by Rutendo C. Chigora
University of Pennsylvania, Class of 2015
It wasn’t just a journey through history; it wasn’t rooted in the present nor was it an espousal of the future. It was an amalgam of all these times and the people scattered across the years – some only remnants of body and soul; others – us – real, living, breathing, feeling; and the rest, only flights of fancy, figments of the imagination, the matter of dreams.
I walked the narrow sand lines that grew more out of wear than tear, and heard people shout greetings as we went by, observing all protocol. I will miss that sense of community and belonging, I’m sure. That art of looking out for each other while maintaining this singular intricate sense of self, secrecy and mystique.
The cemetery wasn’t neatly manicured and guarded by shiny stones with messages for the dead – it’s just a place where we have placed our losses and attempted to keep track of who lies where with cemented borders and metal plaques. There, a father told me how each one had come to lie here and how I fit into the timeline, the family, the history of glory, despair and, at other times, glorious despair.
I said farewell to those already fared, those bones beneath my feet, while holding a digital camera and speaking in a tongue and tone that, for many of these souls, meant oppression. The closeness I felt to them was undeniable, yet the distance between us hovered and made me acutely aware of how far removed we had become without losing much of what we had, yet picking up so much more – most of which was probably inconceivable to the lady whose name was printed on the plaque on my right and the great-grandfather I had never known. And I knew then that the moment I would step foot off my motherland, onto a vessel that would take me through space and time into a distant, foreign, strange land, I would have to grip harder at all these things that made me who I am.
Everything about the place – my village, the birthplace of my heritage, the rural home to which I waved my hand in valediction – was symbolic, special, perplexing, painful and, well, pretty all at once. Perhaps goodbyes amplify everything and fear has us seeking solace in simple things because they seem closer and safer than the futures we have to leap into as we trek our way into horizons beyond the motherland, beyond Zimbabwe.
You are a fantastic writer – keep it up!
Deftly nuanced and imbued with a great sense of originality.
This is absolutely brilliant Rutendo!Very well written!
wonderful writing….keep up the excellent standards
I’m a fellow zim and know u personally rue,Its good to post about ur experiences,but i have an objective.i thought u shud have written about the positives concerning the rural life not only the challenges,this impression only makes us zims as pple in dire poverty lookin 4 aid and help from the west, lets also reflect on the good sides of the rural life as it covers 70% the nation.if u have a problem finding them,i can give u and maybe next tym,u will write about them,peace my fellow zimbo.
This is beautiful. Your writing is expressive and powerful, your word choice precise and meaningful and your content layered with ideas and information. I am very proud of this fellow Zimbabwean writer. if I was to point out one area that should be thought about, it is whether this is really accessible to a non-Zimbabwean reader. Although it is not difficult to understand, a foreign reader would be unaware of the setting. It would add a great element to your story if you included further description of this rural village that is so important- right now, we only see the cemetery.
Yeah, struggling to locate this place? Is it in SA?
Impressive, tell as you see it sister, don’t be told what to write. I grew up in rural Zimbabwe and 90% of us are in dire poverty and dependent on western donations, you are a star reflacting our woes. As a fellow writter I agree with Ms Johnson and your words are too strong for non academics. Thank you hanzvadzi