“Jeremiah’s Wives” sets the stage ablaze

PATIENCE MUSA

There are books. And then, there are experiences disguised as books—books that ask to be read not just with the mind, but with the pulse. Books that dare to whisper inconvenient truths while entertaining with a wicked glint in the eye. Ray Mawerera’s latest offering, Jeremiah’s Wives, is exactly that kind of book—an elegant contradiction, as complex as the African social condition it seeks to reflect.

There’s something quietly subversive about Ray Mawerera’s Jeremiah’s Wives—a collection of short stories that arrives not with the pomp of a bestseller, but with the gentle force of a well-told secret, passed from one fireside to another.

The stories hum with the rhythm of lived life—ours, our neighbour’s, our grandmother’s. Rooted in the contradictions of African societies navigating modernity, tradition, love, betrayal, abuse, and the messiness in between, Mawerera’s work does not seek to explain these complexities. Instead, it lays them bare. It dares you to look. And to look again.

The title story, from which the collection takes its name, introduces Jeremiah—a fictional character who feels almost too real. A man caught not in the glory but in the everyday drag of a polygamous union, justified, he claims, by “force of circumstance.” But his neighbours see a different story: the stereotypical wealthy man with too many wives and too much ego. Reality, however, is rarely that linear. Through the eyes of three vastly different women who share his name, we discover that intersections are not always connections, and repetition does not mean resolution. Each character replays the past with their own edits, until the story fractures into truths that contradict and complete each other.

Mawerera doesn’t romanticise the entanglements. He acknowledges the risk: “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone accused me of trying to justify polygamy,” he admits with a knowing laugh. Yet the stories resist such easy accusations. Rather, they pose uncomfortable questions: Is polygamy more honest than modern affairs conducted in secret? Does it offer stability or shatter trust? What does tradition owe to truth?

Beyond Jeremiah’s Wives, the collection is threaded with tales of power plays, mythologies, and everyday heartbreaks. There is Tamara, an innocent girl whose abuse is told without flinching. There are children navigating township streets with unexpected wisdom—like one who declares, “It doesn’t matter. We’re all in the gutter,” with a gravitas that leaves you breathless. That line, Mawerera says, tucked in the mischief of boyhood adventure, lingers with him most.

Many of the stories were written over years—some as far back as 2000. And yet, they speak with an eerie relevance to today’s Zimbabwe, where very little changes, even as everything changes. Research, memory, and overheard conversations blend in stories that feel both documentary and dreamlike. He writes visually, always nudging the reader to see what’s happening. Not just read it.

It is no wonder then that Mawerera chose to launch the book not with a quiet reading, but with a full-throated stage performance. A scene from the main story was adapted into a one-woman show, directed by the legendary Daves Guzha, brought to life by singer-turned-actress Buhle. Music by Gwevedzi carried the story’s emotional undercurrent. Evelyn—the third wife and a firestorm of charisma, manipulation, and wild unpredictability—delivered lines that sizzled. “I didn’t think my writing was as naughty as it came out on stage!” Mawerera chuckles, half in awe of his own creation. The audience was captivated. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Nothing missed.

This theatrical moment wasn’t just an event; it was a declaration. That books could leap from the page. That launches could be visceral. That storytelling could be immersive again. “People enjoy seeing things done in ways they’ve never seen before,” he reflects. “Maybe it’s another way to help people find their way back to reading.”

And they are finding their way. Drawn by the cover—beautiful and mysterious—readers have begun sharing feedback, some already asking if this, too, will become a film. Or a longer play. The future may hold both. What’s certain is that Mawerera, who once pulled a story because a character refused to behave, still has more to say. Possibly through new books, new plays, or new formats altogether.

But Jeremiah’s Wives stands as its own triumph. It doesn’t hand over moral answers on a silver platter. It doesn’t pander. Instead, it entertains while gently unsettling. It asks you to stop assuming. To sit with contradictions. And to be okay with the idea that sometimes, stories don’t confirm what you thought you knew. They undo it.

If there’s a book you buy this year, let it be this one. Let it sit on your table. Let its stories interrupt your day. Because, as Mawerera shows us so vividly, nothing—not even love, tradition, or truth—is ever what it seems.