Author name: Juliet Mashiri

Truth is stranger than fiction they say. They also say that a stranger is somebody you do not know personally. That is two meanings for the same word – no wonder foreigners areperpetually baffled by the English language.   Truth has only one meaning – something either is or is not true. I count it a privilege […]

I set off, headed for Chinhoyi caves on a pleasant, balmy Saturday morning. Having heard from my best friend, Tariro, about its mystical powers that seeped into one’s soul, I felt compelled to go and see if my own troubled soul could be flooded by its serenity. Along the way, I picked up a stranger.

This particular dark night had Munoda feeling like the world was coming to an end. Expecting to find a plate of hot food waiting for him, after a protracted day laboring in his maize field, he had found his lazy wife snoring lights out on a small mat, besides the dying fire in their hut.

The November savannah sun was glaring in its full brilliance as I trudged to the railway station musing over the burdening uncertainty that lay ahead exposing my vulnerability hauntingly, in an unpleasant manner. Clutching on to my threadbare ruffled bag it just crossed my mind that every railway station in Zimbabwe was always to the south of

’Oh, for goodness sake, Alice.  Why NOW?’  Alice would long remember Charles’ irritated reaction to her labour pains.  What an inconvenience it had been for him!  He had had to switch off the television in the middle of a test match and drive her to their remote army base hospital in the pouring rain.   Alice remembered the chaotic

The paths of nature had brought us here, a tale had been told where happily ever after was a choice and now here I was the embodiment of the tale. He looked up and smiled at me “you do not meet strangers, simply different versions of who we could become. Your reservation is at table

I walked out of my cabin to be greeted by the blistering heat of the dessert, my forehead already covered in a layer of perspiration from the morning activities. I lazily removed my camouflage coat as my boots swiftly moved towards the tent. The boisterous chatter of men reached my ears as I pushed the

The sense of loss I felt, was like a blow to my face, it left me reeling. As I slowly came to, I found I was laid on my side on the back seat of our car, with my legs tucked away under my husband’s leather jacket. He was keeping vigil through the review mirror

Strolling Languid through the Ballantine Park filled with various sheds of beautiful autumn leaves that made the people in the park to pay attention to beauty and detail, it was so beautiful to the extent that it seemed the fallen leaves had been handpicked and glued to stay in their exact location, talking about a

“Tickets out, passports ready!” yells a middle aged man from the rear of the train. Suddenly the quiet has vanished and the unzipping of handbags, the sounds of rummaging through backpacks and the excitement of the children on board is growing from the sound of a distant mosquito to an army of bees. I hear