Threads of Fire

From a U to Reconstruction: Repairing a Weak English Foundation Recently, a learner came to me. They had written ZIMSEC English last year and received a U . They are now preparing to resit. When I read their composition, I did not see laziness. I saw broken sentences . I saw tense confusion . I saw fear . And this is common. What a U Grade Script Often Reveals Failure in English is rarely about intelligence. It is usually about foundation . Under exam pressure, weak foundations collapse. Most "U" scripts struggle with: Subject-Verb Agreement – The basic logic of the sentence fails. Incomplete Sentences – Ideas are left hanging. Tense Shifting – Jumping between past and present. Paragraphing – Lack of clear structure. The Repair Plan: Rebuilding Slowly For a repeating candidate, we do not jump straight into full compositions. We rebuild brick by brick. 1. Stabilise the Sentence A sentence must have a subject, a verb, and a complete idea. ...

 NOTED. Lawson Chiwara  The generator had been running since sunset. Its hum filled the bar the way fatigue fills a body—quiet, constant, unavoidable. A man stood by the wall, phone plugged in, eyes fixed on the battery icon like it owed him something. At home, the power had gone again. At work, silence was expensive. This socket was neutral ground. Behind the counter, Rudo wiped the same glass for the third time. Then boots. Not rushed. Not loud. Certain. She didn’t flinch. She straightened. Apron first. Then the smile. > “Officer, madii?” The words came out smooth, respectful. Not a greeting—an offering. The officer didn’t answer. He scanned the room instead. Bottles. Faces. The door. The windows. The exits. Routine. > “Licence iripi?” Rudo turned to the wall automatically. The frame was there. The paper inside it had stopped mattering six days ago. January. She felt it first in her throat. The owner wasn’t around. He never was when things went wrong. She stepped close...

In the quiet of a Zimbabwean night, a bedroom can become the most crowded place on earth. It’s not just you and your spouse; it’s the expectations of your ancestors, the mocking echoes of social media, and the betrayal of your own body. The Room of Four By Lawson Chiwara  The paraffin lamp flickered, throwing long shadows against the cracked plaster walls of the bedroom. Outside, the Zimbabwean night was alive; crickets sang their endless, rhythmic chorus, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at nothing. Inside, the air was still and heavy. Pauro Saungweme lay stiffly on his side of the bed, the mosquito net hanging limp above them like a quiet witness. He adored his wife—more than words could hold. Tonight, with the children gone to their grandparents in Gutu, was meant to be theirs. He had told himself all day, a mantra of masculine intent: “Pauro, tonight you give her everything. The house is ours.”

Letters for Survival: Bopoma Orphanage Appeals for Help Amid Deepening Hunger By Chiwara Lawson | Lowveld Checkpoint DANDA, ZAKA — In a quiet but determined effort to survive, Bopoma Orphanage has begun writing letters to institutions around Danda Village, appealing for food donations as hunger tightens its grip. The orphanage, home to vulnerable children, has been living on handouts—many of which are no longer sufficient. The appeals are simple and urgent: requests for mealie meal, sweet potatoes, rice, and other staples. Churches, schools, and local organizations have received these letters, each one a plea for solidarity. Among the first to respond was the Reformed Church in Zimbabwe’s Jichidza Congregation, which donated maize—a gesture that brought temporary relief and renewed hope. But the need remains vast. Staff continue to stretch limited resources, preparing sugarless porridge and rationing supplies. A recent incident at Danda Secondary School underscored the crisis: a Form 1...

The Teacher’s Ledger by Lawson Chiwara  Chapter 1 — The Six O'Clock Ghost The sun was still clinging to the horizon when Mr. Moyo drained the last of his "Scud." Around him, the "Council of the Thirsty" at the local bottle store was just warming up. The air was thick with the smell of opaque beer, roasted peanuts, and the loud, boastful laughter of men who didn't want to go home to their wives' "to-do" lists. "Ah, Teacher! You are standing up already?" Tinashe, a man whose shirt had lost three buttons and his dignity twice as many, checked his cracked watch. "It’s only six. The night hasn't even cleared its throat, and you are already running? Does the Nurse have a whistle she blows from the hospital?" A ripple of laughter went around the table. "Maybe she’s out of diapers," another man shouted, leaning back in his plastic chair. "I saw him yesterday, carrying the child on his back like a '...

Parked Dreams She wasn’t just parked—she was exposed. Tilted awkwardly in the hospital car park, her rusted chassis sagged into the cracked asphalt like a confession whispered under the harsh midday sun. The gearbox had shattered, grinding to a halt with a metallic groan that still echoed in Mr. Mavhunga’s nightmares. The battery had flatlined, its cables brittle and coated in dust. The license had expired, a faded sticker curling at the edges like a dying leaf. And the insurance? A distant memory, buried under the weight of school fees, grocery bills, and the relentless chokehold of credit repayments in Zimbabwe’s unforgiving economy. He passed her every day, the scent of hospital antiseptic mingling with the car’s stale oil and sun-baked leather. Nurses saw her, their footsteps crunching on gravel as they hurried past. Patients saw her, their murmurs blending with the hum of distant generators. Colleagues saw her, their sidelong glances sharp as the glint off her cracked ...