Philemon (Phil) Matibe’s memoir, Madhinga Bucket Boy: From Boyhood in Colonial Rhodesia to Manhood in Zimbabwe, A Native Son’s Story, is a fresh read from US imprint Mbedzi Publishing.
Mdedzi is looking for a South African distributor or co-publisher for the book, which has its own comprehensive Facebook page, with excerpts in abundance.
We reciprocate their generosity, and hope to help them find a local match, with BOOK SA link love. Here’s the blurb:
Madhinga Bucket Boy is unlike any other memoir to come out of Africa in recent years. It is not the story of a soldier child, a ghetto street survivor, or a white colonialist rising above (or wallowing in) an apartheid-like regime. It is a coming-of- age story written by a black African born in Rhodesia, himself a “product of excessive motorcycle speed, alcohol, and raw tribal passion between two native lovers.”
Amid the evils of apartheid, a quest for humanity; against the terrors of tyranny, a cry for freedom. In one of the most compelling memoirs to emerge from modern Africa, the renowned political exile recounts his experience in the former “breadbasket of Africa,” from growing up in white-supremacist Rhodesia to speaking out in Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.
From his “accidental” birth in 1967, Matibe brings to life his boyhood with the spare eloquence and easy humor of the tales told around his village campfire. He commemorates the clutch of an affectionate family in an oppressive society. He marvels as his parents make the necessary compromises with a brutal, all-powerful system without compromising their honor. And he recalls his brief infatuation with a charismatic young revolutionary named Mugabe—until his uncle’s ultimate sacrifice points him to a more authentic meaning of freedom.
And here’s an excerpt:
From Madhinga Bucket Boy Chapter 18: Boarding School, Cowbells, and Donkeys
As I walked out of the store holding cold bottles of Sparletta drinks, something caught the corner of my eye. Two donkeys with bags of maize meal on their backs, ready to be off-loaded at the grinding mill next door, were standing there.The shop assistant who had served us was white—by that I mean he was covered in white powder from the corn meal. The grinding mill was adjacent to the store, separated only by an open door. The air was filled with the smell of diesel fumes from the noisy air-cooled Yanmar low speed diesel engine that powered the hammer mill. There was no electricity in rural Rhodesia.
Book details
Image courtesy Mbedzi Publishing
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