On the death of Stanley Ruzvidzo Mupfudza

My friend Stanley Ruzvidzo Mupfudza died last week. You will find many tributes around the web from the many Zimbabwean writers he knew and whose respect and love he inspired. Here is Memory Chirere’s tribute. And here is a touching report of his funeral, with some thoughts on his life, from Phillip Chidavaenzi.

I want to add my own thoughts. I met Stannie, as we called him then, at the University of Zimbabwe in the early 90s, he was friends with my one of my best friends, Switch. The three of us, Switch, Stannie and me, were connected by a desire to write, but above all, by a love of reading, we went through a Russian phase at around the same time. Then I left Zimbabwe after the UZ, and did not see him again. On the night that I fell in love with my son’s father, Safi, in June 2001, I met Stannie again. We were all just on the cusp of 30, at an age where we were more or less where we wanted to be and everything seemed wonderful and the future stretched before us with endless possibility. That night with Switch, Stannie and Safi was one of the best nights of my life. We had this conversation, this series of conversations, you know the ones where you sound deep and philosophical and everything the other person says rings with a clarity that really is just the vodka in your system. It was certainly vodka we were drinking; we ran out of mixers at some point and began to drink it neat. The hangover the next morning was just as memorable as the carousing of the night before. I remember going on and on about Safi’s feet, I may even have composed a rhapsodic ode to those feet. I remember Stannie watching all of the unfolding drama with wry amusement. I am only grateful that he did not make me into one of his characters. There was much laughter that night, and I will always remember it.

After that, I wrote a horrible coming of age novel in 2002 and he was one of the handful of people who saw it. I read his work too; we exchanged manuscripts over email. It was a loving and respectful friendship. He was always encouraging and generous. I was in floods of doubts about my ability. He was more secure because he had already been published, but I want to believe that we gave each other self-belief.

Stannie was a writer who became a writer because he loved to read. He is seriously one of the best-read writers I have met; everything was grist to his mill. I was looking forward to working with him later this year in Zimbabwe, now that, alas, cannot be.

Go well Stannie.

Fear no more the heat of the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages,

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and taken thy wages.