PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

Apply for the 2023 Miles Morland Writing Scholarship

The Miles Morland Foundation Writing Scholarship

Grant
Scholars writing fiction will receive a grant of £18,000, paid monthly over the course of twelve months. At the discretion of the Foundation, Scholars writing non-fiction, who require additional research time, could receive an additional grant, paid over a period of up to eighteen months.

Scholar’s Undertaking
At the end of each month scholars must send the Foundation 10,000 new words that they will have written over the course of the month. Scholars are also asked to donate to the MMF 20% of whatever they subsequently receive from the book they write during the period of their Scholarship. This includes revenues as a result of film rights, serialisations or other ancillary revenues arising from the book written during the Scholarship period. These funds will be used to support other promising writers. The 20% return obligation should be considered a debt of honour rather than a legally binding obligation.

Qualifications
To qualify for the Scholarship a candidate must submit an excerpt from a piece of work of between 2,000 – 5,000 words, written in English that has been published and offered for sale, you must send clear evidence that the piece you upload as part of your application has been both published AND offered for sale. This will be evaluated by a panel of readers and judges set up by the MMF. The work submitted will be judged purely on literary merit. It is not the purpose of the Scholarships to support academic or scientific research, or works of special interest such as religious or political writings. Submissions or proposals of this nature do not qualify.

Scholarship Requirement
The only condition imposed on the Scholars during the year of their Scholarship is that they must write. They will be asked to submit by email at least 10,000 new words every month until they have finished their book, or their Scholarship term has ended. If the first draft of the book is completed before the year is up, payments will continue while the Scholar edits and refines their work.

Proposed Work
The candidates should submit a description of between 400 – 1,000 words of the work they intend to write. The proposal must be for a full length book of no fewer than 80,000 words. The MMF does not accept proposals for collaborative writing or short story collections. The proposal should be for a completely new work, not a work in progress, and must be in English.
Please note that if you are shortlisted for a Morland Writing Scholarship, you will be asked to send us a 3,000 – 4,000 word “chapter” of the book you are proposing to write on your scholarship year to help the judges assess your ability. Writers will be notified that they are on the shortlist at the end of October. Shortlisters will then have 15 days to return the sample “chapter”. In view of that, please do some advance thinking about the sample “chapter” you will have to provide if you are shortlisted.

Biography
Please also tell us in 200 – 300 words something about yourself and your background. People who reach the shortlist will be asked for further information about themselves and how they propose to write their book.

Fiction or Non-Fiction
The Foundation welcomes both fiction and non-fiction proposals. We are aware that non-fiction Scholars may need extra time for research, so the Foundation may exercise its discretion to offer non-fiction writers a longer Scholarship period of up to 18 months.

Starting time
The Scholars may elect to start at any time between January and June in the year following the Scholarship Award. Their payments and the 10,000 word monthly submission requirement will start at the same time.

Accepted works
The Scholarships are meant for full length works of adult fiction or non-fiction. Poetry, plays, film scripts, children’s books, and short story collections do not qualify.

Mentoring
The Foundation will not review or comment on the monthly submissions as they come in. However, each Scholar will be offered the opportunity to be mentored by an established author or publisher. In most cases the mentorship will begin after the book has been finished and the Scholarship period has ended. At the discretion of the Foundation, the cost of the mentorship will be borne by the MMF. It is not the intention of the MMF to act as editor or a publisher. Scholars will need to find their own agents and publishers although the MMF is happy to offer advice.

Residency
Please note that this is not a residential Scholarship. It is up to the Scholars what their living arrangements are during their Scholarship year.

Important Dates
Applications will be received between 1st July 2023 and 18th September 2023. Applications submitted outside that period will not be looked at.
All enquiries relating to the Morland Scholarships should be directed to scholarships@milesmorlandfoundation.com In order to apply, please click on the blue box that appears on any page of the website, entitled: ‘Morland Writing Scholarship Application’.
A submission of between 2,000 to 5,000 words as a Word document of work that has been published and offered for sale.

Proof of publication and proof of sale.
A description of between 400 – 1,000 words about the new book you intend to write.
A scan of an official document showing that you, or both of your parents, were born in Africa.
A brief bio of between 200 – 300 words.
Please tell us how you heard about the Morland Writing Scholarships.

Contact Information
Miles Morland Foundation
2nd Floor, Jubilee House
2 Jubilee Place
London
SW3 3TQ
+44 (0) 20 7349 1245
mmf@milesmorlandfoundation.com
For more information, visit:
https://commonwealthfoundation.com/opportunity/miles-morland-foundation-writing-scholarship/?fbclid=IwAR08r_hSoXnA_BIc9rnDdTTeZERqo_sIXYtxAxfcmUxZ53MZOzv7AJYYL50

Tell A Story Of An African City

African urban space anthology The Flute is looking for submissions highlighting the tales of African cities. Please submit your chosen poems or images by September 1 if the theme appeals to you.
The Flute is edited by Olajide Salawu and Rasaq Malik. The anthology is looking to publish works in the genre of poetry and photography focusing on African urban spaces such as Lagos, Accra, Kinshasa, Lonligwe, Durban, Marrakesh, Nairobi, Ouagadougou, Dakar, Luanda, Yaounde, and more.
The theme of this issue is “African Urban Echoes“, defined as the flute of the city, the noise of the people at the park, the bus conductor shouting on top of his voice, the rhythm of the night taxi cab and the car honking games. In these echoes, there is resistance, hope, and anxieties all produced simultaneously as the power of art can transmit hope out of the bleak stories of African urban governance.

Read the inspiration behind the theme here:
In the words of Nigerian poet, Odia Ofeimum, “A city is like a poem. You enter it and you enter into a world of concentrated time.” Odia’s observation makes us think of the city as malleable, changing from time to time, switching tempo from moment to moment. The African city, we guess, can be fast and uncanny, and can offer the balm when we walk in its faith. The question then is, is the city like a poem? What kind of poem does the city produce to reimagine Henri Lefvebre, what kind of city does the poem produce? With a focus on African cities as an urban capture with many Surrounds, as described by Simone Abdoumaliq, we are thinking of how these urban centers carry the heritage of colonial violence in their walls, roofs, texture, and rhythms. How can we create stories that inspire a lifeworld not of struggles to counter the normativized narratives of African urbanity? What other forms of city do we have and hope to live in? We also imagine the South Africa urban poet Mongane Wally Serote chanting fervently against the darkness of Johannesburg as we deliberate on the “Sorrows of the Black City” in Muhammad al-Fayturi’s poetry. There are many questions African cities ask us, that we have not been able to answer.

Submission Guidelines:

Send three poems or two images with the subject line: “African Urban Echoes”
Write us a note on what has inspired you to write this poem.
We prefer a Microsoft Word attachment
Include your bio in the body of the email.
Deadline: September 1, 2023

There may be compensation for contributors.
Submit to: africanurban69@yahoo.com

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE FEMALE WARRIOR
Written by By Boikanyo Pela

I’ve heard tales of ferocious African warriors. I’ve read of their fortitude in overcoming fear and protecting their women and children, how fiercely they defended their lands and livestock. I’ve heard about men who are tall, Black and African, with thick muscles, men who are built like my father. For a very long time, in my small mind, my father represented the warrior. He would care for us and defend us like the legendary warriors.
My father, Ephraim, was a well-respected man. He worked in a mine a bit far from home. He would come home every month end without fail. Sometimes he would make it home twice in a month. Every time he entered the house, he brought joy with him. He never failed to make us laugh. When he left the house, he made sure to leave me, his daughter, with a little bit more confidence.
He was a good father. He loved my mother, he loved all of us, and he was a happy man. Thabo, my little brother, saw him as a role model. He would go outside every evening to lift weights just so he would look like my dad. I used to mock him because, despite his efforts, he was still small and lacked bulk. I thought he looked like a stick at times, and he didn’t like my candour. Of course, we did not get along that well, because I did not believe in his ‘fitness routine.’ He complained about the greasy food we ate, but I could not help think he needed a bit of fat. As one can tell, he was my annoying sibling, but behind closed doors, far underneath all the flesh and subcutaneous tissue, the heart guarded by my ribcage held a lot of love for him. It was not information he needed to hear, though. I had to act tough and insensitive in front of him. I had to be the older sister. The fact that he was a boy often meant that he could belittle me any chance he got. I wanted him to respect me, because despite being a girl, I was his older sister. For the longest time, I was glad he looked skinny. What would happen if he were all bulky like my dad? I would lose every fight we had, I thought.
I was a bit popular with the kids in the neighbourhood. My father bought cordial things for us, and I always had the coolest stationery. I would carry some pocket money to get atchaar and chips. I was a light eater, and so, I often didn’t finish my food. My friends appreciated my leftovers, because the atchaar I added to my food brought flavour to the plain food they served us during lunch at school. And so, I always had people following me around, especially during breaktime. I thought I was loveable and had a good personality.
My brother often argued that I was arrogant, and people only liked me for what I had to offer, but I begged to differ. I was a confident young lady and had a lot to offer. Outside of all the fame, I was smart. I found school way too easy and would often read extracurricular material. I liked stories about ancient Africa. The kingdoms and arrangements always intrigued me. I got fascinated and saddened by the way powerful women would not be given enough respect. Every piece that I read brought this strong feeling inside of me, and I decided to stand for women in the modern society.
Most of the time, I would think about my mother, who had so much talent and so much to contribute to the world. Despite her enormous potential, she chose to remain a housewife. I couldn’t understand why mother couldn’t just make her own money and avoid having to report all of her expenses to my father. Didn’t she long for freedom? My father was a good man, but he was too conservative. As a woman, the only way to get along with him was to keep your head down and listen more than you spoke. That is how he was reared. From a polygamous family, as the least favourite child, his first instinct was survival. His father had killed his mother at a noticeably immature age because she was seen being helped by the enemy by the river. We were not allowed to talk about it, but the story was quite known in our community. People talked and it was hard to ignore.
She was struggling to carry water from the river. A story of a fragile, pregnant woman, accepting the aid she clearly needed. When her husband heard of it, he decided that his reputation was more important than his heavily pregnant wife. He had to kill her just to set the record straight. He didn’t care if his unborn child would also die. A grandmother I would need, killed by my grandfather. Yes, my grandfather was a cold-blooded murderer. How could one ignore such a story?
I am not one to pass judgement on murderers; I have my own demons to contend with, and I have blood on my hands. I was troubled by stories of women being abused; you see. I couldn’t stand it; I’d read too much about it to realise how pleasurable the deed must have been for the culprit. The degree of rage someone felt when committing an act of violence against women made them the most heinous parasites, feeding on innocent, helpless souls. The imagination was simply too painful and revolting for me to stomach, but I still read about it.
As one might expect, I had no idea I’d be able to witness the deed.
One gorgeous Saturday morning, as we were tidying the house for my father’s visit later that evening, I came across an envelope. I opened it and read the contents since I was too inquisitive. It was an approved letter from my school. It was a letter of authorisation permitting my mother to use the school tuckshop! She had long desired the freedom I had always desired for her! I couldn’t believe it. I carefully closed the envelope and placed it back where I found it. I waited for my father to arrive in the evening.
We had supper together, as a complete family. We were laughing and it was a beautiful evening, one of those one would be too scared to ruin. At one point, my mother told me to go fetch the envelope from the little corner table in her room, she had something to show my father. I left the living room to fetch it, not knowing how to feel about this sudden confrontation. It felt like one, telling a man like my father that you wanted to make your own money as a woman could be easily digested as an insult. I understood why my mother had to share the news with him, though. She needed him to invest. She needed the capital.
I came back, holding the long-awaited envelope, and firmly placed it in my mother’s hand. I wanted her to know that I supported her, but I doubt that’s how she interpreted the strength I had invested into placing the envelope in her hand. She just gave me a disapproving look and proceeded to open the envelope. She passed the letter to my father. How could she forget that her husband was illiterate? It didn’t matter though, for he asked my brother to read the letter and explain it to him. He listened, as he slowly chewed his food. I tried to read his emotions from his face, but all I could see was his attentiveness.
At one point he looked down to his food, and it took him a few seconds to raise his head after my brother was done reading to him, but he eventually did. His eyes were red as he raised his head.
“So, all that I do for you in this house is not enough?” he finally asked.
My mother kept quiet. She looked as if she was regretting her decision. Was that fear in her eyes? The more I looked at her, the clearer it became. That was fear. Why was she so afraid of this man? I’ve heard her screaming a few times when my father was home, but I did not make much of it. Was she one of the women who suffer silently from abuse?
“Baba, the kids are old enough now, I don’t need to stay at home all day.”
I cannot remember a lot, but food was flying in just a split-second and all I could hear was echoes of a roar that sounded “woman!”. Was this still about the letter? I saw his firm hand on my mother’s neck and before I could digest anything that had happened, he pushed her down and started kicking her with his mine boots. Was this man still my father?
“Not in front of the kids, Ephraim!” my mother pleaded.
Had this happened before? Why was she too worried about it happening in front of us more than she was about it happening at all? The food my mother had spent so much time preparing was all over the floor. Nothing made sense, everything felt like a dream.
I took Thabo into my hands and tried to block his sight with my hand. He quickly removed it and started crying. I looked at my mother, crunched up, with her arms above her head. He was going to kill her. What was this about? Was he angered by the idea of her independence? At that moment, I wished Thabo was not that skinny, I wished he would do something instead of cry like a baby in a corner. I wished I could do something.
Mother was in pain! Mother was slowly dying, and I couldn’t just watch. I hated the fact that all I could do was remain frozen. I felt helpless. It was too fast for me to process any emotions, but I felt the story of my grandfather and grandmother replay somewhere in the part of my brain that wasn’t frozen. Ephraim started punching my mother, while occasionally strangling her. She was starting to look pale. Was that blood on her face? It was as if she was dying in his hands, and he couldn’t care less. Who was this demonic man? What had happened to my father?
I placed my eyes on one of my mother’s vases, and I picked it up. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was acting, and I was saving my mother. I used all my strength to hit my father on the head with the vase. He turned to face me as he slowly bent to the ground. Our eyes locked, and I saw the anger in his eyes. He was no longer a warrior; he was no longer a protector. He was capable of killing me. I wasn’t ready to die, I had so much to live for. I felt this rush of anger and fear simultaneously, and I kept on hitting him with the vase, using all my strength. The world was still, it was screaming my name, and I did not stop. I saw a huge knife in the pile of food that had splashed on the ground, and I took it. I stabbed my father. He was no longer trying to fight back. It was over. I was safe, we were safe.
I slowly turned to face my brother in the corner. He was crying helplessly. I turned and locked eyes with my mother. Was that fear I saw in her eyes? She had bruises all over. I smiled at her. She opened her mouth to say something.
“What have you done?” she muttered softly.
I was exhausted. I had fought a beast. I felt weak, and I slowly let myself go. A lot had happened in just a few minutes. Right then, I knew my whole life had changed. I knew nothing would ever be the same. I blacked out.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: GRACE’S CHOICE
Written by Sydney Mulenga

In the heart of the bustling capital city of Zambia, Lusaka, lies Mtendere, a vast and sprawling residential compound. Mtendere is home to a diverse community of families. At the centre of Mtendere compound lies Kazimai market, a small and yet vibrant market filled with hawkers of different wares. Sounds of bargaining, prices, traders announcing their products and trying to sweet-talk passers-by to have a look at them litter the air. As the crowd’s bustle passes, a stray cat casually makes its way through the market. A few paces behind it a little boy makes his way to pick it up. The cat belongs to his family; it was procured to take care of a rat problem that had plagued their small shop. This small cat has saved the family business from considerable loss. The sight of goods destroyed by rat teeth marks has not greeted them in the morning since the cat’s arrival. As the boy pursues the cat, he passes a thrift shop that deals in used clothes referred to as salaula by the locals. Inside, the shopkeeper is talking to a brown-skinned young girl.
“They fit you perfectly!” the thrift seller says, curling her tongue around her words.
Grace, the girl that is being convinced to turn into a new customer, scans the face of the woman for any traces of a lie; she needs the affirmation. Grace thinks the jean fits her perfectly too, but she doesn’t want the seller to see how much she likes it. That would make discount negotiations tricky later. Hawkers here have been known to exhibit reluctance to drop the price if and when they notice their wares have managed to seduce the buyer into liking them.
Grace also wants to make sure that the money her grandmother had gifted her for her birthday is spent on something as close as possible to the best she could get for her money’s worth. Money hasn’t been easy to come by. It is just her, her grandmother and her brother now and life hasn’t been kind.
“This jean was made for you,” the seller continues. “Just look at how it shapes your hips.”
The seller is a lovely woman; probably in her late 30s.Grace’s mother was about the same age when she died.
Grace blushes. “Okay nicholekoni. I’m short; can you give me a discount?”
After a few negotiations, the lovely woman gives way and neatly bundles the blue jean for Grace in a black plastic. Grace thanks her quickly. She is eager to get home and wash the jean so she could wear it later and there’s no longer a need for her to hide how much she likes the jean now.
“Zikomo, thank you, I’m going to go now,” Grace says exposing her crooked canine smile. The crooked canines add a childlike innocence to her smile and most people can’t help but smile back. This seller is like most people.
“Thank you my daughter, go well,” she says as a smile plays on her face.
As Grace steps out of the stall, her smile fades. A lump slowly begins to form in her throat.
“My daughter.” Her mother used to call her that, often when she needed Grace to do something she knew Grace wouldn’t be too happy about. She would call out, “Grace my daughter!” After Grace came to her, she would often go on to say, “I know you’re tired and want to play but…”
Grace didn’t like it then. “My daughter” after her name was always precursor of unreasonable request from her mother but now, she misses it and yearns to hear it again.
“I’m sorry,” a little boy apologises to Grace after bumping into her.
“It’s okay,” Grace replies without thinking about it. “Just watch where you are going.”
“I will, thank you,” the boy says with a smile,
The boy turns his attention to the cat in his arms and whispers, “See what you’ve caused?”
The lump that was in Grace’s throats dissolves.

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Grace was 13 when her father died, young and confused as she tried to make sense of her pain. Before she could make peace with the reality of being an orphan, two years later her mother died. The cancer took her quickly. The doctors said it was discovered too late. The family gossiped about how caring for two kids with no one to help but her old mother was more than she could bare.
When her mother died, Grace was 16 and her brother was only seven. The day of her mother’s funeral she held him close as both wept as her grandmother held them both. She was torn at the seams, a double orphan at just 16.
The funeral environment suffocated Grace; it was too constant a reminder of what she had lost. So whenever she got the chance, between the condolences from never seen before relatives and people telling how good her mother was to them, she snuck away. She stayed close in case her brother or grandma needed her for something. She stood with her friend, Jane, about 50 meters from the funeral house. They were making small talk when Grace noticed two of her maternal aunties heading in their direction.
“Iweh Jane, let’s go further into your yard. I don’t want my aunties to see me.”
The two girls retreated further into the yard. When her two aunties passed by her, they were in loud conversation.
“See, that’s the problem. Look at how no one wants to take care of the kids because of how Amake Grace didn’t want to visit…”
The oblivious aunties walked out of earshot. Jane placed a comforting hand on her shoulder like she had the last two days as Grace started tearing up.
At her mother’s funeral, her relatives stuck around just long enough for the burial and to share her mother’s belongings, and then they all sat down and decided her and her brother would stay with their maternal grandmother. Grace was allowed to pick first, a few mementos to hold on to. Afterwards everyone from distant family members to neighbours she only exchanged simple pleasantries before now, shared her mother’s clothes amongst themselves. Family members picked first.
“We will be sending money for food and upkeep for the children. It takes a village to raise a child, our family is our village. So we can’t let these kids suffer just because our sister, their mother, has left,” echoed one old man Grace had only seen him on two occasions – both were her parent’s funerals. The first time was at her father’s. He wasn’t given as much time to talk then as he was now.
That was also the last time Grace saw this man or most of her family members. The money for food and upkeep never came.

---

Grace reaches home. Her brother James is playing with his friends in the yard. Best not to bother him, she reasons. Her grandmother is in the living room. Their house is a four roomed house made up of a living room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. Grace and her grandmother share a bedroom.
“Gogo, I’m back,” Grace announces.
“Show me what you bought,” Gogo replies without looking away from the telenovela playing on the TV.
“Let me wash it first apa, I’ll show you later.”
Grace is about to hang the jeans when her hears her friend ask her grandmother about her in the house.
“Jane, I’m at the back!” Grace shouts.
When Jane comes out to the back, the two friends share pleasantries and begin to catch up,
“I can’t stay long; I have to pack to leave for Serenje.”
” I’m really happy for you ba soon to be teacher.”
“I have to pass that enrollment interview first. Any news on the your getting into college?”
“I haven’t gotten my results yet, as we still owe the school that,” said Grace. “I’ll try applying for a student loan. We just need to raise the money to pay the school.” Grace’s face is starting to drop.
“So have you decided what you are doing for your big 18th birthday tomorrow?” Jane changes the subject.
“I was just going to chill at home with Gogo and James, since you decided to abandon me,” Grace says.
“You know I’m not abandoning you,” Jane interrupts with a laugh.”I need to attend the enrollment interviews tomorrow, and I have to pack today.”
“I know, I just wished you would be around. Won’t be as fun with just Mimi and I.”
“Wait, I thought you said you were going to stay here with Gogo and James,” Jane says.
“I was not finished, I was about to tell you that Mimi asked me go out with her.”
“Isn’t Mimi’s idea of going out, just going to a club and having men buy her drinks?”
“She promised me we wouldn’t be bothered by any men, it will be just us.”
“Are you sure?”
“She promised.”
“Well I don’t think you should go. Mimi can’t be trus..”
“Hey you two!” Mimi announced. “James told me you are back here.”
Gogo didn’t like Mimi either, so Mimi tried to minimise interaction between the two.
Barely five minutes after Mimi joined the two friends, Jane said her goodbyes and as she was leaving, she told Grace to think about what she had said.
“What is that about?” Inquired Mimi.
“It’s nothing, school things.”
“Okay, so what are you wearing tomorrow?”
“I bought these jeans, ” Grace pointed.
“I have the perfect white top that will go with that.”

---

It is the next day, Grace’s birthday. As Grace did her chores, she considered Jane’s reservations about trusting Mimi. She thinks about how her and Mimi met a little after Grace’s mother died. Mimi was a double orphan too. She lived with her grandmother too and the shared pain drew the girls to each other. Mimi’s childhood was rougher than Grace’s. And of late Mimi life has taken a turn; she had started going out and speaking about men that gave her money after she spent time with them in expensive lodges. Grace didn’t want to get sucked into that world. Her grandmother wouldn’t be happy about it and she was certain her mother wouldn’t approve. Mimi had promised her she was taking her out to a good place and they wouldn’t stay out late.
Mimi picks Grace up later that day.
“You look fire in those jeans, Grace.”
” Thank you,” Grace blushes.
“So where are we going?”
” it’s a surprise.”
Grace had a slight idea what the surprise would be. Mimi had been trying to invite her to go a club with her for quite sometime. She was still reluctant about going with Mimi.
“Okay ba birthday girl, let’s go.”
Mimi and Grace walk into the club, the loud music and flashing lights make Grace feel overwhelmed. She isn’t used to being in such a crowded and noisy environment.
“Let’s go get some drinks!” Mimi yells over the music and grabs Grace’s hand. She leads her to the bar. After they reach the bar, Mimi leans into Grace and yells again, “Trust me Grace. You will enjoy this. I’m going to get you a nice cocktail.”
As Grace reluctantly sips her drink, she finds it isn’t as bad as she had imagined it would be. After a while she finds herself enjoying the music. Some of Mimi’s friends join them and they all dance together.
Suddenly, Grace feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns around to see a man probably in his early 30s smiling at her.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks.
Grace hesitates for a moment, but Mimi urges her to go for it.
“I need to go to the bathroom first,” Grace says to Mimi.
Mimi points her to the direction of the bathrooms. Grace makes her way to the bathroom. She uses one of the stalls and on her way out stares in the mirror a while.
“What am I doing?” she whispers to herself.
“What was that?” a random woman asks Grace.
“Oh, nothing,” Grace hurries out of the bathroom.
Mimi is waving to her in the distance, and the man is standing next to her. As Grace heads in their direction, she freezes mid-step and her heart drops to her stomach. Walking towards her is her mother. Her wonderful eyes, her smile, her cheeks have the same dips as they always have. She says something, Grace can’t quite hear her over the music, but she can make out the words from her mouth, “Grace my daughter”.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – JUNE 2023

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: TARIRO (HOPE)
Written by Simbarashe Zimuto

According to the doctors, Tariro was brought into the hospital two weeks ago. Her legs were broken beyond repair. A plaster was holding the last remains of her left minced, butchered hand and her right hand clasped a blood-soaked diary. Half of her face had been marooned by iron shrapnel in the midst of the tragedy. She was the sole survivor on the day of the tragedy but today she breathed her last.
I am happy she died, heaven was her only chill spot and peaceful place. That leaves me to reminisce about the life of my daughter who died full of grief.
She was born on a stormy night, August 17. The clouds were pregnant and this was symbolic of a great soul she would grow up to be. We named her Tariro. My daughter was the kind of joy that came to heal my wounds after scars that were left by her father, an evil spirit who put me in the Intensive Care Unit every day. Tariro was once my smile keeper, but the gigantic jaws of death caught up with her.
My daughter was an African teenager who depicted the struggles that every teenager faces under the forces of demanding parents who expect her to live up to their values. She had good days and mostly bad ones too. The good days were brought by my mythical thoughts clinging onto the dream of becoming the next Tsitsi Dangarembgwa.
“You do not see an open window with academics in this type of a country”, Tariro’s father said to her once. However, deep down Tariro knew her father was partly correct because life in a country within the dark depths of Africa was not life. It was just living in a place where political cries and the economic crisis surged.
Keeping her head above the water seemed to be difficult when she was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Girls Tariro’s age were living lavish lives by sleeping around with old men, but Tariro kept her head high, burning the midnight lamp studying. What was my daughter’s driving force? Competition was once part of her values, but it vanished the day a local ophthalmologist from Harare diagnosed Tariro with an eye condition called Keratoconus. From that day, she never pictured herself within the counsel of leaders. Her esteem became shattered. Who would want to follow a partially blind leader? Seems like every straw she held onto was crumbling. Why couldn’t Tariro, my daughter, just let herself drown in the deep waters? Academics were the only Plan “A” within Tariro‟s radar. Without the value of excellence, Plan “A” became worthless. Plan “B” had been decided by her father; he was to marry Tariro off to an old man if ever Plan “A” failed. According to Tariro’s father, our daughter had to be made ready for such a marriage through female genital mutilation [FGM].

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“It is just a prick to safeguard your virginity and appease the gods,” the sangoma assured Tariro, “the might of the gods will bless the holy matrimony you are about to enter.”
Her fate had been sealed. Like a sacred spring, blood gushed out between her legs, and that night she drowned in the pool of her own blood. All because of her father’s firm doctrine; Tariro would not live to see the dawn. Tariro’s father stood nodding approvingly to the sangoma’s incarnations as he rubbed herbs onto my daughter’s womanhood and showcased prowess in knifing skills. The herbs gave Tariro a burning sensation followed by excruciating pain from the cutting rusty razor blades. Why couldn’t they just let Tariro rest in peace?
That night, Tariro reminisced about her dreams and goals for the last time. I audibly heard my sniffles as the pain of being a mother crept up my emotions. I stared in horror at my only daughter lying on a blood-soaked leopard hide. The sangoma scrapped pounds of flesh and he grabbed a thorn to start sewing parts of Tariro’s womanhood for a quick recovery. The razor blade was partially blunt, and his bony fingers scurried in the dark for a knife. Flies buzzed around Tariro’s womanhood and kept on distracting the sangoma. My insolent husband seemed more content with the procedure, yet the sangoma was now dismayed. Why cling to an ancient tradition at the expense of your own daughter? Anxiety was killing me, wondering what it is like on the other side because there is nothing left for Tariro in this Motherland. Traditional cycles ought to be cut. My devil husband had made our only daughter a victim of the ancient primitive tradition. Why?
“Devil!” the sangoma cursed at his old dog as it licked the blood off the surgery kitchen knife. He threw the pounds of flesh scraped from Tariro’s womanhood to send off the dog. In the final touches, the kitchen knife dissected the womanhood. On this fateful night, Tariro was supposed to bear farewell to us in a way that would haunt everyone eternally, but she survived. Fate had almost answered my wishes of Tariro dying so that she rests in peace.
Whenever I opened my eyes, I saw my daughter’s broken dreams and shattered hopes. It was hard to live a life knowing that one day from here she would be changing an old man’s diapers and warming his cracked skin patch. Fast forward, Tariro was married off to an old man. Life had been throwing punches at my daughter. Her life was like an unbreakable cycle that repeated itself over and over. I was unfortunate to see it with my own two eyes when I visited my daughter. My two-week stay at my daughter’s house was hell on earth. Tariro’s home was a kickboxing arena. Like father, like son, my son-in-law was a treacherous devil.

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“These are just the aftermath of teen menace,” Tariro always said when l asked the reason behind her missing front two canines and a fragmented molar. The gaps in her mouth never hid the nightingale smile as her laughter boomed across the house. Luckily, the mask was ever present to refuge the goalposts in her mouth.
Out of the blue, the heavy footsteps opened a new chapter. With the official closing of beer halls, it was no surprise to see Tariro’s husband get drunk with tea. As soon as my son-in-law’s hefty body got in the picture, our mood changed like a chameleon’s colours. His tobacco-stained teeth made him look like a monster out of a horror movie. When he caught a glimpse of Tariro, his fists yearned for a punching bag.
“Why is my sadza not yet ready?” he asked looking for petty issues to evoke a fight.
Tariro’s tears scourged the pretty black skin. Her make-up the following day was intensive just to hide from the world a shame of a man she cared for. Was there another hell for my daughter in the afterlife since she already was in one? Like father, like son! My daughter and l shared the same fate. We were human punching bags. The broken nose and stuffy face showed the ugly woman Tariro had become. Her vintage teen photos showed she was once a lovely testimony to the infinite artistic capabilities of Mother Nature. Welcome to the life of my daughter, a sixteen-year-old who is bashed by a mad son-in-law. This is not a great environment for a pregnant Tariro. Her skeletal figure bulldozes a swollen belly, maybe carrying a triplet pregnancy. The devil of a man she was married to was not concerned about her health. He just saw a punching bag and a baby-making machine. Consequences of child marriage.
One time the doctors outlined the odds of Tariro waking up from a coma. She had been escaping the jaws of death after every head injury operation but this time, it would not be possible. My mad son-in-law was just waiting for my daughter to wake up and continue his fighting scheme. Was l wrong for congratulating Tariro for finally making it towards death? The world did not deserve her, and heaven was Tariro’s only chill spot. Please bear with me. As an old woman, l could not man up to the six feet old goliath who pounced on my lovely daughter. The only choice was to cower in the corner and sob mercilessly. Was there another hell for Tariro, my daughter, in the afterlife since she was already in one?
***
I have reminisced through the memory lane remembering all the moments my daughter, Tariro had. I look at her corpse in the hospital mortuary and tears well up in my eyes. Out of the blue, Doctor Manyama hands me a tattered diary believed to be Tariro’s. It is the same diary I gave her as a gift a day before she was married off to the devil. Deadman tells no tales. Fortunately, Tariro’s diary lives to tell the tales of the Cyclone Idai horrors and the Higherlife Foundation men and women she kept murmuring about.

Sunday 24 March 2019
Do you see the twenty-metre-deep debris? The Higherlife Foundation rescue team retrieved me from underneath there. They found me on the brink of death. Twenty-four hours before this photo was taken we were a happy family of seven. A normal family with a red modern house made from farmhouse bricks. The rain came and everything became history. If only we knew this was our last supper.
We retired to sleep under the eyes of the angel of death, dark clouds. Little did l know it was the last time giving my five daughters sweet lullabies hearing their laughs boom across the house. The joy in our village would be robbed and with grief. In the middle of the night, ear-splitting lightning and screams awoke the village. The walls were shaking and swerving like a reed in a thunderstorm. Abruptly, the roof was hit by the cyclone. That is when the drama began. I still vividly see the gruesome death of my devil and daughters. The walls crushed on their minute figures. My devil husband died holding my petticoat tightly. Squash! A quick death, no groans or screams of pain. That was the last of them.
It was raining rock boulders. Rock boulders were tossed around. There was pandemonium everywhere. The water current was carrying cars, cattle and houses. I ran around madly looking for the remains of my daughters. Rock boulders landed on a helpless me. That was the last of me. I heard the shattering sound of bones in my legs as they were ground into dust by the boulders. Could l escape death by a whisker?
I remember waking up from a coma. It was my first time hearing the name, Higherlife Foundation. Around the camp, people were murmuring ‘Higherlife Foundation’. Their men and women in blue were clasping hands tightly, whispering prayers for the wounded and dead bodies on the ground. The traumatic memories of Cyclone Idai’s aftermath hovered over the camp.
We were forced to bury the dead in makeshift coffins. Some people never found their loved ones. Would their bones be recollected from the mixed debris in the mass graves? It was horrific. Human remains and cattle carcasses flowing in the current, rubble from smashed homes and stone boulders were a reminder. Water supplies and food were scarce. Out of the blue, Higherlife Foundation brought its calvary – trucks loaded with blankets, food and water supplies flooded the camp.
I remember the moment. The moment l caught a glimpse of the distant five corpses. Five dismantled torsos lay on the ground. I could recognise the tattered clothes my daughters wore from last night hanging onto the shattered bones. The men and women in blue comforted me. I had peace of mind; my family was going to get a proper burial from Higherlife. Higherlife Foundation, a stitch in time saved nine. A helicopter arrived in the nick of time and whisked us, the wounded, to the hospital. From the sky, what was once a massacre and death zone had been rekindled with hope. Bones were scattered and mixed up over mother earth. The men and women in blue scurried over the mountains and beneath the debris looking for survivors and retrieving our beloved remains.
By opening this diary, you opened fresh wounds. Wounds that will haunt and torment survivors. You will find them still living in makeshift poles and dagger shelters, even though Higherlife Foundation channeled funds towards Cyclone Idai victims. Whoever finds this, these are my last words. Thank Higherlife Foundation on my behalf. Thank Higherlife Foundation for the lives they saved and for trying their best to save my priceless life. Their relentless efforts saved multitudes. Higherlife Foundation, a philanthropic giving you made enabled me to achieve peace of mind on my deathbed.
Higherlife Foundation, you could not be here to see the smile they put on my butchered face, but they showed a different meaning of philanthropic giving. There is more to the money and donations. We will flourish in their love and compassion. They would sing lullabies for us in the makeshift tents, drying the tears off our cheeks. Feeding the infants who had been robbed of their mothers by the floods. If ever l die, my spirit will hover over the Higherlife Foundation men and women in blue.
Mom, if ever you read this, do know I have finally made it into a peaceful place. I cannot wait for you to join me. I cannot wait for the day you will be united with your five granddaughters. I will surely tell God to forgive my father and husband for they did not know what they were doing.
Diary by Tariro
Tariro’s last dying wish trembles in the core of my heart. In her last breaths, she remembers not the devil husband or female genital mutilation that pounced on her but love. A stitch in time saved nine. A small act of giving made a soul attain peace of mind as it breathed its last. She is one of the many victims who are grateful for the higher love from a Christian-based organisation in the midst of such horrors. Philanthropic giving, transforming lives.
Since that time the wise men of Africa have been blubbering that youth just like Tariro are the future of Africa. I have shown them the other side of the lives of the so-called “Future of Africa” that hinders their progress and positive impact. Wake up and smell the coffee. My daughter Tariro underwent female genital mutilation, butchered like a cow at an abattoir during the process. She was married off to the devil and bore him five daughters. Today she has finally rested in peace and lost everything in her life.
Tariro, is a tale of hope to the girl child.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: TOO MUCH TO HANDLE
Written by Busisiwe I. Ngwenya

Siba waited anxiously for his wife to finish the consultation with the doctor. He hadn’t joined them as he was scared that the news might be devastating. She had been throwing up for days and couldn’t handle anything, even liquids. He had insisted this morning that they visit the doctor as she hunched over the bathroom basin.
He relaxed at her almost celebratory tone as she came out and was even more relieved by her elated face.
“Do you want to break the news?” the doctor queried.
Lindi shook her head and dragged Siba out of the doctor’s room.
“Bye, doctor Mosse. See you next month as discussed.”
“Bye, Lindi and Siba.”
Lindi headed to the car with Siba following, still lost and wishing someone could shed the light. This morning his wife was knocking on heaven’s stairway and now was bouncing around as if she hadn’t scared him. He opened the door for her before jumping in on the driver’s side. She just sat there and commented about the weather and everything else except the burning issue at hand.
“What’s the diagnosis?” he asked, unable to wait any longer.
“I will tell you at home.”
The matter was closed, just like that. He could tell by her set jaw, so he followed her lead and drove on.
“Shall we pass by the shops please?”
“Why? We bought groceries just last Saturday.” Times were tough what with rising petrol, food, and electricity costs. They couldn’t afford unnecessary spending.
“Dietary changes as per doctor’s orders…”
“You must be seriously sick then. Why weren’t you referred to the hospital?” Anxiety was chortling him like rags in a tumble dry.
“I don’t require hospitalisation. You can park right here. I will be back shortly.”
Siba was lost and wishing he could figure things out on his own but failing. It certainly couldn’t be the big C or pregnancy as chances of that happening were zero. He just had to hang tight until Lindi was ready to talk.
She came back with one plastic bag, which was surprising as she was a known shopper.
“That was quick.”
“Yeah, I didn’t need a lot. We can go now.”
They spent the rest of the journey on trivia with Lindi avoiding the burning incense in the car.
“Do you want coffee?” Siba was shocked by the delaying tactics.
“Later. What did the doctor say?”
“It was good news. Congratulations, sweetheart. You are going to be a daddy.”
Siba was horrified and couldn’t hide it. He shivered in broad, sunny daylight and had to muster everything in his being to contain the brewing anger. The overriding emotion was of hurt made worse by the casual and happiness-driven announcement, as if the news was worth celebrating. He was sweating and needed to sit down.
“Run that by me again, Lindi. You are what?”
“Pregnant. Imagine our first child after eight years of marriage. I know we both said we didn’t want babies, but I cannot help being overjoyed by the unexpected news.” She beamed as she cuddled on Siba’s lap, oblivious to the gathered clouds.
He slowly pushed her away and went to grab bottled water from the fridge. He needed to marshal his thoughts and calm his rage, which might lead to silly mistakes being committed. He didn’t want to be made someone’s hussy yet even though prison was calling his name at that moment.
“So, tell me dear. Who is the baby’s father?”
Lindi was shocked to silence and sat frozen on the couch like a wet chicken.
“I am waiting,” he prompted for a response as he wanted the matter out in the open and to know which person to kill before dumping her for making a mockery of their marriage.
“What do you mean, Siba?” she stammered with dismay. “The baby is yours.” She was lying with conviction and innocence worthy of an award.
“It is not possible, dear. I had a vasectomy many moons ago…” Siba watched as blood left Lindi’s face.
“That can’t be; there must be an explanation,” she stated eventually.
“Nope. So, I couldn’t have impregnated you.”
“And you didn’t tell me about the vasectomy before, why?” she asked, recovering somewhat.
“I didn’t see a need as we both didn’t want babies.”
“You lied to me…”
“No, I omitted to tell you about that aspect of my life which is not the same as you sleeping around…”
“I didn’t sleep around! I am carrying our child.”
“Stop lying!” he roared, enraged by her denials.
He took the car keys, stormed out of the house and drove off as he needed to calm down before he throttled her. He still needed the name of the scoundrel who had touched his wife and soiled their marriage. He couldn’t stay committed to her or their marriage after this. The betrayal cut so deep he was barely able to hold it together. He parked on the side road as the boiling anger escalated to road rage.
South Africans could drive a sane person mad with their atrocious driving and worst was the number of drivers with bought licenses on the road, who had no clue about driving and road signs. Sighing deeply, he turned the car around and went back home. He needed answers and wanted them now. At least he was somewhat calmer now.
“You came back?”
He observed her staring at him with those oval eyes shining with shed tears. He needed to calm down and not distress her, which might result in premature birth or a miscarriage.
“Look, I am sorry for not coming clean about the vasectomy. I will stand by you until the baby is born. We can then do DNA testing to determine its parental lineage.”
“What? You don’t believe that I have never cheated on you?”
Huh, Siba was lost for words. There might be a scientific reason behind the pregnancy, which is why he was open to exploring that possibility.
“I would like to believe you. You have never given me a reason to doubt you, until now. So, I will wait it out until the baby’s arrival…”
“No!”
Siba stared at her amazed.
“I would rather we do pre-natal DNA testing now…”
Oh, that was unexpected.
“Is that safe for the baby?” he asked, unsure about the rush. He was mad at her but didn’t want any calamities to befall the baby. He still loved her very much despite the blot hanging over their heads.
“Yes, technology has made many things possible. I just want to prove that this is our baby. I don’t want us having this cloud hanging over us and for our baby to be born to bitter and angry parents.”
Siba nodded. The sooner the matter was dealt with, the better and they could move on with their lives again.
An appointment was set up with a selected Clicks Clinic for DNA sample collection to be conducted. They spent the next five days walking on eggshells, knowing that the results could either break or strengthen their marriage. Siba tried to convince himself that the vasectomy might have somehow reversed itself, which was highly unlikely, but as you know miracles do happen, although common sense dictated otherwise.
The results were finally in, which ruled him out as a father. To say Lindi was devastated was an understatement, and she kept repeating that “it is not true” and wanted to do another test “at a reputable facility this time”. But Siba shot her down. He requested that they wait for the baby’s arrival as he felt that it was too soon to put themselves through that process again.
He stuck around and supported his wife the best he could, even though he could no longer touch or look at her beyond the neck. The swelling tummy was a grim reminder of Lindi’s infidelity and dishonour to their marriage. He bailed out within a year of the baby’s birth when three more DNA tests came back negative. He moved into a nearby townhouse complex as he still wanted to support her during the early years of childbirth. However, the marriage was doomed and the writing on the wall was clear as water that they were headed towards a divorce. Lindi’s repeated infidelity denials were jarring on the nerves and his only wish was that she could tell the truth and release them both from the lies.
“That’s it. I am all packed and ready to go. You know how to reach me should you need anything.”
He had hugged her goodbye but couldn’t bring himself to look at the baby. The strangest thing about the situation was that everybody, including his mom, were so convinced that Rowan was his son. They kept stressing how alike they were and couldn’t comprehend what had happened between them to result in the separation, and he couldn’t find it within him to betray her.
“I know we have been over this so many times Siba, but the baby is yours. The scientific results are incorrect; that’s my truth.”
“Lindi please, we have been over this so many times…”
“I know, but I don’t want this misrepresentation of facts over my head. I know the truth and hopefully one day I will be absolved so that my child would have his father fully in his life.” She bade him farewell and went back to the house to tend to the crying baby. Siba was torn between science and his wife. However, he couldn’t look past the fact that she played him.
He consulted with his doctor to determine whether the vasectomy might have reversed and found that everything was still intact. He went and sourced two more opinions just to be sure, which came back with similar results, sealing the matter closed.
“What’s happening between you and Lindi? She tells me that you are headed for a divorce and that she is emigrating to Iceland.” Trust his mom to meddle in his affairs.
“Yes, I’m divorcing her,” he replied resignedly whilst shocked by the emigration news.
“Why?”
“The baby is not mine…”
“Are you mad? Lindi would never cheat on you! That’s your child.”
“But the DNA results show that…”
“Do another one.”
“But Ma…”
“Please son. I can give you a good referral,” she said pleadingly.
“Okay,” Siba agreed, exhausted with arguing.
He never bothered because he was tired. Lindi packed and left after the divorce.
Life moved on until one day when he received a frantic call from the doctor.
“Siba, I have been trying to get hold of Lindi…”
“She left and lives in Iceland now.”
“Oh, do you perhaps have a number for her?”
“Yes, I will send it through.”
“Thank you. Can you come through now please?”
“I’m kinda busy. Can’t we do this over the phone?”
“No, this needs a face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
Siba went through.
“Please sit. I don’t know how to break the news to you,” said the doctor, avoiding eye contact. “Your case has bothered me so much that when I heard of new technological advancements in DNA testing, I re-submitted your leftover samples.”
It turned out that Siba was a chimera who had eaten his twin in utero, resulting in him absorbing its DNA. Siba was stunned. The news sounded like a badly written Hollywood script.
“What does this all mean? I am lost.”
“The baby is not yours. You are its uncle.”
Wild. Siba was shaken and almost keeled over his chair as the doctor clarified further. How was he going to face Lindi? He had to make amends. He placed that remorseful call to a hostile Lindi who was shocked but elated.
“Whoa! Are you telling me that you ate your twin in the womb only to ejaculate it years later?” she asked, laughing and crying with amazement. “Bizarre.”
“That’s what science says. I’m still in shock.”
“What a relief to be finally exonerated. I can walk with my head held high again. Thank you for this, Siba. Bye…”
“Wait! We need to meet.”
“Why?”
“The baby…”
“He is not yours and never was. You were just a conduit. Bye Siba,” she said, leaving him floundering.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE GREATEST LIFE LESSON
Written by Yandisa Krobani

Grandpa is an avid admirer of nature. Whilst neighbours are competing over who has the prettiest and smartest pavement on their yards, he has decorated his with various flowers. When entering his gate, one is greeted by the fragrance of sweet-smelling flowers surrounding the grass where the path for people and cars is. The whole yard is a marvel to behold and a genuine representation of a small paradise.
“Do things differently and you will see the results differently.”
It sounds clichéd but this is what he usually says to me whenever I ask him why he cannot just put pavement on his yard like most residents. But an exquisite yard is not the only thing Grandpa is known for in the neighbourhood of Campsight. Not far from his house which Grandma, with the assistance of Veronica, has turned into a home, he has a small garden. In it he plants mostly vegetables such as carrots, spinach, and cabbage. He also plants legumes such as peas, fruits such as tomatoes, and lastly carbohydrates such as potatoes. When his produces are ripe and suitable to be cooked for human consumption, he gives them to the maid Veronica, which he instructed me to call a helper rather than a maid.
“But Grandpa, why trouble yourself when you can buy these foods in various supermarkets?” I asked him.
“Linda, apart from being healthier, these produces save us a lot of money. And working in the garden keeps me fit. It is my method of exercising,” he replied.
When there is a surplus of the harvest, Grandpa gives it wholeheartedly to the community soup kitchen. This kind gesture has made him a popular old man in the neighbourhood of Campsight.
It was the holidays and, as usual; I visited my grandparents. Early in the morning I heard a knock at the door of my room and it was none other than Grandpa.
“Prepare yourself; we are going to town today,” he said, closing the door behind him.
It was no surprise really. Whenever he woke me up in the morning, I knew what it meant. We would go to town by a minibus taxi. It was a habit for him to wake up early in the morning when his car will not be in use.
“Grandpa, where is your car?”
I deliberately asked him the question to which I already knew the answer. He laughed calmly before answering. My unnecessary questions always amused him.
“It is in the garage.”
“Is it broken, or has it run out of fuel?”
“Neither. It is alright. I am just saving fuel and minimising the intensity of global warming. And, Linda, do you know we are exercising as we are walking this short distance?”
I nodded in agreement. Grandpa has a mannerism of turning everything into a lesson. His intellectual, learned responses silence me.
As we were on our way to the taxi rank, to my annoyance, he greeted everyone we came across. This is another reason I despised walking alongside him when I had to go someplace.
“Be weary of indifference towards your neighbours, Linda. They are the first people whose help you need when faced with danger.”
At a distance, I saw Father Khuzwayo in his pyjamas leaning on his front gate and looking outside the street. He was sipping tea as usual. I became reluctant for this meant it would take forever to arrive at the taxi rank. Father Khuzwayo is one of the closest friends of Grandpa and they will talk politics, the weather, and the indolent youth of today in their lengthy conversations. And they will be laughing warmly to jests only themselves can understand as adults.
At last, we arrived at the taxi rank. There were different kinds of activities happening, and everybody seemed occupied with something. There were the women seated next to their fruit and vegetable stalls, and some with buckets full of vetkoeks and muffins for the convenience of passengers who had had not time to breakfast at their places. There were men with crates in front of them laden with ten rands pirated DVDs. Energetic young men, shouting at the top of their voices, moved from one minibus to the next selling goods through the windows. Grandpa and I progressed towards the side where minibus taxis going to town were lined up. And alas, the line with other passengers seemed as long as the one during the first democratic election in South Africa in 1994 which Grandpa frequently talked about! My indignation exacerbated on witnessing that the line progressed slowly. And this was because the minibus taxis rotated that whilst others were going to town, others were returning to fetch the other passengers left behind. I shrugged, exasperated. Grandpa saw this and was quick to comment as usual.
“Patience, Linda. Patience. Make it one of your principles. Impatience is the reason most people are rotting in jail and others paralysed whilst breathing their last breaths on deathbeds.”
I nodded, once again appreciating the lesson that Grandpa was giving me.
Finally, our turn to board arrived after many tedious minutes of waiting. I boarded next to the driver whilst he joined the other passengers. Whenever I travelled to town on a minibus taxi with him sitting next to the driver was a duty he had assigned to me. As uncomfortable and overwhelming as it was, I obeyed this order. And to make matters worse, mathematics is my least favourite subject. I despise everything that has to do with numbers as a result. And it is a custom that whoever sits next to the driver counts the money paid by passengers and gives back change when needed.
“Linda, you must learn to place yourself in uncomfortable situations. You will think critically and be responsible from an early age.”
We travelled around town purchasing tools needed for gardening to replace the old and dilapidated ones, and some items such as a wool which Grandma needed for her knitting.
“Can you see how populated this town is, Linda?”
Oops… here comes another lesson!
“Yes, Grandpa,” I replied.
“Well, you will not believe me when I say a quarter of these people are here to buy things they do not need. Believe me, others could have planted at the comfort of their own homes. Needs and wants, Linda. Know the difference between them. The world would be a wonderful place if people stopped wasting resources buying stuff they do not need.”
Our next stop was the Chicken Lady where mouth-watering fried chicken and chips are sold. Their prices are affordable. I ordered two pieces of chicken, a mini loaf of bread and an orange juice. Grandpa ordered the same. We sat at a table as I indulged on the food. He did not touch his. “Needs and wants, Linda.” I recalled his words. And then it dawned on me that my dear grandpa had ordered his food so as to not make me feel bad. It was just junk food for him, and junk food was not a need. I finished mine and he asked for a take-away for his as we rose to go.
Just outside Chicken Lady, a hobo tried snatching the takeaway from him, but its contents merely fell. The hobo picked up the fried chicken, the bread and the chips hastily before running away. Grandpa picked up the juice and chased him. I rushed behind them flushed with humiliation. I cast a why-cannot-you-just-let-him-be look at Grandpa. He did not want to eat the food anyway.
“Do not worry, Linda. I just want to teach him a lesson he will never forget,” he responded as though he read what was on my mind. But I still did not understand his ‘wanting to teach a lesson’ to a hobo over mere fried chicken, bread, and chips. Grandpa can buy that any time but not the same can be said about a homeless person trying to have something inside his stomach to survive, although this was not the best of ways to do it.
The hobo was hell-bent on getting away and Grandpa showed no signs of quitting the chase either. So there I was, watched by the entire town as I ran behind them. There were many curious eyes watching us. Others were dying with laughter and looked puzzled as to how the old man had the strength to run so vigorously.
Nobody seemed willing to help him catch the hobo. Some feared the hobo might be dangerous but Grandpa taught me to never make assumptions about people based on their appearances. To use a cliché, he taught me to never judge a book by its cover. This had transpired after I had related a story to him of how, on seeing a dirty vagabond coming my way, I had changed direction. But on seeing how hurt and humiliated the vagabond seemed to be by my gesture, I felt bad. I had assumed he might rob or hit me based on his ‘unpleasant’ appearance, and the fact that he was homeless.
The chase was taking forever and the laughter by the spectators became louder, to my vexation. My chest was burning from the ceaseless running. But then something happened. Out of nowhere, a young man caught the hobo.
“You, rude boy! What have you done to the old man?” the young man asked of the hobo, enraged. Grandpa and I came towards them. The young man almost punched the hobo when Grandpa asked him to stop.
“Do not do that. I want to teach him a lesson he will never forget his whole life. But I want to do it my own way.”
A crowd immediately assembled in anticipation of ‘the lesson’ to be taught. The hobo trembled from fear. We all watched with zeal and curiosity, ready to witness the kind of lesson the hobo will be taught. But to our disappointment, Grandpa merely gave the hobo the juice on top of the chicken, the bread and chips he had snatched and only told him to ask the next time. People went about their businesses, disappointed. They had assumed the lesson would involve a beating. As we walked back to the minibus taxis, Grandpa explained the lesson to me.
“Linda, sometimes people do things they are not proud of because of their situations. The hobo knew it was wrong of him to snatch the food from me, but he was desperate. And it is not because I am making an excuse for his action though. We ought to show people kindness instead of judging them. If all people in this world were kind, the hobo would not have snatched the food from me. He would have asked politely knowing if he could not get it from me, he would get it from someone else.”
Out of all his lessons, this one about the hobo is the most eye-opening and amazing lesson Grandpa has ever taught me. It is my greatest life lesson.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: “GRAVES ARE IMPERMANENT…”
Written by Kaluwe Haangala

The young man entered the dark hut crawling on all fours. He sat down as the old man looked at him squarely in the face. He didn’t dare explain why he hadn’t come earlier because rumour had it that the man knew everything. Another rumour he hadn’t quite garnered the strength to verify was whether the old man truly was blind because as innocuous as the movements he made, the man’s eyes seemed to track him.
In the blink of an eye, a blue flame sparked up the room. He flinched as though this ritual was new to him, yet he had witnessed this several times before. The old man even knew that this visit always signaled some call to action regarding a son of the village. When the flame subsided, he knew it was time to speak. He cleared his throat quietly.
“Wasamunu ulu siyile (Wasamunu is dead).”
“Naziba, hape yamubulayile nimuboni (I know, and I have seen who killed him).”
An LED-like screen materialised in the middle of the flame, which eerily and creepily wasn’t heating up the room like a normal fire should have been. It showed a beautiful woman sitting in a car, watching a funeral.
“Cwale lukaeza cwani? (What are we going to do?)” asked the young man, fearful of watching things happen.
“Namutisa kwahae onafa (I’m bringing him home in a moment).”
The screen vanished and just then, the blue flame plumed into dark smoke, that despite filling the room, was odourless and didn’t choke them. The young man took this as a cue to leave, before getting on his knees to crawl out of the dark room backwards (you didn’t dare stand up in front of the old man). He clapped hands in the way it was customary for only men of the land to do. He then said he had brought the white goats and white chickens as required.
“Kihande. Kufelile? (It is well. Is that all?)”
“Niya kwakuyo lukisa ze siyezi (I’m heading to finish off the rest of it).”
He clapped his hands again and crawled out. When outside, the men accompanying him stood still, bowed and clapped their hands before all retreated out of the old man’s compound. Once outside the wall surrounding it, they entered into the luxurious Range Rover that would take them back to the palace. He took out his phone and initiated a mobile money transfer to the old man’s grandson who was at a university in the city…

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Far off to the east at a private cemetery in the same city, Namariah sat in a car some distance away from the throngs of mourners. She felt a twinge of guilt being at Wasamunu’s funeral. She actually liked him, and unlike most of her ‘assignments’, this was the most deadly: killing a man for what he knew. The dossier she had received, read like some espionage type masterpiece. The more she read, the more she begun to question her own sanity.
Wasamunu was a lawyer on his way to the very top. Stellar grades, blooming win rate and of course, a burgeoning career in politics. The call from her ‘handler’ would begin his impending ecclesiastical end. She had looked at a picture of him, rather innocent looking, but with a wry twisted smirk that was quite telling. Initially, she believed him to be guilty, but in this age of misinformation, just a pinch of suspicion sufficed. She read that he stood accused of taking an under the table payment and leaked some information. The redacted document enclosed just mentioned an operation called “THE ZERO OPTION PLAN”. He had opened his mouth about something he ought not to. She had the task of closing it – permanently. What he had seemingly leaked would remain a mystery to her. She always cross checked both sides of the story. This time, however, she had been told exactly what to do and what not to look into. She knew better than to start asking questions she wasn’t getting paid enough to die for, hence, she did her job. Getting close to him had been easy, killing him by spiking his drink with undetectable poison, more so.
As she watched, a niggling feeling kept sweeping over her. She recognised most of the people she saw in her scope from what she thought was a hidden vantage point. Unbeknownst to her, there was a couple of binoculars trained on her as she sat in the car. They too were checking proceedings with a keen eye. She looked at Wasamunu’s young wife and children in the gazebo by the side of the grave listening to the preacher, rehashing the time-tested speech about God taking the best flowers for himself into the heavens. She damn near shed a tear because it was the first time her assignment had taken as much a toll on her emotionally. Of course, physical intimacy never bothered her but like they say, taking a man’s life can change you.
Just then, she thought she heard an eerie, hissing sound. On looking up, she saw the people near the grave start to move back and scamper! From inside the grave arose the mother of all whirlwinds! It swirled and blew the immediate surrounds of the grave asunder, roused up into the sky, all the while punctuated by screams as though the biblical apocalypse had come to Earth. Violently, the wind started moving slowly, then swiftly westwards, wrecking havoc and destruction in its wake. As suddenly as it had started, a strange calm returned as though nothing had happened. She spotted the men watching her and drove off. What she didn’t know was that the unnatural wind had taken Wasamunu’s lifeless body out the grave, back ‘home’. She also didn’t know that her retribution was nigh…
It was just another Tuesday, another assignment, client meeting to be precise. She punched the throttle of her Misano Blue Peugeot convertible onto the main road after making sure the coast was clear. Sunday just before midday meant traffic was light and she shifted through the cogs in a way a rally fan would have been proud of. She crested up a hill and a fly over bridge loomed large onto her screen. In seconds, she had crested and ascended the slope, caressing her foot on the brakes as her cruise control hit the 140 km/h she had set it at.
“Waterfalls Mall in 10 minutes max,” she said to herself.
She had always been a goal getter from childhood and when it seemed as though all would be naught, an opportunity too great to miss laid itself afore, and into her now fat bank account. Someone had told her the combination of beauty and brains she possessed would open any doors, including gold plated ones. Her PR degree then became not only her backup but the raisin d’être for the jobs she accepted: infiltrate groupings and clubs of influential people, gain the trust of a specific target, leech them of information. It paid really well, and certain times, her commitment and work ethic meant she needed to scale some jobs back to do the perfect job. Today’s assignment was one of those that would pay her rent for the next year if she did it right. Wasamunu’s death bothered a little less as she was prepping for this meet and greet gig.
Had she been glancing in her rearview mirror the recommended once in 18 seconds, she would have noticed by the time she was getting to next roundabout that the black late model Lexus LX570 had been tailing her and what seemed like a trailing in her wake, was actually a great attempt at not arousing her suspicions.
As she cruised past the Natural Resources Development College and was readying to floor it as soon as the nondecrepit smoke bellowing Toyota in front took the next exit, her phone cut through her music jam session.
“Hello darling,” she cooed not unlike a crooner.
“Hey Baby, don’t come straight to the mall; pass through Palm Drive to pick me up, okay?”
“No problem Hun. Can’t wait to see you.”
As the music started back up, she signaled to get into the outer lane. The left she would take at the massive water tank loomed; the Lexus zipped past at a speed that made her curse loudly at it…
Behind the darkened windows of the Big SUV, an operative of the secret government wing, The Government Complex, relayed that the target was turning left into Palm Drive. He was asked to reconfirm whether the target had so much as had the inkling that she was not talking to the lover that she was due to meet in a few minutes. The operative rudely responded that he knew his job better than anyone else.
On being reminded of the hierachy, he simply said: “We spoofed his line and so she thought he was calling. We also used a voice synthesiser that exactly replicated his voice.”
“Good work, Dragon 1. Make sure you confirm the accident with me.”

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Banda had had a truly wild night. The pounding in his head would herald the mother of all hangovers and he would have none of it. The music that had called out to him the previous day was already blaring. Its call was one he headed because according to him, his demons slept better that way. Having done what he considered enough of a balancing drunk act of having enough not to get drunker and just enough so he would not suffer a hangover, he walked the short distance home. At the main road, Palm Drive, he turned right and he hummed along to his heart’s content. It was a quiet day and what seemed to cut through that was just bird song.
He saw it immediately after he heard it, the unmistakable sound of a car that had inadvertently cruised over a hump at high speed.
“Women,” he muttered to no one in particular. The screeching and bungling he heard next, was of the most horrific accident he’d ever witnessed. It sobered him up instantly.

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Namariah cursed as she struggled to bring the car under control, but it was too late! She veered left, and right, and noticing that she couldn’t possibly control it, she just let go of the steering wheel, held her head with both hands and screamed! She felt herself get flung through the air and she opened her eyes in horror!
Before everything went black, she thought she saw the Black SUV that had zipped past her…

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Banda could not decide which state of inebriation or mental wildness was affecting him at that moment – delirium, hallucination or just downright madness.
The blue Peugeot zigzagged the entire breadth of the road, the drains and the greenery outlying the palatial homes. He could hear the lady occupant of the car screaming, chorused by the revving sounds of the engine on full song. As the car swayed for the third time, it heaved up into the air.
What he saw next sobered him up, verily. Had there been only he on the street, he would for a second have told himself he was seeing visions, of the biblical kind. As the car nosed high up, the car’s occupant seemed to have been flung from her seat, the car came crashing into the drain, flipped over about twice, all the while creating crashing, rending noises of breaking glass and bending metal, loud sounds reminiscent of a horror crash in a movie scene.
Amidst all the crashing noises that’d wake the street, what looked like a creature out of Jurassic Park looped swiftly into view just about the moment the lady was being flung out of the car. It deftly plucked her up with the grace of a fish eagle and promptly vanished, westwards.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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