Petina Gappah: The Book of Memory

I did not manage to visit Chikurubi Prison. I had one opportunity, but it would have required me to sign the Official Secrets Act. As the point of the visit would have been a little frustrated if I could not write about the prison, I declined the opportunity. The Chikurubi of this novel is thus from my imagination, and from archival research. I am particularly grateful to Simon Mann, who, in his memoir Cry Havoc (John Blake, 2011), brought humour to his vivid account of his time in Chikurubi; to Thelma Chikwanha, who, as the Community Affairs Editor of the Daily News , made a commitment to telling the stories of Zimbabwe’s prisoners; and to Irene Staunton and Chiedza Musengezi, whose lovely collection of short prison memoirs, A Tragedy of Lives: Women in Prison in Zimbabwe (Weaver Press, 2003), moved me deeply. I am also grateful to Julie Stewart and the Women’s Law Programme at the University of Zimbabwe, and to Tendai Biti, who not only made me big in Gokwe, but also, together with Farai Rwodzi, shared with me his own prison experiences.

In Harare, I want to thank all my friends, particularly these comrades-in-arms who were directly connected to the struggle for this book: Penny Stone, Richard Beattie and Magnus Carlqvist, best beloveds and library titans; Patrick Mavros, who gave me more Umwinsidale stories than I knew what to do with; Tatenda Mawere and Munyaka Makuyana for their unparalleled support and kindness; Dominic Muntanga and Naomi Mapfumo for that whooping cheer over Sunday pancakes; Lisa Orrenius, a Zimbabwean writer in disguise, and whose eagle eye gave me Loveness; Firle Davies, Raphael Chikukwa, Andrew Chadwick, Nick Marq and Jill Coates, friends and fellow travellers; Alf Torrens and Deborah Bronnert for that spectacular send-off and Jeane Wessels for the gift of the tea estate in Chipinge at which it all fell into place.

I also want to remember with love my beautiful friend Pilar Fuertes Ferragut, the Spanish envoy to Zimbabwe whom we lost in a tragic car accident in April 2012. She suffused everyone she met with her warmth, intelligence, elegance and radiance. Thanks to her relentless and generous encouragement, I accepted an invitation to read to the members of ZIMAS, the Zimbabwe Albino Association. Their kind reception, and the stories they shared with me, encouraged me to rescue this novel from the bin into which I had thrown it. I miss her very much.

Then there is a group of people who have meant everything to me wherever I have been in the world because they are part of my interior world. I was excited to find one morning that I had found the perfect name for a character, only to find to my horror that my perfect name belonged to one of the many friends on Facebook that I have never met. I am grateful to my beloved Gang of Lunatics. I cannot name you all, partly because there are so many of you, but mainly because I suspect that some of your names may not actually be your own. You stretch my thinking, sharpen my arguments and force me to re-examine my assumptions and prejudices. You fill my heart with laughter. I cherish you all dearly.

Finally, to my son, Kush Gappah, who could not read when I started writing this: I promise that the one after the next one is for you; to Silas Chekera, I thank you every day for helping me to this path; and to all the members of my family: the Gappah Gapas — Tererayi Mureri, Simbiso, Regina, Ratiel, Vimbayi, Vuchirai and Babamunin’Pheneas, the bookseller of Harare, who sold the last book like it was cooking oil on the black market: ndinotenda vana Mukanya, Makwiramiti, Bvudzijena, vaMbire nemi mhai, Musinake, Shinda, Zimbabwe. Kune zvese zvinoitika mumhuri medu, munogaroti dai Pet’na aivapo, zvokwadi ainyora mabhuku. Mukasafadzwa nerino, musavhunduka, nokuti ariko mamwe achatevera.

Hokoyo nenhamo!

Petina Gappah is a Zimbabwean writer with law degrees from Cambridge, Graz University and the University of Zimbabwe. Her prize-winning debut collection, An Elegy for Easterly, heralded the arrival of a major new voice in international fiction.