My Year in Books - 2019

I’m ashamed to admit that this year I didn’t read as much as I would have liked. Life does take over, I suppose. Better to have read something than none at all, right? So, here is my 2019 book list starting with the latest to be read:

10. The Wedding by Nicholas Sparks

What does it take to win the love of your wife?

It was the day after Christmas when I found myself craving a bit of romance, and there was only one guy to satisfy my needs. Nicholas Sparks has the knack of transporting me to an idealistic world. A world in which I wish to reside. A world that, quite frankly, few ever get to experience. That world, I sometimes call it, a place of bliss. In this tale, the author does not disappoint. I always love Nicholas's simple and yet sophisticated way of writing. A story about a husband who successfully rekindles her wife’s fading love for him. I was mesmerised by the husband’s creativity in making his wife fall in love with him all over again. How effortless, once he had made up his mind to win her once more, the process became compared to when he didn't care. I was enthralled by the way the writer made references to my all-time favourite, the mother of all romance stories - The Notebook. The story took me on quite a journey, and I found my spirit soaring. Tears dripped from my eyes. And I fell in love with love. Indeed, Nicholas knows how to deliver just the right concoction for the romantic at heart, and what a perfect finish to my reading year. 

9. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones.

 "A black man, in the wrong place at the wrong time, will find retribution meted out swiftly and unquestioningly."

Had someone not Tweeted about this book, I would not have discovered it. Winner of the Women's prize for fiction, this story pulled at my heartstrings, to say the least. Celestial and Roy, a newly-married couple, are on the verge of realising their American dream when it is cruelly snuffed away when Roy is wrongly accused of rape by a white woman and ends up incarcerated. Heartrending and unfortunately, a poignant reflection of the plight of the black family and our society in general. Bound by their love, the newly-married couple is determined to make things work. They send letters back and forth to each other, and this is how the writer tells the story. Through the characters’ correspondences, which I thought was quite creative, we delve into each character’s head and glimpse into their feelings, attitudes, fears and motivations. The book delivers themes that spark passionate conversations about the black family, love, betrayal, abortion, the relationship between the black man and America's police force and more. As one can expect, there is always conflict, a twist or two in every story worth telling, but I did not anticipate the ending. Being an idealist and a hopeless romantic, I imagined the couple making it despite the challenges of being pulled apart by time and distance. Such is life, I guess. *sigh*

8. Slay in Your Lane: The Journal by Yomi Adegoke and Elizabeth Uviebinene 

The book delivers exactly what it says it is: The Black Girl Bible. Black women and girls do face a lot of challenges. We are misunderstood, labelled as angry, and sometimes find ourselves at the bottom of the food chain in other areas of life. If you are a black woman in need of some motivation, this is the book you will want to read. The book also gives real-life accounts and testimonies of those who have ‘made it’ in life. It demonstrates how to navigate societal prejudices, how to attain the right level o education, how to get employment, and how to simply to get ahead in life. A great read, but difficult to swallow in some parts as I found myself reliving some of the harsh realities of my life as a black woman living in Britain.

7. Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

Dubbed by some as the black Bridget Jones, I found this book funny, gripping and a compelling read. The writer uses light-hearted language to depict serious issues. She explores her Caribbean family, and even though I am from Zimbabwe, I can identify with her experiences in matters of life in general, love, race, relationship break-ups, disappointments, societal attitudes and misconceptions about certain groups of people and family. Told in simple language, humorous and yet compelling way. I concluded that the writer's aim was to enlighten, teach, inform as well as entertain and Candice did just that. 

6. Washing Black by Esi Edugyan

I was drawn to this book because it was nominated for the Booker Prize, and most people were raving about it. In the opening pages, Washington Black launches the horrors of slavery at sugar plantations in Barbados. But he does not dwell on slavery. Instead, the author drifts towards the experiences of the free young slave who is chosen to be the helper of his master’s brother. As they explore their relationship and adventures together, Washington Black discovers that he is talented. He soon embraces life as a free man. A man, perhaps, seen as an 'equal to the white man'. I don’t know what to make of this story as the ending left me craving for more, wishing it was more. Something else. Oh, well. 

5. The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang

This #ownvoice romance novelist delivers a classic tale about Stella, who is an ambitious, intelligent, autistic young lady. Stella's mother keeps nagging her about finding a boyfriend. She wants her daughter to be 'normal', I guess. In the end, the sequence of events drives Stella to hire a male escort to show her the ‘ropes’ of love and sex in preparation for her real man. Now how many would do it I suspect, but hey, whatever works. An energetic, light read, a little bit predictable but enjoyable nonetheless. I am always drawn to heartwarming stories where love prevails.

4. Sycamore Row by John Grisham

This book grabbed me by the neck right from the beginning. A timber tycoon decides to hang himself from a sycamore tree as the title suggests and we soon discover that his handwritten will leaves a significant part of his fortune to his black housekeeper, not his children. You can imagine their horror. What causes even more of a stir is that another will written before the suicide rewards the children quite handsomely but excludes the housekeeper. The writer of the will was on Demerol, and this begs the question – did he have ‘testamentary capacity?’ As always, Grisham delivers a compelling legal case and I for one, love not just a good murder but a stirring courtroom drama where you sit at the edge of your seat, rooting for a character and praying for justice to prevail. 

3. The Good Immigrant by Nikesh Shukla

“If Africa was a bar, Zimbabwe would tell the story of how it fought bouncers to get inside.”

You know why I just had to slip that little excerpt in there, right?

Different writers, one Zimbabwean, of course, write unflinching essays about what it's like to live in a society plagued by racism and prejudices, among other things(Britain.) Just like the book, Slay in Your Lane, the book requires one to have nerves of steel for it takes no prisoners. If you can swallow some harsh truths of life, then this enlightening book is the one to pick. 

2. Her Last Move by John Marrs

I love a good murder! And the darker, the better. After reading the blurb, I was hooked. DS Becca is chasing a killer. The killer is watching her every move and is always a step ahead. As bodies continue to drop like flies, Becca's life gets in the way, and she has no choice but to seek help from experts in other fields. As the drama unfolds, one is taken on an adrenaline-pumping adventure. And Mr Marrs doesn’t disappoint.

Besides the books I’ve listed above, I also read Becoming by Michelle Obama,War Room by Chris Fabry (again), A Time to Kill and The Rain Maker by John Grisham and The Foundling by Paul Joseph and Fronckzak Alex Tresniowski. 

Okay, so none of my reads made Obama's list this year, who cares?! 

Here's to wishing you all a Happy New Year filled with many opportunities to read! 

  

The Unwanted Stranger...Flash Fiction by Bertha Mukodzani

 ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’

Martin Luther King Jr.

Image From the Internet

The man clenched his jaw. He circled me as he scanned my body, examining my arms, thighs, chest and behind. This unwanted stranger, who had not uttered a single word since he slithered into my bedroom, carried himself like he owned the air I breathed. Something in his eyes and the way his mouth contorted told me I disgusted him. Why was he even here?

     ‘I suppose you will do,’ he finally muttered.

     His voice was soft. Too soft for a man, I thought. His dull green eyes resembled the colour of frogs bundled in the corner of a riverbank. When he leaned closer, I wilted under his gaze.

     ‘Don’t be scared. I don’t bite.’ He grinned, the wrinkles under his eyelids deepening. The scar sliced horizontally across his forehead shifted towards his hairline. 

     Pivoting on my trembling legs in the middle of the room, I gathered my nerves and glared at him. ‘I am not scared, Sir.’

     ‘Then we have nothing to worry about,’ he said with a smile.

     His teeth were flawless. Neat rows of pearly whites. From the look of his clothes, shoes and accessories, he was from a wealthy background. He looked and smelt better than the others. The kind of man who could hand out a big fat cheque without wincing. Not that it mattered or changed anything. I did not know my worth; I was not to know.

     ‘Nice hair,’ the man said.

     I jerked my hand towards my head covered with a triumphant carpet of long, brown weave. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

     Adrenaline coursed through my veins at the thought of what was coming. Even though I had spent the entire morning steeling myself for this man’s arrival, seeing him undress me with his lecherous eyes made me realise just how unprepared I was. This was indeed happening, and no pep talk would quell my anxiety.

     ‘This will be a quick one. I have a meeting with my boss around lunchtime. After that, another briefing with a colleague. Can you imagine? What a drag.’

     It amazed me how the men Derek sent my way expected me to care about their lives. They griped and grumbled, sharing their problems as if it was part of the package. As if my grasping of their world somehow legitimised their presence. But I knew my place, so I put on my usual Oscar-winning performance.

     ‘I wouldn’t know, Sir, but it sounds interesting. You must be a very important man, Sir.’ I forced a smile.

     Derek Thomas insisted on perfection.

     Nausea rose in my stomach when the man unbuckled his belt, dropped his trousers, and laid bare what was underneath. Oh, God, why me? My chest tightened, and I struggled to breathe. 

     Using a blue handkerchief, the man wiped glistening sweat from his forehead and tucked a wisp of ginger hair behind his ears. ‘Don’t worry. I am a simple man. Just take your clothes off and turn around. I will be done in a jiffy, as they say.’ He gave a nervous laugh. 

     There was nothing simple about this man. Or any of the clients I had seen, for that matter. Hesitantly, I turned around as instructed. To my surprise, the man paused. Had he changed his mind and wanted to talk instead? Alas, my hope was in vain; he then ordered me to bend down. With fearful bewilderment rising inside me, I did as I was told and primed myself for what was coming. 

     Grabbing me by the waist, he thrust his manhood into me and rode me like a horse. To avoid wailing, I gritted my teeth and ignored his hot breath and the perspiration dampening the small of my back. I willed my mind to wander. Back to my childhood, living with my parents. Back to the time I used to play skip with my friends in the school playground. I imagined myself inside my mother’s kitchen, sampling her fried, pumpkin leaves and sadza. My happier days, when life was simple. There was nothing I would not give to go back and undo all the things I had said to my parents when they tried to teach me right from wrong. If only I had listened to their ancient stories, which at the time seemed far-fetched. I felt a wrenching inside. A sadness so encompassing I wanted to die. I had brought this upon myself. All of it.

     A jerk and a groan later, it was all over. I came back to reality, watching the wretched man clean himself dry with the handkerchief he had used to wipe his face. Then he quickly got dressed.

     ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked, already dipping his hands into his pocket.

     Shivering like a reed, I shook my head.  

     He drew a cigarette from a shiny silver case, inserted it between his lips, and lit up a match. Smoke billowed around the room as he took a drag and released. Despite feeling the comings of a headache, I kept my face choreographed to his taste.

     ‘I’m Patrick, by the way. You are?’ He ejected another puff into the air.

     ‘You already know my name, Sir.’ I dodged his eyes.

     ‘Yeah, yeah, I know your business name. I meant the name your parents gave you.’

     If this was business, then I was Oprah freaking Winfrey, I thought. ‘I am Maka. Short for Makanyara.’

     Patrick dipped a nod. ‘I don’t know what that means, but it sounds nice. I dare say it’s pretty. And, well, enterprising.’ His compliment curdled into mocking.

     I managed to feign another smile, despite the loathing in my heart. According to Derek’s word, I was to conceal my emotions, withhold opinion, and avoid getting personal with my clients. My utterances were restricted to casual pleasantries, unless the men insisted on more. I was a robot.

     Patrick ambled towards the window, opened it, and tossed the burning cigarette on the lawn outside. Then, he walked back to where I sat curled around the contours of my plump, fluffy pillow, unable to move. He glanced down at me, tossed a wad of notes in front of me, and sauntered towards the door. As he reached for the handle, he turned around and beamed. ‘I shall be requesting your services again. I think I like you after all. Something about you.’ 

     With those words, he slammed the door behind him.

    Despite his smile and his voice, Patrick had a hard look about him. He reminded me of the previous client who slapped me across the cheek for refusing to be tied to the bed pole. That nasty man had made a complaint to Derek and removed himself from the register. I welcomed his departure, but he left a yoke around my neck. For a month, I wasn’t allowed to take advantage of my weekly chaperoned shopping. The only time I tasted the sweet smell of freedom, though tense and awkward it was.

     I collapsed on the bed face down. Unable to contain the pressure in my head, the throb between my legs, and the ache in my heart, I sobbed. I sobbed for my sorry little life. For what I had become.

     I was about to take a shower when another intrusive knock struck the door. Patrick must be returning for some item he had forgotten in my room, I thought. I sprang to my feet, shifted my eyes around the room, lifted the pillow, rolled back the rug, scanned under the bed and checked behind the door. There was nothing that belonged to Patrick. As I darted out of my room and towards the front door to allow him back in, something dawned on me. Without making a sound, I peeped through the keyhole and saw two men in black uniform standing on the other side. The men had portable radios stuffed in their pockets. One of them held what appeared to be a notebook. A diary, perhaps. I had heard stories about the men in uniform who patrolled the neighbourhood and made impromptu home visits. At the time, I did not pay close attention. People said a lot of things, especially my fellow immigrants. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t say that. Always carry this.’ It was as if I were a child. Looking at the two men outside, though, something in my stomach churned.

     With my heart pounding, I tip-toed back to my bedroom, slipped under the duvet cover, coiled my body up in a fetal position, and held my breath. The tapping persisted, sending disquieting vibrations into my stomach. It had been years since I ditched my nail-biting habit, but my thumb found its way into my mouth, my teeth tearing at the fingernail. After moments of quietly begging the good Lord to put an end to the incessant knocking, my head went into a spin, and an ache shot across my forehead. I suppose my nerves could only endure the terror for so long before my body went into a violent protest.

     After what seemed an age, the knocking stopped. I crept out of my room, teetered towards the front door, and pressed my ears against it, listening for movement. Any sound to alert me to danger. To satisfy my mind, I peered through the window in the living room and inspected the driveway. I exhaled, and my thrumming heart rested when I saw no car and no shadow of the two men. Sinking into the couch in one corner of the room, I covered my face with both hands and stilled my body, digesting everything. Then I let the tears seep through my fingers. When was this going to end?