By Steve Kumalonje
This patience she has timely sought to apply and grip
These continuous fights are slowly loosening her grasp
This perseverance she has endeavoured to advocate
In this platform comradeship all she gets hold of is disgust
Like on a playing field where cats and rats embrace
In the guise of fairplay she soldiers on, suppressing malice
Should these behind-the-scenes acts persist on his part
We know she'll jump off the man's sinking ship pronto and start afresh.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
POEM
FOR MY LOVE
by
Dave Namusanya
I won't be there
when they lose themselves
to the ecstasy of the muse
and burry themselves
in the passions of politics.
I won't congregate with them
under the dark thursday night
as they fail to see the dangers
lurking on the corners
in their stupor of art
I won't join them
as they scratch the nose
of the roaring lions and leopards
with their skill of writing
in their ignorance of danger
I will be here, dear
composing sweet verses and lines
that will sound as mellodies
to fill you with happiness
I will lie on your lap
and wander into distant worlds
before coming back with beautiful poetry
in the chambers of my heart
I won't join them dear
for my poetry
is of love (Is for you)
and they say:
they don't need it
for theirs is political.
Instead, I'll be with you
and watch my nation
being sold at a low price
while our love blossoms!
by
Dave Namusanya
I won't be there
when they lose themselves
to the ecstasy of the muse
and burry themselves
in the passions of politics.
I won't congregate with them
under the dark thursday night
as they fail to see the dangers
lurking on the corners
in their stupor of art
I won't join them
as they scratch the nose
of the roaring lions and leopards
with their skill of writing
in their ignorance of danger
I will be here, dear
composing sweet verses and lines
that will sound as mellodies
to fill you with happiness
I will lie on your lap
and wander into distant worlds
before coming back with beautiful poetry
in the chambers of my heart
I won't join them dear
for my poetry
is of love (Is for you)
and they say:
they don't need it
for theirs is political.
Instead, I'll be with you
and watch my nation
being sold at a low price
while our love blossoms!
Monday, September 20, 2010
SPECIAL POEM FOR THURSDAY, 23RD SEPTEMBER 2010 (POLITICAL NIGHT)
I CANT WAIT
by
Edgar Chipalanjira
I can't wait for thursday
Where political musings will be the order of the day
elongated pens laying truth bare
corrupting the chests layer by layer
I wont wait for the coming week
where long kept secrets will leak
silent papers fast becoming too loud
pin-pointing the conspicous evils abound
I shouldn't wait for the following session
where we will feel the true dynasty impression
the elevation of dominance by a single family
the sibling gallantly ascending slowly but steadily
I cant wait for September twenty third
where those we love and loathe we will grade
Who is biting the finger that fed?
Who are setting a trap on the long used path?
who is busy destroying what he single handedly built?
I cant wait for that day
by
Edgar Chipalanjira
I can't wait for thursday
Where political musings will be the order of the day
elongated pens laying truth bare
corrupting the chests layer by layer
I wont wait for the coming week
where long kept secrets will leak
silent papers fast becoming too loud
pin-pointing the conspicous evils abound
I shouldn't wait for the following session
where we will feel the true dynasty impression
the elevation of dominance by a single family
the sibling gallantly ascending slowly but steadily
I cant wait for September twenty third
where those we love and loathe we will grade
Who is biting the finger that fed?
Who are setting a trap on the long used path?
who is busy destroying what he single handedly built?
I cant wait for that day
Thursday, September 16, 2010
POLITICAL NIGHT
Next Thursday,23rd September 2010,we have a political night.There will be recitations of various political works by our writers in room B from 6:30 pm.Poems, features and short stories that are nothing but political will be recited.Whether plain articles or cryptic articles,all will be entetratined.The event is not in support of any political party,it just is a pure event.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
SHORT STORY FOR THURSDAY,2 SEPT 2010
Little Boys in White
Manyekhula was born short and thin with a long, thin face with very small eyes. He grew with these features. So some forty-six years later, there was very little change on him – he still looked that same old hatchet-faced small ‘boy’.
He was born in a family of five children, all boys. He was the last and the odd one out. While he was still a toddler, his parents stumbled on some soul-destroying character about him, something that made them fear they were rearing a problem for a child.
To them as parents, a normal child should smile at people and not shy away from looking people in the face as though he was born with some congenital guilt. Thus, solicitude personified, they decided to do something before it was too late. At first they tried to encourage him by taking him to as many houses as possible. But he quickly realised his parents were doing it to expose him to as many faces as possible, and so he quickly devised a counterplan that taught them they were dealing with a formidable force – whenever they took him to some stranger, young Manyekhula always faked sleep.
Later they tried the power of the lash to whip the shy person out of him, but that too failed to serve the purpose. Soon he got used to it and so they could give him as many lashes as they could in a week and young Manyekhula would not squirm a whit. Even the ngaliba, that feared instructor at the initition ceremony, confessed he had never before seen a worse pain-proof devil.
One night, in order to teach them all a bitter lesson so they should let him free, Manyekhula fought fire with fire. When all the children were out, listening to fireside stories from their father and mother, Manyekhula secretly entered his father’s bedroom, a few grains of kitchen salt in his hand. There he poured the salt into a bowl containing his father’s raw tobacco. That done, Manyekhula retired to his bedroom, waiting. He knew that his father never retired to bed before rolling one or two cigars.
An hour later, he heard some spliting noise from his father’s bedroom. Manyekhula chuckled in his room – he had hit back.
The man cursed. He guessed who among his children could set such a trap for his own father’s life. He never openly criticised him, however.
From then onwards, the whole family left it to him, Manyekhula, to find his own solution. And he responded manly by taking to the bottle while he was still in his teens. They were surprised that in drinking, their son seemed to have found some trusted companionship, and that it worked where everything else had failed. So, as he staggered home, in slurred speech, he talked all the way – the new pleasure had finally helped him find his tongue and even the courage with which to speak.
In his mid-twenties, the age at which he should have gathered courage to approach a woman, reality came face-to-face with him, however. This time it dawned on him that whatever revolution drinking had brought his life, it had failed to completely floor one great weakness in him – his ineffable shyness before women.
Out of concern for him as their child, some years later when he was forty or thereabout, the elders jumped in to intervene. Through them, he got to live in one house with a woman, one he began to call ‘wife’.
Three or four months ago he lost that woman. She left him two girls: Daniyela, now three; and Mwatitha, two.
As is the custom, her kinsmen had taken the two children to their village only a few hours after the death of their daughter, Manyekhula’s wife. They wanted to relieve Manyekhula of the burden of looking after the two kids in the same period he was carrying the burden of the death of his friend, his wife. Two weeks after the burial, the kinsmen returned to Manyekhula’s house, bringing with them a small shy girl almost half Manyekhula’s age.
The morning after the cleansing ritual, the cleansing ritual always took place at night, during which he had been ‘introduced’ to the girl all night long, the elders asked him whether he had felt warm enough and so whether he felt she was a proper replacement for his late wife.
Whether out of genuine satisfaction or mere shyness, he received the traditional mat, a symbol of acceptance. By accepting that mat, Manyekhula was declaring to all and sundry that after spending a few hours with her, he had come out satisfied, that the girl would give him the comfort and rest every bull looks forward to after exhaustion from long hours of work.
Because Polina, Manyekhula’s new wife, had never had a child before, both sets of kinsmen felt that the time was not ripe yet for the two children to be under her custody. She had to be given time to understand marriage first hand. She had to be given time to put into practice the lessons she had received at the initition ceremony, the lessons that centre on the full set of expectations of any black man of his black woman. So, in the third month, when she started feeling intense nausea, there were two of them in the house.
To her, these three months in this man’s house were like a millennium spent on some lifeless island. She found his presence intimidating and what with that ever-present odour of stale tobacco and that characteristic reek of beer! Often she prayed that she should not fall pregnant soon. But nature was looking at things differently, and here she was, vomiting. She did not like it.
When she told him she was vomiting, his face lightened. The vomitting excited him. Right from day one, he had wanted her to bear him a child. He often confessed to himself that there was something in her that he had never found in his late wife. To keep her close to him, he had to give her as many children as possible.
That Saturday afternoon, only a few hours after learning his wife was vomiting, Manyekhula climbed Menje Hill to cut bamboo to use in making cane furniture. In case that vomiting meant some beginning of some good news, he did not want to be taken by surprise. He wanted to make money for her to buy a few balls of wool and a knitting needle for her to knit their child a jersey with some matching bootees.
Saturday afternoons were always a time of activities in the village. That day a villager crier had blasted from as early as cock crow, calling on every villager to a meeting by the health officials from the mission hospital. Even before Polina had disclosed to him about the vomiting, Manyekhula had made up his mind to skive off that meeting. An incident last year made him lose appetite with every activity arranged by people from the mission hospital. Every time he recalled the incident, his blood boiled and he always ended by cursing or confessing: “I wasn’t in a mood; otherwise I’d wring someone’s neck there!”
It wasn’t the whole programme that had been disagreeable, but one activity by a young girl in a tight jean trousers and a skimpy white T-shirt. That event had demonstrated to him that many people take the amiable spirit of those living in the village for granted.
The girl had started it well, mixing her speech with some English before coming on to that terrible part of the actual exhibition. So, a black thick rod in one hand, and a condom in the other, the girl demonstrated the wearing act itself! Manyekhula recalled that the girl was doing the lesson with all the freedom before her.
The scene was obviously a source of amusement to young boys and girls who kept interrupting her with their huge clapping of hands, but it was a huge disappointment, a bitter pill of sort, to every grown-up. They, the grown-ups, had looked either away or down on their feet throughout that shameful scene. Many left the playground at that time, vowing never again to attend any meeting in which youth would be part of.
Manyekhula attributed the problem of youth at the mission hospital to the leaving of the wimple-wearing white nuns from Brazil. The last one, Sisita Daniyela, left a year ago, and since, secrets done at the hospital were being heard even in beerhalls. Whenever he thought about services at the mission hospital, he remembered her, Sisita Daniyela Feronandozi. It was Sisita Daniyela that had delivered his first child, that girl now three. And it was Sisita Daniyela herself that had asked his wife if she, Daniyela, could give her name to the girl. When Sisita Daniyela was still at the mission hospital, his daughter never lacked toys and dolls to play with. Sisita Daniyela always provided her with as many as she could use in a month.
Manyekhula felt that the mission hospital was a different world today. What his late friend, Ndafakale, had seen at the mission hospital the other day, strengthened his case.
Like him, Ndafakale had married a second wife after the death of his first. But unlike him, Ndafakale had married youth. He was over fifty and his new wife was in her mid twenties. When the girl fell pregnant, she began to exprience terrible stomach aches. The elders tried a number of tradtional doctors but with every visit to a tsangoma, the condition worsened. When the elders could not see any way out, they asked women elders to take her to the hospital. This the women did.
At the hospital the doctors identified the problem and advised that she should come along with her man so that both should receive treatment at the same time.
At first Ndafakale hesitated and for an obvious reason – the hospital people would not understand that there are things culture imposes on a people, things doctors and others with jaundiced perceptions can deem hazardous. However, on the advice of the village chief himself, Ndafakale gave in.
On his return, Ndafakale never had words with which to describe what had befallen him at the mission hospital. There, young boys and girls in white had charged at him, accusing him of ‘deliberately wanting to kill the young girl’.
“Ndafakale was a good person,” Manyekhula said. “They can’t call me a witch and I just let them get away with it!” he screeched. “Who is better placed to judge another whether a woman he has married is a child? I thought it’s the one who sleeps in the same house with her?” He clinched his fists and gnashed his teeth as though he was about to grab a neck of one girl or boy in white, about to wring it with a vengeance.
Ndafakale had personally told him that after the insults, they gave them two very painful injections, one on each buttock, and numerous sachets of capsules of all colours of the rainbow to take in for the next two weeks. Ndafakale had also disclosed to him that they had also given him a number of packets of condoms, advising him to always don them on and to come and collect another bunch once he had used up the ones proferred.
Manyekhula giggled when he recalled what Ndafakale had confided in him on the whereabouts of those condoms. “Straight from the hospital I fed them to flames!” he quoted his late friend, Ndafakale, word-for-word.
A few months down the line, they buried Ndafakale’s new wife. And in the week for a sexual cleansing ritual when Ndafakale was expecting a replacement, her wife’s relations stomped, saying they would never give Ndafakale another woman because he had very bad blood for young women.
“If they’d refuse me a replacement, I’d demand my goats back!” Manyekhula said, almost shouting. “Lobola doesn’t end when your wife dies!”
Ndafakale himself died single shortly afterwards.
Manyekhula recalled that once or twice he had been to the hospital with his wife for treatment for a female condition but none of the white missionary workers there had ever accused him of anything. Today he confessed that if Polina would fall pregnant, he would never allow her to visit the mission hospital. He was not afraid of the age gap between him and Polina – she was in her mid-twenties – not bad on village age mathematics. He simply didn’t want the young boys and girls in white to make fool of him.
If Polina would carry him a child, he would prove a few liars wrong. There were some in the village who never wished him well, those who kept arguing that past forty and being a man who had been on beer almost all his years, he would never have life in his shorts to share to the young girl. He wanted to show them that his blood was still powerful and that in it was a life, a life big enough to share even with a young woman.
After finishing with the tying, he raised the tappered end of the bundle, leaning it against a huge naphini tree. It was now time to smoke.
He found himself a smooth rock, where he perched, sucking placidly at his hand-rolled cigar of raw tobacco.
From that rock he had a perfect view of the life and village below. It had been long since he had climbed this hill this up. He usually cut the bamboo in a small bamboo bush near the marsh right in the village itself. Today he had chosen to come this long because he did not want people to notice he had chosen to cut his bamboo at a time the rest of the villagers were at the meeting ground. For the same reason he had left behind a machete for a hacksaw. The cutting noise from a machete can attract attention.
Today he realised that many houses in the village were carrying corrugated iron sheets. Those still supporting thatched roofs looked like dark spots opposing the heavily penetrating reflections from the silver of those metal roofs. He looked with concentrated attention to spot his house. It was being hidden by that biggest structure in the village – the newly built orphanage centre. To him, perhaps because he looked at all that through smoked eyes, things had really changed and the village was no longer that same old one he knew. He felt that even the people themselves were no longer one and that perhaps the only thing that gave them a feeling of oneness was that fact that they lived in the same village, but nothing else apart from that.
“No, I’m one with Polina,” he whispered to himself, correcting himself.
At this he remembered that when coming here, he left her vomiting. He smiled. Many had said his bibulous habits would block his power to deposit life in Polina.
Now he noted that the cigar was burning his lips. He pressed its end with his bare fingers, and threw away the end. He scrambled to his feet, making it towards his bundle. The dry leaves scrunched under his bare feet. He slid the hacksaw in it, before giving it a good heave onto his left shoulder. A stick from his right hand went above his shoulder, resting on it gently, to the bundle – this was meant for balancing, to reduce the weight somehow by spreading it evenly.
He would sidle his way round the hill. Those returning from the meeting at the village playground should not see him.
At home, he stood the bundle against the mango tree facing his door. Then he went straight through the open door. There was no sign of his love, Polina. He dashed out and went round the house. And there she was – squating, vomiting. He smiled grossly before posing: “Still vomiting?” His borrowed tone gave the game away.
She looked him up, her eyes red and exhausted. “It’s now too much,” she said.
He felt some strength going round his body and he giggled insanely. “It must be it.” Sensing that perhaps he was not being sensitive to his woman, he assumed some concern: “But have you had anything since?”
She shook her head.
At this, Manyekhula turned round and took the direction of Polina’s parents’ village. He wanted to fetch someone there to come and cook for their daughter, Polina.
In the evening, he decided to share the story with Gwamula, his bosom friend. Gwamula also liked drinking though not as much as Manyekhula. Besides, Gwamula was not as garrulous when drunk. He worked for the mission hospital.
He passed by the grocery to buy two bottles of Coca Cola. He could not visit Gwamula and return without celebrating life over a bottle or two. The two had a tendency of fortifying the jang’ala with Coca Cola. It made the beer change colour and produce a lot of bubbles like Castle Lager.
Gwamula sent his last born to buy them a veremuti of their beer.
The burning water loosened their tongues. Like little children, they began to tackle one subject after another with unimpedded directness.
“I’m sure my wife has a child in her. Soon you’ll see her bulge,” Manyekhula said, introducing a completely new subject.
“For what Manyekhula, you animal!”
“Fool! Didn’t you all say beer was killing me? What other way to prove all you wrong!”
“Is it a matter of proving me or the chief or anyone else wrong, wastrel? No. I thought they gave you the girl to take care of you and the two children? Was it meant to start a new family, Manyekhula?”
“Is it a problem?”
“It doesn’t sound like one? Do you know feeding children is not as easy these days?”
Manyekhula slipped into a guffaw before coming out: “You go to church, Gwamula?”
“I do, and I eat mgonero too.”
“You believe in the bible?” Manyekhula asked again.
“Then why do I go to church every Sunday?”
“Gwamula,” he said, crocked his neck and came in again, “you have heard of birds of forest which do not have hoes?”
“Which do not sow? Yes, I have; but are you a bird, Manyekhula?”
“Thank you, Gwamula.” He nodded his head and came again: “You mean those words are for real birds, birds that fly like this?” He waved his hands in the air as though he were a bird of the forest that never sows.
“Aargh, Manyekhula, you’re mixing issues here.”
They argued and argued. Sleep found them both there. In fact it was Gwamula’s wife that came to wake the celebrants up, reminding them they were sleeping so close to the log fire and would immolate themselves like senseless moths.
The following morning at Gwamula’s advice if not threat, Manyekhula borrowed Gwamula’s Humilton bicycle to take his wife to the mission hospital. Gwamula had told him about the new reproduction policy, that every pregnancy must be verified by a hospital otherwise the police would consider a hidden pregnancy case gone wrong a murder case for which he, Manyekhula, would be answerable.
He was going to use the bumpy laterite road passing through three villages on the way to the hospital. What he had heard about police officers on the tarmac road scared him. At a drinking joint one evening someone had told him that policemen had now bought a very small machine which they were using to detect beer in men. That instrument, he was told, was able to detect how many bottles one had drunk, where and even when he took the liquour. He had been told men were being forced to breathe into it, and like a traditional doctor’s nsupa that can show all witches in a mirror, it smoked out imbibers. The speaker had added, saying once detected, the imbibers were being bundled into a windowless police van to the station where they received lashes before being given long brooms to sweep outside the district assembly offices. He didn’t want that shameful mode of punishment to befall him.
He waited for her at a grocery, not far from the mission hospital. He noted an increase in the number of boys in white taking the direction of the hospital.
After an hour of waiting, he saw her approach, looking not herself. When he asked what was wrong, she said the doctors had told her she was carrying a life at which he gave a wide smile.
That evening, he left her at home and went to treat himself to a few bottles. He wanted to do two things tonight: to ask Gwamula whether the many young boys he had seen taking the direction of the mission hospital also worked with expectant mothers; and to make announcement of the good news.
What Gwamula told him shocked him. Previously Manyekhula was of the mind that the boys in white were only employed to dress wounds. But Gwamula had told him some were in fact working in the maternity ward itself, helping women at childbirth itself.
That night, after announcing the village over the mission hospital had confirmed his wife was expecting his child, he turned his waspish tongue on the mission hospital itself. “How can young boys work in a birth ward? Isn’t that an accident waiting to happen?” he shouted.
He said he was going to pay the Bishop a visit to ask why, he as a man of God, was allowing boys, black boys at that, to see other people’s women in the labour ward. “How can young boys work in a female ward? If the Bishopo or the Monsinyo won’t sort this mess, I’ll visit a witch doctor!” He sounded serious. Those who heard him say this were without doubt that he was indeed going to say the words to the bishop, and that he was not joking. They knew what he was capable of.
The other time, a few years before, he walked straight to the gate of the house of the bishop and there asked the gatemen if they could please allow him in, that he had some important message to the bishop, Bishop Kambiyaso.
Bishop Kambiyaso, an Italian, had arrived in this country way back in the days of the fight for independence. He was said to have been influential in the negotiations for the country’s freedom itself. He spoke the vernacular as well as the owners. His sermons, both in churches and on funerals, were always in the vernacular. The people felt he was part of them not only because he believed in the power of giving, but much more because he always encouraged people never to judge others by their skin colour because skin colour was not an issue at all in the sight of God. They liked him and they respected him. Before his death, he died in his dotage, he had requested that he should be buried among his people, black people. And on his death, the people granted him, a man that had slogged all his life for them, his wish.
The gatemen, one of them came from the same village with him, refused him entry, saying the man of God was preparing to go to a funeral of one of the parish priests in the diocese. Manyekhula refused to listen and challenged them he was going to keep a constant vigil outside the gate well until they would give him access to the bishop.
When he saw the bishops’ vehicle approach the gate, Manyekhula went on his knees in supplication and started presenting his case.
The real drama began when he asked him whether, as a bishop, he had ever read about Davite, the servant of God, and Uliya, Davite’s servant, a soldier.
In wondering dismay the bishop wanted to know what it was he wanted to mean.
Manyekhula said Father Danileki was Davite, and Uliya was Che Nsungwi, the tea room owner.
The matter was not a mere allegation. The whole village knew that Father Danileki was stealing Che Nsungwi’s wife, Abiti Malefula; none, however, talked it openly. Even poor Che Nsungwi himself knew it, but he too was impotent on the issue. As a parish priest, Father Danileki was a representative of heaven.
When asked what the bishop’s response was, one of the gatemen who had witnessed the drama said the bishop had simply remarked: “I’ve heard your concern, sir.” and then he gestured for them to open the gate for him to pass.
A week later, Father Danileki was transferred to another diocese. The bishop had, in a way, slaked Manyekhula’s demand for justice.
And so when Manyekhula said he was going to ask the incumbent bishop, Bishop Zikopa, why he, black as he was, was allowing youth to brood in female wards, even at a mission hospital itself, those who knew what Manyekhula was capable of, took him at his word.
In the wee small hours, only a few days after making that statement, he startled the village again: “If I say that I have talked to the Bishopo himself, then I’m a dog! A liar! But I’ve talked to Monsinyo Mateyu himself. He has assured me no bull will ever see her in the maternity! He says he will ask the matron herself to be in the ward when Polina’s time is ripe. Believe it or not!” He exploded into maniacal laughter. Then there was silence. The village sighed with relief.
Many men agreed with him – there are some things one cannot surrender to youth, just like that, no matter the English they speak.
Manyekhula was born short and thin with a long, thin face with very small eyes. He grew with these features. So some forty-six years later, there was very little change on him – he still looked that same old hatchet-faced small ‘boy’.
He was born in a family of five children, all boys. He was the last and the odd one out. While he was still a toddler, his parents stumbled on some soul-destroying character about him, something that made them fear they were rearing a problem for a child.
To them as parents, a normal child should smile at people and not shy away from looking people in the face as though he was born with some congenital guilt. Thus, solicitude personified, they decided to do something before it was too late. At first they tried to encourage him by taking him to as many houses as possible. But he quickly realised his parents were doing it to expose him to as many faces as possible, and so he quickly devised a counterplan that taught them they were dealing with a formidable force – whenever they took him to some stranger, young Manyekhula always faked sleep.
Later they tried the power of the lash to whip the shy person out of him, but that too failed to serve the purpose. Soon he got used to it and so they could give him as many lashes as they could in a week and young Manyekhula would not squirm a whit. Even the ngaliba, that feared instructor at the initition ceremony, confessed he had never before seen a worse pain-proof devil.
One night, in order to teach them all a bitter lesson so they should let him free, Manyekhula fought fire with fire. When all the children were out, listening to fireside stories from their father and mother, Manyekhula secretly entered his father’s bedroom, a few grains of kitchen salt in his hand. There he poured the salt into a bowl containing his father’s raw tobacco. That done, Manyekhula retired to his bedroom, waiting. He knew that his father never retired to bed before rolling one or two cigars.
An hour later, he heard some spliting noise from his father’s bedroom. Manyekhula chuckled in his room – he had hit back.
The man cursed. He guessed who among his children could set such a trap for his own father’s life. He never openly criticised him, however.
From then onwards, the whole family left it to him, Manyekhula, to find his own solution. And he responded manly by taking to the bottle while he was still in his teens. They were surprised that in drinking, their son seemed to have found some trusted companionship, and that it worked where everything else had failed. So, as he staggered home, in slurred speech, he talked all the way – the new pleasure had finally helped him find his tongue and even the courage with which to speak.
In his mid-twenties, the age at which he should have gathered courage to approach a woman, reality came face-to-face with him, however. This time it dawned on him that whatever revolution drinking had brought his life, it had failed to completely floor one great weakness in him – his ineffable shyness before women.
Out of concern for him as their child, some years later when he was forty or thereabout, the elders jumped in to intervene. Through them, he got to live in one house with a woman, one he began to call ‘wife’.
Three or four months ago he lost that woman. She left him two girls: Daniyela, now three; and Mwatitha, two.
As is the custom, her kinsmen had taken the two children to their village only a few hours after the death of their daughter, Manyekhula’s wife. They wanted to relieve Manyekhula of the burden of looking after the two kids in the same period he was carrying the burden of the death of his friend, his wife. Two weeks after the burial, the kinsmen returned to Manyekhula’s house, bringing with them a small shy girl almost half Manyekhula’s age.
The morning after the cleansing ritual, the cleansing ritual always took place at night, during which he had been ‘introduced’ to the girl all night long, the elders asked him whether he had felt warm enough and so whether he felt she was a proper replacement for his late wife.
Whether out of genuine satisfaction or mere shyness, he received the traditional mat, a symbol of acceptance. By accepting that mat, Manyekhula was declaring to all and sundry that after spending a few hours with her, he had come out satisfied, that the girl would give him the comfort and rest every bull looks forward to after exhaustion from long hours of work.
Because Polina, Manyekhula’s new wife, had never had a child before, both sets of kinsmen felt that the time was not ripe yet for the two children to be under her custody. She had to be given time to understand marriage first hand. She had to be given time to put into practice the lessons she had received at the initition ceremony, the lessons that centre on the full set of expectations of any black man of his black woman. So, in the third month, when she started feeling intense nausea, there were two of them in the house.
To her, these three months in this man’s house were like a millennium spent on some lifeless island. She found his presence intimidating and what with that ever-present odour of stale tobacco and that characteristic reek of beer! Often she prayed that she should not fall pregnant soon. But nature was looking at things differently, and here she was, vomiting. She did not like it.
When she told him she was vomiting, his face lightened. The vomitting excited him. Right from day one, he had wanted her to bear him a child. He often confessed to himself that there was something in her that he had never found in his late wife. To keep her close to him, he had to give her as many children as possible.
That Saturday afternoon, only a few hours after learning his wife was vomiting, Manyekhula climbed Menje Hill to cut bamboo to use in making cane furniture. In case that vomiting meant some beginning of some good news, he did not want to be taken by surprise. He wanted to make money for her to buy a few balls of wool and a knitting needle for her to knit their child a jersey with some matching bootees.
Saturday afternoons were always a time of activities in the village. That day a villager crier had blasted from as early as cock crow, calling on every villager to a meeting by the health officials from the mission hospital. Even before Polina had disclosed to him about the vomiting, Manyekhula had made up his mind to skive off that meeting. An incident last year made him lose appetite with every activity arranged by people from the mission hospital. Every time he recalled the incident, his blood boiled and he always ended by cursing or confessing: “I wasn’t in a mood; otherwise I’d wring someone’s neck there!”
It wasn’t the whole programme that had been disagreeable, but one activity by a young girl in a tight jean trousers and a skimpy white T-shirt. That event had demonstrated to him that many people take the amiable spirit of those living in the village for granted.
The girl had started it well, mixing her speech with some English before coming on to that terrible part of the actual exhibition. So, a black thick rod in one hand, and a condom in the other, the girl demonstrated the wearing act itself! Manyekhula recalled that the girl was doing the lesson with all the freedom before her.
The scene was obviously a source of amusement to young boys and girls who kept interrupting her with their huge clapping of hands, but it was a huge disappointment, a bitter pill of sort, to every grown-up. They, the grown-ups, had looked either away or down on their feet throughout that shameful scene. Many left the playground at that time, vowing never again to attend any meeting in which youth would be part of.
Manyekhula attributed the problem of youth at the mission hospital to the leaving of the wimple-wearing white nuns from Brazil. The last one, Sisita Daniyela, left a year ago, and since, secrets done at the hospital were being heard even in beerhalls. Whenever he thought about services at the mission hospital, he remembered her, Sisita Daniyela Feronandozi. It was Sisita Daniyela that had delivered his first child, that girl now three. And it was Sisita Daniyela herself that had asked his wife if she, Daniyela, could give her name to the girl. When Sisita Daniyela was still at the mission hospital, his daughter never lacked toys and dolls to play with. Sisita Daniyela always provided her with as many as she could use in a month.
Manyekhula felt that the mission hospital was a different world today. What his late friend, Ndafakale, had seen at the mission hospital the other day, strengthened his case.
Like him, Ndafakale had married a second wife after the death of his first. But unlike him, Ndafakale had married youth. He was over fifty and his new wife was in her mid twenties. When the girl fell pregnant, she began to exprience terrible stomach aches. The elders tried a number of tradtional doctors but with every visit to a tsangoma, the condition worsened. When the elders could not see any way out, they asked women elders to take her to the hospital. This the women did.
At the hospital the doctors identified the problem and advised that she should come along with her man so that both should receive treatment at the same time.
At first Ndafakale hesitated and for an obvious reason – the hospital people would not understand that there are things culture imposes on a people, things doctors and others with jaundiced perceptions can deem hazardous. However, on the advice of the village chief himself, Ndafakale gave in.
On his return, Ndafakale never had words with which to describe what had befallen him at the mission hospital. There, young boys and girls in white had charged at him, accusing him of ‘deliberately wanting to kill the young girl’.
“Ndafakale was a good person,” Manyekhula said. “They can’t call me a witch and I just let them get away with it!” he screeched. “Who is better placed to judge another whether a woman he has married is a child? I thought it’s the one who sleeps in the same house with her?” He clinched his fists and gnashed his teeth as though he was about to grab a neck of one girl or boy in white, about to wring it with a vengeance.
Ndafakale had personally told him that after the insults, they gave them two very painful injections, one on each buttock, and numerous sachets of capsules of all colours of the rainbow to take in for the next two weeks. Ndafakale had also disclosed to him that they had also given him a number of packets of condoms, advising him to always don them on and to come and collect another bunch once he had used up the ones proferred.
Manyekhula giggled when he recalled what Ndafakale had confided in him on the whereabouts of those condoms. “Straight from the hospital I fed them to flames!” he quoted his late friend, Ndafakale, word-for-word.
A few months down the line, they buried Ndafakale’s new wife. And in the week for a sexual cleansing ritual when Ndafakale was expecting a replacement, her wife’s relations stomped, saying they would never give Ndafakale another woman because he had very bad blood for young women.
“If they’d refuse me a replacement, I’d demand my goats back!” Manyekhula said, almost shouting. “Lobola doesn’t end when your wife dies!”
Ndafakale himself died single shortly afterwards.
Manyekhula recalled that once or twice he had been to the hospital with his wife for treatment for a female condition but none of the white missionary workers there had ever accused him of anything. Today he confessed that if Polina would fall pregnant, he would never allow her to visit the mission hospital. He was not afraid of the age gap between him and Polina – she was in her mid-twenties – not bad on village age mathematics. He simply didn’t want the young boys and girls in white to make fool of him.
If Polina would carry him a child, he would prove a few liars wrong. There were some in the village who never wished him well, those who kept arguing that past forty and being a man who had been on beer almost all his years, he would never have life in his shorts to share to the young girl. He wanted to show them that his blood was still powerful and that in it was a life, a life big enough to share even with a young woman.
After finishing with the tying, he raised the tappered end of the bundle, leaning it against a huge naphini tree. It was now time to smoke.
He found himself a smooth rock, where he perched, sucking placidly at his hand-rolled cigar of raw tobacco.
From that rock he had a perfect view of the life and village below. It had been long since he had climbed this hill this up. He usually cut the bamboo in a small bamboo bush near the marsh right in the village itself. Today he had chosen to come this long because he did not want people to notice he had chosen to cut his bamboo at a time the rest of the villagers were at the meeting ground. For the same reason he had left behind a machete for a hacksaw. The cutting noise from a machete can attract attention.
Today he realised that many houses in the village were carrying corrugated iron sheets. Those still supporting thatched roofs looked like dark spots opposing the heavily penetrating reflections from the silver of those metal roofs. He looked with concentrated attention to spot his house. It was being hidden by that biggest structure in the village – the newly built orphanage centre. To him, perhaps because he looked at all that through smoked eyes, things had really changed and the village was no longer that same old one he knew. He felt that even the people themselves were no longer one and that perhaps the only thing that gave them a feeling of oneness was that fact that they lived in the same village, but nothing else apart from that.
“No, I’m one with Polina,” he whispered to himself, correcting himself.
At this he remembered that when coming here, he left her vomiting. He smiled. Many had said his bibulous habits would block his power to deposit life in Polina.
Now he noted that the cigar was burning his lips. He pressed its end with his bare fingers, and threw away the end. He scrambled to his feet, making it towards his bundle. The dry leaves scrunched under his bare feet. He slid the hacksaw in it, before giving it a good heave onto his left shoulder. A stick from his right hand went above his shoulder, resting on it gently, to the bundle – this was meant for balancing, to reduce the weight somehow by spreading it evenly.
He would sidle his way round the hill. Those returning from the meeting at the village playground should not see him.
At home, he stood the bundle against the mango tree facing his door. Then he went straight through the open door. There was no sign of his love, Polina. He dashed out and went round the house. And there she was – squating, vomiting. He smiled grossly before posing: “Still vomiting?” His borrowed tone gave the game away.
She looked him up, her eyes red and exhausted. “It’s now too much,” she said.
He felt some strength going round his body and he giggled insanely. “It must be it.” Sensing that perhaps he was not being sensitive to his woman, he assumed some concern: “But have you had anything since?”
She shook her head.
At this, Manyekhula turned round and took the direction of Polina’s parents’ village. He wanted to fetch someone there to come and cook for their daughter, Polina.
In the evening, he decided to share the story with Gwamula, his bosom friend. Gwamula also liked drinking though not as much as Manyekhula. Besides, Gwamula was not as garrulous when drunk. He worked for the mission hospital.
He passed by the grocery to buy two bottles of Coca Cola. He could not visit Gwamula and return without celebrating life over a bottle or two. The two had a tendency of fortifying the jang’ala with Coca Cola. It made the beer change colour and produce a lot of bubbles like Castle Lager.
Gwamula sent his last born to buy them a veremuti of their beer.
The burning water loosened their tongues. Like little children, they began to tackle one subject after another with unimpedded directness.
“I’m sure my wife has a child in her. Soon you’ll see her bulge,” Manyekhula said, introducing a completely new subject.
“For what Manyekhula, you animal!”
“Fool! Didn’t you all say beer was killing me? What other way to prove all you wrong!”
“Is it a matter of proving me or the chief or anyone else wrong, wastrel? No. I thought they gave you the girl to take care of you and the two children? Was it meant to start a new family, Manyekhula?”
“Is it a problem?”
“It doesn’t sound like one? Do you know feeding children is not as easy these days?”
Manyekhula slipped into a guffaw before coming out: “You go to church, Gwamula?”
“I do, and I eat mgonero too.”
“You believe in the bible?” Manyekhula asked again.
“Then why do I go to church every Sunday?”
“Gwamula,” he said, crocked his neck and came in again, “you have heard of birds of forest which do not have hoes?”
“Which do not sow? Yes, I have; but are you a bird, Manyekhula?”
“Thank you, Gwamula.” He nodded his head and came again: “You mean those words are for real birds, birds that fly like this?” He waved his hands in the air as though he were a bird of the forest that never sows.
“Aargh, Manyekhula, you’re mixing issues here.”
They argued and argued. Sleep found them both there. In fact it was Gwamula’s wife that came to wake the celebrants up, reminding them they were sleeping so close to the log fire and would immolate themselves like senseless moths.
The following morning at Gwamula’s advice if not threat, Manyekhula borrowed Gwamula’s Humilton bicycle to take his wife to the mission hospital. Gwamula had told him about the new reproduction policy, that every pregnancy must be verified by a hospital otherwise the police would consider a hidden pregnancy case gone wrong a murder case for which he, Manyekhula, would be answerable.
He was going to use the bumpy laterite road passing through three villages on the way to the hospital. What he had heard about police officers on the tarmac road scared him. At a drinking joint one evening someone had told him that policemen had now bought a very small machine which they were using to detect beer in men. That instrument, he was told, was able to detect how many bottles one had drunk, where and even when he took the liquour. He had been told men were being forced to breathe into it, and like a traditional doctor’s nsupa that can show all witches in a mirror, it smoked out imbibers. The speaker had added, saying once detected, the imbibers were being bundled into a windowless police van to the station where they received lashes before being given long brooms to sweep outside the district assembly offices. He didn’t want that shameful mode of punishment to befall him.
He waited for her at a grocery, not far from the mission hospital. He noted an increase in the number of boys in white taking the direction of the hospital.
After an hour of waiting, he saw her approach, looking not herself. When he asked what was wrong, she said the doctors had told her she was carrying a life at which he gave a wide smile.
That evening, he left her at home and went to treat himself to a few bottles. He wanted to do two things tonight: to ask Gwamula whether the many young boys he had seen taking the direction of the mission hospital also worked with expectant mothers; and to make announcement of the good news.
What Gwamula told him shocked him. Previously Manyekhula was of the mind that the boys in white were only employed to dress wounds. But Gwamula had told him some were in fact working in the maternity ward itself, helping women at childbirth itself.
That night, after announcing the village over the mission hospital had confirmed his wife was expecting his child, he turned his waspish tongue on the mission hospital itself. “How can young boys work in a birth ward? Isn’t that an accident waiting to happen?” he shouted.
He said he was going to pay the Bishop a visit to ask why, he as a man of God, was allowing boys, black boys at that, to see other people’s women in the labour ward. “How can young boys work in a female ward? If the Bishopo or the Monsinyo won’t sort this mess, I’ll visit a witch doctor!” He sounded serious. Those who heard him say this were without doubt that he was indeed going to say the words to the bishop, and that he was not joking. They knew what he was capable of.
The other time, a few years before, he walked straight to the gate of the house of the bishop and there asked the gatemen if they could please allow him in, that he had some important message to the bishop, Bishop Kambiyaso.
Bishop Kambiyaso, an Italian, had arrived in this country way back in the days of the fight for independence. He was said to have been influential in the negotiations for the country’s freedom itself. He spoke the vernacular as well as the owners. His sermons, both in churches and on funerals, were always in the vernacular. The people felt he was part of them not only because he believed in the power of giving, but much more because he always encouraged people never to judge others by their skin colour because skin colour was not an issue at all in the sight of God. They liked him and they respected him. Before his death, he died in his dotage, he had requested that he should be buried among his people, black people. And on his death, the people granted him, a man that had slogged all his life for them, his wish.
The gatemen, one of them came from the same village with him, refused him entry, saying the man of God was preparing to go to a funeral of one of the parish priests in the diocese. Manyekhula refused to listen and challenged them he was going to keep a constant vigil outside the gate well until they would give him access to the bishop.
When he saw the bishops’ vehicle approach the gate, Manyekhula went on his knees in supplication and started presenting his case.
The real drama began when he asked him whether, as a bishop, he had ever read about Davite, the servant of God, and Uliya, Davite’s servant, a soldier.
In wondering dismay the bishop wanted to know what it was he wanted to mean.
Manyekhula said Father Danileki was Davite, and Uliya was Che Nsungwi, the tea room owner.
The matter was not a mere allegation. The whole village knew that Father Danileki was stealing Che Nsungwi’s wife, Abiti Malefula; none, however, talked it openly. Even poor Che Nsungwi himself knew it, but he too was impotent on the issue. As a parish priest, Father Danileki was a representative of heaven.
When asked what the bishop’s response was, one of the gatemen who had witnessed the drama said the bishop had simply remarked: “I’ve heard your concern, sir.” and then he gestured for them to open the gate for him to pass.
A week later, Father Danileki was transferred to another diocese. The bishop had, in a way, slaked Manyekhula’s demand for justice.
And so when Manyekhula said he was going to ask the incumbent bishop, Bishop Zikopa, why he, black as he was, was allowing youth to brood in female wards, even at a mission hospital itself, those who knew what Manyekhula was capable of, took him at his word.
In the wee small hours, only a few days after making that statement, he startled the village again: “If I say that I have talked to the Bishopo himself, then I’m a dog! A liar! But I’ve talked to Monsinyo Mateyu himself. He has assured me no bull will ever see her in the maternity! He says he will ask the matron herself to be in the ward when Polina’s time is ripe. Believe it or not!” He exploded into maniacal laughter. Then there was silence. The village sighed with relief.
Many men agreed with him – there are some things one cannot surrender to youth, just like that, no matter the English they speak.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
POEM COMPOSED ON THURSDAY
This poem was composed by various members of the Writers' Workshop on Thursday,29th April 2010 as the new executive was being voted into office.It was jointly authored
The world is indeed a football pitch
Two goal posts on either end
One ball on the field
Players of all sizes chase the small ball
But no one seems to score
The goal seems inconspicuous
The referee is at the heat of the game
On one goal post we have the humanists
The Christians are defending the other post
Who is playing a fair game?
They say my thoughts are odd
They say I am only haunted by hallucinations
But, without a poet all is dead
For he is the owner of the pitch
The world is indeed a football pitch
Two goal posts on either end
One ball on the field
Players of all sizes chase the small ball
But no one seems to score
The goal seems inconspicuous
The referee is at the heat of the game
On one goal post we have the humanists
The Christians are defending the other post
Who is playing a fair game?
They say my thoughts are odd
They say I am only haunted by hallucinations
But, without a poet all is dead
For he is the owner of the pitch
Thursday, April 1, 2010
LIVING OUR FAITH
By
Dave Namusanya
TRADITION is more often than not broken, and violated. But then, there always are consequences, sometimes dire, when the tradition is broken. It, not all times, invites wrath – the breaking of tradition.
And nothing could stop the consequences from unveiling themselves on Thursday, 25th March 2010, when tradition was broken, pardon, abused and ‘raped’, yes defiled!
One of the few open secrets that exist at Chancellor College, and even outside there, is that room B is a room with an arrogant corner that always hinders people from seeing what is happening on the other side. It is the same room also that is used by the Writers’ workshop each and every Thursday night when school is in session for their weekly meetings.
And, as usual, on the aforementioned Thursday, the room was to be filled to capacity, to even overflow, by Writers, readers, aspirers and even sympathisers. Why?
Because it is a tradition, a well known indubitable fact, that the room is used by Writers of the College every Thursday when learning is in progress at the Campus. Not only that but also it was for the very first time in almost three years for the man who was to visit, no! make himself available, to the workshop; not just be present but deliver a talk.
However, when the clock ticked to something close to six thirty, the gathering time, room B was far from being used by the Workshop. Very far from being overflowed by the Writers, and sympathisers. Why?
There was a class in the traditional room. A class on a Thursday, not just a Thursday but a Thursday night, not just a Thursday night but a night that was totally different from the previous ones. Why different?
Bright Molande, the poet, political analyst himself, erudite scholar too, a PhD student with the University of Essex also, an essayist in some stances, was to offer a talk. A talk on writing. No! it was not to be a talk but a clinic and Molande, nay Bright the son of Molande, was to be the doctor. His prescription, or rather medicine, he called it ‘Living our Faith’.
6:30 PM
ROOM B was full. Full of light. The doors were closed. In front, stood a lecturer – not a doctor – delivering the much sought after knowledge to the people, students in his class. It was more than impossible to tell the people to march out of the room, tradition says no to that and to offend that tradition is as risky as risk itself. We always search for an alternative, of course, with pain in our hearts, on our chests, in our fingers, hands and writing pads not forgetting the brains.
Quickly, the search for the new room began before one of the patrons appeared, Dr. Mark Anderson, the Canadian. This was to be his first ever meeting to attend of the Writers’ Workshop but not the first for Writers congregating.
I briefly introduced myself to him: ‘Dave, Writers’ Workshop Chair.’ He took my hand in his. ‘Mark, one of your patrons,’ another brief introduction.
Then, the little information on what was happening was offered to him. We were both in a fix. And, at the mention of the word ‘Writers’ , a certain lady appeared and asked what was happening, she said she was searching for the room which was hosting Molande’s clinic. She had been there since six. Something close to danger was looming here!
6:35 PM
A SEARCH, a gallant one, for an alternative room ensued. Usually, we shift to room F or C in the law section but on this day, this Thursday, both were in use. Well, that was a blessing in disguise for if we had fooled ourselves to settle for that room then…horror would have been the word leaving our lips upon the arrival of Molande!
The search was extended to rooms we had never dreamt of using. Rooms very far, as are the words on our lips from our hearts, from room B and then, room U was found. It was written, on the board, booked but there was nobody there. Time was fully against me, against the Writers’ Workshop, against everything. The phone had been ringing for so long. It was only once I had picked it and had been greeted by a very rough voice asking my whereabouts.
6:40 PM
AFTER being informed of the new room, people started trekking to there. Another way of communicating had to be done to tell all the late comers that the venue had been shifted – not changed. Room U in the education faculty was the new venue. Tradition had been desecrated, our tradition.
ROOM U
WHOEVER chose room B in the early 1970s must have been a prophet. Why? Why also did he choose room B of all the rooms? Why, oh, why?
This clairvoyant of some sort who opted for room B after ceasing using the Senior Common Room saw a day, a Thursday, coming in March, on the 25th day of the year 2010 – almost forty years later. He knew that no room was big enough to accommodate the people who were to congregate on that Thursday he saw but only room B – as poorly located as it is.
Room U was small, that is to say small is the word used to mean too small, very small. It could not accommodate the population, the frightening one, that congregated that day to be healed by ‘Dr.’ Molande. Even after using all the techniques of creating space, there still was no space in room U. So scary that was!
ROOM T
FORTUNATELY, the class that was to be in Room T, a bigger one compared to U but small when compared to B, was cancelled. And, it was suggested that people move into the other room, T. This was after the suggestion that we just use the Library Resource Centre as an emergency had been shot down, defeated!
But even room T was not enough. Strange, shocking this was to everyone who has ever been in the Workshop meetings before.
And while the chairs were being arranged and disarranged in Room T, a bespectacled Molande appeared. The man whom the frightening majority had gathered for. At least, Molande was still too smart, not dirty, to never ever have thought of standing as either an MP or President simply because there was a majority that had gathered for him. Such smart thinking is rare, very rare, like the swelling and strange number of the Writers’ Workshop that day.
LIVING OUR FAITH
THERE was silence, not dead silence, when seats were booked disorderly in room T. nobody knew who was responsible for breaking the silence. And, apart from the silence there also was heat, hot heat despite the bare fact that all the windows were wide and open.
However, Molande never allowed the silence to terrorise for too long. He broke the silence, not with an introduction. He broke it with his medicine, the prescription. He started by naming it, revealing its name to the hungry, angry, sick and starved souls.
He said the title of his talk was ‘living our faith’, our faith as writers.
Then, he proceeded into the real stuff. The main emphasis of his clinic was on short stories, novels, novellas or to be very brief, prose. How do we construct prose? that was the first disease he started attending to before moving to the other ailments that go together with the mentioned disease: where do we get inspiration for the prose, how do we get and develop the characters, the plot, the setting, the conflict etcetera?
And somewhere in the light of room T, Molande interrupted himself with jokes from his own lips, nay brain. They all helped in stitching together the wounds of prose, especially short story, writing in the patients that sat before ‘Dr.’ Molande.
And Molande's elucidation was not the usual one, it was abnormal in the positive way. He elucidated as though he was writing, not just writing but in his usual style and way of writing – the one in which he writes things so easy to read but difficult to understand though important and very beneficial.
Never think he never gave to us any of his attributes, he gave them all. Somewhere he diverted, he wore that robe many knew he would fail to not wear on such a day, that of the political analyst. He said something that prompted many to mention a name of a certain politician, I have just forgotten who – forgive my brain.
Molande said the problem with Malawian writers, of short stories, is that they do not write stories as they ought to be. They just tell stories as anybody else. Malawian writers in our papers – said he – write stories as we told in the past when we were young, back in the primary school days. They have an established way of their narrations. The order is that this happened, then this followed, this came after and then this and lastly that – a short story is over.
Well, according to Molande, short stories need and must be different from the usual telling of stories. They must be those that should make someone change positions when sitting whilst reading them; if someone had his back against the chair when beginning to read a story, he must be sitting upright by the time he is finishing the story.
A short story, using Molande as our reference, must make the reader impatient. It must make the reader wonder what happens next and what then after that. A reader must be forced to skim some few paragraphs to see what action is happening in the coming paragraphs, what happens between the protagonist and antagonist. A short story must not be obvious.
He observed, I mean Molande, and it seems rightly so, that unfortunately most of the stories that appear in the papers lack that, our faith. Many writers, this was an observation by he, are not living our faith – the faith of writers; they do not write short stories but just stories.
SWEET SORROW
THEN after some minutes of talking and saying things, not just talking, Molande took his seat. He parted with the patients, they looked healed. He now deserved a rest. A rest from talking and speaking. He had to part with talking and parting he did. His parting made Shakespeare truer when he writes in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ that parting is such sweet sorrow. It was a sorrow so sweet to part with the talk of Molande. A talk that told stories and narrated tales.
JUST THE GENESIS
CHARLES Mkoka asked how many times the clinics will be provided. Molande was uncertain, his answer revealed that. He did cast a shadow of doubt on the people available, the patrons, the patients with wounds, just some – very few –, still bleeding.
But, the clinics will be there – that is a fact – an answer to Charles’ question. The 25th of March clinic was just the genesis. It is upon the heart of the Writers’ Workshop to hold these clinics for as much as it can.
We dream, a very possible dream it is, of having Steve Chimombo one day. We wish, a more than strong wish this, to host Mzati Nkolokosa one day. We desire, a burning desire is this, of having Benedicto Wokomaatani Malunga one time. Alfred Msadala is on our plans to come again this year.
Zondiwe Mbano – middle name Bruce, Shemu Joyah, Temwani Mgunda and the list is endless, we expect to have them all this year, to come and heal the bruised souls here, the wounded soldiers who have vowed to keep on fighting with their pens and papers.
Dave Namusanya
TRADITION is more often than not broken, and violated. But then, there always are consequences, sometimes dire, when the tradition is broken. It, not all times, invites wrath – the breaking of tradition.
And nothing could stop the consequences from unveiling themselves on Thursday, 25th March 2010, when tradition was broken, pardon, abused and ‘raped’, yes defiled!
One of the few open secrets that exist at Chancellor College, and even outside there, is that room B is a room with an arrogant corner that always hinders people from seeing what is happening on the other side. It is the same room also that is used by the Writers’ workshop each and every Thursday night when school is in session for their weekly meetings.
And, as usual, on the aforementioned Thursday, the room was to be filled to capacity, to even overflow, by Writers, readers, aspirers and even sympathisers. Why?
Because it is a tradition, a well known indubitable fact, that the room is used by Writers of the College every Thursday when learning is in progress at the Campus. Not only that but also it was for the very first time in almost three years for the man who was to visit, no! make himself available, to the workshop; not just be present but deliver a talk.
However, when the clock ticked to something close to six thirty, the gathering time, room B was far from being used by the Workshop. Very far from being overflowed by the Writers, and sympathisers. Why?
There was a class in the traditional room. A class on a Thursday, not just a Thursday but a Thursday night, not just a Thursday night but a night that was totally different from the previous ones. Why different?
Bright Molande, the poet, political analyst himself, erudite scholar too, a PhD student with the University of Essex also, an essayist in some stances, was to offer a talk. A talk on writing. No! it was not to be a talk but a clinic and Molande, nay Bright the son of Molande, was to be the doctor. His prescription, or rather medicine, he called it ‘Living our Faith’.
6:30 PM
ROOM B was full. Full of light. The doors were closed. In front, stood a lecturer – not a doctor – delivering the much sought after knowledge to the people, students in his class. It was more than impossible to tell the people to march out of the room, tradition says no to that and to offend that tradition is as risky as risk itself. We always search for an alternative, of course, with pain in our hearts, on our chests, in our fingers, hands and writing pads not forgetting the brains.
Quickly, the search for the new room began before one of the patrons appeared, Dr. Mark Anderson, the Canadian. This was to be his first ever meeting to attend of the Writers’ Workshop but not the first for Writers congregating.
I briefly introduced myself to him: ‘Dave, Writers’ Workshop Chair.’ He took my hand in his. ‘Mark, one of your patrons,’ another brief introduction.
Then, the little information on what was happening was offered to him. We were both in a fix. And, at the mention of the word ‘Writers’ , a certain lady appeared and asked what was happening, she said she was searching for the room which was hosting Molande’s clinic. She had been there since six. Something close to danger was looming here!
6:35 PM
A SEARCH, a gallant one, for an alternative room ensued. Usually, we shift to room F or C in the law section but on this day, this Thursday, both were in use. Well, that was a blessing in disguise for if we had fooled ourselves to settle for that room then…horror would have been the word leaving our lips upon the arrival of Molande!
The search was extended to rooms we had never dreamt of using. Rooms very far, as are the words on our lips from our hearts, from room B and then, room U was found. It was written, on the board, booked but there was nobody there. Time was fully against me, against the Writers’ Workshop, against everything. The phone had been ringing for so long. It was only once I had picked it and had been greeted by a very rough voice asking my whereabouts.
6:40 PM
AFTER being informed of the new room, people started trekking to there. Another way of communicating had to be done to tell all the late comers that the venue had been shifted – not changed. Room U in the education faculty was the new venue. Tradition had been desecrated, our tradition.
ROOM U
WHOEVER chose room B in the early 1970s must have been a prophet. Why? Why also did he choose room B of all the rooms? Why, oh, why?
This clairvoyant of some sort who opted for room B after ceasing using the Senior Common Room saw a day, a Thursday, coming in March, on the 25th day of the year 2010 – almost forty years later. He knew that no room was big enough to accommodate the people who were to congregate on that Thursday he saw but only room B – as poorly located as it is.
Room U was small, that is to say small is the word used to mean too small, very small. It could not accommodate the population, the frightening one, that congregated that day to be healed by ‘Dr.’ Molande. Even after using all the techniques of creating space, there still was no space in room U. So scary that was!
ROOM T
FORTUNATELY, the class that was to be in Room T, a bigger one compared to U but small when compared to B, was cancelled. And, it was suggested that people move into the other room, T. This was after the suggestion that we just use the Library Resource Centre as an emergency had been shot down, defeated!
But even room T was not enough. Strange, shocking this was to everyone who has ever been in the Workshop meetings before.
And while the chairs were being arranged and disarranged in Room T, a bespectacled Molande appeared. The man whom the frightening majority had gathered for. At least, Molande was still too smart, not dirty, to never ever have thought of standing as either an MP or President simply because there was a majority that had gathered for him. Such smart thinking is rare, very rare, like the swelling and strange number of the Writers’ Workshop that day.
LIVING OUR FAITH
THERE was silence, not dead silence, when seats were booked disorderly in room T. nobody knew who was responsible for breaking the silence. And, apart from the silence there also was heat, hot heat despite the bare fact that all the windows were wide and open.
However, Molande never allowed the silence to terrorise for too long. He broke the silence, not with an introduction. He broke it with his medicine, the prescription. He started by naming it, revealing its name to the hungry, angry, sick and starved souls.
He said the title of his talk was ‘living our faith’, our faith as writers.
Then, he proceeded into the real stuff. The main emphasis of his clinic was on short stories, novels, novellas or to be very brief, prose. How do we construct prose? that was the first disease he started attending to before moving to the other ailments that go together with the mentioned disease: where do we get inspiration for the prose, how do we get and develop the characters, the plot, the setting, the conflict etcetera?
And somewhere in the light of room T, Molande interrupted himself with jokes from his own lips, nay brain. They all helped in stitching together the wounds of prose, especially short story, writing in the patients that sat before ‘Dr.’ Molande.
And Molande's elucidation was not the usual one, it was abnormal in the positive way. He elucidated as though he was writing, not just writing but in his usual style and way of writing – the one in which he writes things so easy to read but difficult to understand though important and very beneficial.
Never think he never gave to us any of his attributes, he gave them all. Somewhere he diverted, he wore that robe many knew he would fail to not wear on such a day, that of the political analyst. He said something that prompted many to mention a name of a certain politician, I have just forgotten who – forgive my brain.
Molande said the problem with Malawian writers, of short stories, is that they do not write stories as they ought to be. They just tell stories as anybody else. Malawian writers in our papers – said he – write stories as we told in the past when we were young, back in the primary school days. They have an established way of their narrations. The order is that this happened, then this followed, this came after and then this and lastly that – a short story is over.
Well, according to Molande, short stories need and must be different from the usual telling of stories. They must be those that should make someone change positions when sitting whilst reading them; if someone had his back against the chair when beginning to read a story, he must be sitting upright by the time he is finishing the story.
A short story, using Molande as our reference, must make the reader impatient. It must make the reader wonder what happens next and what then after that. A reader must be forced to skim some few paragraphs to see what action is happening in the coming paragraphs, what happens between the protagonist and antagonist. A short story must not be obvious.
He observed, I mean Molande, and it seems rightly so, that unfortunately most of the stories that appear in the papers lack that, our faith. Many writers, this was an observation by he, are not living our faith – the faith of writers; they do not write short stories but just stories.
SWEET SORROW
THEN after some minutes of talking and saying things, not just talking, Molande took his seat. He parted with the patients, they looked healed. He now deserved a rest. A rest from talking and speaking. He had to part with talking and parting he did. His parting made Shakespeare truer when he writes in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ that parting is such sweet sorrow. It was a sorrow so sweet to part with the talk of Molande. A talk that told stories and narrated tales.
JUST THE GENESIS
CHARLES Mkoka asked how many times the clinics will be provided. Molande was uncertain, his answer revealed that. He did cast a shadow of doubt on the people available, the patrons, the patients with wounds, just some – very few –, still bleeding.
But, the clinics will be there – that is a fact – an answer to Charles’ question. The 25th of March clinic was just the genesis. It is upon the heart of the Writers’ Workshop to hold these clinics for as much as it can.
We dream, a very possible dream it is, of having Steve Chimombo one day. We wish, a more than strong wish this, to host Mzati Nkolokosa one day. We desire, a burning desire is this, of having Benedicto Wokomaatani Malunga one time. Alfred Msadala is on our plans to come again this year.
Zondiwe Mbano – middle name Bruce, Shemu Joyah, Temwani Mgunda and the list is endless, we expect to have them all this year, to come and heal the bruised souls here, the wounded soldiers who have vowed to keep on fighting with their pens and papers.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
OCTOBER RAINS
This story was once discussed at the Writers' Workshop before it appeared in the Malawi News a week later.It was authored by Innocent Chipofya and it now is being published on our blog wall.
OCTOBER RAINS
By
Innocent Chipofya
THE day began as any other usual day except that the roads were muddy and slippery due to the rains that had fallen the previous night. The rains had washed the red October dusts on the roofs of our houses in Mwazisi village. Despite the steepness and slippery condition of the road, Nyaviyuyi cycled at a speed down the slope. She had to deliver the news. Her mother had delivered a bouncing baby boy. She had to let the oracle of the land know. Her mother had waited for so long for this moment. She had given birth to girls only and had longed for this moment when she could hold a baby boy of her own in her arms. This was the moment. She had given birth to a baby boy. She was at this moment the happiest mother in the village. Nobody could blame her. She had all the reasons to make merry.
Nyaviyuyi could not hide her happiness. She now had someone whom she could call brother. One who, in return, will call her sister. Little did the newborn baby know the joy that his entry into the world of the living had caused. He was nevertheless the village’s joy, laughter and tears. The village had not had a boy since several decades back.
Nyaviyuyi was still cycling and smiling when Nyavidosi brought her back from the world of fantasies.
“Nyaviyuyi, you must have heard something really good. What is it?” she queried.
“Oh, it’s you Nyavidosi, I didn’t notice you were here,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she applied on the brakes of her Hamba bicycle against the slippery gravel road forcing it to stop unconditionally.
“But you haven’t answered my question; or are you that jealousy that you can’t even share a word with me?” Nyavidosi probed as she extended her hand towards Nyaviyuyi.
“It’s not like that my dear, I was going to tell you only that I wanted to make you salivate more with curiosity,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she took Nyavidosi’s hand. Not after many minutes, Nyavidosi knew why her friend was happy. In fact, she was also happy for her. Soon, just like salt in water, the news of the baby boy spread to across all corners of the Mwazisi village and beyond. Indeed, it was the cause for the village’s joy and admiration from its neighbors. Other female members of the village mockingly said they would be forced to cover their bosoms for now there was a man in their midst.
“Psaat!” the oracle spat the thobwa that was brought for him by Nyaviyuyi as a gesture of goodwill. He then quickly ran for a gourd of water that was perched on the corner of his shrine. When he turned to face Nyaviyuyi, his face revealed more wrinkles. He looked a little older now. Nyaviyuyi held her breath and waited for the oracle’s words. But to her surprise, the oracle just stood there, his gaze fixed on the gourd of thobwa. So, he stood there motionless. The oracle seemed to have been lost in the world of spirits. Nyaviyuyi had nothing to do but to wait and waiting she did. She waited for what seemed to be an eternity.
“That boy born of your mother is no son of your father!” at last the oracle spoke, breaking the stillness and quietness that had engulfed the shrine. “Your mother has committed an abominable sin. The spirits are not happy with her and are angry with this land,” he finished.
Nyaviyuyi did not know what to do neither did she know what to say. So she just sat there, moving not – motionless; opening her mouth not – speechless. The only sign that signaled that she had so much to say within her but could not muster the courage to do so was her trembling and shedding of tears. She wept for her mother’s sins. She wept soundless but uncontrollably.
Suddenly, Nyaviyuyi sat up and began to run. She might have accumulated enough adrenaline for this exercise for she ran like a cheetah. She was running to nowhere in particular but she ran all the same. By the time the oracle turned again to face Nyaviyuyi, she was nowhere to be seen. All what was left of Nyaviyuyi’s visit was the thobwa gourd brought for the oracle and the bicycle that leant against the mlombwa tree outside the shrine. Nyaviyuyi had run away. She could not bear the embarrassment, the shame, which her only mother had brought. She had to escape. And escape she did. She escaped to the world unknown.
The news about Nyaviyuyi spread like wild fire. The village’s valleys, forests, rivers and mountain peaks and even those of the villages beyond were searched but to no avail. Not even a trace of Nyaviyuyi’s shadow could be found. That was why the conclusion was made and the ultimate decision reached. It was put forward by the elders of our village that Nyaviyuyi had committed suicide and that the rabid hyenas of the forest had eaten her remains. Though there was no proof for what they said, we all agreed and a funeral service for Nyaviyuyi was mounted. It was Nyaviyuyi’s funeral in her absentia.
Fifteen years passed since Nyaviyuyi’s strange death. I still remember that I was five years old when the incident occurred. Just two years after the death of her mother, which is last year, Nyaviyuyi, resurfaced to the surprise of everyone? I had really no idea of how she looked like when she went missing but I must confess that I heard that she was beautiful. I always trembled at the thought of such an acclaimed beautiful young woman committing suicide. I swore I could travel through hell if need be to marry such an applauded angel on the other side of heaven.
Her resurfacing was what unearthed the top secrets: her mother’s shameful abominable act that had bore her a baby boy and consequently led her into exile. She narrated in detail the words of the oracle and how she self-exiled herself. She ended the narrative with her long kept greeting for her brother. She greeted her brother between sobs and tears. The tears that rushed down her cheeks even made her more beautiful than I ever imagined.
“Brother, no matter what happened, no matter where we are coming from and no matter where we are going, I still…” Nyaviyuyi did not finish her words. She fell on the ground with foam coming out of her mouth. She died instantly.
Nyaviyuyi might have carefully planned her return. She just wanted to chamber out what had angered her. She wanted her village folk to know why she went into exile for fifteen years.
And that incident happened last October just after the October rains had washed the red dusts on our roofs. I wonder if she ever knew that I wanted to ask her hand in marriage; maybe she did, maybe she did not. As I sit here today, watching the rainwaters dropping on the eaves of my mphala washing the red October dusts of my grass-thatched roof, I still wonder what tragedy the October rains will bring us this time. Surely, not the one like that it brought us last October.
OCTOBER RAINS
By
Innocent Chipofya
THE day began as any other usual day except that the roads were muddy and slippery due to the rains that had fallen the previous night. The rains had washed the red October dusts on the roofs of our houses in Mwazisi village. Despite the steepness and slippery condition of the road, Nyaviyuyi cycled at a speed down the slope. She had to deliver the news. Her mother had delivered a bouncing baby boy. She had to let the oracle of the land know. Her mother had waited for so long for this moment. She had given birth to girls only and had longed for this moment when she could hold a baby boy of her own in her arms. This was the moment. She had given birth to a baby boy. She was at this moment the happiest mother in the village. Nobody could blame her. She had all the reasons to make merry.
Nyaviyuyi could not hide her happiness. She now had someone whom she could call brother. One who, in return, will call her sister. Little did the newborn baby know the joy that his entry into the world of the living had caused. He was nevertheless the village’s joy, laughter and tears. The village had not had a boy since several decades back.
Nyaviyuyi was still cycling and smiling when Nyavidosi brought her back from the world of fantasies.
“Nyaviyuyi, you must have heard something really good. What is it?” she queried.
“Oh, it’s you Nyavidosi, I didn’t notice you were here,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she applied on the brakes of her Hamba bicycle against the slippery gravel road forcing it to stop unconditionally.
“But you haven’t answered my question; or are you that jealousy that you can’t even share a word with me?” Nyavidosi probed as she extended her hand towards Nyaviyuyi.
“It’s not like that my dear, I was going to tell you only that I wanted to make you salivate more with curiosity,” Nyaviyuyi replied as she took Nyavidosi’s hand. Not after many minutes, Nyavidosi knew why her friend was happy. In fact, she was also happy for her. Soon, just like salt in water, the news of the baby boy spread to across all corners of the Mwazisi village and beyond. Indeed, it was the cause for the village’s joy and admiration from its neighbors. Other female members of the village mockingly said they would be forced to cover their bosoms for now there was a man in their midst.
“Psaat!” the oracle spat the thobwa that was brought for him by Nyaviyuyi as a gesture of goodwill. He then quickly ran for a gourd of water that was perched on the corner of his shrine. When he turned to face Nyaviyuyi, his face revealed more wrinkles. He looked a little older now. Nyaviyuyi held her breath and waited for the oracle’s words. But to her surprise, the oracle just stood there, his gaze fixed on the gourd of thobwa. So, he stood there motionless. The oracle seemed to have been lost in the world of spirits. Nyaviyuyi had nothing to do but to wait and waiting she did. She waited for what seemed to be an eternity.
“That boy born of your mother is no son of your father!” at last the oracle spoke, breaking the stillness and quietness that had engulfed the shrine. “Your mother has committed an abominable sin. The spirits are not happy with her and are angry with this land,” he finished.
Nyaviyuyi did not know what to do neither did she know what to say. So she just sat there, moving not – motionless; opening her mouth not – speechless. The only sign that signaled that she had so much to say within her but could not muster the courage to do so was her trembling and shedding of tears. She wept for her mother’s sins. She wept soundless but uncontrollably.
Suddenly, Nyaviyuyi sat up and began to run. She might have accumulated enough adrenaline for this exercise for she ran like a cheetah. She was running to nowhere in particular but she ran all the same. By the time the oracle turned again to face Nyaviyuyi, she was nowhere to be seen. All what was left of Nyaviyuyi’s visit was the thobwa gourd brought for the oracle and the bicycle that leant against the mlombwa tree outside the shrine. Nyaviyuyi had run away. She could not bear the embarrassment, the shame, which her only mother had brought. She had to escape. And escape she did. She escaped to the world unknown.
The news about Nyaviyuyi spread like wild fire. The village’s valleys, forests, rivers and mountain peaks and even those of the villages beyond were searched but to no avail. Not even a trace of Nyaviyuyi’s shadow could be found. That was why the conclusion was made and the ultimate decision reached. It was put forward by the elders of our village that Nyaviyuyi had committed suicide and that the rabid hyenas of the forest had eaten her remains. Though there was no proof for what they said, we all agreed and a funeral service for Nyaviyuyi was mounted. It was Nyaviyuyi’s funeral in her absentia.
Fifteen years passed since Nyaviyuyi’s strange death. I still remember that I was five years old when the incident occurred. Just two years after the death of her mother, which is last year, Nyaviyuyi, resurfaced to the surprise of everyone? I had really no idea of how she looked like when she went missing but I must confess that I heard that she was beautiful. I always trembled at the thought of such an acclaimed beautiful young woman committing suicide. I swore I could travel through hell if need be to marry such an applauded angel on the other side of heaven.
Her resurfacing was what unearthed the top secrets: her mother’s shameful abominable act that had bore her a baby boy and consequently led her into exile. She narrated in detail the words of the oracle and how she self-exiled herself. She ended the narrative with her long kept greeting for her brother. She greeted her brother between sobs and tears. The tears that rushed down her cheeks even made her more beautiful than I ever imagined.
“Brother, no matter what happened, no matter where we are coming from and no matter where we are going, I still…” Nyaviyuyi did not finish her words. She fell on the ground with foam coming out of her mouth. She died instantly.
Nyaviyuyi might have carefully planned her return. She just wanted to chamber out what had angered her. She wanted her village folk to know why she went into exile for fifteen years.
And that incident happened last October just after the October rains had washed the red dusts on our roofs. I wonder if she ever knew that I wanted to ask her hand in marriage; maybe she did, maybe she did not. As I sit here today, watching the rainwaters dropping on the eaves of my mphala washing the red October dusts of my grass-thatched roof, I still wonder what tragedy the October rains will bring us this time. Surely, not the one like that it brought us last October.
FOR THURSDAY,25TH MARCH 2010 IN ROOM B FROM 6:30 PM
We are hosting the poet, the essayist, the political analysit and the erudite scholar.One whose hands can make the pen speak a language so easy to nderstand and difficult to hear or just put easily, get.His name is Bright Molande and from 18:30 hours in room B,he will be delivering a talk on writing to the people that will gather in the room.This is just one of those rare opportunities you cannot manage to miss.
By the way, this is just the beggining since the Workshop has embarked on a programme of inviting well-known writers apart from the usual school visitations that will also continue this year,2010.
Watch out this space for the program of the Workshop this year but remember that Bright Molande will be delivering a talk this Thursday in room B!
By the way, this is just the beggining since the Workshop has embarked on a programme of inviting well-known writers apart from the usual school visitations that will also continue this year,2010.
Watch out this space for the program of the Workshop this year but remember that Bright Molande will be delivering a talk this Thursday in room B!
Monday, March 22, 2010
THIS THURSDAY,25TH MARCH 2010
We are hosting one of Malawi's literary giants,Mr. Bright Molande in room B from 18:30 hours this Thursday.He will deliver a talk on writing.This is one golden opprtunity you cannot afford to miss!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
MESSAGE FROM THE MALAWI PEN PRESIDENT ON WORLD POETRY DAY,21 MARCH 2010
Malawi PEN
words, words nothing but words
Message from Mr Alfred Msadala, President, on the occasion of UNESCO World Poetry Day, 2010
Dear colleagues in the family of Malawi PEN. It is very gratifying, once again, that we commune together this year to celebrate the World Poetry Day, 21 March, 2010. As you may recall, it is now becoming a routine in our calendar that we observe the day together with the rest of the world. Our theme of words, words nothing but words is very pertinent with what poetry is all about because no language can stand on its own without poetics. On a didactic note, poetry is about beauty, sounds, images, emotions and insights which should be put onto paper thereby becoming words.
In her message to this year’s commemoration, Madame Irina Bokova, Director-General of UNESCO wishes us to observe the day with a conviction that poetry is part of our life; which at times, we find ourselves ignoring the fact and I quote:
‘Poetry is a collection of universal resonances. It needs, however, to be better known, brought down from its pedestal, so as to simply find its place at the heart of life.’
I would like to take this opportunity that the PEN through its Charter affirms that literature must remain a common currency among people in spite of political or international upheavals.
As you may recall, last year, we commemorated the day at the Catholic University, courtesy of the vice chancellor, Prof. Anaclet Phiri, who even graced the occasion. This year, we are joining our colleagues, the Poetry Association of Malawi, at The Warehouse for the afternoon of Chitsinda cha Ndakatulo. I urge you all to patronise.
The Words of Nature, the Nature of the Words is the theme for the day this year.
Best regards
words, words nothing but words
Message from Mr Alfred Msadala, President, on the occasion of UNESCO World Poetry Day, 2010
Dear colleagues in the family of Malawi PEN. It is very gratifying, once again, that we commune together this year to celebrate the World Poetry Day, 21 March, 2010. As you may recall, it is now becoming a routine in our calendar that we observe the day together with the rest of the world. Our theme of words, words nothing but words is very pertinent with what poetry is all about because no language can stand on its own without poetics. On a didactic note, poetry is about beauty, sounds, images, emotions and insights which should be put onto paper thereby becoming words.
In her message to this year’s commemoration, Madame Irina Bokova, Director-General of UNESCO wishes us to observe the day with a conviction that poetry is part of our life; which at times, we find ourselves ignoring the fact and I quote:
‘Poetry is a collection of universal resonances. It needs, however, to be better known, brought down from its pedestal, so as to simply find its place at the heart of life.’
I would like to take this opportunity that the PEN through its Charter affirms that literature must remain a common currency among people in spite of political or international upheavals.
As you may recall, last year, we commemorated the day at the Catholic University, courtesy of the vice chancellor, Prof. Anaclet Phiri, who even graced the occasion. This year, we are joining our colleagues, the Poetry Association of Malawi, at The Warehouse for the afternoon of Chitsinda cha Ndakatulo. I urge you all to patronise.
The Words of Nature, the Nature of the Words is the theme for the day this year.
Best regards
OUR NEW PATRONS
We are introducing the new patrons, not patron, today at the Writers' Workshop in room B from 18:30.We will also have a Poem analysis.Watch this space for a longer article on the Patrons...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
POEM FOR THURSDAY,11TH MARCH 2010
MY STORY
Heard.
Heard of heroic stories fold
Of southern, eastern, western
And northern men and women
These when I hear
Hope and courage in me appear
Knowing yesterday, today is theirs
But tomorrow is mine, me so dears!
My story will be heard far and wide
The bus from ‘led’ to ‘leader’, ‘conformer’ to ‘innovator’ I’ll ride
My story posterity shall hear
And with maddening admiration shall fear
My story will be heard, and I’ll be heard positively
Greatly and profoundly
Heard.
Heard of heroic stories fold
Of southern, eastern, western
And northern men and women
These when I hear
Hope and courage in me appear
Knowing yesterday, today is theirs
But tomorrow is mine, me so dears!
My story will be heard far and wide
The bus from ‘led’ to ‘leader’, ‘conformer’ to ‘innovator’ I’ll ride
My story posterity shall hear
And with maddening admiration shall fear
My story will be heard, and I’ll be heard positively
Greatly and profoundly
Monday, March 1, 2010
WATCH THIS SPACE
The reality is slowly but painfully dawning on us,it seems the writers' Workshop is at a junction of either taking a path that will prophesy doom or otherwise.Just watch this space for more...
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