Leaving,
just like that
Translated from Shona to
English by Primrose Dzenga
Original title: ‘Zvakanaka sei kungoenda’
by Memory Chirere, from collection, Shamhu yeZera Renyu (2023)
O,
how nice it would be
just to go
and go—
leaving behind this damn city,
just like that.
During
the evening news hour,
I will not be here.
They
will be surprised—
because I never miss the news.
My place will be empty.
They’ll think-
Maybe he went out to relax
and he’ll come back soon
a
little tipsy.
But
come morning…
and I won’t be there
my pillow untouched.
They’ll
try to call
but
my
phone will be off.
They’ll hear that tiny woman’s voice:
“The
number you have dialed
is
unreachable.
Please, try again later.”
They
will call…
and call again.
Still nothing—nothing.
Nothing.
They
will wait,
thinking
maybe
I’ll call back.
By the
time they search for me
in
my office,
I’ll be far, far away—
(maybe somewhere around Dotito
past Kadohwata,
going…)
|
Then back
here- maybe they would have
seen that I am not even
in the office. |
|
My desk would
be orderly. |
I’ll
have crossed the river
and
kept going…
They’ll
not find me at my desk.
My table—neatly arranged.
They’ll find my pen
marking a place in the book I was reading:
Page
36,
just before page 37.
And
on page 37,
they’ll see the line from
my
favourite author
scribbled
in ink:
“I
am afraid of fear because it frightens me.”
They’ll
look at my teacup-
and find dried tea leaves
from days
and
days ago.
On
their way out,
they’ll find my jacket
hanging behind the door,
draped the way it always is,
right shoulder drooping—
as if I were still wearing it.
And
in their minds,
they’ll see me walking…walking,
the way I walk
Like a man who has wandered all night,
shoes sloshing,
Swaying
to the left to the right
to the
left to the right…
heading away, going, and going—
away from this giant city.
By
then, I will have gone as far as Pachanza,
gazing at the mountains of my boyhood—
the Mavhuradonha mountains!
Mavhuradonhaaaaa!
Back
in the city,
they’ll call again,
and that same woman will reply:
“The
number you have dialed is unreachable.
Please try again later.”
They
will curse,
but
my
photo on the wall
will
still be smiling.
They’ll say to it,
“This kind of joke is not funny.”
They’ll
ask my friends about me.
and someone will say:
“I last saw him walking down the office steps,
reading what looked like a newspaper.”
My
students will say:
“We last saw him
when he said, ‘a poem is like a crab—
it walks sideways
but tells its children to walk straight.”’
They’ll
check the car park.
My car will still be there.
Doors unlocked—
because the damn old thing does not lock.
They’ll
rummage through the glove box
for clues—
finding only
the power bill number
and the water bill number.
By
then,
I will have passed Mukumbura,
almost reaching Putukezi (Mozambique)—
going far, far, far.
Those
who love me
will begin to gather in this giant city
as if there is a wedding party.
Some
will open my chicken coop,
and
feed my chickens,
clumsily scattering the grain.
They’ll
watch the chickens feed—
like witches
slurping a witch trap potion.
People
will hear of my disappearance
on the radio.
They’ll remember all the useless stories I told,
and shed tiny little tears,
then wipe them away.
Some
will recall
what
I stopped them from doing,
swallow their saliva,
and hope I never come back.
Some
will rejoice:
“He was too much!”
But
someone will see somebody
walking
on the street in my style
but coming up close realizing:
Ours is thick but not as stout!
Some
will hear a voice outside
that sounds like mine—
draw the curtain, open the window,
and see the fishmonger instead.
And how joyful I’ll be by then,
so far from this giant city,
walking, walking and walking.
How
many times have I wanted to go—
and failed?
I
will remember everyone briefly,
look back once—
but because I’ll be too far,
I’ll say:
What
did you expect me to do?
You
won’t hear me anymore.
By then,
I’ll be staring, melding into darkness—
darkness ahead,
darkness behind.
Time
drifts, my dear,
and a man—
may just disappear,
my friend.
But
I will fold my hat
and tuck it under my arm,
or maybe
lay it gently on the wet earth.
For
a journey this long
doesn’t require excess baggage.
+The translator of this piece,
Primrose Dzenga, is an award-winning poet, storyteller, author and development scholar.
Her work on Privilege of Articulation examines the impact of voice on systems
and interventions.
+ Memory Chirere is a Zimbabwean
poet and his Shamhu YeZera renyu won a national arts merit award in 2023.
Zvakanaka sei kungoenda
nekuenda nekuenda…
ndichisiya zidhorobha rino?
Panguva yenhau dzemanheru
ndinenge ndisisipo.
Hakuna anozvifungira
nokuti handipotse nhau dzemanheru.
Panvimbo yangu panenge pasina munhu.
Vachati kune kwandiri kutandara
saka ndichadzoka ndanwira nwira.
Pavanozomuka rechimangwana
Ndinenge ndisipo.
Piro yangu isina kurarirwa
inovabaya moyo.
Pavanozama kundifonera
vanonzwa foni yangu yakadzimwa
vongopindurwa nekamukadzi kaye
kuti: munhu wamuri kuda haabatike
zamai kufona zvakare gare gare.
Vagofona vagofona.
Warawara!
Vanofunga kuti ndichafona.
Vozoona kuti handisi kufona.
(Pavanozonditsvaga kuhofisi kwangu
ndinenge ndave sekwaDotito
ndinodarika Kadohwata ndichienda…)
Ndipo pavanoona ndisimo muhofisi.
Patebhuru panenge
pakarongedzwa.
Vachaona penzura iri pakati pebhuku
randaiverenga papeji 36.
Pamhiri papeji 38
vachaona ndakamaka maka neingi
mazwi emunyori wandinodisisa
ekuti: ndinotya kutya nokuti kunotyisa.
Vachatarisa kapu yangu yeputugadzike
voona yakaomerera masamba emazuva nemazuva.
Pakubuda muhofisi mangu vachaona jasi rangu
riri seri kwegonhi senguva dzose
richirembedza bendekete rerudyi semaitiro angu.
Mundangariro vachandiona ndichifamba
mufambiro wangu wemunhu ararirofamba
seya seya, seya seya
shangu dzangu dzichigwedezeka
ndichienda nokuenda
ndichisiya zidhorobha rino.
(Ipapo ndinenge ndave sekwaPachanza
Ndichitarisa makomo ehujaya hwangu:
Makomo eMavhuradonha.)
Muzidhorobha rino vachafona zvakare
vachingopindurwa nekamukadzi kaye
kuti: munhu wamuri kuda haabatike
zamai kufona zvakare gare gare.
Vanobva varidza tsamwa
pikicha yangu ichinyemwerera kumadziro.
Vachabvunza zvishamwari zvangu
voudzwa kuti ndakapedzisira kuonekwa
ndichidzika mastepisi epaohofisi
ndichiverenga chinhu chainge pepanhau.
Vadzidzi vangu vachataura kuti:
vakapedzisira kundiona
musi wandaiti:detembo rinoita segakanje
kufamba nedivi asi richiti vana varo vasadaro.
Vachaenda mupaki voona chimota changu.
Madhoo haana kukiiwa nekuti hachikiike.
Vachagwedebudza kabhineti kutsvaga humbowo
Vowana nhamba dzemagetsi nedzemvura chete.
(Izvozvo ndinenge ndodarika Mukumbura
Ndinenge ndovavarira Putukezi)
Vanondida muzidhorobha rino
vachatanga kuungana sepamuchato.
Pane vachavhurira huku dzandinochengeta
vozama kudzifidha.
Vachadziona dzichidya chikafu
kunge varoyi vari kunwa muteyo.
Pane vachanzwa nezvekushaikwa kwangu pawairesi.
votondera tunyaya tusina basa twandaiita navo
vobva vadonhedza tumisodzi.
Pane vachatondera zvandaivatadzisa kuita
vomedza mate vachiti dai ndikasadzoka
Vanotoita pati!
Pane vachaona munhu anenge ini achizvifambira
vave pedyo naye voona kuti handisirini.
“Wedu mukobvu asi haana kuzokorawo kudai!”
Pane vachanzwa munhu achitaura
panze nenzwi rinenge rangu!
Vachavhura ketani
Vovhura hwindo
voona murume anotengesa
hove
kwete ini!
Zvinozondifadza sei ndave kure
nezidhorobha rino
ndichienda kudaro.
Kangani ndichida kuenda ndichitadza?
Ndichatondera munhu wose munguva pfupi.
Ndichacheuka
asi nokuti ndinenge ndave kure
ndichangoti: “Maida kuti ndiite sei?”
Saka hamundinzwe.
Izvozvo ndinenge ndatarisana nemhindo.
Kumberi mhindo.
Kumashure mhindo.
Ndichapeta heti yangu
ndoiisa muhapwa
kana kuikanda pasi
nokuti rwendo rurefu harudi
katundu
kasina
basa.
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