…he said, “My father.” And he said, “Here I am, my son” – Genesis 22:7
“How is the Cold Land?”
This question was not directed at me, but to one of the dignitaries at this Chitungwiza International Film Festival. I had forgotten his name, but it was said he had appeared in Beowulf: Return to the Shieldlands. Today’s programme for the festival was complete, and it was time to mingle at a bar in the Unit L area. The way he swaggered about, you would think he had played in the lead role in Beowulf. Sadly, he was the closest to an international celebrity the Chitungwiza International Film Festival could get. Everyone else was busy.
“It’s great,” he said. “Notice how every film made in the U.K. lately, there’s at least one Zimba.”
“Really? But, it’s said Zimbas are struggling there?” I did not turn to see who had asked this, but the voice was female.
“No, just the ones who haven’t got their residence permits yet,” said the celebrity. “Without a residence permit, you can’t work, open a bank account, start a business, get a driver’s licence or rent a property. Queen Elizabeth’s government figured throwing people out is difficult, so these prohibitions will make them volunteer to leave!”
Immigration was a hot topic, it seemed. The celebrity soon had an eager audience. By the time I turned to join in, his face was obscured by several heads. However, as everyone listened quietly, and the band was on a break, I could hear him clearly.
“What about delinquent youth?” a man asked. “It is said the jails are full of Zimbabwean boys.”
“The law says any foreigner who serves a minimum of twelve months in jail must be deported,” the celebrity replied.
“We have such a kid who returned last month,” someone said. “He first gained notoriety on YouTube and Facebook as a serial shoplifter. They nabbed him when he attained majority and soon got him on a plane.”
“Wasn’t he on some website, trying to get sympathy?” another woman waded in. “Something about his mother kicking him out of the house, life is hard, I got mental health issues…”
“I think I know the one you mean, there are so many similar stories,” someone said. “The one I have in mind is called Damien Chiweshe.”
“Yes, that’s him! I read about him, it’s a shame how our children have gone wild in that Cold Land.”
“But, you people, have you ever noticed that in all these stories about these boys, you never hear about their fathers…”
I was no longer listening. I felt a shortness of breath, and it seemed as if the bar spun slowly, until it threatened to keel over me. Voices asking me if I was okay sounded like they came from the other end of a long tunnel. I staggered drunkenly, bumping into people, until I was out in the coolness of the evening. I felt my senses return, but they trailed a flood of tears, and an overwhelming grief, as though bereaved. I could voice only one thought, “Damien, my son!”
It was right here at Unit L Shopping Centre that I met Nyasha, Damien’s mother, twenty-two years ago. She had been sent on an errand to her aunt, and I was getting my script typed at a small secretarial services firm. I was an aspiring screenwriter, having recently finished a course in the craft. Nyasha was preparing to resit for her “O” Levels, but was working as a secretary in Harare. For two years, we were on and off, breaking up for two or three months, then reconciling. These break-ups coincided with those occasions where I failed to meet what was expected of a boyfriend by his girlfriend in our urban society, such as buying her nice things or taking her on expensive dates. Even my encouraging her to keep her natural hair was interpreted as arising out of my failure to provide money for a trip to the hairdresser. I was a poor guy. The career I had chosen did not pay a regular salary or wage. Mine was like that of a hunter. It fulfilled that proverb: The forest yields when the hunter is tired. It would appear that my girlfriend was already tired before the forest had yielded.
I sold a six-part drama series to Z.B.C., and got paid ZW$36,000 (then about 3,000 American dollars). The series was popular, and I was even featured in magazines. An American-based Zimbabwean filmmaker got in touch, and offered me ZW$100,000, and a percentage of future earnings, to write a screenplay for his next movie. It looked like the hunter had stumbled across some big game.
I paid the lobola for Nyasha, and she became my wife. We left the dusty township for a flat in Harare’s Avenues district. My parents, my sister, Megenia, and my friends all tried to warn me against this move. The money I had made, they argued, was enough to buy a stand with, even in Chitungwiza. This was good advice, but good advice is impotent against the heart of a young man in love. Nyasha was opposed to us buying a plot of land and living in a shack on it while our house was being built. It would not do at all for the writer of a movie that would be shown in America and other developed countries to live in a shack in the middle of the bush between Harare and Chitungwiza. It seemed better if we stayed in our flat, and then buy a house when the film was made and sold. So, the stand was never bought, and we kept up our comfortable lifestyle. That was the year we had Damien. The name was inspired by a song by DMX, whom we both loved.
That was the year I got a message from the production company to say they no longer planned on completing the film. They sent me the remainder of my fee.
In the film industry, there can be no greater setback than having the film you have worked on not being completed. It leaves you, after working for a long time, with nothing to add to your CV. In the Game of Life, I was back to square one. I tried to explain the situation to my partner. The look she gave me was one a mother would give a child who had performed badly at school. Still, Nyasha encouraged me to be optimistic for the future. I looked for new work in earnest. I got a gig that paid only 100 American dollars. I had become a lion in a forest with no buck or zebra, and had to make do with just rats! I thought of finding another job. Megenia invited her sister-in-law to join her in buying and selling. But Nyasha was unwilling. She saw it as a step-down for me, the writer of a movie that would be seen in America, to find himself slaving away in an office with a tie around my neck. Perhaps that is what is called kudyiswa (to be given a potion that renders a man weak and subject to his wife), but it was only what Nyasha wanted that formed the decisions in our home. My suggestions were met with the kissing of teeth and a look of utter contempt. If I tried to stand my ground, she would back down, but we would meet up in bed. Then I would plead and cajole and ask for forgiveness for an error that I did not even see I had made.
Mine was the despair of a man who rises in the afternoon and tries to finish his tasks for the day before sunset. I was trying to plug the holes in the wall of my house, but I knew I was pressed for time. What I had observed in many households of my generation, where the woman ceases to have any respect for her man because his career was seeing a downturn, was now happening in mine.
One day, we had a visit from Amaiguru Mai Samantha, Nyasha’s cousin, and her husband. They lived in the northern suburbs. Mai Samantha and Nyasha were not particularly close; Mai Samantha’s branch of the family was seen as supercilious. Nyasha wanted to show Mai Samantha that we were not poor either, and win her approval.
Baba VaSamantha had got an opportunity to go to the U.K. He needed money in hard currency to pay for the visa. Was it possible for me to lend him the money, then he would pay me back after a year when he had reached England? Making this request was only a formality; the cousins had already decided. I perceived that if I refused, I was effectively giving myself the gupuro – divorce token. So, I produced the briefcase where we kept my American dollars and counted $5,000, leaving me $3,000.
Within a month, we could barely make the rent. We tried renting the servants’ quarters in different suburban homes before we admitted that we could now only afford to go back to the dusty township. Losing face was no longer an issue. No one could even remember my American movie. When we returned to Chitungwiza, Nyasha went to her old place of employment and asked for her job back. She got it. I stayed at home with Damien, writing another drama series. ZBC bought it, but the depreciation of the local dollar meant that the fee was mere crumbs. Nyasha began to come home late from work. Public transport was a nightmare, with the fuel shortages. She had been promoted, and could now afford to buy new clothes at Harare’s most exclusive shops, and brought home fancy snacks. She said she had extra money in the form of whatever was left from the money Mai Samantha sent her from the UK to run errands for her. But, I soon gave up asking about that loan I had given them.
One day, I ran into a female colleague of Nyasha’s. She asked me why I did not come to the party to mark the company’s twentieth anniversary in Zimbabwe. Nyasha hadn’t told me about it. She had come home late, saying there had been an extra workload that day. Before the end of that year, five to the day we met, Nyasha and I separated, and she returned to live in the Avenues with Damien. Not long after, they flew to the UK, and I returned to my parents’ house.
I wasn’t too hurt by our separation. Our marriage had been in name only for a while she had really separated from me the day I got a message to say there would be no film made in America. These fast-lane girls do not wait for a guy who has a punctured tyre. However, my heart went out to my son, Damien. I comforted myself with the fact that he was with his mother, in a land that had more for him. But, it really cut me that I could not see him.
“Damien, my son!” I wept all the way home. I did not care if anyone saw me. When I reached my gate, I wiped the tears and tried to steel myself. I lived with several lodgers, my parents had a farm near Norton. Megenia, or Mai Kieran, lived in Greendale, Harare, with her husband and three children. My younger brother, Joseph, lived in Botswana with his wife and their child.
I found Megenia waiting for me. She went straight into the reason for her visit. “Sekuru, it is being said that Damien is back.”
“I overheard this at the Film Festival,” I said. “The story is trending.”
“This is serious, Sekuru,” Mai Kieran said. “But, Damien is not the only one. There are many children who went abroad with their mothers and became delinquent. A home should not be without a father.”
“But, isn’t it said that Nyasha got married to a Nigerian there?” I asked.
My sister shook her head slowly. “Sekuru, I have two friends in Manchester, one of them goes to the same church as Nyasha. They say from day one, Nyasha’s husband showed preference for his biological children, while this one who had come with his mother was despised. Us women, we don’t know what to say; didn’t she tell this man that Damien’s father was a ne’er-do-well in Zimbabwe? So, our child heard that often; you are the son of a loser, your mother ran away from your father and was lucky to be found by a real man like me. So, Damien began to stay away from home for as long as he could and come home only to sleep, the rest of the day was spent on the streets. This is where he met others in similar circumstances, who introduced him to crime. Also, when the time came for the family to renew their residence permits, Damien’s stepfather refused to pay for him, and in the end, the window period for him to fix this lapsed. So, the other children got their British citizenship, Damien got left behind. This came out when he finished school but was not allowed to proceed to college.”
This background story was like a spear or sword through my flesh. To think that my son, in that prosperous land, had lived the life that an orphan here would look at and say, “My situation is better.” Every time I struggled here, when I had nothing to eat, I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least my son had eaten that day. I did not know for a fact that he had eaten, but I just assumed that, because he was with his mother in a land with no hunger, Damien had it better.
The tears were close. In that burned water that poured out of my eyes, I saw my son as though I was watching a video. I saw him sitting outside, his head in his hand. His stepfather, mother and their children passed him, on their way to a family outing. He had been excluded because they said they were ashamed to be seen out with him, the son of a loser.
If only Nyasha had just sent him back to Zimbabwe! Yes, I was a loser, but I was his father. I would not have been completely incapable of providing. Moreover, he would experience a parent’s love. Now, look what had happened. The child had faced challenges, until he became a challenge.
“Sekuru, I wish you stopped all this weeping,” Mai Kieran said. “You are not the first to have a child who went abroad with its mother, and go wayward. In my neighbourhood, we have a boy who came back last month. As soon as he landed, he hooked up with the local trouble, the boys addicted to Zed and Bronco. When his grandparents spoke to him about his behaviour, he committed suicide.”
“So, you don’t think it hurts, Tete? We always hear about the pain of giving birth, but no one ever mentions a father’s pain! Do you think that all this time, from the day I separated from Nyasha, I have not missed my own child? Do you think I made him just so that he could suffer like this?”
My sister saw that she could do nothing more except allow me to vent my feelings. I bawled in earnest that night, all that pain I had kept inside gushed out like pus from a festering wound. The only words I uttered were, “Damien, my son.”
Eventually, my emotions abated. Mai Kieran, seeing that I was now in a position to take her advice, said. “Listen, Sekuru. He is your son. Take your son, and see what you can do for him.”
“My son was damaged by those in charge of him, the country he lived in. Where do I begin, my sister?”
“Wherever you begin,” Mai Kieran said. “He needs his father. He needs his father to show him the way. All that he has seen in his life, being rejected by loved ones, being despised by society, you have experienced these. But you beat a path to victory over these. That is the path he needs to be shown. No one else but his father can show him this. This is why you are here. This is why he was brought to this country, to this town.”
“So, do I go to Nyasha’s parents’ home?” I asked.
“So, you can have another fight with them? Damien is grown now. He will seek you out. Be ready.”
Nothing more needed to be said. It was now 10:45. My sister had arranged for her brother-in-law, who lived in Unit A, to drive her back to Greendale that night. I escorted her to Unit A. As I was reaching Unit F on my way back, my mobile rang. I was greeted in English with an American accent. At first, we did not understand each other. It took me several seconds to realise that the “Chuck Chiweshey” the American wanted to speak to was me.
“Chuck” is the American diminutive for Charles. That was what the American production team working on the movie I wrote had called me. “Chuck, my name is Bill Rosscliff. I am the head of a company called Jombo Lombo Films. Thing is, we recently bought the rights to a movie called The GoTo Guy.” My heart raced. How many years had it been since I last heard about The GoTo Guy? At least eighteen, I was sure.
“We intend to complete it,” Mr Rosscliff continued. “But, that is not what I called you for. We at Jombo Lombo Films are already thinking of The Go-To Guy 2. I was wondering if you had thought about how a sequel would run?”
“To be honest, sir, I hadn’t,” I said. “But, we could begin with Owen and Charis married, and Smiddy now heading a government department. Then, there is a crisis in Washington, D.C., which prompts Smiddy to go to Owen for advice again.”
“I like that! That’s what I’m talking about. Listen, Chuck, how does $25,000 and a percentage of the sales sound?”
What other possible answer could there be to this question? When I got up that morning, I had just $11 to my name. Even if this Mr Rosscliff had offered me $100, I would have not refused it. Someone with a bit of fur has something to clothe themself with, the proverb goes.
“Listen, Chuck,” Mr Rosscliff said. “We were thinking you should come over to the States for a meeting. We have a lovely house in California, facing the ocean. You could live there while you work on the script for the sequel. While you are here, we’ll give you a per diem. If you are agreeable, I will instruct my secretary to get things started with the visa and plane ticket and you could be flying out tomorrow.”
I was dumbstruck. At forty, after more than twenty years of wandering in the wilderness of my career, scraping for opportunities, had my break finally come? It sounded like a dream, but Mr Rosscliff was serious. He instructed his secretary to send documents to the American Embassy so I could have my visa quickly. I had to take my passport to the Embassy the next day.
After the conversation with Mr Rosscliff, I rang Mai Kieran. She was on her way to Greendale, and had just passed the Manyame bridge. She ululated and praised our clan totem, then relayed my news to her brother-in-law. He congratulated me. Then Mai posed the question, “So, what are you going to do about your son, Sekuru? You cannot let this opportunity pass. But you can’t leave him at this particular point in time…”
“Hold on, Sis.” I had reached the gate. The man who emerged from its shadow was the spitting image of my father. I was reminded of an old photo from his college years. We stared appraisingly at each other, each man alone with his own thoughts.
This story is an excerpt from Speaking for Melos, a collection published by Carnelian Heart Publishing (2026).
In these darkly luminous stories, fathers and sons, lovers and rivals, migrants and returnees move through a Zimbabwe suspended between memory and reinvention, and through a diaspora that promises escape yet delivers its own reckonings.