Zimbabwe: The Blame Game

21. An Unfinished Circle

153 21 An Unfinished Circle he people who owned the hand, the hand that took hold of a pen with a suffocating strong intention of making known what it wanted known, believed in and lived for. It is a pen that had the power to inscribe words of great profundity by drawing upon the piece of a paper, and on the mind of the people what no other person has been able to do. Something akin to an awesome awakening came overwhelmingly upon and overshadowing the hand that held this pen, something that has that immeasurable existentialism associated with primordial beginnings. Something that words can never be able to fully express, it’s something that resulted in the strong imaginings of a circle. It started being drawn from an unknown place. It started being drawn from an unmapped country in the vast middle of the paper. The hand started moving, the pen started moving, and the people started moving, too. Journeying at a blistering speed like dazzling comets from an unknown galaxy, but it was to a known place. Just a stone’s throw beyond those faintly glimpsed frontiers. And other things moved too..., so many things, that it seemed like everything was moving. They are a swirling speck in the middle of this indeterminate multiple blazing never ending. They are a tiny mote hurtling away toward the incredible, ‘inexpressibly’ expressible, never ending. A never ending demanding for a fragment grain of their questioning consciousness...a questioning consciousness that denies fear and favour. A never ending demanding for their endless efforts at maintaining their wholeness...a wholeness which is an accumulation of riff-raff, a relic of the damned, strayed, waylaid pieces. A never ending demanding that they maintained their identity...even though one might emerge from that never ending situation profoundly alien. It still is a never ending that has to be embraced! T 154 Maybe they will change things; maybe they are changing on their own, maybe everything is happening concurrently but nothing is remaining unchanging in all this because at its most inexorable state, it remains fragmentally temporary. It is shattering, it is dissolving, and it is smouldering. It is being blown here and there. It is a small arc at one time...a little bigger one at another time. It grows, it asserts, unapologetically forward. It is an affirmation of the truth...the truth about the life this people live. It is about galling bitterness and black sorrow, chilling reality and streaming bloodshed, undying courage and unflinching endurance. It is the shaping of dreams into actions, actions into events, events into processes, processes into lives. Lives that they must content with! Untamed! A people with an indomitable lion’s spirit rising out of the ashes and summoning others to cooperate, and as a moving force, exerting itself in a way that no other mortal power has ever done. Thus, in its undying stance..., it confronts injustices, it confronts injuries. It confronts wounds perpetrated against its own flesh. It confronts the hard cold foreboding reality! It is a half circle. It is a half circle portraying the good and the bad, truth and lies, courage and cowardice, failures and triumphs, agony and ecstasy. It is a half circle portraying hope. Rationalization can sometimes only be valuable when it works against a mummy and action-less human background...but even at that, the bones, the spirits, the soils, the ghosts have been known to exert decisive influence on the surviving. How about when this human background can talk, coax, dictate and enforce its aptly totalitarian actions on the frustrated but still docile mass? A lot facing crisis of innumerable dimensions! But crises are supposed to encourage us to redefine ourselves, to find steady footing to our tip tilting lives. Their prevailing conditions encourages us to show and demonstrate that endlessness within us..., that which makes us never to cower completely under defeat but rather to keep rising and rising. They keep forming us, they remould us, they keep asking for more and more, but not more than we can be able to give. After all, can death ever find all the Thomases, Johns and Gillians of this life, without running out of reckoning with time? 155 Its not death, but life, maybe time that can be able to find all of humankind, but there is an inarguable anecdote to its endlessness. But, every ending of its...