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    This historical fiction narrates the

    untold stories

    of the ordinary boys and girls who abandoned school, job and family. They joined the revolution, suffered and sacrificed their lives for the liberation of their country, Zimbabwe. On the sacred hill of the national Heroes Acre, they are remembered, faceless and nameless, by The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Meet the Author

Thomas Sukutai Bvuma

Sukutai Bvuma has a Masters degree in Media Studies from the University of Oslo, Norway (1998-99). He worked as a diplomat in Mozambique, United Kingdom, the United States of America and Zimbabwe’s first ambassador to Brazil.

Thomas Sukutai Bvuma started writing poems when he was a high-school student, two of his poems are published in the compilation of Zimbabwean revolutionary poems. Bvuma has his own volume of poems, Every Stone That Turns, which became a high school and university textbook for 15 years. He now presents his first novel, The Chosen Generation.

The Chosen Generation

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The Rhodesians branded them terrorists, persecuted and sought to massacre and annihilate them at the front and at the rear.

The liberation movements portrayed them as irrespressible guerrillas who performed wonders like bringing down a mirage jet fighter with an AK-47 submachine gun. This historical fiction narrates the hitherto untold sufferings and sacrifices of the ordinary boys and girls who abandoned school, job and family. They joined the revolution to fight for the liberation of their country, Zimbabwe

The Real Poetry

Was carved across centuries
Of chains and whips
It was written in the red streams
Resisting the violence of
'Effective occupation'
It was engraved in killings in Katanga
In the betrayals of Mau-Mau
In countless anti-people coups
Its beat was bones in Bissau
Its metaphors massacres in Mozambique
Its alliteration agony in Angola
Its form and zenith
Fighting in Zimbabwe
The real poetry
Is sweat scouring down
The backed valley of the peasant's back
Down to the starved gorge of his buttocks
It bubbles and boils
In the blisters of the farm labourer
It glides in the greased hands
Of the factory worker
Not a private paradise
Nor an individual inferno
But the pain and pleasure
Of people in struggle.

- by Thomas Sukutai Bvuma (Carlos Chombo)