StoryTime: African Roar

'African Roar 2012' Long-List!

2011-12-23T15:48:00.001+02:00

It gives us (Emmanuel Siguake and Ivor Hartmann) great pleasure to announce the long-list for the African Roar 2012 anthology. We had a fantastic pool of stories from StoryTime to draw upon over our year period (Aug 2010 - Aug 2011) though of course this made the selection process both difficult and a pleasure. This year we decided to start with a long-list first and will, after much editing and such, announce a final TOC between June - August 2012. So, many congratulations to the writers who made it onto the long-list, and we look forward to working with you over the next ten months or so.

Madams by Abigail George
Reliving Christmas by Ugo Chime
Betrayal by Su'eddie V. Agema
Sheltering Hearts by Gothataone Moeng
The Colours of Silence by Ifesinachi Okoli
Soldiers of the Stone by Uko Bendi Udo
What Gospel Brought by Zino Asalor
If Walls could Talk by Fungai Machirori
Tlaki comes to Jozi by Noosie C. Petlele
Of Winds and Reeds by Dango Mkandawire
The Shady Taxi Driver by Hana Njau-Okolo
The Hero by Murenga Joseph Chikowero
The Reluctant Urchin by Patrick O. Ochieng
Understanding English by Ola Awonubi
A Married Man by Sindanni Mwella
How Nnedi Got Her Curved Spine by Nnedi Okorafor
The Revenge of Kamalaza Mayele by Vukani G. Nyirenda
You Smile by Chika Onyenezi
We Can See You by Abdul Adan
Sethunya Likes Girls Better by Wame Molefhe
The Quiet Man by Okechukwu Otukwu
Alaye by Fredrick C. Nwonwu
Meeting by T.C. Christopher
Mai Eddy’s Return by Emmanuel Sigauke
A Mouse amongst Men by Ivor Hartmann
Bottle by Dawn Promislow
What Has Horns Can Never Be Hidden by Christopher Mlalazi

Zeblon Nsingo reviews 'African Roar 2011'

2011-12-21T15:21:00.001+02:00

"While African Roar 2011 does not attempt to be an absolute mirror of Africa, it gives an insight into the African way of life... this anthology brings together diverse writing skills... Overall, African Roar 2011 makes a good read... " — Zeblon Nsingo. Read the full review at The Write Procedure.

Chika Unigwe reviews 'African Roar 2011' in ZAM#1104

2011-12-19T17:24:00.000+02:00

"Everytime I hear the term 'African' applied to a collection of short stories, I worry that quality has been compromised in order to achieve equal representation. Thankfully, it is not so with this collection. It is obvious that editors Ivor Hartmann and Emmanuel Siguake prioritise quality over a democratic representation of the different African countries... This is a worthy addition to the excellent stories coming out of the continent." — Chika Unigwe. Read the full review in ZAM#1104 (in Dutch).

Kinna Likimani reviews African Roar 2011 #3: A Writer's Lot by Zukiswa Wanner

2011-12-16T16:45:00.000+02:00

"This story is my first introduction to the work of Zukiswa Wanner though I’ve known about her for a while now. I quite like the attitude and speak of the narrator, and the relaxed flow of the narration. An enjoyable read. I would like to read her novels sooner rather than later!..." — Kinna Likimani. Read the full review at Kinna Reads.

Kinna Likimani reviews African Roar 2011 #2: Main by NoViolet Bulawayo

2011-12-06T16:00:00.001+02:00

"NoViolet Bulawayo’s 'Main', like Vera’s Selborne, is a vivid snapshot of a particular period in Zimbabwe’s history. Both writers look expansively at the lives on the streets of Bulawayo. The two pieces together chart a course through Zimbabwe’s socioeconomic history over a span of 50 years. And both are absolutely delightful and powerful. 'Main', though, is sobering. Perhaps because it the more contemporary of the two. Vera’s rendering of Selborne is deceptively beautiful; a calm before the storm of violence in The Stone Virgins. Bulawayo’s use of a ravaged, harassed woman as a metaphor for 'Main' is simply brilliant. Her language, style of writing... 'Main' is simply an excellent story..." — Kinna Likimani. Read the full review at Kinna Reads.

Amy McKie reviews 'African Roar 2011' at Amy Reads

2011-12-02T18:09:00.001+02:00

"I recommend this to anyone interested in new African writing, especially as some of the contributions were fantastic. There are a number of writers whose works I will be on the lookout for after this for sure..." — Amy McKie. Read the full review at Amy Reads.

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Isaac Neequaye

2011-11-14T14:56:00.001+02:00

Though born in Tamale, the capital of Ghana’s Northern Region, Isaac Neequaye spent the greater part of his formative years in Kumasi, where his father taught at the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology. Secondary education took him to Accra and then back to Kumasi again, where he graduated from the electrical engineering programme at KNUST in 1991.

Water Wahala

Isaac Neequaye

Kweku Kyere whistled strains from Yaa Amponsah, as he shut the door and sauntered into the living room. Agyapomaa was slouched in front of the TV engrossed in a sitcom. Still dressed in her work clothes, it was evident she hadn’t been home long. “Hello Sweetie, how did your day go?” he called across cheerily.

Shifting her attention from the TV she smiled sweetly. “It went well. And you, how was it at Don’s Place?” Agyapomaa was always curious about how he spent those few after work hours on Friday evenings before getting home.

A grin peeked out and slowly spread across his face as Kweku placed his briefcase on the dining table. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Don’s Place was a popular hangout for Accra yuppies, where he liked to unwind after a gruelling week. The heat, traffic, and demands of his job as construction manager for an Italian construction company, combined to drain him completely. It provided the perfect setting to relax and catch up on happenings around town at the beginning of the weekend.

Agyapomaa’s face lit up as he handed her a take-away pack of grilled pork. He couldn’t help chuckling.

It wasn’t clear what kind of sound, if any, crossed his ears as he settled down to his favourite homecoming routine, but he kept going. Deftly manoeuvring his feet he pried off his shoes and jerked at his socks. Freeing his feet from their day long confinement was a routine he enjoyed tremendously. Again that sound as he tucked the shoes away. He glanced up, wondering whether it came from her nose or throat.

“Kweku, we’re out of water oh... We need to buy some.”

“Humph!” He sat up straight, instantly alert. “Are you sure?” he questioned warily in a tone hovering someplace between a whisper and a hiss...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Ayodele Morocco-Clarke

2011-11-12T16:01:00.000+02:00

Born in Lagos, Nigeria and descendant of kin from the West Indies, Sierra Leone and the Republic of Benin, Ayodele Morocco-Clarke is a Nigerian of mixed heritage currently living in the UK. Her prose and poetry have appeared in numerous print and online journals and anthologies including the 2011 Caine Prize anthology. Her short story ‘When the Chips are Down’ was short-listed for the International Students’ Short Story Competition in 2010.

Silent Night, Bloody Night

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke

I am standing at the edge of the Lagos Bar Beach where waves roughly beat at my feet. The sea looks stormy and I half turn to catch a glimpse of one of the warning flags; that tiny piece of cloth on a stick, which informs about the temperament of the sea and could be the difference between life and death if heeded. White flags mean ‘come on in’; giving a calm, safe and inviting sign for even the not-too-good swimmers. Yellow flags say ‘be careful’; indicating that something might be brewing in the belly of the sea. Red flags scream ‘Danger! Danger! Keep away’; warning about waters boiling with ferocious waves and strong undercurrents, which could overpower even the strongest of swimmers.

The local folk tell tales about there being a mami-water; a mermaid who lived in the sea and had lost her only daughter. It is said that when the sea was rough, it is because she is angry about not finding her daughter and determined on exacting revenge for the loss of her precious child, she drags unfortunate swimmers into a vortex she creates. On really bad days, the sea at the Bar Beach overflows its banks and floods the roads, which usually lie a good eight hundred metres from the edge of the sea.

Today, red flags are up. I chose a red flag day because I do not want my efforts to be thwarted. I have come to take my life and stand before the sea reflecting on what had been a perfect life until almost two weeks ago.

My name is Ameze Obaze. I was born with what some people refer to as a silver spoon. My father, Osadolor, is a wealthy cocoa merchant and my mother Ivie, a princess from the royal house of Eweka, is a trader who owns many shops and stalls in both the Tejuosho and Balogun markets in Lagos. At just nine days shy of my sixteenth birthday, I am the eldest daughter of their four offspring. Osagie, my brother was born three years before me, and then there are the twins, Iyen and Idehen. Ours was a happy family filled with love and laughter. Mum always had a reason to thank God. She told us over and over again to always count our blessings, and kept saying that she did not know why God singled her out for so many blessings. She had a loving successful husband who made his family his priority, healthy children who were academically gifted, and to add to these, her business was thriving...

Kinna Likimani reviews 'African Roar 2011' in-depth #1 at Kinna Reads

2011-11-11T15:44:00.001+02:00

"There is a tendency, in most African societies, to explain away the character of a childless woman in terms of her childlessness. If she is nice, she is solicitous and wants to attract other peoples’ children. If she is mean, she does not know how to nurture; she’s hardened from not having children. If she’s talkative, then she doesn’t appreciate silence since she has not had to share her space with noisy children. Similarly, in 'Witch’s Brew', Mai Chamboko is labeled a witch by her community. A hard-working woman, Mai Chamboko is more successful at generating income from her small business..." — Kinna Likimani. Read the full review at Kinna Reads.

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku

2011-11-11T15:17:00.000+02:00

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku was born on April 14, 1985, in Port Harcourt, Rivers State, Nigeria, into a family of six. He is a native of Isuikwato LGA in Abia state, Nigeria. His early childhood years were spent in Port Harcourt where he had his nursery and primary education. He left for Lagos for his secondary education in the prestigious Kings College. In 2001, he was admitted into Federal University of Technology, Owerri, where he majored in Industrial Microbiology. Mazi-Njoku has always been a bibliophile, right from the age of six when he began reading anything and everything that came his way, with a predilection for encyclopaedias and novels. He is an automobile enthusiast, a lover of art, and an advocate of mental emancipation through unbiased, unrelenting enlightenment; literary and otherwise.

Snake of the Niger Delta

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku

They call me the Snake. You see, I had a difficult childhood, but I’ve almost always demonstrated an uncanny gift of coming out of seemingly hopeless situations. They say I am slippery, maybe I am. This is my story.

I was only ten when my father first took my mother and me along with him to Abuja to buy the goods he sold. I guess my father must have come across a huge windfall and decided to use that opportunity to show us the roads without potholes he had always told us about. Once I had asked my father why he always held my mother close to him, especially when she had only her wrapper tied over her breasts, and stroked her slender arms repeatedly. He had said to me, “Because her skin is black and smooth, just like the roads in the North”. I remember being jealous. My mother found it difficult to believe that such roads existed in Nigeria, and so did I. Not because of how the roads were in my village — there were none worthy of being called roads. We disbelieved because the few times we visited Port Harcourt, the rickety buses we travelled in often hobbled like a child learning how to walk, rolling in and out of mini craters. Port Harcourt was the biggest, most urbanised city I had ever travelled to before then and there were many potholes there. How then could there be a place without potholes on their roads, I wondered.

When we made the trip and I saw that it was true, my young mind wondered why this place that we had spent countless hours travelling to was so developed while my village looked eerily backward. I didn’t see things we had in my village; like the numerous gas flares that made everywhere searing hot and especially made hairy people smell like roasted goats; the networks of pipes that made so much noise that I couldn’t hear myself talk in my dreams; the soil that was drenched with crude oil which made it soggy and barren; the oil workers decked in orange coveralls with striped, cowry-shaped logos who came by boats to work in my village — probably because of the lack of good roads. Father told me that part of the money used to build all the nice roads in Abuja came from my village. I found it hard to believe that my village was that rich...

'African Roar 2011' Online Launch #1 Excerpt's

2011-11-10T16:49:00.002+02:00

Chika Onyenezi: How many Authors were featured in this Anthology?

Ivor Hartmann: Fifteen in total Chika. Including Memory Chirere's memoir and tribute preface piece.

Chika Onyenezi: What do you want this anthology to achieve?

Ivor Hartmann: Same as StoryTime, exposure for the authors, but at a much higher quality, StoryTime acts as a filter/pool for AR.

Chika Onyenezi: Put us through with your vision on this project, do you see any picture in the future?

Ivor Hartmann: It's a simple (though extraordinarily hard) vision, and that is to help raise awareness, and quality and quantity, of African writers published on a global scale. I do believe we have an amazing amount of talent that needs as many outlets and exposure as possible both on the continent and the world at large.

Emmanuel Sigauke: Along the same lines pointed out by Ivor, working with the writers, and reading the different selection, which are so rich with possibilities, publications like AR are necessary to take the continent's writing to another level. We hope the readership continues to grow, which it is bound to, as we gain more exposure.

Isaac Neequaye: Agree perfectly with your vision Ivor. Set myself a half-hearted task to read African authors throughout this year and have quite frankly been amazed and impressed by the variety and depth I've come across so far.

Ivor Hartmann: Yes Isaac, there really are some amazing African writers.

Dawn Promislow: I agree with Isaac about the variety and depth.

Isaac Neequaye: I mean I've been so surprised I've now taken to actively scanning for new authors on the block. Only difficulty is that most texts are released in print form, and sometimes where available in e-form (SA mainly) obtaining a compatible format can be cumbersome.

Ivor Hartmann: Yes print is a problem, because of the high cost of printing and distribution, and eBooks are only just starting. Ultimately eBooks will pave a huge way forward in levelling the playing fields for small publishers, but in Africa the digital divide is still very great. So eBooks work to a small extent off the continent, but print still rules in general globally.

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: Hi Ayodele, still revel in the rush I get whenever I read that gory story of yours

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Thanks. Lots of people appear to recoil with horror, but I did enjoy writing it.

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: Yeah Ayodele, it's unapologetically real though.

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Chimdindu, you would be surprised at the different emotions that readers have told me it unleashed in them. It is always good to get some feedback

Dawn Promislow: I thought it was very courageous to enter that horror, I wouldn't dare! It was fairly transgressive I thought, in that respect.

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Well, I believe people always complain about the regular clichéd story and I wanted to mix things up a bit. The Silent night story was actually the beginning for a longer story which was supposed to be all about vengeance, so I needed to lay the groundwork for that story.

Dawn Promislow: I think that story manages to maintain its artfulness, sort of like a very dark ballet you could say, a bloody one, the melodramatic overblown tendencies are sort of operatic in their effect. It teeters on the balance. Something like that!

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Dawn, "teeters on the balance"... I like that... like the main character of the story.

Dawn Promislow: That's true Ayodele, about the character.

Elinore Morris: ‘Silent night, Bloody night’ was also very much about revenge. Ayodele, had your story been a novel, and not ended the way it did, what would have happened with your main character? What career do you think she would have chosen, where would she have ended up, in light of what happened. Would the cycle of revenge continued or would there have been a resolution?

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Elinore, the current end of the silent night story was supposed to be the catalyst for a much longer piece... though not a novel. There would have been no resolution, it was meant to be a piece on witchcraft etc (tentatively titled "one evil turn deserves another")

Elinore Morris: sounds exciting and spooky

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: It depressed me, so I abandoned it. That is why Silent Night became a stand alone story...actually, I have done that with a few pieces.

Dawn Promislow: I really loved your story Isaac, it had fantastic wit and reality!

Elinore Morris: oh yes, Water Wahala, I liked that one too, the domesticity of it was so very true to life, very easy to relate to.

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Yeah Isaac, it kind of made me think of those days when I was in boarding school in Nigeria and water dictated the pace of life...well that and always being hungry.

Isaac Neequaye: Delighted to hear that Dawn and Elinore. As I wrote in the earlier intro, the one that came with the original story, sometimes you just have to force yourself to look on the funny side.

Dawn Promislow: I identified very powerfully with Kweku, the character in Water Wahalla.

Isaac Neequaye: Long suffering Kweku, who tries to be a good provider. Hmm! more grease to his elbows.

Dawn Promislow: Chimdindu, you are the author of ‘Snake of the Niger Delta’? Wonderful story, it reads like a snake's path, such a clear and compelling path!

Ivor Hartmann: Did you feel Chimdindu, that your story could become a reality, or that it would remain hopeful thinking, or kind of literary revenge against corruption that might inspire?

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: I felt that it will be a story that people, especially Nigerians, can relate to, laugh over, ponder, vex, ruminate over and....yes, literary revenge. Some sort of and revenge for the common man who has no connections.

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: Ivor your story ‘Diner Ten’ has me grinning whenever I'm about to exterminate a roach in my room... tickles me to know that a pest I loathe so much actually 'knows' I'm gonna kill it.

Ivor Hartmann: Ha ha Henry, glad to hear it, a little compassion goes a long way, and I kill roaches personally with objects so that at least it’s quick.

Isaac Neequaye: I also think yours was a very good story Ivor. Funnily, was quite impressed by the names. Made the characters more relatable for me.

Ivor Hartmann: Thank you, yes naming characters is very important for me, I can spend months coming up with the right names.

Isaac Neequaye: Really Ivor? What effort! Eish!

Dawn Promislow: Ivor, what's with those names? Are they Eastern European, as I read them?

Isaac Neequaye: Why do I get the feeling that the citizens of a certain middle European nation won't be amused to learn that we find their names appropriate for Diner Ten's characters?

Ivor Hartmann: Well it’s all a great effort, but a name for me then sets the character in my mind and the story. Heh heh, not that I know of Dawn, they couldn't be human names for a start, as part of the roach perspective, I did make them up.

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: And I thought I was the only one who goes through a lot choosing names

Dawn Promislow: Well Radic sounds a bit Eastern European or Slavic or something to me, immediately put me in mind of Kafka, and that worked very well for that story for me! The subliminal connotations worked very well for me with that name (isolation of the individual in an authoritarian regime, stuff like that!).

Isaac Neequaye: I tend to start with the first name that comes to mind, and then adjust as I go along. Interesting that I have a friend called Amoako who asked why I chose his name for my lead character. It was purely coincidental, but left me scratching my head nevertheless.

Ivor Hartmann: Yes there can be a great subconscious element at play when choosing names Isaac. Good to hear Dawn. I think the origins of his name was probably Radical, if I think about it in retrospect, which he was pretty much the opposite of.

Dawn Promislow: Radical? oh how interesting! But he is radical indeed, he's grassroots, he's "the people"!! He would subvert the order, if he could. Of course, he does not though!

Ivor Hartmann: Sure radical; in mind but not action at all, shame, he really was a down trodden roach, I hated killing him but it fitted so well with the story I had too.

Dawn Promislow: he's a crushed radical then, defeated!

Ivor Hartmann: Yes, definite shades of totalitarianism.

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Ivor, are you interested in a particular genre or do you let your imagination and powers of observation dictate your writing?

Isaac Neequaye: Seems your imagination tilts in a certain direction Ivor

Ivor Hartmann: Yep Ayodele, for me the story itself is paramount, genres if they have to for marketing purposes come last in my mind. I think it may Isaac, I don't hold the reins on my imagination at all. I was asked to place ‘Diner Ten’ in genre the other day and I said a mix of allegory/fantasy/urban/magical realism.

Dawn Promislow: Yes I agree with that multi-genre classification.

Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku: Imagination and observation work for me

Dawn Promislow: What always puzzles and sort of worries me is the homogenising effect of the English language as a global language, on voices. But I think it seems that other languages/cultures manage to "translate" themselves into English without over-homogenising, this seems to me very important and interesting. Any thoughts on this?

Elinore Morris: I think stories like Water Wahala and the rest, reflecting a reality that is very different from that experienced in industrialised nations yet so human and recognisable, are so important. People here are always curious when they find out I come from an obscure African country I am often at a loss to describe the reality there, which is so different and yet not so different at all really. Literature is just so much better at doing that...showing endless variety as well as that which we have in common

Ivor Hartmann: Sure I think a lot is lost in translation Dawn, depending on the translator, but key ideas and experiences do tend to come through.

Ayodele Morocco-Clarke: Dawn, I speak for myself only... I am bi-lingual, but English is my first language... I think in English and what would have a homogenizing effect on my writing would be to think in any other language then try translating it to English

Dawn Promislow: I wondered, Ivor, about how difficult it must have been to maintain balance and avoid overdoing it/overkill in the story.

Ivor Hartmann: It's always a tricky balancing act, preserving the author's voice and intentions vs. polishing the story to its utmost potential, but as we are both writers and editors I think we manage quite well in that respect, wouldn’t you say so Emmanuel?

Emmanuel Sigauke: Very true, Ivor.

Dawn Promislow: I think the theme of empowerment (whether by revenge, or other ways) is throughout the anthology. Disempowered people (I mean, one man is impotent, to be literal!) try and sometimes gain power in these stories - and sometimes they lose power (get killed, and so on).

Ivor Hartmann: Yes empowerment for 'the people' is very much an issue in Africa, and indeed the world at large, and it is reflected in our writings and in this anthology.

Dawn Promislow: Although I think it's very much the empowerment (or lack of power) of the individual, rather than a group, that runs through these stories.

Ivor Hartmann: Yes I'd agree Dawn, but personal empowerment is intricately linked to the society too.

Dawn Promislow: On the other hand, ‘Chanting Shadows’ portrays revenge and empowerment as cyclical, without end. Retribution upon retribution without end. No triumph, just another round again. It portrays this cycle as natural, as natural as the rains that come and go again. That is interesting!

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Mbonisi P. Ncube

2011-11-10T15:08:00.000+02:00

Mbonisi P. Ncube is a 28-year- old Zimbabwean currently residing in South Africa where he works for an engineering firm as Design Technician. He has been writing for more than six years and his work has been published in StoryTime, Munyori Literary Journal, Ibhuku, among others. His poem ‘The Way’ was featured in a UK anthology of rhyming poems A Time to Rhyme. ‘Chanting Shadows’ was awarded the 2011 Yvonne Vera Award. Two of his crime novels The Munhumutapa Candidate and The Nocturnal life of Mrs Smith were short-listed the 2011 Citizen Book Prize. He is currently working on a poetry collection.

Chanting Shadows

Mbonisi P. Ncube

A boy entered the field of maize stalks like a darting arrow. The men, chopping at brown stalks in preparation for the planting season, looked up at him with startled gazes. On his face was written a look of fear that the boy quickly passed to the other men. Mzala Joe, the oldest of the farm workers put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He always spoke first in such matters. He was sixty-one and knew a lot about life.

“How many, Jonasi?” Mzala Joe asked the boy calmly, his brow rising slightly.
Jonasi remained silent and perturbed.

Mzala Joe shook him firmly again, “How many, mfana?”

Jonasi wiped his sweaty face with his hands. He looked at Mzala Joe with an expression of anguish and then he spoke with a clattering voice like cutlery falling to a concrete slab. “Hundred... or so, Mzala...”

A fire of questions followed his answer. The men clamoured and gathered around them, all wanting to know what was going on. A baby, on the far side of the field, began crying.

“Will someone make that baby stop?” Mzala Joe shouted, his voice ringing with an unusual metal-grinding rasp. A hush fell at once. Mzala Joe put his hand on Jonasi again. “Were there... were there any youths among them?”

In the past months, the word youth had metamorphosed to mean sheer terror.
Jonasi remained silent, only studying the ground below his feet. Then he slowly nodded, as his answer came in short gasps, “Most... most that I saw were youths... sixteen to twenty-one maybe... never in the war themselves. They must be from the training camps. They all were wearing army regalia, and were carrying whips, machetes, rocks, axes, and knives...”

Mzala Joe nibbled at his lower lip as a commotion ensued...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Ivor Hartmann

2011-11-09T15:32:00.000+02:00

Ivor W. Hartmann is a Zimbabwean writer, author of Mr. Goop (Vivlia, 2010), and was nominated for the UMA Award (‘Earth Rise’, 2009), awarded The Golden Baobab Prize (‘Mr. Goop’, 2009), and short-listed for The Yvonne Vera Award (‘A Mouse amongst Men’ 2011). His writing has appeared in African Writing Magazine, Wordsetc, Munyori Literary Journal, Something Wicked, and Sentinel Literary Quarterly, amongst others. He is the editor/publisher of the StoryTime magazine, co-editor/publisher of the African Roar annual anthology, and on the advisory board of Writers International Network Zimbabwe.

Diner Ten

Ivor Hartmann

“It is we who rule this earth, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. We have existed, simply, in our present modern form for over 150 million years, and only it took us 3.8 billion years to get there from virtually single-celled organisms. Every other multi-celled organism on our planet, including humans, is as far as we are concerned, just passing through...” — Master-Teacher Tagam.

Radic squeezed through a gap in an air-vent. His passage and that of the millions before him had burnished it smooth and bright around its edges. Inside the lobby it was dark and greasy from the cooking that took place below. Radic quietly took his place in the line of diners. From this point on there would be silence; battle-rules applied until one exited again, hopefully alive and well-fed. This diner, Diner Ten, was well known for both its safety and good food. It had been home to some catastrophes, but they were few and far between, and its local council safety rating was on average very good, a four-point-five out of five at present if he wasn’t mistaken.

As he usually did when waiting for something to happen, Radic drifted into daydreams. A habit from youth he knew bordered on the ridiculous, especially now that he was middle-aged and pretty much knew how the rest of his life would turn out. His society had strict rules and laws; everyone had something to do, a purpose, which kept it going.

A tap on the leg brought him out of the depths. Turning around he saw Gradulk, a long-time friend; they were born in adjoining nursery cells. Gradulk waved his limp antennae in a silent hello, and then mimed let’s get a drink after dinner. Radic agreed with a crisp salute, and they both smiled.

A brisk shake of his shoulder, and Radic was being forcefully guided to the entrance. A soldier surged him forward, pulled him to an abrupt stop at the threshold, and for some reason gave him a bitter glare. The soldier held one tibia in front of Radic and signalled his buddies for a go response with his antennae. Radic wondered about the soldier’s rudeness, but the smell of the feasts wafting through the entrance grabbed his attention and his belly growled. The soldier gave him another bitter glance, but before Radic could respond, the soldier’s tibia was at his back, and he was nearly flung through the entrance...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Emmanuel Iduma

2011-11-08T16:03:00.000+02:00

Emmanuel Iduma, born in Nigeria, holds a degree in Law and will be called to the Nigerian Bar in January 2012. Aside from Saraba which he co-publishes, his writing has appeared elsewhere online and in print. He is participating in the Invisible Borders Trans-African Photography Project 2011, and will realise other self-sponsored residencies and projects across Africa in 2012. At present, he is working on a novel and keeping a beard.

Out of Memory

Emmanuel Iduma

He thinks, while he is leaving, that Ella defies the law of gravity. She goes up with ease and does not return; she goes up and does not know the way down, her body is unaccustomed to return. She is looking at the curtain, window, or wind; for he can tell that she has undertaken a journey, and she might not return. But why does he think of all this? He is with her, in a room he once entered when it was her sister he knew. The room in its present state does not exist in his memory. In her sister’s days it had brightly coloured curtains, the wall was adorned with wallpapers, and there was a Butterfly sewing machine. All that is gone. The room bears a new occupant, the curtains are white, and there are no wallpapers. It has been repainted; and only has a bed, stool, and white curtains. He is sitting on the stool. She is sitting on the bed. She is looking at the curtain, window, or wind.

Ella’s mother comes to him. It is the day before.

“She called your name. Frank. Frank Duru.”

She says it like Ella must’ve said it. There is confidence in her voice, but he knows it’s a superficial confidence. She proves this; tears run down her cheeks after she calls his name.

“Don’t worry Ma,” he responds, touching her shoulder lightly; in his memory she’s a woman with an overflowing contagious hate.

“Don’t tell me don’t worry. When you see her you’ll know I should worry.” Then she adds, “Would you come?”

He wants to think about Ella calling his name, in place of thinking about going to Ella. It’s a useless thought, he surmises, so he says, “Yes.” And she holds him firmly, both her hands on his arms.

“God bless you, Frank.”

Frank could have asked her what’s important about his presence, as was usual with him. He loses the guts to do so, and instead looks at her and says, “Yes,” again. The CD player is playing a Michael Buble song, which he thinks is inappropriate for the moment. But he thinks of this only after Ella’s mother has closed his door, walking away in the rain, as she came. Then he sits down, forgetting what he had wanted to remember, and begins to think the rain is a healing balm, for all of them...

Barbara Mangami-Ruwende reviews 'African Roar 2011' at Moments in Literature

2011-11-08T15:14:00.001+02:00

"This resplendent collection of short stories by African writers does indeed roar. The breadth and depth of topic, style, perspective and powerful story telling found within the pages of this treasure trove is enough to make you emit a roar of your own: in appreciation, in agony, in mirth, and in sheer exuberance..." — Barbara Mangami-Ruwende. Read the full review at Moments in Literature.

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Emmanuel Sigauke

2011-11-07T15:29:00.000+02:00

Emmanuel Sigauke is a Zimbabwean writer based in Sacramento, California, where he teaches English and Creative Writing at Cosumnes River College. He has published poetry and prose in numerous magazines, and co-edits Cosumnes River Journal, Munyori Literary Journal, and African Roar. He is the author of Forever Let Me Go a poetry collection, and writes online at Wealth of Ideas.

Snakes Will Follow You

Emmanuel Sigauke

I had been lying on a reed mat, reading Julius Caesar in the shade of our tsapi — the hut on stilts I used as my bedroom. As soon as Brutus stabbed Caesar, I looked away from the page to avoid picturing the sight of blood. That's when I saw it, a baby snake slithering towards me. At first, I thought my eyes were tricking me, so I closed and reopened them, but there it was, calmly drawing closer and closer to the mat. I jumped and screamed, but covered my mouth as soon as I remembered I was a man. I glanced in the direction of the kitchen hut to check if Maiguru, my elder brother's wife, had heard me; then I stiffened and watched the advancing snake.

When it reached the edge of the mat, it coiled into a neat, little wheel and waited. My heart beat faster, but I knew it wasn’t because of the snake; no, it didn’t scare me at all. Ignoring my heartbeat and the beads of sweat on my forehead, I leaned forward to examine the snake. Its shiny, black skin was decorated with white spots. I had never seen anything like it before, a snake with tiny green eyes that looked at me with seeming recognition. Its head peeked out of the coil, and, although I didn’t know how to read emotions of snakes, its face looked relaxed, like how we relax sometimes in the company of friends. For a moment I considered the possibility of making it my new pet, but quickly remembered that danger often disguised itself as innocence and beauty. Maybe it was not alone; its mother or father might have been waiting in the grass on the edge of the compound, planning to attack as soon as I had been hypnotised by its baby. Yes, that's what this was: a trap.

I stood up, tiptoed backwards, my eyes still focused on the danger. If this was a warning of more dangerous things to come, I didn’t want to discover the truth too late like the fallen Caesar. If anything, I had to show that it was I who was more dangerous than the snake. Fear was out of the question here; this was just a baby snake, so, truly speaking, I was just moving back to get a better view, to observe a curious creature’s behaviour.

The snake must have noticed that I was trying to escape, for it uncoiled and slid towards me again. This wasn’t good. Why couldn’t it leave me alone? I back pedalled again, but my escape ended abruptly when my back bumped against the wall. The snake stopped, but then resumed, flowing along the edge of the mat. I wanted to shout something, to call Maiguru, but my mouth refused to open, and I felt my eyes widen. This thing was still advancing, and for a moment I thought it had started to transform, to grow bigger. For some reason I began to think that it was using its magic, perhaps to confuse me. I closed my eyes again hoping it would vanish, but when I reopened them, there it was, still small, still slithering, slower, as if it had all day to pursue me...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Dango Mkandawire

2011-11-06T15:13:00.000+02:00

Dango Mkandawire — “I write because it is in literature that we are able to see ourselves; the letters’ mystical mirrors, divine prisms angled in all directions so that we see all our parts — so that we reflect. I write for it is discovery, and count it a great honour. I currently live and work in Blantyre, Malawi and spend the bulk of my days in a blur of bewilderment at the unexpectedness of life that is understood when one awakens the senses and is able to see beyond the routine and realise there is no boredom in existence.”

The Times

Dango Mkandawire

Imagine if you will, the terror that would ensue if a dark and thunderous cloud slowly descended upon an unsuspecting crowd, and within this misty blur, one could sense the sparks of a thunderbolt forming. Now consider yourself standing helplessly within this mob unable to determine either where the tail of the bolt would appear or the direction of its bellowing arrowhead strike. Once a week, such was the apprehension in Blantyre, Lilongwe, and Mzuzu, the three major cities of Malawi, and if we are to believe Thucydides’ report that the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must, then we can say that the strong had moved, doing what they could, and as always, they were confident to secure their place.

“I don’t think you understand what I have been saying to you,” said an ambassador of the strong who had introduced himself as Gordons Phiri.

“I understand perfectly,” Richard Chirwa responded.

Like two bulls with horns locked in firm grip with razor sharp eyes and shuffling hooves to maintain balance, they engage one another in dialogue, each manoeuvring words to gain the advantage. Richard Chirwa is seated at his desk, his elbows on the surface and his hands clasped together. Gordons, a stalwart figure with a heaving chest, is standing opposite, having been courteously offered a seat that he rudely declined.

“You don’t know what you are dealing with!” Gordons continues, donning a suit-jacket that is a size too big, incongruent with his body shape and size, the sleeves covering his palms so that fingers suddenly dart out from the fabric when his arms are relaxed, giving him the appearance of a man who approximates towards style, appreciating the finer things, but not quite able to own them as they were intended to be owned. A dubious-looking Versace tag is still attached to the sleeve.

“I have listened intently and, as far as I can see, it is you who doesn’t understand,” Richard replies, not breaking his gaze even for a moment from the open newspaper gawping at them from the shiny desk. “I don’t discriminate. I gauge every story on its merits and if we, as an editorial team, decide to print it, you might as well put on your reading glasses.”

Silence...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Murenga Joseph Chikowero

2011-11-05T14:47:00.001+02:00

Murenga Joseph Chikowero was born in Mhondoro-Ngezi, Zimbabwe, at the height of the 1970s liberation war. He was raised there, learning to fight other herd-boys and listening to the legends of the Manhize Hills. He studied English-language literature at the University of Zimbabwe before teaching at the Zimbabwe Open University. In 2010, he worked with Peter Orner and Annie Holmes on an oral history project which gave birth to the highly-rated book, Hope Deferred: Narratives from Zimbabwe. He has published short fiction in StoryTime and in the anthology, Where to Now? Short Stories from Zimbabwe (2010). He enjoys reading and writing about history and memory in Southern Africa. He is a doctoral candidate in African Literature and Film at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

Uncle Jeffrey

Murenga Joseph Chikowero

Willie fingered the small packet in his side pocket. He had opened it several times these past three days to look over the small blue tablets inside, but each time he had suppressed the urge to throw two of those blue things down his throat. Perhaps this Viagra business was really meant for old white men who live in cold places, and could really damage a tropical African like him in the long run? And what if he became one of those users who ended up with a stubborn erection that lasted for more than 24 hours? An erection was the very thing he dearly wanted but who wanted a permanent erection, especially over this Christmas holiday at his parents’ rural home? And what in God’s good name was keeping his doctor from making that call?

It was already three days from the day he took the test and two days before Christmas Day and still no word from Dr. Khan. Could it be that the man had gone to India? He never mentioned India and in fact made a big deal about being an indigenous Zimbabwean — an Indo-Zim as he called himself — one of the few local Indians Willie knew who spoke Shona at every opportunity. Willie sometimes felt the young doctor tried too hard to belong, but still found him likeable enough. What could have held up him so? Willie wondered again, as he made for the grass-woven bathing house a distance from the homestead.

Sure enough his mother had set out a pail of warm water, even though this was clearly going to be one of those boiling December days; when heat-waves shimmered just above the ground, and mirages of clear water appeared in the blazing distance.

Willie’s wife, Tatenda, had dutifully placed the sweet-smelling bath soap, bath salts, and aftershave gels, on the washstand. As if to confound her mother-in-law, Tatenda had also placed her own bigger pail — of cold water. Willie smiled as he undressed. The undeclared war between the two women was still alive although it had long ceased to be a pitched battle; both now seemed to resort to guerrilla manoeuvres. But, small guerrilla tactics were almost welcome compared to the raging quarrels that had characterised the first five years of his marriage to Tatenda when Mai Willie, as everyone called his mother, had insisted she would never have a muKorekore — a funny-talking Northerner — for a daughter-in-law. A cleverly-plotted trip to Karoi, Tatenda’s home area, two years ago with Mai Willie had eased the tension a bit...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Uche Peter Umez

2011-11-04T15:23:00.001+02:00

Uche Peter Umez is a poet, short fiction writer, and a children’s novelist. An Alumnus of the International Writing Program (IWP), USA, he has participated in residencies in Ghana, India, and Switzerland and won a few awards for his writing. He has been a Highly Commended winner twice in the Commonwealth Short Story Competition, 2006 and 2008 respectively. His short stories, poems, reviews and non-fiction have been widely published online and in print. Uche lives in Owerri with his wife and their children.

Lose Myself

Uche Peter Umez

Solid high heels clicked against the hardwood floor, and Chukwudi turned to see a tall, curvy brunette standing before the table that displayed assorted drinks. He watched her, discreetly, as he sipped his drink. He didn’t want to admit it, but he thought she looked attractive. Broad shoulders, straight back, plump backside, all emphasised by a trim floral wrap-style dress. He looked away, reminding himself of his vow.

The sitting room was spacious; Chukwudi suspected that half of the furniture had been moved to the basement, to give room for dancing. People lounged in the stairway, sat on the steps, leant against the banister, hovered near the pantry, flitted by the doorway, and sprawled out on some sofas. Everywhere looked like a disco party, without the kaleidoscope of lights. The air pulsed with voices. Cigarette smoke, body odours, and the rounded scents of drinks wafted all around. Chukwudi saw how carefree almost everyone seemed. He thought of his male colleagues who often regarded him as confused and odd, just because he did not want hedonism to rule his life any longer.

‘What are you trying to demonstrate? That you’re a saint? We’re dissolute?’ they usually asked. Chukwudi never cared to answer them; they could burn in their excess. He had shocked them even more: every time he went out drinking with them, he sipped only two beers. No matter how much they coaxed and threatened not to hang out with him again. He didn’t cave in. They were just a bunch of office workers, so they would never understand what it meant to be a writer, to possess such fine sensibilities, to be able to control your urges, determine your life on your own terms without being influenced by mundane things such as beer and women. In short, how could he advocate a humane society if he continued to live like them; a life of intemperance? Doesn’t change begin from within?

Chukwudi sipped his drink. The liquor was smooth, warm, tangy; almost bittersweet. What was the name again, he wondered. Tanqueray? Bacardi? He had sipped three different drinks and couldn’t remember their names. The liquor seemed to thaw his worries though, particularly about finishing the first re-write of his poetry collection. His appetite was sharpened as well, though he felt too lazy to get up from his seat. He suddenly realised that he missed his wife’s cooking...

African Roar 2011: Online Book Launches!

2011-11-04T14:37:00.009+02:00

Come join us for two online launches of 'African Roar 2011'! They will take place right here at the African Roar site on Wednesday the 9th Nov (depending on your time zone, its fixed on the 9th at UTC time, and timed for Africa/Europe/etc., please work out your local time for the event) UTC/GMT 4:30pm to 6:30 pm, and Saturday the 12th Nov (depending on your time zone, its fixed on the 12th at UTC time, and timed for US/Asia/etc., please work out your local time for the event) UTC/GMT 1:30am to 3:30am. There will be a chat app featured where you may log in and interact with the anthology authors and editors in real-time, or sit back and read what they have to say, all from the comfort of your own home.

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Hajira Amla

2011-11-03T15:36:00.000+02:00

Hajira Amla lives in Johannesburg and has had all kinds of interesting job titles; including musician, journalist, newspaper sub-editor, radio news anchor and PRO. Born in England, she spent two years living in the Seychelles before moving to South Africa in 1993, just in time to witness the birth of a new, democratic South Africa.

Believing that fact is much stranger than fiction, she is convinced that should she ever attempt to publish her autobiography, the Universe as we know it would instantly collapse into a black hole. She has thus decided to delay Armageddon for now, and is willing to accept gifts of chocolate and small furry kittens as tokens of thanks for her kindness.

Longing for Home

Hajira Amla

Grace Chirima’s hard black boots crunched on the frozen ground below her. Breathing clouds of steam, she clutched her coat tighter as she walked through the shortcut next to the old church. At least it wasn’t raining today.

I wonder what the weather is like back home today, she pondered. Would the tomatoes be ready to pick yet? It would still be a little longer before the maize could be harvested. All the children would want to carry the watering cans, because it would mean that they could splash a little water on each other when Mhamha wasn’t looking. On hot days it was worth the risk of getting a scolding.

Grace reached the entrance of Harrow-on-the-Hill station. She touched her blue Oyster card onto the reader and hurried through the turnstile.

A bored, tinny voice echoed through the stairwell as Grace descended to Platform Three. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a 15-minute delay on all trains due to ice on the tracks. Please be careful of ice patches on the platforms. Thank you.”
She would probably have to stand for the full hour’s journey on the train. And she would be late for work. She walked up to the very end of the platform, the rough salt crunching underfoot. The platform was already pushed for standing-room and it was imperative for a small person like Grace to try and work out where the doors of the train would be once it came to a halt. Being shoved unceremoniously into the train from all sides was better than trying to find a way to squeeze in from an angle

December in Zimbabwe was always a special time for the children in the Chirima household. They would have a long holiday from school, the weather would be at its hottest, punctuated by short, violent rainstorms, and her mother’s youngest sister would go to Harare to buy Christmas gifts for all the children.

The family home was a prosperous one. The matriarch of the house was Grace’s grandmother, Gogo, and her four daughters and their sixteen children were all housed under this roof. In accordance with Zimbabwean family structure, her mother and her three aunts were all ’Mhamha’ - mother - to Grace, and all their children were her brothers and sisters...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Zukiswa Wanner

2011-11-02T15:06:00.000+02:00

Zukiswa Wanner is author of the novels: The Madams, Behind Every Successful Man, and Men of the South. She has contributed short stories to a few anthologies. Wanner is one of the founding members of the literacy initiative, Read SA, and famous for having been short-listed for many literary awards but never winning. She does not like pina collada or getting caught in the rain. In fact, if she had control of these things, rain would only fall on farms (you too would feel this way if you had ever been caught in a Johannesburg thunderstorm). When she told her mother that she had decided to become a full time writer her mother's response was, 'most people learn to write in first grade, why can't you move on to greater things?' Her mother now thinks she is the best writer worldwide, even better than the Adichies’ daughter.

A Writer's Lot

Zukiswa Wanner

So here I am in Sun City. I could tell you about all of the journalists in my sleep, but I won’t. Well, not a lot. I would rather tell you about the one who landed me here.

It always began with emails.

“Dear Mr. Dube,
I am a journalist from New York Times / Times / Newsweek / Le Monde / The Guardian,” etcetera, etcetera. Then there are the flattering platitudes about how the journalist loves my first work of fiction, Township Stories. And then, inevitably it ends, “I will be in Johannesburg from ____________ to ____________ and would love to interview you as one of the literary torchbearers in post-apartheid South Africa.”

Sometimes it would be a male journalist. Most of the time she would be female, trying to understand how I survived ‘growing up under apartheid’ and trying to show me and the rest of their readers in the Global North just how liberal they are. “There is this absolutely awesome South African writer, Sifiso Dube, you should read him,” trying to sound more knowledgeable than the people around them at a dinner party. When it was a female journalist, there would be sex. It seemed inevitable — the price I paid, or the prize I received, depending really on how good the sex was, for fame.

And that’s just it Joe. When I set out to write Township Stories, I was a township boy, a Wits dropout, who never imagined the book would get as big as it has. Of course it is every writer’s fantasy to be published, but at the most, I thought it might be read in Cape Town. Never thought it would go international, let alone be translated in all the major UN languages. Eish. It was a boost to a man’s ego.

But then, amajita see you emapepeni, on TV, hear you on radio and they think wena u grootman. They don’t understand that at this point in time, five months after your book has been published, you have not received your first royalty cheque yet. If you are lucky, as I was, you immediately get some freelance gigs with some papers reviewing books because suddenly the fuckers who would never have employed you as a receptionist think you are the man. You get a little change in your pocket and you know what? You find yourself playing the part of the big man that your boys think you are...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: NoViolet Bulawayo

2011-11-01T15:21:00.000+02:00

NoViolet Bulawayo considers herself a storyteller first, and a writer second. She completed her MFA in fiction at Cornell University. Her short story, ‘Snapshots’, was a finalist for the 2009 SA PEN/Studzinski Literary Award, and she won the 2011 Caine Prize with ‘Hitting Budapest’.

Main

NoViolet Bulawayo

Main. Main Street standing up straight and adjusting the rainbow-coloured wrap skirt that threatens to slide down her wide waist, black blood boiling in her veins. Bustling throbbing writhing street. Everything moving: cars, voices, ambitions, money, dreams, feet, smoke. Just moving moving moving — like a wind.

The thin reed of a woman in the screaming red dress, the one carrying a black bundle in her arms, suddenly pauses right in the centre of Main Street and thrusts her chest out in pain. She twists her neck and tilts her small head, flipping the long, brown hair that is not hers. Next, she half-raises a stockinged left leg, deliberately, like she not only needs to place it somewhere, but on a somewhere that is better than any somewhere she has ever stood.

Her scarecrow arms extend outward, away from her body, but she still holds on to the black bundle. No, she does not wish to drop it; she will hold on to it. Hold tight, tighter. The pain in her heart is a frantic, frenzied drumbeat. Slightly stiffening, she can feel her chest first reeling, then crowding, then heaving inward, but still, she will not drop her bundle; it is the only thing she owns. For a moment, she stands balancing on the sole-less heel of a small green shoe, balancing dangerously but also gracefully as if she weighs nothing more than a folded whisper.

When her body eventually slams into the concrete it is like a careful dance coming to an end. Her black bundle rolls like a coin and rests in a nearby dirty gutter, right across from the blind woman in the black dress and white hat who sings for a living, her fierce voice not stopping once for anything that happens on Main Street, singing:

“Tshiya lumhlaba lentozawo,
Thabathisphambano ulandele,
Ngcono ngiz’hambele ngalindlela,
Tshiya lumhlaba lentozawo.”

The crowd that gathers around the fallen woman swells and swells like a flooding river. Within minutes the river swallows the woman so that with all those writhing bodies looming above her, she looks like a stain. The onlookers do not see the woman’s fallen bundle; it suits them better to only see her, especially because she is dead. There are details to be taken in and notes to be made before someone comes and moves the body. And since later, at a yet-to-come time, the dead woman on Main Street will be born again in their mouths, in a story; this is exactly the moment to gather that story...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza

2011-10-31T13:59:00.000+02:00

Born in Zimbabwe in 1971, Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza developed a passion for the art of story telling and a love for the written word at a tender age. Long before he was literate he would gaze with fascination at the beauty of the written word on scraps of paper, old magazines, newspapers, books, et al, and by the time he was in the third grade was a passionate wide reader, whose reading material was more often than not way beyond his scope.

It was also at this time that he started writing his own stories, spurred by a vivid imagination and his already entrenched reading culture. After studying Literature in English at the University of Zimbabwe, he worked, for eight years, as a high school English Language and Literature in English teacher before moving to Zimbabwe’s national television broadcaster where he worked as Chief Producer of Social and Cultural programmes for children. After that spell, his perennial wanderlust saw him move on to the world of advertising, where he worked as a copywriter for a local advertising agency.

It was not long before he packed his creative bags and joined the mainstream print media as an Assistant Editor, specialising in feature writing and covering the arts for a Zimbabwean daily and weekly paper. He eventually became the Acting Editor of the weekly Sunday paper until its demise in 2007. There was a particularly rough patch where he survived through the benevolence of friends, his art and freelancing. In 2008 he returned to the world of advertising.

His poetry, essays and short stories have been published in Zimbabwe and abroad. His early poetry started appearing in the University of Zimbabwe English Department’s literary magazine, The Bloom, and national and international magazines. His stories appear in the following anthologies, A Roof to Repair (Harare: College Press), Creatures Great and Small (Gweru: Mambo Press 2000), Writing Still (Harare: Weaver Press, 2003), Writing Now (Harare: Weaver Press, 2005), and Dreams, Miracles and Jazz: New Adventures in African Writing (Northlands: Picador Africa, 2008). A revised version of his story, 'The Mender of Broken Soles' was published online by SABLE Literary Magazine. He has also been interviewed on Conversations with Writers and Kubatana.net, and also occasionally, when the spirit moved him, blogged at Zimbablog

Ruzvidzo passed away on the 3rd of May 2010. He will be missed, a great loss for Literature and Zimbabwe; may his works live on in our hearts and minds forever.

Witch’s Brew

Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza

Whenever I saw the jagged pieces of a broken heart swirling in the depths of her dark soft doe-like eyes, I knew Mai Chamboko was not a witch. But many people said she was. I guess that is why there were echoes of pain in her eyes. When I asked her why her eyes were so sad, she sighed and whispered, “Ah, my little husband, perhaps it is because I yearn for understanding... and peace... things very few are willing to give.”

I was her friend, though. My mother and I were the only friends Mai Chamboko had. And what was I but a club-footed child many were repulsed by even if they pretended otherwise? I understood the pain of Mai Chamboko’s loneliness. I thought I knew why there were shards of her broken heart in the depths of her eyes.

Mai Chamboko had no children of her own. People called her many names. That was something that happened to me a lot. That’s how I knew the shape of her heart. I saw who and what she really was —a good person, hungry only for acceptance and understanding.

I thought she was the kindest person ever. She treated me as if I had two normal feet. In fact, she made me feel as if my club-foot made me more special than any child she had ever seen.

I liked to go to her house. Many people wondered why a club-footed boy would spend so much time with a ‘witch’. I loved her cooking and baking. She was always pottering around in her kitchen, humming softly. She used exotic herbs and spices whose aroma filled the air with a tangy quality that always seemed to have echoes of otherworldly tastes and magic. Ah, those cakes and scones that she used to bake — if only my taste buds could speak!

She cooked and baked, baked and cooked. There were times I thought Mai Chamboko was always preparing these meals for invisible children that only she saw, who filled her empty house with the happy pitter-patter of their feet and colourful laughter that only she heard. It was as if, as far she was concerned, these children had had simply gone out to play and she expected them to burst through the door at any moment...

African Roar 2011: Author and Excerpt: Memory Chirere

2011-10-30T13:23:00.001+02:00

Memory Chirere is an author and lecturer at the University of Zimbabwe. He enjoys reading and writing short stories and some of his are published in Nomore Plastic Balls (1999), A Roof to Repair (2000), Writing Still (2003) and Creatures Great and Small (2005). He has recently published the books Somewhere in This Country (2006), Tudikidiki (2007), and Toriro and his goats (2010).

(Preface to African Roar 2011)

Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza

(A tribute by Memory Chirere)

Ruzvidzo. You cannot go just like that. I only learnt about it a day after, when I phoned the guys at BWAZ [Budding Writers Association of Zimbabwe] over an otherwise happy matter. I didn’t know you had been ill in hospital. For over six months you were unreachable. You had suddenly disappeared from the social scene. This was not the first time that you disappeared from the scene.

You took a very quick and solitary exit.

A week before your death, I bumped into Ignatius Mabasa at an Avondale ice cream shop and he said he had seen you! He said you had talked. And as the kids ran around, licking their ice creams and bantering amongst themselves, Ignatius said you said you felt that most of what you had written in the past was rather bleak and you were reworking some of your unpublished stories and poems (and novels too) because you now realised that, after all, life was a positive thing. We were impressed and were almost certain that one full volume of your work would eventually come out.

And now-this!

Is this the end of the end? Always the more courageous, I hope you faced your end with courage...