The ManicaPost
Morris Mtisi
ALL ‘A’ and ‘B’ students did not learn all their English from the teacher or classroom practitioner. It was through reading, reading and reading.
Teachers! Do not play down on the power of wide reading. And wide reading refers to an appetite to read anything beyond Structures and Skills or Step 1, 2, 3–whatever. There are thousands of novels and short stories around your students and these can be perfect ground for acquisition of better vocabulary and expression, various styles of narrating a story and other forms of linguistic craftsmanship (is it also called craftswomanship?
All good teachers need to do is guide students and pupils to establish a reason or purpose for reading whatever they choose to read. For example, am I reading to learn how direct speech (dialogue) is used to give a story life, how it is punctuated, how writer uses imagery, metaphor and other forms of figurative expression; how the writer skilfully uses descriptive detail; use of strong verbs and adjectives and not clichés (tired words and expression-overworked / overused words); use of the adverb to achieve vivid description of action.
Carefully go through the following excerpts. You will clearly appreciate all the above tips and guidelines: Do not overlook the writer’s eye for detail. That can be your strength in composition writing. Why not?
(Page 17) Before you knew it, Caro was all over you being nice and friendly, often mixing warmth with pride and exaggerated self-confidence. She was quite good-looking, but more like a magazine cover girl…..the commercial sort of looks, offensively pretty, if you like, too much worked upon.
(Page 7) So quite frankly what looked like soft-heartedness, generosity and sociability often ended up being sheer physical extravagance, thoughtlessness and sexual disorientation.
(Page 25) There was a simple concrete precast wall around House No. 113 B. The yard was fairly big although most of it had been taken up by servant’s quarters, an old bathroom and outside toilet in-one, specially renovated to suit student lodgers. There were a couple of junk vehicles outside, among them a 1960 Bedford lorry.
(Page 26) She was quite old, certainly not the type that trusted men more than necessary. From her own thorough personal upkeep and visible effort to remain young, MaKatawe always did not seem to be impressed at all. At 65, perhaps 70, the old lady still wore make up, very faintly and sparingly though. Sometimes if you got close enough and examined those superfluous lips, she too had applied a very gentle touch of lip-stick.
(Page 31) I walked out of the gate. I wanted to buy some tomatoes and a bunch of vegetables at the roadside stall. But I also wanted a bit of fresh air and a break from two initiated university whores who wanted to prove to me that they were saints or angels and had a right to enjoy whatever pleasure they could derive from any part of a body that belonged to them.
(Page 35) Soon the lawns carpeted the campus in rich velvet green. The deciduous sycamore, the poplar and larch this time of the year naturally began to lose their leaves in order to put on a new green in November. The early jacaranda trees were already in full colour and nature proudly seemed to be celebrating mass honey-moons and weddings.
(Page 38) She had commitments elsewhere, she had said. Yet here she was today, live and kicking, in her usual hoity-toity and exaggerated confidence.
Today, she looked like a supermodel in spotless white figure-enhancing pants, super-structured hot pants. And then the unfettered femininity contained in the upper body; a chiffon dainty print signal. She was not only alluring and enticing. She really looked hot. Titivating herself before going out was Caro’s best creative art.
(Page 38) Soon the State President’s convoy escorting His Excellency was conspicuous by its loud whining sirens and majestic formation. The speed, the precision and traditional traffic-flanking manoeuvre was as impeccable as ever; spectacular and faultless.
The leading and warning guard shot his way ahead, arrowing into Northwood University in the usual dare-devil speed, clearing the way. He was sheer lightning on motor-bike, flying and whining the familiar siren. For a while the road to NU was still. Then the campus almost immediately came to quiet anxious order.
(All the excerpts are taken from the novel Studying For The Grave by Morris Mtisi, Copyright Morris Mtisi (2016). [email protected]
