Mankhokwe...

In this city, there is a man who is driving around with a bomb. He might be your driver, neighbour, boss, husband, father or drinking buddy. But, most likely, your drinking buddy. Because, he drinks. And loves his drink. And, he loves music. And dancing. His favourite song, for now, is not état-major . But, at some point, it was. He does not understand French, does not know what the song talks about, he just liked the shouting and clapping at the beginning of the song. It laid a good ground for showcasing dance skills. That time he was in love with that song, he still had the bomb with him. In his favourite drinking place, having had asked for état-major , he would dance. Sway his hips. Place his right feet there, have the hands clasped together as in some prayer, while the left feet stood rooted in the ground to give balance to the waist that would be tossed up and down as if in some dingy on a chaotic Mediterranean sea. Spectators would abound. The new ones would buy hi

She woke up one day to a ring on her finger: engaged. On Facebook, unknown to her, there were people fawning. And falling over themselves. Heavy with congratulatory messages. He had tagged her in a post: engaged to... Her WhatsApp was full, and overflowing, with messages. When she opened that app, she was welcomed by a group. Her friends had apparently formed that group to plan her wedding. She says it was crazy – that morning. Just below that group were messages from all over. They were all congratulating her. A few asked when the big day would be. Him. The conversation with him. It laid at the unimportant bottom. Like a pile of forgotten emotions. The last message from him was sent the previous night. It was one word: ‘whatever’. But, we will come to that later. For now, the engagement. It was her birthday. He had ignored her for the whole day (spoiler: most guys do not actually forget the birthday, they pretend! When your man – applicable to boyfriends on

He always came through. Or, maybe, we should say He almost – key word: almost – always came through. Although, for her, she would rather we remove the ‘almost’ because, well, that word never counts. So, He always came through. She says that, throughout her life, He has been coming through. Sometimes, four days late yet still on time – like that time the good book says He had to resurrect Lazarus. Her journey, especially from the University, has been punctuated by His timely showing up. The other time, He showed up at noon. The previous night, a timid and excited student happy that she was about to finish her first year, she had gone out with friends. It was her first time going out. It was her first time drinking. She blacked out. Or, rather, went into a quiet dark sleep. She does not remember what happened. But, nothing bad happened. At least, not that evening. If anything, it nearly happened during the day. That time she woke up with a headache. The moment

This moment, there is a woman. And, she might be your wife.  She has been married for a few years, maybe two or three. Or four. Even just weeks. I cannot disclose the actual duration. It might give her away. But, she is married. And childless.  Most Saturdays – and they might not even be Saturdays – she fasts. And locks herself in the bedroom. Or climb hills. Pretends to be praying. And crying. For a child.  Once in a period, she goes to a small clinic out of town to renew her vow: she gets contraceptives.  Her husband – we do not talk much about him – might be busy wondering what is wrong with him. Or her. Or them, as a couple.  He might be, at this hour, crouching under the shade of some traditional doctor. Maybe for the fifth time.  The doctor, a quack, might again make him drink something bland and bad-smelling.  “This must work,” he might tell him.  The husband, tired and frustrated, might gulp with all the urgency. Hoping that after drinking such a concoction the

They say they are protesting elections. They say the anger being witnessed in the streets is over a mismanagement of elections. Maybe yes, it is about elections. Perhaps, no, this is not about elections. In the summer of 2017, the Southern region almost went up in flames. Young men mostly started barricading roads, stoning cars and properties, demanding payments from road users. A few people ended up killed in the hands of that ravenous mob. Reason? They said that they were protesting bloodsuckers. They claimed that their communities were being terrorised by bloodsuckers. And, as a revenge, they were targeting anyone strange in those communities. However, those who attempted to understand that wave of violence beyond what was presented doubted the narrative. The violence was mostly in peri-urban areas. Places where there had been no report of bloodsucking. What was worse? These protestors could be bought off: if you had money, pay them, then they would let you use the

The song that placed DNA on a pedestal, Mukandipepesele , was not – at least in gender relations – ambivalent. It was clear. It was a song that portrayed the world of men: a world in which they make mistakes that leave a trail of hurt – unintentionally; and, thereafter, they seek to make things right – with little success most times.   Now, he has returned. This time, his album is called Dziko la amuna . In recent years, an album has never been ambiguous as the 13 track album that DNA has released. The literal translation of Dziko la amuna is twofold: one, it is a world for males; two, like in the song that introduced him on the local music scene, it is a world of males – that invisible yet occupied space. In the song that introduces the album, Odala , there is little that relates to the album title. It is, however, in the second song that DNA takes his audience through the world of males. A world in which value is based on the monetary possessions of a man. Not his intention