An excerpt from an interview the late Prof. Solomon Mutswairo gave in 1998. Makes wonder why these “un-telegenic” so-called nationalist public intellectuals fail to see the hypocrisy and futility of their rhetoric.

Angela A. Williams: Dr Tafataona Mahoso believes that Zimbabweans should begin constructing their own African reality in this post-colonial era. Do you agree, and how does writing poetry in English fit into your belief?

Solomon Mutswairo: Well, there has been a lot of talk about going back to our culture. I have no quarrels with that. There is nothing wrong with going back to one’s culture. But culture is a dynamic force; it is something that grows. We cannot think in terms of going back a hundred years into our culture. I believe since it is dynamic, we should accept that dynamism which seeps into our present society rather than wholly accepting those cultural norms that are no longer timely. So, thinking along those lines, I should like to think that those elements of our culture that are good, acceptable, should be retained. And those which are not will fall apart. Therefore, we will be forging ahead with a new culture, a hybrid kind of culture, which incorporates both the Western and the traditional. I do not believe I could be an advocate for a purely traditional culture in Zimbabwe, because we are now greatly influenced by other cultures, particularly the Western culture, which includes European and American. And American influence is very great, not only in this country but throughout the world, in terms of clothing and food and music and dance and general thinking. So, how are we going to retain purely that which is Zimbabwean? I say that we live in a culture within cultures, a new culture in Zimbabwe that fits our young. This is quite obvious in our music. The most popular music is not quite traditional. More particularly, it is more Western, which means our culture is moving from one phase to another. So, that’s what I believe. Are you going to dictate to the people to accept a particular cultural element, or are the people going to choose? So, what the people want is going to be an established kind of culture. It cannot be dictated. For example, I have never seen Dr Mahoso engaged in the traditional dances although he advocates going back to tradition. And I’ve never seen any of these educated people engaged in our traditional dances. They are like pieces in a museum that they would like to preserve.

And yet it disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally.
I want all my hurts to be intentional.
- Margaret Atwood

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

Our heart survives between hammers,
just as the tongue between the teeth is still able to praise.
- Rilke, Duino Elegy 9

Tafadzwa Sharaunga writing for Kalabash shares his experience of queuing for water.

Subscribe to Kalabash by writing to: kalabashmediamag [at] gmail [dot] com

Dead in the middle of the rainy season water shortages have ravaged the southwestern high-density suburbs of Harare, with neighborhoods such as Glen-View and Glen-Norah going for days without running tap water.

After an infamous five-day spell without running water I decided to go to the nearest watering hole. My brother and I arrived at the borehole at 11:22 pm. To our surprise it was heavily occupied (mostly by teenagers who were using ‘fetching water’ for mischievous activities).

Yielding to the challenge presented to us by the long, winding queue we decided to go home and return during the graveyard shift starting at 3:00 am. We trotted home like donkeys after a long day’s work, thirsty and tired as ever.  I woke up at 3:45 am and my brother was in a deep sleep. I tried to wake him up to no avail, off into the night alone it was. Eager to get some water as fast as possible my pace increased by the second, approaching the corner loud chatting became audible.

“Ndiani uyo urikuenda kupi manheru akadai?” Numb for a moment, they quickly noticed the bucket in my hand. The lady said ‘’Aah arikuenda ku borehole!’’

‘’You are lucky.’’ one of the guys shouted.

Arriving at the water point all I could think of was how all these women had gotten here, that scare was enough to deter anyone who is thirsty from going to fetch water at night. It was dark and there were about 30 women. I counted only five men, myself included. As the complexion of the night got lighter so did the mood amongst us, the queue grew longer and the talk louder. Jokes about poverty and how the people in the city council should get a feel of the system they run. The dominant fear of being out and unprotected at night was ever so present among the women as they kept referring to the darkness and its uncertainty.

Two men emerged from that darkness, one tall and the other medium height. They had placed their buckets in line and started trading political campaign stories. How they campaigned for a certain MP but forgot to vote for him when elections came. One of them sounded sad saying how it would have been good had they spent energy doing something for the benefit of the community rather than their selfish interests.

As the sun came out of its resting place the 100-metre queue came into full view. Almost time to go to work but I had no water to bath with so I waited in line for three more hours until it was my turn.

I was not the only person going to work that morning. I realized that after we have dressed to go to work it’s not visible who has slept at the borehole or in the luxury of a King or Queen size bed. We have become the ultimate masters of disguise: instead of telling our story we choose to stifle it and betray our own confidence.