The Dangers of a Single Story

Because some stories have to be told.. Read and support Fungai’s cause.

Fungai Makawa

The other day I was involved in a conversation concerning my efforts on crowdfunding my Master’s degree. At the time I had mentioned that I hadn’t gotten the traction I would like and the friend I was talking to pointed out (and everyone agreed) that I had a snowball’s chance of raising the amount I needed because I didn’t fit the narrative. My story isn’t the atypical African story that you see plastered over the internet, in the news and every charity or organization doing work in Africa. I don’t have the look of some child suffering from malnutrition and starving like the images you get of Ethiopia and Eritrea, I’m not a former child soldier and Kony isn’t my local overlord, my parents didn’t die of AIDS or political turmoil, I’m not an orphan and my parents are both alive and well. Admittedly I do come from a country…

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Ain’t No Sunshine

I should stop looking at the door cause she ain’t coming through it
There ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, And she been gone too long.

I should embrace the cold embrace of solitude cause she ain’t ever coming back


Orestes pursued by the furies. He can't keep it out.

Orestes pursued by the furies. He can’t keep it out.

All the conversations that play in mind, never unsaid, a silent unending vigil. Sanity lacks the silence of my madness. Bludgeoned out, sipping out of my mushed brain, pictures floating in the vitreous humour. Morsels and strands dissipating into the ether, a passing wraith samples a thought and is a revenant, a ghoul nibbles a piece of bone and becomes a troll, a hag twines a thread of hair with her own and is like her youth again, the trees roots drink deep from my seeping blood and a forest moves and a stray playwright stares in the vitreous humour and in there he glimpses a story, my story, that from which he fashions his next great tragedy- he calls it Macbeth.

Betwixt and Between

Betwixt and Between

I thought of true things. In the margins between sleep and reality, between the dusk and dawn. Betwixt and between, neither her nor there, the places where dreams go and come from, where choices yet to be made and those made gather and old gods go to die. I dreamt of true things, but now I’m awake and all that’s left are echoes, cobwebs, the sand in my eyes and that haunted feeling that for a moment I truly knew and I was at peace.

Home is Where the Heart Is

Taken from my house in Harare, Zimbabwe. Multiple exposures, inlayed together in Picasa.

Taken from my house in Harare, Zimbabwe. Multiple exposures, inlayed together in Picasa.

I went home for the first time in close to two years and if you’d asked me I’d have told you that it was amazing and I did so much but the truth of it is that I had a torrid time. Home didn’t feel like home anymore. Cape Town did. I spent the whole time wishing I was in Cape Town, with my independence, with my friends, the comfort of an environment though shared was my own. I even missed work. But what really makes home so torrid is that this piece is being written in my car, on a friday night on what is supposedly a night out at the place to be. I’m not enjoying it all. You know why? Because I don’t fucking know anyone here that’s why! Bar perhaps a couple of high school mates who I’ve long lost track of and no longer have anything in common with and the people I was meant to meet have not pitched yet, its 0000hrs, where the fuck could they be at this time anyway? So I wait, patience running low but I wait nonetheless. I’ve reached the point that I only have two friends lefts here, the rest a myriad of half forgotten faces and a horde of unknown entities and possibilities. Maybe that one could have been a good mate hd I stayed, maybe that one would have punched my face at drunken brawl a year ago, maybe that girl would have slept with me a month ago, maybe I worked with that guy and had coffee with that girl, as I said, possibilities. Buts that’s moot now, I left and all I have here is an empty husk, irreparable, long scuttled.. My heart isn’t really here anymore, my life isn’t, I might have been born here but I no longer recognise it. I’ve been wondering lately if I was coming back for good anytime soon, I guess I have my answer now and when that soon is over, I don’t think I’d even consider it. Or maybe it is now that I should be returning when there is still something to salvage. Its a shame really because I always thought this would be home, but as they say home is where the heart is and my heart isn’t here anymore.