THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GAPPAH

Next week, I am in Geneva for a literary discussion at the United Nations.

2011-11-02T06:14:00.000-07:00

If my friends, readers and other interested people in Geneva are reading this, please come to the Palais des Nations on 9 November 2011, to Room XXIII in Batiment E, for a celebration of the Year of the People of African Descent. I will be on a literary panel with writers from Brazil, Haiti, Panama and the United States. Details are on this flyer. There will be an exhibition. And music. It will be a party! I hope to see you there!

In which the symbolic fifth billion child and the symbolic sixth billion child misunderstand the meaning of symbolism.

2011-10-31T12:04:00.001-07:00

The seven billionth baby has been born, welcome to the world little one, whoever you are. That baby is not Danica May Camacho, the little cutie from The Phillippines who is one of several symbolic seventh billion babies. Danica is not the actual seventh billion baby to be born - she merely represents the idea that we are now 7 billion.

Perhaps someone should have explained the largely symbolic nature of this to the fifth billion child and the sixth billion child, because they are not very happy.

According to the Guardian:

Previous children picked out at birth by the UN to mark world population milestones have complained that the international body forgot about them later in life. Both 12-year-old Adnan Nevic of Bosnia Herzogovina, the sixth billionth baby, and Matej Gaspar from Croatia, who was number five billion, have complained that the UN chose them at birth then largely ignored them. "We saw Kofi Annan as almost like a godfather to him," Adnan's father, Jasminko, told the Guardian. Adnan said: "He held me up when I was two days old but since then we have heard nothing from them."

Read the full story here.

Mr. Annan, if you are reading this, please call Adnan and tell him that when you held him up at the age of two days old, you were not making a lifetime commitment that the UN would always be there in his life, but really only just using him for PR purposes. Please also explain to Adnan the meaning of the following words: this exploitation of cute little babies for purely symbolic reasons? Enough already.

As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti.

2011-10-30T11:23:00.000-07:00

I am back in Arusha. Yesterday morning in Harare, as I left my apartment, I heard Toto’s Africa, one of my favourite songs ever. This was the second time in twelve hours: I had heard it the night before, on Friday, in The Lounge, my neighbourhood bar in Newlands. It sounds very, very good on a double gin and tonic. Three hours ago, I looked out of my window on the flight from Nairobi to Kilimanjaro Airport and there, imperial, majestic, rising like Olympus above the Serengeti and framed by clouds as white as the snow cresting it, was Mount Kilimanjaro. I have seen Kili dozens of times from the air, but it never, ever gets old. Next year, I am going all the way to the top. And Toto will give me wings. Here’s Toto ...

The TWAG Quote of the Week: George Charamba on the nefarious plot by the Swiss to untie what God has tied together.

2011-10-27T01:49:00.000-07:00

Last week, the Swiss denied visas to members of President Mugabe’s entourage who wanted to go to Geneva for an ITU meeting. Among those denied visas was the President’s wife, Grace Mugabe. The President rarely misses an opportunity to attend the ITU annual meeting - he was to have been on a panel with Swiss and Rwandan Presidents Micheline Calmy-Rey and Paul Kagame.

Paul Kagame was to speak by video-phone from Kigali.

Our President, never one to turn away from a lectern if he can lambast Western powers from it, was to be there in person … along with a 62-member entourage.

The Swiss issued visas to the President and a significant number of the entourage, but felt, reasonably enough in my view, that not all 62 were on UN business, and that some were in fact using the UN mission to avoid the sanctions that have been imposed on their travel to Switzerland.

This seems entirely reasonable to me, but then I am not entirely unbiased: my view is grounded in the fact that the last time the President went on a UN mission, he is said to have spent more than 5 million dollars – his entourage on that occasion included his young children who undoubtedly had pressing UN business in New York. My view is also influenced by the fact that government owes the City of Harare about 80 million dollars, which explains the smell of rubbish that is piling uncollected outside my apartment complex and the nasty pothole on Arden Drive that I almost drove into last week. Most of all, I am exercised by the fact that the Harare City Library, whose board I chair, and which is the biggest and most popular library in Zimbabwe, has a leaking roof. If you knocked off about 20 intelligence agents and associated aides from the 62, that would be enough money for a new roof.

But back to the Swiss. They refused to issue all the requested visas. Cue vociferous objections from all sorts of people including the African Union. The Swiss eventually issued all the visas, including the First Lady’s, but by then, the President had had something of a hissy fit and decided not to go.

This is the context in which I introduce to you our TWAG quote of the week, from the always entertaining, Shakespeare and Bible quoting presidential spokesman George Charamba.

"By denying the First Lady the visa, the Swiss were trying to put apart what God had tied," Charamba told AFP.

Let's have that again:

"By denying the First Lady the visa, the Swiss were trying to put apart what God had tied."

There you have it. Mrs Grace Mugabe has nothing on Ruth, whose beautiful words of loyalty to her mother-in-law Naomi you all know so well: where you go, I will go also, your people shall be my people, and your God shall be my God.

Where the President goes, the First Lady goes. And the Godless Swiss tried to break them up for the whole three days that the President would have been away! As it is so clear that the First Couple cannot bear to be apart even for a few days, I want, at this point to dedicate to the First Couple the famous song by The Police that is meant to be a love song but that, because of the menacing obsession that it implies, is more suited to be the anthem of all stalkers everywhere:

Every breath you take,

Every move you make,

Every bond you break,

Every step you make,

I’ll be watching you.

Mr. Charamba, let's have it once more, loud and clear for the cheap seats:

"By denying the First Lady the visa, the Swiss were trying to put apart what God had tied."

Yes people, the blog is back!!

Ozymandias in Tripoli.

2011-08-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

From the wonderful Nick Hayes at the Guardian.

On David Starkey, whites becoming black and blacks becoming white.

2011-08-13T05:21:00.000-07:00

When I was at Cambridge, some of my fellow students, and some dons, used to say this thing that first amused me, but became increasingly irritating. I would be at a party, talking nineteen to dozen in my usual way, and then I would find someone staring at me with a look of wonder. The inevitable remark would then come. “You speak such good English.” And this at Cambridge, one of the most competitive universities in the world. To be at Cambridge was surely to be among the best: it is why I had applied in the first place. Why would anyone be surprised that a student at Cambridge spoke good English? Isn’t it a condition of admission? Wouldn’t you imagine that we all spoke good English?

But the subtext was clear: you are a black person and, therefore, you are not supposed to speak such good English. I was the first black African student at my college, and no, this was not as long ago as you think. My special status was stressed to me a number of times, particularly by one don who beamed at me and said, as soon as he met me, that I was the second Rhodesian at Sidney Sussex! And are you going back to Rhodesia after you finish, he asked, to which I responded that that was an impossibility as the country no longer existed.

I eventually developed an effective response to the you speak such good English comment. Anytime I heard this, I said, why so do you, in a tone of happy camaraderie.

These memories came back as I listened in wonder to the historian David Starkey on Newsnight. He said three things: that Enoch Powell was partly correct in his Rivers of Blood speech and that the white kids who looted all over England were victims of black culture, and, finally, that if you heard the Oxbridge-educated Tory MP David Lammy speak without seeing him, you would think that he was white.

He speaks such good English, you see.

That a historian would bandy about such imprecise terms as white culture and black culture is frankly baffling. What is white culture? Going to the opera? Divorce? Or having a nuclear family? Atheism? Or the creationism that is becoming rampant in the American south? Scientology? The gay pride parade of Amsterdam? Or the gay curing programmes of the kind advocated by Michele Bachmann's husband? The binge drinking of London? Football hooliganism?

And don’t get me started on black culture, which seems to be reduced by Starkey, to a very specific sub-culture influenced by hip hop and rap music and street gangs.

But gangs, of course, are not part of white culture, because the Teddy Boys, back in the 50s were not white at all, oh no. And those Victorian street gangs, the Sloggers, the Scuttlers? When Dickens wrote about Fagin’s gang of pickpockets, about murderous gang member Bill Sykes, why he must have had some sort of Jamaican influence because Bill Sykes? He was acting black.

Missing in David Starkey’s analysis is any awareness of class. Because this is the essence of Starkey’s reasoning: any white person who is not how you imagine a white person to be has become black, and any black person who is not how you imagine a black person to be has become white. To be black is to be poor, it is to be uneducated, to be inarticulate. A middle class black man like David Lammy becomes, not middle class, but white. And the working class hooligans who were looting trainers are acting black.

I very much fear that England is going to get this spectacularly wrong. All the commentators, like Starkey, are responding reflexively from within the narrow framework of their entrenched positions.

But that is another subject for another day. Listening to Starkey took me back to Cambridge, where my fellow students actually thought to express surprise that a fellow Cambridge student spoke English well. And why? Because I was black.

Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers? How nice of you to ask! I got them free from Newsweek!

2011-08-12T12:37:00.000-07:00

Michele Bachmann, it is true, is nuttier than squirrel poo and fruitier than an orchard full of apricots, pears, plums and quinces. (That is a little shout out to my trade law friends, whom I miss madly, together with trade disputes about apricots, pears, plums and quinces. I weep when I read the Japan - Varietals case, I simply weep.) Back to the topic - Mrs Bachmann appears to be more than a little estranged from that thing you and I rather familiarly call reality, but this? Really, Tina Brown? Why not have her wield an axe splattered with the blood of a googly-eyed poodle and have done with it? As John Stewart said, you want to show that Mrs Bachmann is a nut? Use her own words. There are enough of them.

How to Run a Banana Republic, Part 33, Or How to Lose Your Bra and Gain $10 000

2011-08-05T08:13:00.000-07:00

The man in brown in the middle there is a policeman. The man in the suit is the President. The young man in blue is a Zimbabwean commercial pilot who was recently in a reality TV show. His name is Wendall Parsons. And yes, he is white. There are lots of white people still in Zimbabwe. They sometimes, if they are lucky like Wendall, get to shake the President's hand and receive money from him. In the white envelope is $50 000 for lucky, lucky Wendall. See Wendall smile. See the President smile. See the policeman look. Look look look. Oh look look.

So this is what happened yesterday in Zimbabwe. The President presented envelopes stuffed with cash to two contestants in the last Big Brother Africa. The winner of the series, Wendall, received $50 000 of Zimbabwe's dirtiest money, and I am not casting aspersions here, but simply pointing that the notes circulating in Zimbabwe are notoriously grimy. (This is what happens when you don't print your own money).

Also sharing in the presidential largesse was Vimbai Mutinhiri, who did not win. She received $10 000. Now, I am as fond of Zanu PF as anyone would be after seeing it preside over the rack and ruin of a country one loves, but there are many things that prevent me from fully taking it into the warm embrace of my welcoming arms. For one thing, there is the gaucheness of giving out envelopes stuffed with cash. Who does that, I mean, this not some low level mafiosos making a down payment for a hit on the Capo. Whatever happened to those big fake cheques?

Then there is the startling image of Mugabe handing over a stuffed envelope to a girl whose most celebrated skill on Big Brother appears to have been standing still while people took off her bra with their teeth. Race to the bottom, anyone?

It is all bread and circuses of course, distraction and diversion. I want to say it is all very surreal, but it is just Zimbabwe. We sigh and move on. This is how you run a Banana Republic.

Image from NewZimbabwe.

When the trumpet blows, won't you call me please, call my name.

2011-08-04T12:42:00.001-07:00

And now, a musical interlude from Peter, Paul and Mary with Early In The Morning, a song so hauntingly beautiful that it is almost unbearable.

In Harare in August: TED comes to Zim, Fashion Week at the Library and Pimp my Combi at the Gallery

2011-08-03T02:20:00.000-07:00

There is a slew of exciting events coming up in Harare this month. My good buddy Upenyu Makoni-Muchemwa has realised her dream of bringing a TEDx event to Harare - Upenyu is also the woman behind the community and activist website kubatana.net, so she thrives on ideas. Good luck Upenyu, and I wish I could be there.

Another good buddy, Priscilla Chigariro a model business woman who is also a model (see what I did there?) is the woman behind Fashion Week, which returns to Zim from 31 August 2011. Priscilla is one of the people who has responded to our Library Commitee's plea to save the Library: the Library at Rotten Row will host a day and night of fashion on 1 September 2011, with proceeds going to the Library.

I also received this invitation to an exhibition at the National Gallery on 4 August 2011 called Pimp my Combi! If you are in Harare, try to make all of these events.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind: the Nirvana baby is now all grown up

2011-08-02T05:40:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I lived in Austria when I played Nirvana's 'Nevermind', 'The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill' and Alanis Morisette's 'Jagged Little Pill' over and over and over. And over again. Now when I hear any song from any one of those albums, I am immediately transported back to Graz, it is summer and I am walking from Jacominiplatz to Hauptplatz, listening to my disc-man.

Nevermind turns 20 this year. Gulp. I found a great (old) story on the baby in the iconic poster above: His name is Spencer Elden, he was the son of friends of Kirk Weddle, Nirvana's photographer. Kurt Cobain promised he would take Spencer to dinner when he grew up, but then of course Kurt killed himself in 1994. And Spencer, who lives in Los Angeles, grew up to speak like a Valley Boy. From an interview on NPR:

"My friend is all like, 'Hey I saw you today.' And I'm like, 'Dude, I was working all day.' And he's like, 'No, I went to Geffen Records, and you're on the floor and you're floating and I stepped on your face. 'Cause I guess they have like a floating thing where people can like walk on me and stuff ... so it's kinda cool."

Smells like seriously chilled-out teen spirit. Cool.

Young, gifted and Nigerian: Meet Chibundu Onuzo

2011-07-29T01:17:00.000-07:00

Do you know the name Chibundu Onuzo? You should. And you will. She is the ridiculously young, gifted and Nigerian writer whose novel, The Spider King's Daughter, will be published next year by Faber. She is 20. That's right. 20!! I can tell you for a fact that everyone at Faber is hugely excited about her debut. As 2012 is rather a way away, you may want to read her blog while you wait: Chibundu blogs at authorsoundsbetterthanwriter. I have her kind permission to reproduce this blog post about some amusing shenanigans on one of her recent flights from Lagos. Thanks Chi!

__________________

The flight was full. Nigerians, it seems are becoming more affluent. So affluent that they now travel with their house girls as one woman announced to the whole plane. Her children were sitting together but the house girl had not been put with children. I mean, what is the point of taking a maid to England if she's not going to look after my children. And I can't look after my children because I'm in Upper Class. Did everyone hear that? I am travelling upper class and my maid has been separated from my children. Air hostess please sort this out so I can go back to Upper Class and stretch out on my fully reclining seat while all of you sit in economy and roast. Of course, no-one wanted to switch seats to let the children be re-united with their nanny. I don't know how that matter ended because I started eavesdropping on the phone conversation taking place next to me.

The woman had just 'flown in and flown out.' It was a 'quick one.' Just 'a few days.' You know how we big girls do. In fact, she wanted to go Upper Class but the plane was full so she had to settle for an economy ticket because she needed to get back to work. You know how we big girls do. If that's all that happened on the flight, it would have been enough gist for me. A little lighthearted showing off from my fellow Nigerians is always of interest. I settled down in my seat, hoping the six hours would go quickly. I was on my first movie when a woman in the row behind me, tapped my neighbour and said,

"Excuse me. Please move your seat forward. It's disturbing me."

My neighbour replied, "No sorry I cannot. The person in front of me has reclined their chair so I must recline mine."

I thought the matter had ended. I returned to my movie. Next thing, the woman punched my neighbour's chair until it was in an upright position. What followed was the most bizarre sequence of events. My neighbour would recline her chair fully. The woman would punch it upright. Recline. Punch. Recline. Punch. During this sequence phrases like,

"You're making me uncomfortable."

"It is my constitutional right to recline my chair."

"You cannot inconvenience me."

"I should have travelled Upper Class."

were thrown around. Eventually, air hostesses had to be called in.The uncomfortable lady could not see her screen, her knees were cramped.

"Then recline your own chair madam," one of the hostesses said reasonably.

"I do not want to recline my chair."

And that was the end of that line of persuasion. Another hostess tried a different tack.

"Madam, why don't you swap seats with your husband if you're so uncomfortable."

"I do not want my husband being inconvenienced by this woman."

At this point, my fellow Nigerians began to join the fray.

"Madam raise your chair small."

"No, she is not the one that should raise her chair. It is this woman that should push back her own."

"Why must we Nigerians always embarrass ourselves outside."

My people, I laughed ehn. At first, I tried to hide it by covering my mouth but as the confra grew noisier my laughter increased in volume. Eventually a compromise was reached. My neighbour reclined her chair half way and the matter was closed. I returned to my movie with tears still in my eyes.

About an hour later, the inconvenienced passenger's husband decided to try his own luck. He too felt that the lady in front of him (also in my row) had reclined her chair too far back. He had also seen how successful his wife had been. So he tapped the lady and said, "Excuse me, your seat is too far back."

Her response was classic.

"Don't even start that nonsense."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you shut up the passenger behind you when he/she tries to impinge on your constitutional right to fully recline your plane seat.

In which I fall deeply in love with Chielozona Eze, and nail my mast to the good ship Soyinka

2011-07-28T13:53:00.000-07:00

After an interview I gave to the Guardian in 2009 in which I stated what I thought was an uncontroversial proposition, namely that I really dislike the term "African writer" as I see myself as just me, I received some rather frightening emails. Let’s just say there are a LOT of people out there who seem to derive their sense of worth from how people completely unrelated to them see themselves. A friend told me that quite a few posters on the Nigerian literary list-serve Krazitivity were up in arms because they thought that I was rejecting by black African Nubianess. And all the while I have been queuing before the "African Passports" counters at Oliver Tambo airport and getting my hair braided in Stall 90 at Kenyatta market in Nairobi! I even, as a declaration of my deep-felt Nubiosity, named my son Kush - if I had a daughter, she would be called Egypt then I could proudly say my children are named after the old African kingdom of Egypt and Kush. Or not.

Anyway, after the initial emails, I tuned out of the whole thing and privately swore that the next time anyone asked me about this, I would respond by quoting all of Jabberwocky.

But that was then. As part of an application for a fellowship that is hugely important to me, I have in the last two days been compiling a huge dossier of my reviews and published profiles and have been gasp, googling myself. By the way, I am not one of those writers who claims they do not read reviews - I read them, I love them, and I respect people who take time to read and write honestly and with sincerity. I have, however, for the last 12 months or so, stopped reading anything to do with Easterly. And as I did not read much around the whole African Writer thing, today was the first time that I read the short comment below from Nigerian philosopher and writer Chielozona Eze, which I found on Pambazuka.

I am deeply grateful to Chielo. He has very simply, but eloquently, captured exactly what it is that I meant. If I accept his division of writers on the continent into Achebeans and Soyinkans, I would definitely agree with him that I write in the Soyinkan tradition. I am honestly not interested in writing for the edification and education of the West. Nor do I write to correct historical wrongs. Just as there are stereotypes about Africans, there are stereotypes about Asians, about South Americans, heck, about any group if you come to think of it. To stereotype is human. If I set up my ambition as the correcting of what Chimamanda Adichie calls the "single story", I would go demented.

There are writers who have chosen to take on this burden. I read them, I cheer them on, I celebrate them. But that is not how I see myself or my writing. I do not want always to be writing back or answering back. It would mean that I am forever responding to agendas set by others. Instead of telling others what plants they should not grow in their gardens, I want to cultivate my own little plot, plant the things I love, and watch them grow. I want to write stories that mean something to me, and hang the West. Hang Zimbabwe too. Hang tyranny, including the tyranny of the loudest voiced ones. Hang censorship, hang any kind of silencing. I want to write about anything that takes my interest, with no agenda other than to write it well.

Before I became a writer, I was a roving, curious Afropolitan (I so love that term), rooted in my continent but inspired by the world. I love people, I love travel, I love ideas, I love discovering inspiration in the most unexpected places. This was my life before I became a writer, and it is still my life today. So I write the way I live: taking in everything that inspires, discarding everything that does not. My name is Petina Gappah. I am a Soyinkan. And a million other things besides.

_______________________

In her first interview after winning the Guardian First Book Prize, Petina Gappah vehemently objected to her being labelled the voice of Zimbabwe. Rightly, so, one would say, for she is a voice, a very confident one for that. She is a voice that, like others before her such as Yvonne Vera, Marechera, Tsitsi Dangarembga, addressed the human condition from a given position, Zimbabwe. All literature is local.   Since her interview, various internet discussion groups have devoted considerable attention to what is perceived by some as a betrayal of her African roots.

The title of her interview, ‘Petina Gappah: “I don't see myself as an African writer”’, is provocative enough to make one ask whether she had contracted Michael Jackson’s ‘yellow’ fever. Is it possible to create art that is not rooted in some place? Is she merely a copycat to her famous dead compatriot, Dambudzo Marechera?   Not so fast, friends.  To start with, it is abundantly peculiar even to a troubling degree, that only African writers appear to be burdened with the seemingly annoying issue of identity, whether they are writers from and of the continent. As one writer, coming to Gappah’s defense, said, you don’t ask water whether it is wet, do you? Yet, the writer rightly pointed out the tricky issue of identity. Thank God, identity is not as settled as the wetness of water.

  It has to be born in mind that the issue of the African writer is fraught with contested meaning. If other writers from other continents do not face the same niggling problem – which I doubt – it might have to do with many factors, one of which is that writing in Africa, literature as belles-lettres is closely associated with liberation struggle and the definition of self. Chinua Achebe gave this type of writing a definitive form with Things Fall Apart and his subsequent essays and interviews and interpretation of his own book. Thus since the publication of his epochal book, African literature has largely been seen as a mode of writing-back, fighting the West’s misrepresentation of the African image.

Achebe cannot be identified with the Negritude movement, but his project is not far removed from Negritude’s redefinition of the maligned image of the African. The subtle difference might lie in the Senghor’s lionisation of the past and Africa’s perceived essence.  

This century has witnessed a robust renaissance of African literature, thanks in large part to Caine Prize. This rebirth boasts of such fine writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Chris Abani, Sefi Atta, Brian Chikwava, Chika Unigwe, and of course Petina Gappah. Reading their works, one discerns their allegiance to what could be termed, for lack of available terms, the Achebean and Soyinkan schools of thought.   

The Achebean school functions much like Negritude, and sees its role as primarily redefining the African. It does this among other things, by challenging the West’s ‘single story’.

The Soyinkan, however, is of course different from the first in the sense that it appears to ignore the gaze of the white man, and explores the human condition as it is found in the African towns and villages. It does not even shy away from employing Western concepts and idioms to elucidate African native ideas. Doing so, simply telling normal stories of normal people, is understood as engaging in a deeply universal exercise.   

Among the new crop of African writers, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie unapologetically positions herself as the torchbearer of Achebean tradition. This is evident in her writings and speeches, the most renowned of which is ‘The Danger of a Single Story.’ Chris Abani and Sefi Atta appear, at least, temperamentally to have sided with Soyinka, caring little about the burden of meeting the gaze of the white man. I put Gappah in this group. I don’t know her in person, but based on what I could glean from some of her writings, formal and informal, she seems to be completely opposed to the tradition of addressing the white man’s single story. She said somewhere that she is rigorously against Negritude, quoting Soyinka’s well-known critique of Negritude.  

When Petina Gappah says that she doesn’t see herself as an African writer, I think it is important to note that she never denied being African, or black. Nor does she contest her being Zimbabwean. She, I think, avoids being holed in a given, transcendental role of saving the African, by telling his or her story.   Until it becomes obvious that African literature pursues no cause, many more African writers with broader cast of mind will always deny being African writers.

Perhaps one day the term ‘African writer’ will lose its Achebean stamp when it becomes obvious that writings from that continent will be read also for their aesthetic wealth and not for their apology. The day has actually arrived, and reading Petina Gappah’s short stories, you feel as aesthetically fulfilled and as morally confronted as you would be.

Hopefully, her little controversy goes a long way to instruct interviewers and commentators of African literature that the question of who is an African writer is as redundant as the medieval problem of wanting to know how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, or, to use a better example, setting up a symposium to determine whether Ian McEwan is European.

A pictorial guide to understanding terrorism.

2011-07-27T02:27:00.001-07:00

I do not know where this comes from, but it expresses better than a 1000 word article what is so twisted about much of the commentary, particularly from places like the Daily Mail and Fox TV, around the motives of the killer who took so many lives in Norway. Thanks to the brilliant Sunny Hundal for the link.

One of the best book jackets I have ever seen ... ever

2011-07-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

I love this book cover. That is all.

From Zimbabwe, In Images, An Education

2011-07-18T11:07:00.000-07:00

Today, a visual treat. These wonderful photographs by Rudo Nyangulu are part of a series of photos that will accompany a long essay that I wrote recently on education in Zimbabwe. I visited all my former schools and wrote about them: Chembira, Kundai, Alfred Beit, St Dominic's and St Ignatius. As soon as the essay is published, I will link to it.

The greatest trick the Devil ever played was convincing the world he wasn't Rupert Murdoch. Or something like that.

2011-07-17T14:25:00.001-07:00

(Warning: do not watch this video if you are drinking anything at your computer. Seriously. Don't. And now, on to our regularly scheduled blog post)

I remember the first time I was ever published in the Guardian. I must have emailed everyone I knew, and let me now extend a belated apology to all my friends for my excessive giddiness. One of the best memories of my life is the day I went into the Guardian offices - I was there for an interview, and I remember feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. I met some amazing amazing people, people I read every day who were suddenly there in the flesh. I was thrilled and delighted - they all use Macs! - and awed all at the same time. An even pleasanter memory is the night I won the Guardian First Book Award. I talked about how lost I felt about losing my Marxist beliefs, how I floundered until I found the Guardian as a student at the University of Zimbabwe, and in the process found a paper from London that read as though written from the deepest recesses of my mind.

The Guardian, I said, is a force for good in the world.

The last 14 days of Hackgate prove this beyond doubt. The Guardian, its editor and journalists risked ridicule as they clung to the story of the decade. Individuals at the News of the World, they insisted, had tapped illegally into voicemails and the management must have known about it. When you think of who was massed against them, the world's most powerful media conglomerate, politicians and even, it seems, the Metropolitan Police, it is all the more remarkable that they stuck to their guns at all. And now teeters the house of Murdoch.

All hail Alan Rusbridger, Nick Davies and team. I am really, really proud of the Guardian. I am even prouder than I felt at my son's last piano recital. Sorry Kush.

What I have been doing when I have not been here.

2011-07-16T13:20:00.000-07:00

Where to begin? I am writing this from Amsterdam, one of my absolutely favourite places in the world. I am here as a Writer-in-residence - I am researching a book on trade and the art of the Dutch Golden Age which will also feed into my current novel. It sounds all horribly vague, doesn't it, but I am afraid that if I talk on and on about it, I will loose the steam necessary to propel me. But I will write more about Amsterdam, and my residency, in coming days.

Before I left Harare, I was busy with the Harare City Library. I currently chair the board that runs the library and its six branches across Harare. We need to find a tonne of money to reroof the place, and for new furnishings and fittings, books, staff etc. We are essentially rebuilding Zimbabwe's biggest library. I love my library: as a kid from a family of modest means, I did not own a lot of books - the Queen Victoria Memorial Library, as it then was, gave me everything I needed. To find out more about the Harare City Library, please see this short piece I wrote for the May issue of The Africa Report. The Africa Report has adopted the Library as one of its campaigns, and I am deeply grateful. If you know any places we can apply for funding, please let me know.

This last week was really great for literature from Zimbabwe. The very talented Elizabeth Tshele who writes as NoViolet "Mkha" Bulawayo has won the Caine Prize for African Writing! She was the first Zimbo to be shortlisted since 2004 when Brian Chikwava won. It always perplexed me that a prize created to discover and expose new talent should consistently overlook the amazing writers I have read from Zim. I was particularly grieved for amabooks and Weaver Press, the two small presses that have kept Zim writing in English alive through our anni horribili: they got a little nod in the introduction to one of the Caine anthologies a few years ago, but a shortlisting for one of their writers would have been a real shot in the arm, but that's prizes for you - they cannot satisfy everyone. So I am really happy that the award has gone to a deserving young writer who, cherry on top, is also a countrymate. Mkha is from Bulawayo, the city of Yvonne Vera whom Mkha has said is a huge influence on her. So I say halala, Mkha! Amhlope, nkazana!

Being in Zim has been frustrating and inspiring in equal measure. But me, I am of a sunny disposition, and will talk only of the good. One of the best things about my sojourn in Zim is the opportunity it has given me to meet other artistes from across the board. I have made many new and wonderful friends, and set the stage for some happy collaborations. I am particularly happy for my friend Raphael Chikukwa, the curator of the National Art Gallery, who took Zim to its very first Venice Biennale! The artists on show were Calvin Dondo, Misheck Masamvu, Berry Bickle and Tapfuma Gutsa. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. In coming months, I hope to do a joint Harare City Library/National Art Gallery project for writers and artists to bring words and images together.

In the meantime, I am writing what I hope will be Zimbabwe's first musical! Yes indeedy. One of my absolute heroes has agreed to direct, one of my new best friends will produce, and an absolute maestro at whose feet I worship will be the musical director. More very soon, I promise.

But first, the novel. Ah, the novel. In the words of the comrades: a luta continua.

(Post-script: that picture, a detail from an untitled work by Malangatana was meant to illustrate an earlier post: I had problems uploading it however, so here it is now, illustrating this post which has absolutely nothing to do with Malangatana. Whom I love. Love and covet. Covet and love. That's all.)

Don't adjust your eyes, this blog has a new look

2011-05-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

I have fallen in love with Blogger all over again - the templates have been jazzed up no end since the last time I redesigned my blog. I hope you enjoy the new look. Orange and purple are my favourite colours. I have tried a purple background before, now I am on orange. So do not adjust your eyes, this blog has a new look.

Two songs in one video from Winky D

2011-05-01T23:21:00.000-07:00

I am having a lively debate with friends on Facebook over the Harare musician Winky D who rocked HIFA on Saturday. I do not normally like the music known as dancehall, but I have taken to Winky D. He calls himself the "poor people's devotee" and indeed, he has brought stories of contemporary urban township life to the fore in a way that no other recent musician has done. He sings about violence of all kinds, about love and drugs, about money and township characters. He references popular culture - McGyver and Flash Gordon are as important to him as the township locales he sings about. He also does interesting and witty things with language, twisting both Shona and English to suit his ends and he puts himself in his music, creating multiple personas in a way that is reminiscent of Eminem. Here are two short videos, he still has a way to go to get his videos more polished, but the music is already there. And note the knife taken from the plate of oranges - it is clever reference to one of Harare's most notorious domestic violence cases, the killing of Rutendo Jongwe by her husband Learnmore, who was the MDC's spokesperson at the time.

The TWAG quote of the week: Seth Meyers on Donald Trump's running platform.

2011-05-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

The one thing I just love about Barack Obama, other than his ability to oversee the killing of a terrorist who evaded George Bush for nine years, is his great comic timing. The man is very funny indeed. This past Saturday, at the annual White House Correspondents' Dinner, he was apparently in fine form at the expense of The Donald. Read more here. But the joke of the night came from Seth Meyers, the Saturday Night Live actor who also compiered. Mr. Meyers, thank you for this week's TWAG Quote of the week!

"Donald Trump often talks about running as a Republican, which is surprising. I just assumed he was running as a joke."

Zing!

The biggest joke on Trump though is that Osama bin Laden died in an operation that was undertaken with Obama as Commander-in-chief. Who is talking about birth certificates now?

In which Malangatana, Toni Morrison, Andre Previn, Nneka, the Slavic Soul Party and Winky D combine for a magical day at HIFA.

2011-05-01T00:28:00.000-07:00

"Fly, thought, on wings of gold. Go and settle upon the slopes and the hills, Where, soft and mild, the sweet airs of our native land smell fragrant." - The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves

On Wednesday night, I felt goose bumps as the heart-wrenching strains of Va Pensiero rang out into the Harare night. It was Israel that Verdi was thinking of when he wrote Nabucco, but it was our own Zim that many of us must have had in mind as we listened to the London Festival Opera sing in our own Zim, the land so beautiful and lost.

I have had to pinch myself at many such moments during HIFA. That this immense achievement, this towering accomplishment could come into being in spite of everything is what gives me hope for Zim. Because if HIFA is possible in Zim, then so is anything. HIFA is nothing like you have ever seen. I will write more on HIFA, but for now, consider the day I had yesterday.

In the morning, I watched a performance by the National Ballet and the Dance Trust of Zimbabwe. Come to the Party, they called it, and performed different parties, a dinner party, an engagement party, a slumber party, a street party and so on. It was a hit and miss affair, some of it was exceptional, but some just cringe worthy.

Then I went on to the National Gallery, and got there just in time for a street performance o Julius Nyerere Way by the stilt walkers of the New York based Slavic Soul Party. They partied with onlookers to the beat of a massed brass band. And the police were actually doing some real live policing and directing traffic! I tell you!

Into the gallery I went, and what a feast there was. The brilliant Raphael Chikukwa, the man at whose feet I gladly worship, the power behind Zimbabwe’s invitation to the Venice Biennale has curated an incredible exhibition called “Beyond Borders”. It features Berry Bickle, who is headed for Venice; I was drawn immediately to one of my top men and favourite artists, Malangatana. I have a bit of a fetish for him: when I edited the Nigerian magazine Farafina in 2009, I commissioned an essay on him. You can imagine my delight when I went to Maputo a few years ago ad saw the most amazing murals by him. And here he is in Harare, in the National Gallery.

I also saw a stunning photo exhibition featuring the talents of Nancy Mteki and Preston Rolls and met Kevin Hansen, who, with Chipo Chung (of Dr Who fame), Lucian Msamati (of the No. I Ladies Detective TV series) and others formed the groundbreaking theatre troupe Over the Edge back in the 90s in Harare. He is now with an outfit called Jump Productions, and has written a book on the theatre, which he was about to launch when I met him.

I then met up with my gang for Winky D at the main stage. Now, Winky D is an absolute phenomenon. He is the most interesting musician in Zim today, engaging with the contemporary, and particularly, the township experience, in a way that no other artist has done, apart from maybe visual artists like Kanongevere and Lovemore Kambudzi. He is a dazzling performer, with charisma coming out of every pore. And he "mythobiographises" himself in similar ways to Eminem and other US rappers. The result is a sound and oevre that is distinctly Winky D. I hope to do a longer article on him soon.

My son and his cousins and my sister and her hubby all loved the show, as did the many fans that sang every song with him.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting with Kush in my parents’ church. (My parents attend the African Reformed Church in Zimbabwe which split from South Africa’s Dutch reformed Church in the 1930s, I believe). Their church in town is a protected building that sits in the middle of the commercial district on Samora Machel Avenue. It was a lovely setting for a chamber music recital. We listened to moving and unusual selections from Poulenc, Ravi Shankar and Beethoven. The goose-bump moment for me was a performance of four songs on texts by Toni Morrison set to music by Andre Previn, the classical composer (who is unfortunately better known as the man Mia Farrow left for Woody Allen.)

In the evening, I went to hear the Nigerian-German singer Nneka, Warrior Princess. She gave a sensational performance before a dancing, cheering crowd. When she asked if there were any Naijas in the audience, there was a loud and answering shout. She gave an impassioned speech about corruption in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, and the West, and followed it with a stirring performance of the Fela-inspired “V.I.P. -Vagabonds in Power”. At that point, the Mayor of Harare, who was seated a few seats from me, whispered to his neighbour that he never wanted to be called a V.I.P ever again. Heh heh.

I finished the night with drinks and Mozambican chicken in the Green Room, and went home to dream about Malangatana.

Now, remember: this was just one day of my six HIFA days. The remarkable thing is that I missed out on at least 12 other events on just this day. Today, I am most looking forward to the Malawian stand up comic Daliso Chaponda, and to the closing show featuring the Dutch band Moke and my girl, the luminous Chiwoniso Maraire.

And tomorrow, I write about it for your pleasure.

In which Lauren Beukes' "Zoo City" wins the Arthur C. Clarke Award 2011!!

2011-04-28T07:11:00.000-07:00

It is May in Harare, which means only one thing ... the Harare International Festival of the Arts is in town! I will be blogging at length about HIFA, but first, I want to share some thrilling news about one of my favourite writers and people.

My friend Lauren Beukes has just won the 2011 edition of the Arthur C. Clarke award for her second novel, Zoo City! Yes indeedy! This teeny little South African half-pint beat off competition from Richard Powers and Patrick Ness among others. Zoo City is a dream of a novel, fast-paced, spooky atmosphere, a plot that won't let up, and is intelligent and smart without being ponderous. I loved this novel, and am really happy that it is getting the recognition it deserves ... it has been shortlisted for three other awards so far. The chief value of awards is that they often bring books that might otherwise go unnoticedto a bigger public, and so I am really pleased that Lauren's book will go further because of this award.

And it could not have happened to a nicer person. Lauren is the bee's knees, she is. She is funny, smart, cool, and normal. And believe me, when it comes to writers, normal is a compliment:) I met her when she launched my book in Cape Town back in 2009, we clicked at once, so for me, this is a celebration both of a brilliant book and a lovely and true friend. Buy the book, I promise, you will not regret it.

Totutuma! Happy Independence Day Zimbabwe!

2011-04-18T00:19:00.002-07:00

Some people think Zimbabwe and then immediately Mugabe. I think Zim and Oliver Mtukudzi, the man with the weeping guitar and crackly voice, springs immediately to mind. He is our undeclared laureate, the man who brought untold pleasure to millions during Zimbabwe’s difficult decade, a humble ambassador who has given far more than he has taken. Today is Zimbabwe’s 31st independence day and I share with you Oliver’s seminal Totutuma at the link below. The translation of this song on the album Tsivo is "We celebrate". A more poetic translation would be "We overflow with pride and joyousness", which I certainly do when I listen to Oliver. Happy independence day, Zimbabwe!

Totutuma!

Photo of Oliver from the blog PhotoDelusions - http://photodelusions.wordpress.com.

In which I Reveal my Next Project: A Book About Mugabe

2011-04-15T23:04:00.000-07:00

I am writing a book about Mugabe. Yes, you heard it here first. I am writing a book about my encounters with Mugabe. It is going to make my name, it is, because Mugabe is the World’s Worst Dictator, and History’s Second Worst Man, Second Only to Hitler. Was there a poll, I hear you ask? Does it matter? If Mugabe did not exist, the Western media would have to make him up.

Now, about my book. I have decided to make myself white because then it will DEFINITELY be turned into a movie. If you are an African mass-murderer and or dictator, they will make a movie about you if you kill enough people but they need a white foil who comes to Africa to discover himself through meeting you and gazing with angst at the African landscape. The book will have a great big lolloping picture of him on the cover. It will be called Cocktails with Mugabe because cocktails sound so very glam and decadent, and if you then add with Mugabe you heighten the decandence by a factor of the square root of infinite, and, as a bonus, you get a little frisson of dark African glamour with olives on the side. Black olives.

My book is based on reality - nothing says authentic more than the words “based on a true story”. I once went to a cocktail party where Mugabe stood in the corner, surrounded by bodyguards. I tried to get close enough to talk to him, but his bodyguards approached menacingly and I went the other way. But that was not the only time I met him. I had talked to him a few years before, when I graduated, or, rather, he had talked to me. I knelt on a padded footstool in my graduation gown. He tapped me on the head with a little black board and said “Congratulations”.

Is that all, I hear you say.

I tell you, I can make a whole book out those encounters. Was that loneliness that I saw in his eyes as his bodyguards moved from him, or a crazed self-satisfied look? Was that a genocidal snarl I heard in his voice when he said “Congratulations” ? And what to make of the fact that he said “Congratulations” and not “Makorokoto” or “Amhlope?” Does this say anything at all about his love of the Queen and his later anger at Britain’s great betrayal? Was that the falling light in the Great Hall of the University of Zimbabwe on his face or the merest shadow of a Hitler moustache, foreshadowing the terror and the fear that was to come? Was it the light? Or was it a murderous glint from a murderous mind ?

Yes, I am writing a book on Mugabe.

It is going to be huge.

A perfectly fine example of the bullshit factor in publishing at work

2011-04-14T22:23:00.000-07:00

For many reasons that are too tedious to go into, I decided almost as soon as I entered it that that the world of writers and publishing is one that I want only to make sporadic forays into – it can never be my whole world. Reading and writing, it turns out, are very different from publishing, and books, it would appear, are so often more rewarding, more interesting, heck, more human, than some of the people who write them. There is so much bullshit in this particular world. I hasten to say that I am luckier than most because the people I work with are totally bullshit free:)

For a full blast of the bullshit factor in publishing, look no further than this appraisal by editor Justine Tal Goldberg of a David Foster Wallace poem written when he was about nine. It is, frankly, not a good poem, at best, it is average, even for a kid. But to Ms Goldberg, this little poem is “powerful stuff”. It is of “nuanced construction”. It “indicates that the young Wallace was attuned to the speech patterns of the people around him, namely his parents and teacher.” In the poem, “he is already exhibiting the masterful grasp of language for which he would later become famous.”

Read the poem here and judge for yourselves.

Everyone is pretty much rolling their eyes in the comments to the piece, as, I am sure, would DFW, who, from all accounts, was a modest man who would have found this sycophancy deeply embarrassing. As someone on the comments said:

“No more DFW please. Ever. Or at least until we've forgotten who he is and can look at his writing with some kind of balance. I've enjoyed some of his writing very much. But has the output of any other writer ever been subjected to such absurd hyperbole?”

Quite.

The Harare City Library Comes to the Book Cafe: Join Us for A World Book and Copyright Day Celebration

2011-04-11T04:07:00.002-07:00

World Book and Copyright Day is on 23 April 2011. To celebrate it, I will be hosting a panel on literacy and reading in Zimbabwe, with fellow writers Ian Holding (Unfeeling, Of Beasts and Beings) and Blessing Musariri (A Tree’s Story, Rufaro’s Day, The Mystery of Rukhodzi Mountain). Daniel Mandishona (White Gods, Black Demons) was supposed to join us, but could not make it, so his publisher Murray McCartney of Weaver Press will join us in his place. If you are in Harare, please come to the Book Café tomorrow night, from 5:30. For more detail, see the press release below from the Book Café. As the statement says, this is the first in a series of events hosted jointly by the Harare City Library (whose board I chair) and the Book Café.

____________

In April, Zimbabwe joins the world in celebrating World Book and Copyright Day, which presents an opportunity to tackle issues which help maintain the world of books alive.

On April 12, the early evening Book Cafe literary discussion will look at ‘Reading in Zimbabwe’ led by Petina Gappah, with writers Ian Holding, Daniel Mandishona and Blessing Musariri. It will discuss the importance and pleasures of reading, and explore how Zimbabwe can truly become a literate country. 

In 2010, the UN placed Zimbabwe at the top of the adult literacy table in Africa with a 92 per cent adult literacy rate. But what is the meaning of literacy in a country where reading has become an expense?

Petina Gappah is a Zimbabwean writer whose short fiction and essays have been published in eight countries. Her story collection, An Elegy for Easterly published in 2009 has taken her across the world to various literary events. The book won the Guardian First Book Award in 2009.

Petina, the Chairperson of the Harare City Library Management Committee, is determined to make a difference, and this discussion is the first presentation hosted jointly between the library and Pamberi Trust.

Pamberi Trust projects officer Extra–Blessings Kuchera who is organizing the  discussion said, “We look forward to welcoming Petina to Book Café on Tuesday 12 April. We hope this collaboration with the Harare City Library is the beginning of more activities which will help to develop literature in Zimbabwe.”

The TWAG quote of the week is back, thanks to His Excellency, Comrade RG Mugabe, President and Head of State and Government and Commander-in-Chief ...

2011-03-31T03:51:00.000-07:00

This week's TWAG Quote of the Week comes from the Patriarch himself. Unfortunately, the Blogger title space is unable to accommodate the full title of my President, which is "His Excellency, Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President and Head of State and Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces." Newsreaders read this title every night. And they do it with a straight face too!!

In this week's quote, His Excellency, Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President and Head of State and Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces talked about the burial of former Higher Education Minister, David Karimanzira, who died this week. Incidentally, that name will always be associated with my misspent youth at the University of Zimbabwe. No student demonstration was complete without running away from tear gas and singing insulting songs about him, or to be more accurate, about his mother's eyes.

'Meso amai vako, David!' we sang. 'Hee, David! Meso amai vako David, hee David!' In English this means, 'Your mother's eyes, David! Hee David! Your mother's eyes, David! Hee David!'

What can I say? You had to be there.

Anyhoo, this week's TWAG quote is also in Shona, but I am not even going to translate it because all the wit of His Excellency, Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President and Head of State and Government and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces would be totally lost if I did.

And here it is:

Tichavaviga kuchikomoko, kunzvimbo yakakosha nekuti mabasa avo tinoaziva tese. Kana tichiendesa munhu ikoko tinotarisa vanhuvanorwira kuchengetedzwa kwenyika. Kune vamwe vakati toda kuendesawo vedu ikoko, asi takati kwete. Zvikomo zvakazara munyika muno. Ngavatsvagewo chavo chikomo vavigane ikoko.

Icho!!!

But zvisinei, rest in peace, David Karimanzira. There is one more angel in heaven, and one more tear in my eye. And all the things that you stood for, like peace and democracy will never die! And eternal blessings upon your mother's eyes.

On Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor

2011-03-24T00:27:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Taylor died yesterday. I adored her. Her talent was unmistakable, her beauty incandescent (those eyes, those eyes) and she was so very much herself, totally unafraid to be herself, even as the world’s lens was trained on her life. Here are three wonderful quotes about her: one from her twice ex-husband Richard Burton, one from her son Michael Wilding, and one from the legend herself.

If there is a an after-world, I want to think she is laughing it up with the many good buddies that have gone before, among them Montgomery Clift, Michael Jackson, and of course, Richard Burton.

Go well, Liz. You are and always will be an absolute star!

____________

Richard Burton on Liz Taylor:

She was so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud. Her body was a true miracle of construction and the work of an engineer of genius. It needed nothing, except itself. It was true art, I thought, executed in terms of itself. It was smitten by its own passion. I used to think things like that.

She was unquestionably gorgeous. I can think of no other word to describe a combination of plentitude, frugality, abundance, tightness. She was lavish. She was a dark unyielding largesse. She was, in short, too bloody much.

___________

Liz Taylor on her most effective diet trick:

Certainly without a sense of humor I would never have used one of my most effective diet tricks. Someone told me that Debbie Reynolds kept a photograph of me taken during my fattest period on her refrigerator door. She said it reminded her of what could happen if she charged into the icebox. During the initial stage of my diet I thought, well, if it works for Debbie, maybe it will work for me. I stuck a picture of myself at my worst on the refrigerator, and every time I went into the kitchen, there was my corpulent self reminding me of what would happen if I broke my diet. That sight was an excellent deterrent to bingeing. If you think a picture of me as Miss Lard will inspire you, go ahead and put it on your refrigerator, I have no objection. Certainly there are enough photos for you to choose from. I didn't exactly skulk about in those days, and even if I had tried to avoid the press, they would have found me.

___________

Michael Wilding on his mother:

My Mother was an extraordinary woman who lived life to the fullest, with great passion, humor, and love. Though her loss is devastating to those of us who held her so close and so dear, we will always be inspired by her enduring contribution to our world. Her remarkable body of work in film, her ongoing success as a businesswoman, and her brave and relentless advocacy in the fight against HIV/AIDS, all make us all incredibly proud of what she accomplished. We know, quite simply, that the world is a better place for Mom having lived in it. Her legacy will never fade, her spirit will always be with us, and her love will live forever in our hearts.

______________

Richard Burton and Liz’s quotes come from the spectacular blog: peculiarbeauty.blogspot.com and Michael Wilding's is courtesy of the Huffington Post. The photo is from the Guardian.

In which I rouse the wrath of one Peter Moyo and irritate him with my "crass, trite and unauthentic" book

2011-03-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

I wrote a few weeks ago that I was doing a massive piece on education in Zimbabwe. I have completed the fieldwork potion of my project and am now writing the essay. I am immensely excited by this. The essay was commissioned by Writers Inc, a group that includes writers I love like Zadie Smith, Rachel Holmes and Hari Kunzru. They invited me to take any angle I chose and after grappling with different approaches, I was hit by a flash of inspiration: to write about my old schools, a then and now perspective, examining how they were when I was a pupil and how they are now, and asking the question, what would be the fate of a child like me, a child from a modest background, a child whose parents could not afford to spend a tonne of money on education, what is the fate of such a child in today's Zimbabwe?

Scrolling through my unmoderated comments last night, I came across one signed "Peter Moyo". Mr. Moyo is most definitely not a fan. He was particularly irritated by the education project, irritated without even knowing what I was writing about, and told me clearly that I was not qualified to write about education in Zimbabwe. Peter Moyo will be reassured to now that I am writing about how I was educated, unless of course he believes that I am not authorised, entitled or qualified to write about my own schools!

And as for my book, I am sorry indeed that Peter Moyo did not like it. On the bright side, you can't like everything. And you know, Peter Moyo, nothing stops you from writing your own "authentic" book on Zim that is not "crass" or "trite". And you see, I have not only posted your comment, I have devoted a whole blog post to it, so we can at least agree that I am not a "fraud".

And you will, no doubt, be cheered to know that I have been living in Harare for 7 months now, having moved back in September, no doubt this makes me more authentic!

And it is Dr. Gappah to you.

_____________________

"I am doing a massive piece on education in Zimbabwe"

Ms Gappah, given that you have been out of the country for several years and are not an educationalist by profession, can I ask what qualifies you to presume to know nearly enough about this complex subject to write an authoratative piece about it? Indeed, I ask because you seem to feel nowadays that you are an authority on just about everything.

I wonder whether you are "getting too big for your boots"? Just because you are a writer does not make you an expert an anything and everything. You seem to think you are. My advice: stick with what you know, which appears, at this stage, to be the law and Switzerland.

We Zimbabweans are not hoodwinked -everyone who lives here and has actually suffered the pain this government has inflicted on us over the past decade read right through your short story collection. You may buy sympathy with Europeans who don't know about Zimbabwe but think they do through your writing, but those of us who have experienced it (and of course living in tidy Switzerland means you are NOT one of us) realised right away that your stories were crass, trite and totally unauthentic.

So I suggest you do some soul searching before proclaiming you are the voice of this country - trust me, we all know you are NOT.

And of course, seeing as you reserve the right to "approve" all comments means that you will delete this remark without ever daring to post it on your blog. So much for democracy and freedom of speech. I dare you to post it - let people say I'm either right ot wrong! If you don't post it, I'll know for sure what a fraud you are.

In Japan, the sun will rise again

2011-03-14T22:50:00.000-07:00

My heart and thoughts are currently with all my friends in Japan, the people at my publishing house Shinshocha, the amazing journalists I talked to from Japan Broadcasting Corporation, all the trade government officials I worked with in Geneva, and the people of Japan. The sun will rise again. Because in Japan, the sun always rises.

The snail says, "Alas!" And the snail says, "Alack! Why must I carry my house on my back?"

2010-12-13T06:33:00.000-08:00

Like the regretful snail from one of my favourite poems as a child, I, too, say alas and alack. What with one thing and the other, I have not entirely been the blogger I should be. I apologise most profusely, I grovel before you all, particularly my peevish friend Edmund, whom I kept promising that I would update this blog.

I have not been blogging but I have been writing quite a bit. I had a comment published in the Guardian last week on the Wikileaks revelations about Morgan Tsvangirai, I wrote on Tendai Biti's budget for the South African Sunday Times, I am currently writing a review of Voice of America, EC Osondu's first book for the Observer, and of Shailja Patel's Migritude for the Africa Report. I am doing a massive piece on education in Zimbabwe as well as something on my current obsession, diamonds, diamonds on the inside, diamonds on the sole of my shoes, Lucy in the sky with diamonds, diamonds are a girl's etcetera, diamonds in Zimbabwe.

So my kittens, I may have been absent from this place, but I have kept faith with the world of letters.

Speaking of letters: the best thing that has happened to me in the last couple of months is that my son woke up one day and could read! Yes, he sits in a corner by himself and actually reads to himself. He even read to me a sentence from Maugham's Of Human Bondage. It is quite a miraculous thing ... one day, a printed page means nothing at all, the next, it opens up an entire world. If there is one thing I want for my son, it is to give him the tools to form what Maugham in Bondage calls "the most delightful habit in the world" Here is Maugham:

"{When Phillip Carey read} he could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading, he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment."

If, by the way, you have not read Of Human Bondage, that heart-stoppingly good doorstop of a novel, I have to ask you seriously: what are you waiting for? That is one of the pleasures of being on sabbatical: I am reading all the books that I promised myself I would read, but never did. Next, War and Peace!

The TWAG quote of the Week: Big Brother's Uti advises Zimbabwe on how to approach poverty, hunger and every other problem we have here

2010-11-09T00:57:00.000-08:00

So the entire world knows that Munya Chidzonga of Zim did not win Big Brother Africa All Stars and thus lost out on $200 000. The eventual winner was Uti Nwachukwu of Nigeria. To console Munya, and the very small number of DSTv-watching people who were disconsolate over his loss, a group of Zim businessmen got together to raise 300 000 dollars to give to him. He also met the President, and in fact, appears to be well on his way to being co-opted into the Party of Blood. When told about Munya's gift, the winner Uti said:

"If (Munya) actually got that money, I congratulate him and I pray that the people of Zimbabwe can use this same attitude to approach poverty, hunger and every other problem they have there. If they can give someone $300,000 for not winning a game then that means Zimbabwe should have no reason whatsoever to have people that are hungry, suffering or oppressed."

Uti, you have provided this week's TWAG quote of the week. We thank you!!!

In which, here on Hirchenplatz, all's right with the world

2010-10-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

I am sitting outside in the autumn sun, at a Mexican restaurant on Hirchenplatz in Zurich. I have had one margarita, one caipirinha, red snapper in mango sauce and Mexican rice. I have bummed a cigarette off the stunning blonde woman at the next table. I used to be a ten-a-day smoker, sending Everest fumes to the sky above the Law Faculty at the University of Zimbabwe, to the horror and consternation of the angry university gardeners who thought my smoking most unAfrican, most unwomanly. I am a social smoker now, smoking only when the moment feels right.

And this moment feels right.

A little girl with glorious russet brown hair falls on the cobblestones. She stands up and laughs at herself. The man right in front of me looks lost and English. The building behind him is bright yellow against the cerulean sky. It is unseasonal weather, everyone says.

I love Europe in the autumn.

A few moments ago, a band of kids came by, all Goth black and nose rings, full of energy and spirit. They are protesting antifeminismus with angry eloquence. My heart goes out to them and I take a flyer.

Two hours ago, I bought two beautiful Iranian kelims, worn and frayed, from two men who explained their history to me in elaborate terms. They spoke over each other, one in German, the other in English.

As I sit here smoking and taking in everything on Hirchenplatz, I think suddenly of Coleridge, Samuel Taylor Coleridge who reportedly composed part of Kubla Khan under the influence of opium, the poem going from him as soon as the opium did.

It seems to me very funny, that.

But it is Browning who comes to me next, Browning who stays with me as Pippa passes, because the lark may not be on the wing, or the snail on the thorn, God may not be in his heaven, but it seems to me that right now, right this minute, here on Hirchenplatz, all is right with the world.

Or maybe, just perhaps, it is the margarita talking.

The TWAG quote of the Week: an expert on magic speculates on Baby Kingsize’s sudden sex change

2010-10-22T05:31:00.000-07:00

Our TWAG quote of the week comes courtesy of one of the many men and women who claim to be experts in the supernatural. According to the Herald, a little baby called Kingsize, a rather ironic name, as you will discover if you stay with me, was born a boy at Marondera Hospital on January 22 this year, but mysteriously changed to a girl this last Thursday. In other parts of the world, such sex changes occur only after painful surgery and batches and batches of oestrogen hormones. Here in Zimbabwe, we do not need medical instruments of any kind! Or hormones for that matter! That, right there, kiddies, is our comparative advantage!

An expert from the Zimbabwe Traditional Medicine Practitioners’ Council, Sekuru Kennedy Kachuruka Mbewe, advised that the sex change could be reversed by prophets or traditional healers, but added that the magic can be left to wear off over time allowing the baby to return to being a boy.

The expert said further this was probably caused by the kind of magic used by sex workers to make the genitalia of non-paying clients disappear.

“The client would wake up the next morning to discover that his manhood has disappeared, but in actual fact it will be there. In Shona, we call it mushonga wekupofomadza [medication that makes one blind],” Mbewe said.

He speculated that poor baby Kingsize may have been put down on a bed which had been treated by the magic spell’s owner resulting in the child’s sex change.

“Such sex change magic is of foreign origin,” he added.

Well of course it is!

I am only surprised that the Herald did not take this chance to blame the British, after all, they are to blame for all else!

Only in Harare: five men on a dead horse, mattress-wielding Amazons, nude Greek statues and a giant advert for Givenchy perfume

2010-10-21T04:59:00.000-07:00

You, my dear blog readers, know how much I delight in the weird, wacky and downright loopy. Given my predilections in this regard, I find myself in exactly the right place in Harare. In my first week in Harare, I saw five men sitting on top of a dead horse in a truck on Enterprise Road. There was an explanation, there always is, but that arresting sight, five men, chattering nineteen to dozen, comfy as you please on this dead animal, stayed with me.

Outside Bays Linen Department store are these little Greek statues of Minerva and Aphrodite. They are, as Greek statues are required by statute to be, partially nude. Imagine my amusement when I walked past Bays a few days ago and heard two little kids, about 5 years speaking sternly to the statues and saying, ‘Imimi tinokumwai mukaka wenyu, tinoupedza wese.’ ‘We shall drink all your milk and finish it all.’ Heh.

Then there are the gangs of female rapists in Zimbabwe. These gangs have struck terror into the hearts of men, as they go about raping men. No one believed the victims at first because well, who would? The cartoon above, courtesy of my friend Edmund Kudzayi, is one man’s response to the news of female rapists. The whole thing seems barely plausible when you add little touches like the mattress: some of the women apparently go around equipped with a mattress. As my friend Ranga said, who will save Zimbabwe’s men from these mattress-wielding Amazons?

We may jest, but it seems this thing is real, there really are women who are going about forcing men to have sex with them. One of my taxi drivers told me that some of this is connected to wealth and success rituals. The most disturbing aspect is that some of the men are homeless and often mentally ill. Apparently, when it comes to secret rituals, the sperm of a mentally ill man is worth more than that of a sane one in Zimbabwe. Go figure.

On Borrowdale Road is a large billboard advertising Givenchy perfume. This, I must say, is among the most incongruous things that I have seen so far, but that is Harare for you, a surprise on every corner.

Cartoon: TheAfricanAristocrat

In which I become a returning resident, contemplate the upside of failure and look forward to writing history

2010-10-18T03:00:00.000-07:00

It is official, I have moved to Zimbabwe! I now have, as my son would say, a great big lolloping stamp in my passport that says “Returning Resident”. At immigration, when I declared my homecoming status, the immigration officer told me, “The thing with returning residents is that the CIO wants to have a word with you”. “Really?” I said, with all the eagerness of a puppy, “Where are they? Are you one of them?” He laughed, and perhaps overwhelmed by my enthusiastic curiosity to speak to the intelligence dudes, stamped my passport and let me go.

So here I am, and here I will remain for the next two years.

As I write this, I am supposed to be in Poland, at a festival, but a combination of factors meant that I had to change my ticket and return home a week earlier than anticipated. I hope to visit Poland next year, and by then, maybe I will have a Polish book deal.

What this effectively means is that my Stockholm gig, and what a gig it was, is the last event in which I promote An Elegy for Easterly. I love meeting readers, and talking to journos, who have by and large all been intelligent and interesting, but I must confess that I am heartily sick of talking about the book. I am simply longing to have two uninterrupted months in which I do nothing but write. Talking about the previous book, I have found, does not advance the cause of writing the next book.

Speaking of the next book, I am sorry to inform you, my dear readers, that The Book of Memory will not be published next year. Oh no, I hear you say. Why not? Because, dear readers, and this is putting it mildly, The Book of Memory was not very good. Never ever sell a book on the basis of a few chapters. I did not have the space, time or separateness that was necessary to producing the book that I wanted to. After I handed in my manuscript, my wonderful editor Lee at Faber had to ask me, with great kindness, if my heart was really in it, to which I admitted that actually I hated the damn thing and could not bear to work on it anymore. I had to confess to him that in the last year, even as I was enjoying public success, I lived every day with private failure. I felt that I was held hostage by this damn book that was blighting my life. We had a wonderful conversation, one that turned out to be a watershed moment for me and my relationship with him. I love him with every fibre of my being, because he gets me and what I want to do, he gets that I have set my own standard for myself which has little to do with external approbation. With his support, and the support of all my editors and publishers around the world, without a single exception, I have moved on to the next thing, the thing I have been obsessed with since I was 14, and the novel which I was writing and researching even as The Book of Memory was supposed to be preoccupying me. It was to have been my third book, but is now to be my second. So that is what I will be doing now, writing that book.

So I want here to say how happy and grateful I am to have all this support, and to salute my agents Claire and Rebecca who matched me with just the right people in each territory. So the next time someone starts bashing the evil publishers of the west who think only of the bottom line, and who only want a certain story from Africa, you will understand it I am sure, if I say that my experience has been exactly the opposite.

I have two more trips to make this year, to Zurich, to talk about development and exile and all sorts of interesting things, and to do a TED talk in London. If you miss me then, you will always find me here because I will always be here, blogging away. I also continue to write for the Zim edition of the SA Sunday Times and I am in talks with a couple of other papers. Zimbabwe is in an interesting place right now, and I feel really lucky to be here, watching history unfold and writing about it.

The TWAG Quote of the Week: the Prime Minister accuses the President of acting "nichodemously"

2010-10-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

So, this is what is happening in Zim. Mugabe keeps violating the unity agreement, and the MDC reacts the same way each time: with a statement. The President recently appointed new judges, ambassadors and governors without consulting the Prime Minister as he is supposed to do, and what did the PM do? He issued a strong statement! Really! A super-dooper extra-strong statement! He used Big Angry Words! War! Abhorrent! Disappointed! Disgust! Unacceptable! Nichodemously! Say what now? Nichodemously!

This word is not known outside Zimbabwe, or rather, outside the narrow world of the politics of Zimbabwe. It means to act furtively, and comes from Nicodemous, the Pharisee who went to Jesus by night to ask how a man could be born again - he went by night because he did not want his co-judges on the Sanhedrin to know that he was hanging out with the J-ster. So to act nicodemously or nichodemously, in this new incarnation, is to act furtively. The PM is so concerned about the President's "nicodemous" machinations that he used the word not once, but twice in his speech, providing us with this week's quote of the week.

To my utter surprise, and shall I say disgust, Mr Mugabe advised me onMonday that he had nichodemously reappointed the former governors in the same manner in which he appointed the previous governors on a Sunday when most of us where at church. I say "nichodemously" because those who are supposed to be served by these governors, the citizens of Zimbabwe knew nothing about it.

Incidentally, the entire speech, which you can read here, is completely devoid of substance. The PM needs to fire his advisers because it is a deeply, deeply embarrassing document. And what is most astonishing to me is that, according to a little well-placed bird that whispered in my ear, the Party was whooping it up at a party to celebrate this statement on Friday. Sigh.

In which the finest prose writer in the English language is mistaken for an Indian guy who cannot speak English

2010-09-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

My dear readers know of my ambivalent relationship with Sir Vidia Naipaul, Nobel Laureate, titan and living legend. On the one hand, there is A House for Mr Biswas, a novel almost without compare in contemporary literature. Miguel Street. The Suffrage of Elvira. The Mimic Men. The Enigma of Arrival. And there are those fine, penetrating essays. On the other hand ... well, on the other hand there is the other hand. I was amused and delighted by this account of an encounter with Sir Vidia, written by the South African writer Gillian Schutte and published on BookZa. I particularly loved this moment when her perplexed son asked her why Sir Vidia was just looking at them and not saying a single word.

"The conversation seems to be going well. I refill wine glasses and go to prepare the food. I lay out the array of curries and stainless steel plates. I like stainless steel plates … especially when eating tumeric soaked curry. Will they feel insulted? Well fuckit. You cannot expect the finest china and home cooked food when given a couple of hours notice.

Kai comes through to say he is tired. I take him to his bedroom to tuck him in.

‘Mom does the Indian guy not speak English?’ he asks.

“Kai, he is the foremost English prose writer of the western world … he speaks English alright.’ He looks perplexed. ‘Oh, I thought he could not understand what you guys are saying because he just sits and watches and he doesn’t talk."

Kai darling, after Kush, Tapiwa, RufaroTheGruffalo, Tamuda and that poor kid John Last in A Handful of Dust, you are now my absolutely favourite kid. If your parents ever tire of you, you know where to go.

The TWAG Quote of the Week: President Mugabe on the Madhuku Strategy of Survival

2010-09-28T02:07:00.000-07:00

Viewers, please do not adjust your sets. The fuzziness in this transmission is due to a technical fault at Pockets Hill. Any inconvenience caused is sincerely and deeply regretted, but not so sincerely or so deeply that we at ZBC are bothered to actually do anything other than issue this entirely meaningless apology.

Chenjerai Hove and Jonathan Shapiro aka Zapiro were among the members of a panel in Göteborg called "My Dictator and I." I was thoroughly amused by the title. In that great university of life, I have chosen to minor in dictator studies: I study dictators for fun. It is my mission to get to the bottom of what it is that makes our dictators so special to us even as they wreak havoc in our lives. After much study, I have distilled the appeal of the dictator to one quality: an essential cartoonishness, a zaniness fed by excess, a zaniness that very often springs from insanity.

Take our African Napoleon, Emperor Bokassa. His fondness for Berluti shoes. His title, Emperor of Central Africa. His declaration of himself as the 13th apostle of Jesus Christ. His more than 15 wives and busloads of children. Then there is the brotherly Leader -- my own Muammar, with his clothes and his Bedouin tent and his female bodyguards. And there is Jammeh of Gambia, placing healing hands on those with AIDS. I once spent an afternoon reading his website ... it was a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a deeply disturbed man who, by the way, just happens to run a country full of real people. Then there is Abacha taking debauchery and excess to such levels that his very death was coloured by talks of exotic Indian prostitutes. And of course, the last king of Scotland, Idi Amin Dada and his pet crocodiles.

From that perspective, the urbane and erudite President Mugabe is a deep disappointment. There is nothing essentially cartoonish about the man. Instead, you get a deep and fine intelligence and wit and boy, does he bring the funny. There was a report in the Guardian which began with the line"President Mugabe is not known for his sense of humour". Not known to the writer perhaps, but it is hard to listen to one of his speeches without cracking up.

No matter what your politics may be, the man is a riot.

He provides this week's TWAG Quote of the Week, this is an oldie, but it is so good that it is likely to win our end of year TWAG Quote of the Year. Here he is, having great fun with NCA Chairman Lovemore Madhuku. It may all be lost on you if you do not speak Shona. If you do, I am sure you will join me in this small moment of levity with my dictator and I.

And they all said, oh, well I never, was there ever, a sight so dazzling as the Africans in Gothenburg?

2010-09-26T00:34:00.000-07:00

You are supposed to sing the title of this blog post to the tune of Mr Mistoffeles. The Book Fair is over, and I have a life time of memories. I will be writing a much longer post in the next few days. But first. My book shelf came to life in the lobby of the Gothia Towers Hotel. I have read everyone of these lunatics, and there they were, lunaticking around in Gothenburg. If you do not know any of them, you need to make their acquaintance, stat. I have indicated their books in brackets, and no, I won't lend you my copies, get your own! From right: Yaba Badoe (True Murder, African Love Stories), Chenjerai Hove (Bones, Ancestors, Shadows, Shebeen Tales, Blind Moon Rising), Tolu Ogunlesi (published in several journals and a Caine anthology), Monica Arac de Nyeko(published in two Caine anthologies and African Love Stories), Doreen Baingana (Tropical Fish, African Love Stories) and Sefi Atta (Swallow, Lawless, Everything Good Will Come).

Yesterday morning I was on this dazzling panel with Kopano Matlwa, Ondjaki, Tolu Ogunlesi, Irene Sabatini and Biyi Bandele. Biyi Bandele. I was on a panel with Biyi Bandele. I have a huge crush on Biyi Bandele, I cannot stop writing his name. Biyi Bandele. Biyi Bandele. Biyi Bandele.

And I had lunch with my new best friend, the stunning Maaza Mengiste, the girl with the coolest hair and boots in town. She is the author of the novel Beneath the Lion's Gaze, which has been hugely successful. I also caught her on a stellar panel with Chris Abani, Sefi Atta, Shailja Patel, Brian James and the scandalous Scandalusian Miguel Gullinder. Heh. Chris Abani is cerebral and brilliant and erudite and very very funny. Much to Shailja's dismay, I made him my household god, a position I had previously promised Shailja. I may have to demote a household god to make room: it is a toss up between the French cobblers Christian Louboutin and Robert Clegerie, who, I am sad to say, have not impressed me with their last two collections. I ended the evening with a dinner with Nadine Gordimer and many other glitterati litterati but that I will write about when I have recovered.

The Göteborg Book Fair in (some, not many) pictures

2010-09-24T00:15:00.000-07:00

My gorgeous readers, I am in Eden, by way of Sweden, having a whale of a gas at the Göteborg Book fair. There are 70 writers from 36 African countries, joining a gazillion other Scandinavian writers. I have met the gang from Bonniers, my publisher. My publicist Anna is out of control, she has had me on my feet for two days straight. I have met the kindest man I have met in a long time, one of those people who shine goodness, the former Archbishop of Sweden, KG Hammar, with whom I had a wonderful talk yesterday. I met the lovely and talented Kopano Matlwa, Ngugi wa Thiong'o and Bjorn, yet another of his gorgeous sons (Mukoma, cough cough, is one hot hottie). Unity Dow is here, I met her first as a law student through the case of Unity Dow v. the Government of Botswana, then I met her again as the writer of the wonderful Screaming of the Innocents, and here she is in the flesh. Chenjerai Hove is here and is as wickedly mischievous as ever. Sefi Atta is tall and elegant and regal. Chris Abani is so incredibly funny. Helon Habila has the most amazing skin. Since I saw him last in Nairobi, Binyavanga's hair has become a rainbow of colour. Maissa Bey is ferocious in every good way. Irene Staunton from Weaver Press in Zim is here, but there are very few other publishers from Africa, I met the legendary Walter Bgoya from Tanzania and Firoze from Pambazuka, the gang from Codeseria, and got some beautiful books for Kush from Senegal. Veronique Tadjo is huge here, her brilliant Mammy Wata book is all over the show in Swedish. On Saturday, I will meet Nadine Gordimer and Nurrudin Farrar and Alexander McCall Smith. I am taking pictures like crazy, which means that you can enjoy a few of them while I recover:)

In which Mutasa, Chamisa and Mudenge compete for the "TWAG Quote of the Week"

2010-09-20T01:10:00.000-07:00

This week has been a wonderfully quotefull week. It is hard to find a winner as we have three horses in this race, all in superb form. Coming in strongly from the left is Didymus Mutasa, always a good man for a quote. Speaking of the elections which are likely to be held next year, the Minister for Presidential Affairs said “Who is Tsvangirayi? He will never rule this country. Never ever! He will only do so over our dead bodies. If we go to the polls and he defeats Mugabe, Zanu PF and the people of Zimbabwe will never allow that.”

These people of Zimbabwe who will never allow Tsvangirai to rule them are presumably not the same people of Zimbabwe who will have voted for him. Nice bit of logic there, Minister. Pressed by a journalist to explain further, Minister Mutasa said, “If you continue asking me about this issue, I will beat you up.”

Also out like a shot from the starting blocks is blog favourite Nelson Chamisa, this time with a brilliant riposte to Mutasa: “Who can trust this man who removed his shoes and almost removed his clothes for diesel to come out of rocks?”

Zing! And double ouch!

He is of course referring to this blog’s favourite person of all time, Rotina Mavhunga, the diesel n’anga before whom Mutasa and the cabinet knelt and clapped in 2007 in the belief that she could magic diesel out of a rock.

But look who it is, coming in at the canter. It is Stan Mudenge, Minister of Tertiary Education, the dark horse in this race. He addressed reports that students are being prevented from sitting exams at colleges and universities and said “Such a claim is playing fandango dance with the facts. It is based on a farrago of confusion which has created a phantasmagoria of images of dreamland on the minds of the public.”

So who will take this week's trophy? Will it be Mutasa or Chamisa or Mudenge? Chamisa takes an early lead but oh I don’t believe it! He takes a spill at the fourth bend and we are left now with Mutasa and Mudenge! Mutasa is going for it but it is Stan who seems the stronger, he is champing at the bit. The heavyweights are something else out here at Borrowdale Park. The crowds are on their feet. It looks like we are heading for a photo-finish. No we are not! Yes we are! No we are not. It’s Stan! Its Stan! Stan Mudenge takes it by a head!

In which I travel to Gothenberg, Geneva, Nairobi, London, Stockholm, Uppsala and Wroclaw

2010-09-17T09:33:00.000-07:00

The next four weeks are going to be incredibly busy. I will be one of the featured writers at the Gothenburg Book Fair in Sweden. I very much look forward to meeting my Swedish readers … Easterly has been a big hit in Sweden, and I can’t wait to meet my Swedish publishers, translator and readers. As always, I look forward to seeing all of Mugabe’s scattered orphans, so if you are a Zimbo in Sweden, or indeed in any of the places I mention here, do drop by.

After Sweden I will go to Geneva for two days, then to Nairobi for the second Hay Storymoja festival. I was at the first one last year - it was a smashing success. I look forward to going there again this year to support my friend Muthoni Garland, the force behind Storymoja. I will be in conversation with Michela Wrong. I will also get meet the brilliant and funny Jane Bussman among many others, and hang out with my girls Andrea, Shailja, Dayo and Doreen.

After Nairobi, I return to Zimbabwe for a week, then I am off to London where I will be in conversation with Peter Godwin on his book, The Fear: The Last Days of Robert Mugabe. Peter is, of course, the writer of the memoir Mukiwa, which I loved, and When the Crocodile Eats the Sun, which I did not like as much, so I am very much looking forward to meeting him and talking about his new book. If you caught Peter’s essay on Zim in Vanity Fair last year, you will have got a taste of The Fear.

After London I return to Sweden, this time to Stockholm, where I will read from The Book of Memory at the Literature House. I will also go to the Nordic Institute at Uppsala. I am extremely fond of the Nordic Institute as it has been a huge fan and supporter of Zimbabwean Literature.

After that, I am off to Poland, to a short story festival in Wroclaw. It is run by Milka Jankowska, whom I met this time last year at the Frank O’Connor festival. She was one of the judges of the Frank O’Connor award, and though I did not win it, I made many friends, including Milka, and I now am visiting a country that I have longed to visit. So that is my schedule. If you happen to be in Gothenberg, Geneva, Nairobi, London, Stockholm, Uppsala or Wroclaw, look out for me, and I will look out for you.

Kirby, Kirby, Kirby! And once more Kirby! Kirby Chipembere rocks! And rolls!

2010-09-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

I have just come from watching the amazing Kirby Chipembere as Joseph in the new version of Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat" currently showing at REPS Theatre. I am not at all ashamed to admit that I am a sucker for a musical, Joseph (and Cats too) being my favourites. So it was really fun to go to an all singing, all dancing, all Zimbabwean Joseph. Kirby was incredible. The Pharoah was totally hot. The brothers were a riot. There was this one dude who could do this thing where he walked and slid backwards on his lands, like a super fast human-sized snake with bendy arms. You have to see it to understand this! There were a few hiccups, a wardrobe malfunction here and there, a screeching sound system and dancers of whom you could say had eaten more than their fair share of Christmases. The whole thing though was fun and good-spirited. My favourite moment came when Joseph was hauled off to Egypt by the Ishmaelites, who drove him away in an Emergency Taxi labelled "Canaan Egypt Jerusalem Highfiled". Heh heh. That produced the biggest laugh of the night, Canaan, Egypt and Jerusalem are all sections of Highfield township here in Harare. I had a lot of fun with these names in one of my stories, The Maid from Lalapanzi. All in all, my one son and his three cousins, his one friend, my one sister and one brother-in-law, my two parents and our one friend all enjoyed ourselves immensely. Yes, I take a squad everywhere I go in Harare. What can I say, I am a daughter of the Karanga people, we travel in packs:) If you are in Harare, take your squad along, support Reps and marvel at the amazing Kirby. It ends with a gala night on 25 september, so hurry along now.

Launching the all new “TWAG Quote of the week” is Nelson Chamisa on half-time oranges

2010-09-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

I am introducing a new feature to this blog: the TWAG Quote of the Week. My inspiring and beloved countrymen, and especially my countrymen of the journalistic and political tendency, are gifted in coming up with memorable lines. First among equals is The Patriarch. On the day of his sister Sabina’s funeral in August, he amused me when he said his sister “was always a weakling” who had lost two-thirds of a her brain but still stood for parliament on a Zanu PF ticket. Heh. Also good for quotes is the MDC spokesman, Nelson Chamisa, who has the honour to inaugurate this new feature. Explaining why the MDC was looking beyond the unity government, Mr. Chamisa said “We should not be celebrating over the half-time oranges when there is still a trophy to be won.” Heh.

Image: Spudooli.com

On the dismaying addictiveness of Zanu PF’s jingles

2010-09-12T08:12:00.000-07:00

The publicists tasked with the uphill task of winning hearts and minds for Zanu PF are extremely fond of what they call “jingles” – histrionically patriotic songs about the wonders of Robert Mugabe and his party, with lots of dancing and fist-waving. The most annoying thing about the jingles is not that they are, as the MDC puts it, entirely partisan and therefore in flagrant violation of the global political agreement. It is not that they are praise songs for a man, and a party, that has destroyed a country. No, it is simply that the best of them are catchy and highly addictive.

In 2003, having returned from a visit to Zim, I found myself on the number 8 bus to work, humming the land reform jingle "Dai kuri kwedu machembere aipururudza mupururu. Zvino tawana ivhu, totopururudza mupururu." The latest jingles, about the necessity of Zanu PF rule, are pretty pedestrian. There is one particularly addictive football-themed jingle though, the video of which features the most unlikely figure ever to grace a football field, a big-bottomed woman with thighs of thunder and stretch marks from here to Chirundu, dressed in what looks to be her ten-year old son's ZimWarriors football kit, dancing as though she is auditioning to be the prolific Ignatius Chombo’s next wife. “Timu timu,” she sings, “Ndakusetera timu. Mombotongai makadaro, mombotongai makadaro.” Her gyrations are interspersed with pictures of Mugabe, John Nkomo and Joyce Mujuru.

In English, the song means something like “We have set the best team to run the country, just keep on ruling, team, just hang in there.” The singers of the latest jingles are from the Mbare Chimurenga Choir. Mbare is Harare’s oldest township, and possibly the most chaotic, with streets going without electricity for weeks, burst sewage, no water and other pleasant surprises. But according to these all singing, all dancing residents of Mbare, Mugabe and Co did such a brilliant job for them in the past that they want more of the same for all time. Because who needs clean water, functioning toilets and electricity. Mombotongai makadaro, chimbotongai makadaro. Huzzah!

Zimbabwe's police see red over the colour red

2010-09-10T01:45:00.000-07:00

There has been, in the last week, an intriguing advertising campaign in NewsDay. It encourages people to wear red today, the 10th of September. If you wear red, the ads promise, you may win spot prizes of $20 or be invited to "the most exclusive party in town". Turns out it is a campaign by Africom, a communications company. Now red is the colour of the MDC, the Movement for Democratic Change. The MDC turns eleven on Sunday. The adverts did not say who had placed them, making for a more intriguing campaign.

This has given our fine men and women in brown the jitters. According to today's Herald: "Police are on high alert today as they are suspicious of advertisements in the local media by a company, urging people to wear any red colour Said police spokesperson Superintendent Andrew Phiri yesterday: "While there are conflicting reports on the intentions of the advertisers, it is advised that members of the public be on their guard and should report to the nearest police station any suspicious or anti-social developments," he said.

MDC Home Affairs minister Theresa Makoni said recently that the police are doing a fine upstanding professional job. Yes, Minister.

Overheard at a Harare café: ‘I am the only person in Africa who does this.’

2010-09-08T05:16:00.000-07:00

At a Harare café the other day, I was intrigued to hear an extremely well-toned and well-groomed blonde woman say, with all the confidence of the only one in Africa who does this, ‘I am the only person in Africa who does this.’ She and her companion moved away before I could find out what this was, leaving me in great suspense. I must confess that I have been obsessing over this this a little. Africa is so big, so vast, so incredibly ginormous. And yet this lady is the only one in the whole continent who does this. What is this? Is she the only person in Africa who gives French pedicures to African poodles? The only person in Africa who eats her peas with honey, who has done it all her life, it makes the peas taste funny but it keeps them on the knife? The only person in Africa who does sudoku in a bath of vanilla milk and rose petals? The only person in Africa who eats her meals backwards, starting with dinner in the morning and ending with a nice continental breakfast in the evening? The only person in Africa who makes small scarves for bats? The possibilities, they are endless, and myself, I am curious.

Of stress and popping eyes, the Buddhist Centre in Harare and the most gorgeous man this side of Senegal

2010-09-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

I have been in Harare for three incident-packed days. Zim is maddeningly slow in many ways, but incredibly efficient in others - I have managed to see an ophtamologist, open a bank account and an account with an internet service provider. I have also seen my son off to school for his first couple of days, I have shaken my head at the highly-sexualized gyrations of the Mbare Chimurenga Choir, praising their president while dancing to the beat of their own oppression, and I caught a glimpse of Akon at the Meikles. He is just about the most gorgeous man this side of Senegal.

In the week of worry and stress that preceded my move, I had a recurring nightmare where my left eye popped out and plopped into my hand or onto the floor. I have been under enormous stress in the last month or so, moving and writing and trying to get things in place etc. I have been experiencing floaters and clouded vision in one eye. The less I slept, and the more I fretted, the worse it got. I had to ignore it as I had no time at all to consult a doctor. Then my friend David freaked me out by telling me that I was describing classic symptoms of the retina disconnecting from the eye. I looked up retina disengagement, and it is considered a medical emergency and can only be fixed through laser surgery.

Dreading my impending blindness, I arrived in Zim at 12am on Wednesday, and by 2pm I was in the consulting rooms of one of Zim’s leading eye specialists. He was not there, but I was reassured to learn that he could do laser surgery should it become necessary. His kind assistants referred me to another specialist, who looked into my eye, found all was as it should be, and recommended that I sleep more and worry less. And that I consider playing golf. Heh.

So now I am trying to do all the things I have to do without getting too run down. Most importantly, I am trying to get at least 6 hours sleep straight. And I plan to return to yoga. My friend Cheryl told me about two yoga places, one in Ballantyne Park, and another at the Buddhist Centre. When I was in high school, I became a Buddhist for all of three months ... it got terribly lonely after a while -- as my headmaster put it when I told him about my sudden conversion, 'You do realise, don't you Peteeenaaa, that you are probably the only Buddhist in Zimbabwe?' Heh. But how wrong you were, Father Berridge, how wrong. There is a Buddhist Centre in Harare!

I have come to understand that what I love about Zim, and what makes it such a fascinating place to live in and write about are its myriad contradictions. This, of course, is unappealing to those who have fixed ideas about 'Mugabe's Zimbabwe'. But if you are interested in Zim and its many contradictions, stick with me, I will be writing more in the coming months. In the meantime, thank you for stopping by, and if you are in Harare, drop me a line.

A message for Nel Ust Wyclef Jean, the disappointed aspiring president of Haiti

2010-08-21T03:37:00.000-07:00

So, this is what the universe has decreed. And by universe I mean the Haiti Electoral Council. You are not eligible to run for the presidency of Haiti because you have not fulfilled the mandatatory residency requirement. You did not live in Haiti for five continuous years prior to the election.

I know, I know, it is outrageous, isn't it? 'I don't agree with the decision', you said. I am not entirely sure what you disagree with. That the Council was wrong and you actually meet the requirement? Or that the mandatory residency requirement should not apply to you?

Still, no man, no cry.

If you are truly serious about this, you know what to do, that is, if you really want to run in five or so years' time. That's right. Live in Haiti for five continuous years.

No?

You won't do that?

I didn't think you would. Still, it was worth a shot.

Now, do go away. Work on another album. And make it good this time. Incidentally, I will never forgive you for ruining an otherwise perfectly good remake of 'We Are the World' with your theatrics. Talk about simultaneously milking it and chewing the scenery! Off you go then. Good bye and good luck!

Reading and loving "Sunflowers in Your Eyes"

2010-08-16T00:43:00.000-07:00

On my long flight from Harare to Geneva a week ago, I read three books: Anita Brookner's Hotel du Lac, VS Naipaul's In a Free State, and Sunflowers in Your Eyes, an anthology of poems by four Zimbabwean women. I picked these three for their slimness, they fit nicely in one hand, and they were engrossing for different reasons. I loved Hotel du Lac, and will now hunt down Anita Brookner's other novels. I absolutely hated In a Free State, I cannot believe that a book this bile-filled and cynical not only won the Booker, but has been hailed as a deep and meaningful reflection on the agonies of post-colonial Africa. I loathed it with every fibre of my being --- and yet I have deep respect for Naipaul and love his early work.

I also read the wonderful Sunflowers in Your Eyes, an anthology of poems by four Zimbabweans: Fungai Machirori, Ethel Kabwato, Blessing Musariri, and Joice Shereni. I especially loved Ethel's spare and haunting lyricism. With the publisher's permission, I hope to post my favourite poems from each of the four writers soon. It was more than a little jarring to read the anthology after the Naipaul, the contrast could not have been sharper: Naipaul, an outsider with very defined notions of what Africa is, contrasted with these four women who grapple with their sometimes ugly reality without cynicism or bitterness. Marvellous.

And the bonus was that I was handed the book by one of the poets: I had coffee in Harare with Fungai Machirori, a poet and public health fundi. She writes prose too, she has a blog on society and mores, and is not afraid to tackle delicate matters. Read it here. And in the meantime, hi thee to the Book Depository, where Sunflowers in Your Eyes is a snip at £5.49, with free worldwide delivery. I have, incidentally, become a little obsessed with the Book Depository's real time purchase tracker, where you can see what books are being purchased where. Click here. It is great fun, but be warned, it is highly addictive.

Matthew Norman on the woeful inadequacies of the Nuremberg trials

2010-08-11T23:47:00.000-07:00

I badly want to write on the Charles Taylor trial, particularly the ghastly event of last week, by which I mean the Naomi Campbell-induced interest of the global press. Unfortunately, Kush's father is on the Taylor defence team, and I feel uncomfortable about writing on it while he is involved. It is not that I am conflicted, because I absolutely am not, I just feel that it would be more appropriate, from his perspective, for me to write about the trial after his involvement with it is over. Caesar's wife and all that. And, no, the impressive Courtney Griffiths QC is not the man in question. One of my favourite comments on the trial came from a Guardian below the line commentator who wrote: my dream now is to see Tony Blair in the Hague with Courtney Griffiths prosecuting. Heh. Here is some great writing from Matthew Norman at The Independent, who, in any event, says what I would have said better than I could.

_______________

Looking down the years from this vertiginous height, the war crimes trial you feel sorry for is Nuremberg. No doubt it thought it made quite a splash, what with the convictions of 19 of the 22 Nazi defendants. With the benefit of freshly minted hindsight, however, its flaws become painfully apparent.

Marlene Dietrich may have appeared in that timelessly magnificent 1961 film Judgment At Nuremberg, but neither she nor any major female celeb gave evidence at the trial itself. Not Leni Riefenstahl, not the Andrews Sisters, not even, God help us, the Mitford sisters.

... The oversight cruelly denied Alvar Lidell the chance to intone: "This is the home service of the BBC, and here is the news. In Nuremberg today, Diana Mitford told the court that she assumed the large diamond Herr Hitler gave her, during a visit to the Bertesgarten in 1936, was zirconium. She further insisted that the pearl earrings she received from Hermann Göring during that same visit 'looked like the most frightful tat that might have fallen out of a Christmas cracker, so I gave them to Frau Boormann'.

"Mrs Mitford's evidence was later contradicted by Betty Grable. Having remonstrated with the court for delaying the completion of her new musical motion picture, Mother Wore Tights, Miss Grable claimed that she overheard Mrs Mitford telling Eva Braun that the earrings were 'perfectly exquisite', and that she planned to wear them to His Majesty the King's dinner dance, Adolf's Other Ball, to be held in the Royal Albert Hall shortly after her return from Germany. In other news..."

What did they know about how to stage a decent war crimes trial back then? We shouldn't be too harsh on Shawcross and his colleagues if they naïvely assumed public attention could be held by nothing more captivating than the intimate details of industrialised genocide. Who knows, in the banal world of 1945 perhaps it was. In these enlightened times, no horror that unfolds beyond our borders - avoidable malarial deaths in the developing world, the trafficking of human beings, or malevolent acts of God - has profound meaning and the power to affect until sprinkled with the magic dust of fame.

Read the rest here.

"Who killed Captain Alex?" The funniest trailer you will ever see.

2010-08-11T01:17:00.000-07:00

I almost bust something laughing at this. This is the trailer of a film called "Who Killed Captain Alex?" Everyone seems to die pretty gruesomely in this "best of the best movies ... now on sale" in Uganda. If you happen to be in Uganda, please send this DVD to me asap. I will love you forever.

_______________

In defence of reason ... and Reason Wafawarova

2010-08-11T00:43:00.000-07:00

Here is part of an essay I wrote a long time ago for the Zimbabwe Times. The Zimbabwe Times seems to have unaccountably disappeared into the ether, but this article survived because its subject, Zimcommentator Reason Wafawarova, posted it to his blog.

_________________

I do not support the deportation of Reason Wafawarova from Australia. I have not supported this in the past, nor will I do so in the future. All I know of Mr. Wafawarova is that he uses his prodigious energies to write impassioned columns in support of Zanu-PF. The most attention I have paid him is, in the one sentence quoted by the Zimbabwe Metro, to mock his views. I disagree with almost all of what he writes. I will say it again – I believe that anti-Western rants from one who is not loath to take advantage of the freedoms and comforts of a Western nation are rank hypocrisy.

This does not, however, mean that I want the man gagged, bound or deported.

That he may be a hypocrite may be a reason to make fun of him, but it is no reason to deport him from a country where he has committed no offence beyond that of having, in my naturally subjective view, the bad taste and poor judgement to support Zanu-PF. To call for his deportation is to say that he has no right to speak his mind.

Everyone has that right, MDC supporters and Zanu-PF supporters alike. If MDC supporters have a right to debate, to criticise, to mock, to offend and to speak their minds about Reason Wafawarova then he has the exact same rights to debate them, to criticise them, to mock and offend them and to speak his mind in support of the political party of his choice. Caesar Zvayi has that right. Peter Mavhunga has that right. Even George Charamba and Jonathan Moyo have that right too.

We would do well to remember the words of John Stuart Mill that “there ought to exist the fullest liberty of professing and discussing, as a matter of ethical conviction, any doctrine, however immoral it might be considered.” This is the ultimate paradox – that the enemies of freedom must, as a matter of conviction, be given the very freedoms that they wish to curtail. Voltaire put it this way: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

This is painful for those with strong views – the instinctive response when someone says what we do not want to hear is to shut them up. This is particularly painful given how polarised we have become in Zimbabwe. But there can be no compromise on this. There can be no other way. Freedom of expression cannot be only for those we agree with.

We can criticise our opponents, we can debate them, we can mock them – all this we can do without shutting them up. To do otherwise is to take on the attributes of the monster we say we are fighting. Zanu-PF has made its name synonymous with the banning of newspapers, the bombing of newspaper offices, the arresting of journalists and the stifling of freedom of expression. Those who oppose this tyranny must ask themselves: Are these to be our methods too? Freedom of expression must be for all or for none at all.

Three Days in Harare: A Very Bad Poem

2010-08-04T15:05:00.000-07:00

Power cuts and deadlines,

Sushi at Amanzi.

ZOL Hotspots with

Flickering wireless.

'Go to hell, go to hell.'

Dirty, dirty dollar bills.

Anger over dog-eating

Chinese man.

Chilly nights, freezing floors.

Blue flea-market

Stompies on my feet.

Newsday, Newsday,

'Tsvangirai Attacked'.

'Go to hell, go to hell'.

'Gloves off in MDC-M'

'Go to hell, got to hell'

Sweets for change,

Coupons for change.

Filth-encrusted dollar bills.

'I won't apologise to Mugabe'

'Go to hell, go to hell'.

Gone fishin' ... back in August

2010-07-19T00:31:00.000-07:00

I had a stunningly intelligent dream last night, even if I do say so myself. The Minister of Justice, Patrick Chinamasa came to tell me that I would not be allowed to represent a client before Zimbabwe's Supreme Court because I had a conflict of interest. I was outraged, outraged, I was. What about my client's right to the legal representation of his choice, I said. Chinamasa said I was conflicted because I had written critically on land reform for the Sunday Times. But that's rubbish, I retorted. (See how I retort in my dreams?) You can't ask me to renounce agency simply because I have expressed an opinion on the matter I am now handling. More to the point, I yelled, what about the judges? Aren't they conflicted? Isn't their conflict more troubling? They all have farms, how can that not be a conflict of interest when they are ruling on land issues? Then we were in court and the judges were chanting out out out in their black gowns and white wigs and pointing at me and I was pointing back saying, recuse yourselves, recuse yourselves, you all have farms, you all have farms! Heh. Heh.

Then I woke up to today, Monday, the first day of my last week at work. No wonder I have Zimbabwe on my mind. I am moving there next week, leaving my job. Yes indeed. This is my last week at work before I leave Geneva for two years in which I will based in Zim. I am getting all verklempft at the thought, but I am also excited as you can imagine. I have been doing my current job for 8 years, before that I was at the WTO for 3 years, and before that I lived in England and Austria so I have lived in Europe for 15 years, including the most formative years of my life as an adult. I have been formed here, burned and burnished here. Of course, a lot came with me from Zim, I was 23 when I moved to Europe, but the real stuff, the working it out stuff the getting to know myself stuff, all happened here.

I will be reflecting further on Geneva next month. Right now, I am signing off ... I need to clear my desk, I need to work, I need to write, I need to pack. I will be back in Geneva in early August, working on that pestilential novel that is now the bane of my life, and I will tell you more then about my plans. Till then, enjoy the summer/winter or whatever you call it in your part of the world.

Image of the stunning sunset on Lake Kariba from GameReserve.Com.

Twenty things I loved about the World Cup

2010-07-12T13:39:00.000-07:00

Here are some of the things I loved most about the World Cup. I could go on and on, but this is it for now. Oh I miss the World Cup.

1. Spain's joy at winning. I stopped supporting the Dutch at half-time -- I wanted them to win, but really, not to win that ugly. Johan Cruyff spoke for all of us Dutch fans when he said, "It hurts me that Holland chose an ugly path to aim for the title." That team slogan, "never mind the Big Five: beware the Dutch Eleven" became not such a cute joke. I loved the joy in the Spanish camp. And the cute moment above, when an overwhelmed Casillas kissed his reporter girlfriend in mid-interview. Aww.

2. Watching the World Cup with my son Kush… he is six and it is his first World Cup. He was supporting Switzerland because we live here, Brazil and Ghana because, as he said, “they have lots of brown players like me”, France because he speaks French, Italy because his friends Niklas and Marina are half-Italian, Deutschland because his friends Luka-Selim and Nicola are German, England because his friend Imani is half-English and the Netherlands because his dad lives there and our family colour is orange. (It is true! We are an orange family and we are not even royal!) And where he was neutral, and I asked who he was supporting, he answered “Both of them”. Now that’s the way to enjoy the World Cup.

3. Ghana. I am so very happy for Ghana, despite the heartache. They will make more noise in Brazil. 2014 cannot come soon enough.

4. South Africa. What absolute stars! Can we ditch that gunk about Africa, Africa pride of Africa? This was South Africa's triumph, and they deserve every accolade. That Green Point stadium in Cape Town is just stunning. And even the vuvuzelas became bearable after a while! Next stop, Olympics.

5. Panini stickers. Thanks to these stickers, Kush was able to recognise a lot of the players. Mummy, that's Maxi Pereira, he said as Uruguay played Ghana! And it was! Mummy, it's Miroslav Klose, he said. And again, it was!

6. Talking about the World Cup with Breyten Breytenbach, Mark Gevisser and Njabulo Ndebele at Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

7. The World Cup led to my first commission from the venerable Financial Times. I wrote on the link between football, dual citizenship and the African diaspora. It all made sense to me at the time.

8. Watching France play in France and watching Algeria play with Algerians.

9. Diego Maradona.

10. Any time Diego Maradona stood up, jumped up or waved his arms around.

11. Diego Maradona kissing his players.

12. Diego Maradona dismissing the suggestions of homoerotic feelings towards his players. "I like women. I have a girlfriend. Her name is Veronica". Please, Argentina, don't fire him.

13. Marina Hyde, Scott Murray and everyone at the Guardian for their awesome commentary.

14. Switzerland! I am telling you right here, right now, and you read it here first: they will be the Germany of 2014. They have some youngsters coming up who are really promising. And I loved this great comment on Swiss TV last night: So Switzerland is the only team to have beaten the world champions! Hee!

15. The North Koreans. Awww!

16. The Germans. What a team.

17. Jogi Low and his coaching crew… so very metrosexy and yet so very German.

18. Giovanni van Bronckhurst and that awesome goal. Then there is that awesome name: Giovanni van Bronckhurst.

19. The curse of the Nike ad --everyone of the big stars that starred in it got knocked out early. It even extended to poor Federer who was in it ... he got knocked out early at Wimbledon.

20. Paul the Wonder Octopus. How much must William Hill hate that creature? Hee!

Pass the Dutchie on the left hand side!

2010-07-07T23:26:00.000-07:00

My sisters, brothers and I loved this song. We had a book in which we wrote song lyrics, and boy, did this song vex us. Even more than the first line of Temptation by Wet Wet Wet. We had no idea what they were saying, so we made it up as we went along. Enjoy.

Never mind the Big Five - Beware the Dutch Eleven!

2010-07-06T13:26:00.000-07:00

And that my friends, is just about right. Quietly, efficiently, and without fancy flounces and flourishes and fanfare, one of my four favoured teams has made it to the World Cup final! This is a family blog and some of my best friends are Uruguayan, but this I must say: suck it Uruguay!! Here is a short message for Luis Alberto Suarez: God, whom you invoked in your infamous triumph against Ghana, appears to love the Dutch a tad more than you:) Hee! I must say, the best moment of the night came when my son Kush, all of six and enjoying his first World Cup, said, in great excitement, Mummy look, look, its Maxi Pereira! And it was! Yes, we shall make a football addict of him yet. Give me the boy until he is seven, said the Jesuits, and I will give you the man. I say give me the Kushman at six, and I will give you a lifelong fanatic of the most beautiful of games!! In the meantime, handei Madzibaba Robben, handei Madzibaba van Bronkhorst, handei Madzibaba Sneijder. Go flying Dutchmen! In the words of their team slogan: never mind the Big Five - beware the Dutch Eleven!

On the death of Beryl Bainbridge

2010-07-04T10:17:00.000-07:00

I learned today that Beryl Bainbridge died on Friday. This is one of those freak coincidences, on that day, I gave a friend who was over for a visit one of my favourite Bainbridges, Master Georgie, the masterful Crimean War novel that was shortlisted for the Booker in 1998. I am sorry to say the book made him highly anti-social as he could not put it down until he finished it.

As a reader, I loved Bainbridge's wit and great plotting, as a writer I am in awe of her attention to structure, an attention that never results in showiness. I loved Every Man For Himself, and I could not get over The Birthday Boys, which is probably my favourite of hers as it deals with the great Scott-Amundsen race to the Pole ... I developed a passion for Captain Scott in childhood, you see. I know Master Georgie best of her novels because I am currently writing a "slow reveal" novel like that, and I have been studying it to see how she does it.

Here are the first lines of the novel:

I was twelve years old the first time Master Georgie ordered me to stand stock still and not blink. My head was on a level with the pillow and he had me rest my hand on Mr. Hardy's shoulder: a finger-tip chill struck through the cloth of his white cotton shirt. It was a Saturday, the feast of the Assumption, and to stop my eyelids from fluttering, I pretended God would strike me blind if I let them, which is how I ended up looking so startled. Mr. Hardy didn't have to be told to keep still because he was dead.

She also sounds like she was great fun. Here is her friend Paul Bailey writing in the Guardian: "Her capacious sense of the ridiculous encompassed her own failings and misdemeanours, as when she mistook the Queen for Vera Lynn (both ladies were dressed in blue) at a Royal Academy reception. "Isn't this a boring party?" she asked the startled monarch, before being rapidly ushered out of the royal presence."

Hee!

My admiration for her shot up when I read somewhere that when she started a novel, she did not stop writing until she had finished it, and that she would often put in three or so months of non-stop round the clock writing to produce a complete first draft. This is confirmed in her Guardian obituary - Janet Watts writes: "Her discipline as a writer was intense. Each novel emerged from a few months in which she wrote through the nights, smoked a lot, slept and ate little. She constantly read aloud what she had produced, to get "the music of the prose" right, and in an alchemical process of cutting and perfecting, she would distil every dozen or so draft pages into one sheet without a single wasted word. The books that survived this surgery were short. In case anyone called them slight, she would quote Voltaire's apology when he wrote a long letter: "I didn't have time to make it shorter.""

Hee!

Her discipline, of course, explains her considerable output of 18 novels, 2 story collections and several essays. She will be missed, but happily for her many current fans, and for new ones, through her work, she is still very much with us.

I have no words for this image: well, I have some words, but not many

2010-07-03T00:35:00.000-07:00

Apologies to AELTEC/ Pro Sport whose copyrighted photo above I have pinched from the Wimbledon website. I had to share this. This is one of the most moving images I have seen in a very long time. This is why I love sport.

Image: AELTEC/Pro Sport

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

2010-06-29T10:31:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

Well said.

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

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

2010-06-28T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

2010-06-28T00:26:00.000-07:00

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

Photo from Life.

On the Shakespeare and Company literary festival in Paris

2010-06-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-06-23T07:10:00.001-07:00

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

Doris Lessing on reading Anna Karenin in Zimbabwe

2010-06-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

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

_______________

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

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

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

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

"It is about Russia," says the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to open a panel, South African style

2010-06-21T00:03:00.001-07:00

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

In Paris, at the Shakespeare and Company Festival

2010-06-17T23:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

2010-06-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

2010-06-15T00:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

2010-06-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

On two new memoirs of Zimbabwe and John Simpson

2010-06-12T09:35:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

Enjoy!

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

2010-06-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

__________

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

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

‘What is it, Mother?’ Tambudzai asked.

‘Wake up, we are leaving.’

‘Where are we going in this dark night?’

‘Just follow me, you hear?’

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

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

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

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

‘Which uncle?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-06-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

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

Taking a break ...

2010-05-18T04:29:00.001-07:00

A quick message to say that I am taking a break from this blog for some time. I may start blogging again sometime in June, and until then, be good.

On my favourite European country

2010-05-16T01:29:00.001-07:00

I have just come back from a long weekend in Holland. For a long time now, The Netherlands has been in pole position to be my favourite European country. What's not to like? It is one of the greenest countries in the world. The men are extremely easy on the eye ... they are gorgeous and fit from all that cycling and swimming. And the women are not bad either:) On a serious note, not that that wasn't also a serious note, the Dutch are some of the most pleasant people I have come across. I go there a lot with Kush, and it always strikes me how much they like kids. And the country is flatter than a pancake squashed by a bulldozer into the size of a postage stamp, but how lovely is it?

Amsterdam is an edgy city that feels like a city without being overwhelming. Den Haag is laid back, surprisingly so considering that it is the "world city of justice". Everything is close to everything else, in one day, you can have breakfast in Amsterdam, coffee in Haarlem, lunch in Delft, dessert in Leiden, tea in Den Haag, dinner in Rotterdam and a midnight snack back in Amsterdam. The architecture is perfect for the country. The people are outward looking ... it always strikes me that such a small country managed to influence the course of history in Africa and Asia. Even now, long after the glory days of the Dutch East India Company, the Dutch punch way above their weight in international relations, and are generous in their development aid. The Dutch government is a big funder of the organisation that I work for in Geneva, and I particularly love the agency Hivos which funds arts and culture projects in developing countries.

Then there is the art ... I have written before of my love for the artists of the Dutch golden age. I am therefore really happy because I have been offered an incredible opportunity to spend two months in Amsterdam next year, going through all the museums in Amsterdam and beyond and tracing and writing about the presence of Africa and Asia in the work of the artists of the golden age. So I get to spend time in Holland, and I get to write about art. How cool is that??

Image originally published here.

On the death of Stanley Ruzvidzo Mupfudza

2010-05-10T10:34:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Go well Stannie.

Fear no more the heat of the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages,

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and taken thy wages.

For the love of all that is good and beautiful, make it stop, please make it stop!

2010-05-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

The Obama comparisons were inevitable in the campaign leading to today's UK election. David Cameron is the British Obama. No, it is Nick Clegg who is the Britbama. And now this. Please make it stop.

In which I find myself happily and gloriously in agreement with the Zimbabwe Herald

2010-05-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

It is rare that I find myself nodding vigorously as I read a Herald editorial. I came across a recent editorial, dated 7 April 2010, in which the Herald, if you will believe it, took a compassionate and humane line on a fundamental issue of human rights, and said it might be time for Zimbabwe to reconsider the death penalty. I am delighted by this little glimpse of what the Herald could become. Here, in part, is what it had to say:

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Zimbabwe must now rethink the death penalty, and be ready to move from the informal moratorium now in place to abolition, replacing this ultimate sentence with life imprisonment, without possibility of release.

There are only two arguments for retaining the death penalty: as a deterrent to would-be killers and traitors, and as retribution by society on those who commit the ultimate crime

The first argument can now be addressed by fact. The informal moratorium on executions has seen no rise in murder rates. This fits in with experience in other countries. What is a deterrent for murder is the near certainty of being arrested and convicted, followed by a very harsh sentence. The homicide units of the Zimbabwe Republic Police have an enviable record of solving murders. Teams of detectives work round the clock to hunt down a killer and almost always succeed. There have been only a handful, literally, of unsolved murders since independence.

The evidence is pretty conclusive that life imprisonment would be an adequate deterrent backed by the same magnificent police work.

We acknowledge that South Africa still has a high murder rate but it had a high murder rate when the death penalty was still in force there and that murder rate appears to have more to do with poor arrest rates than the abolition of the death penalty. The fact that no death penalties have been executed for treason or for very serious security crimes where there has been no murder suggests that these crimes do not need this ultimate deterrent.

The second argument, that those who kill others deliberately have forfeited their right to life, has always been weaker. It reduces us, the people of Zimbabwe, to the level of the killers, that a death can solve a problem and that some people deserve to die. We must rise above such base feelings.

We concur that the sort of people as have been hanged or sentenced to death since independence have forfeited their right to belong to society. But life imprisonment would be adequate to accomplish that goal.

Arguments put forward in a recent constitutional appeal, that jail is not very comfortable do not hold water. Lifers should not get special treatment in our view. We acknowledge that the death penalty still has its supporters. But more and more countries around the world are abolishing this sentence and Zimbabwe should join them. It has been shown to be an unnecessary cruelty that we can rise above.

For the full editorial, click here

On the Harare International Festival of the Arts

2010-04-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

Oh to be in Harare. Every year at this time, I long to be home so that I can attend the phenomenal Harare International Festival of the Arts. As my friend Roger will agree, there really is only one word to describe it: awesome. From opera and classical music to ragga and museve, HIFA offers something to all music lovers, and from ballet to street dance, it offers something to dance lovers too, then there are the theatre and the spoken word events, and the workshops, all creating a really buzzy and happy atmosphere. I mean, look at that picture! This year, the opening act was Orff's Camina Burana, produced by La Fura dels Baus, the Spanish company that also produced the opening ceremony of the Barcelona Olympics, in Harare, they worked with more than a hundred local singers and dancers. I am also really sorry I missed Kupenga KwaHamlet (The Madness of Hamlet), a Shona Hamlet in which two actors play all the principal parts. It sounds awesome!

And, and, and, oh and ... oh, this is awesome! Salif Keita is there! Right now! In Harare! Salif Keita! Probably playing one of my favourite songs of all time, Africa. I love this song so much that I once leapt onto the stage at the Montreaux Jazz festival and danced along with his dancers, a most hilarious spectacle, I assure you, because I cannot dance to save my son's life. If you are not in Harare, treat yourself by clicking below, and enjoy one of the best songs ever written and performed by one of the greatest musicians of all time. Awesome!

Photo: from the awesome HIFA website.

Twenty one highlights of my visit to Los Angeles

2010-04-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

Here in no particular order, is what I loved about my recent trip to Los Angeles.

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1. The generosity of the LA Times: There were only eight winners, one in each category, but all writers of the 52 books nominated were honoured in a wonderful way. As Dave Eggers said when he received his award, bless the LA Times for its belief in books and in reading and for using its power for good.

2. The LA Times Festival of Books. I have never seen anything like it. 2 days. More than 500 writers. 140 000 visitors. Yep, that's 140 000 visitors, all buying books and engaging with writers. That's over 500 writers.

3. Hanging out with my girl Lisa and driving around LA in the sunshine. Venice Beach! Santa Monica! Bel Air! The Palisades!

4.Yann Martel. He talked about his books, his life, and his hilarious project of sending Canadian premier Stephen Harper a free book every month or so. I loved him. His intelligence and shining kindness. His engagement and his interest in his readers. When I grow up, I want to be Yann Martel.

5. An unforgettable two hours at the Getty, feasting on Da Vinci and Rustici, Goya and Gainsborough, Renoir and Cezanne, Turner and Sargent, Millais and Munch, Degas and Monet, Rubens and van Dyck. And my masters, my Dutch Masters, Brueghel and Steen and Franz Hals and Ferdinand Bol and Rembrandt. (I am insanely in love with the 17th century Dutch painters ... one day, when I have recovered, I will write about the disorienting shock I felt on coming face to face with Rembrandt's Nachtwacht in Amsterdam).

6. Graham Farmelo who gave the best and funniest acceptance speech ever when he won for his book The Strangest Man, a biography of the British quantum physicist Paul Dirac.

7. Hanging out with some super cool writers: Philipp Meyer who deservedly won in our category, Paul Harding, the freshly-minted Pulitzer winner who is as nice as they come, Attica Locke, a super sister doing her super thing with crime fiction, Amy Akon, the stylish lady of manners who wears evening wear as day wear and Lisa Fugard who tried to recuit me to do a panel with Ngugi for which I was too chicken!

8. Laying my hands on Ngugi's memoir.

9. The Unexpected Pleasures of Jet-leg Part I: hanging out in the hotel lounge with Aussie writer Christos Tsiolkas. If you haven't already, please do read his award-winning novel The Slap.

10. My panel chair, Alex Espinoza, and fellow panellists Marilyn Chin, Leonard Chang and Chitra Divakaruni who were totally on fire and made an hour seem like a very fun and fast five minutes.

11. The incredible David Shannon who designed the poster for the festival and whose children's book are wonderful splashes of imagination.

12. Sarah Silverman talking about her new book, Bedwetter. She is fiercely funny. Asked why she was fired from Saturday Night Live she said, "You know, I went back the other day and looked at the work I was doing and the reason they fired me is probably that I was crap at my job." Hee. She has this great idea that we should all support: sell the Vatican and feed the world. As she said, "What would Jesus do?" Well, she thought, the same Jesus who chased out the money changers from the temple would definitely be aghast at the wealth of the Vatican. Double hee.

13. The team at my hotel, these gorgeous bell hops and waitrons who are also music and art students. Their very California wake-up call: "Good day this is your wake up call. The team at the Hotel Angeleno wish you a day filled with joy."

14. The booming voice at LAX airport, a sobering reminder that America is a nation at war: "ATTENTION ARMED SERVICE PERSONNEL. Then some bla bla about a free bar with internet where they can relax with family members, followed by: THE NATION THANKS YOU AND SALUTES YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE." Then the national anthem plays and everyone stands at attention. Not.

15. The Unexpected Pleasures of Jet-lag Part II. Watching HBO at 3 in the morning, and catching Al Pacino's seven forehead wrinkles give the performance of their life in "You Don't Know Jack", the story of Jack "Dr Death" Kervokian. Mr. Pacino reminded me of someone and it was really bugging me that I couldn't remember who it was, then on my flight back, I read a People magazine in which the movie was previewed and the writer talked about Al Pacino looking like "Woody Allen in need of a good meal", and I was like bingo!

16. Pam Grier talking about her new book and her life in the movies and the day she and then boyfriend Richard Pryor put a sick horse in the backseat of her convertible and drove the poor thing on the freeway to the vet ... "And all people could see where these two black people with a horse in the back seat of the car," said Pam. She had some great stories about being offered the role of Jackie Brown by Quentin Tarantino and about falling off a stallion in Rome and landing at the feet of Federico Fellini. What a star!

17. The food. Brioche French toast with maple syrup and bacon. Fluffy blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and sausages. Spicy California rolls. Spicy tuna rolls. Blue cheese hamburgers. Carrot cake with icing. I feel hungry just writing this.

18. The Unexpected Pleasures of Jet-lag Part III. Six, that's six, back to back episodes of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I don't watch TV regularly, you see, so this was a real treat. If I was into cars, which I am not, I would say the Law and Order franchise is like a series of elegant Jaguars, while the entire CSI franchise is like those yellow Lamborghini cars with the doors that open up, and you think, well it does what it says on the box, but why is the freaking door opening up? And who buys a yellow car??

19. Booths, booths and more booths. The book festival really was a microcosm of America in all its lunatic diversity. From this booth, the Communist Party of America promises revolution. From that one, Jews for Jesus offer salvation. Over there, the Scientologists promise some kind of space travel. Just two hundred metres away is a cheeky riposte to the Scientologists: a booth dedicated to the "Fiction of L. Ron Hubbard". Oh snap! And if material and not spiritual comfort is what you wanted, there was more than enough book-related stuff to buy. I fell in love with a little outfit called Little Bookwormz that makes t-shirts "for the cultured kid". See their wares here.

20. How fitting was it that I bought my copy of the latest issue of Granta, the Sex issue, in LA?

21. The Unexpected Pleasures of Jet-lag, Part IV. American adverts for health products. My goodness, President Obama was right to make healthcare an absolute first term priority! You know how Nicholas I of Russia described the Ottoman empire as the Sick Man of Europe? He hadn't been to America, which clearly has the sickest men and women of all time. Every other advert is for one drug or another. And they all seem to have side effects like heartburn and dizziness and diarrhoea and constipation and nausea and one even had this side effect :"it can lead to thoughts of suicide". Man, if that is the cure, I would sure hate to have the disease! And is nothing sacred any more? "I like to do all sorts of things with my friends," chirped one chirpy lassie, "Even on an over-active bladder. So I take care with Vesicare". Okaaaayyy!!! You go girl, with your over-active bladder, you!

Yann Martel and Dave Eggers signing books in Los Angeles

2010-04-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

I am back from the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I have lots to tell you about the festival and awards ceremony, but I need to write it first and it is going to be a long one ... In the meantime, enjoy this great picture of Yann Martel and Dave Eggers sitting back to back and signing their books for readers.

Los Angeles, here I come!

2010-04-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

I am off to Los Angeles tomorrow, for the LA Times Book Awards ceremony and the LA Times Festival of Books. I will report all on my return next Tuesday. I am so looking forward to this ... I have never been to LA before, and the programme looks amazing. Most of all, I am looking forward to hanging with my girl Lisa who has hired a convertible for us to swing in some serious style. We'll be like Thelma and Louise, only in LA and not headed towards Mexico. And there will be no driving off cliffs at the end. And the speakers will be blaring California Love, the anthem of my misspent youth. Shake it baby.

Introducing "Les racines déchirées", the French version of "An Elegy for Easterly"

2010-04-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

Here is the French version of "An Elegy for Easterly". It is called "Les racines déchirées", which translates to Torn Roots. It is out on 22 April 2010, published by Plon.

I love that cover.

So very elegant, so very French.

And me, so very happy.

A message for Rhodesians, Rhodesia-nostalgists and other When-Wes ... and for Zanu's supporters too

2010-04-19T05:22:00.000-07:00

I caused something of a storm when I wrote in the Guardian last week about four key achievements of Zimbabwe: the end of white minority rule, the legal emancipation of black women (who were considered perpetual minors under the African customary law uniformly applied to them in Rhodesia), the investment in education resulting in an adult literacy rate of 92%, and national cohesion. As you will see if you read the comments on my piece, my views were roundly condemned, and I was dismissed as a Mugabe apologist and an accomplice to human rights abusers.

Yes, really.

The Mugabe apologists on the other hand, said to me, Welcome sister, now you know what we have been going through.

In my latest Sunday Times column, which was published yesterday, and which, unfortunately is not available online, I examined the main policies that sought to keep blacks as second class citizens in Rhodesia and why it was necessary to fight that system. I got a number of emails in which some Rhodesians told me but Petina, blacks were happy in Rhodesia, no one was starving and there were jobs for everyone. One man wrote to say his wife worked for a black manager, it was all about application, and if you applied yourself you got somewhere. Over on Facebook, a man who shall remain unnamed tried to convince me that blacks were making progress and that qualified voting was A Good Thing.

Here is my message for all the Rhodies and When-wes out there: just because I am opposed to Zanu PF does not mean I think independence was a waste. I would sooner take up arms again than go back to Rhodesia. Happily, for all us, Rhodesia is where it deserves to be, well and truly in the past, deader than the ten deadest dead things you can imagine, and that includes the dodo ... The dinosaur too.

As for my friends at Shake Shake house ... thank you for the open arms, I know you could do with a few more willing members but no thanks. I am not your girl. The Zimbabwe I want is not Rhodesia, but nor is it your Zimbabwe. It is really this simple: we deserve and can do better.

The National Archives turns 75 and celebrates Zimbabwe in photographs

2010-04-16T09:12:00.000-07:00

My love affair with The Zimbo Jam grows and grows. Today the Jam reports on an exhibition of 100 years of photographs from the National Archives, which turns 75 this year. The National Archives, I think I have already said, is my favourite place in Zimbabwe. It is where I write when I am in Zim. When I am not writing, I love to look at the photographs and read through the old newspapers. I also love to go and stand and stare at one of the most valuable artefacts in there: the Union flag that Rhodes and the Pioneer column raised over Cecil Square in 1890. Zimbabweans will remember the Chinx Chingaira song: Vasvika muHarare, vakasimudza mureza wavo, wemaBhiritishi, Yuniyeni Jeki. Well, that flag is alive and well and living under a glass cabinet at the archives. I love historical objects because they connect you directly to the past: think of the women who stitched this fabric together, the men who marched with it, the rain that fell on it, those women, those men, are dead and gone, but there it is, worn and faded blue and red, stitches coming apart but still there.

The Rudd Concession signed by Lobengula in 1888 should also be there. Unfortunately, an official of the British South Africa Company charged with its reframing apparently left the original Rudd Concession in a London black cab and it was never recovered. I kid you not. At least I hope I kid you, this is one of the many bits of information in my head whose source I can't trace ... If anyone knows different, please holler! Should you be in Harare and Bulawayo, please do go along. A copy of the photograph above, Bulawayo's Market Square in 1893, hangs on one of my walls in Geneva. Another photograph that I love, the one below, is of Dr. Vida Mungwira, the first black woman to train to be a doctor in Rhodesia. She is photographed with her mother on her return from her studies in Bristol.

The photography exhibition was funded by Spain's Embassy to Zimbabwe. When I was in Zim in March, I had the privilege of meeting the Spanish Ambassador, Pilar Fuertes Ferragut, a smart and stylish woman who is not only passionate about art in Zimbabwe, but also puts her much needed money where her mouth is. Thank you Spain!

"An Elegy for Easterly" on the Orwell Book Prize shortlist

2010-04-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

"What I have most wanted to do ... is to make political writing into an art." George Orwell.

I am thrilled and delighted to share the news that An Elegy for Easterly has been shortlisted for the Orwell Book Prize. It was on an incredible long list that included four books that I loved last year: What Price Liberty? by Ben Wilson, A Swamp Full of Dollars by Michael Peel, Harare North by Brian Chikwava, and It's Our Turn to Eat by Michela Wrong. Michela made the shortlist, and it is a great honour to be on it with her and with the other writers whose books I have not yet read but will hunt down forthwith: Christopher De Bellaigue shortlisted for Rebel Land: Among Turkey's Forgotten Peoples; Andrea Gillies for Keeper; Kenan Malik for From Fatwa to Jihad and John Kampfner for Freedom for Sale.

Sometimes things come at exactly the right time ... this has certainly come at the right time for me, exactly one year after my book was published, and at a point where I am at something of a cross roads about my writing and its future direction.

I am also pleased for my favourite newspaper, the Guardian because two of its journalists, Amelia Gentleman and Paul Lewis, have been recognised on the Orwell journalism shortlist. And I love the blogs that have been shortlisted too, particularly the wonderful Madam Miaow and the highly entertaining Laurie Penny, for her blog Penny Red, a self-described "shouty" socialist feminist who reminds me of me when I was at university.

Tonight I am going to bed with Orwell's Decline of the English Murder, a wonderful essay which I can't read enough!