Fractured Hearts and Random Minds & Other Stories

Fractured Hearts and Random Minds and Other Stories

By Lawson Chiwara

Contact: lawchiwara0@gmail.com | +263777212895 | Ndanga District Hospital, PBag 9004, Masvingo, Zimbabwe

Introduction

Fractured Hearts and Random Minds and Other Stories gathers five tales from Zimbabwe’s heart, where fractured relationships, personal struggles, and chaotic thoughts collide under jacarandas, in beerhalls, and on dusty school grounds. Lawson Chiwara’s voice—steeped in Shona slang, sadza-scented homes, and the pulse of Museve and Zimdancehall—paints a nation’s joys and wounds. From a hospital cottage’s sibling wars to a village’s poisoned cup, a Masvingo bar’s political banter, a teen’s loyalty test, and a teacher’s lifelong shame as a “nherera,” these stories weave humor, suspense, grit, and hope. Rooted in Zimbabwe’s economic grind, CLZ sermons, and party loyalties, they speak to universal truths—family, betrayal, self-worth. This collection concludes with an excerpt from Chiwara’s debut novel, Shadows in the Dark, a socio-political thriller set in 2025 Zimbabwe, amplifying the themes of resistance and resilience.

Table of Contents

Surviving the Remote Wars (~360 words)

When the Cup Fell (~250 words)

The Bar (~2,500 words)

Differences (~1,900 words)

Fractured Hearts and Random Minds (~2,800 words)

Excerpt from Shadows in the Dark: Chapter 6 (~1,000 words)

Shadows in the Dark: Synopsis and Author Bio (~300 words)

Total Word Count: ~9,110

1. Surviving the Remote Wars

By Lawson Chiwara

We should have known. Garry’s holiday return to our hospital cottage—where my nurse’s stethoscope and my husband’s chalk-dusted books clutter the table—unleashed war. Antiseptic lingers in our creaky haven, home thanks to my shifts and his lessons. Our six-year-old, TV king and shy with nurses’ kids, faced a rival. Then came the wildcard: our two-year-old, Cocomelon’s tiny tyrant.

Phase One: The Battle Begins

Garry, boarding school’s smug overlord, grabs the remote. “Ehe, today we’re watching something cool,” he declares, flipping channels like he owns the cottage.

“No, Garry!” the six-year-old snaps, sadza ball in hand, his Spider-Man turf at stake. “It’s my turn—I watch every day!”

“I’m older, only here for holidays!” Garry fires, NdezvaGarry in full force.

The six-year-old’s pout, sharp as his exam-topping brain, meets Garry’s arched eyebrow. Hierarchy wars ignite.

Until a biscuit-crunching toddler waddles in.

Phase Two: The Toddler Coup

The two-year-old doesn’t plead. He seizes the remote. One press. Cocomelon blares.

Silence.

“AHHHH, NOOOO!” the boys groan.

“He’s doing it again!” the six-year-old wails, sadza dropped.

“Not this show, bro,” Garry mutters, throne toppled.

The toddler plops down, remote his precious, ruling like a pint-sized chief. We exchange that look: Is it wine o’clock yet? Nursing and teaching don’t prep you for this.

Phase Three: Parent Intervention (Futile)

We try. “Boys, share episodes!”

The six-year-old folds his arms, a betrayed prince. “It’s not fair! Garry took over!”

“Because I’m the oldest,” Garry smirks, hierarchy his shield.

Pointless. The toddler’s locked in Cocomelon’s singing carrots.

He toddles off—hope! “Quick, change it!” Garry lunges. The six-year-old flips to superheroes. Victory!

“WAAAAAAAAAAH!” The toddler storms back. Cocomelon reigns.

We sigh, sadza budget too tight for wine.

Phase Four: Sibling Bonds

Bedtime hits. The boys slump together, superheroes flickering, pouts gone. The six-year-old, glued to Garry over other kids, whispers, “I miss Garry.”

The toddler snoozes, remote still clutched in sticky fingers, dreaming of conquests. Garry tugs the blanket over him—a truce.

We sink into the couch, exhausted civil servants. Tomorrow, the Remote Wars resume. And we wouldn’t change a thing.

Word Count: ~360

Glossary

Sadza: Zimbabwean staple food made from maize meal.

NdezvaGarry: Shona phrase implying Garry’s dominance, like “It’s Garry’s way.”

2. When the Cup Fell

By Lawson Chiwara

The ndari drums pulsed, heavy with froth and men’s voices fleeing burdens in Nyamhunga Village.

Tonde hesitated, guilt over punishing Jotham’s son heavy, then offered the drink—a peace gesture.

Jotham was no ordinary nurse. Nurse In Charge, he controlled the clinic’s drugs, decided who healed. His grocer thrived on fear—of muthi, cures too perfect or fatal.

Tonde had struck his son. A mistake.

He passed Jotham the cup.

Jotham, smile thin as clinic gauze, turned to slip powder in—a nurse’s precision, a father’s grudge.

Tonde didn’t see.

The Third Man, scarred from a night Jotham’s “cure” took his brother, did. He saw the grainy swirl—muthi, poison, or both.

His breath caught. A step. Then—the grab.

The cup slipped, frothy beer twisting midair, unnaturally slow.

It hit with a clang too loud for froth.

The grass retreated—green veins blackened, blades collapsed under the yellow cup’s touch.

Jotham’s fingers twitched. They’re watching.

Tonde swallowed, tongue foreign. That was for me.

The Third Man exhaled, scar-crossed eyes flickering—another drum, another death.

Mai Chipo’s voice sliced. “Jotham’s beer.”

Her gourd slipped, untouched.

Men scattered, US dollars for lagers far from Jotham’s grocer. Whispers of muthi spread, his power cracked.

The cup remained. The cup fell. The cup changed everything.

Word Count: ~250

Glossary

Ndari: Traditional Zimbabwean beer brewed from maize or millet.

Muthi: Traditional medicine or magic, sometimes associated with poison.

3. The Bar

By Lawson Chiwara

Setting: A gritty Masvingo beerhall, 2025. Scenes 1–3 in a reserved corner: worn sofas, dim lights, muffled Museve by Macheso. Scenes 4–8 in the loud main bar: sticky counter, harsh fluorescents, ZBC propaganda blaring, packed with workers. Air crackles with banter, fear, truths.

Characters: Nico (teacher, idealistic), Joel Samo (businessman, cynical), Tafa (ex-opposition, bitter), Tinashe (security guard, smug), Misheck (cop, defensive), Rudo (bar lady, sharp-witted), Nameless Patron(s) (lively ranters).

Scene 1: The Hard Truth

(In reserved corner, NICO and JOEL SAMO sink into sofas, beers sweating. Dim lights muffle Museve, main bar chatter faint. Newspaper screams: TSIKIDZI ERADICATED! RUDO, in tight dress, tosses bottles, smile sharp.)

Nico: (earnest) Joel, what if the president’s fed lies, truth hidden?

Joel Samo: (smirking) Wangu, what truth? The people’s, or his advisors’ neat package?

Nico: Mbare was spotless yesterday. Smiling faces, fresh paint. Reborn overnight.

Joel Samo: Selective vision, wangu. One clean street, rehearsed gratitude, called triumph.

Nico: He cares, Joel. His speeches—he believes he’s fixing things.

Joel Samo: (laughs) Tragedy. Wants change, sees only what they allow.

Nico: (quiet) And when he leaves? Bed bugs don’t vanish, zvako.

Joel Samo: (deadpan) Bed bugs laugh when cameras go, wangu.

Rudo: (teasing) Who’s fixing what, varume?

(NICO signals beers, nook buzzing with defiance.)

Scene 2: The Illusion of Change

(NICO swirls beer, eyes on newspaper, frustration simmering. JOEL leans back, cynicism settling. Museve pulses, bar’s hum low. RUDO passes, tossing a wink.)

Nico: (scoffs) He cares, I see it when he speaks.

Joel Samo: (laughs) Cared? Maybe, when he swore to ‘hit the ground running.’ But lies caught up. The ground moves without him.

Nico: You think he’s given up?

Joel Samo: (exhales) You sit in that chair, truth’s filtered. Advisors give narratives, not news.

Nico: (sharp) And he accepts it?

Joel Samo: (nods) Fighting it wears you down.

Nico: (whispers) Window dressing.

Joel Samo: He probably doesn’t know when he stopped believing.

(Nook’s hum sharpens, PATRONS’ laughter weaving through.)

Scene 3: Opposition vs. Reality

(Corner tenses as TAFA strides in, faded campaign t-shirt clinging, grabbing NICO’s beer. TINASHE follows, security uniform crisp, smirking. RUDO lingers, eyes scanning.)

Tafa: (bitter) Same machine, different drivers, boys.

Nico: Tafa, weren’t you opposition? Thought you celebrated a new dawn.

Tafa: (sipping) I was. Thought they’d tear it down.

Joel Samo: (smirking) And?

Tafa: (leaning in) Closed-door deals. Ministers cozy in new offices. Sound familiar?

Nico: (gritted) They’re the same?

Tafa: (dry laugh) Power corrupts. Opposition’s just playing better.

Nico: (earnest) Security’s for de-escalation, right? What’s the state doing?

Tinashe: (musing) Keeps the boss happy, no chaos. I’d run it better, zvako.

(PATRONS laugh, mocking TINASHE’s smugness.)

Scene 4: The Power Struggle

(Trio rises, drawn to loud main bar. Sticky counter sags, fluorescents buzz. Museve clashes with radio: NATIONAL UNITY ACHIEVED! PATRONS pack tables, banter raw. RUDO pours with flair, grin defiant.)

Tafa: (dark chuckle) Power’s a hustle, varume. Rules bend for cash or clout.

Nico: Tafa, didn’t you swear off the ruling party?

Tafa: (snorts) Believed opposition would burn it down. They’re waiting their turn.

Joel Samo: (sly) Secret deals, dark handshakes?

Tafa: (nods, bitter) Preach “change,” trade power like bottle caps.

Nico: (tense) That’s betrayal, Tafa.

Tafa: (shrugs) Betrayal, survival. Politics, wangu.

(PATRONS hoot, bottles slamming, laughter fueling bar’s edge.)

Scene 4A: Rudo’s Insider Scoop

(NICO lingers near counter, beer half-gone, troubled. RUDO wipes counter, flirty smirk masking cynicism. PATRONS shout, banter raw.)

Nico: (low) Rudo, you hear it all, catching whispers.

Rudo: (chuckling) More than you’d handle, wangu. What’s shook you?

Nico: This “new dawn” talk… lies, isn’t it?

Rudo: (smirking) Caught a minister, ZBC’s “clean hands,” with a young girl in a backroom deal. Paid hush money, zvako. That’s your dawn.

Nico: (shaken) Nobody calls it out?

Rudo: (bitter) System swallows truth, Nico.

(RUDO slides beer, grin sharp. Bar’s noise surges.)

Scene 5: The System’s Grip

(Museve thumps, radio blaring JUSTICE SERVED IN HARARE, met with curses. NICO’s frustration burns, TAFA sips, JOEL sly. MISHECK, in worn police jacket, sips tightly. RUDO pours, fierce.)

Tafa: (mocking) “Stability, comrades!” Handed keys, jailing loudmouths for justice, zvako!

Nico: Stability? What about voters wanting change?

Tafa: Voters don’t get a seat, Nico. Elections are warm-up.

Misheck: (defensive) They broke the law—inciting chaos. My job’s calm, zvako.

Joel Samo: (sarcastic) Calm for suits, Misheck, or us?

Misheck: (gritting) Orders come, I follow. Without order, nothing.

Rudo: (fierce) Tell that to the journalist locked for talking, Misheck. No bail, zvako.

(PATRONS roar, bottles clashing. NICO’s idealism frays.)

Scene 6: Guilty Until Proven Innocent

(Fear lingers. NICO, JOEL, TAFA huddle near counter. RUDO listens, flirty edge subdued. Radio drones STABILITY RESTORED. NAMELESS PATRON swirls beer, shaking head.)

Nico: (low) They say, “Assist with investigations.”

Joel Samo: (snorts) Not an invite, wangu. Long hours, slaps, “we’ll release soon.”

Tafa: (dark chuckle) Ask for a lawyer? You’re the suspect.

Nameless Patron: In a kombi, guy blamed Sekuru for everything.

(TAFA smirks, NICO leans in.)

Nameless Patron: Guy next to him, quiet, shows a badge in town. Driver to the station.

Nico: Opinions cost his freedom.

Tafa: Kumbeva wangu—walls have ears. Some listen, wait.

(Bar listens, caution sinking in.)

Scene 7: Justice for Sale

(Smoke thick, frustration heavy. NICO, JOEL, TAFA, MISHECK crowd counter. RUDO leans, anger sharp. Radio blares JUSTICE SERVED, met with curses.)

Nico: Blessed Mhlanga—journalist, arrested for truth. DJ Ollah—radio star, walked free. Difference?

Joel Samo: Connections, wangu. Justice sees who to punish, protect.

Tafa: Known, you’re safe. Nobody, guilty before trial.

Misheck: (gritted) That’s not how it works!

Rudo: (fierce) Why’s Mhlanga still inside, Misheck? Trial pushed, “more evidence,” zvako?

Nameless Patron: Trials? Camera show! Parade Mhlanga to scare, Ollah’s boys pull strings.

(Truth settles, PATRONS nodding grimly.)

Scene 8: The Reflection

(Bar heavy, Museve low, radio silent. RUDO grips rag, staring at bottles. NICO, JOEL, TAFA, TINASHE, MISHECK huddle, weary. PATRONS’ laughter fades.)

Rudo: (low, gripping rag) Behind bars? Not guilty, varume. Too poor to buy freedom, zvako.

Tafa: (hollow) Freedom’s a hustle, always was.

Nico: (eyes on bottle, breaking) Can’t pay? You rot. You vanish.

Joel: (final) Hope doesn’t change that, wangu. Never did.

Misheck: (eyes down) I… follow orders. That’s all I got.

Nameless Patron: (slurring) Missing files, wangu! “Lost” paperwork, you’re gone—poof!

(Bitter chuckles ripple, hollow. NICO’s idealism dies, a shared wound exposed. PATRONS’ eyes heavy, bar silent. World moves on, unchanged.)

END

Word Count: ~2,500

Runtime: ~25 minutes

Glossary

Wangu: Shona term meaning “my friend,” used affectionately or sarcastically.

Zvako: Shona exclamation for emphasis, like “indeed” or “exactly.”

Kumbeva: Shona phrase meaning “like a mouse,” implying stealth or caution.

4. Differences

By Lawson Chiwara

The lunchtime bell unleashed students onto Masvingo’s dusty school grounds. Shaky sat under the mango tree, notebook open, pen scratching half-formed poems—dreams of brilliance that never landed. His frayed socks peeked from worn trousers, a mark of his family’s grind.

Then she appeared.

Natasha. Braids flawless, uniform crisp, eyes scanning like a queen. She spotted Shaky, his heart thudding louder than tuck shop chatter.

She sauntered over, smirking. “I’m hungry,” she said, expecting.

Shaky’s mind raced—hero’s chance to win her world. But his pockets were empty, his bhero slice gone.

Words choked him. Then, stupidly: “Me too.”

Silence.

Natasha’s smirk turned sharp, steps slow, designed to sting.

Jimmy appeared, biting a sandwich. “Smooth, mufesi wangu.”

Shaky groaned, notebook hiding his face. One day, he’d write the perfect line. Today wasn’t it.

The classroom hummed, Mr. Moyo scrawling Macbeth Act 3. Shaky leaned forward—his turf, where words worked.

“What’s Banquo’s ghost?” Mr. Moyo asked.

Shaky’s hand shot up. “Macbeth’s guilt made flesh. He sees Banquo, hands stained, hidden from others.”

Mr. Moyo nodded. “Excellent, Sibanda.”

Natasha turned, eyes gleaming. At break, she slid beside him, perfume sharp. “You’re brilliant, Shaky. Bet you could do my Literature assignment in ten.”

Shaky’s chest tightened, her attention intoxicating, but memories stirred—mango tree, her exit, Jimmy’s laugh. He thought of Macbeth’s ambition.

He leaned back, cool. “I could.”

Natasha smiled, tilting her head. “I know you could.”

“But what’s the fun?” Shaky smirked. “I want you to learn.”

Natasha blinked, laughed—short, incredulous. “Bho, be difficult.”

She walked away, but Jimmy plopped down, munching. “Shaky saying no? Rewriting history, mufesi wangu.”

Shaky grinned, flipping his notebook. Maybe his own story.

The boys sprawled on football grounds, sun stretching shadows. A scuffed ball lay battered.

Jimmy traced dirt patterns. “Some shouldn’t touch English exams.”

Shaky raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

Jimmy grinned. “Asked Chido about ‘reiterated.’ She said, ‘What’s it mean?’ I said, ‘Repeating something.’ She deadpanned, ‘Why not say repeating?’”

Brian, listening, laughed. “Mufesi wangu, who says ‘reiterated’ in life? Flexing English?”

Shaky burst out. “She proved your point.”

Jimmy smirked. “Testing? I call it entertainment.”

Loyalty was easy here, with a friend who knew him best.

Football grounds quiet after school. Natasha leaned in, smirk sharp, eyes flickering—keeping her queen’s mask tight. “Jimmy, a favor—homework, maybe more. Urikukwata here?”

Jimmy shifted, caught. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“Shaky doesn’t need to know,” she added, honeyed.

Shaky’s voice echoed in Jimmy’s head: “Mufesi wangu, loyalty’s everything.” But Natasha’s gaze was a drug.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Morning sun glared across the assembly point. Shaky’s frayed socks betrayed him, a mark of struggle.

Mr. Moyo boomed. “Routine search! Bags open!”

Prefects moved, hands quick. Shaky clutched his notebook, heart pounding—not guilt, but dread.

“Sibanda! Shoes off!”

He slipped them off, torn socks exposed. Laughter erupted, cruel.

“Enough!” Mr. Moyo silenced the crowd.

Shaky caught Natasha’s gaze—not mocking, curious.

Jimmy leaned over. “Forget them, mufesi wangu. They’re bored.”

Later, whispers shifted: “Mbanje—weed—in Brian’s bag.”

Jimmy nudged. “Torn socks aren’t the worst, huh?”

Shaky smirked, notebook tight. That night, he wrote: Beneath this mango shade, I scribble scars, / My socks betray me, frayed as dreams deferred. / Yet shame’s a ghost, like Banquo, cold, untrue.

Monday buzzed with chaos—prefects barking, tuck shop packed with Zapnax, Freezit. Shaky spotted Jimmy, shoulders hunched, near football grounds.

“Mufesi wangu,” Shaky called, jogging over, notebook under arm. “Where were you this weekend? Called ten times!”

Jimmy shrugged, eyes averted, fingers brushing a crumpled note—Natasha’s handwriting, Shaky guessed. “Busy.”

“Busy what?”

Jimmy’s voice dropped. “Masinhi angu… stuff, mufesi wangu.”

Shaky stepped back, his best friend slipping away. Natasha leaned against the wall, smirking.

Sun dipped, painting football grounds gold. Shaky’s fists clenched, marching toward Jimmy, laughing with Natasha.

Brian’s words burned: “Saw them at the shopping center, cozy as hell.”

“You were with her?” Shaky’s voice sliced.

Jimmy froze. “Mufesi wangu, relax—”

“Relax?” Shaky laughed, bitter. “You ghosted me, playing sidekick to her?”

Natasha smirked. “Didn’t know you leashed your boy, Shakespeare.”

Shaky ignored her. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Jimmy’s gaze dropped.

“You folded?” Shaky’s voice cracked. “Like Macbeth, chasing her crown, selling loyalty? Mafesi haaparadzaniswe nekudya bota!”

Natasha tilted her head. “Everything’s about you, huh?”

Brian’s voice rang, venomous. “Yo, Jimmy! Natasha gave you a ‘souvenir’—clinic sort that rash, mufesi wangu?”

Silence crashed. Jimmy paled. Natasha’s smirk faltered.

“Shut up, Brian!” Jimmy snapped, whispers spreading.

Shaky exhaled. “This isn’t just loyalty.”

Jimmy met his eyes, regret thick. “I messed up.”

Shaky nodded, low. “Yeah. You did.”

Sports day roared—students shouting bets, football chaos. Brian, nursing mbanje, spread the “souvenir” rumor—Natasha’s “rash” on Jimmy—out of jealousy, craving her crown. His luck ran dry when ghetto dropouts demanded his liquor. A punch, screams, teachers swarmed. Brian, drunk, was hauled to admin.

Jimmy found Shaky under the mango tree. “Mufesi wangu, I messed up.”

Shaky sighed. “Fix loyalty by proving it.”

Jimmy pulled new socks from his bag. “For you. No more assembly nonsense.”

Shaky smiled. “You’re learning.”

He walked to Natasha. “I need you to know something.”

Natasha: (eyebrow raised) Oh?

Shaky: I never wanted you. I wanted your differences—confidence, your world. I’m good with mine now.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, silent, braids swaying, no comeback.

Under the mango tree, Shaky wrote Under the Mango Tree:

Beneath this mango shade, I scribble scars,

Words like sadza crumbs, scattered, never whole.

My socks betray me, frayed as dreams deferred,

Yet shame’s a ghost, like Banquo, cold, untrue.

Natasha’s braids gleam like Zapnax foil,

Her crown I chased, but never mine to hold.

Mufesi wangu, you sold our bond for crumbs,

Mafesi haaparadzaniswe nekudya bota!

Loyalty’s no debt—it’s fire, it’s choice.

My pen carves truths no ghost can hush.

The bell rang, but Shaky kept writing, Banquo’s ghost at rest.