Registered under the National Arts Council of Zimbabwe

27 December 2013

2013 WIN Short Story Competition: Shona Language Section Winner (SENIOR CATEGORY)


We hope you had a wonderful Christmas with your loved ones. We are glad to present this short story which won the 2013 WIN Short Story Competition First Prize in the Shona section of the Senior Category plus an exclusive interview WIN-Zim Director had with journalist Moses Magadza. The interview first appeared on Munyori Literary Journal and KwaChirere blog.
The winning story Munombozvitorepi? scored 70% marks. “A touching short story with a relevant sense of mischief,” commented the adjudicator, writer Memory Chirere. Enjoy!

Munombozvitorepi?

Na Elijah Mahwamba

Makore adarika nyika yakange yaomerwa. Zvinhu zvose muzvitoro zvakange zvisisawanikwe. Zvichitiwo mari yacho hayaitana kudonha. Nyangwe waive nayo waishaya chekuishandisa. Rainge ratove gwakumukwaku kurarama kworuzhinji. Nyope dzaitopona nekukwata.
Munharaunda yandaigara vakweguri vaive vasisina variritiri vaifumoonekwa vakagonya. Nzara yakanga yomera muswe.
Zvino izvi ndizvo zvaive zvakanyanya kuvengwa naAmai vaChido. Misi mizhinji vaifumobata jongwe muromo kugadzirira mwana wavo zvekuchikoro. Vapedza vaimuberekesa kabhegi kaive nezvokudya, kabhuku nekachinyoreso. Vaibva vati, “Chido chibuda uende, mhanya. Usanonoka wazvinzwa?”
Chido achingoti dhugu-u vaibva vatizve kuna baba vaChido, “Ndave kuenda kunotengesa zvandakabva nazvo Jobheki.”
Baba vaChido voti, “Ehoi.”
Amai vaChido vaibva vatsiga zibhegi ravo vobuda voenda. Baba vaChido vaisara zvavo varere.
Misi mizhinji kunyanya kumapeto kwemwedzi amai vaChido vaiwanzodzoka kumba pakati pousiku. Vainge vakatakura girosa zhinji kwazvo.
Baba vaibva vatanga kupopota, “Inguvai yaunopinda mumba munhu wemukadzi? Chirudzii? Unopindirana nesu mumba mapurisa vachengetedzi venyika ko ukapondwa?”
Amai vaChido vaibva vati, “Hamuzivi here kuti basa redu rinowanzofamba kunopera mwedzi kudai? Pakati pemwedzi munooona ndichiuya nezvingani? Kana zvichitofamba musi iwoyo ndinenge ndoti ndimbochovha.”
“Kuchovha kwokupinda mumba 12.00 dzino? Kuchovhai? Izvo zvinhu zvese izvi munombozvitorepi moga moga muzvitoro hamuna chichawanikwa? Kana kuwanda kwazvo hazvienderani nezvamabva nazvo pano.”
Amai vaChido hapana chavaizopindura. Vaibva vagara pasofa zvavo vakabata himu-bhuku yeSavadha. Votanga kuimba uru rwiyo:
“Kure kure kumusha
Nda-abvunza murindi ati,
Husiku huri kupera
Kuchasvika mukuyedza
Usacheme shingirira,
Kwakuda kuyedza”
Vapedza kuimba vaibva vapfugama pasi votanga kunyengetera. Vapedzazve votora bhaibheri ravo vorivhura nopakati paro. Vaibva vatora mari mukahendi-bhegi kavo voisa pakati pebhaibheri. Vadaro vaisimudza bhaibheri riya nemaoko maviri rakavhurika, mabvi akadya pasi vachiti, “Ndiyo mari yandauya nayo nhasi baba.”
Baba vaChido vaibva vamboramba zvavo vakamira vakati nde-ee kuuso. Pakarepo vaibva vasimudza bhodhoro ravo redoro raive kurudyi voriti kumuromo ndiye tsitsa. Mushure mezvo voti, “Aiwa tazviona Madhuwe. Chitibvisira zvedu yedu yedoro tigare nayo.”
Amai vaChido voti, “Chimbondibatsiraiwo kuinyengeterera musati mabvisa yenyu.”
Vadaro Amai vaChido vaibva vanyatsotsunzunya votanga kunyengetera. Naizvozvo baba vaChido vaibva vangotsunzunya vagara pasofa pakagara bhodhoro redoro.
Amai Chido vapedza kunyengetera vaibva vavhara bhaibheri riya voriisa paigara mabhuku avo ekusvondo. Vaibva vati, “Mozotora yenyu ipapa.”
Vadaro vaibva vabuda vondozvigeza vodzoka zvavo vorara.
Igaroziva kuti misi haifanani. Mumwe musi baba vaChido vakashama kuona munda wadyiwa nembwa sevakarima nyama. Vakaona mukadzi wavo achiti pindikiti mumba pakati pousiku ari musvo zvawo. Akange achijuja ropa mukanwa, mumhino nomunzeve.
Baba vaChido vakabvunza mukadzi wavo kuti chii chakange chaiitika ivo vakati vainge vapona neburi retsono kubva munjodzi yematsotsi ainge oda kuvaponda mushure mekuvatorera zvinhu zvavo zvose.
“Ndaimboti kudii?” vakadaro baba vaChido mushure mekumboti zi-i kwekanguva vakatarira mukadzi wavo. Asi apa mukadzi wavo haana kudaira, akaramba achifikura-fikura.
“Chipfeka tiende kuchipatara,” vakadaro Baba VaChido asi mudzimai wavo akatsika madziro. Aiti arinani anokwanisa kumirira kuedza kwokunze. Aitizve anoda kuzonotenga mishonga ku pharmacy bedzi.
Rave rechimangwana Amai vaChido vakatanga kupopotedzana nemurume wavo. Vakange vachibva kunotenga mishonga ku pharmacy.
“Munenge makachata nedoro sei imi? Pose pane bhawa ngatimire. Munombonzwa sei imi?”
“Ndati ndinoda kungotenga hwani bhodhoro reLion Lager chete tobva taenda,” vakadaro vachitotsaurira motokri yavo pamagirosa painzi paRed Bull muMabvuku.
Pamagirosa apa usiku hwapfuura painge paitika mashura makuru. Painge pabatwa mukadzi nemurume vakarara vese kuseri kwebhawa. Pavakabatwa nemupurisa vakarohwa senyoka yapinda mumba. Pavakazongowana kamukana kekupoya nako vese vanonzi vakatiza vasina kupfeka vachimhanya semapenzi. Zvokutoti kana mapurisa acho akatosara otyoka havo mbabvu nekuseka.
Mumwe mupurisa aivepo akati mukadzi uyu aimuziva, achireva Mai Chido. Aiti akambomubatazve kuBeitbridge akarara nemumwe mutyairi wegonyeti raienda kuDurban.
Saka pavakasvika pamagirosa aya amai vaChido vakararisa seat remota. Pakarepo vakabva vazvambarara vakafuga zambia ravo.
Apa baba vaChido havana chavakazotaura. Chinyararire vakangobuda mumotokari vachinotenga zvavaida. Vadzoka vakaivhetemesa vakananga kumba kwavo kuTafara.
Kwapera mwedzi mumwe rimwe zuva baba vaChido vakasvika riri jwi-i chwi-i. Paive pakati pousiku. Vachingoburuka mumota vaingonzwa mhere mhere yamadzimai chete.
Ipapo vakabva vamira pakare vachinyatsoteereresa. Vainge vakaribata bhodhoro redoro. Vakanzwazve dititi rekurohwa kwemunhu mumba mavo. Chinguvacho vakanzwa muvakidzani wavo amai vaKuda vachiti, “Nhasi murume wako anosvika tichikunhadzira. Chawanga uchitsvaga mandinorara nemurume wangu nguva dzino chi-i?”
Nguva yakareyo baba vaChido vakanzwazve izwi remwana wavo Chido achichema achiti, “Mhama vangu kani!”
Ipapo baba vaChido vamboriti kumuromo bhodhoro redoro ndiye tsitsa. Chinguvacho vakabva vangopinda mumota yavo ndokuimutsa. Vakaivhetemesa vakananga kubhawa.
Uyu ndiwo musi wakabva wapedzisira kuonekwa amai vaChido vari pamba pavo. Vakangonyangarika.
Mukaona mukadzi wechidiki anorera mwana ega pasina baba vomwana ndivo amai vaChido. Vaudzei vadzokere kwavaive vakaroorwa pakutanga nogwara. Nezita raJesu hakuna chitema chinotadzikwa kucheneswa. Akatifira. Asi mukange mavashaya Mai Chido bva hatichaziva pada chakavadya...(Magumo)

(Elijah Mahwamba was born in Murehwa in 1987. He did his early education at Makunde Primary School before he proceeded to Tafara High School in Harare for his secondary education. He has a Shona novel manuscript Pasi Dema which WIN is assisting him with assessment. Mahwamba also writes Shona poetry.)
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(click text above to go to the interview)

Beaven Tapureta, WIN-Zimbabwe Director
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WE WISH YOU A FRUITFUL 2014.
THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT IN 2013.
THANK YOU. THANK YOU.



17 December 2013

2013 WIN Short Story Writing Competition: Junior Category Winner




‘The Shy Woman’ by Panashe Mushambi scooped First Prize in the Junior Category of the WIN 2013 Short Story Competition, scoring 75 marks out of 100. Judge’s Comment: “An enticing story.... However, it will need close proof-reading.”


The Shy Woman


By Panashe Mushambi (above)


Three years of terrible drought in the land. No rain fell. Crops did not grow, birds flew away, cattle grew thin, and then died.
There was no water in the rivers and no food in the village. The people in the village were afraid to starve to death.
A man in the village lost his child so he was afraid to lose the last child. One day he was talking to his wife about how he could find food to save his last child.
“My wife this has been a terrible drought ever. This very same drought killed Martha; I won’t let Marry die too, never. We have to do something,” said Mr. Thompson.
“It hurts me too and I think we or shall I say you should go to another village to look for food,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“Hey, What? Are you out of your mind! Me go to another village and die on my way, never! Susan, Susan, think before you even say a word,” shouted Mr. Thompson.
“I’m sorry but what have I done to be called with my name in front of our daughter. Anyway, I have another idea. I think we have to go and work for people with food so that we get some,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“Now you are talking. Since it is early in the morning, we can start now,” said Mr. Thompson.
“Fine, I will approach Mrs. James for work and you will approach Mr. Jones as well,” said Mrs. Thompson.
They both took their friends and searched for work but they were not very luck. The next day they searched but they could not find even a piece of work. They searched every place where people with food lived. They were very disappointed.
Mr. Thompson was very angry with his wife because her plan did not work. He shouted at his wife and scolded her. They spent two more days of hunger and Mr. Thompson had a plan.
“My wife I have a plan. We should play dead and one of us gets into a coffin. Then people will come with food. I will start to pretend,” said Mr. Thompson.
“It’s fine if you’re starting. You can play dead tomorrow,” agreed Mrs. Thompson doubtfully.
The next day Mrs. Thompson and Mary pretended to cry.
“My husband, my husband why, why did you have to die? Please don’t leave me. Who shall take care of Mary, oh my God?” cried Mrs. Thompson.
“Papa, papa wake up! Please don’t leave me,” cried Mary.
People heard the news; some came with food, others with water and others with wine. There was plenty of food. Mrs. Thompson asked to be left alone with her dead husband.
“My husband the food is here,” whispered Mrs. Thompson
“Okay, we will talk later. I will knock the coffin at the grave. For me to know that we are there, you say, ‘my husband, don’t leave me’ understood,” said Mr. Thompson.
“I’ll do just that,” said Mrs. Thompson.
In the tradition of the village if someone dies that person will be buried after an hour. That means the food was not yet eaten.
People went to the graves and when they arrived, they were shocked. Mr. Thompson started knocking and shouting inside the coffin. People started running, leaving the food and Mr. Thompson in the coffin. Mrs. Thompson opened the coffin for her husband to come out. They had food to feed them for months.
The food got finished, now it was Mrs. Thompson’s turn.
“I can’t do this,” said Mrs. Thompson, afraid.
“You’re going to do it today. Do you want Mary to die with hunger? Do it for Mary!” shouted Mr. Thompson.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Thompson sadly.
Mr. Thompson played their part of crying. People came with food, water and wine. People from the other village came with more food. Mr. Thompson asked to be left alone for a moment with his dead wife.
“How will I have to cry when we get there?” asked Mr. Thompson.
“You’ll have to say, ‘I want to go in with her. That’s all,” said Mrs. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson did what he was told to do but Mrs. Thompson did not come out. She did not come out because she was making confusions in her mind.
She thought, “If I come out what will the villagers say” or “Let me come out, but…”
When she was making the right decision, she was putting a ‘but’. Yet time was running out. She was buried alive.
Mr. Thompson and Mary ate their last meal at the funeral. The drought continued for other three years. Sadly, Mr. Thompson lost his last child and he was no more.  

(Copyright: Panashe Mushambi)
 
(Fourteen year old Panashe Mushambi has just completed her Form One and will be in Form Two next year at Morgan High School in Harare.)


 WIN-ZIMBABWE wishes you all
 

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13 December 2013

2013 WIN Short Story Competition Winners Announced


 Ladies and Gentlemen, we proudly announce WINNERS of this year's edition of the  WIN Short Story Writing Competition. And the winners are...

Senior Category, English Language Section
First Prize
Hollow Sands by Jane Tendesayi Nyamandwe
Second Prize
The Bundle of Joy by Mercy Dhliwayo
Third Prize
Paranoia by Tawanda Godfrey Kandenga

Senior Category, Shona Language Section
First Prize
Munombozvitorepi? by Elijah Mahwamba
Second Prize
Kamuraramiro by Handsome Madzonga
Third Prize
Bwanyanhekwe by Kudakwashe Chinyani

Junior Category
First Prize
The Shy Woman by Panashe Mushambi
Second Prize
Nguruve Yakazvikanga by Evelyn Chiradza
Third Prize
Nomsa, My Wicked Little Sister by Panashe Mushambi

Writers International Network Zimbabwe Advisory Board, staff and volunteers would like to say to the 2013 winners, "Congratulations, makorokoto, amhlope! How wonderful it feels to end the year with the winning spirit!"
And our gratitude is always to you all who entered the Competition and to many of you for the unwavering support you gave us throughout the year, many many thanks.
Winners will be presented with their book prizes and certificates early next year when we also hold the workshop for all participants of the 2013 short story writing competition. 
We would not have become an energized team, had it not been for your sincere encouragement throug your avid reading of our blog, your connecting others of same interest to us via all means possible, your sacrifice, and above all, your love of literature.
We wish you a Merry Xmas and a happy New Year. May the good Lord be with you, in and out of this festive season.
We will be publishing winning stories on our blog in instalments. 
As we close office for holidays from December 13 to January 8, we leave you in the hands of Jane Tendesayi Nyamandwe, author of the first prize winning short story "Hollow Sands" (Senior Category, English Language section).
The Competition judge, writer Memory Chirere, had this comment on the story, "An excellent piece of writing. The control of words, pace and idiom betray deep talent in short story writing."  


HOLLOW SANDS
By Jane Tendesayi Nyamandwe (pictured above)

“City! City! City!” she hears touts scream for city-bound customers at this rank where people from all walks of life assemble for reasons only known to themselves. Dzivaidzo shuffles towards a kombi that has certainly seen better days, laden with a tattered black bag which houses her few belongings. She crouches into a commuter omnibus that stinks of a hotchpotch of diesel, beer and urine. The pungent smell almost suffocates her and she suppresses an instinct to inhale but fails as evidenced by her distorted face. After battling with seats that are loosely intact and consequently unhinging themselves frequently, the young girl aged fourteen slumps into the back seat and waits for the vehicle to fill-up. The driver’s window is cracked and that on the passenger side has been replaced by an insubstantial fertilizer bag which is at the mercy of the wind and can be utterly ripped off any time.
Through the window, she observes young boys, too young to have known the ravages of bread-winning, bellow their lungs out to attract the attention of  potential buyers.
“Apples! Bananas! Maputi!” the efficacy with which they shout tells one this is their diurnal song. She wonders if they ever had time for school. One has cracked feet, a feature Dzivaidzo had always associated with the rural areas until now. The other has unkempt, overgrown hair, which he ruffles with his left hand whilst the right one struggles to keep the torn basket containing his merchandise stable. He comes to Dzivaidzo’s window, who involuntarily jerks backwards at the emission of foul breath from his mouth.
“Do I look scary?” he asks.
“No, not at all,” Dzivaidzo replies.
“So why did you just acted like I am?”
Dzivaidzo frowns as she realizes this boy is here to stay. He slides his tongue across his front teeth, licks some plaque off his jaw, swallows hard and gives a big, loud yawn.
“I like your eyes,” he says in a soft soothing voice that is unexpected of such a one. Dzivaidzo suddenly slides to the far end of the seat, to avoid more shocking utterances. Her attention is immediately captured by an old man passing by, weary-looking, not due to physical exhaustion but an aura of spiritual and mental tiredom hangs around him.
“Madame, place your baggage in here and I will take youto your terminus,” he pleads with a young woman with a baby suspended rather than strapped on her back.
“Is it free of, o-of charge?” the young woman stammers.
“Why would I be here then my daughter? I only charge two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per trip,” he replies in a faint, cracked voice that only the desperate know.
“Two h-u-n-d-r-e-d aa- and f-iii-f-tee what? Is that the reason, you to- told me to- to place my luggage in there as if it were fff- for ff-free? You see mmm- my nice shoes and you think I’m rrr-rich huh? If you see pp-people who-who can bath well you th-think they have mmm-money huh? Old man, I’m not here to-to bb-be mani-manipulated.”
The baby on her back gives a piercing cry, its only way of telling its mother to be more polite, Dzivaidzo thinks. She pats it softly at the beginning then violently as it wails even more regardless of her efforts to silence it. The old man droops his head and walks away, conscious of the eyes of those who had overheard their conversation.
The young woman fumbles as she struggled to carry her baggage to a bus that looks like it had been panel-beaten outwards to increase its carrying capacity. The advertisement on its outside, of a young boy eating away a slice of bread plastered with sun jam reminds Dzivaidzo of her empty stomach. The only decent meal she remembers of having is half burnt yellow porridge she had cooked in a recycled cooking oil gallon the previous night. She hears a growling sound from the inside and realizes it is her stomach conceding her thoughts. She hopes this sound is only visible to her ears. However, a young man sitting next to her remarks,
“Is that a train passing by?”
He accompanies this statement with a sarcastic chuckle. Dzivaidzo, embarrassed, resuscitates herself from the reverie but is indifferent to this statement.
The omnibus eventually fills up, aand the driver ignites the engine. The vehicle is obstinate as testified by its refusal to bow down to the driver’s intentions. Four touts come to the rescue and painstakingly push the vehicle for some distance and finally, it lurches forward, as it belches gases of incomplete combustion from a poorly fitted pipe.
Dzivaidzo is amused by her fellow passengers. In font of her, sits a man in the prime of his life. He wears a shirt, whose collar has definitely been turned inside out, as its upper part is conspicuously darker than the rest of the faded garment. He clasps a khaki envelope in his hand, which Dzivaidzo assumes, contains personal documents as he appears braced for a job interview. His choice of colours is rather dubious. They form a blaring effect that is too loud for an interviewer to award the interviewee any marks.
Next to him, sits a young lady who has no qualms for standard dress code. Her thighs jut out of the mini-skirt she wears, which, one can notice, is not the original design but has been outgrown, hence the length. Dangling earrings from her significantly sizeable ears make a rattling sound each time the vehicle jerks forward. She has on, a sleeveless top that exposes every scar and imprint her skin has ever met and failed to delete. Her hairstyle could have been better, had it not been for the mixed shades of braid that form a hideous sight of what could have been a decent hairstyle. She struggles to keep her outgrown skirt intact and pulls adamantly, her t-shirt-like top to save herself indecent assault from the male passengers. She , however, loses the battle as scratch marks on her lower back stubbornly glare at the passengers, compelling many to face down, a sheer act of dignity.
Dzivaidzo realizes they are entering the CBD, and has not yet finished counting the numerous five thousand dollar notes she has.
“I told you I don’t want loose money!” barks the conductor, “Next week, this money will be as good as tissue paper.” He grabs the notes from her, scratching her with his brown disfigured nails. Whether this is intentional or not, Dzivaidzo can not say. He begins to count them unceremoniously. Dzivaidzo is handed back a batch of notes, of even lesser value, as change. She casually puts them in a plastic bag she has converted into a handbag and is not at all worried about the mathematical accuracy of the conductor.
Upon arrival at the rank, the girl aged fourteen, disembarks but confusion, a conspicuous feature on her face. It becomes apparent her shoddy black bag, embarrassing though it seems, outcompetes those of other individuals in the bus terminus. She wonders whether the contents could also surpass theirs. She wades through the rubbish that causes an eyesore to what was once the city of bright lights. Mazhanje peeps and peels flood the place, giving it a sickening stench. Sewage water oozes out of a burst pie behind a public toilet that worsens the odor engulfing the place. Dzivaidzo is grateful for her empty stomach as she evades an inkling to visit the toilet where more insults to the eye could have been availed.
A woman burdened with an abnormal load, talks to herself in a high-pitched voice, speaking incomprehensible utterances. She begins to sing a song Dzivaidzo is familiar with and could have joined her in a dance had it not been for the chasm that separate sanity and insanity. Her stomach groans again, so loud that it overrides the sounds of the chanting woman.
A few meters from Dzivaidzo, is a middle-aged woman selling all kinds of merchandise. She buys a packet of masawu from this lady, whose vendor-table looks like a troop of baboons has rummaged into it. Flies swarm around a watermelon that has been cut into halves to award each customer a chance to taste. A stone’s throw away, a boy about three years of age relieves himself and the flies that feast on his waste make a trip to the water melon on the offer for free consumption. When he finishes defecating, he carelessly pulls up his torn shorts without much thought for his fece-coated buttocks, thus, attracting a greater sum of insects than his newly deposited waste.
She is last to enter the second kombi and sits on the space behind the driver’s seat, face to face with the others. Her heart sinks, being the shy girl she is. She assumes rural marks and engravings are visible to those to whom she has been offered as an object of scrutiny. Her legs are interlocked with those of a young man, still in his bachelorhood at first glance, who manipulates the status quo to his pleasure. He keeps nudging her with his knee, and gives a weak smile that awards him a cunning look. Dzivaidzo has no choice but to endure stoically this seemingly childish teasing as the young man is unwilling to relent.
The other passengers ogle at her as she makes her journey to Tichafa high-density suburb to see her only sibling, Tariro and their grandmother, Mbuya Hondo.
She timidly stuffs masawu fruits into her mouth, her gaze fixed on the young man’ toes that peep through his tattered shoes. Her cheeks swell, to accommodate the inconsistent and hurried supply of fruit. She tries chewing steadily but is overwhelmed by the amount she has ingested. The seeds begin to spill out and saliva from the sides of her mouth drools uncontrollably, forcing the young man to quickly withdraw his knee as it is an immediate destination of these substances. She abruptly unfolds her plastic-cum-handbag and spews the full contents of her mouth therein. Dzivaidzo belches, bringing to rememberance the taste and smell of yellow porridge. If only she had packed some in that empty Vaseline container she keeps on the kitchen window sill.
She informs the driver of her intention to alight at the first bus stop when she reads the post “ichafa.” The “T” on the post has flaked off and a blurred shadow of the letter remains to conserve the original name.
As always, she opts for the shorter route contemplating what her grandmother might have prepared for her to conquer her hunger. The young girl trudges along the narrow dusty road that leads to her grandmother’s place, her grumbling stomach reminding her she is still among the living. Upon arrival, a feeling of nausea haunts her. She spits frequently to which Mbuya Hondo jests,
“The short-cut you used is everybody’s toilet my dear, rather use the main road next time.” “I can see your photographic memory is betraying you.”
Dzivaidzo is not at all amused by her grandmother’s sense of humor. She begins to vomit vehemently and Mbuya Hondo realizes this is no joking matter. Within sixty seconds, Dzivaidzo is in the bathroom, excreting white-rice stool incessantly.
The combination of vomit and stool gives a repulsive sight that compels Mbuya Hondo to quell an involuntary desire to vomit as well. Dzivadzo gives heart-wrenching shrieks as it dawns upon her that providence has taken its toll. She had contracted THAT disease. Mrs. Nhamo, her teacher had lectured them on the signs and symptoms of that disease. The entrance to their classroom had posters and stickers that told the tale of the pandemic. She had read them out of curiosity and listened to her tutor out of the absence of having a better alternative to lend her ears to. She had never imagined herself as the victim.
Mbuya Hondo runs next door, where they had attended a funeral the previous week to bid farewell to one who had been made extinct by the outbreak. She recalls awakening in the middle of the night, to bouts of wails and screeches that imparted the pathetic news that one they were familiar with had bade them a silent farewell. Due to incessant power cuts, their globe that hung precariously from a cranked up wire had burst that night, plunging them into utter darkness. She had felt her way to the door, stumbling over containers of water that formed a reservoir from which their thirst was quenched. Their broken door which offers more than adequate security to their few belongings flung open and shoved her into the world of the heartbroken and bereaved. Such was beyond her faintest imagination that within seven days, her heart would be throbbing at the possibility of losing her own to the same demise.
“My Dziva is dying, she is dying. Come save her,” Mbuya Hondo sobs. In between her statements, she wails in a manner that speaks of a woman nurturing very little hope. She fails to realize she is walking on bare feet, posing herself as yet another candidate for the attack that has drawn a thin line between life and death for her grandchild.
Mai Shingai and her son, with hearts heavy from their own loss, scurry to Mbuya Hondo’s one room, to salvage Dzivaidzo’s little soul.
Mai Shingai rushes to the nearby shopping center to find a vehicle to ferry Dzivaidzo to Rugare Hospital. The fuel station has since shut down and has become a recreational place for the never-employed and formerly employed, who smoke their problems away and rail insults at female passersby.
There is an erratic supply of paraffin that gives the shopping center some business activity and enlivens the place about twice a week, giving the lean storekeeper in the kiosk a flimsy reason to stand behind the counter of an empty shop all day. They hire an old-battered car from the garage.
The journey to the hospital is the longest Dzivaidzo has ever taken. Tariro remains a major preoccupation in her mind. Where is she? She would have loved to sit next to her, tell her about that boy at the grinding store they incessantly made fun of whilst they reminisce about their childhood before Tariro migrated to the city.
They eventually arrive at their destination. The hospital assumes the status of a squatter camp. Patients lying motionless on tattered mattresses and blankets are perceptible upon entering the premises. Drips hang from the trees, dissuading one from entering the wards for outside evidence gives one ample conviction that these have been choked beyond capacity. Health personnel exchange surgical gloves as they hop from one patient to another. They remain unmoved by Dzivaidzo’s condition.
Dzivaidzo is hesitant to open her eyes lest she is confronted with a ghastly sight of a haunted cemetery. She hears a voice so sweet to her ears and wonders if it is an angel. She opens her eyes and comes face to face with Tariro. She asks herself, “Is it a reunion or a farewell?”....  
(Copyright: Jane Tendesayi Nyamandwe)

(Born in 1987, Jane Tendesayi Nyamandwe is a Business Studies graduate from University of Zimbabwe. She did her primary education at Chancellor Primary School in Mutare. In 2003, when she was in Form Four at Monte Cassino Girls High, she won first prize in the middle category for the My Teacher Poetry Competition held by PTUZ (Progressive Teachers Union of Zimbabwe). She was also a member of the Creative Writers' Club at Monte Cassino where friends nicknamed her 'Dambudzo' and/or 'Thomas Hardy' (author of a book they were studying as a setbook in English Literature). Nyamandwe isinspired by writers Dambudzo Marechera,  Ngugi wa Thiongo and Mariama Ba. She currently lives in Bulawayo.)


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