In this moving and thought provoking video clip from The Man Who Committed Thought, the protagonist asks what, really, we mean by justice and democracy, when their foundations are so often rooted in hypocrisy. “I will not be judged by those who refuse to take the speck out of their own eye. They are no fit position to see clearly to take the stone out of mine,” he cautions.

Their performance began with a spoken word piece recited by TJ Dema from Botswana, whose first line ‘my dream for Africa’ made me feel that I was going to be impressed. Sonic Slam Chorus is a cross genre collaboration that had been kept alive for several months on the internet before their five days of rehearsal at the Festival. The group members include slam poets TJ Dema and Dickson; Norwegian composer and vocalist Cecilie Giskemo, fellow Norwegian guitar maestro Asbjoern Lerheim, Saxophonist Vee Mukarati, Jazz vocalist Prudence Katomene-Mbofana and drummer Blessing Muparutsa.

The chorus performed five pieces, blending Jazz and spoken word in their performance. They explored diverse themes including Africa’s destiny, the contentious relationship between a father and child, and moving on to describe the ill-fated love a beautiful girl has for a mischievous rebel.

I was impressed, but not by the Chrous as a whole. Sonic Slam Chorus is an obviously well thought out concept. TJ Dema and Dickson are the stars of the performance, their words being well written and therefore powerful and emotive. In particular, TJ uses attention grabbing lyricism, and delicate changes in cadence to deliver the emotion of her words. Unfortunately Prudence does not sing in this act, providing only backing vocals for the performances, which is a pity because she is a force to be reckoned with on the local Jazz scene. Parts vocal portion of the show seemed too lengthy and elaborate, overpowering the subtleties of the spoken word making it inaudible at times.

Watch part of their performance here.

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.

This year HIFA expanded their reach into the centre of First Street. Pictured above are some of the crowds that gathered to watch a variety of local and international artists bringing theatre to Zimbabwean streets.

A man, educated and African, finds himself in the gallows, charged with crimes against humanity. He is a lawyer, educated in England, with a firm belief in Christian values, and has more than just a passing admiration for the Queen and his adopted country. He is a man who has been alienated from his culture, identity and people. Mamadou, a peasant farmer with a sizeable family but limited means bursts into the lawyer’s life begging him for help, or rather mercy. Mamdou’ s cow has expropriated by the government without compensation and now he wants to sue, to take back the rights that were forcibly taken from him. As the story unfolds the lawyer encounters the corrupt and powerful President Junta, who is shortly unseated in a coup led by ‘Tuff Boy’ a rebel leader. It is only when he witnesses the murder of Mamadou at the hands of the rebels that the lawyer finds his humanity, but in his quest for justice he commits unspeakable crimes, for which he is brought before the court.

The facts of the play may be specific to Sierra Leone, but it is the story of every African country cursed with resources. President Junta may be a dictator, but he is a democratically elected one. He is fat and wealthy off the numerous kick-backs and deals he receives from governments and multinational corporations wishing to do business in his country. Western leaders, donors and corporations treat him like a king, as though the country and its people were his personal property; unchallenged, he behaves accordingly.

‘Tuff Boy’ is a grotesque illustration of a rebel leader, high on cocaine, formerly angry and powerless, until he took up arms and waged war on the government. Tuff boy asserts his power through the gun and innumerable rapes of women who feature in the play as nameless, faceless and voiceless victims.

Colonialism lives on in the lawyer, who condescends towards and patronises Mamadou. Despite his high handed Christianity, the lawyer is torn between his disdain of the ignorant and poor ‘native’, and his baser native instinct which drives him to lust after Mamadou’s daughter.

The man who committed thought is a moving play that is an indictment of the hypocrisy of the human rights agenda, aid, and the nations that give it. It illustrates the conflict between humanitarianism and humanism, and shows that right and wrong are not necessarily black and white, but rather, they are painted in shades of grey.

I went out with some friends last Friday night and launched my middle-aged Zimbabwean bod (with back-ache – damn those stretches!) into the unsuspecting press of preppy 20-somethings crowded around the bar. Thankfully there weren’t many teenagers present. There is something pathetic about them drinking as much as they possibly can before mum comes to collect them but I suppose I should be grateful they aren’t doing lines – it may be that they just bring back uncomfortable memories? Those that were around were covered, if not flatteringly in some cases, at least, for the most part, modestly. The blissful ignorance that winter brings. I was spared the kitsch tattoos and piercings and bum cracks and g-strings and hints of front fluff.

The boys were more disappointing, giving truth to the fact that fashion does not always equal style. There were ¾ pants and tracksuits rolled up to make ¾ pants.  The poor unfortunate had obviously spent his entire allowance on hairspray – he was artfully windswept and coiffed – a peacock would’ve been proud.  And they were all wearing an unattractive off-shoot of the commonly spotted (staying with our bird theme) tommy takkie, but without laces.  There were sawn-off T-shirts a la Bruce Springsteen, sadly without the muscle, in more ways than one.  There were windsurfer dudes with shaggy bobs that had also seen the better half of a tub of hair wax – evidenced by the lack of movement even in the stiffest breeze and despite vigorous head banging!

I’m afraid to say the music was less than inspirational. I wasn’t moved to hit the dance floor, and didn’t even tap my foot occasionally.  And I am one of those who considers themselves incredibly sexy after a few drinks – nothing keeps me from dancing. The evidence the next day suggests that the “sprinkler system” dance move is less than sexy, and sometimes, not even funny.  And yet it remains a firm favourite, oh how I laugh!  I should’ve been forewarned when we spied the lesser warbling duckie perched on a bar stool with his guitar as we arrived – never a good sign. I think he was singing “A la Bamba”…. enough said.