Munyori Literary Journal
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FICTION
POETRY
Georgia Banks-Martin
Aleathia Drehmer
Salisu Ahamded Koki
Anish Kumar
Joseph Masanga
Colwin Mhlahlo
Jennifer Pickering
Georgia Banks-Martin
Aleathia Drehmer
Salisu Ahamded Koki
Anish Kumar
Joseph Masanga
Colwin Mhlahlo
Jennifer Pickering
ESSAYS
Do As I Say, Not As I Do, an Essay by Arabella Grayson
My father’s parenting mantra “Do as I say, not as I do,” often confused and astonished his five
beleaguered charges. Which of his perplexing behaviors was he referring to? Depositing dirty
clothes on the bathroom floor? Not clearly his plate from the dinner table? Yelling to be heard
when no one was talking? Cussing? Slamming doors in anger? Habitually arriving late? Possibly.
Who really knew? His ways seemingly contradicted the rules Mama consistently tried to enforce.
Do As I Say, Not As I Do, an Essay by Arabella Grayson
My father’s parenting mantra “Do as I say, not as I do,” often confused and astonished his five
beleaguered charges. Which of his perplexing behaviors was he referring to? Depositing dirty
clothes on the bathroom floor? Not clearly his plate from the dinner table? Yelling to be heard
when no one was talking? Cussing? Slamming doors in anger? Habitually arriving late? Possibly.
Who really knew? His ways seemingly contradicted the rules Mama consistently tried to enforce.
Memory Chirere on the Dambudzo Marechera Celebration
The value is in noticing that people have read both Marechera and Ignatius Mabasa and have found what
they think are similarities in thrusts. When people read a new writer like Ignatius Mabasa or Brian
Chikwava, it is natural for them to try to find where to fit them in the Zimbabwean literary tradition.
When people say your poetry reads like Musaemura Zimunya’s or Chenjerai Hove’s, you must not cry!
If you write what you like, allow people to say what they like about what you write. Continue with your
work.
The value is in noticing that people have read both Marechera and Ignatius Mabasa and have found what
they think are similarities in thrusts. When people read a new writer like Ignatius Mabasa or Brian
Chikwava, it is natural for them to try to find where to fit them in the Zimbabwean literary tradition.
When people say your poetry reads like Musaemura Zimunya’s or Chenjerai Hove’s, you must not cry!
If you write what you like, allow people to say what they like about what you write. Continue with your
work.
INTERVIEWS
The Watcher by NoViolet Mkha Bulawayo
He stands by the window, an old revolver in hand, and watches
them come up. Even in the boiling sun they walk as cats do in
the rain: drenched, timid, careful. Walking like whispering.
Zimbabweans. Just crossed over – he has seen others like
them. Many others. Watching from this same window. Seen
them seep into his country like water. He knows he will see even
more; they never stop coming, they are a tide.
He stands by the window, an old revolver in hand, and watches
them come up. Even in the boiling sun they walk as cats do in
the rain: drenched, timid, careful. Walking like whispering.
Zimbabweans. Just crossed over – he has seen others like
them. Many others. Watching from this same window. Seen
them seep into his country like water. He knows he will see even
more; they never stop coming, they are a tide.
After the Floods by Sushma Joshi
Jethi died on one of those monsoon nights when the rains come
with such force ordinary people give up any hope for salvation
and wait for the end to come. Sometimes the rains just raise the
heat and the sting of mosquitoes and bright green shoots of
rice. At other times, they raise the wrath of the rivers that lie like
somnolent snakes over winter, which are awakened by the
monsoon to rage over the voluptuous folds of the Mahabharat
hills in a heavenly tantrum of destruction.
Jethi died on one of those monsoon nights when the rains come
with such force ordinary people give up any hope for salvation
and wait for the end to come. Sometimes the rains just raise the
heat and the sting of mosquitoes and bright green shoots of
rice. At other times, they raise the wrath of the rivers that lie like
somnolent snakes over winter, which are awakened by the
monsoon to rage over the voluptuous folds of the Mahabharat
hills in a heavenly tantrum of destruction.
Foya's Moon by Doeba Bropleh
Yama continued to wave through the scratched-up window of
the rusty mini-bus though she could no longer see Zuma, the
guy she now knew she loved. It was as if she hoped that the
waving would wipe away the confusion dicing up her insides.
Yama was more mixed up than two days ago when she visited
her old hometown of Foya. “I’m never coming back here,” she
muttered, still looking back towards the bus depot. Her voice
created a small circle of fog on the glass; it disappeared quickly.
The Cacti by Sunil Sharma
When, finding no response from thinking me, he turned
around and faced me directly: the lips open, teeth visible in
that half-open mouth. I saw…for a full horrible second…cacti
growing in his broad face… sprouting in his furrowed
forehead, mean glittering eyes, narrow mouth, wide hairy
nostrils, sloping ears, squashed nose and the receding
Chimp chin…lots of cacti growing on him, burying his human
features… cacti bursting out from every crevice and hole, in
a pulsating continual formation, finally drowning him, in that
hissing convulsing sea of live desert cacti, swallowing his
human features one-by-one, spilling out and moving…till they
overran the entire expensive place.
When, finding no response from thinking me, he turned
around and faced me directly: the lips open, teeth visible in
that half-open mouth. I saw…for a full horrible second…cacti
growing in his broad face… sprouting in his furrowed
forehead, mean glittering eyes, narrow mouth, wide hairy
nostrils, sloping ears, squashed nose and the receding
Chimp chin…lots of cacti growing on him, burying his human
features… cacti bursting out from every crevice and hole, in
a pulsating continual formation, finally drowning him, in that
hissing convulsing sea of live desert cacti, swallowing his
human features one-by-one, spilling out and moving…till they
overran the entire expensive place.
Jennifer Armstrong on Marechera's Works and the Oxford Celebration
I think that the conference paid good homage to Marechera's ghost, in particular the final
day's walk around Marechera's old haunt that is New College. There we went against the
directives of the warden by entering the dining hall whilst the students were eating, and
taking pictures, which this warden had explicitly forbidden. We also passed along a very
constricted and winding back alleyway to see a pub where the students were free to drink.
On that morning we also climbed a bell tower and reflected on Bergfrith. I was pretty
pleased with how the conference went, in general. I met a lot of people who had known
him personally, and it gave me a real impression of Marechera's character.
I think that the conference paid good homage to Marechera's ghost, in particular the final
day's walk around Marechera's old haunt that is New College. There we went against the
directives of the warden by entering the dining hall whilst the students were eating, and
taking pictures, which this warden had explicitly forbidden. We also passed along a very
constricted and winding back alleyway to see a pub where the students were free to drink.
On that morning we also climbed a bell tower and reflected on Bergfrith. I was pretty
pleased with how the conference went, in general. I met a lot of people who had known
him personally, and it gave me a real impression of Marechera's character.
Welcome to Munyori Literary Journal. We are in the process of putting
together the next issue, which will be out by February 20. If you haven't done
so, send your fiction, poetry, essays, book reviews, author profiles, art and
author interviews for consideration.
together the next issue, which will be out by February 20. If you haven't done
so, send your fiction, poetry, essays, book reviews, author profiles, art and
author interviews for consideration.