"Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond." First words read from an African writer who inspired me to eat more of this kind fufu. Why Shakespeare? Why Jane Austin? Why Tennessee Williams? Why was it that I had to LEAVE school before I was exposed to Ngugi, Chenjerai Hove, Chinua Achebe?
First, I saw his clean white North Star, old man shoes, propped up by wheelchair stilts, then his professor knees, then folded body, then white haired brain top. He pushed himself,positioned himself in the worst lighting possible (I had my camera with me) and wouldn't move.
He speaks to a man about Nigeria, who talks back about Zimbabwe, then to another man who talks some more on Nigeria. This goes on for some time. They all shake their heads in disappointment.
He wants change, the old man. They still won't let him go home, he says. He's very upset. My cameras are rolling.
Hours later, equipment packed, broken glass swept up (yes, I broke a glass in Chinua Achebe's house,well done Tari) dishes done (it was an African household, I had to play my position, feed the men,do the dishes) I sit next to him. "You're from Zimbabwe eh?"" he asks me, "I was there once when it was still Rhodesia. They wouldn't serve me and my colleagues beer because we were black. I had to leave there." After promising him that we could now, at the very least, serve him a Castle Lager without, you know, all the racist stuff, we proceed to exchange more Zimbabwe stories.
"I met one of your writers too, what's her name?" There are few Zimbabwean women writers so I offer up the only name that comes to mind, "Tsitsi Dangarembwa?". "Yes," he says, "she came here once with friends and asked me "Should I kneel?" I asked, whatever for and she said, "It's our custom." "Well it is not mine so no, you don't have to do that my dear!" He smiles, he is a gentle man.
"Some years later I was invited to the Book Fair in Harare as a speaker and presented Mugabe with my latest book, "Anthills of the Savannah". In it I wrote, "may what happens in this book not happen in your fair country" He looked at me puzzled, he had obviously not read the book, then said, "By the sounds of it, me neither!" We had a good laugh. That was the last I saw him. I used to defend that man, maybe until perhaps a year ago, but now, it's too difficult." The feeling is mutual.
I am amazed at how, even at his age, he remembers the words of an inscription written at least 2 decades before, the details of that encounter, so lucidly.
I haven't read it so I make a mental note to pick up a copy of "Anthills", and say a silent prayer that this fictional story of military coups and turmoil does not transport itself from page books to country.
I am holding up the group, they are standing around in the dining room waiting for me to finish. I excuse myself, shake Chinua Achebe's hand for the 15th time, and cup my hands to clap in the way we Zimbabwean women do, the way that gives it that deep hollow "boop boop" sound. "What is that?" he asks, I reply, "it is our custom".
googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('content1'); });
googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('comments'); });
googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display('content2'); });