24/12/2025
The Pen Has Fallen: A reflection on the Death of reading culture.
The culture of reading is dead, and the culture of scrolling through social media has sunk its teeth into the jugular of the youth across all nations. It has grabbed the world by its bo****ks, and nobody seems to care. Children are now raised by gadgets that inevitably lead them to TikTokāanother pandemic, an infestation worse than o***m.
Nobody gives a hoot about the written word or literary works anymore, not even on social media. Text-heavy posts are ignored as if they suffer from leprosy, or worse, Ebola. Yet, like flies drawn to honey, the same audiences are magnetically pulled toward naked women flaunting their honey-dripping architecture. Mesmerising, indeedāthe so-called eighth wonder of the world.
Growing up, I developed a love for literature, inspired by my late uncle, Darlington. He encouraged me to register for Literature in English in high school even though my school did not offer the subject. I registered, studied alone at home, wrote the exam, and passed.
At the time, my uncle was attending school in Trelawney , Banket, near Chinhoyi. During holidays, he brought home booksāschool set pieces and many more. He first introduced me to literature through The Trial of Dedan Kimathi, later translated into Kutongwa kwaDedan Kimathi.
I was young and living in Murewa, but that was where the culture of reading took root in me. He later gave me a book by Shimmer Chinodya, written in flashbackāa style that fascinated me. That book later became one of my O-Level set pieces, alongside The Merchant of Venice and Animal Farm.
There was also a gentleman in Murewa, a friend of my uncle, who owned a private library in the rural areas. His collection was vastānovels, academic books, and everything in between. We borrowed books from him the way one would from a formal library. He was generous, and his contribution to my love for literature was immense.
It was through this exposure that I encountered the works of Dambudzo Marechera, first through writings by Flora Veit-Wild, and later through Marecheraās own works: House of Hunger, The Cemetery of Mind, The Black Insider, and others.
Dambudzo Marechera was a geniusācomplicated, misunderstood, and acknowledged mostly after his death. His English was deep and difficult, like the mathematics of language. When I first read House of Hunger as a youngster, I struggled to grasp his style.
The Cemetery of Mind did not make it easier; instead, my own mind felt buried in that cemetery. The Black Insider, a collection of short stories, was even more treacherous.
In simple terms, Marechera was a rare individual whose value was dismissed during his lifetime. Publishers refused to publish his work, arguing that it was too complex and had no market. He insisted otherwiseāthat there would always be readers with the intellect to engage his writing. History proved him right.
My reading was not limited to English literature. I also devoured Shona novelsāwell-written, engaging, and impossible to put down once started. I read countless Pacesetters by Nigerian and Ghanaian authors. Today, I wonder where those books are and whether they are still being published.
Technology has since changed how literature is consumed. Books are now read on gadgets. Yet even then, few people read. Home libraries are rare. Social media scrolling has taken over, with people spending countless hours on TikTok or Facebook while gaining little of lasting value.
The mind is dying slowly. Simple conversations expose the absence of reading. Vocabulary thins. Thought weakens. Depth disappears.
In fact, the pen has fallenāand it is dying a slow death.
