Quotable quotes from famous books by the great African writer Chinua Achebe.

“While we do our good works let us not forget that the real solution lies in a world in which charity will have become unnecessary.”

“If you don’t like someone’s story, write your own.”

“Storytellers are a threat. They threaten all champions of control, they frighten usurpers of the right-to-freedom of the human spirit — in state, in church or mosque, in party congress, in the university or wherever.”

“Nobody can teach me who I am. You can describe parts of me, but who I am – and what I need – is something I have to find out myself.”

“There is no story that is not true, [...] The world has no end, and what is good among one people is an abomination with others.”

“The world is large,” said Okonkwo. “I have even heard that in some tribes a man’s children belong to his wife and her family.”  “That cannot be,” said Machi. “You might as well say that the woman lies on top of the man when they are making the babies.”

“Procrastination is a lazy man’s apology.”

“…stories are not always innocent;…they can be used to put you in the wrong crowd, in the party of the man who has come to dispossess you.”

“A man who pays respect to the great paves the way for his own greatness.”

“A toad does not run in the daytime for nothing.”

Compiled by goodreads.com

 

Here’s some short and sensible advice from Alice Walker: No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow. {You could of course substitute government for person, but you knew that}

Mentioning this name to anyone who is an avid follower of Zimbabwean news what quickly comes to mind is human rights. With an outstanding law practice background spanning almost thirty years Beatrice stood out to be one of the most fearless women Zimbabwe has ever produced. Even her profile on wikipedia portrays a history of activism complemented with multiple awards for her work. Today she finds herself being bundled into a prison van and wearing a green prison garb similar to those worn by female prisoners in Zimbabwe. Some of the women who wore this same uniform are now free after she successfully defended their rights in the courts of law.

Caught up in her line of work while trying to defends the rights of Prime Minister’s staff during a police raid has led her to appear before a local magistrate at a lower court answering charges of obstruction of justice after a High Court order for her release was ignored. Prison time weakens some and makes other come out strong and I believe Beatrice’s incarceration will make her strong.

I used to read about Beatrice Mtetwa in the papers and my first encounter with this fearless woman was when I found myself at the notorious law and order section at Harare Central Police station. It was in the middle of a grueling and nerve breaking moment when she arrived in the company of members of Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights team and I could see hope and confidence coming back to the faces of my colleagues, both men and women. Even though she was not assigned to our case she managed to come in to where we were being grilled to check on us. It was a tense situation, which no man would want to be associated with at that time but Beatrice’s presence changed the tense atmosphere.

In Zimbabwe lawyers like Beatrice have managed to defend successfully the rights of the vulnerable and as the accused yesterday she had her rights fought for by fellow human rights defenders. And if you value the work she has been doing show your support by signing a petition to set her free.

This inspired us:

Nhai iwe ‘Munhu’? Please can someone answer me. You tell me that there are now City of Harare, ministry of local government or ZRP guys who use the Willowvale Road  and they don’t have eyes to see that along that road, opposite ZESA, the drainage system is pathetic. You don’t need foreign currency but only a shovel.  You tell me to vote. For what? For someone to sit in the office and drive a Benz. Come on guys.

Preface to Zen Dust

There is a song in the wind we cant quite catch. To hear it we have to
stop. We have to set ourselves aside and listen.
Under the hum of tyres and computers, beyond the restless din of right
and wrong, there lies a silence that holds the heartache and the
longing of the world.
And then, still further out, an empty road where wind and dust have
wiped out all our tracks.
In this openness our hearts are lit. It is here the singing starts.
And our connection to each other and to the land will flow as
naturally as the waters of the great Gariep that run under the bridge
to the sea.
We can find again this precious world in all its myriad forms.
The sound of buses taking children off to school.
An eagle owl calling in the night.
The cry of living in difficult times.
And each becomes a doorway to the light.
I am not talking here of yet another way to put things right. I am
talking about giving ourselves to this life completely, however it
turns out.
I am talking about selflessness.
And that slippery necessary word, love.
It is time to go home.

- Antony Osler

1
Here’s to the boy who
waltzed my way out of a dark, empty street
and who drew me maps and taught me
geography (this city is our city, this river is
our sadness, and this restaurant is where you
taught me how to recognise the language of
every pulse of a heartbeat)

2
Here’s to the boy who
lectured me on an introductory course to
First Loves, and him who is the sole flame to
a harvest of dead branches, keeping me
warm at the dead of night—the time I think
of him, and his small eyes and his sunset touch
and his hurricane breath and his ugly enunciation
of the words goodbye, farewell.

3
Here’s to the boy who
played me guitar songs through his silence,
us naked on his bed,
more naked on mine.

4
Here’s to the boy who
wrote instead of talked, and whose eyes
were signal fires telling me how lost he felt,
alone on an island while I am
a thousand miles above him,
seeing him as a tiny dirt-pixel,
but loving him all the same.

5
Here’s to the boy who
slept with me on the cold, tiled
floor somewhere at a province
he’s always loved, while he whispered
me stories that reminded me of
my own childhood, and whose
closeness was like a run-on
sentence never perfected.

6
Here’s to the boy who
I wished
I have
never met.

7
Here’s to the boy who
I fell in love with inside the confines
of a movie theater, keeping me close
to spaces in which light was absent,
as if I were his least favorite secret.

8
Here’s to the boy who
held my hand against the backdrop
of a bookshelf, whose palms felt like
the pages of a badly-written novel.

9
Here’s to the boy who
smoked with me behind a dingy
shopping center, early evening,
as our lips tasted of apologies
and as the cold air felt like
a blanket that was ready to
separate us at once.

10
Here’s to the boy who
knew how to touch me like
his fingertips were lit like a birthday
candle, and whose smile
was like a big occasion
worth celebrating.

11
Here’s to the boy who
was like a Ciudad song—
“my emptiness”.

12
Here’s to the boy who
had pictures of himself scattered
on the walls of his room
and also on the corners
of my memory and on the
closed gaps of my heart.

13
Here’s to the boy who
distanced himself far enough
for me to miss him
until the day that I die.

14
Here’s to the boy who
made me carve our initials
on wet cement, as if our
love was made of stone.

Petersen Vargas, “Fourteen Boys”