The Sunday Mail
MANY writers use their lives as blueprints for their stories.
Such literature is often rich with detail since the issues being tackled are not foreign to the author.
And such is the work of Julius Chingono. Growing up on a commercial farm and working in mines as a blaster for the greater part of his life, Chingono witnessed firsthand what it means to be poor.
In “Not Another Day” which fuses short stories and poetry, he illuminates life in the rural homestead and the township, among other settings that depict poverty.
Most of Chingono’s characters face some sort of tragedy: violence, poverty and defeat. But that drudgery has its silver lining in use use of wit to bring laughter.
In the story “Are We Together” the protagonist appears resigned to his poverty.
“I was a lodger in a ten-roomed house in the high-density suburb of Chinseri, sharing the homestead with eight other families. I was number three in the bathroom queue and number four in the laundry queue,” says the narrator as he whistles his favourite sungura tune as he starts his day.
The communal bathroom is the place where the poor vent their frustrations. Queue jumpers fight and those who take too long to shower could very well be beaten up. Chingono expertly paints the picture of a typical Sunday morning in a high-density suburb where sharing a “bomb” or “straight” (whiskey, brandy or vodka) is shared if the menfolk happen to have more money than is required to buy opaque beer.
In “The Commuter”, the author describes a sewage-infested neighbourhood in which the central character is unmoved by the smell. The filth is normal.
“I leapt across a stream of raw sewage without covering my nose or holding my breath. I was used to spewing sewage. Every morning and every evening I leapt across this streaming leakage which came along the school durawall to a storm water drain, three houses away,” is part of the daily routine.
For some, the presence of the sewage has become a “mental breakfast”.
The story, however, is not about the grime of the ghetto, but rather about the struggle to commute to work using public transport.
Boarding a kombi during peak-hour is a huge scramble and the faint-hearted will get to work late.
“The bus-stop was constantly full of people waiting for transport. In fact, the place always seemed like a rally with a great multitude of jostling people waiting impatiently to be addressed by a very important person,” we read.
The poetry in Chingono’s collection did not capture my fancy, though there are some sweet rhymes and splendid diction. Too many of the odes seem pointless and fall flat.
“Ode to the Tree” highlights the devastating effects of deforestation in which a certain type of tree which used to grow in abundance is now being exhibited as a rare species.
“He talks of vast forests where these trees grew. I fail to imagine these forests where wild trees were sanctuary to animals. Where have they gone these mysterious trees, these forests,” goes one of the verses in which the poet doubts his grandfather’s recollections of wooded countryside.
“Occasional Sex” is a poem that talks about intercourse with commercial sex workers, where unprotected liaisons lead one to the cemetery and using condoms leaves anxiety as the latex sheaths are not 100 percent safe.
On the whole, an interesting read.
