This started as a school project but now is time I begin putting my thoughts on the ground. I am not a blogger, I am just a guy who knows how to think and type. No fancy names. There is no profit motive to this particular blog, neither will it be consistent. I will write when I can and feel like it. 

Some articles will be written in my sober state, some will be written under the influence of various intoxicants.

Your truly

Gurukota

Repost : LettersToMyComrade :In Defense Of My Hair

Dear cde..

My apologies for not writing in time,i hear the water levels at Kariba are lowering  ….Bastards!!!!

My second reason is that your role model’s telecommunication organisation is now close cousins with the government..Their disrespect towards Zimbabweans baffles the water out of my tap ,despite the fact that the two respective leaders of these continental tuckshops are “Christians” of global repute.

Anyhow,you might have heard that i recently got rid of the dark crown my scalp used to house hospitably*After Hifa of cause*.The decision was reached after powerful deliberations and enquiries about how the corporate world would engulf me .

Did i just say corporate? Yes cde i did.I want to buy a shelter for my family,lots of dolls for my little queen .Infact,i want to feel the finest single malt distilled liqour the world dares to offer. (Please save me the you shouldnt let commercials get to you talk).I have multiple souls looking up to me .

In a perfect world ,it is without second engagement I would be wearing plain black t shirts the whole year,playing Bob Marley ,creating powerful manuscripts of poetic dynamites . We would recite so loud Dickson Chingaira would wallow with envy,turning green like the water they drink where they are fortunate enough to have contaminated liquid rushing through their plumbery .But no,this is Kitano Mapondera’s kraal Zimbabwe is the monicker.

The economy has hit the zone where opposition parties prefer to see it in .This is mainly because the political tabloids give them a prophet of doom role in determining the depth of the quagmire we find ourselves in .In times like these i need a job,art and expression is what the Zimbabwean weekends were made for .As a result my radical hairstyle had no room in my quest for my little sister to go to a better university than the one i am attending.

I sweated with profusion the day i watched the bundled strands of my reality being channeled into a dustpan by the cosmetic lightskinned woman at that dirty salon near the UZ taxi rank .Even though my heart bled,all i could say was “thanks mdhara” as i handed him a $2 note,he had initially demanded an extra dollar but i negotiated for sympathy.(Everyone in Zim now posesses this skill called kuchema chema).

So yeah i cut my hair,but i have been miserable..I tried to console myself that having a bald hairstyle would make me look mature but instead naked was the word.I have had low esteem and energy since i started getting a full view of my scalp.I hated every moment of my baldie stint. I am now making attempts to revive my sanity.

I have decided to regrow my hair ,my dreadlocks.The sides will be intact,unlike the previous time.In the interim ,i will keep it as an untidy Afro that way i can express my world views ,for this global circus is nothing but a neglected timebomb i foresee detonating and the least i can do is document the unfoldings.

The Afro is a bit of a compromise on both ends …It is  like the Kadoma between dreadlocked and being baldie, my life being the Harare-Bulawayo carriageway.

I am still the artist you used to muse with . The changes ambition made us employ are taking a toll on my inner self.The real paradox is to eat or to express. If you were me ,would you prefer being full and constricted or rejoicing at the prospects of expression on an empty stomach.

Sorry for bothering you with my encounters .Again my gratitude for your consumption of these thoughts,lets i explode . You are not obliged to write back,discretion is entitled

Yours

Gurukota

Gurukota Speaks on The Air Ticket Effect in the local arts

Short Story : Her Peach Scented Fragrance!

The scent of her cologne pierced through my nostrils ,breathing was fast becoming a mammoth task in her presence .But I warned her against this peach scented fragrance, her insistence was beginning to annoy me .The next she would wear it I was going to tell her ,I cannot be battling migraines every time she visits.

My resentment for her was growing with each passing day. From the inseparable pair which used to slurp from the same tumbler to being quasi-strangers who could not exchange five words with fluidity. I had hoped it would change over time, my sister Tania suggested that I give it time. “The flame will regain its strength over time”, she said. I regretted my return although unavoidable, my presence in Zimbabwe seemed to have worsened the situation. In my humble opinion, we were now beyond redemption. But something was amiss! She was a pristine diva before my departure, the type who would not allow the phone to ring once without throwing a fit. But things had changed, she was ice cold, a far distance from the passionate woman she once was. She was now part of the society, offering nothing outside convention. I did not know she could wait for someone for thirty minutes ,let alone the 3 hours that she spent sitting at Kelly`s waiting for me to finish my shoot. Funny how things change.

It was her fire that drew me towards her. I remember the first time I met her, the hilarity is still imprinted in my mind .I made a dozen fools of myself. We were at Pariah State on Friday the 13^th of June 2012.Yep, I still recall the details with clarity. Her back view somewhat appeared familiar ,I assumed she was Narrelle a former classmate, with whom I had a fling but that was in middle school .I snuck up on her, closed her eyes with my palms hoping to make a pleasant surprise .The subject of the joke became a gentleman named Leroy when she turned around. I started visualizing Narelle’s stature and I realized a rushed decision is what I had made ,the lady in front of me was taller .Way too tall, how had I been naïve .I had told the boys tequila wasn’t my poison, their insistence had driven me into a predicament.

I wonder how I would have reacted if I was at the receiving end, it is not an everyday thing when someone blindfolds you from behind at a Pub counter. She was so composed and as soon as she turned around the following words escaped from my buccal cavity. “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I thought you were someone else .I am really sorry”. Startled, she just stood there shocked .After a loud sigh, she ordered me to thank my ancestors because had I not aimed for the eyes? Hell would have had a different definition. Of course I offered to buy her a drink, my wallet though bleeding had to take the knock to save its master`s face. I spent half of the night explaining how the unfortunate incident was not one of my pickup lines, a good conversation ensued although I had questions, loads of them.

What was she doing there alone on a Friday? What was a lady of her politically correct facial composition doing in isolation? This question was the only question I had really. One would expect her to have a potbellied blesser, if recent trends in Harare are anything to go by. But this lady stood out, I had to continually insist for her to accept the drinks I was buying. She even bought a couple of rounds, much to the relief of my wallet. Turns out she was a writer working on her debut novel, she could not dwell on too much detail but the general idea behind the writing was the atmosphere in Harare`s affluent pubs .The Maestros ,News Cafés ,Centurion before the rowdy teenagers found directions to the place. I told her, I am a wordsmith as well. Those words, were the igniting splinter to the light bulb.

Conversations changed their trajectory, from reviewing Sarah Han`s literary works to both of us agreeing that Charles Mungoshi, although brilliant had an introvert edge to his words. He was a comfortable writer. From all the wild mental exchanges, I noticed that her pride was not unaccompanied. She was a FEMINIST, a radical one for that matter. She believed men were only different from women in anatomic composition and nothing else! I agreed although with a pinch of salt, we had to leave the debate for another day. One thing I liked about her were her ice breaking tendencies, she waited for no man. Literally! She asked how my Sunday looked like as she wanted to try out the new Bojangles Pub, Pariah had given her nothing outstanding. She lamented, much to my protestation as I believed I had made her face glow for the whole evening. Imagine, I had ignored my comrades to share laughter with her .I was going to pay for this, the brothers were not exactly impressed.

After subsequent meetings gained momentum ,we were the talk of the town .It is during this period that I learnt that this curious lady came from a top Adventist family and had attracted the rage of her parent by her unorthodox way of life. She claims foreign Education ruined her, but the final straw in her relationship with her parents was when she left for Australia to study Civil Engineering and returned with an Applied Poetry Degree.  Fascinating isn’t it? I was sold ,radicals are my crowd .I did not care what the world was going think, I was going to give it a shot .Whether her father`s position as the head cleric at the Seventh Day Adventist church was going to make me look like a gold digger ,I simply did not care. Yes she was Claire Ncube, the only daughter to the revered churchman Honest Ncube. The only sheep in the family, which opted to turn black.

I was with her every step of the way as she wrote her book, a mad talent she was. Spending time at her apartment reviewing notes and paragraphs played directly into cupid`s hands .A wildfire masquerading as a relationship ensued. The rest is pretty much history and it went well until the time I introduced her to my family. My mother disapproved of her at first glance, I do not know why she had chosen to be have a viewpoint parallel to that of her son. I suspect it could have been my partner`s overconfidence or brightly tattooed hands .I saw beyond the stereotypes but those whom I loved the most were adamant that she was not good for me. They could not even wait for her to leave to allay their calculations, they did not like her. I understood where they were coming from, everyone else except I, was a devout Christian at home .Their piety reduced their perspective, it was a trait I had learnt to live with. But Claire, Claire was not in the business of allowing people to barricade her personality into a square .The relationship turned awkward.

She was asking me to make a choice, how can I choose between the Mbizi Samaitas` the clan of pride and a woman I met in a pub? Such absurd suggestions made me livid. Of course she had her own place and I could move in, move in and leave my little sisters behind? Leave my mother`s brilliant samosas. I had never had such bad jokes in my whole entirety. Tension became the order of the day ,at least she had the courtesy of putting on a brave face every time we made a public appearance because the truth is we were everyone`s favorite couple but mere mammals in our personal capacity. My insistence on maintaining contact with her left my family with no choice but to send me on a vacation, disguised as a job opportunity in my mother`s native country of Mozambique. It will be good for your resume they said.

At the time I told her that I was leaving, I thought I was going to be the deliverer of bad news .Instead she welcomed the development stating that it will allow me to recover well from the debris of our sinking relation-ship .She wanted space, she had reached a breaking point. There was no way we were going to fix us or convince my kinsmen that her tattoos and dashikis were merely a mode of expression. That her smoking was in no way an indicator of her immorality, but a summary of her experiences. I could have opted to stay and fix things but where I am from the family verdict is more difficult to overturn, their jury style could leave the Constitutional Court green with envy. I left to be a personal assistant to my uncle Pashto at his company in Maputo, furthering my studies while I did so.

A few days after my arrival in the Portuguese speaking country, we maintained contact. For the first time in months we had legitimate conversations. There was hope, at least from my viewpoint. We were in good spirits, I even promised to attend her book launch and help sell a few copies in Mozambique as I had made acquaintances from the Maputo book club. Days elapsed into months and the text message ping pong and Skype dialogue continued .The only topic which was beyond the scope of discussion was whether or not I was ready to defy my family for the magic we shared to be rekindled. She had explicitly stated that “If you not ready to man up and fight for what you claim to cherish, leave my name out of your heart”. So we continued to flirt lightly but with no substantial impact to our ailing relation except buying it a few more days.

Months slid and the book launch drew nearer. After our separation I had lost the privilege of receiving exclusive reads of her works .I was curious of how the final product was looking like. I disagreed with her editor`s opinion on her use of puns, I believed that was her strength. He was more of a metaphorician who also used similes haphazardly. But she respected him, his Caine’s Prize nomination was his claim to relevance. I wanted to see how his insanity had presided over a brilliant manuscript Claire had managed to put together. I always told my uncle of how this book was a much needed rejuvenation of second generation Zimbabwean literary works. He was getting annoyed I am sure, he could not finish reading text messages on his phone let alone express enthusiasm over a 200 paged book yet to be launched .

One morning my phone rang, it was Tania .The only person from my family who loved Claire as much as I did. She is also a stingy little fellow, through the 6 months I had been in Maputo, she had not called me. Not even once! I cracked my usual smile and swiped to the right of the screen, I already had a joke for her even though she doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Her voice did not carry the usual energy I know it to carry, she spoke in a moist tone. I had to ask if everything is okay, her response made my heart sink. “Lee it`s Claire”, she said just before she hung up. I called her back for full details, and learnt that my poet extraordinaire was battling for her life. No one could tell me what had happened, but my mom of all people suggested that I return temporarily if possible. I heeded the call and entered the bus the next morning.

Suicide? Claire never struck me as a type who would give up on life .She was so passionate and ambitious. What had driven her off the rails? Was it the isolation? Surely it was not our failed relationship. I had many questions I didn’t know the answer to. The doctor astutely warned against asking her about the ordeal if we prioritized her recovery. Her family was with her, it was my first time meeting with Pastor Ncube, and I could sense that he blamed me for this. Well, he had a right to opinion, I blamed him too. What sort of father ignores her daughter completely for having alternative beliefs? She went back to her father`s house for recuperation. The negative energy engulfed me every time I paid a visit. Uncle Pashto, said I could stay until the time was right for me to return. I was not going to return anytime soon if he was holding his breath.

After her recovery, both our families blessed us .At least they were acting out of sympathy. The biggest obstacle had removed itself, one would think that things would go back to normal. Truth is, I had fallen out of love, and it was now pity and fear that kept me in the relationship. I felt like I was being held at ransom, when you cannot leave because you are afraid of how she is going react. I felt pity for her, she had lived without compassion for far too long, and the people who were supposed to shower her with love had driven her into depression. The pressure to finish her book, the only thing she lived for, got to her and she buckled .At least this was my assessment of the situation and I could not leave the relationship even if my life depended on it.

Part of me wants to stay and fix things, part of me wants to turn a new leaf and meet someone new. Someone who will be an adventure, not a mystery. But how can I forget all those nights we switched from club to club looking for inspiration. We might have a chance, I will try containing my tantrums .I will be more patient, only if she promises not to wear her PEACH SCENTED fragrance again and stops agreeing with everything I say. After all she understood when I erroneously blindfolded her, the onus to reciprocate is on me.

(This story is purely fictitious and any resemblance in context or name is sincerely unintended and coincidental. Copyright: Leroy Tafadzwa Dzenga 2016.No part of this work shall be republished without prior written consent of the writer.)

My first day at the Book Cafe ,Memories of a late bloomer

It was around 2011 if not 12 when I walked into the neatly packed ,famous building whose occupants were known to carry unconventional hairstyles and colorful Dashikis and felt at home. The atmosphere was far from electric, but possessed an aura of a place regularly massaged with poetic utters. I present to you the chronicles from the first event I attended at the famous Book Café, Pamberi Trust`s Sistaz Open Mic a couple of moons ago.

Although I knew the place was ideal for a budding wordsmith of my caliber, I found the setting segregatory at first. People were grouped in small packs releasing applauses at intervals, sharing unfamiliar humor it was difficult to join in. I sat in isolation, listening to the artists and taking notes whilst everyone else exhibited a social dimension I never knew existed. Another factor I found difficult to embrace were the beer prices, a whooping two dollars for a canned Castle Lager: “THESE CAPITALISTS”, these were the exact words I thought but because my aunt an established poet had prescribed the place, I had to brave.

The first lady to go any stage was the ever smiling lyricist D Blok who shocked me with her meticulous delivery, I saw Lauryn Hill in her just packaged with more rage. With every song, I sunk deeper and my admiration grew, I knew there was hope in the feminine section of Zim Hip Hop. Backed by the Starbrite finalist and celebrated guitarist Carlo, her sound was nothing my eardrums had encountered before, but it was something I would not mind consuming eternally.

D blok doing her thing at Mellow Creme`s Love and Hip Hop show ,a few years after (Shot by : Leroy Dzenga)

Younique, the poet was the second act on the roster. She caressed the microphone with delicate metaphors which melted the vena cava and other constituents of the heart, one would need to swallow a lot of saliva to avert tears. Man, Younique was beautiful .I remember narrating to my sister of her lucid articulation and the breeze that accompanied her carefully arranged words. The smile she cracked after her performance is still embroiled on my mind and I make it a point to remind her warm self every time I met her.

Songstress Eve Kawadza leading the proceedings at the recently held Sistaz Open Mic at Pamberi Gardens

The poetry gods woke up on the right side of the reed bed on the day as Tinashe Tafirenyika stepped on Younique`s footprints. Heaven right? She spoke on emotions and religion, the words escaped my comprehension over time but the impact still remains. A magnificent stage presence is what we experienced as she did a metaphorical piece likening her heart to the cosmic elements in astronomy. (I hope she forgives me for a possible misrepresentation, it has been quite a number of years)Just like her predecessor, she breathed life into the poet I claim to be. From that day I never ignore conversations which carry the name Tinashe Tafirenyika in them.

Just as the awesome MC for the day R-Tendo was about to introduce the next act, all heads turned to the entrance. Before I could process what was going on, the words “DUDU” “DUDU” “DUDU” were being chanted as the jazz songstress and her sibling Uza who is now part of the Bulawayo based all ladies ensemble “Nobuntu” walked in. I realized how Dudu Manhenga was a hero in these circles. Her musical prowess though undoubted, she has never been the artist you randomly bump into. I understood what she meant when she said that her compositions are not for everyone, but when they consume you its pure bliss.

After Dudu had settled on that popular table close to the toilet area, yes that last one you see on your way to the garden .Where the white people in shorts, sandals and t-shirts usually sit. Programming continued as a dynamic female duo of Denise and her friend called G`sondria. They performed a few songs but the crowd only appreciated in courtesy, I doubt if they liked it. It was evident that their pop sound did not tickle the fancy of the “DEEP” crowd present at the event. Those ones preferred inhaling nicotine and acoustics, not fast paced songs propagating Instagram filters. The act, despite their stellar contemporary sound, they were not well received.

Roots then followed, I do not know if it was my underexposure to different versions and types of poetry but the random guitar strumming and her recitals were nothing to write home about .The same could not be said for the act that brought the beauty back to the event. Her name is Massa Caroline .She started with the song which carried the words ,”Haagare Pano” .I later reached out to her for the song ,I forgot what went down but up to now I still hear that melody in my head. An underrated artists she is!!!I hear she is back on stage, cannot wait to see her perform again.

To close the show, the energetic Red Ruffryder graced the stage. Her energetic movements wowed everyone else in the crowd but me. The choreography appeared to have more doses of adrenaline than the songs she was dancing to. I personally did not enjoy this particular performance but the sisterhood spirit on the day had people joining her in dance. I took this as a bit of practical sarcasm but that was just me being a newbie in the circles, she was huge here. But I would like to admit, I have seen her recent performances and her moves are now polished .I guess we all start at the beginning.

R Tendo on stage at a recently held Sistaz Open Mic session (Image :Leroy Dzenga)

As the eloquent R-Tendo whose short hair I afford great admiration closed off the session, I had to leave with a heavy heart. Mbuya Stella Chiweshe was due to perform after the show. The damage was $5 dollars and I had 4 rands in my pocket, it was wise for me to leave early as I was supposed to negotiate to sit on the furnace known as kadoma .It is usually cheap before peak hours. Peasants do not choose.

These are just musings and reminiscence of the first day I walked into what would become my sanctuary in Harare .One of the few things I actually miss ,I have reservations on the new venue.The New Ambassador is too close to some places I would not like to be close to.

Ndini wenyu 

Leroy Gurukota Dzenga

Letter to Zim Hip Hop

Hie cde, I hope my humble pen finds you in good health or should I say good spirits. We are just emerging out of the long weekend and it is my sincere prediction that your snares graced the speakers of revelers as they enjoyed an extra day off work.

To cut the long story short, I have a short interlude to chew with you if you may spare a moment. I have a few things on my mind or heart I need to share, okay maybe they are just on my fingertips but hear me out!

Firstly, I would like to congratulate you for lasting this long ,many critics and self- proclaimed experts have given you a time limit on numerous occasions but here you are fighting to leave a mark against a plethora of genres, wangu you are strong. I was a bit late to the party, I could not experience King Pinn`s prowess on a first hand basis but believe me when Outspoken dropped Waiting For The Bus ,that record took me to school every morning. Well my point is, I have seen you grow in leaps never mind bounds they are too cliché from the days Stunner used to sample Rihanna`s songs to the days Kapital K gets to freestyle in front of Diddy. Where the journey will take you? I am as curious as you are, but stop at your own peril there is more than just a light at the end of the tunnel, there is a whole world full of possibilities the space needs to be watched.

Hip Hop Artist Sharky at Mellow Creme`s Love and Hip Hop (Image by Leroy Dzenga)

Zim Hip Hop, do you know that you have fans? No I am not talking about kids who pretend to love you unconditionally on their Facebook walls and then release a mixtape when they get the attention of established artists, not those ones. I am not talking about kids who are filling up Whatsapp and Facebook groups pretending to be staunch supporters when low-key they envy those who are at the spotlight. I am referring to the real fans I met, the ones whose playlists are saturated with your sound and nothing else. Ladies who can rap along to songs from GZE, Sinbad to the Incredible mU.You have people who religiously follow you, people who curate your sound better than the bloggers and the artists. Not because they want something in return but because they love you with no restraint. Even though they are few, they defend you daily and speak highly of each and every achievement you have managed to make. One request I have is: Please think of them next time you give us something, please release content they can defend and use for reference when talking about how nice you are. We all know you are.

I would like to commend how you have managed to shake off the stereotype ,from being dismissed as an escapist genre whose people sing about things they have never seen or touched (VAPFANHA VE ZIMHIPHOP PROBLEM YAVO NDEYEKUTI VANOIMBA ZVAVASINA) to giving us content even our parents can vibe to. When you gave us Sharky you really caught us off guard, who would have thought an ethnic politically correct voice would come from your crevices, you! You have tricks. Who would have thought T Gonzi`s Zvenyu would be listened to in the streets of Kuwadzana with the skeptical ghetto yuts chanting “Mpfanha akamhanya uyu”? On this note, I would like to thank you for the Junior Brown Chibuku endorsement, I wonder what the naysayers will say now, back in the day they used to complain that your people are rapping about Ciroc and Hennesy they have never seen now that you are repping a street beverage we wait and see what other damning excuse they will craft. But do not be deterred!

 Female Rapper:Blacperl (Image by Leroy Dzenga)

The females have been coming in their numbers and they are doing pretty well .My favorites are D Blok and Blacperl, not because I know them personally but I admire how they do not use their feminity to sell their music .In a tough industry you would expect people to take shortcuts and use their sex appeal to draw numbers to their sound, but these sisters are being resilient and are waiting in line with everyone. Now that we are here, I cannot help but wonder what the game would look like had the heavens not called Amelia when they did. The women are doing well, although I feel they are still victims of the patriarchal undertones, being a female artist in a male dominated field comes with suspicions of immorality. I sincerely do hope your artists manage to shake that negative imprint off in the few years to come as failure to do so may lead to an inconsistent run up of artists who stop making music because their spouses are against the idea or they feel overgrown to kick it. We have seen Jean Grae, Lauryn Hill, Missy Elliot and other female entertainers fall off the gravy train hope we do not create our own localized versions.

I am tired, I could type more but I need to take care of other commitments and I know that your obligations are yearning for your presence. Shall we not deprive them any further .I have a request though, when you do your videos please take your time. Allow yourself to breathe, meditate and visualize if you take your time on visuals you can actually go to places you never thought your sound would take you. I don’t need to remind you what happened with the Mukoko video, yes you are allowed to copy good things and even improve. You have been a letdown as far as videos are concerned, I also would want you to take into cognizance that not every camera owner is a cinematographer. Value your work, do not leave your visual aspect in the hands of inexperienced charlatans. LAST BUT NOT LEAST ,PLEASE DO NOT RUSH TO CREATE ALBUMS WHEN YOU DO NOT HAVE A SUCCESFUL SINGLE : AN ALBUM IS LIKE A MUSICAL WORLD CUP,YOU NEED TO QUALIFY THROUGH SINGLES SO THAT WHEN THE CONTENT GETS ON THE STREET PEOPLE WILL CONSUME IT WITHOUT YOU SPAMMING THEIR POSTS OR BEGGING FOR SALES.

I sincerely hope you will find time to write back.

Ndapedza ndini wenyu

Leroy Gurukota Dzenga