Ambitions and Authenticity: Professor Grant Debates Professor Brown

Up until he brought up the gender issue in his New York Times opinion-editorial, Professor Adam Grant was making a very logical argument about the pitfalls of authenticity or, as the two learned professors are putting it, “being yourself.”  According to my understanding of the premise of his argument, being oneself may be fraught with danger.  He cites the examples of a man who decided to be authentic by: (1) verbally expressing his heart’s desires to have a sexual relationship with a colleague at work; (2) followed by similarly telling the nanny of his kids the ache in his heart to have the nanny as his mistress, (3) telling the child of a friend that that child’s pet beetle was dead rather than simply sleeping as the poor kid had innocently believed, and (4) of course the caper was the man letting his wife’s parents know that their conversation was boring.  Grant leaves the reader to envision the inglorious results of what is supposed to be the manifestations of authenticity.

Professor Grant invokes these examples in an attempt to lay bare the flaws of one being himself or herself.  Perhaps these examples capture what may be considered authenticity in some circles.  Be that as it may, it does strike me more like a case of a lack of verbal tact, if not downright insensitivity, than it is about being authentic.  Some may very well argue that the man cited by Grant actually lacked sound judgement as opposed to the cited man’s apparent peculiar manners embodying authenticity.  One can be authentic without coming across as uncouth or crass.  If the co-worker who was the object of carnal desires, likewise the nanny, the child ignorantly holding the dead pet insect in the innocence of youth, or the parents-in-law reacted in anger, responded in puzzlement or shock, it was not because of the man’s authenticity but the crudity of his delivery of his messages.  In my opinion, Grant cited what comes across as a rather poor example to put his point across.

Nonetheless, his point was fairly simple.  There are instances under which authenticity can cause more damage than it can bring forth a boon.  I disagree with Grant on the simple ground that he seems to mistake poor tact or unrefined manners for authenticity.  That is my first point of disagreement with his opinion as stated in the New York Times column that drew the fury and justifiable retort of Professor Brené Brown.

Secondly, I was shocked when he contrived to make this issue a theatre of struggles between genders based on what is seemingly very spurious supporting evidence.  He says, and I quote: “How much you aim for authenticity depends on a personality trait called self-monitoring.  If you’re a high self-monitor, you’re constantly scanning your environment for social cues and adjusting accordingly.  You hate social awkwardness and desperately want to avoid offending anyone.”  I see in this statement a euphemism for patronage, but one couched in professorially smart words.  When one is constantly scanning one’s surroundings in search of upward mobility in one’s career or social status as the primary objective, one of the many paths to that goal may easily involve the act of groveling and fawning at the feet of the would-be benefactors or patrons.  Moreover, anyone who is seen to be a stumbling block to that aim may fall victim to the ambitious ladder climber.  These two factors, resorting to as low as the deceitful stratagem of currying favour and walking over dead bodies, metaphorically speaking, are what make patronage very damaging.  Left to run amok, patronage can easily morph into a figurative cancer.

If Grant is arguing in favour of a patron-client arrangement because of its salutary results, an arrangement that may very well eschew genuine and prudent acts of authenticity, I have no choice but to state that I disagree with him.  I clearly hope that I am wrong in my understanding of his argument.  History teaches us that most, if not all, cases of recorded patronage are invariably associated with a structurally weak social dispensation whose collapse may be sudden and very precipitous and possibly just as calamitous.

What leaves me in a condition of bafflement follows what he defines to be the diametric opposite of the “personality trait called self-monitoring.”  What he calls “low self-monitor” personalities typically tend to, let me quote him verbatim here, if I may; “criticize high self-monitors as chameleons and phonies.”  Of course he points out that being conscientious, the low self-monitors get rewards which may be unfavourably disproportionate with their professional and, I presume moral investments, much unlike their polar opposites who will resort to make it to the top by any means necessary.  Is this not the very manifestation of a patronage system, if I may openly wonder?  Rewarding deceit, or inauthenticity, is doubly damaging in that it concomitantly punishes those who seek the path paved by the ethos that says that working hard and exercising due diligence will be duly rewarded.  Surely, Grant has to be conscious of this form of social injustice.  I am doubtful he brooks it.  That is number three.

Fourthly, that he apparently acquiesces to it is evident when he attempts to conflate the gender divide with the asymmetric reward arrangement of his euphemistically described patronage system.  He writes; “women are more likely to be low self-monitors than men.”  To his credit, and we ought to give credit where it is earnt, he cites the basis of his argument.  This is all well and good.  Unfortunately, the conclusions of the findings in the paper that Grant cites lack the firmness of conviction that is evident in his above-quoted statement.

In a paper published in the J Applied Psychology Volume 87(2), page 390 to page 401 (April of 2002), author Day and co-workers investigated self-monitoring personalities in a professional population sample of 23,191.  According to their construed findings, “[s]ample-weighted mean differences favoring male respondents were also noted, suggesting that the sex-related effects for self-monitoring may partially explain noted disparities between men and women at higher organizational levels (i.e., the glass ceiling).”  This is precisely how they surmise their findings.  The summary has clear caveats.  The researchers clearly see enough room to explain the noted disparities between the genders.  Simply put, there is more than an element of doubt in their conclusions much unlike the seemingly etched-in-stone statement by Grant, one interestingly based on the foregoing paper.  If Professor Brené Brown takes umbrage with this aspect of Professor Grant’s reading of the findings of Day et al., she clearly has my empathy.

I must confess that Grant and readers of my ilk may possibly be experiencing what Robert F. Brands characterized as the Rashomon Effect in his book Robert’s Rules of Innovation II.  It is in Akira Kurosawa movie, a great and very edifying movie, in which we are reminded that witnesses to a single event do not necessarily give identical accounts of the same event.  Perspective and, I presume, the state of mind do exert some considerable influence on the witness's narration of the event.

All in all, I find this exchange to be potentially help, if it can be shorn of what are ostensibly personal confrontations.  It will be a pity if such an edifying exchange ends up degenerating into a match in which two well-meaning members of a highly esteemed academic community spit venomous saliva in each other’s faces.

A Village Bankster

“That’s him over there.”

“Him, who?” I asked my uncle as he pointed at an old man who was seated in a chair under the awning of the country store. Uncle Leo, who was my father’s brother, and I had just stopped by the Chinamhora Rural Growth Point to buy a few things on our way from the city to the village. The gentleman at whom Uncle Leo had directed my attention was at one of the mercantile shops, a collection of which made up the Growth Point.

I turned my head to take a look at the old man. Though I had seen him as we were walking to the butchery, I had not taken the least interest in him. He did not look familiar at all and I could have sworn I had never heard of him before let alone known him. The man was seated in a chair with its back leaning against the wall of the store to support the back legs because the front legs were not touching the ground. Though asleep, he was slightly rocking the chair using his leg. The warmth of the sun against the chill that was in the air and the rocking chair had lulled him into sleep. A few flies were landing on his gaping mouth and, at times, on his eyes but he would chase them of with a flick of his hand all the while without stopping the rocking of the chair or opening his eyes.

“Swinmore Mucherambeva.”

“Swinmore Mucherambeva? Are you telling me that is the same Swinmore who ---”

“Aaha, that’s him!” Uncle Leo did not have to explain further.

He looked deplorably aged. Sunken cheeks and protruding cheek bones spoke of premature aging caused by untold poverty. Even his clothes betrayed his sad state. In his heyday he dressed well and there was evidence of that. He had a tie, a shirt with a collar that was caked with grime, a tattered jacket, a pair of trousers on which a mismatching patch was sown on the left knee and shoes so worn they resembled a pair of fish that had been mummified with their mouths open. It was a pitiful sight and I was touched by this Lazarus-like character — and, in a classic case of déjà vu, it was not the first time I had known him in this poor-Lazarus condition.

I knew Swinmore Mucherambeva when I was a child. We attended the same village school and often met when herding cattle in the sections of the river valley that were not cultivated for crops. At school, he was one of the popular playground rascals who enjoyed committing a few innocuous pranks for which the school headmaster, Mr Mataka, excessively punished him. Not that most of us were safe from tasting the bitter end of Tom, the name we Christened Mr Mataka’s bamboo cane.

“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” was Headmaster Mataka’s favourite saying. He often said it on Monday mornings and when he did, we knew we were all going to get caned for one of the many transgressions that schoolboys committed.

Yes, it was the boys, always the boys who suffered Tom’s bitterness. If the caning was not punishment for a few boys who had been caught stealing mangoes from the school orchard, it was for failure to attend church services when an important dignitary was visiting, fidgeting during church service, not closing eyes during the monotonous recitation of the Lord’s Prayer which most of us never took seriously anyway, failing to clean the latrines or being reported by a girl who had been an object of uninvited and spurned harmless romantic affections.

Swinny, as we popularly called him, was often caught breaking one of these unwritten transgressions. Because he was always getting caned, Swinny eventually gave up any attempt at temperance. Avoiding trouble was not easy even for the exemplary boys let alone habitual offenders like Swinny. The more Headmaster Mataka used his legendary cane Tom, the more spoiled Swinny became until he was beyond redemption. It is possibly that Mr Mataka’s heavy handedness hardened Swinny’s nascent criminal character and eventually set him down the wrong path towards the cliffs.

At the beginning, he was a petty crook and concocted little schemes. For some unknown reason, he developed a liking for usury. He targeted the young, vulnerable, trusting and friendly schoolboys. I doubt he had ever heard of the predatory tactics of international parasites, the slithering, perennially famished and insatiable pythons like the World Bank or the International Monetary Fund that preach the false gospel of fiscal discipline and austerity. Looking at him is his sorry state, I recalled his past and I could not help but feel sorry for him, despite my history with the man. As a young village schoolboy, I fell pray to his usurious schemes. Like most of his victims, I was a young, vulnerable and trusting schoolboy. One day, like a slithering serpent, he approached me at the playground as I was ready to play a game of pick-up soccer.

“Hello my little friend,” he had said as he gently patted my nicely cropped hair. I was honored to have gotten the attention of one of the older boys I had considered a hero. Here was, a boy who had constantly taken a beating from the headmaster without flinching, approaching me in a very friendly manner. He asked me for my name, which I gladly but meekly gave.

“Do you have any spare pennies?” he asked.

“I am only looking for five pennies.”

“No, I do not but I can get you some.” I seriously wanted to make him happy and giving him a few pennies was not too high a price to buy the friendship of a tough but beloved playground rascal. I was not sure I would be able to get the money right away and I told him so.

“I really need the money,” he said while wearing a very sorrowful face that reminded me of the severe caning he often got. “Try tomorrow or on Monday after the weekend.”

I felt sorry for him not because of his need for money — I had not bothered to ask him why he wanted the money. His suffering and apparent poverty had suddenly reminded me of the story of the scorned, poor and friendless Lazarus I had learnt during scripture lessons. In my sorrow for Swinny, it never even crossed my mind that I was not rich myself, unlike the rich and gluttonous man who ignored Lazarus.

“You give me until this weekend,” I promised him the five pennies. What a mistake that was. I had been forced into a trap as I quickly discovered that Monday after the weekend.

“Hey, mupfanha!” he said as he came thundering at me like an angry buffalo bull when he saw me at the play ground during class recess, “where is my money?” From a would-be benefactor, I had been transformed into a little boy

I was startled by the hostile development. He grabbed me by the collar and with his bulging eyes glowering at me as he demanded his five pennies. The poor Lazarus who had patted my head and asked for money with his head sorrowfully tilted towards his left shoulder had suddenly turned into a fierce growling dog.

“I, I, I, I tried to get ” stammering and desperately gasp for air, I attempted to tell him I had forgotten to look for the five pennies. He knew I did not have the money and so he never waited for any explanation.

He shook me and, snarling his teeth like a rabid stray hound. He demanded, “I want that money and soon! Do you hear me, mupfanha? I now want six pennies not five because you failed to bring me the five pennies you owe me.” I was too frightened to say anything. The bell to mark the end of the recess period rang and he let go off my collar as we both dashed back to the classroom. That day I was saved by the bell. This was the beginning of my miseries that I suffered at the hands of Swinny. Every time he saw me he would menacingly charge and bared his fangs at me as he demanded “his money.” It was always the same pattern and I suffered miserably.

On Tuesday, he found me at the playground again and he made the same demand: “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” As had happened on Monday, I was levied an additional penny because I did not have the six pennies he claimed I owed him. On Wednesday, he found me at the playground again and he made the same declarative demand, again: “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” As had happened on Monday and Tuesday, I was levied an additional penny since I did not have the money he claimed I owed him. On Thursday, he found me at the playground again and he made the same spinning chilling demand, again: “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” As had happened on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I was levied an additional penny since I did not have the money he claimed I owed him. On Friday, he found me trying to sneak away from him and he made the same frightening demand, again: “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” As had happened on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I was levied an additional penny since I did not have the money he claimed I owed him.

Come to think of it, it was a neat way of making money and by the end of the week he claimed I owed him ten pennies. Now, that was a shilling worth of pennies. That kind of money meant a lot in those days. I never could get the money to give him and every time he kept on adding a penny to the previous sum. Before long, I was hopelessly in debt.

The whole thing became so wearisome I stopped going to the playground lest I get caught. From a safe position and with a heavy heart, I was forced to longingly watch my friends enjoy a game of pickup soccer. At times he, Swinny, would sneak from behind and say; “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?”

The situation was so desperate I eventually decided to stay in the classroom to read a novel or try to learn a few mathematics problems that had confused me during one of the lessons. It is rather ironic that the terror I suffered at the hands of Swinny may have made me a more studious student than I would otherwise have been had he not left me to roam the playground unmolested. My teacher grew fond of my newly developed seriousness, well, what he thought was a sudden yearning for books and hatred for playground recess games. He paid little attention to Swinny who, whenever he did not see me at the play ground, would come hunting for me as he peeked through the window but too terrified to come in because of the presence of my class teacher.

Needless to say I became very adept at dodging my tormentor but I cursed him every time an opportunity offered. Every time I saw a lonesome dove flying, I would pick up a fistful of sand and shower it towards it and cast a spell at my tormentor. We believed then that a lone dove was a bad omen but that omen could be cast to an enemy by tossing a fistful of sand in the direction of the dove while verbally mentioning the target of that curse.

“Bad omen of the lonesome dove, spare me and go find a better home in Swinny.” Whether the spells worked or not, I do not remember. What I remember is that I never paid the money Swinny claimed I owed him. I think he decided I was not worth the trouble and went after softer targets and was probably making enough money to cover my share as is often the case with moneylenders and similar blood-sucking vampires.

After some unfruitful years in school, he decided fishing from the small village pond was not good enough. Swinny quit school and moved to the city. From a petty schoolyard leech, he graduated to a bigger crook as a pickpocket and a mugger in the dark city alleys. He became Three Fingered Swinny for his efficient wallet lifting. Unfortunately he did not go and work for a bank and what a loss that was.

The man knew how to make money. If that talent had been properly harnessed and nurtured by professional thieves, pseudonymously called bankers and insurers, he would have been a governor of the national bank or would have found a powerful position on the IMF or WB board of directors.

When I became aware of the predatory policies of the IMF and the WB, I quickly realized that the practices they used were not that significantly different from those of the playground rapscallion Swinny. Where Three Fingered Swinny preyed on weak schoolboys, the IMF preys and practices economic and financial terrorism on weak and defenseless Third World countries. Poor Argentina is a good example of that. Swinny-like, the IMF approached poor Argentina with sweet-sounding deals about the glories of private enterprise, deregulation and other monetary deviltries, which were nothing but gourds carrying deceptively sweet but highly toxic prescriptions like economic structural adjustment programs. Interestingly, the IMF directors would never encourage the governments of their home countries to adopt these energy-sapping remedies for their perennial but cleverly veiled economic maladies. Argentina was not the only vulnerable village schoolboy to be swindled by our international versions of Three Fingered Swinny, the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank. It will not be the last one either. If only the two-headed hydra could suffer the fate that befell Three Fingered Swinny, would that not be sweet!

When I saw Three Fingered Swinny sleeping in the rocking chair as he waved the flies away, he was Lazarus in old age. I felt sorry for him and his sorry state reminded me of how my initial pity for him had gotten me in trouble. The thought of him terrorizing me when I was a small boy suddenly took me back to my years of the innocence of youth where, in hindsight, I had little to worry about.

Three-Fingered Swinny may have inadvertently altered the course of my life. I became a bookworm and I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude.

“Hello Three-Fingered Swinny,” my uncle gently shook him out of his sleep. He let the chair sit on its Six legs and noisily yawned and stretched his arms out before he exchanged greetings with Uncle Leo. They briefly chatted about the cold but dry season, the locally brewed opaque beer that they had shared in the past and other things villagers talk about.

“Who is this fellow with you?”

My uncle told him who I was and Three Fingered Swinny took a long and deliberate gaze at me. He then turned to my uncle and asked him; “Your son? I did not know you had a son. All along I thought you had nothing but daughters. You old alley cat, you.” He waved a finger at my uncle and by the naughty glisten of his eyes he thought I was my uncle’s recently discovered son from a forgotten affair, a fruit of youthful indiscretions.

“No, no Three Fingered Swinny,” moving quickly to dispel the untoward thoughts creeping into Three Fingered Swinny’s head, Uncle Leo told him; “That is my brother’s son, the one at the university.”

“Leo, you don’t say,” Three Fingered Swinny smiled and grabbed my right hand for a vigorous handshake. “I know him, remember him when he was this small,” he put his open right palm pointing his fingers skywards at the level of his waist to show my height as he remembered me when he used to badger me saying, “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?”

“Swinny, I owe you a few shillings from the school days,” I reminded him and we all heartily laughed. In feigned seriousness, I glowered at him and said; “Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” Again we all laughed.

“Hey, mupfanha! Where is my money?” he jokingly repeated the words as he grimaced at me just as he had done in those bygone years. Swinny, who had since retreated into his chair, gently slapped his knee and we all laughed again. He said,

“I tell you, those were the days.”

“I will make up for all those shillings and the accrued interest. Let us go into the bottle store and I will get you a few beers.” We went into the bottle store where I ordered a bottle of Fanta for myself and Castle Lager for Uncle Leo and Three Fingered Swinny. We enjoyed our beverages as Uncle Leo and Three Fingered Swinny smoked their cigarettes of peace chatting about the good old days. We talked about everything, except that event that had happened years ago. It had been more than a decade but time had not sufficiently cleansed that shameful event from people’s minds.

Mothers with naughty boys often reminded their misbehaving boys that they were headed the way of Three Fingered Swinny. That was powerful enough to tame the boy with the wildest spirit. No boy wanted to be like Swinny.

“You will end up like Three Fingered Swinny,” my own mother once told me when I pretended I was sick so that I did not have to go to school where the loathed Grade Four class teacher, the late Mr Karovamhuru, was in charge of assembly duties. No one wanted to end up like Three Fingered Swinny who had dropped out of school midway through Grade Four. Not even the tough-skinned Swinny could endure the excessive caning of Mr Karovamhuru. For me, the fear of meeting the disgraceful fate of Swinmore made the caning of Mr Karovamhuru tolerable.

Everyone knew about Swinny and how he committed that worst abomination of all abominations as the villagers were mourning and preparing his deceased mother’s funeral. It was one of those stories you will never forget and it happened three villages down the river valley where my grandfather had founded the village in which I spent my pre-teenage years.

After dropping out of school, Swinny had left for the city where he became a notorious wallet lifter. It was a dangerous but rewarding job especially after he ganged up with hardened city criminals. In Salisbury, they preyed on people boarding public buses. Swinny was a fast learner and I guess the years he had spent swindling little boys had prepared him well for bigger fish. He became a city slicker and dressed well for someone who had no legitimate employment.

He was similarly dressed in a nice sports jacket when fate dealt him a cruel hand. His mother, an old villager, had died and her relatives had gathered some money, $100, for her funeral. This was Rhodesia and that was a lot of money then. The money was needed to buy an ox for her burial rites. According to custom, the burial of a village elder was considered sacred and rituals that went way back in time had to be performed during the funeral. To perform some of the burial rites, internal organs of an ox were needed. Swinny’s mother did not have an ox for the ritual. A message had been relayed Swinny to gather some money from relatives. The money had been gathered and handed over to Swinny to take back to the village.

“Do not even spend a single red penny of that money,” he had been warned before he departed for the village. Everyone knew he was a thief and the sight of money brought demons of avarice flying his way.

He put the money in his jacket and left for the bus station. At the crowded station he spotted a nicely gentleman in a jacket that looked like his own. Swinny’s predatory instincts told him this gentleman was good game. As he made his way into the bus, Swinny saw what looked like the gentleman’s jacket caught between one heavy woman and the gentlemen as the crowd was jostling to get into the bus. It was at that moment that Swinny spotted a wad of money in the sports jacket of the gentle.

True to form, Swinny deftly picked the wad and shoved it into his trousers. “My luck day,” he joyfully whistled as he counted the money he had stolen from the nicely dressed gentleman. “A cool $100, you can’t beat that. That is a fortune. I will stop by the bottle store.”

When he got to the bottle store close to his village, he decided to buy a few drinks with the money he had swiped from the gentleman. “I will buy a few drinks for myself before I proceed home.” He knew everyone was waiting for him but the temptation of spending his loot was too strong for him to resist.

He got himself, a few drinks. It is often said it is easy to be benevolent with money not earnt through the sweat of one’s brow. Likewise, Swinny gladly shared with some of the village men, the typical characters who gather at the bottle store even if they have not a penny to buy even a handful of roasted peanuts. They were glad to see Swinny and some of the less shameful shed a few tear, presumably to share in Swinny’s bereavement, shaking his hand in the process. In truth, some of them wanted to get a few bottles of free beer.

“We are saddened by the death of your mother,” some of them said. “Your loss is our loss. Let your miseries and bereavement be upon our shoulders too.”

Swinny was touched by the gestures of sympathy and he bought them a lot of beer. Soon all the “looted” money was gone and he decided to go home. He was too drunk to walk without assistance. He was simply too drunk. The hangers-on carried him to his mother’s compound in a hastily made stretcher where everyone was waiting for his mother’s funeral.

“Did you bring the money for the ritual ox?” he was asked. He did not answer.

“Pour water on him,” someone suggested! Pour water on him that will sober him up enough.” They did just that but that did not help one bit. They were up against it. Without the ox, Swinny’s mother could not be given a proper burial.

“Oh, why!” exclaimed one village elder. “Search his pocket for the money.”

“There ain’t a thing in his pockets!” The man who had rifled through Swinny’s pockets said as he dejectedly threw his hands the air.

Three-Fingered Swinny had unwittingly used the funeral money to drink himself into infamy. What he had thought was stolen money from the nicely dressed gentleman turned out to be the money he had collected for his mother’s funeral. Three-Fingered Swinny had swindled himself. His mother had to be buried with offals of a goat donated by one his mother’s friends. It a very disgraceful thing, an abomination! Luckily, according to tradition practice, abominations can be cleansed away.

By custom, Three Fingered Swinny was expected to atone for his transgressions one year after his mother’s funeral. He had to collect sorghum and finger millet from the surrounding villages. Each villager gave him a little bit after which they chased him away pretending to beat him while dressing him down for disgracing his mother. This was kutanda botso – showing contrition and gaining atonement by running the gauntlet of public shaming and humiliation – a far more effective way to show penitence than going into a secluded confessional to mumble a few worthless Hail-Mary words of insincere repentance.

To this day, everyone talks about that disgraceful funeral and Three Fingered Swinny’s botso gauntlet. It is enough to send a cold shiver down the back of everyone and it kept a lot of small village boys from going down the same path that shamed Three Fingered Swinny.

© J.Masere: Written in 2001, Alvin Texas.

Kisimusi muRhodesia (Christmas in Rhodesia)

Zvakanzi nemwanasikana Adley, kutaura maKisimusi ekuRhodesia kuda kunyaradza vana nekuvarangaridza maguto akare. Ichi ichokwadi, matakadyakare haanyaradze mwana.

Eehe matakadyakare haanyaradze mwana asi mumwe musi mwana wacho achati bikayi zvacho zvamakadya tizvionere pamhuno sefodya. Makore apfuura, takati isu ngatiwunganidzeyi mari yokutenga huku, mupunga nezvekunwa. Takatenga makireti emakokokora akasiyana-siyana aiti Fanda, Spareta, Jinjabhiya zvichingodaro. Vana takatengera hembe ndukudziviga.

Musi weKisimusi vana vese vakamuka vakakweshwa makumbo nemisana mumabhavhu aye mahombe anogadzirwa nemapositori. Vapedza vakazorwa mafuta evhaserini. Vapedza kupfeka nguwo dzavo tsaru, vakachigara pasi vonwa tiyinechingwa chaive chakazorwa majarinhi nejamhu dzvuku riye yeSun Jam. Tiyi iyi yakange yabikwa pakafashaidzirwa mvura, masamba, suga nemukaka pamwechete. Vapedza kunwa tiyi, vana vakachidaidzwa kuti vazopfeka nguwo dzavo itsva.

Vakapfeka vakasekerera kunge mapere aona ngwarati yakawa nomusana. Vana vakazvipena, vakazvipena zvakare pamusana pekufara. Kwakazoti zvino zuva rorova nhongonya, vakachikokwa kuti vagare pahukwe. Mbiya dzomupunga nehuku dzakaunzwa. Vana vakakashura mupunga nemasipunu nyama yehuku vakarandabvura. Miromo yati pome-pome nemafuta ainyiminyira. Miromoyo yakananzvirwa ndimi dzikazvirega.

Pwere dzakachiti matumbu fuse-fuse vakuru vakati hamuna chamakaona, gore rino muchaona anonzi machikichori. Mabhodhoro emakokokora akachiunzwa. Vakakakaira gare gare tikaona vobuda panze. Isu takaziva zvedu kuti vainge vonokanda tumatombo mumabhodoro huti aite furu. Taizviziva nokuti tainge tabveko kumhungako.

Kwakazoti zuva rorereka, marhekodzi akaridzwa vana vakapfichuka kutamba. Kana vaye vaisagona kutamba vaingotiwo kwaku kwaku kutomhuka nokufara.

Rechimangwana takazovaudza kuti ndizvo zvaiitwa pamaKisimusi ekuRhodesia. Ndiwo matakdyakare akafadza vana zvokuti nanhasi vose vanoti ngatiiteyi Kisimusi yekuRhodesia gore negore.

The Mysterious Ways of the Mosquitoes of Brazoria County

It has been a while since I posted anything on this blog. I have had to contend with an energy-draining medical problem in the family. The highly skilled medical team at the local private hospital did a wonderful job. All is well now.

Anyhow, I thought it would be nice to break the ice by posting a short story from my latest book, The Clan Oracle and Other Stories, I hope to have published before the end of the year. Without much ado, here is The Mysterious Ways of the Mosquitoes of Brazoria County, a story inspired by Mark Twain's The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.

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The Mysterious Ways of the Mosquitoes of Brazoria County

“This is incredible,” I mumbled to myself as I tried to browse through the local newspaper while swatting away a swarm of mosquitoes. I was still shaking my head when a shadow hovered into my presence. Apparently I had company, and might have had it far longer than I really realized since my attention was transfixed on the swarm of vicious mosquitoes. It was the bothersome mosquitoes that had frozen my faculties. Between my attempts to read the newspaper headlines and fending off mosquitoes, I was totally unaware of anything else.

“What you shaking you head at?” inquired a voice that carried the typical rural Texan drawl. It was the owner of the shadow, an elderly fellow dressed in worn and greased Levi dungarees and a plaid shirt. He was a farmer, I assumed. With curly graying hair betraying the toll of the sun on its texture, I could not have been mistaken. Anyway, his shoes were heavy enough to contend with the heavy and miry soil of the farming country. He could not have been an oilman, oil drilling being the only other form of economic activity in the county. He was a farmer.

“That,” pointing at the swarm of mosquitoes hovering by the vending machine as I answered his question. “I would never have believed it.” I was still shaking my head and gaping my mouth in surprise. “I have never seen mosquitoes flying in broad daylight. They are big, too, they could skin a whole cow.”

The old man looked surprised. I was glad he had noticed the strange mosquitoes. My happiness was premature and ill timed. The old man craned his head forward, extending nothing but his head as he stretched his neck, peering at the swarm. He then turned his head and for a brief and very uncomfortable moment, he inspected my face before taking another look at the newspaper vending machine. Finally he turned at me and I realized that his initial surprise had nothing to do with the incredible mosquitoes. It was my skepticism that had surprised him.

“Them mosquitoes have been known to do that,” he said with professorial confidence.

“Really?”

“You bet,” pausing abruptly as if something had jolted him. “Where you from?”

It was my accent then that had jolted him. There is no doubt he had never heard such a thick accent and I knew right away I was going to be treated like a know-nothing outsider. It had long ceased to annoy me and, as a matter fact, I found it rather amusing when people thought of me as a tourist and an object of curiosity. The brave ones would timorously get closer, marvel at my accent --- it was always the accent --- and the incomprehensible fluidity and lucidity of my manipulation of the English language. The accent just did not comport with the decency of the English.

“Sir, I come from Afric…. “

“A pilgrim, haa!” said the old man before I could completely answer his question. He did not seem particularly interested in the answer to his question. I was a pilgrim and that was all that mattered to him. “I don’t reckon you got them mosquitoes where you from?”

“Not this variety, sir,” not sure what to say since his statement could have been a statement of fact made to a know-nothing pilgrim. “These mosquitoes are quite vicious, sir, and I put it mildly.

I paid for the ten-page daily newspaper, as I was about to make my way into a low-roofed building that saved as a diner by day and an opry house by night. Let me caution you, gentle reader, that I use the word newspaper loosely because rarely was there any news covered, none beyond an occasional Friday-night fist fight in one of the opry houses that littered the place or an occasional flare-up of some long-running family feuds in the trailer-park communities that nestled at the junctions of county roads that crisscrossed the farming land. The old man lived in one of these communities.

“Them Brazoria County mosquitoes can chew off the skin of a whole cow and the whole shebang. I done witness that myself after the last flood ‘fore this here Allison,” offered the old man.

“Mosquitoes prefer blood. At least that is what I was taught in school.” Sounding a little bit conciliatory and less skeptical, I offered: “I guess the teachers had never heard of the mosquitoes of Brazoria County.”

“Pilgrim, don’t you believe none of them professors and their fangled books,” he said as he made his way to the parking lot.

All along I had been swatting away the swarm of these mosquitoes and it was noon. These were the hungriest and boldest mosquitoes I had ever seen. Normal mosquitoes do their foraging for blood in the darkness of the night. Not these mosquitoes of Brazoria County; they attacked people during the day. Interestingly, I noticed that the mosquitoes were not bothering the old man and I pointed it out to him.

“Vitamins son, it is vitamins.”

“Did you say vitamins, sir?” I asked the old man, wanting him to elaborate.

“Son, you take them vitamins and them mosquitoes will not bother you,” he said with the confidence of a medical doctor. “The first time I taken my vitamins, one mosquito tried to bite me, it spit out my skin, cussing and coughing. It ran back home like the Dickens telling everyone about me saying; “Fellas, lend me your ears. See that fella yonder? He got vitamins. Can’t touch him.” They shore done listened to him.”

“But, sir ... “

“But me no buts pilgrim,” he said as he continued his way to his car. “Take your vitamins.”

I was going to tell him that in my years in school I had never heard of mosquitoes being repelled by vitamins. If what he had said was true, remember that the mosquitoes did not bother him while I frantically fought them off, why, if he was right he could tell the entire world of his findings. Surely there would be no need for the big drug companies to waste money on expensive equipment and scientists to hunt for more potent anti-malarial drugs. I was not inclined to believe the vitamin story. I had not read it in any book or journal of medicinal chemistry and I was about to tell the old man that. He quickly squelched that idea.

“Eeeh look here son, about them fangled books,” he remarked as if in afterthought, “them Yankee scalawag books, they lie.” He was waving his finger at me but as a friendly warning. Nothing from the books was ever going to change his mind about the mosquitoes.

His name, as I would later learn, was Bill McNulty. His friends called him Billy. He was a neo-Confederate, alright. From my years in Mississippi, anything the neo-Confederates disagreed with had its origins from a Yankee scalawag. The stickers on his battered truck confirmed it: HERITAGE NOT HATRED read one. DEAD YANKEES TELL NO LIES, said a more threatening sticker. KEEP YOUR CONFEDERATE DOLLARS, THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN.

Despite all this, Billy was as harmless as a newly born baby. He was like most southerners, unfairly caricatured as uneducated, uncultured and hopelessly racist. This was far from the truth. He was a simple old man who valued his family and friends. That made him an educated man in my eyes. He was leery of strangers, which is natural but he became incredibly friendly once he became comfortable with the stranger. Billy was an avid hunter. He loved his guns and was not a threat to anyone. If he was not going to eat it or was not a pest, he did not kill a thing. I had been warned by city slickers to stay within city limits unless I wanted to get myself lynched.

Like most old southerners, black or white, Old Billy was a very likeable grandfatherly man. Bill had no bone of bigotry in his body. I was a black man who had grown up in deep Africa herding goats but Billy and his family took me as part of the McNulty family. I fitted in seamlessly. Instead of falling victim of a lynch mob, I found myself suffocating in southern hospitality. The southern whites receive a raw deal, really.

I suspected someone was making political mileage out of Billy’s poverty and supposed ignorance. Like his black brother in the inner city, he was political cannon fodder. It seemed the poor blacks and poor whites were deliberately kept apart from each other so that they would never realize that they have more in common with each other than the difference in the colour of their skins. If all these poor folks ever came together, there would be more blood shed than the world witnessed when the French peasants basically wiped out the French aristocracy overnight.

Poor people are very dangerous and the only way to control them is to pit them against each other. Political organizations tell the poor whites that the government wants to confiscate their hunting guns. The poor white’s black brother is made to believe his gun-totting rural brethren are baying for his blood. This is a trick for diverting the poor whites’ attention from issues more important to their lives than gun control measures. Similarly, the poor black get the same treatment. Poor blacks are simply left at the mercy of equally manipulative and exploitative organizations. These organizations are basically self-serving at best.

The kind folks reside in the underdeveloped pockets of poverty of the rural south and mountain west. These pockets are replete with conspiracy theories. When I visited him Old Bill brought the subject of the mosquitoes. He said the United Nations scientists wanted to put the farmers out of business and they had unleashed these hungry mosquitoes so as to begin the New World Order.

The next time he talked about the mosquitoes he had another explanation. The mosquitoes were actually miniature black helicopters, cousins of the bigger black helicopters sightings of which were a daily occurrence in the mountains of Idaho and Montana. Bill’s wife looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes as if to say, “What did I tell ya, pilgrim?” Old Bill’s wife had told me the old man liked to embroider things. Basically there was nothing to Bill's tale of a cow having been skinned by the mosquitoes.

All in all, the tropical storm code-named Allison had struck the southeastern area of Texas, an area that included the greater Houston metropolis and the surrounding farming communities. Like a jilted lover, it had wreaked havoc. Because of its agrarian nature, Brazoria County had not accumulated much run off to amount to any significantly damaging flood. However, the scattered paddles of water were ample breeding grounds for mosquitoes. I found a wonderful friend and the mosquitoes opened my eyes to the interesting life of an unfairly demonized section of America, the southern whites. I have to thank the mysterious ways of the mosquitoes of Brazoria County.

A Miracle out of South Carolina

Straight out of South Carolina, the heartbeat of Dixie, with all due apologies to Alabama, here is Professor B. Michael Williams a bona fide mbira maestro. It is a miracle. This just lends credence to what I said on one of Sarudzayi Barnes' blog entries.

Here is a sample of what the gifted man has to offer. I hope my born-again compatriots are paying attention.

Invitation to Masimba Musodza's Reading of Uriah's Vengeance

I had the oppportunity and great pleasure to read Masimba's book, Uriah's Vengeance; a review is coming down the pike. If anyone within London - not that one in Ontario, Canada - please do not miss the opportunity to meet Masimba Musodza.

He is a soft-spoken and very humble person but let that not deceive you. Masimba is a phenomenal writer but, given his admirable humility, he will not blow his own horn. When I call him an incredibly good writer, I am not blowing the horn for him; far from it. I am just telling the truth as I know it.

Go and meet this great Zimbabwean if you have the oppportunity. I bet you will not be disappointed.

Ghetto Boy's Throwback Part 1

History in the Eyes of the Beholder

Amhlope to Irene Staunton and NoViolet M. Bulawayo

According to Tinashe Mushakavanhu'e report, Irene Staunton and NoViolet M. Bulawayo have been nominated for the 2009 PEN/Studzinski Literary Award. To my two compatriots I say makorokoto - amhlope. To be shortlisted after 827 entries from African authors, as reported by Tinashe, is ample proof that your literary accomplishments and contributions are of unquestionable quality. I am brimming with pride.

A Celebratory Jig for Chris Mlalazi

No folks, that's not me. That is one of the illustrations that may be included in Ngano dzeVapwere. The Shona stories are totally unrelated to the English folktales in African Folktales for Children.

I could not help but post it. It fits the moment. Think of the fella doing a traditional celebratory jig for the successful publication of Chris Mlalazi's book, Many Rivers.

I Was Inspired by Sarudzayi Barnes - Janine Dube

Zimbabwe's latest writer, Janine Dube, was recently interviewed by ZIMNET Radio. Asked to name writers who inspired her, "Sarudzayi Barnes," she said while naming some of the most prominent African writers like Chinua Achebe, Shimmer Chinodya, Charles Mungoshi and Dambudzo Marechera. Coming from another writer, that is a ringing endorsement of Sarudzayi Barnes.

This simply reinforces what I have often said to Mrs Barnes, a writer, business owner and aspiring farmer, everytime she mentions the cold shoulder her books get from certain Zimbabwean literary quarters - just keep on putting a good product because people who matter will notice.

Oh, by the way, it is apparent Janine just shuts up and writes. Good for her

Sarudzai Mabvakure and Janine Dube; Two Zimbabwean Women Doing Their Writing Quietly

The Zimbabwean has a review of Sarudzai Mabvakure's book, A Disappointing Truth – The Tragic Story of Sarah Witt. Another Zimbabwean writer, Janine Dube, has her book, A Dark Horizon, reviewed on the New Zimbabwe site. To these two Zimbabwean women doing their writing quietly, congratulations.

Shut Up and Read First!

The crowd at the Herald needs to calm down. One of the scribes, Richmore Tera, read Petina Gappah’s book. He did not like what was in it. Like respondent Masimba said on Petina’s blog entry, the scribes at the "Ministry of Truth" had been shouting and hollering about Petina's book without having read it. Now that they have read the book, they are raising Cain from the dead. What were they expecting?

Anyone who has followed Petina's opinion editorials on The Zimbabwe Times will not be surprised to learn that she lampoons the Zimbabwean oligarchy in her book. When she decided to write a book, did anyone think she had suddenly had an epiphany like Saul of Tarsus on his way to Damascus? To quote Masimba, again, the Zimbabwean oligarchy better brace itself for a torrent of bitter truth, if they somehow think of fiction as truth. If what Petina writes about has a ring of truth to it, I would not be surprised. Like Petina, we are all President Mugabe's children. We have known him to speak his mind. Some behavioural traits are acquired, you know. As the saying goes, like father like children or something along those lines - mbudzi kudya mufenje hufana nyina. It is not a crime, is it?

I hope this is also a big lesson for Zimbabweans, especially in the literary circle. Instead of yammering about books without reading them, one or two bloggers have been guilty of this - why not wait for a copy first? To borrow from Sigauke’s sagacious admonishment, shut up and read first! There are some writers who have given free copies to potential reviewers – what the recipients do with the books is another story altogether. Richmore Tera could have asked for a copy prior to accepting Petina's invitation, that way he would have known what he was dealing with from the get go. What we have now is the reverse of Mark Anthony’s elegy for Julius Caesar – pan intended. Richmore came to praise Petina but ended up attempting to bury her, metaphorically speaking. Zvino Ishe Tera vakazokorwa nemhanga yemahara pedzisire vowonekwa semunhu asina maturo.

I have not read Petina's book since I have been grappling with work assignments and have a deadline to meet. As soon as I have enough breathing room, I will read it and find out for myself what all the noise is all about. I will write a review, assuming I would have won my war against snails and pigeons by then.

Is David Cameron a Hypocrite?

It sure seems like he is, according to the report by Glen Owen. Here is what Owen says; "David Cameron was dragged personally into the expenses row last night after it was revealed that he paid off a loan on his London home shortly after taking out a £350,000 taxpayer-funded mortgage on his constituency house.

The disclosure followed a powerful call by the Tory leader yesterday for the ‘full force of the law’ to be deployed against MPs who have abused allowances.

Following a Mail on Sunday investigation Mr Cameron could now face searching questions about his own expense claims."

The rest of Beltway Dave's curious story is right here.

Beater Mangethe and Super Alick Macheso

Iri tinoriti dapurahunanzva;



Cheso Power - Mafaro Lyrics (to the best of my abilities - others feel free to make corrections)

Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye ndiri kufara ini
Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye ndiri kufara ini

Kumafaro kwakanakira kufadza nyama nepfungwa
Unowona zvakawanda munguva imwe chete-o
Uchinzwa zviningiswa zvimwe zvinodziva nzeve-e
Unowona zvakawanda zvinoyevedza meso nepfungwa
Kurudziro iyi yekufadza ropa zvikuruse-i mashoko-o

Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye ndiri kufara ini

Kumafaro kwakanakira kufadza nyama nepfungwa
Unowona zvakawanda munguva imwe chete-o
Uchinzwa zvizhinjiswa zvinodziva nzeve-e
Unowona zvakawanda zvinoyevedza meso nepfungwa
Kurudziro iri yekufadza ropa zvikuru sei-i mashoko-o

Kumafaro kwakanakira kufadza nyama nepfungwa
Unowona zvakawanda munguva imwe chete-o
Uchinzwa zvizhinjiswa zvinodziva nzeve-e
Unowona zvakawanda zvinoyevedza meso nepfungwa
Kurudziro iri yekufadza ropa zvikuru sei-i mashoko-o
Zvukuru sei mashoko

Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu
Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu
Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu

Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu
Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu
Aye ye ye ye ye ye ye tiri kufara isu

A Response to Sigauke's Questionnaire

Over at Sigauke’s blog, there is a curious questionnaire that is interesting. Below, I have tried to respond to as many of the questions as I could. Bear in mind that I am but a tiny and inconsequential dot in the literary world.

Be that as it may, here we go:

1. What exactly is African literature?
I personally think the definition of African literature will always be a subject of debate at the end of which there will never be a consensus. Howbeit, it could be defined along the Africanity of authors and, to a lesser extent, the subject matter of the works in question. Pursuant to the afore-mentioned definition, literary work by an African writer inevitably results in African literature. The literary product of one’s writing endeavour is inherently reflective of the writer’s experience from childhood to the juncture where one’s work is put forth for public consumption.

2. Why is it called African literature? Why is it not simply literature?

This is an intractable issue that has vexed noted writers like Soyinka, Ali Mazrui and Achebe. I am happy with Chinua’s definition best captured when he said, and I paraphrase him; “An African who says he or she does not write African literature is as foolish as a man who chases after a rat escaping from his burning hut instead of trying to put out the fire.”

3. Which is the best African literature?
This is like beauty for it is in the eyes of the reader, so to speak. Anyway, what other African literature is there?

4. Who is the father, or the mother of African literature?
I have qualms ascribing metaphorical parenthood to African literature. For me it would be easier to respond were I asked to name the African writer who has inspired me the most. In that case I would say Chinua Achebe through his book Things Fall Apart.

5. Why is Chinua Achebe discussed more than Amos Tutuola or V Mudimbe?
Comparing Achebe and Tutuola boils down to a comparison between Things Fall Apart and The Palmwine Drunkard. Things Fall Apart covers a wide range of societal aspects experienced by an African community at one time or the other, namely; (i) the bitter fruits of laziness and how one’s lassitude becomes a burden for one’s descendants, (ii) fear of failure and how it can lead to self-emollition, (iii) acquisition of dignity and respect through personal achievement regardless of misfortunes of one’s parents, (iv) the importance of heeding the words of one’s elders, (v) the significance of ngozi, the penalty for shedding the blood of one’s child, adopted or otherwise, (vi) the fragility of a community when it adopts and enforces norms and mores that are too rigid and (v) the vulnerability to outside forces when a community is too inflexible and restricted by archaic dogmas.

In my opinion, Chinua Achebe succinctly captures all this, and many more, in Things Fall Apart. The book encapsulates ruin that can befall an unflinching individual and a culturally static society.

Just as the Christian hymns touched something at the core of Nwoye, so does Things Fall Apart to this man’s cultural soul. I am a Shona of the Rozvi extraction. Any work that may directly or indirectly give me an insight on fcators that may have precipitated the demise of a once mighty community is greatly welcome. Given the invariance of mankind's behaviour, especially African, Chinua Achebe’s book strikes a chord with me much more than any other book by an African writer. Things Fall Apart does, to a point, help me get a general understand how the once pre-eminent Rozvi may have fallen apart and got scattered to all four corners of the world. Would The Palmwine Drunkard help me as much? I do not think so.

Here is the caveat though; it boils down to personal literary and cultural tastes.

6. Is it still African literature if it was first written in French and was then translated into English?

Of course it ought to be.

7. Why do other African writers only write in European languages, and not the languages of their mothers?

In my opinion, it is a matter of personal choice. If the author’s primary objective is to reach a big market and sell as many books as possible, what Sarudzai Mabvakure aptly describes as bestsellerdom, simple market forces dictate writing in a language that enables the writer to attain that goal. Others write in non-African languages to reach a wider readership but a quest for personal glory is not the primary motive. There are some writers who genuinely want to share African orature, as Sigauke calls it, with those beyond the African linguistic, geographic and cultural boundaries. These two examples are at the extreme termini of the spectrum of motives and the rest fall in between. Notwithstanding the individual motives, we all get culturally richer at the end of the day.

Additionally, there are instances where an African writer writes in a “European” language because the writer’s command of one’s “mother” is comparatively too poor to enable the writer to effectively put forth his or her ideas. This is a fact that many may not be comfortable with.

Let me say that I disagree with the characterization of languages used in Africa as European. I would prefer to call them languages adopted or culturally assimilated from erstwhile colonial powers. If one is so fluent in an assimilated language to the point where one can comfortably teach, write for, and even argue before a highly learned audience that claims that language as it mother tongue, without missing a bit, I say that is no longer a foreign language. To all intents and purposes, it becomes one’s mother tongue even if it was foisted by the bashing of one’s head with the priest’s Bible or at the prodding of the barrel of a gun.

On a personal level, I am comfortable writing in Shona and English. I write in Shona out of interest whereas I write in English because of professional obligations as well as out of personal interest.

8. Is Ngugi serious?

This question presupposes that the person or people who put together this questionnaire is or are personally aware of moments where said Ngugi has behaved in such a manner as to leave people questioning his seriousness. Has he? If he has, seemingly to the satisfaction of those empanelled to put this questionnaire, it would be helpful were they to make respondents privy to the details.

9. Why does Achebe live in the United States?
I think the answer to this is simple. Achebe lives in the United States of America for the same reason some of us do not live in our villages. What is the probative value of this question, really?

10. Is all African literature post-colonial?

Not necessarily.

11. But seriously, which writers make up African literature?

All the writers who state that their literary works comprise African literature ought to fall under this category.

12. How does one read African literature: where do you begin, where do you stop? Or do you stop? Should you know African orature in order to understand the literature?

I will pass on this one.

13. Who are the readers of African literature and why?

Pass!

14. What does an African writer want?

The answer will vary from writer to writer. However, if I may hazard a guess, there are some who want fame, some who want to proudly show to the rest of the world the wealth of African culture, some want to preserve part of our culture, some who want to add to the pool of African culture, and so on and so forth. All these goals, however variegated, are noble.

15. Why?

In my humble opinion, personal satisfaction may very well be at the core of the motive.

A Response to Ms Mabvakure's Bestsellerdom Blog Entry

Ms Mabvakure, there is one trait about you that I find refreshing; your honesty. You do not beat about the bush but go straight to the point, a take-no-prisoner approach. I will not always agree with you on theological issues but even there, your candour is something I greatly admire.

On bestsellerdom aspirations, I think it is more of a personality issue than a universal writers'-syndrome, unless I am mistaken in my observations. Some, it seems, write to reach a wide audience/readership beyond the circle of family members and friends. On the other hand, there are those who write for fun and when they make it to bestsellerdom, it would be like adding icing on the cake. I like what Dambudzo Marechera once said; "I write for myself." When I write, even mere scribblings, I do so primarily to entertain myself. When others join in, it only spices up everything.

A good product will inevitably self-generate a lucrative market for itself. It is just a matter of time. Moreover, fame will come if it is God’s will. Some will actively search for it while others entrust their fate in God’s hands. The above-noted comprise, in a nutshell, my writing creed. It may be a simpleton’s creed, but a creed nonetheless.

What are my thoughts on writing? Frankly, it is the easiest thing I have ever done so much so that I find it incredible that, within the writing community, it is generally considered a path to fame and the exclusive domain of a presumably gifted few. In his book, Roughing It, Mark Twain once made an observation to the effect that writing is so easy it should be considered a hobby not a job – that was after he had spent a stint doing back-breaking work at a silver-extracting mill in the wilderness of 19th Century Nevada.

Change You Can Believe In: South African Style

I have read so much about the brouhaha between Nando's and Julius Malema. "Much ado about nothing," I dismissed the whole kafuffle. For goodness' sake, I have wondered what it was all about until I saw the advertisement at the centre of the storm. Malema, the leader of the ANC Youth League has been clamouring for political change and, in a very funny spoof, Nando's promises real change people can believe in. The clip is right here. It is classic.



If Julius Malema is smart, which I doubt very much, he would come out and tell everyone it is a very funny advert. That would effectively take the wind out of the whole thing. If he makes threats, as is the wont of functionally illiterate political novices entrusted with enforcing law and order on behalf of the ruling elite, like the case of the mythical crows of my little book, African Folktales for Children, Nando's will have free and effective publicity.

Petina Gappah's Impressive BBC Interview

Petina's chat with Bola Mosuro of the BBC is very interesting. I do not know Petina as a person but, if I may confess, I was greatly impressed. Watch the interview here. What I find surprising is the fact that Zimbabwean cyberspace newspapers have not picked it up yet.

There are more interviews on her site. I genuinely believe it is worthwhile to watch and listen, I really do.

Although I prefer to stay away from politics, especially the Zimbabwean variety, I have to respectfully demur from Petina's observation, id est: the MDC is undergoing some Zanufication - around 28:30. I genuinely believe the MDC-ZANU-PF cohabitation is still in its premordial phase and it may be a little bit too early and premature to pass such judgement. Be that as it may, Petina's observation does have credibility given our country's sorry experience. For the sake of the Zimbabwean people, I hope we really move away from politics of cult leadership.

The Lions Press Publisher's Interview

The site Arts Initiates has an interesting piece in which Sarudzayi Barnes is interviewed. You can find the piece here. Like we used to say in the ghetto, padiki padiki zvesaga reshuka rinopera netiisipunu.