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.