Commonword Blogs

Context: Its 1985, and Zimbabwe has just gained Independence, but there is the threat of civil war in the air. David, a bookworm aged ten, watches from his school fence as soldiers violently break up a riot, beating old women, slashing open the stomachs of pregnant young women. One of the soldiers rapes a woman David is besotted with. David faints, and is rescued by his teacher. We pick up the story here....

Chapter Three

Its almost been a month since my last blog and still no word from Pete Kalu about my novel. A writer's winter. The frustration penetrates the skin like the cold but this cold doesn’t make you shiver, it heats you up and eats you up, makes you want to barge into someone's office and ask them what they're playing at, makes you want to give them the dismissive missive - forget it mate, I’ve found someone else who'll publish me, only I haven’t.
So what came first, the writer or his novel?

There must have been about 3 or 4 of 'em. Maybe even 5. I cant really remember. Dont... really - want to remember.. But Anyway, I must, O Blog Master, oh horror of horrors. How can I say this? Second time on the stage & I forgot my lines. There, its out. Its taken me 2 weeks.
I'd spent all morning memorizing. Didn't really have to; I mean, it was my latest poem, therefore it was my best poem. I even went to the Urbis event without my sheets. I'd memorized not one but two poems! After all, Segun had said seven minutes...

It pleases me that the poetry reading is in a library. I imagine a small audience and when I walk into the room on time to find only fellow poet Nabila and her family, the emptiness lends an air of confidence to the soul. It hovers, expands. 30 minutes later the same soul has shrunk at the sight of the growing audience. The event begins and Anjum introduces Nabila. Beside me sit Kervin Charles and Tachia Newall, both experienced poets. I watch her as she stands up, smiles, reads. I hear nothing of the poetry I normally enjoy.