Harare Review of Books

Congratulations to Claudius! He wins a selection of books from Carnelian Heart Publishing.

Here’s The Election, with comments from judges following.

I had been running late for the Elections in Lion’s Den. It was the taxi driver’s fault, the greedy bastard. He fought with the windi because he didn’t want to pay him his sourcing fee. They had argued for a long time and eventually the driver had agreed to pay his fee.

Satisfied the windi climbed alongside me so he could do his customary gymnastics and run alongside the combi as it began moving. He jumped off by Orange Grove while the combi was in motion. I thought he was dead, but I was sorely disappointed. He pushed off the combi, somersaulted and landed gracefully in the grass next to the tarmac. With the kind of grace and regal athleticism he showed, I had been surprised he wasn’t running in the elections. But then again, it was probably for the best. I didn’t believe I could have beaten him in an election.

Once the combo got on the Kariba road, it steadily ate up road. It wasn’t fast enough. I checked my watch. Shit. 5.45pm. The Election had been set for 6.15pm. My phone started ringing. It was Rangarirai. The combi was loud with music, the sounds of people eating and arguing about which politician would be elected tonight. I didn’t need to whisper to keep my conversation private. “Where are you?” said Rangarirai irritably, “These people need you here so they can put your name on the ballot. Should I tell them that you are not coming?” “Ranga, I am coming ok? I had problems in Chinhoyi, but I am coming. We just passed Chinhoyi Caves now. Just 10 minutes, okay?” Ranga responded by sucking his tongue through his teeth. “OK” he said and hung up.

Ranga loved old British crime shows like Boy on High and was always talking about being a “roadman”, “running in the ends” and the “mandem.” He even spoke with a fake cockney accent or tried to at least when he wasn’t shouting at me for being late. He’s even nicknamed himself Idris something or other, after some long dead British actor. It’s not really something or other. It’s just that I can never be bothered to remember the surname. I have more important things to worry about like making money to feed my family. Ranga is my best friend but I do find his delusions laughable. The most criminal thing he’s ever done in his life is sell counterfeit CDs, and that’s not much. I think as far back as President Bora’s term, maFeds stopped arresting people for selling international and counterfeit stuff. You know the really good unpatriotic shit. Most days, you could rub shoulders with ZRP big wigs as they browsed for the latest blue movie and summer shirts at Mutangadura. Greater Zimbabwe wasn’t the happiest place on Earth for good reason, so vices were a necessity.
My phone buzzed again. My wife.
“Hello love.”
“Did you get transport on time?”
“I did. There were a lot of combis, so it wasn’t an issue.”
“Oh, okay.” A pause. “Are you sure about this? Maybe we can speak with Mrs Muchero. Maybe she can give us another extension on the rent? And your friend, Samson, didn’t he say he could get you a job in Mozambique?”
“Love, we’ve been over this. Even if we get another extension, we still don’t have money for food and water. We don’t even have money for Ruvimbo’s medicine. Plus Samson didn’t make any promises and that was months ago at least. Look if I win, I get to be an MP for Mashonaland West. I am running as an Independent so all the parties will want me to join up with them. They will offer money, food, medicine, maybe even a house. It’s going to be alright. I love you. I have to go.” I hung up before I heard her response. It would have been too painful to hear because it would have sounded like goodbye.

By some miracle, we managed to get to Lions Den on time. The huge granaries that had belonged to the GMB were lit up. They were long empty now since the Commercial Farmers Union had assassinated the GMB’s leadership and taken over the buying and selling of all crops in the country. For most of the time it was a footnote in history but on days like this it was a polling station. There was a roadblock manned by a bored looking old sergeant and two CFU guards. The sergeant flashed a torch at the driver a few times and then beckoned with his thumb for us to go through.

Ranga was waiting for me by the entrance. He was wearing an incredibly stylish, bright purple jacket and skirt. He was carrying a bucket with water bottles, towels and energy bars. My family was why I was here but without Ranga, I wouldn’t be here. He knows everyone and everyone knows Ranga. He has a gift for making friends and I love him for it. Ranga simply made a call and arranged for me to get on the ballot. He grabbed me by the arm and quickly marched me towards the stand where the polling agents were set up. To one side there was a Bhora PF supporter kitted out in full regalia hyping up his party’s candidate and current MP, Trevor Mashiri. “Musangano will not fall today. Support the child weJongwe! He has never been defeated for 10 years now!” There was a small but enthusiastic crowd of Bhora PF supporters who were cheering him on. The LCC candidate also had a hype man but he was significantly less well dressed and not nearly as charismatic. It also didn’t help that he had no crowd to egg him on, which wasn’t surprising. The LCC hadn’t won an election in 12 years and their base was shrinking by the day.

Ranga clicked his fingers at one of the polling officials and pointed at me. The official looked up, shouted excitedly, “Idris!!”, clicked at someone else and pointed at me. A burly security guard cleared the way and got me to the front. The polling official looked at me over her glasses with an “Are you sure” look. I am not much to look at. Ranga called me a born office worker type and it was hard to disagree with him. I ignored the official and pointedly wrote my name on the ballot. The security guard gave me a radiant smile and wished me luck. I stood with Ranga along with the other candidates. Most of them were independents like me hoping to win and join a political party. There were two candidates at least half my age who looked like wiry dogs. I didn’t need to see their tailored suit pockets to know they were CFU. There was an LCC candidate, winding his arms back and forth.

Another official came up to us dressed in election fatigues and sunglasses even though it was dark. “OK, I am the debate moderator. The debate will start soon.”
I was nervous, but I couldn’t turn back now. Ranga and I hugged each other. “I will be waiting with refreshments once you are done,” he said with a sad smile.

All of the candidates got on the lift to take us down into the bottom of the silos where the preliminary debate was staged. One, two, three breaths and we arrived. Two dozen lecterns were set up and evenly spaced. There was a bright light fully illuminating the stage. The moderator motioned us to each stand by a lectern. The audience sat quietly in rapt attention. Once we were all in position, the moderator sat on a dais set aside for him. A bright red digital sign began to scroll continuously above us, “QUIET PLEASE!! ABSOLUTELY NO DISTURBANCES!!”

He raised his hand. “Manheru. The debate begins now.” I took my lectern and swung it directly at the closest candidate on my right. I heard a pop as the corner crunched into their face. I saw their eye on the floor. They crumpled to the ground without a sound. Someone started screaming behind me and I pivoted with the lectern held out in front of me. It was light but strong. Made specifically for hurting people. I noted with satisfaction that only a few candidates were using the lectern as the weapon it was intended for. There were several fights already happening around. None focused on me just yet. Good. My strategy had been simple. Keep distance and only fight when I have to. I wasn’t a “professional candidate”. The last time I fought was when I did the 100 man Kumite 10 years ago. I practiced daily but my combat skills had been as dusty as my gi at home. Someone hit the back of my knee from behind. I didn’t even hear them coming. It was one of the other CFU candidates. She didn’t need the lectern. I checked my knee and thankfully it wasn’t broken. I set the lectern aside. The arm of my suit was torn. I kicked off my shoes and balanced on the balls of my feet. Unlike mine, her suit was specifically tailored for combat.

I darted forward with my hand held out stiff and straight like a spear. She parried it easily, causing me to stumble forward and she lifted her leg to kick me in my exposed chest. My stumble had been deliberate and I used my shoulder to ram into her side. She stumbled and fell. I wasted no time and stomped my heel hard into her throat. She gagged and her eyes rolled backwards. I had no time to relish my victory as I was punched in my back. I rolled forward and away and then pivoted to face my attacker. It was the LCC candidate, along with another independent. Of course, election rigging was a common enough practice so I should have been hardly surprised that I was at the receiving end. The “independent” candidate flexed her left arm and a serrated edge popped out by her wrist. Great, l had to deal with modifications too. Fuck. No time for finesse. I ran from them. I needed distance and maybe another lectern. Someone crashed into me and I bounced off the pillar closest to the stage. My right arm felt like it had been cut open. My shoulder hung limply and by the discolouration on my middle finger and forefinger I could tell they were broken. It was another “independent” candidate, his suit a dirty dark brown. No, it was covered in blood and gore. He had been busy.

Control. Control my breath, my movement, my opponent. I turned to the side, my broken shoulder shielded by my body and my left hand held out in a simple knife hand block. I leaned back into a cat stance. Already I felt less uneasy. They were good, but I was still better. The candidate in dirty brown came at me, his hands outstretched intending to throttle me to death. I slapped his hand and thrust my stiffened fingers into his eye socket. His eye gave way like a soft egg. Dirty eyeless Brown tried to pull away, screaming. I took my fingers out and hooked him by the mouth. I yanked and felt his cheek give way. I turned to Knife Hand. She licked her lips, seemingly unsure of her advantage. I seized my chance, bounded forward and hit her in the chest with a front kick. I heard her gasp. I swept her feet out from under her and she flailed wildly as she fell. The LCC candidate stood next to her and cursed. The calf of his leg was oozing blood so I guessed she slashed him as she fell. He roared and came for me in a classic boxer stance. He threw a hook at my temple which I was able to parry, but a sneaky uppercut caught me in my ribs. Before I could recover he grasped my collar and pulled me down and kneed me in the ribs. There was a loud pop and crack. I felt a wave of almost unimaginable pain. I was sure my ribs were broken. He let me go and let out a sigh. I ignored the pain and settled back into cat stance. I let my hand down and fixed him with a glare. He shrugged his shoulders and came forward. A mistake. As soon as he was close enough I stepped on his lead foot bringing his momentum to an abrupt halt. I headbutted him twice in quick succession in his nose and on his chin. I felt his teeth cut my forehead. I wasn’t done. I used my weight to bear him down to the ground. Boxers have weak legs. It was easy enough. I started bashing my elbow down on his face and I didn’t stop until his skull crunched like paper. I looked up. Knife Hand had recovered, but then she turned and ran. “I withdraw! I withdraw!”. A single gun shot rang out from one of the turrets that until then I hadn’t noticed. She grabbed at the front of her suit where blood was now pouring out of. She fell to her knees, breathing harshly and then she nodded off, as if she were asleep. The debate moderator took his finger off a remote he had been holding. “No withdrawals are permitted”, he said. He then turned around to face the audience. “My friends, we have a winner! – – – will go on to face Trevor Mashiri!!” I almost collapsed from sheer fatigue and relief on the stage but I felt strong hands grasping me from behind. Ranga. He took me backstage. My shoulder had been dislocated, which at the time felt worse because of how painful fixing it was. He taped and splinted my fingers as I drank the water and chewed the energy bars. My suit was torn but until the Election was done I couldn’t do anything about it. Another election official came to see me. “2 minute warning. If you are not on stage by then, you will be considered to have Withdrawn.” Every part of me felt raw and on fire. I just wanted to lay there and just go to sleep. Ranga slapped me. Before I could protest, he said, “What would have happened if you stopped fighting after the 56th bout? You wouldn’t have made it to the 100th. All that pain would have been for nothing. Think about your family. It’s almost over.” Ranga was right. I knew I could go on. I had to. He helped me to my feet and helped me walk to the stage. The last few steps I took on my own and faced my future.

Trevor Mashiri was a bull of a man. He was much, much larger than me. I was frightened. There were no lecterns this time. I would only have my hands and skills to fight with. He stood in the center of the stage and motioned for me to join him. I went up to him and looked him in the eye. He weighed the measure of me and smiled. He patted the side of his jaw. I needed nothing else. I hit him as hard as I could. It felt like concrete. He laughed. It sounded like rocks being crushed. Fuck.

He roared and picked me up and threw me to the ground. I had no time to prepare and the wind was knocked out of me. I shook my head and got up. I hit him with two hooks to the stomach and I may as well have been using roses. He punched me with his brick of a hand in the face. I reeled and fell against the nearest pillar. Blood was streaming over my face and my eye was almost swollen shut. He threw a straight punch and I dodged, punched him and grabbed him low by the waist. I had hoped to do a basic judo throw. He slammed his huge fists on my back once, twice, three times. He grabbed and threw me off him. As soon as I stood up, he was on me. He slammed the palm of his right hand into my face, again and again. My nose broke and my vision went blurry. I fell on my face.
I heard Ranga’s voice. “Get up. Let’s go.” I got to my hands and knees and Mashiri kicked me, almost lifting me off the ground. “Get Up!”. I got up and I punched Mashiri. I noted with satisfaction that he was bleeding from several cuts to his face. He punched me and I fell on my back. He got on top of me and raised his fist. Each punch hit me like an avalanche. My head bounced on the wooden floor. I was being beaten to death. At a point it stopped hurting and I stopped thinking at all. I watched my body move on its own. I reached up and wrapped my left arm around his upper bicep. I took my splintered broken fingers and thrust them into his eyeball. He bellowed with pain. I snaked my left leg around his right and lifted with my hips. I was able to lift him over and turn him. I was on top. I punched him hard, harder. I put my soul into my punches. I saw his eyes dim. I grasped the back of his head and slammed it against the floor. One, two, three, four, I lost count. I screamed as I did so. I cried and laughed. Mashiri was strangling me the whole time and it didn’t stop me. Nothing stopped me, stopped me from murdering him.

The audience had been clapping as I murdered him. The debate moderator was excitedly announcing my election as MP and already predicting whom my future challengers would be. It wasn’t over.

Zola Ndlovu
Fascinating story! The action and blow-by-blow style was gripping.

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki
The Election was strong and poignant. I found the vividness and vibrancy interesting.

Dr Peter Maurits
This narrative is well-structured, following the protagonist’s determined journey to reach the election debate on time. Skillfully weaving through familiar landmarks such as the caves and granary, it underscores the central theme of poverty and the desperate pursuit of an escape from its clutches through unconventional means—entering the local political arena to address basic subsistence needs. Employing estrangement as the primary narrative device, the story takes a shocking turn as the election debate transforms into a life-or-death struggle.

While the plot showcases creativity and originality, the narrative would benefit from refinement in style. The use of synonyms could enhance the overall fluency, particularly in instances of repetition like the frequent mention of “combi,” “grace,” and “election.” Attention to eliminating superfluous details, such as the mention of an attack to the back of the knee in the midst of a fight, and ensuring logical consistency would enhance the narrative flow. The story, captivating in its revelation of the election turning into a physical confrontation, encounters challenges as it becomes somewhat consumed by the fight scenes. Writing compelling fight sequences is a demanding task, and while the story manages, it doesn’t shine in this aspect. Additionally, the conclusion raises questions – the protagonist wins, yet there are more fights to come, leaving readers pondering the lingering “why?”

Sista Zai Zanda

• Your story must be set in a recognisable place in Zimbabwe, 50 years or more from now. 
  I enjoyed reading about combining culture and the antics of the windi, which keep the story grounded in Zim while the references to “old British movies” is a clever way to establish future timeline for this story.
• Your main protagonist(s) must be Zimbabwean.
  Wonderful characterisation. I found myself really hoping he would win.
• Your story must contain speculative fiction elements. Feel free to imagine as wildly as possible.
  I was not expecting an actual physical battle with explanations about battle technology! It was gruesome but I had to keep reading to find out who would win. Very well done.