The ManicaPost
Morris Mtisi Education Correspondent
The following is Neville Nyoni’s short story or composition. It is taken from CHILDREN WRITING ZIMBABWE, a compilation edited by R. Magosvongwe, M. Chirere and J. Zondo.
Far away hills
“We did not think she would do it,” Tashiana sobbed. The whole crowd gasped and a wave of murmur spread through the gathered villagers. “Silence!” boomed the old man’s authoritative voice. Everything shook into silence. Not an insect moved a single inch, not a leaf rustled, not even the wind whispered; only breaking twigs dared to crackle in the burning fire.
Old Makata shook his round head and sighed heavily. He raised his wrinkled but handsome old face, “So you knew about it, daughters of Kazan’a, yet you never told anyone.” She tried to respond but chocked over her words and tears freely meandered down her bony cheeks. The old man continued in a subdued tone: “Okay, all able-bodied men gather your weapons to follow her now.”
She knew they would be worried. But Ruvimbo had made up her mind. She knew the risks. She knew all the myths, facts, and stories of the forest she was in right now. She knew no man had ever set foot on the sacred hills and come back alive, but all this was nothing to her. She was determined to put an end to her troubles. And she had to complete her mission. A cold breeze seeped into her like poisoned arrows. She could see the hills now. She decided to rest under the Musasa tree and lit a fire. Though it was late night, the moon was bright enough. She had walked for hours and now she had to rest.
She saw a vulture hovering above a Muchakata tree and her heart skipped a beat. “Those vultures again. Those terrible vultures, I am tired of this,” Ruvimbo thought in terror.
Ever since the mysterious death of her mother, she had begun to experiencing horrible nightmares. Vultures would visit her in her sleep and taunt and torment her thoughts. She had consulted prophets, witchdoctors and some of the best traditional healers ever, but it just got worse. Now even during day time she would fall into a trance and the vulture would appear. They would encircle her and expose their claws. They would rave and riot about her, and a voice, a mournful sound, would cry, “Come, come!” But today this was no vision, this was real.
This vulture was more dreadful. It landed on the Muchakata tree. Its eyes glowed a luminous red and they probed through her, so she felt. She stood up, she had to reach the sacred hill, it was her only hope. That hill her grandmother had spoken of before her death, but would she make it? Another vulture joined the first one. She began running as another and another and then a huge flock of vultures were all about her.
“Stop, go away you terrible beasts!” she screamed. The vultures screeched and flapped their wings in wild motion. Ruvimbo tripped and fell but kept going until she reached the sacred hill and all vultures suddenly disappeared. She was trembling. The loud rumbling of thousands of flapping wings died out. She looked up the hill and what she saw stiffened her.
Ruvimbo could not believe what she was witnessing, “Come my daughter, do not be afraid,” it was the same mournful voice that had become so familiar to her.
The person looked like . . . like . . . “Mama is it you? Mama so it is really you?” Her mother just smiled and she hurriedly went up the hill. The woman was a true definition of beauty, black beady eyes that shone like marble and milk white teeth even and alluring.
“Mama I was scared, the vultures . . . ”
“Shh!” her mother interjected and said in a reassuring tone. “I sent those vultures. I knew one day you would come. Follow me.”
She followed her to the edge of a cliff. “I died a painful death my daughter and I seek revenge, the ancestors refused me permission to avenge, so I want you my daughter to do it for me.”
The old man had never seen such a flock of vultures in his entire life. All the men were tongue-tied. He was troubled deeply by this sight. “When nature behaves in such a manner something terrible has happened or is about to happen,” he muttered under his breath. What amazed him the most was that as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared. “We have to act fast,” he finally said and they increased pace. The younger men ran fast to the hills.
“Tell me mama, who is this person? How do I do it? Tell me and I will do it,” Ruvimbo pleaded. Her mother looked at her. She seemed to be crying. “No, I cannot tell you,that is for you to find out. Now I want you to go back and do my bidding. I wish you well,” and she disappeared.
“Mama, Mama! Come back I want to talk to you. How will I do it? Ruvimbo cried. She began shouting, yelling, screaming wildly beating the rocks.
“Tell me Mama, tell me now,” she wailed and choked and stumbled to the ground and burst into tears.
“Look!” One of the man shouted, “She is on the edge, she wants to commit suicide,” the others began to run towards her. “Ruvimbo do not!” another man roared. Ruvimbo was so shaken by the echoes and the voice. She stood and unaware that she was on the very edge bent backwards and screamed as she went all the way down.
Here are my remarks:
The above piece of writing is not perfect. It could be improved on and made much better. But the composition is very good . . . very good indeed! ‘‘Excellent’’ would not be a hyperbole. Neville’s beginning is superb. Powerful opening sentence!
“We did not think she would do it,” Tashiana sobbed.
Straight into the story! No Intro.! Hooking in every sense. Gets you thinking straight away!
Then of course you ask yourself, “Who is the ‘she’? She would do it! Do what? Who is Tashiana? And why is he or she sobbing?”
All these questions are invoked by the hooking narrator’s style. The opening sentence and paragraph arouse anxiety and interest. Wonderful! Fascinating!
Neville also displays a scintillating word power: the whole crowd gasped/ a wave of murmur spread through . . ./ authoritative voice/ everything shook into silence/ not a leaf rustled/ not even the wind whispered/ breaking twigs dare to crackle in the burning fire/ his wrinkled but handsome old face/ tears freely meandered down her bony cheeks/ cold breeze seeped into her like poisoned arrows/ her heart skipped a bit /taunt and torment her thoughts/ Its eyes glowed a luminous red/flapping wings died out/ what she saw stiffened her/ mournful voice/ black beady eyes that shone like marble and milk white teeth even and alluring/ reassuring tone/ she wailed and choked and stumbled/ burst into tears.
Neville’s use of direct speech (dialogue) is generous throughout the story. It gives life to the story and make characters life-size and real.
Neville is definitely aware of the power and effectiveness of descriptive detail. He effectively uses imagery, figures of speech, strong verbs and adjectives and skilfully avoid clichés (tired, weak overused words).
Look at his ending. Six lines! I feel it’s too overstretched for an ending. A brief cliff-hanger could have done a better trick. It is always more dramatic and effective. Something like, “The costly price of foolish adventure! What a close shave! If this day came back again, I would be cleverer, smarter and wiser.”
In conclusion, let me tell you something! There is nothing better than careful, intelligent and deliberate reading (studying) of composition work written by gifted students. If you do that with the above two masterpieces, you will have done yourself an enormous favour. Those who cannot create their own masterpieces can borrow a lot of these skills from those who have them.
Poor ones can even benefit from intelligent copying. What is that? That refers to the crafty ability to memorise special lines and expressions . . . even sentence structures and paragraphs. Play around with them by mixing and grilling . . . cutting, adjusting and pasting . . . and you are home and dry!
Some candidates will enter an examination room with sets of compositions written on their minds. All they do is ‘‘copy’’ or reproduce a whole composition written in the memory cards of their brains. If you do it well, no marker or examiner will guess or know most of the lines and expressions are not yours. After all, even most of the language we claim to be original is often mixed grill ‘‘stolen’’ from other speakers and writers. However, if you do it foolishly and the marker can tell whose work it is you are reproducing, tough luck! You will have got it . . . and do not say we did not warn you! The crime is called plagiarism. You will be punished if you commit the offense.
However, it is not stupid to have ready-made beginnings and endings of compositions. Whenever you choose a topic, always have at the tips of your fingers the art or science of cutting and pasting. Download an appropriate beginning and ending from your mind, cut it and paste! Who cares . . . who knows where you got it? This dangerous trick is however, not and must never be shared.
But here is the ruse. Do not share your openings, your endings or whole memorised compositions with a friend. Why not? Because if your friend writes exactly what you are writing, that is proof of cheating in an examination! And that can cost you dearly. I told you the crime is called plagiarism. Only smart students ‘‘cheat’’ the marker successfully! Foolish ones will do the obvious and easily get caught. Borrowing is not a crime; but wise borrowers convincingly feel and look comfortable in a borrowed suit. No one will notice you are shining in a borrowed suit worn in borrowed time.
