I’ve just won a prestigious prize – tens of thousands of dollars (US) – thanks to that large, yellow-fleshed Swedish friend of mine, the one who nominated me for the Nobel Prize, which was won, would you believe it, by a racist white Afrikaner whose name I forget.

So, no, I don’t feel bad about winning a prize as a writer in exile.  We black female  writers with peasant backgrounds are the most discriminated against of all when it comes to prizes.  I’ve won only about twenty since I began publishing. The fact is, I can’t write when the mossies bite.  (Ha ha: I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!).   In Bulawayo that means November to March or April, depending on the rains.

Thanks to my Scandinavian, German, and Canadian fans (they have called me the Jane Austen of Africa although I believe I am better than her at marulas and stones), I have no problem with free accommodation at these divine writers’ retreats, which range from medieval castles to five star hotels.  They worship me.  After all, they say I am Zimbabwe’s greatest author. Eat your heart out, Doris Lessing!

I got the idea from these battered old Rhodies who can’t survive on the sort of income that their servants have been surviving on for decades.  They sell what’s left of their worldly possessions in order to buy a return ticket to England.  There they are in great demand as care-givers to the elderly.  After three months they have earned enough forex to live fairly comfortably in Zimbabwe for a year or two. Then they return to England for another stint.  A woman called Mrs Tennyson, who rents one of the servants’ quarters on my property in Kumalo suburb, and who teaches A-level Maths at one of the local private schools, told me her story.

What with spiralling inflation and a plummeting economy, teachers in Zimbabwe can no longer survive on their incomes.  It was only as a last resort that Mrs Tennyson decided to become a nanny in England.  Before that she tried to supplement her income by selling what she called “finger dips”, at church bazaars, flea markets, and school fetes.  She made egg cup sized containers out of tin foil, and then she went round the various hotels and restaurants of Bulawayo importuning the waiters for left over gravy.  The little she received was poured into a large enamelled pot and blended with herbs from her garden and shocking quantities of her home-made, used tea-leaves wine.  If the sucker hadn’t given away most of her dips she might have earned good money from her enterprise; but you know what these people are like?  Giving things away is so patronizing, so condescending, so racist, really, when you come to think of it.

The same thing happened with the used motor car oil (to bring out the glow in paving stones), which she importuned from petrol attendants at garages all over town.  Then it was shopping bags sewn from used plastic litter, tons of which, she informed me, can be gathered from the pathways that make diagonal connections with the road grids of suburban Bulawayo.  What was it after that? Oh yes: insect repellent made from repellent insects, crushed, and mixed in a Vaseline base; sold by the thimbleful.  She had inherited a thousand plastic thimbles in five different colours from her grandfather, Fred, who had been a frequenter of auctions and who could never resist what he considered a bargain.

Anyway, this loser, Mrs Tennyson, and her ilk, gave me an idea.  It’s always pissed me off, somewhat, that the one literary prize I haven’t been able to compete for is that which is awarded to a writer in exile.  I’ve done pretty well with all the other prizes.  One of my books, Called The Scent of Jacaranda, won a poetry prize in Canada, a novel prize in Sweden, and a play prize in Germany – all in the same year.  I used the money to buy this house, my Pajero, and my imported crystal chandelier.  Don’t touch it; it’s fragile; it came all the way from Vienna in Austria.

I said to myself, you can’t claim political exile since you are well up with the ZANU PF élite; and you can’t claim economic exile since royalties and prize money have helped you amass a small fortune;  you can, and will, however, claim exile from these pesky mosquitoes.  They interfere with your creative genius, which is a world heritage.  The rest, my dear, is history. From my place of exile, a five star hotel in Frankfurt, I submitted a piece called Jacaranda O Jacaranda.  The Scandinavian adjudicators (I know them all personally) were unanimous in awarding me the prize.  I intend to go into exile every year from now on, especially when those pesky mossies begin to bite.

Our potential to create wealth; the level at which we are operating at present; the reasons how we can get back to full throttle, should make the biggest news.

Is there nothing else that we can do on our own, to lift our selves from this mess before the issue of foreign investment is touted as the only option? It is interesting to note that a nation of more thon 12 million people seems to have one idea of doing things.

The motto of the just ended COMESA meeting was; “Buy African, Buy Africa”, for us in Zimbabwe it should be “Buy Zimbabwean, Buy Zimbabwe”. The first port of call should be local investment, with or without sanctions. Zimbabweans should be the first ones to invest to prove their confidence.

The success of the country’s economic turnaround should be measured by how we use the local investment that is lying idle before using foreign assistance.

A dangerous belief that we have no confidence in our own people is evident and does not bode well for the success of the economy.

In our weekly Kubatana email newsletter we asked our subscribers to tell us what they think of our politicians going on fund raising trips when revenues from our natural resources are corruptly (mis) managed.

We received some interesting response. A subscriber called Miles suggests that we need a complete overhaul of how we do things in Zimbabwe rather than adopting this piecemeal approach we have to fixing our broken country.

Check out some of the response we got . . .

Yes of course our first step should be getting our own house in order first, but that would require brave actions from a lot of Zimbabweans and I’m afraid the will amongst the masses just isn’t there. I worked in the 2002 elections as a security man for Harare Central Constituency. I had flown out from the UK and volunteered to do a job which no one else wanted.There were a lot more Zimbabweans who just put their heads under the covers and hoped the whole awful situation would just disappear, there are, percentage wise, very few people like Jenni Williams and members of WOZA who are prepared to demonstrate with a physical prescence, rather than the masses who just blog sites like the  Zim Times and moan incessantly “why isn’t anyone doing anything”. Mugabe and his gang, which now should probably include many opposition members as well, should be overthrown by the people as soon as possible. Everyday we put off the inevitable showdown is a day which we give to the Chefs to hide their assets and benefit from Marange. Zimbabwe requires a new Leader; a man whose sole remit is to place the needs of the people before anything else. A person who will lead by example. The ZNA needs to be re-entitled the Zimbabwean Army of Reconstruction and all weapons to be replaced by tools to help rebuild the infrastructure. All members of the Youth League to attend re-integration classes and proper counselling before being allowed back into the community. All Foreign Bank Accounts of all citizens to be repatriated to Zimbabwe and a thorough audit of their origins to be determined. A Truth and Reparation Council to be established. Zimbabwe will never take a step forward until reparations are made to those who have suffered by the perpetrators of that suffering. It is shameful that people like the Mujuru family sell ten tons of Congolese gold whilst their bretheren starve. The times of Mammon must cease, Greed cannot continue and Violence cannot prevail. The time for a Massive General Strike must be now .The people must take to the streets and say “Enough and no further. Chinja Maitiro”. But are you brave enough Zimbabwe? Are you brave enough? Somehow I don’t think so and if that is the case you deserve all you get! – Miles

I found the HRW report incisive and your comment important in terms of grounding the discussion in our reality at home and in engaging the rest of the world. I think we should start moving beyond abusing our resources through such privatization of public funds as is shown in the diamonds case. This is a strategy that unaccountable regimes get donor funds and parade it as conditional and meager to address our challenges while robbing the family kitty behind barricaded walls. We need more information on other sectors so that we can strengthen domestic demand for change financed slowly, transparently and incrementally towards a democratically defined and shared future. – Kudzai

Do you think there are any diamonds left in Marange. I doubt very much. What about gold fields? Do we have any left? How about recovering money already looted by this mining? It does not cost anything only political will. Lets all work together to make this country better for future generations. Remember we  (SIT  UNDER A SHADE TODAY BECAUSE SOMEONE PLANTED A TREE MANY YEARS AGO) so lets stop the rot and all will be fine. All it needs is political will. – Wellington

at 1 am in the morning Yemmerai asked to be taken to the clinic
she alone was let through locked gates by the security guard
at 5.30 am she had her baby boy – Tinashe (we are blessed by God)
at 2 pm she walked up the drive all smiles
and by 5.30 pm she had done her family’s washing

I remember that September 2008 was a tough month in Harare.  Tough for purchasing food that is.  This was before the selected legalization of US$ sales and before full-on dollarization.  The problem back then was either:  1) shops only had empty shelves or 2) the products were priced in ZWD based on having obtained those ZWD via transfer, meaning if one had obtained ZWD by exchanging cash for cash even a single banana would have cost something like US$10.  That month I was only eating what I had horded away in my cupboards.  I looked in shops every day, but could not afford anything since I was not a swiper.

Things changed in October 2008 when the powers that be dictated that shops could sell exported food in US$.  Thinking this dual currency system might be short lived, I bought loads of food.  Also perhaps I stocked up because, as the expression goes, I was like a kid in a candy store.  Just the sight of food on the shelves made me want one of everything.  I even bought food that I don’t really like, only because it was available.

I’ve returned to Harare after being away for six months.  Now the shelves are full.  Or at least full like they never were in 2008 or even in 2007.  Now everything is in US$.  High priced US$ to be exact.  It’s funny, in that not actually funny way.  Once in the fully shelved shops of Harare 2009, I still want to buy one of everything.  I suppose this is not surprising given that the last six months in the US have been the same thing.  I move down and around the 82-aisled overstocked US grocery stores and want to buy multiples of things.  In case they run out.

But back to what’s not actually funny.  When and how to get rid of Zimbabwean habits.  And not just in relation to purchasing food.  The habit of expecting and accepting corruption among political leaders.  Having to think and carefully strategize how to assert basic human rights.  Assuming the coming week will involve a lack of electricity and/or water.  Thinking vast swathes of fallow land is normal.

While in Harare I will attend a screening of the film Pray the Devil Back to Hell.  The film follows a group of brave and visionary women who fought for peace in Liberia.  As fighting increased in Monrovia, and peace talks faltered, the women of Liberia – Christian and Muslims united – formed a thin but unshakable white line between the opposing forces.  They successfully demanded the fighting end, armed only with white T-shirts and the courage of their convictions.  Liberian women called for peace — they prayed for the devil of war to get back to Hell.  At one point, the women barricaded the site of the stalled peace talks in Ghana.   Boldly announced they would remain until a deal was signed.  Faced with eviction, they invoked the most powerful weapon in their arsenal – threatening to remove their clothes.  It worked.  Peace came to Liberia and continues under the leadership of President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf.

When I watch the film I will pray that devilish Zimbabwean habits get back to Hell.

It is the dry season
the time of seed bearing
when pod-laden trees
rustle in cold northern winds
singing the potential of new life
to the clear blue winter skies

Now is the time to call back the sun

The tree of life team were invited to a far corner on the eastern border mountains of Zimbabwe
where a chief and the people of his clan live on the steep sides of a fertile valley
the mountain that holds the graves of 4 generations of chiefs
the people of the Flying Ant totem
Chikukwa

The place of an ancient mountain crossing
a path where ‘one-by-one’
people journey back and forth to Mozambique
- for ancient paths pay little respect to political boundaries.

Over the last 25 years a shift of energy has entered this valley
the abundant water held in the body of the mountain
has been channelled to each thatched homestead
and swathes built along contours, and permaculture, and rotation farming and tree planting
has restored the land
they are surrounded by sugar cane and bananas and rape and lettuce of every kind and beans and peas and pawpaws and tomatoes and sweet potatoes and maize and herbs of every kind

They have looked at conflict resolution
and HIV/AIDS
The responsibility of sharing
and the sharing of responsibility
and of community caring for orphans and elders
They have looked at culture and spirit and meditation
and called forth the essence  that is needed to hold them in place
with dignity
A place where peace is being made with land
and between the 6000 people who live there

We travelled with representatives from the two urban communities
Epworth and Whitecliff – who have been battered and beaten
grass roots to grass roots
a sharing of what life has been
and what life can be

We did the Tree of Life circles with community
and they spoke of old unspoken wounds from their childhoods
of old hurts and the need to repair damage in their families
“I never thought I could tell of happened to me when I was a child”
one elderly woman said
“I thought I would be a laughing stock
but now I have said it, and I was heard, and I am free of that old pain”

The old man
bent knees,
clouded wise eyes
brother of the chief who has been the leader of the people
takes the stone in the circle
“the lessons you have brought us will stay in our hearts
our people will grow”

And the lessons of these remote people
of their courage, and openness, and their work towards peace and their love of their land
are lessons that will stay in our hearts

The seeds are sown
may they grow.