It’s always a moment of pride when I find a Zimbabwean author mentioned in the international media. What is largely published about Zimbabwe does a disservice to our country and us. Ours is not a single story. It is always a particularly proud moment when I find that the author is also a woman.  The shortlist for the Twelfth Caine Prize for African Writing was announced recently and Zimbabwean author Noviolet Bulawayo has been shortlisted for her story Hitting Budapest.

Of course the most internationally recognizable Zimbabwean women writers are Tsitsi Dangarembga, Yvonne Vera and more recently Petina Gappah. In an interview with Mazwi literary journal Noviolet discusses why there are only a handful of Zimbabwean women writers:

Of course there are a host of reasons, but I think it also speaks to the trying circumstances of African women, not just Zimbabwean women by the way, as the group that comes last in everything and writing is no exception. Of cause this is compounded by the politics of the publishing industry. Still, I believe Zimbabwean women have compelling stories and those who are writing are doing a good job representing, and I’d like to especially thank those who are writing from Zimbabwe, the little known and unknown ones. To me those are the bad-ass writers, imagine knowing you will never be read beyond your borders, never be an international star but still writing all the same! That’s writing as speaking, as insisting on one’s presence and I think that’s deep.

‘The Engagement Party’ is this year’s (2011) HIFA theme. The HIVOS Spoken Word Programme on Wednesday 27, April took time to engage Zimbabweans celebrating African expression as they listened to poems being recited by poets from Zimbabwe, Botswana, Malawi and Ghana. The theme for the day was, “Diversity in our Voices”. The occasion wouldn’t have been a success without the colourful and wonderful audience. Not only was expression done in poetry, but in song too, as witnessed by the performance by Zimbabwe’s beautiful jazz singer Claire Nyakujara.

Mbizo Chirasha, The Black Poet, was the first poet to perform. The themes of his poetry consist of children’s rights, politics, social lives, gender issues, praise and protest, culture and African pride. He took us on an expedition of the African names from the King Jaja of Opobo to Chaminuka with his poem was titled, ‘African Names’. Another local poet who performed was, Bhekumusa Moyo. He has several of his poems published in the Sunday News Poetry Corner and other publications. On this day he took to the stage two of his poems titled, ‘A poetic crusade’ and ‘This hand’.

Power to the sisters hey! T J Dema from Botswana was the only female poet who performed on this day. I must say her poems are truly engaging as she tackles life issues with her African voice. She performed ‘Neon poem’ and ‘First born Lullaby’. An extract from ‘Neon poem’ reads:

Poems are bullshit unless they teach
They serve absolutely no purpose unless they reach
The audience they are written, the ears they are meant for

Q. Malewezi from Malawi well known as Q, delivered his poem in heartfelt verbal bursts interlaced with humorous suggestions. He managed to invite the audience on an artistic journey in his alphabetic poem, ‘Journey to Q’. One would think it’s a journey of his life but no, he dwelled on all the issues in Africa in alphabetical order (A-Q of course) in an artstic manner, which was just superb. The other poem he performed was ‘Recycling Politicians’.

Quaye Kojo known as Sir Black from Ghana delivered the last poem. He tackles poetry more on a thought provoking note. During his performance he got inquisitive as he threw questions here and there to engagea  the audience.  Below is a quote from one of his poems:

If vegetarians eat vegetables
What should humanitarians eat?
~ Humanity in diversity~

To end the programme singer Claire Nyakujara showed her diversity by performing three songs one in Shona, Ndebele and English.

To listen to more of the poetic engagement do make a date with The HIVOS Spoken Word at the HIVOS Poetry Café.

Saturday (Coca-Cola Day) – 3-4pm
Sunday (Alliance Insurance Day) – 12-1pm

A friend of mine dropped off a bunch of magazines that she had finished reading. We recycle magazines – eventually they will end up at YOUR GP – but only when all the fashion advice is really redundant, the gardening tips are for the wrong season, the hairstyles are disgusting and the sexperts are old news. The usual suspects were present: “Cleo”, “Cosmopolitan”, “Elle” et al.  Every time I had a break this weekend (to be assured of 5 minutes uninterrupted reading time is quite a feat) I dived, nose first, into the nearest copy to read about how everyone else is doing it better.

People out there are having unbelievable sex (several times a week, if not several times a day – my bum is a biscuit!), they are great parents, successful entrepreneurs, accomplished sports people, over-achievers and ball-breakers.  You put down one of those magazines thinking you have to start that diet, and get that exercise and teach the kids from home and run a successful business and still find the time to make your husband feel like a god.  AND prepare home-made chilli jam and plant an organic vegetable garden and make homeopathic remedies from scratch from the garden.  If I had a super power, that would be it; all things to all people.

Needless to say yesterday morning I did the 5 recommended stretches for want of something better to do. Stretches mind you, nothing as ambitious as the Comrades to start off with, it’s not like I was pushing my luck. I could hardly brush my teeth today. I feel like a dressed chicken, about to go into the roasting tray – you know how you sometimes hold them up by their wings (or is that just me?) and the skin looks all stretched and tight and white (brownish if they are Argentinean) – that’s what I feel like.

Anyway, needless to say, when the alarm clock went off at 5 this morning to remind me to do my stretches – I gave it the finger, from the warmth and comfort of my winter feather duvet.

Bhekumusa Moyo is a talented young Zimbabwean writer. Here are his reflections on the impact of HIV in the small border town of Beitbridge:

The sex worker in a developing town in a developing nation

Beitbridge is characterized by a hive of activity and business ranging from formal to informal, legal to illegal. Life is fast and the cost of living is double that of other towns like Harare and Bulawayo. One is either robbing or is being robbed. One is either bribing or is being bribed. One is either selling sex or someone is buying.

I have followed closely the life of Chido who has been in the sex industry for 23 years. She is being called by her first name even by young boys of her son’s age. Her life has been revolving around being fucked and sucking from sex hungry men. I met her at Kalahari Sports Bar. She is 39 though she looks younger because of skin peeling creams.

Narrating her ordeal, she quickly demanded beer as we talked. Like many young women who end up hooked into the evil net of the world’s oldest profession, she came into the business not by choice. She was on her way to South Africa. On her first quest to cross the border via the Vembe crossing spot which many border jumpers use, she met the horror of her life, which transformed her to what she is today. She was raped in exchange for favors to cross the river. None of the rapists managed to get her across the river until one Mpisi (a man who escorts border jumpers across the Limpopo River), took her to Baghdad Squatter Camp in Beitbridge. Baghdad was situated by the Beitbridge long distance bus terminus back then. It was destroyed during Muramatvsina invasions, as it was a breeding ground for all crime and ill activity.

The man introduced her to Mai Tinashe who was the aunt of the prostitutes in the area. That is how she came to surrender her life to the twin devices of sex and booze risking her life to HIV. Now she doesn’t even give a damn.

At 18, she had her first child with a Zambian truck driver. A year later the affair with the Zambian ended as he changed routes and all contact was lost. There was no one to support her. The option that was always there for her was the obvious. She continued putting herself at risk as a way of supporting her child.

She remains earning her income, reeling under different sizes of men and enduring the penetration of all sizes and shapes of shafts. Her life is surrendered to the grave. She speaks of her clients as fools. On the subject of HIV, she shows no remorse. Straight faced she told me to fuck off because anytime, anyone can die. She says death is death.

During our discussion, a couple of things came up. The subject of making prostitution a legal profession was top. This, she says, will make all players safe, the client and the service provider. She says that parents who do not love their children, ignoring them and exposing them to conditions that disturb their minds, cause moral decadence.

It was around midnight. She looked me in the eye and said “How about us tonight? $50 only. “  I said “no”. She insisted. I told her that I was only 23, two years older than her son and asked her what she thought of this. She said pussy is pussy, whether from a granny or schoolgirl and she accepts any stick that comes her way, for a price. I gave her $30 and we parted ways.

Beitbridge is at risk because of HIV. Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) says that there are almost 8000 prostitutes in the border town. A lot needs to be done before the town is wiped out.

By Bhekumusa Moyo

Bhekumusa is a civic activist, a poet, researcher and freelance writer based in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe and can be contacted on bhekumusamoyo [at] gmail [dot] com

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, they say.

But the skin lightening or skin bleaching or skin-whitening craze that has hit most women in Harare, makes one think that saying should have been, “Beauty is when you are of lighter complexion.” The last time I visited the saloon, I just watched this craze in amazement. The hairdressers and some of the clients too, could easily be spotted with two varying complexions on their bodies. Their faces and necks are lighter – actually it’s more of an orange colour than not, as you go down to their feet you are greeted with a different darker colour which usually resembles their natural complexion. Skin lightening is common in many countries where many women view whiter skin as a symbol of beauty, health and high social status.

With these creams and lotions being sold in town on the roadside by street vendors on cardboard boxes and going for a dollar each, they are of easy access to the ladies (and some men too) who want them. The major brands on these roadside stalls are Movate and Diproson. I recently, pretended to be a customer. The vendor seemed to have got her marketing strategies right. She looked like a user of these creams, and had a friendly smile. I asked for the most effective lightening cream and she gave me Movate and told me if I wanted to bleach the whole body she also had tablets for sale! I pretended to look for my wallet, and after of few minutes of a fake search, I told her I couldn’t find it. I just didn’t want to part with my dollar for that. Too bad I couldn’t even treat myself with the usual ice cream I used to get from Dairiboard vendors on street corners.

Scientific research shows that the use of such creams and lotions frequently and at high doses increases the risk of skin cancer. This is because these products contain toxic mercury, hydroquinone and other potentially toxic substances that cause redness, itching, inflammation and other skin problems. As African governments and non-governmental organisations are busy campaigning for cancer awareness, as it’s a silent killer that has taken the lives of many, people are risking their lives by using these creams. It’s such a depressing scenario when you look at it closely.

I know of models from our African continent with dark complexions that have managed to take their professional career to an international level and are amongst the best models in the world. So as Zimbabwe turns 31, “Being black is not only powerful, but beautiful too” … Zimbabwean women embrace your natural complexions and love them because you are powerful and beautiful.

They go through harassment, torture and some of them are subjected to domestic violence. They forgive, motivate and inspire so that there is always unity, love and peace. In order to be recognized in the society they put in twice the effort than men do.

Everyday we read stories of women who are doing a lot for their families, community and for the country but very few are getting the recognition they deserve. Every man needs a woman for support. Its either she is your wife, girlfriend, sister and the most important of all “mother”. With Mother’s Day just around the corner, I have been thinking what I can do for my mother. She deserves the best especially for everything I have put her through. It’s a terrible experience for a mother to see her son in prison with leg irons. With high blood pressure and sugar diabetes she managed to endure the long court sessions and the visits each day to prison. Instead of crying she always had this smile of hope on her face and it gave me courage and strength.

So to every man out there . . . if you have a wife do something for the mother of your kids and if you have a mother spoil her on Mothers Day because these women deserve to be happy. Show some love on Mothers Day by doing something simple, like the laundry, or take care of those naughty kids at home just for a day. Even a cup of coffee will do wonders.