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.

Mr K.G, The Kids Were Thrilled

Mapquest is wonderful if you are in the USA where roads and streets run north-west and east-west. If you are lost, keep on driving because you will come to a highway that will take you to a road to your destination. In London, Mapquest is almost worthless. I found that out three Saturdays ago.

Mr KG invited us to a braai in west London. “Look,” I had said to Mr KG, “I have four people coming along. Is it OK?”

“By all means, Doc, bring ‘em all,” said Mr KG in his quintessential Southern African drawl. “There will be enough sadza and nyama for everyone.”

Up M3, we drive from Soton, left into Beltway 25 then - wait a minute – they don’t call it a beltway. It is the London loop. That is it, yes, M25 is called a loop not a beltway. I’m kindda disappointed they don’t call it a beltway. It would be fun calling David Cameron, the Tory leader, Beltway Dave. He likes to call the British government all sorts of bad names but then cannot wait not only to join it but to lead it. Sounds to me like a shell game, but I digress.

“The map says go west on Exit 16,” orders the navigator.

“What was that? We should be going east,” I protest as I slow down the chuck wagon. I am trying to defy the orders of the navigator but the driver of the car behind us decides to conspire against me. He blasts his horn. It is irritating so I have to comply with the navigator’s command.

We soon find ourselves headed straight to Birmingham. That is where Exit 16 takes you when you go west on M40. Doggamit, them British roads! If you follow the wrong exit, you have to drive to the next town before you can loop your way back into the highway. My crew and I find ourselves driving west, on M40, towards Birmingham instead of east into west London. At last we find a roundabout and do a hairpin turn as we head east towards west London.

The navigator is getting irritated. Everyone else is making fun of him. He is a teenager and he does not like to have his feathers raffled. Teenagers are a curious breed. They think they know everything and when they are proven wrong, their first response if that of anger – I know a few grownups who are like that, too.

“Why are we going to London anyhow?” the navigator sneers at me like a modern-day Tomás de Torquemada. I am forced to endure a verbal waterboarding. The navigator is taking his fury on me. You see, I am what they call a soft target.

“We are going to meet some Rhodesians.”

Aha! I have hit the mother lode. My passengers are suddenly curious, very curious. All four of them were all born after 1980 and they had never seen a "Rhodesian" all their lives. Through ZTV and The Herald, they have heard a lot about "Rhodesians" and how evil they are. To my four passengers, "Rhodesians" might as well have been some frightening monsters.
Anyway, we get lost a number of times but eventually reach our destination.

Boy, is my crew surprised when we finally meet our host and his friends. My crew does not see any monsters, contrary to the image that had been painted for them since childhood. Mr KG and his friends call my crew The Kids. Well, the kids are taught target shooting. Within minutes, just like that, they are hitting the bull’s-eye and knocking tin cans like its second nature.

No! They are not being trained to be Selous Scouts. They are just kids having fun and if anyone insists otherwise, we will meet in court for character defamation and preventing kids from their natural rights to enjoy life. It is early London spring and as the sun buries itself in the belly of the earth, it gets nippy. I huddle by the heater but the kids are too excited to feel the London evening chill.

“Vanhu vaye vari bho manje,” says the navigator on our way back home. Like the other kids, he is atwitter with joy. They all agree that Mr KG and his friends are wonderful. When I tell them a “Rhodesian” cooked the sadza they ate, I witnessed the cooking act, they are as impressed as I was. It was cooked village-style.

The kids realize there is more that binds Zimbabweans to “Rhodesians” than divide them. I wanted to disabuse the kids of the notion Zimbabweans of European ancestry and indigenous Zimbabweans are different from each other. We are one people despite the political noise back home that says otherwise. I could have quoted Dr Martin Luther King; judge a man by the content of his character not the colour of his skin. The kids would have listened more out of respect than anything else then dismiss my words as meaningless abstractions of a man who likes to read too many fangled books. I wanted them to have first-hand experience of what Dr King was advocating.

“Mission accomplished,” I silently say to myself. All the kids have become ardent proponents of America’s Second Amendment, too. They cannot wait to have an encore.

Mr KG, the kids were thrilled.

Zimbabwe - Land of Missed Opportunities

The videos below are a living testament to the incredible pool of talent in Zimbabwe. What good has come out of it? If, to quote Confucius, a picture is worth a thousand words then a video is worth a million words.





This is just the tip of the Eiffel Tower of talent that Zimbabwe has. It is a pity that we have to beg when we have enough to support ourselves. Very sad indeed.

Well, how about a Zimbabwe version of Buena Vista Social Club?

A Layman's Thoughts on Ngugi's Wizard of the Crow

Over on the Wealth of Ideas blog, Emmanuel Sigauke is elated that Ngugi waThiong’o has been nominated for Man Booker Prize. I share Brother Manu's happiness. That happiness is born out of recognition that Ngugi is a colossus and the nomination is a long overdue recognition of what he has done to inspire African writers of younger generations. I hope Ngugi wins it.

Ngugi has an impressive portfolio of literary works but his last work, Wizard of the Crow, is at the bottom of the totem pole. This could be a result of this poor reader expecting something along the same lines as his epic novels like Petals of Blood and Devil on the Cross. I think of Ngugi more as a social commentator who uses novels as a vehicle to articulate his positions on prevailing issues. I bought the novel thinking that it was a tome on the Zimbabwe body politic. Ngugi cleverly used a cover illustration in which the bigger crow has a military-style cap with the Zimbabwe bird on the rim band. Moreover, the truncated Zimbabwean flag on the cover leaves the impression that it is about Zimbabwe.

To add intrigue to it all, the title has allusions to Zimbabwe. You will recall that gunguwo was a derogatory epithet for Bishop Muzorewa - Sekuru Gunguwo – because of his religious vestments. Our gunguwo's was politically killed by the almost magical political and oratory skills of Mugabe. Some dare liken President Mugabe's skills to wizardry. To me, the superficial Zimbabwean metaphor simply stands out but what is inside is something else.

It would be fairly easy to posit that Ngugi tried to pull a sly marketing gimmick by exploiting Mugabe’s unpopularity at the time of the publishing of the book. I have no idea what motivated Ngugi into using the Zimbabwean imagery. I will leave that to gurus of literature. I do not have a degree in writing with a keen eye for literature analysis. I am a simple scientist. Be that as it may, my comments aired herein and elsewhere are not an imputation of Ngugi’s book. I do not regret buying the book.

Anyway, a comparison of the author's works is inevitable. I would call it the unavoidable consequence of unintended relativity. For a layman like me not well-versed in the intricacies and academic intrigues of literature beyond what I did at O-Level, I can say not all of a writer's books are equally good. Some will be exceptionally good and some will be relatively poor while the rest will be somewhere in the middle. In science we call that trend a Gaussian distribution. It is quite common, like a dictate of nature.

This is the case with all the books of famous writers in my library. I have copies of Mark Twain's Joan of Arc, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. In my opinion, the latter two are classics – classics are not just books I display, I read them, too. The former tastes sour by comparison. I say so because I have read all three. I could say the same about John Steinbeck novels, Tony Morrison novels, Achebe novels, Lewis Lapham books and so on and so forth.

Ngugi is proud of his Kikuyu lineage and writes in his mother tongue. What the rest of the world consumes from his plate are translations. It is well and fine to bear this in mind. However, can this be used as a caveat to shirk a comparison of his novels? When we invoke such caveats about his the novels, as we read them in English, originally written in Kikuyu, does it not come across as a circuitous admission that the work under discussion is relatively substandard? As Ngugi himself states in Decolonizing the Mind, his most celebrated novels published after Petals of Blood were originally written in Gikuyu. As far as my rudimentary literature tastes are concerned, the quality of these books was not diminished by translation into English. Why would Wizard of the Crow be an exception unless it was comparatively poor right from the very beginning?

The judgement passed on the quality of a book is a matter of personal taste akin to snake venom; some call it poison that has to be avoided at any cost while others use it as medicine.

Is Pastor Chris A Charlatan?

Last night I read the review on Pastor Chris’s book by Ms Sarudzai Mabvakure. With all due respect, I think Pastor Chris is confused. When he says Jesus died for us, I wonder where Jesus ever said that. I know Paul made such wild declarations. I have read the Bible but I have never come across any part in which Jesus claimed that he would die to conquer death for his followers.

While we are at it, how does Pastor Chris define the process of getting born again?

The idea that kings rule by Divine Right, as alluded to in Ms Mabvakure’ review is debunked by First Samuel 8:10-17. Anyway, who are supposed to be ruled by the believers of Pastor Chris' ilk? This quest for temporal power is strange if we bear in mind that Jesus said blessed are the poor for they will inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. The world does not need anymore theocratic oligarchs. The few we have are more than enough!

Equally strange is the notion that “The right or the privilege to live is reserved for the born again Christian.” What about the billions who were put on this planet by God and who do not subscribe to Pastor Chris’ brand of theology, by what authority are they denied the right or privilege to live? Does it mean that they all deserve the grizzly fate of the Amalekites?

Pastor Chris' claims have a sulphurous smell of bigotry that could easily verge on the genocidal. Let us not forget that Pastor Chris is a Nigerian Pentecostal whose country of origin is notorious for pastors who force members to pay fees for exorcism and anyone who fails is condemned to death by emollition; please watch the video posted by Rense. Be warned, it is very graphic and sickening.

One question commends itself, is Pastor Chris a charlatan? I sure would like to exchange correspondences with him because I find his claims deeply disturbing and devoid of scriptural merit.

PDF of Jesus's Dubious Historicity

As promised, I have my essay entitled The Dubious Historicity of Jesus Christ posted as a pdf.

Viewer feedback greatly welcome, seriously.

Can I Have a Witness? The Dubious Historicity of Jesus Christ

Josh McDowell’s book, More Than A Carpenter, is the most-cited script by Southern (American) Baptists whenever questions regarding the authenticity of the historical character called Jesus Christ pops up. I was fortunate enough to get a copy from a white Mississippian Southern Baptist, who claimed to have been born again, after I brought to his attention the pagan origins of the resolution, in the form of an imperial decree, of the still-controversial doctrine of the trinity. He did not want to hear anything about Arius, Athanasius or Emperor Constantine but, after quoting a few Biblical verses that contradicted his stated belief in the dogma, he angrily thrust the little book into my hands. “Read it,” he commanded as he shoved McDowell's book into my hand, “it will answer your darned questions!”

Suffice it to say it is a nice little book but woefully inadequate in terms of addressing or clarifying the historicity of Jesus Christ. All practicing Christian and many practicing Moslems take the scriptural evidence of the existence of Jesus prima facie. If only this was true.

The scriptural narrations are testimonies of individuals so that they are, fortunately, subject to the Biblically mandatory evidence-validation edicts. Pursuant to said edicts, a person who makes a claim must put forth witnesses to verify the validity of his or her claim, viz.; Deuteronomy 13:1-5, Exodus 4:1-9.) and Deut. 18:18-22). In fact, Jesus himself, or a character by that name says in John 5:31, "If I testify about myself, my testimony is not valid." In Matthew 18:16 – 17; he says, "[T]ake with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established." Similarly, the character called Paul, in 2 Corinthians 13-2 says; “In the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established.”

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I have collated Bible texts of witnesses that seem to prove that the witnesses who testify about Jesus abysmally fail the evidence-validation test. It has been a worthy errand. Every time a group of Mormon missionaries or Jehovah's Witnesses knock at my door, I invite them in and pull out the essay I have written but not published. They cannot rebut the points in the essay and so they leave and promise to return with answers. Unfortunately, they never come back.

I will be posting the essay, as a pdf, in due course. Alternatively, I could offer it to Emmanuel or Ivor, if they do not mind posting rouble-rousing tracts.

Sarudzayi Chifamba-Barnes: Zimbabwean Entrepreneur

by Jonathan Masere

14th February 2009

When it comes to writing and publishing, Sarudzayi, whose interesting interview is shown here, is a trail blazer and her travails have paved a broad path for those of us who are following in her footsteps. I knew she had written a book, The Endless Trail for which she got a pittance but little did I know that she had previously written another one and saw not a single quid for her effort. It is from her experience that I quickly realized that the book business is a jungle in which the operative rule is eat-or-you-will-be-eaten or, as we would say it in Shona: kakara kununa hudya kamwe.

Unfortunately the publisher is always the gorged predator and the poor writer the helpless prey. Publishing is a very tough business. There is no room for sentimentalities. It is deeply disturbing that famous writers are living like paupers as publishers get rich. Once in a while, a writer strikes a rich seam of gold and does very well. Think of J. K. Rowling or Zimbabwe-born Alex McCall Smith. How many J. K. Rowlings are there in the world? I can safely say that Zimbabwe has a whole slough of writers like Alex. However, unlike said Ms Rowling and Smith, many will not get the recognition and the subsequent financial windfall befitting their effort.

Saru could have opted for the easy road of hawking her works to famous publishers but, I suspect, she decided to do it the hard way. With sheer will, she could have struck her own literary Comstoke Lode. Some of us are thankful she opted to take the tough road of starting her own publishing company, The Lions Press Limited. It was a tough gamble but for a tough and resolute Zimbabwean, she has fearlessly grabbed that bull by the horns. The responses have been very encouraging.

It is the story of the underdog boldly taking on the behemoth and doing well. Crooked publishers have been put on notice by Sarudzayi. It is comeuppance time and some of us will be on the side of the underdog. This one small step for this Daughter of the Soil of Zimbabwe is turning into one giant stride for the down-trodden writer.

Final Cover of My Book

On the 7th of December 2008, blogger Namgcobhar suggested using a cover illustration that would entice children. “[A]ren't you missing the hare and the tortoise there? I'm thinking kids might take to those faster that the women; they do judge books by the covers kani!”

I took this wise advice to heart because it made good marketting sense. I decided to change the cover illustration pursuant to Namgcobhar’s suggestion. The new cover is below.

Copies should be ready next week.

Daiton Somanje the New Mukadota

I bought a DVD with a collection of songs by Daiton Somanje and Pengaudzoke. It is a gem, if you are into Zimbabwean music. The music and dancing are superb, with none of the frills you get from the likes of Lilly Allen, Amy Winehouse even Kanye West. In my opinion Daiton is the successor to Mukadota. I wish someone would give him the opportunity to display the array of talent that he has. In the DVD, the man's brilliant comedian talents flash to the surface.

Daiton and Pengaudzoke sing and dance for real. Anywhere else but Zimbabwe, these guys would be very rich. I can imagine them on the David Letterman's Late Show or NBC Today Show. The kabhasikoro dance would make them an instant hit. My teenage son has been rivetted by Penngaudzoke. A fan of Kanye West and Amy Winehouse, he said, "It is not right that Amy is a millionaire who does nothing but moo and scratch herself while performing but genuine singers like Daiton are scrapping at the bottom of the barrel. Daiton is better than Kanye, too."

When things get to normalcy in Zimbabwe, let us hope and pray that these highly talented guys get their due reward. In the meantime it is important to make sure that we do not cheat them by burning their CDs and DVDs. Every time we do that we are taking food from their tables, stripping off clothes from their children’s backs and also depriving them of medicine. For these reasons alone, I do not burn my CDs for anyone.

We need to support our own whenever possible. I ran into a Zimbabwean gym instructor who wanted to know if I had any South African music CDs. He wanted to use them for his aerobics class. I wanted to know why he wanted South African music when Zimbabwe has very good music that can be used for aerobics class like Mabvi neMagokora by Nicholas Zakaria and the Khiama Boys. He could not give me a straight answer. I do not have anything against South Africans but going for low-quality music from South Africa, like the Zimbabweans of the M’Zansi Jams programme on OBE, in preference to very good Zimbabwean music annoys me. I told the clown he had an inferiority complex. The clown did not like it and I did not really care because I had told him the ugly truth.

He went to a Group A school and is still stuck in that bygone era where they used to say exsir, whatever the hell that word means, as an exclamation mark to every sentence. I went to a Group A school myself but I cannot find that as an excuse of frowning upon my own kind. This is quite common though.

At one time, my friends and I drove three hours to Washington D.C. for a graduation party for Zimbabwean friends. The DJ was playing MC Lyte, Tupac and Biggie Smalls. I went to him and asked for Zimbabwe music. I told him I had just driven from the number one-partying school in America. If I had wanted to listen to Junior Mafia and Tupac, why would I waste three hours on the road when I could just go to the one of the local hip-hop joints?

He started playing Zimbabwean music and everyone, including the exsir brigade that was present, was in a lather as we all joyously celebrated. That was the Zimbabwean spirit and it made me happy.

Israel Getting Defeated by Its Supporters

I usually like to stay away from politics but watching what is going on in Gaza I have to say a word or two. Israel seems to lose its high moral ground everytime one of its supporters goes on television. The other day Joshua Muravchik was on Aljazeera saying the stark fact that there is a disproportionate number of Palestinians killed was irrelevant. Why people in Israel let Muravchik speak on their behalf is something I find incredible. The man is very arrogant and, because of this, I think Israel is going to lose what matters the most, the world's sympathy.

A Fitting Farewell To a Friend

Last Saturday my family and I went to church for a funeral service of a friend who passed away earlier in the week. I am not particularly fond of going to church, and funerals bring back painful memories, but my wife insisted that I go. When the boss says jump, it is imprudent to ask why you have too; simply jump or ask how high the boss wants you to jump.

Anyway, we used to see this woman who carried herself with great dignity as she walked to and from work. “She must be from Zimbabwe,” my wife said after noticing the lady’s hair pleated in a corn-row style.

“Perhaps you should say hello,” I said. “You and I have seen her for a little while now, we may as well get to know her.”

As a general rule, if I meet a person for the first time I do not say anything. The second time I meet the same person, I try to exchange greetings by either saying hello or nodding my head. If we meet for the third time, I stop and introduce myself. If you have met a person more than twice chances are quite high that you will meet the person many more times in the future. I believe in the adage that it is always rewarding to be good to the people you meet on your way up because you will meet the same people on your way down, as the late reggae artist Prince Fari, Michael Williams, famously said in one of his songs. I try to be good to people I meet whether I am on my way up or down. The reward of being nice to others is in the act.

My family finally got to know the affable lady, who turned out to be a fellow Zimbabwean as we had suspected. She was a devout member of one of the local churches. It was wonderful since my wife and I were looking for a church for my Bible-thumbing teenage son — the fruit that fell close to its maternal grandmother tree than its father three. My son found a good church right within the neighbourhood.

Needless to say my family got comfortably close to the affable lady. Whenever the pigeons did not ruin some of the vegetable in my garden, we would take some to the friend. Unfortunately, not long after that, she fell ill. Her parents came all the way from Zimbabwe. I enjoyed their company given that I am much more comfortable in the company of elderly folk than my contemporaries.

Watching an elderly parent tending an ailing child was very tough. It should be the other way round, an elderly parent tended by a child. Growing up, it was common for children to bury their elderly parents. It was the rule and the reverse was the exception. There is an inversion that I find deeply disturbing.

Watching the elderly parents of our newly found friend visit the hospital each and everyday really brought this painful phenomenon into focus. Something is terribly wrong but, unfortunately, I cannot put my finger on it. If I believed in astrology I would say the stars of the heavens are misaligned. As an advocate of traditional customs, the sensible aspects thereof and not the commercialized version, I think we owe God and our nation’s beneficent spirits a propitiatory debt.

Sadly, the friend lost her gallant battle against her illness and is now in the company of angels. Along with many of her relatives and friends, I went to church to bid her farewell on her journey to mankind’s eternal home. It is a journey that leaves a permanent scar on those left behind.

After the service, we gathered in a nearby hall and the sister-in-law of the deceased friend broke into a Shona traditional funeral song, Ino Yavenguva Yekuchema Gamba Redu – It Is Time to Mourn Our Heroine. The church-organ player and choir had done a wonderful and very commendable job during the gripping service. The spontaneous breaking into an African traditional funeral gathering in a church hall was only the addition of exclamation mark.

I went home to collect my drums. Along with my son and another gentleman who grew up in the Chivhu rural area, we played our drums as we mourned and celebrated the passage of one of Africa’s daughters. We did it the old-fashioned way. There was singing, dancing and ululating. The pain was somewhat assuaged. It was a fitting farewell to a friend who went home way too soon.

One-Man Kpanlogo Drumming

Here is a kpanlogo beat I learnt when I was in West Virginia. All I did was listen to the West Virginia University African Ensemble, buy a drum and try to imitate what I had heard. Most people think of a drum as monomembraphone so that more than one drummer is required to surmon the spirits of the ancestors. In Zimbabwe, one drummer is generally adequate; that is what I grew up with. We do not have a whole array of drums as is common in West Africa so, using just one drum, I tried to play all the beats I heard from the WVU African Ensemble.

I have to thank Mark Stone, co-founder of Jumbie Records. His Ghanaian wife, Sewaa, wanted me to get one of Mark's kpanlogo drums. It was Mark who helped me learn how to play Ghanaian drums and the Zimbabwean in me learnt to spice everything up. I paid a nominal price for the drum and, to this day, I am truly thankful. I play the kpanlogo beat using using one of my conga drums. Enjoy the one-man ensemble.

Video of Tsuro Saves a Princess Drumbeat

To all the good people who have waited patiently for the drumbeat I played based on one of my folktales, Tsuro Saves a Princess, I have embedded the video clip captured by my son. The youtube version is below. My son was trying to show off my Ghanaian kpanlogo drum and so the sound tends to track off a wee bit as he scans around. I will try to get a video with sound as good as in the audio clip. Anyway, enjoy ...

Tsuro Ridza Mudende

In one of the stories in the book, African Folktales for Children, the animals gather at a dancing square for an old-fashioned breakdown. Tsuro and the baboons play drums as they sing a song extolling the hare’s drumming expertise. The drum beat is embedded below. I played the beat myself. Among other hobbies, I love to play drums.

Saru, Jeff and I

A few months ago, I saw a column on the zimbabwetimes.com in which the author wrote about the issue of correlation, or lack thereof, between academic astuteness, examplified by holding a Ph.D. , and sound political judgement and an insatiable quest for publicity. The author was brave enough to post contact details. I responded to demur. The author was very cordial and we exchanged a few correspondences. That is how I met Mrs Sarudzayi Chifamba-Barnes, for she was the author of the article that had piqued my interest.

Somewhere along the way, Sarudzayi mentioned her recently published book, The Village Storyteller. Saru graciously sent me a copy. She published it herself after running into scalpers with her first book. Well, I received the book and was pleasantly surprised by the book.

My son and wife loved the book. An elderly white lady saw me reading the book and looked at it with curiosity. She only wanted to look at the illustrations but ended up reading a few stories. "It is as if I am in the village hut with Mrs Rwizi and all the children," said the elderly lady. "It is very interesting. Do you mind if I take it home to read it?" I could not say no because her eyes were glistening with excitement.

From that moment, I knew Saru had written an incredible book. I went home and wrote a review, the first time I had ever done this outside of scientific papers I had peer reviewed in my days in American academia. The review has been published in The Zimbabwean newspaper. Every word I wrote is true. The book is worth every penny spent purchasing it.

Not only did I get a very good book but Saru offered to publish my book after I told her I had a collection of short stories but I had no idea what to do with them. She warned me to watch out for scalpers. She even put me in touch with a wonderful illustrator, Jeffrey Milanzi. Brother Jeff, as I like to call him, is a genius. Through illustrations, he has captured the essence of every story I gave him. Needless to say that I consider Saru and Jeff my newly found good friends. Without these two, my mountain of material would always be just that, a mountain of material. Claude and my wife would always tell me to get on with it.

For years, some have said I am a lucky man. I used to object to this because I felt the effort I put in trying to make things work was being overlooked. One day, out of the blue Mississippi sky, a fellow scientist from India said I was lucky. He asked me to show him my palm and he said the palm lines were ample proof I was a lucky person. I laughed at him. A very brilliant chemist had read my palm and told me I was lucky but I dismissed him off.

Looking back, I would have to say I have been very lucky when it comes to the friends. Luck is when Divine providence smiles upon a person and the person recognizes the heavenly gift and makes the most out of it. I did not meet Saru, Jeff, Claude and the eclectic friends fortuitously.