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We Need New Stories is a series of 9 short new audio stories inspired by oral history interviews of Zimbabwean-born residents living in Nottingham.
Everyone featured in the oral histories were interviewed on camera in October 2022 by young people from the African diaspora. The resulting stories have been dramatised by playwright Zodwa Nyoni and recorded by actors.
You can view the original oral history interviews on each of the episode pages on Fifth Word's Website and in person at Nottingham Local Studies Library. The series also contains a bonus episode featuring an interview between playwright Zodwa Nyoni and director Anastasia Osei-Kuffour about the making of these audio stories.
All episodes are available for free on major listening platforms. Some stories contain sensitive subject matter including references to violence and racism.
This project has been supported by the National Lottery’s Heritage Fund, Nottingham Playhouse and The Space.
Welcome to Fifth Word's
We Need New Stories.
Episode four, Vinnie's Story.
It was in love, I was
created, written by Zodwa
Nyoni and directed by
Anastasia Osei-Kuffour.
This episode contains
references to
violence and racism.
Fairy tales don't tell
you the truth about love.
The truth is told after the
phrase, "the end" is said,
there commitment is tested.
There we see how love is up,
down, entangled in knots,
and sometimes stretched
beyond its capacity.
I know this because
I've witnessed it.
When my mom, Rita met
my dad, Eric, her heart
still carried grief.
There had been another man
she'd loved before him.
My biological dad
was a Mozambican man
who'd found himself in
Zimbabwe in the 1970s.
He worked with his hands
building roads from Kazungula,
a small border town in Zambia,
close to Victoria Falls.
A resort town known
for Mosi-oa-Tunya, the
smoke that thunders.
Little did he know that those
roads would lead him to my
mother, who was working in
another town called Hwange.
It was known for elephants,
giraffe's, lions, and buffalo.
Wild was their fate
as it would turn out.
They dated and dreamt
a forever together.
Soon my dad would return
to his homeland, jubilantly
carrying the news that he
was to become a father.
It was decided that they
would move to Mozambique
and start their new life.
He came back to Zimbabwe to
collect his love, his Rita
Roads lead us to
new beginnings.
And sometimes to
unexpected endings.
My father briefly
returned to work.
Unbeknownst to him, buried
beneath the earth, on what
started as a normal day,
was a hidden landmine.
My parents forever after was
left scattered like debris, my
father never got to meet me.
But his love grew
in my mother's womb.
She returned to her
hometown Bulawayo.
The story goes at my
birth, my mother's body
was riddled with malaria.
The nuns at Mater Dei
Hospital were preparing
to read her last rights.
It seemed like tragedy was
going to follow her life,
but neither of us were
prepared to leave this earth
with incomplete stories.
She fought.
I was born in 1972
named Vinnie, daughter
of Mighty Rita.
My mother raised me alone
whilst working as an auxiliary
nurse at Ingutsheni, a
mental health hospital.
My grandmother would help.
During the weekend, we
had the routine down.
In 1975, Eric would
come into our lives.
He was a white man from
Nottingham who'd come to
Rhodesia to work as the charge
nurse at my mum's hospital.
Once again, love had crossed.
Borders to meet her this time.
The danger could not be
dug out of the asphalt.
It was ingrained in the
segregation and hate.
Drinking fountains
had whites only signs.
Blacks were in townships,
whites in suburbs.
Rebels hunted white men,
they saw as oppressors.
Love would have to be bravely
fought for by all of us.
Mom and Eric dated
for two years.
In 1977, they adopted a
black baby girl named Iris.
We became a happy
family of four people.
Stared at my family,
especially when me and my
little sister would call
this tall white man dad.
It didn't make
us feel awkward.
It made us feel protect.
In 1980 when Zimbabwe's
independence was gained, the
society finally caught up
with my family's diversity.
Schools became integrated.
I loved my primary school.
I remember Mrs.
Miles used to play the
piano with elegantly
long painted fingernails.
Things seemed possible for us.
Then in my first year of
high school at Montrose, my
mum and dad told us that we
would be moving to Nottingham.
I'd never wanted
to come to England.
I liked my life
and my friends.
But it was our turn to
cross borders for love.
In 1985, we arrived in London.
It was the August bank
holiday, and so there
was no public transport.
We hired a car and
drove to Nottingham.
They were smaller and boxier.
The news spoke often of
racial tension, burning
cars and riots in Brixton.
Mum and dad had each
other for support.
My little sister and I
had to find our people.
I thought we would in school,
but I quickly learned that in
Cotgrave, we were outcasts,
niggers, sambos, and darkies.
At swimming, the kids couldn't
believe that the bottom of my
feet were white like theirs.
They'd ask if black
men had white sperm.
They'd yelled that we should
go back to where we came from.
I was 13.
I thought we'd left
all this hate behind.
Didn't tell my
parents at first.
But, eventually I
confessed that I was
being racially abused.
Dad went to the headmaster and
told him that if they didn't
intervene, he would write
to the race relations board
complaining about the school.
My dad did his best,
but the bullying didn't
stop as worldly as he'd
been in his travels and
friendships, all he could
offer us was positivity and
the reassurance that our
goodness would be enough
to prevail in his world.
Sometimes I think he didn't
know how to speak to our pain.
He loved us deeply, but
he could never experience
Nottingham from the
perspective of his
black wife and children.
No matter how bad the bullying
got, I never compromised
or swallowed who I was.
I loved myself
harder and louder.
I told myself that I
had to defend myself.
My main bully's reckoning
day came in maths as usual.
I was his target practice
and the teacher wasn't
doing anything to stop him.
Frustrated, I got up, walked
towards him and smacked him.
I punched him.
I grabbed his hair
and banged his head on
the table repeatedly
until his nose bled.
Finally, the teacher
was forced to intervene,
but it was too late.
My point had been made.
No one abuses Vinnie any more.
Once that was settled, I found
myself opening up more to
what Nottingham had to offer.
I made a small group of
girlfriends from the next
Village, Radcliffe-on-Trent.
We do sleepovers, go to
the disco to watch movies
and eat fish and chips
drenched in vinegar.
They dated boys and I
went home because mum and
dad wouldn't let me date.
I started making my own
money from part-time
jobs in Poundstretcher
and truck stop cafes.
Laura and I spent it
all on late nights in
Astoria and Black oOrchid
drinking Bacardi and coke.
We get absolutely
bladdered and fake American
accents to make ourselves
sound more interesting.
I'm glad love made
us make this ocean
crossing for my dad.
If we hadn't, I never
would've met the
childhood friends I have.
I never would've
experienced the beautiful
blending of my Zimbabwean
heritage with my British
citizenship, and I certainly
wouldn't have met Ike.
Ike and I met in 1997.
I was in my late twenties,
and he was the Nigerian
friend of a friend at a braai.
He was a nice guy, but
we didn't speak much.
It wasn't until a few years
later when I saw him at a
funeral of a family friend
of his then girlfriend.
I'm not saying I had a hand
in breaking them up, but I
will say he remembered me
and there didn't last long
after that, we connected
and began our love story.
20 years later, we
are still going strong
and living in London.
The push and pull of love
of a person, of a country,
of a culture of a time
is how I was created.
I wouldn't have had
it any other way.
Thank you for listening.
If you enjoyed this episode,
please share with others.
All episodes in this series
are available on major
listening platforms and
on Fifth Word's website.
The next episode in
this series is Munashe’s
Story, Keeping Notes.