You too can write ‘pretty’ compositions

Writing can and does display that mirror in which the writer can see the ugliness or prettiness of his or her language.

FOR students, the writing process is a vital aspect of learning and in it lies the true test of your verbal intelligence, what many call communication skills. The following are selected pieces of written work, call them stories or compositions, from student-authors who contributed or donated short stories to a published compilation called CHILDREN WRITING ZIMBABWE, edited by R. Magosvongwe, M. Chirere and J. Zondo (2008).

I have chosen to publish these selected stories to prove a few points. First to show all students that writing skills can be learnt and mastered with frightening success.

Second, the mastery of writing skills varies from student to student. Some students are perfect masters of some skills, while others perfectly master different skills altogether. Third, to prove and encourage you that you too can write ‘pretty’ compositions.

I want teachers and students to carefully go through the following two texts or stories and appreciate the narrative power in both, but also identify the strengths and weaknesses of each. Remember both of them are masterpieces in their own right.

Please take careful note of my remarks, comments of appreciation, at the end of each story. And take note I am not idly criticising the young writers, but teaching those who want to learn writing skills from their splendid effort to excel.

At the river: Emlanjeni! MusanenkosiNdlovu

Had we known what lay ahead of us on that scorching November afternoon, we would have instantly resigned to another site. Sometimes I feel absurd, melancholic and apprehensive whenever I think of her.

I was on cloud nine and above the moon when she finally accepted my proposal. Initially, Jane had rejected it but I did not put all of my eggs in one basket.

I was guaranteed to win her heart. Her beauty was captivating. Her almond eyes brightened up when she smiled. Her black hair shimmered in the sun and when she displayed her wide grin, she would reveal her teeth, white as milk. She was both gorgeous and intelligent.

We agreed to meet at the river after school. The River Mkwasine meandered through mountains. Everything was lush and green. It was a favourite spot for lovebirds, like me and Jane. I was on top of the world.

I wore my wide legged pants, my striped shirt and black shiny shoes. Usually, I wore this outfit on special occasions. This one was so special that I even forgot the rest of the day’s plan. I filled my satchel with mangoes, roasted maize cobs and apples. Hurriedly, I went to the river.

She was already present by the time I arrived. Her mane was neatly combed. Her mauve floral miniscule dress exposed her beautiful legs. This I observed when she walked straight to where I stood. She intrigued me. Her dress made me full of illusions-she looked younger and much more beautiful than she appeared in her school uniform. I handed her the goodies. She seemed to enjoy the cobs more than the apples and mangoes. She seemed to express her gratitude. Our love had blossomed like an exotic flower.

We sat, leaning on the tree and cuddled up together. We were both relaxed. The sun was blazing and we abandoned the river banks where we sat, for the acacia trees, lined on the opposite side of where we sat.

I stood up, took a leap onto an island, which emerge in the middle of the river. I safely landed on it. She rose up and stared at me quizzically. I knew what she meant. The expression on her face told me all I needed to know.

I stretched my hand over to Jane’s. She grabbed it and attempted to jump over to the island. However, my hand slipped from hers before she could land where I stood. She abruptly fell into the fast flowing waters. The water splashed into my eyes. Without wasting much time I dived into the water. Her screams were piercing. Tragedy had struck, I tried to save her but efforts were in vain. Her deafening cries were to be silenced within a short period of time. I felt wasted in delirium. Helplessly, I emerged from the water.

In the days to come Jane was eventually found apparently dead lying at the edge of the river. I feel guilty because I have never told anyone about the fateful afternoon. That is why I am writing this story.

YOUR POST ENGLISH TEACHER COMMENTS:

1. From the outset there is no doubt the student writer Musanenkosi Ndlovu, has mature and flavoursome vocabulary: absurd, melancholic and apprehensive / she was both gorgeous and intelligent/ The River Mkwasine meandered/ She intrigued me/ Her mauve floral miniscule dress / exotic flower / stared at me quizzically / in delirium / cuddle. That is clearly one of Musanenkosi’sstrengths-apt choice of words.

Then he has a gift of figurative expressions which seem to come naturally: I was on cloud nine /…and above the moon / put all my eggs in one basket / was on top of the world / Her screams were piercing / Tragedy had struck.

You will notice he does not saturate his piece, his story, his composition with a flurry of them) figures of speech). He was taught to use him sparingly but effectively. He chooses them intelligently and they fit just what he wants to express without cheapening the language by resorting to literal commonplace.

All these metaphors(figures of speech) added to his word power(vocabulary) constitute a high command of English language, neither bombastic (pompous) or too pedestrian. The descriptive detail is powerful, sporadic and captivating but not overdone. That measure or extent of control of language and expression does not come naturally. It is learnt and mastered. And only thorough practice can establish such exquisite and precise control.

But take note, these are students writing; students at secondary school and high school, not established authors. So what do you mean it cannot be done? Of course the journey to this standard of writing and ability comes a long way from kindergarten perhaps, but the point is it is doable. It can be done. A good teacher and good pupil can achieve this level of verbal competence and more.

2. Do you see Musanenkosi’s beginning? Even the very opening sentence: “Had we known what lay ahead of us on that scorching November afternoon, we would have instantly resigned to another site. Sometimes I feel absurd, melancholic and apprehensive whenever I think of her.”

Quite unusual, isn’t it? Also not the obvious, boring, traditional INTRODUCTION.Isn’t this lovely? An interesting, captivating, thought-provoking and gripping opening sentence and opening paragraph! Powerful!

And the ending? Classic, isn’t it? “In the days to come Jane was eventually found apparently dead lying at the edge of the river. I feel guilty because I have never told anyone about the fateful afternoon. That is why I am writing this story.”

3. Do you see Musanenkosihas no real names suggested for his characters? Fully developed characters with real accentuates or enhancesthe reality and narrative power of any story.We keep on wondering who is ‘he’ or ‘she’ in her story. Continuous suspense maybe? A deliberate way of sustaining anxiey maybe? Well, maybe indeed, but it could as well be a stylistic device achieved by default.

4. Do you all see the style or default may have caused the dialogue or direct speech drought? No one speaks in the story, and not surprising, in my opinion. There are no real people with shape, size and character to say speak and reveal their personalities. Just shadows of people represented by pronouns and not proper nouns (real names.)

Most narratives gather life and interesting realism by use of direct speech. The reader wants to hear people speak: fight, quarrel, argue, ask, answer, act and react. Without it (dialogue) even in very small doses, the story seems dry or stiff. It reads more like a report rather than a story. You see what I mean?

But all boils down to what I said earlier on. These are not the student’s mastered skills. He has his strengths, but his weaknesses are outstanding. Do those weaknesses make the student a weak writer? Not at all! By no means No! It only means he could have been more awesome if he put all in it. He did not. He only put in what he knows best.

I want you to compare the above taste of verbal or narrative excellence with the following variety of craftsmanship and ability: Far Away Hills by Neville Nyoni. I want you to analyse and identify the similarities and differences of competence between the two student writers. Do the differences constitute deficiencies in any way? Whose language or overall effort constitutes a higher level of prettiness of language? And a better composition masterpiece than the other!

This is how we are going to do it for the next few weeks-comparing masterpieces written by top-of-the-class students, obviously learning whatever skills we can. Don’t miss my remarks on Neville Nyoni’s masterpiece next Friday.

Remember the writing process is a vital aspect of your English Curriculum, whether you call it new, old, updated, or Dokora’s Curriculum. If it, (Dokora’s curriculum) emphasizes skills, this is one of the strongest skills it can train and develop- The writing Process, where you too can write ‘pretty’ essays and compositions.

Far away hills

By Neville Nyoni

“We did not think she would do it,” Tashiana sobbed. The whole crowd gasped and a wave of murmur spread through the gathered villagers. “Silence!” boomed the old man’s authoritative voice. Everything shook into silence. Not an insect moved a single inch, not a leaf rustled, not even the wind whispered; only breaking twigs dared to crackle in the burning fire.

Old Makata shook his round head and sighed heavily. He raised his wrinkled but handsome old face, “So you knew about it, daughters of Kazan’a, yet you never told anyone.” She tried to respond but chocked over her words and tears freely meandered down her bony cheeks. The old man continued in a subdued tone: “Okay, all able-bodied men gather your weapons to follow her now.”

She knew they would be worried. But Ruvimbo had made up her mind. She knew the risks. She knew all the myths, facts, and stories of the forest she was in right now.

She knew no man had ever set foot on the sacred hills and come back alive, but all this was nothing to her. She was determined to put an end to her troubles. And she had to complete her mission.

A cold breeze seeped into her like poisoned arrows. She could see the hills now. She decided to rest under the Musasa tree and lit a fire. Though it was late night, the moon was bright enough. She had walked for hours and now she had to rest.

She saw a vulture hovering above a Muchakata tree and her heart skipped a beat. “Those vultures again. Those terrible vultures, I am tired of this,” Ruvimbo thought in terror.

Ever since the mysterious death of her mother, she had begun to experiencing horrible nightmares. Vultures would visit her in her sleep and taunt and torment her thoughts. She had consulted prophets, witchdoctors and some of the best traditional healers ever, but it just got worse.

Now even during day time she would fall into a trance and the vulture would appear. They would encircle her and expose their claws.

They would rave and riot about her, and a voice, a mournful sound, would cry, “Come, come!” But today this was no vision, this was real.

This vulture was more dreadful. It landed on the Muchakata tree. Its eyes glowed a luminous red and they probed through her, so she felt.

She stood up, she had to reach the sacred hill, it was her only hope. That hill her grandmother had spoken of before her death, but would she make it? Another vulture joined the first one. She began running as another and another and then a huge flock of vultures were all about her.

“Stop, go away you terrible beasts!” she screamed. The vultures screeched and flapped their wings in wild motion. Ruvimbo tripped and fell but kept going until she reached the sacred hill and all vultures suddenly disappeared. She was trembling. The loud rumbling of thousands of flapping wings died out. She looked up the hill and what she saw stiffened her.

Ruvimbo could not believe what she was witnessing: “Come my daughter, do not be afraid,” it was the same mournful voice that had become so familiar to her.

The person looked like…. like… “Mama is it you? Mama so it is really you?” Her mother just smiled and she hurriedly went up the hill. The woman was a true definition of beauty, black beady eyes that shone like marble and milk white teeth even and alluring. “Mama I was scared, the vultures…” “Shh!” her mother interjected and said in a reassuring tone. “I sent those vultures. I knew one day you would come. Follow me.” She followed her to the edge of a cliff. “I died a painful death my daughter and I seek revenge, the ancestors refused me permission to avenge, so I want you my daughter to do it for me.”

The old man had never seen such a flock of vultures in his entire life. All the men were tongue-tied. He was troubled deeply by this sight.

“When nature behaves in such a manner something terrible has happened or is about to happen,” he muttered under his breath. What amazed him the most was that as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared. “We have to act fast,” he finally said and they increased pace. The younger men ran fast to the hills.

“Tell me mama, who is this person? How do I do it? Tell me and I will do it,” Ruvimbo pleaded. Her mother looked at her. She seemed to be crying. “No, I cannot tell you, that is for you to find out. Now I want you to go back and do my bidding. I wish you well,” and she disappeared.

“Mama, Mama! Come back I want to talk to you. How will I do it? Ruvimbo cried. She began shouting, yelling, screaming wildly beating the rocks.

“Tell me Mama, tell me now,” she wailed and choked and stumbled to the ground and burst into tears.

“Look!” One of the man shouted, “She is on the edge, she wants to commit suicide,” the others began to run towards her. “Ruvimbo do not!” another man roared. Ruvimbo was so shaken by the echoes and the voice. She stood and unaware that she was on the very edge bent backwards and screamed as she went all the way down.