Day Eleven: Rolling Along!

3 June 2007


Today.

I woke up at 8am. Last night was short. I remember walking back to my B & B in the company of three other people. We were arguing on everything. We parted. It must have been 2am.

Today has its own memories. People hug and kiss and cry and promise to meet again next year. Hay Festival is the Mecca of minds. People still want to make the pilgrimage again.

I remember when I was a little boy and we had this small black and white TV perched on a bookshelf crammed in a corner of our dining room watching Mr Ronnie Corbett's Small Talk. I happened to see the legendary comedian sitting in the Green Room today. I wanted to rush to him but he was already surrounded by a lot of other people. One minute they were attentively listening to him, the next, they raptured into laughter.


I sat in the front row listening to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie talk about her latest novel, Half of a Yellow Sun while Jon Savage discussed his brick thick thesis on adolescence, Teenage.

Activity on the site has mellowed.
Did I fancy a girl? No...
I was too consumed in my work
to notice, I carry with me memories,
a part of the larger experience.
The laptop battery is running low,
It's time to sign off and carry
with me books and moments etched
in the belly of my mind.

Day Ten: The big country wedding

2 June 2007

Another long day,
The sun is a teasing glow
I annoymously follow a crowd
The security officer smiles,
I nod an acknowledgement
A flagging sign greets me:
theguardian HAY FESTIVAL
The box office is an alert face
'Can I help you sir?'
An old man holding a cane stick
for support moves to the counter
I did not wait to see him flirt
with the girl
The blank screen on my computer
stared back
I typed my name TINASHE
It was the reassurance I needed
that I am still sane...

I talked to Ishmael Beah, the Sierra Leonen writer. He told me about his Zimbabwean friends in America. 'You know, the situation in Zimbabwe is worse than war. I feel sorry for you guys,' he said. I wanted to say no, you are exaggerating, but I realised the gravity of his words. Beah has survived the worst. He is a former child soldier, who has managed to survive the ravages of war, to reform, and tell the world the story of his life, the story of Sierra Leone, the story of war and conflict. Ethopian Dinaw Mengestu discussed what it means to be an African immigrant living in the United States. There was a stunned audience in the silence that was broken by a long ovation. The story of Africa may be sad but it also tells how humanity triumphs.

I used to think that when a writer gets very old they loose touch, forget easily, make nonsense of themselves. At 88, Doris Lessing is still alert. She talked about the inspiration of her new novel, The Cleft. Memories drawn when she was a 19 year old girl in Rhodesia. Later in the night, Doris Lessing, was honoured with the 2007 Hay/Cross Award for excellence in literature.

There was a sense the festival was a big country wedding with relatives from all generations tracking down from whatever part of the world. A famliy that comes to celebrate and share beautiful moments. But then too, comes a day when everyone has to leave, track back to their daily routines. We all attended the staff party aware that tomorrow the wedding was coming to an end.

The party rocked, from stewards to cooks, drivers to security personnel, Peter Florence, Lyndy Cooke the top management, everyone. A festival is the commitment everyone invests in it.It was our time to celebrate the moments, the spirit that bound all of us in the last ten days. Some danced. Some boozed. Some sat in circles. Everyone was happy. For those who have been coming to the festival for many years it was another success. I have a gained a new perspective on life.

Day Nine: Exposed knees means nice weather

1 June 2007

As we manoeuvred our way through the throngs of crowds on site, Paul Blezard, turned to me and said, 'you see there's something I like about the way people are dressing today, when you see more knees, then you know the weather is good.' It's been a sunny morning.

I read some of my short stories in the company of Owen Sheers at the Literature in Wales stand. We were celebrating the Welsh/Zimbabwe link. Also present was Peter Finch, the Academi chief executive and my Zimbabwean publisher, Jane Morris of ama'Books.


It was a dream come true to find myself in the company of the great African novelist, Ngugi, who gave a rousing talk about his latest creative project Wizard of Crow. He described the book as a 'summary of the post-colonial dictatorships in Third World countries.' On stage with him was young Nigerian writer Helon Habila who is growing in confidence with every book. His latest novel, Measuring Time, has been by Jim Crace as 'elegant, heartfelt and commanding.'


I had a chat with Ngugi before his talk. When I told him I was living in Wales, he wanted to know if I could speak Welsh. I told him, not quite. I know some basic Welsh. He said teach me. I laughed. He was serious. We rehearsed all the little Welsh vocabulary I know. Then, he walked on stage and said 'Bore da!' to the delight of the audience. It was only 1pm. Bore da means Good Morning. Hours later we met and this time he was holding a small shiny black booklet with red print on the front cover. He wondered if we could steal some minutes from my schedule. I said yes of course. This was the time of a life time. The booklet was Street Welsh Phrase Book and Ngugi wanted me to teach him Welsh accents. Talk of the blind leading the blind.

Does listening to an author talk about their writing increase book sales? I talked to Di Blunt, one of the Hay on Wye booksellers who aptly summarised my query. "We sell more books if an author give's a good talk. If a good author doesn't give a good talk they don't sell at all," she explained.

The night was bright.

Day Eight: Four in Hand

31 May 2007

Writing a daily blog for a festival means you have to magnify your senses. You have to eavesdrop, you have to try and see everything, you just have to be alert. All the time. And yet too, there are moments that impress on you when you are least expecting.

I walked into the admin office and some of the drivers were talking about names. I was all ears. Apparently one of the drivers had been incredibly deceived by Helon Habila's name to the extent that when he went out to pick the Nigerian author, he was looking for a beautiful young woman. I couldn't help laughing. Helon Habila must flattterd all the time.

I had never been to a quiz before so it was quite interesting to team up with Rhoda Lewis (Peter Florence's mother) and Mike Barker and Lorna . We called ourselves Four in Hand. I can't remember the explanation they gave me on the meaning of the name. The word "horses" was mentioned. It could be something to do with horses. Our team was not too bad actually. We scored 70 points.


One of the staffers Helen Thirlway was thrilled to be sitting on stage with Tony Benn. "It was early in the morning and bleary-eyed from a heavy night of partying, I arrived on stage with dishevelled hair and muddy wellies to enjoy an amazing but very surreal experience. There aren't words to describe the privilege and pleasure of sharing the stage with my personal hero but I'm not sure my mum will be so impressed that I did this while wearing wellies!" she enthused.

Michael Morpurgo was here. Johnnie Walker was here. Roger Ridell was here. Adrian Tinniswood was here. It's the diversity of interests that makes it the more exciting for me. Naturally I am always keen to learn, know more, discover more, something I share with the Hay audiences. These are remarkable men and women who leave the comfort of their homes, brave the weaher to discover new ways of perceiving their reality. I am awed.

Day Seven: It is the sandwich?

30 May 2007


When Arthur Miller asked if Hay-On-Wye was some kind of sandwich, the man was definitely right. Hay-On-Wye is the best sandwich for the mind I have tasted.

It just struck me while queueing for Shephered's Icecream that since I have been involved with this festival I have met remarkably wonderful people and well informed individuals for that matter on various subjects I may not have bothered to learn or may just have been ignorant.

Austin J Stevens, the intrepid snake man from South Africa, introduced his new autobiographical book, The Last Snake Man. It was mostly the young children in the audience who had snake questions. It was Stevens' comment on snakes shedding skin that made it for me. Fact: Snakes shed their skins four/five times a year. Afterthought: wouldn't it be nice to save a few years if human beings could shed the skin on their faces.

It was with a sense of trepidation that I followed my colleague Andy Fryers to listen to the debate on something to do with organic/non-organic food. You see, I have only been privy to these debates since I came to the UK and I always reluctantly take them in. The panelists were so divided creating a 'theatre of words' that engagingly absorbed the audience. There was no winner at the end. Reliable sustainability triumphed.

This time, I was curious, so I attended. Peter Florence was leading the inquiry into the "assassination of George Bush" in a mocumentary released late last year, Death of a President, while I was part of the jury in the auditorium. The two suspects, Simon Finch and Gabriel Range, pleaded not guilty to the critical charges of creating an "...evil, ...absolutely outrageous ...and shockingly disgusting" mockery of the President of America. Range, no it was probably the other fellow Finch who explained that their creative mission was rather to produce a metaphor for the post 9/11 period. So when the session was adjorned after an hour of interrogation and debate, the jury left the proceedings divided.

Day Six: Next Big Things

29 May 2007

I know it's kind of silly to say, but so what I walked to Helen Oyeyemi and introduced myself. My cheek. 'Hi, Helen.' She just looked back at me, unsure what to say, perhaps thinking, oh no, not one of my thousand male admirers again. Of course I am a great admirer of her works. 'I enjoyed reading your two books. I thought they were great.' And so we ended up talking writing, one young Nigerian writer talking to a young Zimbabwean writer.


No wonder The Next Big Things who had a surprise full house enjoyed their hour of fame. It was a rare treat for the new writers to spend a day in the Green Room with renowned writers like Gillian Clarke and Blake Morrison.

Though I couldn't make it in time to see Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk talk, thanks to technology, I caught the last half of his session on the big screen we have in the admin office.

After the long day I joined a group of interns for a drink in a pub in town. We drank less than we talked. Midnight. It must have been the pub owner or the manager, he came, holding a glass of beer and told us to go away. He was angry (maybe I am exaggerating, it's difficult to see things clearly when you are sober) that we had rearranged the furniture to accommodate our big group of 12. The night was gone.

Day Five: I didn't choose to be a pedestrian...

28 May 2007

I can't drive. To say I never bothered to learn how to drive will be a lie to myself. I tried and gave up. Trying to get a driver's licence in Zimbabwe is a cash strapping dream. You have to pay bribes no less than ten times. So, why bother, when my legs need no fuel to motor them (besides fuel is a rare commodity in Zimbabwe). I know I am digressing from Hay but the point I am trying to make is that I woke up this morning and it was sunny. Instead of waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to the festival site. I walked.


I enjoy reading the signs, the posters, and the bunting covering the streets. Most of the bookshops are still closed at 8:03am with forbidding signs dangling: CLOSED. There are a few people walking about. Perhaps the attraction of the festival is not so much in itself but also in the town where people come to see the 30+ second hand bookshops. A man is zooming his camera to take a good shot of the Castle Bookshop.

Big names hogged the limelight today - Gillian Clarke, Sebastian Faulks, Turkish and Lord Butler. While the ideal will be to sit in for all talks, it is practically impossible. I didn't manage to see any of the writers on stage.

I happened to be standing besides Edna O'Brien in Pemberton's bookshop when she was signing copies of her new book, The Light of Evening. When people come to have their books signed, they ask questions, they request chance photos with the writer. The queue was long and moved in a snail pace.


Bob Geldof's scintillating performance maintained the exciting atmosphere at the festival already midway. I didn't grow up with Bob Geldof music, but there was no harm joining the party.

Day Four: Poetic justice!

27 May 2007

There's something "country" about the Festival. A walk around the site gives one a glimpse of the lovely 'green' views of nature surrounding it and certainly feels most comfortably appointed. While buckets of rain were pouring incessantly, people still came in droves, garbed in their colourful welly's and rain jackets, like a troop of country farmers marching to a field demonstration.


The poetry menu of the day had all the ingredients that make for good cuisine. Director Peter Florence made sure there was something from all the regions of the world. From Africa to Wales, the audience had a treat of different poetry dishes. The seven poetry chefs were all superb - Simon Armitage, Gillian Clarke, Menna Elfyn, Wole Soyinka, Amir Or, Gwyn Thomas and Nabeel Yasin.

Oneword's Paul Blezard had his bag of wits to chair the discussion on Conrad's Heart of Darkness and Evelyn Waugh's Scoop. He announced, in his comic way, before the session that 'though Conrad and Waugh may have wanted to be part of this discussion, Peter Florence, could not find their email addresses and so the two authors could not unfortunately be with us today.' The audience raptured into laughter. I couldn't agree more with Blezard: great writers never die, they live through their words.

The cast of panelists that included myself, Peter Godwin and Peter Stothard the Times Literary Supplement editor was as varied as it could be. Conrad and Waugh's works intricately touched our pasts and still do resonate on the fundamentals of human relations today.

While my mastery of the Welsh language is limited to the basic greeting salutations, I couldn't resist the temptation to listen to the local funky rock band A'r Barf led by songstress Fflur Dafydd. The magic of music is that it speaks to the heart. The night was still young and had to dance myself to warmth.

Day Three: Rain, rain!

26 May 2007

Now I understand what people meant when they said: the actual festival starts on the first Saturday. Most events of the day are sold out. The site is swarming with people. I walk around. The sky is overcast.

I am assigned to look after Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka before and after his lecture, already sold out. I introduce myself to him and we talk. He is friendly and pats me on the back. I am tongue tied. What do you say to a man like Wole Soyinka? There is a kind of radiance in the man, just his presence, and of course his peculiar fluffy white hair. His lecture delays with 10 minutes. A cast of young and old people drag each other to listen to him.

There is a sense that while the festival has been growing so too has been its staff and audience. People recognise each other from 10 years ago at a Hay event. I am impressed. Old friends meet and catch up. They talk about families and career changes. And then there are new friendships born through chance encounters in the Green Room, sharing moments on the stage, in coffee shops, in ticket queues.

The heavens poured in a torrent. People ran for cover in the onsite coffee shops and restaurants. Some escaped the rain by queueing their way into this or that event. They tell me, Hay Festival is not complete without mud and puddles. Rain, rain!

From John Major to Gordon Brown, Hay hosts them all. While Major spoke cricket, Brown spoke courage. People turned up in large numbers nevermind the soul drenching weather.

Even in Hay, Zimbabwe still made the headlines. Peter Godwin gave a brilliant introspection of Mugabe's Zimbabwe, a country with a government at war with its own people. I didn't shed a tear, only my heart bled.

Day Two: Eavesdropping

25 May 2007

I eavesdropped to a conversation between Steven Hall, author of The Raw Shark Texts, during his book signing session in the onsite bookshop, Pembertons, when a young writer came to him and asked:

‘I have written a novel. How do I make it great?’

‘It’s easy. Hardwork.’ The young writer looked bemused.

Hall elaborated, ‘You see, it took me 10 years before my first book was published. I am sorry to say but that’s the way it works. It's just hardwork.'

The young writer walked away wearing a dejected face even before he has begun his journey to be a writer. I felt sorry for him.

After reading When a Crocodile Eats the Sun, I was eager to meet Peter Godwin, maybe more because we happen to share the same heritage. So we ended up standing in a corner talking about home - Zimbabwe - our frustrations, our hopes, our yearnings for home, our prayers for the future. Festival encounters like flirts don't last, they quickly melt. Time or some 'ad hoc commitment' pulls you away. New faces chat you. Some lady dances beside me harping an old familiar tune, Can You Show Me Where The Loo is Please? I don't have time for a dance, but I do point out the lady to a toilet nearby. Peter decided we meet for coffee and catch up in detail, possibly tomorrow. I say yes, why not?

The weather has dropped in temperatures. The night air is cold. I regret leaving my coat behind. I steal a few moments to talk to my mother. How serious is it? Why did they take you to hospital. She insists. I am fine. Don't worry yourself to death son, she said. I smile to a group of kids staring at me speaking in a weird language. It certainly was not Welsh. I had to use Shona. My mother has a stammer. It gets heavier when she speaks in English, perhaps it is her violent refusal of the language.

I am holding two fresh Kent roses to hand to the prodigious music composer Michael Nyman and Francine Stock. They had an interesting discussion about music, cinema, collaboration, inspiration. I am wiser. There is certainly more to Hay Festival than just books and their writers.

Day One: 20 Years Later!

24 May 2007

There is something enchanting about writers and politicians and academics and people from all walks of life meeting at a treeless clearing that has been dramatically pitched into a tented village at the foothills of the Black Mountains and especially if the place has a name like DAIRY MEADOWS. The surroundings are beautiful. The weather is warm, but I find the people a lot warmer.

The historic rainy Hay weather took leave today. I decide to walk leisurely from the Bed & Breakfast I am staying to enjoy the teasing sun. The walk keeps my mind jogging. Yesterday my mother was admitted in hospital. I don’t know her condition. My phone is dead with all the numbers in it. It's not the battery. The site is a short 10 minute walk out of Hay.

Yellow signs point towards the Hay Festival site. From a distance the place is abuzz with people. Cars going in and out every minute. Site personnel wearing shiny tabards walk around. A bilingual sign greets me: CROESO/WELCOME. A big white banner confirms: theguardian HAY FESTIVAL. I walk into history.

In 1987, I was a young four year old boy pulling up my hand-me-down pants in a crammed township room somewhere in Zimbabwe. My world was my mother whose skirts I tagged for affection. In 1987 in the Welsh border town of Hay on Wye a small group of people were meeting to arrange the first edition of what has become this famous festival.

Today, 20 years later I have moved beyond the margins of my Zimbabwean township, left behind my mother's comforting presence, to discover the world. I live in Wales and things are still happening in Hay.

I am overwhelmed. People introduce me to people, a lot of them I didn’t know before I met them and then there are some people whose names I knew but whose faces have always been glossy cover images. It is the mixing and mingling that makes any festival experience memorably exciting.

The festival team is an enthusiastic lot, friendly, nice, happy. They warmly embrace me as part of the family. I have not been to any event. The time when you want to attend something you always end up doing something else because you are the only pair of hands available and have to get the work done.

The site is an amazingly laid out tent village. As I walk around I spot people enjoying the sun on deck chairs strategically placed around. Hay fever affects even the young. I see young children yapping towards the children's zone. The future is assured.

At night The Morriston Orpheus Male Voice Choir mesmerise the audience with their classic ballads. In between the music performance, Peter Florence and his mother Rhoda Lewis read some poetry. There’s a wild applause. I leave early. The first day has been exciting. Tomorrow is another day!