Marigrace Becker

Before we met in person, Our portrayals had already been exchanging elaborate letters. Our omniscient hostess, Media, facilitated this correspondence. “America, this is Africa; I’m sure you two have crossed paths.” Her soothing voice gently patronized, Dropping names, sharing photos as if they were reminders of common knowledge. Yes, we nod, we’ve heard of each […]

I, I am Zimbabwean. I eat salads and pizza, and do not feel full without sadza. I sing Methodist hymns and avoid all but vernacular choruses. I wear jeans but would not be caught dead wearing anything except a skirt. I drive an old car and a donkey cart. I fetch water in tins on […]