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Relato sobre Nzuzu:
Anita Jacobson-Widding , University of Uppsala, Sweden.
- Have you heard the story about nzuzu? I mean, the mermaid, that beautiful
woman who sometimes drags people into her pool?
The man who asked me this question was John Takawira, who was later to
become one of the most famous sculptors of Zimbabwe, especially after his
premature death in 1990. But when he asked me about the beautiful lady in
the pool, he was not yet famous. It was in 1984, and he was still working as
an apprentice in the workshop that his elder brother Bernhard Takawira had
set up in his courtyard, in the outskirts of Harare. Bernhard was already a
well established artist, and had exhibited his stone sculptures in London and
New York.
When my conversation with John took place, he was about to finish the
carving of a huge piece of stone in his brother's outdoor workshop. A few
more stone carvers were working there, among them his younger brother
Lazarus. The three brothers were close colleagues and competitors.
The sculpture that John was working on portrayed a beautiful woman with
long, undulating hair, which seemed to be floating away from her like waves
in a lake. Her head was joined with her torso by a long, narrow neck, that
was stretched so as to permit the face to turn sideways. She was looking
away - far away from any possible spectator who might be imagined
standing in front of her.
I asked John what he thought about this woman, who appeared to be so
inaccessible. It was then that he posed the question about nzuzu, the
mermaid: "Have you heard that story?"
I already had. It was one of the favorite narratives that people wished to tell,
when they were gathered in somebody's kitchen in the rural areas in
Zimbabwe. I had listened to it many times while doing my anthropological
fieldwork among the Manyika in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe. While
we had been sitting around the fire in some grandmother's cooking hut, late
at night, I had often asked people to choose their favorite ngano (= fairy
tale). I knew that this time and place was the only possible setting for a
ngano. Nobody would tell a ngano outdoors, in the daylight. And nobody
would do it unless there was a relaxed, confidential atmosphere, and a small
group of listeners, who could join in the songs that went with almost all the
ngano. The song text would display the symbolism of the ngano in a less
disguised form than the prose. In narratives having sexual connotations, the
songs are indispensable, and everybody has to join in the singing, so as to
cover up the potential embarrassment of the narrator.
However, the narratives about nzuzu, the mermaid, were never told with
interruptions for songs. People would just tell the story, but they would often
embroider the standard theme with details that seemed to reflect their own
attitude to life. And they did not necessarily demand the appropriate setting
for story telling. It sometimes happened that some Manyika friend of mine
stopped at a certain distance from a pool, and told me that he would not like
to approach that pool, because of the dangerous nzuzu who lived there. And
so I was told the story of nzuzu even outdoors, in daylight. Nevertheless, the
narrative was always told in a low voice, as if the narrator were sharing a
secret with me.
When John Takawira asked me if I knew the story about the beautiful
woman in the pool, I pretended that I had never heard it before. I wanted to
listen to his version. John left his carving tools, and began to walk slowly
toward a little cabin in the court yard. I followed him. When we were out of
earshot of the other artists, he began to tell his story, in a low, confidential
tone of voice. As usual, it was like sharing a secret. This is how his narrative