Zuihitsu kaMama

Zuihitsu is neither prose poem or essay although it can sometimes resemble both. To 'follow the brush' suggests a certain not-knowing of what will happen, that whatever might result from the process will be down to discovery rather than plan. There is a strong sense in zuihitsu writing that the creation of order depends on disorder. Zuihitsu demands as its starting point, juxtapositions, fragments, contradictions, random materials and pieces of varying lengths.*

Collaborative Poetics Retreat: Picture by Kundai Moyo

I think a lot about what we’ve lost. I think a lot about you.

Every time I see a flower I think about the garden you lost.
I wonder if you ever mourned the loss of your dreams. Or did you silently watch them slip through your fingers nje ngamanzi?

Undiphe ulwimi.
Wandipha amagama.
Everyday they come and go.

Ithini intonga yakho?
A question with no answer unless it came and went in one of those dreams I never remember.

I’ve grown impatient with you.
I’m tired of being your daughter.
Being your daughter has meant mourning you usaphila.

There’s a picture of you driving your first car.
A blue Chevvie you named Judy.
The picture is a car full of wild women dressed up with wild wonder and laughter.
What happened to those women?
What happened to you?
Do you even recognise that picture?
It is a myth.

You were one of the few to first own a car eMdanstane. But when you finally convinced Tata to let you drive his car I was afraid.
My fear was a self-fulfilled prophecy.
You didn’t last a block. You went back to the passenger’s seat.

I’ve watched you closely. Searching for you. Hoping you’ll emerge out of your armpit and live again.

I’ve lived on fears you breastfed. The spoonful of fear you mixed into the black sugarless tea on the long days of hunger.
The dreams evaporated with the steam from the boiling water you kept on the heater to keep us warm.
Your dreams disappeared with the water:
Indubela
Amanzi olwandle
Iinyembezi

All I have left are fragments of you.
Amaculo
Amalaphu
Iintsimbi
I have lost the desire to have a full picture of you.
I have lost the desire to know you.

Will I pass on these fragments to my imaginary children?
What will be their inheritance?
Uncried tears
Unscreamed screams
Unlaughed laughs
Unlived life

I’ve learned to rely on the whispers in the wind in order to survive.
I’ve learned the power in my hands so I’ve been disentangling myself from you through pen and paper.
I’ve learned to rely on the movement in the clouds:
To watch for rain
To learn new directions
To see the potential of freedom

I still think of you when I hear ińgańgane before the rains.
But sometimes it doesn’t rain.

I’ve learned to love the rain anew.
I kissed a lover in the rain.
I can listen to the torrents of water without being tormented by the memory of what we lost in the rain.

Undenze ndaphanga ubude.
Ndaphanga. Ndabindwa.
Ngoku ndizipholisa ngokusela amanzi.

I will never stop writing to you.
For you.
About you.
I know I cannot undaughter you in the same way you will never unmother me.
You are my inheritance.

*I wrote this piece last month at a Collaborative Poetics retreat at Lalela hosted by Refilwe Nkomo and Kathy Engel. This extract is from a handout Kathy shared explaining zuihitsu from Kimiko Hahn.