercise and hounded to the periphery of possibility.

The erstwhile sellers of everything from cellular phones, cellular phone pouches, chargers, imitation trainers and oversized FUBU jeans had since retreated to nondescript corners to ponder their next move. What had once been flea markets were now flee markets, patronised by imperious policemen with jackboots, bloodshot eyes and uncompromising baton sticks. They had an attitude and knew how to use it. They turned everything upside down in search of foreign currency but found none.

Now all was quiet and all form of life was gone. The streets were empty, if not for the march of nine-to-fivers, who approached their sweatshops with a sense of trepidation.

I parked the car in the basement, amongst the neat rows of other cars whose owners were still lucky to have fuel, now a precious commodity that sent big men from pillar to post, from Q to Q at the behest of an SMS or a quick telephone call. My own car was fast running out of fuel and there was no telling which Q it was leading me to.

At the foyer, there was an impatient mass of people whose attention was intently focused on the only elevator that was still working – the other three had been cannibalised for spare parts to keep the one elevator going. When the elevator eventually turned up, the mass of people jostled to get inside, just as they did with the ETs.7 As the elevator door closed, it shrieked in despair.

I opened the door to the office to find that only one person had arrived. The rest were probably still stuck in some Q somewhere, wishing they would never have to go anywhere if it took so much trouble. As I sat at my desk at 0830hrs to tackle my share of the day, I could see the sun setting. The only light I could see was somewhere far away, beckoning frantically for someone to see it.

• Nyevero Muza is a Harare based writer and poet.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Stanley Makuwe looks at what it means not to have access to basic services from a point of view of dead people. Through a dialogue among corpses in a mortuary, Makuwe criticizes a government system that disregards the poor, while simultaneously, exposes a rotten system that rewards unscrupulous politicians whose only concern is to fly around the world and shop at the most expensive boutiques.

“What brings you here?” an old voice asks from the top shelf. A maggot crawls on the old body’s face.

“We are all dead. That’s what brings all of us here,” bellows a young voice.

“Is that how you speak to your elders? Young men of today have no respect. That’s why you die young. Long ago no-one of your age would be seen in places like this. We were healthy and strong like oxen pulling a yoke. Look now, how many of your age do you see around here? You die before you grow pubic hair, while you still have breast milk on your noses.”

Another voice groans and says, “Thank you for starting the conversation. Anyway what brings you here old man?”

The old body clears its throat before saying, “I have no family. I divorced my wife and she went away with my son. My parents said, ‘you are now a grown up bullock, you have to graze for yourself,’ then I left their home to look for a job here in the city. You have to know someone to get a job in this country.

For me I knew no-one. I was left homeless and jobless. I slept under bridges for many years. The cold weather kicked me to death. Someone found me dead and informed the police who bundled my decomposing corpse into a metal coffin and brought it in here.

“Government people appeared on the front pages of newspapers, on radios and television talking about the things they said they were doing for the people – donations of food and clothes to the needy, building houses for the homeless, providing free medical treatment to the underprivileged. But they had no money to look after a useless old horse.”

The stench in the mortuary almost chocks the dead bodies to a second death.

“You would put them out of budget. Fuel is now too expensive. Better one old man dies than having ten BMWs grounded,” a young body with says.

“No-one has turned up to claim my body,” the old voice continues, “we are becoming overcrowded in here. Do you think the president knows we are here? He is a great man, that president of ours. He wouldn’t let us suffer. Lucky are those who died when milk and honey were still flowing in the rivers of this country. I feel sorry for those who will die in ten years’ time. Sometimes I feel you are lucky, young men. You died at the right time, when there was still space in this mortuary.”

To the body on the floor, “what killed you?”

“Nurses and doctors went on strike for pay rise. The government said they had no money because they wanted to buy bulletproof vests, handcuffs, bulletproof cars, tear gas and batons, and to train more police dogs. Apart from that, the president was abroad attending to very important matters so they had to wait for his return so he could decide how much increment the medical staff would get, if they were going to get any. I heard he wanted to return but his wife said she wanted to do her shopping so he had to wait and help her carry her shopping bags. You see, he is a busy man.”

“They held fruitless talks while we took turns to die. It started in the first cubicle. I was in the fifth cubicle. I thought by the time death got to me the medical team would have returned to work but I was wrong. I held on for a while but in the end gave up. I couldn’t wait any longer. I woke up dead one morning.”

“We are piling up. I don’t know if my family will find me in this place. Who said hell is somewhere up there?”

The doors slide open. Deafening silence fills the whole mortuary. The sound of a poorly oiled cart breaks the silence, followed by heavy foot-steps and a thud, signaling the arrival of another dead body. The doors slam shut and the sound of the broken wheels slowly fades away.

“I can see a child. Why are you here little one?” enquires the old body.

“I fell sick. My mother took me to clinic. Nurse said I was too sick and I had to be transferred to the district hospital. There was no ambulance. Father put me in our scotch-cart.” The door opens again. More bodies are rolled on the pile. Other bodies shout words of welcome before the child continues.

“When we got to the district hospital doctor said I must go to the provincial hospital. There was no fuel for the ambulance. Mother took me there by bus. People were staring at me and mother. The whole bus was whispering about my sickness. At the provincial hospital they said I must go to the central hospital. We took another bus. When we arrived there was a long queue of very sick people waiting for their hospital cards to be stamped. Mother asked for permission to jump the queue. ‘You must have brought your child early. We are all sick here,’ a man shouted at her in a harsh voice.

“Our card was stamped but not before mother paid all the money she had been left with. We waited for doctor. When he came he examined me and said I needed an x-ray for my chest. We had to wait for the next day for the x-ray department to open. When it opened we were told that the x-ray machine was not working. We went back to see doctor. There was yet another long queue. At last we saw doctor. He wrote some medication. We went to the pharmacy and we were told the medication prescribed by doctor had been out of stock for many moons,” the child’s voice pauses as a fly buzzes around her body.

“Mother broke down and cried, ‘what do you want me to do with my baby. Help my baby please. She is dying. Help her please.’ ‘What do you want us to do? It’s 4 o’clock, we are closing now,’ the woman at the pharmacy said to my mother before she shut the pharmacy doors. She had no mercy in her voice. And I am here today.”

A rat runs across the mortuary. Female bodies scream but other bodies pay no attention. Women.

“Your story, child, sounds like mine. I lost cattle, goats and chicken trying to be treated. I went to witch-doctors and spiritual healers. One of the witch-doctors told me my brother’s wife had bewitched me. He took frogs and lizards out of my chest and bathed me in chicken blood. My brother divorced his wife.

One of the spiritual healers said my uncle had bewitched me because he was jealous of my successful life. He gave me cooking oil to add to my bathing water. It didn’t help. Finally, I came to this hospital. The doctors gave me water through the veins. I was semi-conscious when I heard one of them saying to the other, ‘these are AIDS symptoms.’ Days later I was dead.

“I had money. Real money. Not a few dollars in the bank but millions that could buy me anything in the world. I spent it with women of all sizes and colours.”

“I died when I was drunk,” a faint voice whispers. His eyes are wide open, staring at the derelict roof of the mortuary. “I was beaten to death by young men dressed in green. They said I was a supporter of the opposition coming from a party meeting.”

A woman’s voice interrupts, “I was a strong member of the Women’s League. One of those women who wrap around cloaks with the president’s face printed on them.”

The voice starts singing a song of revolution.

Handei Handeiwo
Handei tinoitora
Nyika ndeyeduwo
Handei tinoitora
Ivhu ndereduwo
Handei tinoritora

(Let us go and take the country. It is ours. Let us go and take the land. It is ours.)

It is a hive of activity as mortuary attendants take turns to bring in more bodies, fresh bodies, some with blood dripping down their faces to the cold floor. The mortuary attendants pinch their noses as they walk into the mortuary. The opening of the door brings in some fresh air making the bodies feel refreshed.

“You deserve to be at the heroes’ acre, woman,” an invisible body shouts from the far end of the mortuary.

“No, I do. I was a war veteran. A liberator of my people,” an angry male voice says.

“We both do,” the woman’s voice reasons, “we must be buried at the Heroes’ acre. I don’t think our president knows we are here. The president wouldn’t allow this to happen. Someone hasn’t informed him. Do you think the minister of information informed him?”

“How can you expect him to inform you about a place he has never been before?”

“Before I died I heard from someone that he is a busy man. He has a demanding job that keeps a minister busy.”

“What kind of a job is that?”

“It’s one of the greatest jobs in this part of the world. It’s about talking the truth on radios, televisions and in newspapers. You have to be a professor to hold such a high post.”

“Someone told me the minister of information has another job in the government as a spin doctor. You see, he is a minister and also a doctor. He is too busy to inform the president about dead people rotting somewhere in a mortuary.”

“Spin doctor!” exclaims a surprised voice, “what kind of a doctor is that?”

“You don’t know?” asks another surprised voice, “a spin doctor is the president’s personal doctor. He treats him of the stresses caused by being a president.”

“Doctors of today,” says the old voice, “let people die in hospitals while they work in government as ministers of information. They have no ethics anymore. Look at that girl’s nose. It’s rotting. If things go on like this, we will march on the streets. We can mobilize all other bodies in other mortuaries. We have to speak with one voice. Our ancestors said one finger cannot kill lice. Just imagine dead bodies marching on the streets demanding fair treatment in the mortuaries.”

A huge applause.

“You have spoken, old man,” the young voice says, “your mouth has spoken. You are wise, I must admit. We must not only protest for fair treatment in mortuaries. We must also protest for fair treatment of our living families.

They have been suffering for too long. The leader of this country is taking them nowhere. If it were not for his mismanagement of the country we would still be alive. Those with no wisdom believe he is a great leader but the truth is this country has been brought down to its knees by this man. I want him out of office. How, I don’t care. As long as we kick him out. The living ones have failed to push him out. It’s now our turn, the dead, to do it.”

“I support you, my friend,” says another young voice, “if we start our own opposition party we can easily win elections just like that. People want change. They don’t care who brings the change, as long as the president goes. They are prepared to vote for anyone or anything, even if it means voting for a donkey.”

“You must be joking,” says the female voice, “who would vote for a dead people’s party?”

“Other dead bodies will vote. In this country dead people are more than the living ones. If all the dead bodies vote we can win. Imagine this country being run by dead bodies!”

“You must be dreaming in your everlasting sleep. The country would be dead too.”

“It’s dead already, killed by a living person.”

Huge applause and laughter.

Five more bodies are thrown in. The old body asks loudly, “What brings you here young people?”

“Don’t you know there is a civil war going on out there? Can’t you hear the sound of AKs and landmines?” says a bleeding body, its voice full of fury.

“Are you saying you have just died? What for? For your masters? You die while they are busy holding endless meetings in five-star hotels.”

The old body starts to weep, bringing grief to the whole mortuary. As the bodies wipe their tears from their lifeless cheeks, a thin and malnourished body is brought in. It wastes no time in making its voice heard.

“My, my, my, I wish you knew what’s happening out there. There is a drought with a mouth full of long teeth; it is biting and killing the old and the young. Our leaders said the granaries are now empty. They are surviving by shopping overseas. We, the poor, can’t afford to shop overseas. Only two days ago, before I died I heard that our very own president took his family to a far country for shopping. Him and his wife and two children took a two hundred sitter jet to fly to the far country to shop. They diverted the route of the plane so that they could use it to carry their groceries. Those who saw it returning said it was full of groceries, even on the roof, like a bus going to the village.

“We, the poor, wait everyday for death to knock on our doors. It knocked on mine. I said to it, ‘come in,’ because I had no choice. I had nowhere else to send it because it had claimed the lives of my loved ones. My children died. We buried them last week. I died this morning. Only the strong survive out there. If the civil war misses you, drought makes sure it does not, or it leaves you devastated.”

“I wish I was a government official,” a tearful voice speaks, “I heard they have a nice mortuary. I heard it’s a mansion of a mortuary. A palace. The bodies bath and dress in suits. They get the most expensive chemicals, oxygen, perfumes and three main meals and snacks in between.”

To another decomposing body, “Hey, you have been quiet. Why are you not talking? Are you happy with your dead life?”

“I listen and take information.”

“Are you a newspaper reporter?”

“No, I am a member of the government’s secret agent. The way you are talking compromises the security of the country. I am not warning you again!”

Fear grips the whole mortuary and there is dead silence.

• Stanley Makuwe is a Zimbabwean writers based in Auckland, New Zealand. His short story collection, Under This Tree & Other Stories, was published last year by Polygraphia. He is also last year’s runner up for the BBC World Service Short Story Award.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Following US attacks in Somalia this week, Issa Shivji argues that Africans have constantly warned of the American military design on the Eastern seaboard of Africa.

On 9th January 2007, while we were basking in the limelight of Dr Migiro’s appointment, BBC reported that an American Air-Force AC-130 jet had bombed a site in Somalia near the Kenyan border. The excuse was the usual one – to destroy alleged Al-Qaida agents who, the Americans have constantly propagandized, are part of the Union of Islamic Courts. The planes flew from an American air base in another African country, Djibouti.

This is a very, very ominous turn of events. Africans have constantly warned of the American military design on the Eastern seaboard. Yet, our “leaders” have thoughtlessly been currying favour with this vicious military power. In the horn, the heavily militarized Ethiopia has become their ‘on the scene agent’, doing the dirty work of the American warmonger.

First, the Americans pushed through a Security Council resolution to send an African peace-keeping force to Somalia. This was only a cover; anyone could have seen it. The most important part of that resolution was not so much the peace-keeping force but the lifting of the United Nations (UN) embargo on arms sales to Somalia. The resolution provided some legitimacy – albeit fig-leaf - to the Ethiopian military presence in that war-torn country. Unilaterally, with of course the green light from the US, Ethiopia invaded Somalia ostensibly in support of the so-called Transitional Federal Government (TFG).

The TFG is a cruel joke. It is made up of former warlords who have kept the murderous killings alive in Somalia for the past 15 years. These warlords are supported by the US and the Ethiopians. It has simply no base in Somalia. No government in Somalia with even little roots could have ever allied with Ethiopia, which is essentially an occupying force.

Regrettably, Tanzania co-sponsored the Security Council Resolution. Worse, Tanzania is the only African country which is a member of the American sponsored International Contact Group. The other members are the US, UK, Norway, Sweden, Italy and the EU. The AU, Arab League and Kenya attend as observers. The contact group ploy was clearly meant to by-pass the Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD). No wonder Kenya was angered when Tanzania, without proper prior consultations with Kenya, agreed to be part of the Contact Group.

Ethiopia broke ranks with IGAD when it invaded Somalia. The US broke ranks with the Contact Group when it struck Somalia. So much for regional and international collective peace-keeping!

Who authorized the US to strike deep into Africa’s heartland? Let us not be taken in by the so-called Al-Qaida presence. This is not the first time the Americans are telling a blatant lie. They did it in August 1998 when Clinton ordered his cruise missiles to attack the al-Shifa Pharmaceutical plant in Sudan. The Americans said it was producing VX gas. In reality, it was producing medicine. Clinton knew it, but human lives, except American, matter little to US presidents. Again, Bush told a lie that Saddam was hiding weapons of mass destruction. He told another lie that Saddam was connected with terrorists. We have seen the results.

If we keep quiet about American military planes flying over African skies, they will paint our lands red with blood. Within less than a decade, the Americans have razed two countries to the ground, allegedly in search of terrorists. This air-strike is a curtain raiser to expand the Middle East War theatre to Africa. We forget this only at our peril. The US ‘war on terror’ is worse than the proxy-hot wars that the US instigated on the continent during the Cold War era. Now, it is fomenting and instigating civil wars in which Africans will fight Africans, not only across borders but within borders – Muslims against Christians, moderates against extremists, radicals against liberals. It does not matter to them. During the Iran-Iraq war Kissinger quipped: “Let both houses burn”! And when asked about the death of half a million Iraqi children due to sanctions, Madeline Albright shamelessly intoned: “It is worth the price”.

The US has just announced the formation of an African command within its military forces to “train African troops” to hunt down terrorists (meaning our own people). The truth is, and the American spokesmen and women say it openly – that the command has been set up to protect oil resources as 25 per cent of US oil needs come from Africa.

Somalia today has all the ingredients of becoming the next Afghanistan or Iraq. God forbid! The people of Africa must rise up to condemn the American strike without reservations. The youth of Africa must understand that the MacDonaldisation of the world is accompanied by MacDonnelisation [MacDonnel Douglas is an American firm supplying defense needs.]. Don’t be mesmerized by globalization.

Globalization is the most militarized phase of imperialism, just as it is the beastly face of capitalism.

• Issa Shivji is a retired law professor.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

Brian Chikwava comments on the literature of Zimbabwe. "Thankfully, in spite of or because of the difficulties that Zimbabwe is going through, the turn of the century has seen a quiet adjustment in the publishing of fiction, giving new voices a better platform to be heard," writes Chikwava.

One can argue that great literary works are rarely about good sentences or syntax. Given a good literary mind, these are insignificances that will normally sort themselves out. More often than not, it is the pulse of the mind behind a piece of work that either turns it into a shoddy bundle of words, or a creation that will find resonance across cultures and connect people’s experiences in ways unenvisaged before. Such minds have been seen in geographically disparate corners of the world: Nawal el Saadawi in Egypt; Augusto Roa Bastos in Paraguay; Abdullah Hussein in Pakistan; Ngugi Wa Thiong’o in Kenya; Boris Pasternak in the Soviet Union; Steve Biko in South Africa; the list is endless.

Whilst this is a literary pantheon that many a Zimbabwean writer can only dream about belonging to, one hopes that perhaps an urgent pulse is entering the work of Zimbabwean writers, both established and the upcoming writers.

Thankfully, in spite of or because of the difficulties that Zimbabwe is going through, the turn of the century has seen a quiet adjustment in the publishing of fiction, giving new voices a better platform to be heard.

In this regard there has been amaBooks’ Short Writings From Bulawayo, Volumes I to III, Weaver Press’ short story anthologies Writing Still and Writing Now, of which a natural progression ought to be Writing Nervous, for it is a nervous pulse that beats beneath the face of any Zimbabwean, be it a writer or a crack lipped mother in the rural areas who knows first hand the kind of tricky relationship a child can have with its empty stomach, or a nurse in diaspora who dreads the text message from her family asking her to wire more money back to their family who find themselves increasingly unable to look after themselves in an economy ravaged by inflation, the unemployed citizen who braves the aquatic predators of the Limpopo to become an illegal immigrant in South Africa, or the firebrand intellectual who dabbled in utilitarianism of a Stalinist variety – advocating the tearing down of the social fabric and national institutions in the name of the final revolution, the third chimurenga – and now finds him/herself sitting at his/her desk; pondering the question of again cutting whatever is left of our national nose to show what we are capable of when push comes to shove. All are in a nervous condition; all are hostages. That includes the president himself, who held hostage by his own will, is nervous about the future. Nervous because although he may have seen the moral shallowness of imperialism, colonialism, global capitalism and mutations of such, far from raising himself above such moral conventions, he continues to live in a moral depravity that he makes up for by exercising brutal power over ordinary citizens. His would be a fascinating contribution to Writing Nervous.

That Zimbabwean writers of wildly differing opinions, whether inside or outside the country, find themselves moved to commit pen to paper in larger numbers, is a healthy development for Zimbabwean literature. And it is perhaps fitting and natural that such developments should be accompanied by the appearance of the above mentioned short story anthologies that have given new writers platforms to be heard. Gone are the euphoric and rather innocent days when the unknown short story writer had to look to the magazines Parade and Moto or the Sunday Newspaper supplements to cut their teeth.

Those were the days when Auntie Rhoda, Parade Magazine’s famed agony aunt, had the answers to all the citizens’ questions, from the challenges of living with alcoholic husbands to handling bad tempered mothers in law who were going through ‘…a mental pause’ (sic). Today the social pulse is a different one, the questions are bigger and perhaps true of Cameroonian scholar Achille Mbembe’s view of many a post colonial African country: ‘…a reality that is made up of superstitions, narratives and fictions that claim to be true in the very act through which they produce the false, while at the same time giving rise to both terror, hilarity and astonishment.’ No doubt there are still issues that Auntie Rhoda would still be able to take in her stride, but even she would probably quiver at the thought of an impending whack on the head were she to give answers that are sympathetic to one political ‘truth’ at the expense of another. Because of this, it is appropriate that some of the tricky questions be dealt with in these recent short story anthology series; the conversation can no longer be with Auntie Rhoda, but amongst the writers themselves.

Perhaps due to these and other developments, new writers have come into visibility, myself included. These include Stanley Mupfudza, Gugu Ndlovu, Andrew Aresho, Edward Chinhanhu, Chris Mlalazi and Lawrence Hoba among many.

Some have come into the public eye through the British Council’s Crossing Borders programme, amongst them, Chaltone Tshabangu, Adrian Ashley and Blessing Musariri, while from the diaspora poet Togara Muzanenhamo, Stanley Makuwe and Petina Gappah (who was recently shortlisted for the 2007 HSBC-SA PEN Literary Award along with Chris Mlalazi) are emerging. And to add an urbane and gritty realism to this cacophony of voices is a gang of spoken word practitioners like The Teacher, Manikongo, Lucius, Comrade Fatso and Mbizo who, through their performances at The Book Café poetry slams have over the years been creating another row in the choir, right behind such seasoned performance poets like Chirikure Chirikure and Ignatius Mabasa.

The names mentioned here are only a handful picked from many equally good writers. In the years to come, some will be able to tap into the national psyche and produce inspired and great works, while many more of us, will be lost in the fog of our condition. Today, with the aid of digital chatter, our perceptions of our epoch are set to multiply dizzyingly, and from this heap of words, facts, fictions, sophistries and startling lies, one hopes that something will emerge, something that will at least measure up to the past works of names such as Charles Mungoshi, Tsitsi Dangarembga, Yvonne Vera, Chenjerai Hove or Shimmer Chinodya. No doubt, the hurdles ahead are many, and the intellectual demands on the writer or poet of today are greater. Whereas yesteryear it was enough to talk of Zimbabweans’ suffering in the colonial era and during the war, today it is the fictions of liberation that must be put under scrutiny; it is time to ask harder questions, and perhaps soberly consider, creatively enquire and consider in our own different ways, such assertions as those of Czech born playwright Tom Stoppard who in reference to communism in Eastern Europe suggested that ‘…revolution is a trivial shift in the emphasis of suffering.’ To question continuously, put one’s finger on a nation’s pulse and at the same time hold the mirror to its collective face without flinching, one imagines, is the staff of works whose worth is not only judged by syntax or the number of adverbs.

This issue features work by some of the writers/poet mentioned here, who in their own ways, are questioning and revealing today’s Zimbabwe. In Chris Mlalazi’s story, choices evaporate, Chaltone Tshabangu revisits the hilarities of the traditional matrimonial arrangement, Nyevero Muza relives the siege, while in Stanley Makuwe’s story, the undead mothers, fathers and children of the revolution, threaten insurrection. In his poem, Mass Murdering Silence, Victor Mavedzenge (a.k.a. Lucius) is carried by tender memories. There is also some inspired poetry from the Book Café’s poetry slams on the accompanying podcasts.

• Brian Chikwava, is a Zimbabwean writer who lives in London. In 2004 he was the winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing and is currently is working on a novel alongside a short story collection.

• Please send comments to or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

The head of the United Nations, Mr Ban Ki Moon, picked Tanzania's Foreign Minister as the first woman UN Deputy Secretary General on Friday. Asha-Rose Migiro takes over the post previously occupied by Britain's Sir Mark Malloch Brown.

After the elections and the dawning of a new political era in the DRC, MONUC will commence a new redeployment of troops in western DRC. Lt. Col. Didier Rancher, the MONUC military spokesperson, explains this redeployment.

Exactly two years ago, the Sudan government and the southern rebels Sudan People's Liberation Army (SPLA) struck a peace accord, halting a bloody north-south war in Africa's largest country. The historic signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) brokered by Kenya in January 9, 2005, in Nairobi, silenced the guns in one of the longest armed conflicts in the continent that spanned over two decades.

As predicted, the planned meeting between Action Congress and All Nigeria Peoples Party (ANPP) slated for Tuesday (9 January 2007), in Abuja, failed to take place. The parley was to strengthen the alliance between the two in the calculations for April general elections.

The international community should continue its support for the new government in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) to help it overcome serious security and political challenges, the International Crisis Group (ICG), a Brussels-based think-tank, said on Wednesday (10 January 2007).

Less than a week after a previous head of Guinea-Bissau’s navy was assassinated, a former prime minister has taken refuge at the United Nations compound in the capital, Bissau, after the government issued a warrant for his arrest.

I read with great interest the article ‘Niger Delta: Restoring the rights of citizens’ (http://www.pambazuka.org/en/category/features/38222) by Ike Okonta on the Niger Delta crisis. One thing, however, left me with some doubt about the explanation provided by the author for a very complex situation.

The author does not mention that one of the MEND requests is that Nigerian authorities release former Bayelsa State Governor Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, jailed on corruption charges. His story should be well known in the UK since he managed to escape from house arrest in that country while under guard for money laundering.

It is difficult to believe that such requests can be in line with the principle or idea of "bringing the civic back in".

Probably one of the reasons why Oporoza (or other villages in the Delta) is in the condition described by the author is because the money which was supposed to be used for development was instead used by the Bayelsa (and other state governors) to build mansions in the UK, USA or South Africa, and to build refineries (in the case of Alamieyeseigha) in Latin American countries.

The situation in the Niger Delta is not so clear and the links between so called militant groups and the corrupt government officials is not very well understood. So the claim of MEND militants being political subjects forced to pick up AK47’s to restore their rights as citizens is, in many instances, questionable.

The United Nations secretary-general has expressed concern that US air strikes in southern Somalia could increase hostilities and harm civilians. Ban Ki-moon's warning came as The Associated Press news agency reported more US attacks on suspected al-Qaeda fighters in the country on Tuesday (9 January 2007).

Using a comparative lens, this paper explores the challenges encountered during efforts to pursue justice in a number of sub-Saharan African countries in transition. For example, in many cases domestic prosecutions are neither systematic nor timely, partly because of the poor judicial capacity.

During 2006 the number of blogs by Africans at home and in the Diaspora more than doubled. However, they are still the least applied of all the emerging technologies (email, listserves, forums and IM) largely due to cost, slow internet speeds and a general unawareness of the medium. Despite this, African blogs have been able to challenge governments on issues such as corruption, human rights, economic policy and social justice in their respective countries (often anonymously) in ways that could not have been possible without risking arrest or harassment in the past.

Sites such as the ‘Kenyan Mzalendo’ site which was set up to monitor the activities of the Kenyan parliament; ‘Kenyan Unlimited’, a Kenyan community of blogs; and the ‘African Women’s Blogs’ created as a collaborative site for African women bloggers are all examples of innovative uses of blogging technology. Many of the personal blogs have become sites of expertise on technology in Africa (White African), human rights and social justice (Black Looks and This is Zimbabwe), African literature (Wordsbody), political commentary (Chippla’s Weblog and Kameelah Writes); chronicles of the daily activities and lives of HIV/AIDS patients and carers (Nata Village Blog) and many more.

This year’s first roundup kicks off with some commentary on the recent execution of Saddam Hussein as viewed by African bloggers.

Gambian blog, 'Home of the Mandimories' - Barbarity, () is scathing in his criticism of the execution and the reasons behind the war in Iraq and the cost in lives (thousands and thousands of Iraqis and 3000 US soldiers and money ($3trillion to date).

“We invaded Iraq to convict Saddam Hussein, so we could execute him by tying a nose around his neck. What a barbaric act. But hey, it makes for cool television and the ratings are sky rocketing…The lives lost and the dollars spent to get us there? They were totally worth it, weren't they? I mean, s***, even if we don't get another darn thing out of being stuck in this God-forsaken hellhole, we got to see Saddam swingin' from the end of a rope, brother. Woo-HOO. That is what our boy king wanted all along. What a sad act.”

Kenyan blogger, 'Thinkers Room' - (http://www.thinkersroom.com/blog/2006/12/they-shouldnt-have-hanged-saddam/)also disagrees with the hanging but for different reasons:

“Most importantly, Saddam did very many unspeakable things in his long and un-illustrious rule. The only person who knows all the grisly things Saddam Hussein did in great detail is Saddam Hussein. And now that he is dead, all that information is lost as well. There are things that Saddam did that we will now never know. As Saint Peter looks over his books Saddam must be thinking Who’s laughing now?’”

Both points of view are valid, in my opinion, but I would add that the crime Saddam was tried and hanged for was one of the few that did not implicate the US and other Western governments – he should have been tried for the mass murder of 5000 Kurds or his murderous activities during the Iran/Iraq war; he should have been tried in the International Court and not in Iraq. Furthermore, the trial was a sham and the execution disgusting. Thankfully because of the illegal phone video we all got to see what really happened at the moment of death – and who comes out looking like the decent guy in all of this? Saddam who until the end was dignified and somehow the barbarism that surrounded his death made HIM seem the human one! Ironic.

For 'Egyptian Chronicles' - Is This Islamic Ethics (http://egyptianchronicles.blogspot.com/2007/01/is-this-from-islamic-ethics.html) the abuse of Saddam Hussein during and after the execution is an:

“…ironically those brain heads made from him a hero and also enforced the division between Sunni and Shiites not only in Iraq but in the Arab world…Brain heads!”

Another major story over the New Year was the invasion by Ethiopia of Somalia to remove the Union of Islamic Courts.

Somali blogger, 'The Voice of Somaliland' - (http://waridaad.blogspot.com/2007/01/by-its-ill-judged-invasion-of-somalia.html) accuses Ethiopia of being an accomplice in Bush’s War on Terror. He believes the invasion is ill-advised and ill-fated and will be resisted by the Somali people and will draw in other countries in the region such as Eritrea.

“The danger this time is that the resistance will draw in other countries. Eritrea, which fought its own costly war with Ethiopia, does not need an invitation to help its enemy's enemy. The UIC is also said to be receiving financial assistance from rich leaders of sympathetic Islamic sects, drawn from such countries as Saudi Arabia, Yemen and the Gulf sheikhdoms. And the most explosive fuel will be the involvement of the US on the side of Ethiopia. General John Abizaid, commander for the US central command, is reported to have visited Ethiopia last month, after which Ethiopia moved from providing the Somali government with ‘military advice’ to open armed intervention.”

Once again the US uses proxy armies to fight on its behalf. There are areas of criticism to be levelled at the Union of Islamic Courts but at least in the short term they brought peace and stability where there was chaos, violence and fear during the period of control by the warlords who have now been reinstated, courtesy of Ethiopian dictator, Meles Zenawi, friend to the US and British governments. Maybe in 10 years time when he has completed the massacre of his own people they will want to hang him too like Saddam. But it won’t be for the invasion of Somalia – that would show up their dirty little secret deals with a ruthless leader.

'Ethiopian Politics' - (http://ethiopianpolitics.blogspot.com/2007/01/anti-ethiopian-protests-rock-somali.html) comments on the angry response of Somalis to the invasion by Ethiopia on their country.

'Chippla’s Weblog' - (http://chippla.blogspot.com/index.html) discusses the “Interconnected World” in which we live and the interdependency of governments on each other and of course blogs.

“Governments across the world are realizing how heavily dependent they are on one another. For instance, few governments would be glad to see the United States dollar depreciate rapidly. Not even the Chinese government, which silently aspires to superpower status a few decades from now. Holding about one trillion dollars in foreign reserves (a large percentage of which is in United States dollars—exactly how much, remains a state secret), a rapid depreciation of the dollar would hurt China badly. Poland may bark at and prevent the European Union from signing favorable treaties with Russia. But even Poland knows that there is a limit to how loud it can bark. Heavily dependent on Russia for gas, should Gazprom, the mega Russian gas company, decide to close its gas pipes to Poland, a large number of Poles would be forced to freeze out the winter.”

Unfortunately as Chippla points out, this interconnectedness and interdependency does not translate into a better world – a safer place, a more humane place, a more egalitarian place. On the contrary it is leading to a world of the exact opposite where human rights are being eroded and greed is becoming an acceptable form of behaviour.

'African Media' - (http://africamedia.typepad.com/my_weblog/2007/01/de_beers_attack.html) reports on the response of De Beers to an article in the Los Angeles Times which provides context to the movie Blood Diamond. Both the LA Times and the New York Times were pressurised by De Beers lawyers to detract on their statements. Such is the power of De Beers and Diamonds! Below is a sample of the criticisms made and De Beers response:

"The article stated that De Beers is exploring for diamonds on land in Botswana that was formerly occupied by the Kalahari Bushmen. That claim is made by Survival International on behalf of the Bushmen, who were relocated by the Botswanan government, which is partnered with De Beers in a diamond company called Debswana. A De Beers spokesman says that while it has explored in the Bushmen's former homeland in the past, it has never mined there and ‘today has no activity of any sort in the region.’”

The film died – De Beers and the Diamond Cartel fought back - and blood diamonds – well it was just another Hollywood film after all!

'Black Looks' - (http://www.blacklooks.org/2007/01/opening_and_closing_the_gates.html) comments on an expose of the “Dirty Little Secrets” behind the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation by the Los Angeles Times (hopefully the Gates’ wield less power than De Beers and the LA Times will not have to retract it’s investigative report). The Gates’ are busy giving away money to immunize children in Africa and other areas of the majority world and at the same time are investing huge sums of money in companies that operate unethically and irresponsibly in those countries.

“With the right hand, the children of the Niger Delta are being saved from getting polio and measles and with the left hand they are suffering from bronchitis, asthma, eczema, boils and other skin problems as well as cancer due to the continued flaring of 1 billion cubic feet of gas per day in the region by the oil companies, and the pollution of drinking and fishing waters from oil spills and old rotten pipelines that leak oil – both at the expense of the Gates Foundation...

"Oil companies are not the only socially irresponsible organisations associated with the Gates Foundation. Other companies rank high as polluters, as well as the very pharmaceutical companies producing anti-retroviral drugs that are unaffordable to the majority world. Ironic when one of the Foundation’s major donations goes to HIV/AIDS.”

• Sokari Ekine produces the blog Black Looks, www.blacklooks.org

• Please send comments to [email protected] or comment online at www.pambazuka.org

International Monetary Fund's (IMF) Managing Director Mr. Rogrigo de Rato will Tuesday (9 January 2007) visit Africa to discuss the problems facing the continent. The visit will afford him the opportunity of directly hearing from African policy makers and opinion leaders on the best way the Fund can be of support to the continent towards reducing poverty.