What do you think?
Rate this book
416 pages, Hardcover
First published March 8, 2022
The sign that says 'Bulawayo, 10km' takes her by surprise - it doesn't feel to her she's even been that long on the road. Yes, you've actually been that long on the road, Destiny, and besides it being a relatively short drive you've been practically flying most of the time. And good thing you slowed down when you did, otherwise you'd have missed the turn. Bulawayo-Bulawayo-Bulawayo. She says the name out loud, lets it linger in the mouth, thinking, and not for the first time, What a dark, dark name.Meaning, where one gets killed, where there is killing. Yes, tholukuthi an ominous name that has made Destiny wonder endlessly about the proph-ecy of names, the terrible odds that the events of April 18, 1983, and the dark immediate years would fulfil the name. And in just a short while, she thinks, slowing down a bit, she'll be standing on Bulawayo earth. A kind of home, yes, but also a ruin. A place of slaughter. Of massacre. Of devastation and despair. Of blood and tears. Of disruption. Of the annihilation of families and family lines.
So that very soon it was noted that Jidada was actually not a country but two countries - there was of course the Country Country that was the real, physical space in which Jidadans walked and lived and queued and suffered and got pained, and then there was the Other Country, where Jidadans logged on and roared and raged and vented.
"This war was as complicated thing, Mother of Destiny. If I don't write this book then one day animals calling themselves the Real Liberators and True Patriots will call ugly names and then erase us from the story of the very country we sacrificed so much for because now that the war is over many will be perceived of the wrong ethnic group, the wrong clan, the wrong gender, the wrong clique, the wrong politics, the wrong whatever else they decide constitutes authentic Jidadaness. If I don't write, who will I blame when I then wake up One day to find myself in the belly of a crocodile that calls itself History, that devours the stories of everyone else and goes on to speak for us"
He dreamt of the days of glory when Jidada was such an earthly paradise animals left their own miserable lands and flocked to it in search of a better life, found it, and not only just found it, no, but found it in utter abundance and sent word back for kin and friends to come and see it for themselves — this promised land, this stunning Eldorado called Jidada, a proper jewel of Africa, yes, tholukuthi a land not only indescribably wealthy but so peaceful they could’ve made it up. His Excellency also saw himself in his dream as he’d been back then — beautiful and brimming with unquestioned majesty, a horse that stepped on the ground and the earth agreed and the heavens above agreed and even hell itself also agreed because how could it disagree? Tholukuthi lost now in Jidada’s past glory, the Old Horse nestled deeper in his seat and began to snore a sonorous tune that the Comrades around him identified as Jidada’s old revolutionary anthem from the Liberation War days.
Don’t even be fooled by how things may appear right now — I mean the terrible roads that kill people, the potholes, the broken sewer systems, the decrepit hospitals, the decrepit schools, the decrepit industrial sector, the decrepit rail system, or should I say a generally decrepit infrastructure. Then of course there’s the poor standard of living, the millions who’ve crossed and still cross borders in search of better, the misery and such things that may look depressing at first glance, that’ll make you think you’re maybe looking at a ruin. All these things happen to countries, it’s a fact of countryness, but rest assured we were in top form once. Plus, the point is not to judge a book by its cover. Because what remains is that Jidada is still a jewel, Africa’s jewel. And that right there is the Father of the Nation’s God-given legacy, reigning over a real gem. And moreover, he liberated and has protected that jewel so that Jidada will never be a colony again!
We heard and told stories of pain, stories of the Seat of Power’s violence so impossible sometimes animals simply tilted heads up and stared into the glowing Nehanda bones — reeling. Tholukuthi through these tales we learned there were in fact many untold narratives that were left out of the Seat of Power’s tales of the nation, that were excluded from Jidada’s great books of history. That the nation’s stories of glory were far from being the whole truth, and that sometimes the Seat of Power’s truths were actually half-truths and mistruths as well as deliberate erasures. Which in turn made us understand the importance not only of narrating our own stories, our own truths, but of writing them down as well so they were not taken from us, never altered, tholukuthi never erased, never forgotten.
When those who know about things say there is no night ever so long it does not end with dawn, tholukuthi what they mean is that there is no night ever so long it does not end with dawn.
"....she shines, flies, soars, leaps, waltzes, sashays, swims, pirouettes, glides, twerks, somersaults - she can pull whatever move, do anything, you name it - only coming short of raising the dead in her mother tongue."....."The applause at the end of her delivery rings right in her heart all over again, and she increases the volume, feels the sound hit her bones, whip and stir the blood before lifting the intestines, the pancreas, the liver - tholukuthi generally all the innards, and, almost levitating now, flags her tail, raises both her front hooves, pumps them hard and cheers along with her admiring on-screen audience."