Nhamo Anthony Mhiripiri
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Nhamo Mhiripiri was born in Harare and grew up there and in Chitungwiza. Went
to Nyandoro primary School in Highfield, Harare, St Ignatius College in
Chisahawasha, and Murewa High School, before doing a Bachelor's degree in
English and History at the University of Zimbabwe, where he also did a Post Grad
Diploma and an MA in Media and Communication Studies. He is currently revising
his doctoral thesis with the University of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. He has
published critical works in Emerging perspectives on Dambudzo Marechera,
edited by Flora Veit-Wild and Anthony Chennels, and in Maurice Vambe's The
Hidden Dimensions of Operation Murambatsvina. He has short stories in No
More Plastic Balls, A Roof to Repair and Creatures Great and Small. Another
short story, "When Night Was Arrested" has recently been published in the
anthology Dreams, Miracles and Jazz: New adventures in African Writing edited
by Helon Habila and Kadija Sesay. He is a Senior Lecturer in Media and Society
Studies at the Midlands State University in Zimbabwe.
to Nyandoro primary School in Highfield, Harare, St Ignatius College in
Chisahawasha, and Murewa High School, before doing a Bachelor's degree in
English and History at the University of Zimbabwe, where he also did a Post Grad
Diploma and an MA in Media and Communication Studies. He is currently revising
his doctoral thesis with the University of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. He has
published critical works in Emerging perspectives on Dambudzo Marechera,
edited by Flora Veit-Wild and Anthony Chennels, and in Maurice Vambe's The
Hidden Dimensions of Operation Murambatsvina. He has short stories in No
More Plastic Balls, A Roof to Repair and Creatures Great and Small. Another
short story, "When Night Was Arrested" has recently been published in the
anthology Dreams, Miracles and Jazz: New adventures in African Writing edited
by Helon Habila and Kadija Sesay. He is a Senior Lecturer in Media and Society
Studies at the Midlands State University in Zimbabwe.
When You Meet My Countrymen
When you meet my countrymen at airport terminals
Those who shuffle uneasily and are timid about visas
Those that are quick to tell you they’re visiting a relative
That tell you the Z$ isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on
And swear cheekily in the same breath about Uncle Bob,
Corruption and a botched up land reform programme,
Just know they may never go back home given half a chance.
When you meet my compatriots on a journey,
Those that are fast to tell the media about political violence;
Talking in a staccato like men on the run,
Who duck shadows and see the state spy network
In the coffee they drink on flight to Gatwick or New York,
When you meet these dear countrymen of mine,
Who have one million and one stories of abuse
Each grisly enough to earn refugee status at immigration;
Who tell you they are activists fleeing for precious life,
I tell you when you meet them just be a bit wary.
Some of us can con you out of your sympathy.
Just be careful every one of us abroad is a political refugee.
We never talk about our debts or child maintenance fees or criminal cases
That for some are a much more serious danger to flee from
Than an cannibalistic despot that eats its own citizenry.
When you meet my countrymen at airport terminals
Those who shuffle uneasily and are timid about visas
Those that are quick to tell you they’re visiting a relative
That tell you the Z$ isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on
And swear cheekily in the same breath about Uncle Bob,
Corruption and a botched up land reform programme,
Just know they may never go back home given half a chance.
When you meet my compatriots on a journey,
Those that are fast to tell the media about political violence;
Talking in a staccato like men on the run,
Who duck shadows and see the state spy network
In the coffee they drink on flight to Gatwick or New York,
When you meet these dear countrymen of mine,
Who have one million and one stories of abuse
Each grisly enough to earn refugee status at immigration;
Who tell you they are activists fleeing for precious life,
I tell you when you meet them just be a bit wary.
Some of us can con you out of your sympathy.
Just be careful every one of us abroad is a political refugee.
We never talk about our debts or child maintenance fees or criminal cases
That for some are a much more serious danger to flee from
Than an cannibalistic despot that eats its own citizenry.
EMMANUEL SIGAUKE INTERVIEWS NHAMO ANTHONY MHIRIPIRI
ES: Let me begin by commending you on the work you do for Zimbabwean literature, as a teacher, critic, and writer. I remember when I
came to the University of Zimbabwe, you had already begun to establish yourself as a critic, and some of your stories were appearing in
magazines and newspapers. How has this work (of being a teacher, writer, and critic) impacted your outlook on writing, in general, and
Zimbabwean literature, in particular?
NM: I started getting published in newspapers and magazines at a fairly early age as I grew up thinking that writing was my calling. I never did
actually think of any other work. Teaching and lecturing were only possible because they were occupations I easily got, and they were convenient.
They permitted me time to dream and write, which I am afraid I wouldn't have managed in other types of jobs. The irony is that reading and
lecturing to students can drain a writer of the urge to write creative works, and quite often I find myself talking more than I should sit and write.
The danger of it is that I then continuously promise all acquaintances and friends that I am writing, even when in truth I won't be doing anything
meaningful.
As for Zimbabwean literature, I find it fascinating and the writers resilient. The sad thing is that I have been privileged to read works that have never
been published due to the depressed economy and to publishers' preference for literary material with an assured secondary school market, that is
literature that can be accommodated into the high school curriculum that happens to be the biggest market in the country. This stifles creativity and
is exasperating to writers who want to transcend narrow limitations. Our literary gatekeepers tend to be more Victorian than the Victorians in their
sensitivity to so-called propriety and explicit language. I am currently having problems in justifying the use of four-letter words in a short story in
which our vulgar bus touts feature. You can imagine how to represent a foul mouthed bus tout using euphemisms throughout - you risk sounding
ridiculous and killing the story. As for restrictions of our literature by politicians and other powerful sectors, I still am optimistic that writers remain
'free' to express themselves. This might sound strange given the current Zimbabwean situation, but in all truth I find the current leadership has since
stopped reading books and the best place to hide information in Zimbabwe according to Stan Nyamfukudza is to put it in a book! But for those
works that are good and remain unpublished I think we might one day salvage some. I am worried though about my late friend Patrick Machakata's
poetry and fiction, especially his novel The Far Side of the Moon which I read but he died before he published it. He too was teaching in order to
sustain his writing and dreaming.
ES: The poem "Phillip" revisits Chimurenga. The speaker laments a family member who never returned from the war. What prompted
you to revisit the war?
NM: In real life Phillip is my brother who left in the late 1970s and did not return. I always have this sore feeling that a part of my young memories
has not been there for close to thirty years now, without a trace as we say. I am now numb, but it is an uncomfortable numbness, which when you
look at your own children and you want to tell them what family is all about you wonder how to present to them memories of someone they never
saw. The traumas of war are not always statistical but the profound pain most of us have to live with years after. Perhaps this explains why
Zimbabweans are tolerant and resilient the way they are, but I am afraid when they burst eventually there won't be any turning back. Let's just pray
that day will never be.
ES: Do you think Zimbabwean literature has covered Chimurenga (war/s of liberation) effectively?
NM: Chimurenga will always be written about. Whether the First Chimurenga of Nehanda, Kagubi, Mkwati and others, the Second of Chitepo,
Mangena, Tongogara and so on, and the Third Hondo Yeminda version, and so forth. An imaginative writer can choose today to revisit the 1896
uprising and reconstruct it imagining the different players and participants and trying to make them plausible in an aesthetic and interesting manner.
Writers have that privilege. Historians normally do so. I understand from my publishers that there is a fiction writer in Zimbabwe today who has
submitted a manuscript of the First Chimurenga in which Mbuya Nehanda speaks the Karanga dialect and is quite conversant with the contemporary
legal jargon. Can that be poetic license? I don't have problems as long as the work has literary merit. Why not make St Joan of Arc hail from
Uzumba Maramba Pfungwe, and Jesus cross paths with Nehanda and Kagubi in 1896? This means that the subject of Zvimurenga is inexhaustible,
what is important is how it is treated. Authors should be sensitive and honest in their treatment of all kinds of material.
ES: What is the speaker of "the bricks of harare are of earth" trying to tell us?
NM: Respect and understanding. In assuming our different individual identities there is a danger that we might offend others, wittingly or
unwittingly. If identity is originary and based on biological and regional links it can become naked fundamentalism if not well managed. These are the
seeds of xenophobia, the kind we see in South Africa today, in which you find intense hatred and dislike for anyone presumed and judged to be a
stranger. Estrangement is then justified for narrow interests even when people who are now hurting and killing each other have been together for a
long time. It explains why in Rwanda neighbour killed neighbour and husband could smother wife in her sleep - acting Hutu and Tutsi, Zulu and
Kwerekwere.
ES: In "When You Meet My Countrymen", the speaker tells the "truth" about the "lies" people tell when they find themselves in
desperate situations, particularly Zimbabweans infiltrating the Diaspora. Is this poem based on factual information? The speaker is one
of those who have remained in Zimbabwe, despite the hardships. Are there many people in Zimababwe today who would choose to stay
even if an opportunity to leave the country arose?
NM: There are many like me, but mark me, quite often we find ourselves calling ourselves names. There are several times I have called myself
stupid and the like, throwing away opportunities... Many times things are tough, really bad that you wish you were elsewhere. There is the
frustration in failing to meet the basic requirements of my children. For example, I can't buy them warm clothes for winter because the banks allow
us a limited amount of cash per day while retailers demand cash upfront and refuse cash and bank transfer because they claim their own suppliers
are making similar demands on them. It is just frustrating, and when you look into you kids' eyes the reassurance is that look of trust and
understanding which makes you not run away and face anything alongside them. You now know the new joke about substandard substitutes for all
the old goodies we can no longer afford - something like sofa chunks haasi nyama, jolly juice haisi coke, and so on. However, the poem "when you
meet my countrymen" is just imaginative, although I have one or two friends from my sojourn in South Africa who found pride in running away
from the notorious CIO. When this guy's parent passed away he flew back to Zimbabwe, and we all were reasonable enough not to ask him whether
he had any brushes with the CIO since he returned without incident! We want to be martyrs and heroes, we might be just anti-heroes and fakes.
ES: In "An Appeal to Zimbabweans" you warn against misrepresenting public opinion for personal gain. What is the context and purpose
of this poem?
NM: The poem was written in 2000, but with the prolonged Zimbabwean crisis I find it relevant. The bickering in the country has many causes and
fuellers including the media and Non Governmental Organisations. Many interest groups are implicated in the economic meltdown and the political
impasse that we have unfortunately lived through for close to a decade. I believe the answer is in intelligent people, and when intelligence is spread
we will all see who is an obstacle to peace and development and who is sincere. Then if those misfits can't transform they are excluded from
participation in a normal society in the most humane possible way, such as incarceration. I don't believe in killing to exclude political opponents
though, and the new consciousness I am talking about goes beyond these narrow partisan definitions we are currently witnessing. I want us to
appreciate our differences and use them for the common good, because if we don't they are exploited to exacerbate our quality of life both
materially, spiritually and psychologically.
ES: One striking feature of your poetry (the few published in this issue) is their accessibility, the focus on content as opposed to
experimental form and the intentional emphasis on politics. Is this a type of poetry Zimbabwe needs at this time?
NM: I think I chose the ones featured here for a purpose. I wouldn't say the same of many others. Perhaps a better overview will come out of my
poetry section in my forthcoming anthology called Temple of Rights.
ES: Let me begin by commending you on the work you do for Zimbabwean literature, as a teacher, critic, and writer. I remember when I
came to the University of Zimbabwe, you had already begun to establish yourself as a critic, and some of your stories were appearing in
magazines and newspapers. How has this work (of being a teacher, writer, and critic) impacted your outlook on writing, in general, and
Zimbabwean literature, in particular?
NM: I started getting published in newspapers and magazines at a fairly early age as I grew up thinking that writing was my calling. I never did
actually think of any other work. Teaching and lecturing were only possible because they were occupations I easily got, and they were convenient.
They permitted me time to dream and write, which I am afraid I wouldn't have managed in other types of jobs. The irony is that reading and
lecturing to students can drain a writer of the urge to write creative works, and quite often I find myself talking more than I should sit and write.
The danger of it is that I then continuously promise all acquaintances and friends that I am writing, even when in truth I won't be doing anything
meaningful.
As for Zimbabwean literature, I find it fascinating and the writers resilient. The sad thing is that I have been privileged to read works that have never
been published due to the depressed economy and to publishers' preference for literary material with an assured secondary school market, that is
literature that can be accommodated into the high school curriculum that happens to be the biggest market in the country. This stifles creativity and
is exasperating to writers who want to transcend narrow limitations. Our literary gatekeepers tend to be more Victorian than the Victorians in their
sensitivity to so-called propriety and explicit language. I am currently having problems in justifying the use of four-letter words in a short story in
which our vulgar bus touts feature. You can imagine how to represent a foul mouthed bus tout using euphemisms throughout - you risk sounding
ridiculous and killing the story. As for restrictions of our literature by politicians and other powerful sectors, I still am optimistic that writers remain
'free' to express themselves. This might sound strange given the current Zimbabwean situation, but in all truth I find the current leadership has since
stopped reading books and the best place to hide information in Zimbabwe according to Stan Nyamfukudza is to put it in a book! But for those
works that are good and remain unpublished I think we might one day salvage some. I am worried though about my late friend Patrick Machakata's
poetry and fiction, especially his novel The Far Side of the Moon which I read but he died before he published it. He too was teaching in order to
sustain his writing and dreaming.
ES: The poem "Phillip" revisits Chimurenga. The speaker laments a family member who never returned from the war. What prompted
you to revisit the war?
NM: In real life Phillip is my brother who left in the late 1970s and did not return. I always have this sore feeling that a part of my young memories
has not been there for close to thirty years now, without a trace as we say. I am now numb, but it is an uncomfortable numbness, which when you
look at your own children and you want to tell them what family is all about you wonder how to present to them memories of someone they never
saw. The traumas of war are not always statistical but the profound pain most of us have to live with years after. Perhaps this explains why
Zimbabweans are tolerant and resilient the way they are, but I am afraid when they burst eventually there won't be any turning back. Let's just pray
that day will never be.
ES: Do you think Zimbabwean literature has covered Chimurenga (war/s of liberation) effectively?
NM: Chimurenga will always be written about. Whether the First Chimurenga of Nehanda, Kagubi, Mkwati and others, the Second of Chitepo,
Mangena, Tongogara and so on, and the Third Hondo Yeminda version, and so forth. An imaginative writer can choose today to revisit the 1896
uprising and reconstruct it imagining the different players and participants and trying to make them plausible in an aesthetic and interesting manner.
Writers have that privilege. Historians normally do so. I understand from my publishers that there is a fiction writer in Zimbabwe today who has
submitted a manuscript of the First Chimurenga in which Mbuya Nehanda speaks the Karanga dialect and is quite conversant with the contemporary
legal jargon. Can that be poetic license? I don't have problems as long as the work has literary merit. Why not make St Joan of Arc hail from
Uzumba Maramba Pfungwe, and Jesus cross paths with Nehanda and Kagubi in 1896? This means that the subject of Zvimurenga is inexhaustible,
what is important is how it is treated. Authors should be sensitive and honest in their treatment of all kinds of material.
ES: What is the speaker of "the bricks of harare are of earth" trying to tell us?
NM: Respect and understanding. In assuming our different individual identities there is a danger that we might offend others, wittingly or
unwittingly. If identity is originary and based on biological and regional links it can become naked fundamentalism if not well managed. These are the
seeds of xenophobia, the kind we see in South Africa today, in which you find intense hatred and dislike for anyone presumed and judged to be a
stranger. Estrangement is then justified for narrow interests even when people who are now hurting and killing each other have been together for a
long time. It explains why in Rwanda neighbour killed neighbour and husband could smother wife in her sleep - acting Hutu and Tutsi, Zulu and
Kwerekwere.
ES: In "When You Meet My Countrymen", the speaker tells the "truth" about the "lies" people tell when they find themselves in
desperate situations, particularly Zimbabweans infiltrating the Diaspora. Is this poem based on factual information? The speaker is one
of those who have remained in Zimbabwe, despite the hardships. Are there many people in Zimababwe today who would choose to stay
even if an opportunity to leave the country arose?
NM: There are many like me, but mark me, quite often we find ourselves calling ourselves names. There are several times I have called myself
stupid and the like, throwing away opportunities... Many times things are tough, really bad that you wish you were elsewhere. There is the
frustration in failing to meet the basic requirements of my children. For example, I can't buy them warm clothes for winter because the banks allow
us a limited amount of cash per day while retailers demand cash upfront and refuse cash and bank transfer because they claim their own suppliers
are making similar demands on them. It is just frustrating, and when you look into you kids' eyes the reassurance is that look of trust and
understanding which makes you not run away and face anything alongside them. You now know the new joke about substandard substitutes for all
the old goodies we can no longer afford - something like sofa chunks haasi nyama, jolly juice haisi coke, and so on. However, the poem "when you
meet my countrymen" is just imaginative, although I have one or two friends from my sojourn in South Africa who found pride in running away
from the notorious CIO. When this guy's parent passed away he flew back to Zimbabwe, and we all were reasonable enough not to ask him whether
he had any brushes with the CIO since he returned without incident! We want to be martyrs and heroes, we might be just anti-heroes and fakes.
ES: In "An Appeal to Zimbabweans" you warn against misrepresenting public opinion for personal gain. What is the context and purpose
of this poem?
NM: The poem was written in 2000, but with the prolonged Zimbabwean crisis I find it relevant. The bickering in the country has many causes and
fuellers including the media and Non Governmental Organisations. Many interest groups are implicated in the economic meltdown and the political
impasse that we have unfortunately lived through for close to a decade. I believe the answer is in intelligent people, and when intelligence is spread
we will all see who is an obstacle to peace and development and who is sincere. Then if those misfits can't transform they are excluded from
participation in a normal society in the most humane possible way, such as incarceration. I don't believe in killing to exclude political opponents
though, and the new consciousness I am talking about goes beyond these narrow partisan definitions we are currently witnessing. I want us to
appreciate our differences and use them for the common good, because if we don't they are exploited to exacerbate our quality of life both
materially, spiritually and psychologically.
ES: One striking feature of your poetry (the few published in this issue) is their accessibility, the focus on content as opposed to
experimental form and the intentional emphasis on politics. Is this a type of poetry Zimbabwe needs at this time?
NM: I think I chose the ones featured here for a purpose. I wouldn't say the same of many others. Perhaps a better overview will come out of my
poetry section in my forthcoming anthology called Temple of Rights.
An Appeal To Zimbabweans
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
Public opinion must remain truly representative of the public
Let not scribes, parties or politicians manipulate and screw it up
To sate narrow sectarian agendas and private gain
Since democracy is no more than responsible freedoms
Legislators and judges think not of fixing your foes
When you write or apply the nation’s august laws
For the same edicts bind us all on the merit of their integrity
Hence leadership must guard jealously its own neutrality
Scribes who hold people’s views dear
Listen more to what both luminaries and commoners say
And write less about opinions that are only yours
Expose sleaze in family, church, state and market - so we all beware.
Mass unions that fight for workers rights and interests here
Guard the liberties that bring dignity in industries and homes
Striking a blow to the dispossession of labour’s might
When capital alone is seen as maker of wealth.
Churches and prophets who preach of the second coming
Stand at the pulpit and preach the just cause of sharing
Teach of when profligate privilege and property for one is immoral filth
For a brotherhood of haves and have-nots leads to suspicion and strife
Citizens and countrymen who are now masters of partisan thuggery
Disown warlords for only on you the nation’s stability depends
Speak fairly of the competitor in the opposing camp
Since democracy’s cogs are only oiled by informed tolerance.
Watchdogs desist from ascribing your own thoughts
To the name of a fabricated public
For when real Public Opinion surfaces it shames hypocrites
And floors with one blow the unruly soiling the country’s name
In order to amass personal fortunes and cheap popularity.
Then it will be Chave Chimurenga.
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
Public opinion must remain truly representative of the public
Let not scribes, parties or politicians manipulate and screw it up
To sate narrow sectarian agendas and private gain
Since democracy is no more than responsible freedoms
Legislators and judges think not of fixing your foes
When you write or apply the nation’s august laws
For the same edicts bind us all on the merit of their integrity
Hence leadership must guard jealously its own neutrality
Scribes who hold people’s views dear
Listen more to what both luminaries and commoners say
And write less about opinions that are only yours
Expose sleaze in family, church, state and market - so we all beware.
Mass unions that fight for workers rights and interests here
Guard the liberties that bring dignity in industries and homes
Striking a blow to the dispossession of labour’s might
When capital alone is seen as maker of wealth.
Churches and prophets who preach of the second coming
Stand at the pulpit and preach the just cause of sharing
Teach of when profligate privilege and property for one is immoral filth
For a brotherhood of haves and have-nots leads to suspicion and strife
Citizens and countrymen who are now masters of partisan thuggery
Disown warlords for only on you the nation’s stability depends
Speak fairly of the competitor in the opposing camp
Since democracy’s cogs are only oiled by informed tolerance.
Watchdogs desist from ascribing your own thoughts
To the name of a fabricated public
For when real Public Opinion surfaces it shames hypocrites
And floors with one blow the unruly soiling the country’s name
In order to amass personal fortunes and cheap popularity.
Then it will be Chave Chimurenga.
In African Gulags
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
They wail out in fetters
Gasping for freedom
Sucking in the little air let in by shackling laws.
They scream to rent the man-made silence
So that neighbours and watchdogs move in
To plead on behalf of sanity.
They lament for the relaxation of over-taxed states,
Where workers struggle on unholy pittance,
And collective action is deemed anathema
While capital power is supreme right.
Plaintive cries are answered with whiplashes,
Bludgeoning batons, canister gas, and dingy jails of steel.
In the ensuing confusion sympathetic intervention,
Bleary-eyed, is lost in apoplectic sneezes.
And some, perhaps still well-intentioned,
Find sanctuary at cocktail parties,
At V.I.P receptions with sumptuous meals,
Hosted by spin-doctors from Ministries of Public Relations.
They sup on snacks and diplomatic talk
On rule of law and public order.
The worst are won over with whisky
And state employed sex workers
So they forget what they came for.
The tense air outside still feels rationed.
But the best amongst them recollect themselves from the hangover,
And at least they go back to the world
Having written damning reports on atrocities
In dictatorships that prop up run-away gravy trains.
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
They wail out in fetters
Gasping for freedom
Sucking in the little air let in by shackling laws.
They scream to rent the man-made silence
So that neighbours and watchdogs move in
To plead on behalf of sanity.
They lament for the relaxation of over-taxed states,
Where workers struggle on unholy pittance,
And collective action is deemed anathema
While capital power is supreme right.
Plaintive cries are answered with whiplashes,
Bludgeoning batons, canister gas, and dingy jails of steel.
In the ensuing confusion sympathetic intervention,
Bleary-eyed, is lost in apoplectic sneezes.
And some, perhaps still well-intentioned,
Find sanctuary at cocktail parties,
At V.I.P receptions with sumptuous meals,
Hosted by spin-doctors from Ministries of Public Relations.
They sup on snacks and diplomatic talk
On rule of law and public order.
The worst are won over with whisky
And state employed sex workers
So they forget what they came for.
The tense air outside still feels rationed.
But the best amongst them recollect themselves from the hangover,
And at least they go back to the world
Having written damning reports on atrocities
In dictatorships that prop up run-away gravy trains.
Hard Times
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
The look on his face recalls times uplifting
When we sat by the street bridge whiling away,
Wishing; loudly day-dreaming a bearable future
That a gifted mind, books and a sharp head
Could bring to troubled family budgets.
The ghetto was then something romantic
Something to brag about as it made us hard and slick.
Without that what else could one have?
The strut down the street shoulders stuck up
Was a sign that there was at least some gut left in us
The plucky twist of a baseball cap on dreadlocked heads
Just demanded for ‘nuff respect – 4 treat de yout right
U may be stepping on dynamite”.
The look in his eyes is rare to come by nowadays:
The dream of power in sinews – when labour gives you presence,
When the sweat of a mind gives weight of being.
People-power sprouted in sharing what was there,
The dregs of a beer mug
Tearing apiece a braai piece
Content that the extended friendly hands
Savour the little in happy camaraderie.
The look in his eyes astounds me – I wonder
Whether for him nothing of the times and spirit has changed.
I fear the look in my own eyes reflect the guilt and silent anger
In many other eyes except his – eyes shying from contact
Darting suspiciously about wishing not to be reminded
Of the good things that have been there before in our want.
I no longer go to church
I can no longer sit by the bridge and share a cigarette
I’ve read many more books and achieved degrees of dissatisfaction.
The income is just enough to make do
The street banter is no longer sincere
And every meeting is a painful justification
of why we can’t meet and be together as often.
Yet the look in his eyes cheats you into believing
That nothing has really changed between all of us
It’s a look that you’d want to trust,,. You just would want to…
Goddamnit…
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
The look on his face recalls times uplifting
When we sat by the street bridge whiling away,
Wishing; loudly day-dreaming a bearable future
That a gifted mind, books and a sharp head
Could bring to troubled family budgets.
The ghetto was then something romantic
Something to brag about as it made us hard and slick.
Without that what else could one have?
The strut down the street shoulders stuck up
Was a sign that there was at least some gut left in us
The plucky twist of a baseball cap on dreadlocked heads
Just demanded for ‘nuff respect – 4 treat de yout right
U may be stepping on dynamite”.
The look in his eyes is rare to come by nowadays:
The dream of power in sinews – when labour gives you presence,
When the sweat of a mind gives weight of being.
People-power sprouted in sharing what was there,
The dregs of a beer mug
Tearing apiece a braai piece
Content that the extended friendly hands
Savour the little in happy camaraderie.
The look in his eyes astounds me – I wonder
Whether for him nothing of the times and spirit has changed.
I fear the look in my own eyes reflect the guilt and silent anger
In many other eyes except his – eyes shying from contact
Darting suspiciously about wishing not to be reminded
Of the good things that have been there before in our want.
I no longer go to church
I can no longer sit by the bridge and share a cigarette
I’ve read many more books and achieved degrees of dissatisfaction.
The income is just enough to make do
The street banter is no longer sincere
And every meeting is a painful justification
of why we can’t meet and be together as often.
Yet the look in his eyes cheats you into believing
That nothing has really changed between all of us
It’s a look that you’d want to trust,,. You just would want to…
Goddamnit…
the bricks of harare are of earth
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
excuse me my friend
your mind is out of place
ten years you’ve worked in this city
yet that long you’ve never felt one with it
it’s a pity
the bricks of harare are of earth like any other
the people of blood flesh and bone
the roots of tarmacs and skyscrapers are rural
this place was once all bush once upon a time
what’s a century if the mind is transcendental and levitates
the past has its residue in today’s totems,
kith and kin, ancestral graves and tourist wonders
(look at the ruins dotted around us)
the past sticks onto us like nature,
giving roots that stabilise the towering now
lest it collapses from vertigo
but if we cling too much onto it
our personality can never be known
beyond the grandeur of our ruins,
we will age and die with it
to be buried as fossils in museums
ten years you’ve jobbed in this city
yet where you work, where you walk,
what you do is not of this place
you slaughtered a goat for friendship back home
so there’s no truer friend besides him
coming from the same rural village
no joke unless said by a clansmen
no death unless one of yours dies
if one is mugged it pains not
unless he is an uncle
excuse me friend it’s rather glum
to say my roots are in a suburban maternity wing
where an incinerator scorched the umbilical cord
and my receiving nurse i never knew
she’s all tribe all race real and frail
reincarnated in one of them who use industrial action now and then
the bricks of harare are soil like any other
we are of soil from soil to soil
if we aren’t careful the bricks of this city can hit smash and kill
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
excuse me my friend
your mind is out of place
ten years you’ve worked in this city
yet that long you’ve never felt one with it
it’s a pity
the bricks of harare are of earth like any other
the people of blood flesh and bone
the roots of tarmacs and skyscrapers are rural
this place was once all bush once upon a time
what’s a century if the mind is transcendental and levitates
the past has its residue in today’s totems,
kith and kin, ancestral graves and tourist wonders
(look at the ruins dotted around us)
the past sticks onto us like nature,
giving roots that stabilise the towering now
lest it collapses from vertigo
but if we cling too much onto it
our personality can never be known
beyond the grandeur of our ruins,
we will age and die with it
to be buried as fossils in museums
ten years you’ve jobbed in this city
yet where you work, where you walk,
what you do is not of this place
you slaughtered a goat for friendship back home
so there’s no truer friend besides him
coming from the same rural village
no joke unless said by a clansmen
no death unless one of yours dies
if one is mugged it pains not
unless he is an uncle
excuse me friend it’s rather glum
to say my roots are in a suburban maternity wing
where an incinerator scorched the umbilical cord
and my receiving nurse i never knew
she’s all tribe all race real and frail
reincarnated in one of them who use industrial action now and then
the bricks of harare are soil like any other
we are of soil from soil to soil
if we aren’t careful the bricks of this city can hit smash and kill
Philip
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
You left before dawn without saying farewell
War etched its emblem on your teenage dreams
You went to find manliness in bundus where mother wasn’t
Finding family amongst others like you
That answered only to nome de guerres
Adopting family in rustic homes strange to your town upbringing
Tucking in the wind for warmth in cold winter nights.
You knew very well you were the gook
That every roadblock was searching for
The terr that must be tricked to wear poisoned jeans
The tailed rogue misled by commies to turn against your baas
The cheeky uppity kaffir forgetting your place
Whose misguided acts warranted sanction bursting
You caused white madams on farms learn to cock a rifle
You the rapist coveting white pussy
The black peril that justified a bigger war budget.
But for your kind it was aluta continua.
Chimurenga had knocked on your doors
Walked in onto willing hosts
And spread a reed mat on the floor of your souls
Bidding them come bed together
To conceive angelic freedom child
Blest with wisdom of justice.
In the struggle you were dear comrades.
But for mother the country could never be dearer
Than a child snatched by war however grand the cause
Her grief reminded us we were relations to
The danger that brought noisy police raids in the deep of night.
But then it all ended and we looked up and down the street
Expecting to see a hero in Sting khakis
like those victorious returnee combatants wore
A beret to show you too carried breathtaking escapades
Like those of Che Guevara and Castro.
A ghetto blaster bought of demob allowances
On which you played kanindo tunes in Swahili
And danced kongonya to show you’d been there too.
But you didn’t come back.
Heroes’ Day was declared to commemorate
Those who paid the highest price of freedom
Time has numbed us to its cruel memories
We no longer look up the street in anticipation
Yet it’s still difficult not to stare closely
At any strange near look-alike that one chances to bump into
In the bustling streets and everywhere.
Once I trailed a man down Second Street
Watching his backside and gangly carriage
Recalling you walking home from a film show with friends.
Yet I never quite looked at his face
Because one glance told me it was not you.
--Nhamo Mhiripiri
You left before dawn without saying farewell
War etched its emblem on your teenage dreams
You went to find manliness in bundus where mother wasn’t
Finding family amongst others like you
That answered only to nome de guerres
Adopting family in rustic homes strange to your town upbringing
Tucking in the wind for warmth in cold winter nights.
You knew very well you were the gook
That every roadblock was searching for
The terr that must be tricked to wear poisoned jeans
The tailed rogue misled by commies to turn against your baas
The cheeky uppity kaffir forgetting your place
Whose misguided acts warranted sanction bursting
You caused white madams on farms learn to cock a rifle
You the rapist coveting white pussy
The black peril that justified a bigger war budget.
But for your kind it was aluta continua.
Chimurenga had knocked on your doors
Walked in onto willing hosts
And spread a reed mat on the floor of your souls
Bidding them come bed together
To conceive angelic freedom child
Blest with wisdom of justice.
In the struggle you were dear comrades.
But for mother the country could never be dearer
Than a child snatched by war however grand the cause
Her grief reminded us we were relations to
The danger that brought noisy police raids in the deep of night.
But then it all ended and we looked up and down the street
Expecting to see a hero in Sting khakis
like those victorious returnee combatants wore
A beret to show you too carried breathtaking escapades
Like those of Che Guevara and Castro.
A ghetto blaster bought of demob allowances
On which you played kanindo tunes in Swahili
And danced kongonya to show you’d been there too.
But you didn’t come back.
Heroes’ Day was declared to commemorate
Those who paid the highest price of freedom
Time has numbed us to its cruel memories
We no longer look up the street in anticipation
Yet it’s still difficult not to stare closely
At any strange near look-alike that one chances to bump into
In the bustling streets and everywhere.
Once I trailed a man down Second Street
Watching his backside and gangly carriage
Recalling you walking home from a film show with friends.
Yet I never quite looked at his face
Because one glance told me it was not you.