Phillip Chidavaenzi on Charles Mungoshi's "Ndiko Kupindana Kwamazuva".

I am writing this in fabulous Melbourne, where I am one of the writers at the beyond superlatives Melbourne Writers Festival. I have just met Alice Pung, and I am stealing glances at someone who could possibly be Wells Tower. The thing about writers is that they are real people, not just moody images on the covers of their books, so it is sometimes really hard to recognise them in all their dimensions. And this is what I love most about these festivals, meeting writers, buying books, discovering new books and talents: before I am anything else, I am a reader.

And as a reader, there is nothing I love more than talking and arguing about the books I love. I have asked a number of Zimbabwean writers to give me contributions on the Zimbabwean book that shook them the most, or did something to them that no book had done until then. I am kicking off the series with Phillip Chidavaenzi, who writes about Ndiko Kupindana Kwamazuva, by Charles Mungoshi, who also happens to be my favourite Zimbabwean writer.

Enjoy.

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Since started getting absorbed in the beautiful rhythm of African literature, particularly Zimbabwean writers in high school, Shona literature did not really grab me. The pastoral romanticism that was so prevalent in the Shona novel just didn’t cut it with me. I wanted something from a higher shelf, something extraordinary, at the cutting edge.

Then I came across Charles Mungoshi’s ‘Ndiko Kupindana Kwamazuva’ for the first time when I was doing Form 6 in 1999. It shook me like no other book — by a local or foreign writer — had done, perhaps besides Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s ‘Petals of Blood’, which I can safely slot at a distant second in my scale.

Mungoshi's character Rindai still haunts my imagination to this day; the way she loves, gives so much of herself even without recognition, her endurance, strength and resilience as well as her beauty are the stuff of which dream characters in literature are made.

Having read that book from the school archives, I was to pleasantly surprised when I came across it years later in a Harare bookshop (the bookshops still throbbed with life back then) and I quickly grabbed a copy to add to my valued collection.

‘Ndiko Kupindana Kwamazuva’ — published by Mambo Press in 1978 — is a book that pulsates with life, realism and something that I can’t even find the words to describe. I find it hard to say which exactly is the master stroke in this book — the characterisation or stylistic devices, particularly the way the third person narrative is effortlessly mingled with internal monologue to create a hybrid of a style. And the manner in which Mungoshi did it, seamlessly and flowing, speaks of a genius.

I found this experimentation with form and style to be out of this world, done as it is in such a way that I was able to connect with the characters’, their struggles, emotions and aspirations. To hear the author speak about a character’s emotions is totally different from getting an insight into their mind through the stream of consciousness.

Although elements of pastoral romanticism are found in the book, there is much more on offer, because Mungoshi’s refuses to rubber stamp the status quo in Zimbabwe literary discourse of innocence in the rustic settings.

Through the depiction of Rindai’s struggles and the way she wrestles with her personal demons in the rural setting—far from the madding crowds of the metropolises—enables Mungoshi to shatter the illusion that the rural area offers a safe harbour. Rindai has to contain the backbiting, finger–pointing and gossiping that is a bane of a woman ‘deserted and elbowed’ to the rural hospital while her husbands leads his own life in the city. Then there are the poignant and painful questions from the children about their ‘absent and long–lost’ father.

This story is very real. Rindai and Rex have a very strong foundation for their marriage, which ought to be a harbinger for a promising future. But Mungoshi, as a social critic, refuses to be fooled. Fairy tales and real life are miles apart. Somewhere along the line Rex loses the plot and decides to have an affair with Rindai’s best friend and confidante, Maggie.

This is one development I found gut–wrenching and I tried to understand it. Could it be that Rindai was too good, so much that Rex wanted a less saintly woman? Or was it the fact that Rindai’s virtues significantly magnified Rex’s own vices?

Mungoshi was able, in this book, to trace the real life experiences of couples (especially the male side) who start off on a beautiful note and, as the ‘midlife crisis’ sets in, become disillusioned and start seeking contentment elsewhere —in alcohol, other women etc.

Another beauty about this book is its timeless nature. The economic and socio–cultural issues that Mungoshi set out to address, at least in as far as family set–ups are concerned, still resonate with contemporary Zimbabwe.

I have no trace of doubt in my mind that ‘Ndiko Kupindana Kwamazuva’ is a deeply felt book. I can imagine Mungoshi writing it, wrestling with issues, wrestling with his own personal demons and trying to humanise his space.

This is a world in itself, and you can get lost in the plot as Mungoshi carries you along with the story, sharing the dreams, aspirations and agonies of his believable characters.

Those scenes in the rural setting really came alive, and as I was reading the book, I could actually picture myself in my rural home of Mt. Darwin. In fact, the book gave me rare opportunities of reliving moments I spent in the rural areas, particularly curing the school holidays during my childhood.

I really salute Mungoshi for this majestic piece of literature, which is as powerful and poignant as it was perhaps during the era in which it was published. It is an inspiring book.