On the Guardian World Cup team, Funmi Iyanda and Anna Kournikova

There are many work-safe ways in which I have been enjoying this World Cup online: the Guardian website has the best minute by minute commentary, I think. So good that even when I watch the games at home, I still follow the Guardian live bloggers who are brilliant and funny and brilliant. The Guardian football page also has replays using little Lego men, like the one above, which is the Lego version of the infamous Sani Kaita kick. Heh heh.

I am also really enjoying Funmi Iyanda's musings on the World Cup. She is part of the ambitious Pilgrimages project which takes 13 writers to 12 different cities in Africa and one in Brazil during the World Cup - the writers are then supposed to each write a book about their travels. Funmi Iyanda is a huge celebrity in Nigeria where she is a talk show host. She is also a football afficianado, in this she reminds me of Zim's own Henrietta Rushwaya and the Guardian's Marina Hyde, they are three women who are very much at home in this most male of worlds. She had a hilarious post on the Pilgrimages blog on why athletes in their prime should not commit themselves to one woman, and recently, she had a great riposte to the tiresome "and here come the Africans" references to Ghana's Black Stars .... I watch football on Swiss TV, I love the Swiss commentary, which is usually restrained and respectful, and not the highly egotistic chatathon you find on the Beeb and other UK channels, but even there, they use "die Afrikaner" a whole lot when they mean die Ghanaier or die Sudafrikaner or whatever ... You all know my pet peeve, the lazy use of "African" when you mean just one country or group of people. How hard is it to refer to the one African country left in the competition by its name? Here's Funmi Iyanda on this:

"Yesterday Africa united behind Ghana, in truth a majority of the world united behind Ghana mainly because a Ghanaian victory against America was a much better story and because no true lover of football will support a country that calls the beautiful game soccer. As the very irritating commentators continually and insistently referred to the Ghanaian players as “the Africans.” l bristled, not because they are not Africans or that Africans are not fully behind them but because this is Ghana’s victory. Africa rejoices with her but it is Ghana’s victory. The distinction is important because an acceptance of a patronizing, lone African star doing Africa proud is a moronic oversimplification such that it can be tidily filed away in a box of retrogression that fails to recognize Ghana’s unique outstanding journey as a country."

Well said.

Away from football, I have been enjoying the thrills and shocks of Wimbledon. Alas, my vow to go to at least two Slams will not happen this year, but what a week and a bit it has been. Venus gone! Federer gone! Andy Roddick gone! Serena sublime! And Anna Kournikova is back! I must confess that I was one of the Anna mockers at first, it seemed to me to a sign of the times that the most famous tennis player in the world had equally famously failed to win a single title in her entire career. Then I developed some respect for her, she could easily have gone the Challenger route for some cheap wins, but she stuck resolutely to the tiered tournaments. And really, it is hardly her fault that the press went gaga over her looks. Then it occured to me that she was really just a kid when it all started around age 16 or so, and I began to feel sorry for her, at least, as sorry as one can feel for a millionaire several times over. Today, I came across this hilarious interview she did with Martina Hingis - they are playing in the Legends section of the Championships, if you will believe it, both are 29. Who knew that Anna Kournikova was funny and self-aware? And the woman really could talk for Russia! As the Guardian's Andy Bull says, "if only she could play with the same urgency as she talks, she would still be a championship contender". Heh heh.

"To Kill a Mocking-Bird" turns 50 this year, and Harper Lee speaks ...

... but not about To Kill A Mocking-Bird! The reclusive Harper Lee has granted an interview request! For more, follow this Guardian link. I cannot tell you the ways in which I love this book. It came to me at an impressionable age, and has never left me. Harper Lee has not written another word, as she said once, "I didn't expect the book to sell in the first place. I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of reviewers but at the same time I sort of hoped that maybe someone would like it enough to give me encouragement. Public encouragement. I hoped for a little, as I said, but I got rather a whole lot, and in some ways this was just about as frightening as the quick, merciful death I'd expected."

If all she had to say was contained in this one jewel of a book, then that is enough for me. As a reader, I am grateful for this book. As a writer, I feel about Harper Lee what Chekhov said about Tolstoy, that reading him makes you feel that it is fine if you do not succeed as a writer because Tolstoy succeeds for you. Sniffle.

Two world wars, one World Cup and two of many obnoxious fans

I am always deeply sorry for England fans when their team does not meet expectations. Then I come across a picture like this, and suddenly, I find it difficult to be too sorry. This kind of thing and the media's ghastly overhyping and then slamming the team, not to mention the intrusion into the private lives of players all too often makes that most beautiful of games an ugly thing in England.

Photo from Life.

On the Shakespeare and Company literary festival in Paris

I loved the Shakespeare and Company festival in Paris; totally and utterly loved every minute of it. Shakespeare and Company. What a bookshop. It is just what you want a bookshop to be, chaotic, comfortable, with well-worn books piled up to the ceiling and the feel of ghosts in the air. I loved meeting Sylvia Whitman and Jemma Birrell again, they and all the festival organiser put together a wonderful programme of conversations and readings. The festival had a great line-up of writers: it is always humbling to meet people whose work you admire and then find that they are really great people too. So it was with Breyten Breytenbach, Mark Gevisser and Njabulo Ndebele, who turned up to be absolute sweethearts, and so interesting to listen to. We did a great panel on the World Cup and what it means for Africa and particularly South Africa. Breyten later helped to look for Kush who kept disappearing. That's another thing, everyone was so welcoming to Kush: Anna who looked after him gamely read him something like two TinTins one after the other, even doing the voices, for which she will always be in his heart.

I also did a panel with Nam Le (above) chaired by Erica Wagner. I loved his book, The Boat, he was one of the writers, who, along with Wells Towers, Chimamanda Adichie, James Lasdun, Daniyal Mueenundin and others, made last year the year of the short story. He is a really great guy too, and really funny with it. Through him, I also met very briefly Dinaw Mengistu who has moved to Paris and seemed lovely as well: I only regret that I could not spend more time with both of them.

I did a lot of publicity which meant that I missed a lot of panels I would have loved to see, Raja Shehadeh who I met n New York and will met again in Scotland in August, David Hare, Phillip Pullman and Martin Amis, but it was enough to be breathing the same air, drinking the same coffee ... not from the same cup obviously, that would be gross as Kush says. But I did manage to listen to a great conversation between Fatima Bhutto and Janine di Giovanni. Fatima is of course the granddaughter of Zulfiqa Ali Bhutto and the niece of Benazir. She was in Paris to promote her book Songs of Sword and Blood. I developed a lot of respect for her because she could have chosen to milk the Bhutto name for all it was worth, but as she has previously said: "I don't believe in birth-right politics. I don't think, nor have I ever thought, that my name qualifies me for anything." She handled herself really well, unfazed by the crazy attention she has received. I particularly liked her self-awareness, and how she took on the questions of dynasty and privilege without flinching.

I was happy to spend time with my crew from my French publishers Plons, my wonderful translator Anouk Neuhoff, and my editor Mathilde Bach, and publicist Elisabeth Kovacs who gave me a superb collection of cuttings and reviews. Easterly has been received very well in France, and they are all looking forward to Memory, which will have the title Memoires Blanches. I also had an interview with RFI: and spent an enjoyable 30 minutes talking to Imogene Lamb of RFI who knew my life in rather scary detail. I read, by the way, from The Book of Memory at the festival. I was nervous as anything, and I had to pinch myself to stop myself from laughing because as I read, the bells of the Notre Dame started clanging furiously and they went on for like 5 minutes, and I kept wanting to recite that Edgar Allan Poe poem: the tolling of the bells, of the bells,of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, the moaning and the groaning of the bells bells bells!! Hee hee.

Every festival I have been to, from the smallest, the Frank O'Connor, to the very largest, the LA Festival of Books has had this in common, incredible opportunities to engage with other writers and to meet readers, but each has had its own a special quality. The special quality of the Shakespeare and Co is its elegance and utter stylishness, not surprising seeing that the uber-stylish Sylvia and Jemma are behind it. I had a goody bag with enough treats to make even this least covetous of hearts rejoice: Roederer champagne, Aēsop products (Aēsop!), a notebook specially designed for the festival by Astier de Villatte, a Mont Blanc writing instrument (I use the term advisedly my friends because Mont Blanc does not make mere pens and pencils, it makes writing instruments: as a friend once said to me after I gave him one such pen, vakomana, vakomana, a pen that comes with a manual!) I especially appreciated the Aēsop products because I discovered them in Melbourne last year and have not used anything else since! So a million thank yous to all these sponsors and to all the others I have not mentioned who made this such a classy event.

Then there was watching the World Cup in Paris. Kush and I watched the match between France and Mexico in a small dingy bar with lots of swearing French men, one of whom covered up Kushinga's ears and apologised before swearing again and we watched the Algeria and England match in a small cafe with lots of French men of Algerian descent. I was supporting England because I cannot bear the endless moaning whenever England loses.

Finally, I want to talk about the most moving part of my visit to Paris, meeting the kids at Marymount school in Neuilly. These kids are special to me because they are the first kids I addressed as a writer, in fact, I have not talked to a group of school children since I had a holiday job in Bulawayo more than 15 years ago – during holidays at university, I worked for the Legal Projects Centre and went to different Bulawayo schools to talk about domestic violence. I loved that job, I love talking to schoolkids, especially teenagers because they are slowly gaining an awareness of the world while still looking at it with hope and innocence. The Marymount kids were wonderful. I feel very hopeful for the future of the world as long as kids like these are part of it. Lauren and her social studies class prepared a photo essay on Zimbabwe that moved me utterly to tears. All the things you expect to find were there, riot police beating people, hunger, inflation, but there was also laughter and joy and sport, and an understanding that a failed state does not mean failed people. Those kids could give some journalists a lesson or two in how to tell a story. I hope I gave something to them, because they gave much to me. I was proud and honoured to meet them.

As England take on Slovenia in their do or die group match, feast your eyes on this ...

This is the Sun in November 2009. The Best English Group Since the Beatles, it crowed. Uh-huh ... uh-huh. I must say that I really want England to do well ... I am not sure I can take the moaning if they don't, so go England!!

Doris Lessing on reading Anna Karenin in Zimbabwe

One of the things I hope to do in addition to writing when I move to Zimbabwe is to launch a foundation that will promote reading and literacy in Zimbabwe --- the foundation is inspired in part by Doris Lessing’s Nobel lecture, which was about the hunger for the written word in Zimbabwe. I shall tell you more about the foundation as my plans become firmer, but in the meantime, please do read Ms Lessing’s lecture if you have no already done so. You can read it here. There are many wonderful passages in it, the one below is just one of many.

_______________

I would like you to imagine yourselves somewhere in Southern Africa, standing in an Indian store, in a poor area, in a time of bad drought. There is a line of people, mostly women, with every kind of container for water. This store gets a bowser of precious water every afternoon from the town, and here the people wait.

The Indian is standing with the heels of his hands pressed down on the counter, and he is watching a black woman, who is bending over a wadge of paper that looks as if it has been torn from a book. She is reading Anna Karenin.

She is reading slowly, mouthing the words. It looks a difficult book. This is a young woman with two little children clutching at her legs. She is pregnant. The Indian is distressed, because the young woman's headscarf, which should be white, is yellow with dust. Dust lies between her breasts and on her arms. This man is distressed because of the lines of people, all thirsty. He doesn't have enough water for them. He is angry because he knows there are people dying out there, beyond the dust clouds. His older brother had been here holding the fort, but he had said he needed a break, had gone into town, really rather ill, because of the drought.

This man is curious. He says to the young woman, "What are you reading?"

"It is about Russia," says the girl.

"Do you know where Russia is?" He hardly knows himself.

The young woman looks straight at him, full of dignity, though her eyes are red from dust, "I was best in the class. My teacher said I was best."

The young woman resumes her reading. She wants to get to the end of the paragraph.

The Indian looks at the two little children and reaches for some Fanta, but the mother says, "Fanta makes them thirstier."

The Indian knows he shouldn't do this but he reaches down to a great plastic container beside him, behind the counter, and pours out two mugs of water, which he hands to the children. He watches while the girl looks at her children drinking, her mouth moving. He gives her a mug of water. It hurts him to see her drinking it, so painfully thirsty is she.

Now she hands him her own plastic water container, which he fills. The young woman and the children watch him closely so that he doesn't spill any.

She is bending again over the book. She reads slowly. The paragraph fascinates her and she reads it again.

"Varenka, with her white kerchief over her black hair, surrounded by the children and gaily and good-humouredly busy with them, and at the same visibly excited at the possibility of an offer of marriage from a man she cared for, looked very attractive. Koznyshev walked by her side and kept casting admiring glances at her. Looking at her, he recalled all the delightful things he had heard from her lips, all the good he knew about her, and became more and more conscious that the feeling he had for her was something rare, something he had felt but once before, long, long ago, in his early youth. The joy of being near her increased step by step, and at last reached such a point that, as he put a huge birch mushroom with a slender stalk and up-curling top into her basket, he looked into her eyes and, noting the flush of glad and frightened agitation that suffused her face, he was confused himself, and in silence gave her a smile that said too much."

This lump of print is lying on the counter, together with some old copies of magazines, some pages of newspapers with pictures of girls in bikinis.

It is time for the woman to leave the haven of the Indian store, and set off back along the four miles to her village. Outside, the lines of waiting women clamour and complain. But still the Indian lingers. He knows what it will cost this girl - going back home, with the two clinging children. He would give her the piece of prose that so fascinates her, but he cannot really believe this splinter of a girl with her great belly can really understand it.

Why is perhaps a third of Anna Karenin here on this counter in a remote Indian store?

How to open a panel, South African style

I had such fun in Paris. Here is a picture of my son Kush blasting his vuvuzela to open our panel on the World Cup. Looking on are Breyten Breytenbach, Njabulo Ndebele and Mark Gevisser who all three manage to combine high intelligence with searing talent and the sweetest of natures.

In Paris, at the Shakespeare and Company Festival

I am in Paris, where I will be taking part in the Shakespeare and Company festival along with some amazing writers, Martin Amis, Breyten Breytenbach, David Hare, Raja Shehadeh, Hanif Kureishi, Jeanette Winterson, Njabulo Ndebele, Nam Le, Philip Pullman among them … and Jane Birkin is going to read Emma Larkin’s work. It is quite something. On Wednesday, I met my editor and the team at my French publisher, Plons. Yesterday, I was interviewed by the amazing Imogéne Lamb for RFI. Then Kush and I spent the afternoon at Marymount school in Neully talking about Zimbabwe and my book. I will blog about that visit in detail when I return to Geneva on Sunday. In the meantime, if you are in Paris, come along to Shakespeare and Company, opposite the Notre Dame. On Saturday, I will be on a panel with Mark Gevisser, Njabulo Ndebele and Breyten Breytenbach, talking about what the World Cup means for Africa, and on Sunday, Nam Le and I talk to Erica Wagner, the Times literary editor, about writing and reading short stories. Also, and this is huge … I read from the first chapter of my novel!!! I am very nervous, but also excited. More soon.

A maths lesson for the Italian Financial Police: 40 per cent of nothing equals exactly nothing

There is a funny little story in today's Geneva daily paper, Tribune de Genéve. "Un Italien appréhendé avec deux milliards de dollars ... du Zimbabwe" says the headline. "Italian caught with two billion dollars ... of Zimbabwean money". The hard-working Italian border police arrested a man for crossing into the county with 2 billion Zimbabwe dollars. According to the financial section of the Italian police, the Guardia di Finanza, he now has to pay a fine, amounting to 40% of the value of the money he tried to "smuggle". I am not sure what exchange rate they are using, but according to them, two billion Zimbabwe dollars amounts to 4.5 million Euros. If you know anyone in the Guardia di Finanza, do please tell them that 40% of nothing is worth exactly nothing. Better yet, show them the image above, courtesy of a campaign by the The Zimbabwean newspaper.

In which I celebrate my birthday by insulting you, North Korean style

Today is 15 June, my birthday, for I was born smack in the middle of the year in a small hospital in the middle of Kitwe which is in the middle of Zambia's copperbelt, hence my name Petina, the Bemba name for cuprum, that is, Cu, the 29th element in the Periodic Table, which you know best as copper. Most magnificently, Petina is also the Karanga word for middle. Not really. Actually, true story, my father swears using my name (it is a very Karanga thing to do, this swearing on people); he uses my name where he would use the word "honestly" as in "I am telling you, if you continue like this, you will suffer! Petina!" For a long time as a kid, I thought I was named after my dad's favourite interjection.

The Guardian has just delivered the perfect present. What a way to start the day, reading Marina Hyde on the North Korean football team. Okay, so it was published yesterday, but I only read it today! The Dear Leader is second only to the Brotherly Leader in my highly select list of the World's Top Blokes (Dictator Division), so I will be rooting for the North Korean team today. It is 1966 all over again! In the comments thread of Marina's article, someone shared this link, the North Korean Random Insult Generator. So, here, dear reader, I share with you the words of the Dear Leader. Happy birthday to me, and a good day to you, you imperialist gangster, you arrogant reactionary, you psychopathological militarist, you black-hearted political dwarf, you bellicose bloodsucker! Your clamour for human rights is nothing but a shrill cry! We will annihilate you with a fresh revolutionary upswing!

On spinsters, widows, divorcees, baby leg prophets and diesel n'angas

One of the pleasures of clearing out your office after years and years of stuffing stuff into drawers is finding all sorts of unexpected treasure. I am doing exactly that, clearing out my office and finding treasure. And what treasure. I found an article from the Mail and Guardian of 26 January 2005 about the repeal of sections of Zanzibar's Spinsters, Widows and Female Divorcee Protection Act, a law that prescribed jail terms for unmarried young women who fell pregnant. That's right, jail terms for unmarried mothers. And yes, it really is called the Spinsters, Widows and Female Divorcees Protection Act.

I also found a page about Prince Munjeri, the "Baby Leg Prophet" , also known as Teapot Chakanetsa, master-cleanser turned criminal-on-the-run. According to the Herald, Munjeri was a "self-proclaimed prophet who pulled a bloodied baby's leg from a Glendale woman's bedroom during a cleasning ceremony."

And I found again my collection of articles on my favourite Zimbabwean of all time, Rotina Mavhunga, the diesel n'anga who conned an entire cabinet of ministers into believing that she could produce diesel from a rock, thanks to her chummy association with Changamire Dombo, a 14th century Rozvi emperor. She also, from all accounts, dazzled them with her beauty. In the immortal words of Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President of the Republic of Zimbabwe and First Secretary of Zanu PF, Commander of the Armed forces and Vice-Chancellor of all of Zimbabwe's Universities, "We asked, what is she like? Some said she is young, and others said, she is very beautiful. And we thought, ohh, ndopayafira apa, ndopayafira nyaya yemafuta." Heh!

I will keep digging, there is more yet in those drawers.

On two new memoirs of Zimbabwe and John Simpson

In the last few months, I have been receiving requests to endorse books or review them. It's a curious part of publishing, this endorsement business, but apparently it works. I certainly was reassured to have words of praise from JM Coetzee, Yiyun Li and Owen Sheers on the first issues of my book. Who knows how those words persuaded people to pick up my book? When I was asked to blurb others, I was uncomfortable and self-conscious - - I felt that with just one book, I had not earned my stripes, so to say. But now that I am a book away from not being a one hit wonder, I will happily endorse any book that I really love, and hope that that means something to a discerning public!

I am also now reviewing books, but I will limit my reviews to books that make me think, or that I fall in love with. I will not review a book that I cannot say something good about. The first books I have reviewed, two memoirs of Zimbabwe, certainly meet this criteria: I absolutely loved Douglas Rogers's The Last Resort -- one of the first things I plan to do when I get to Zim is to go up to Mutare and hunt down the people in this book. I did not love Philip Barclay's Zimbabwe: Years of Hope and Despair, but it is a book every Zimbabwean needs to read. It made me think more deeply about UK foreign policy towards Zimbabwe. And the amusing Scarlet Pimpernel-like activities of Barclay, a diplomat, had the unfortunate effect of making me think, crikey, maybe the Patriarch is not so paranoid after all, the British are out to get him!!! You can read my review here, on the Times website.

My little piece on "Head of a Negro" by John Simpson was published in Tate Etc, the magazine of the Tate Gallery. I am massively excited about this. This is the start of a project that combines two things I love: art and history. I hope to spend next year visiting different galleries and museums and writing about moments of first encounter between "the west and the rest" as portrayed in European art. I will do a residency in Amsterdam, an internship at the Tate, and I am hoping something will come up in Paris. You can read my John Simpson piece here.

Enjoy!

In which I translate Joyce Simango's "Zviuya Zviri Mberi"

In 1974, Joyce Simango was the first black woman in Rhodesia to publish a book. Her only novel, Zviuya Zviri Mberi, tells the story of Tambudzai, whose mother Munhamo, married to a polygamist, runs off with her children to prevent her daughter from herself being married off to a polygamist. Tambudzai's father charming habit is to marry off a daughter every time he needs pfuma to marry a new wife -- as the author says, aiva murume anoti vakadzi vanofushwa semuriwo. They run off and Tambudzai is educated by her uncle, and that education gives her a secure place from which to go out into the world as an independent woman.

I have always loved this book. Two years ago, at the suggestion of the critic Ranka Primorac, I began to translate it. I lost my work after 10 000 words when my computer was stolen, but I discovered to my delight last night that I had saved some of it on a flash disc which I found in the corner of one of my desk drawers. So I am pleased to share a chapter of Zviuya Zviri Mberi with you. It was an intersting challenge, translating it, Shona and English are entirely different languages, the novel in Shona has its own techniques, partly developed out of oral tradition and Shona patterns of speech. The other two books I want to translate are the spooky Muchadura, by Father Ribeiro, the cover alone used to freak me out as a kid, and Kurauone by Zvarevashe, who, incidentally, taught my mother in Grade 3. But this is all for the future, in the meantime, I hope that I have captured Simango's essence, and that those who know the novel can tell me if I succeded, and if I should continue. Enjoy!

__________

The night was still, and all had gone to bed as Munhamo left her hut to check that no one was up. She stood and looked around. The night was as dark as Munhamo’s heart, but there were no clouds so that even the tiniest stars could be seen. A small breeze from the east blew softly.

Munhamo stood a while in thought before she walked about the homestead. All the while, she wept as one bereaved. Her thoughts were only of escape. She knew that her uncle VaZuweni, her mother’s brother, lived in Rusitu, on the border between the land of the English and that of the Portuguese. She thought of fleeing there. She did not know where this place was, but she had heard of it. She knew only that it lay to the west. She knew also that her uncle lived in the area of Muchadziya. In her heart she said, ‘Where there are people, I cannot possibly get lost, I will find the place, if I get lost I will ask my way.’ She returned to her hut and woke her children softly. ‘Tambudzai, Chemwandoita. Wake up.’ The children arose.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Tambudzai asked.

‘Wake up, we are leaving.’

‘Where are we going in this dark night?’

‘Just follow me, you hear?’

Their mother took down the basket of food and collected blankets to cover themselves. On her head, Tambudzai carried a gourd of water. They left their hut, closed the door and began their journey. Munhamo wept as she walked. The children followed, clutching the blanket that covered their mother. The owls hooted in the night. This frightened Chemwandoita and Tambudzai so much that they longed to remain behind, but their mother no longer knew what fear was. Her strong desire gave her courage.

It was a remarkable thing for a woman and children to travel alone at night. Many of the surrounding places were uninhabited, and in some were wild beasts. They were travelling to a place that was very far. Men who knew their way there took three whole days to reach the place. There were no cars in that direction, and not even a road. The only road there was in the direction of the east. On this road travelled the lorry driven by the Portuguese who owned the only little store in the area. But troubles do not double themselves; the wild creatures seemed to flee from them. They travelled that whole night. At dawn they sat to eat their food. They looked for a place that was hidden and remained there the whole day, and slept. They did this to avoid being seen by anyone.

As they rested, Tambudzai asked her mother, ‘Mother, truly, where are we headed?’

‘We are going to Rusitu where my uncle lives.’

‘Which uncle?’

‘You do not know him. He was last here when you were very small. That is when he told me about the life of the people there.’

‘How is it that he came to live there leaving his relations behind here?’ Tambudzai asked because she wanted to understand.

‘He went with the intention to work as a very young man. He did not return. He married there and stayed there.’

As they talked thus, they head voices and became silent like they had been struck by lightning, Munhamo's heart almost breaking with the fear that these were people sent to look for them. But this was baseless fear. At this time, the people of Nhamoinesu's homestead did not yet know that Munhamo had run away.

After the people had passed, Munhamo continued to explain to her children, ‘My uncle said the place he lives in is a good one. He said life there is very different to our life here. He said they have grinding mills to turn maize into meal. Most of the men there go to work to support their families.’

‘I hear all that mother, but when are we going to reach this uncle’s place? And if Father catches us, nothing good will come of it; someone will die, surely. You know how Father is; when he begins to beat someone it is not possible to prevent him. He will only stop when he is sated. Let us return home while all is well,’ so said Tambu.

‘My child, I cannot return. That homestead has defeated me. Imagine, how many children I would have had by now? Do you think you are the first child I had? Imagine, three of my children dead, of no apparent illness. And now your father wants you married off to Mundogara. Do you know how evil Mundogara’s wives are? No one stays there who is not a witch. Think of that older co-wife whom they killed.

‘If that young woman, Zimuto, had not been removed by her parents, when she was nothing but bones, would she be with us now? And that is where your father wants you to be married? I don’t know what manner of a person your father is. All he wants is money, he does not think about the life of anyone else. Have I not been urging him all this time to consult a diviner so that we understand what is killing my children, and he refuses? Do you expect me to go back to all that? It is better to die in the forest than to go back to that home. I thought to run away to my father’s home, but I feared that my father would return me. I thought it better to wander like this in the forest. I don’t know if we will reach your uncle’s. I only ask that the Almighty leads me. If only my mother had not died, maybe I would have remained. But there is no one to take pity on me. If there had been two of us born to my mother I would have found another to console me in my grief. But my mother died having borne only me.’

Here Munhamo wept deeply, and Tambudzai wept with her. The little boy Chemwandoita only looked at them, a lump of food clutched in his hand. In that moment, even though Tambudzai was a very young child, she understood how hard her mother’s life was. She swore on that day that she would support and look after her mother. She did not know how she would do it, the thought simply sprang into her mind that this is what she had to do.

I am back from the eighties, but still there in spirit ...

I am back! For the last month or so, my mind has been in the 80s, where a good chunk of my novel is set. I have been writing to Zim 80s music. Remember Mirandu? Solomon Skuza? And my favourite Zimband of all time, The Bhundu Boys. Now here for you, if you don't know it, is an 80s classic as performed by the brilliant Nyami Nyami Sounds. Inzwai gitare iro kani!! Oh I miss Zim! Right, back to the 80s. See you soon!