In as much as this piece is not intended a reflection, so total, an advocate for infantile representation in fiction. It is, rather, identifying and marking out the bounds of the different stages. However, this growing stage is denigrated because of its inexperience. But, we notice it’s an all-joy and most happy stage whose exuberance hits a possible reverie at a later time in life. In works featuring child and adolescent characters, the rapport displayed quite seem to imitate a big chasm. Because, on going back to such work you possibly calibrate it with your present development. Of course you may not have to let it at first! Rather, in such attempt, there’s a shutting out of the spontaneity of discussions-while not leaving off a supposed link and seeming gullibility of spewing on until bumping into another little detail, and it goes on whereas there’s been a breakage of flow somewhere. It’s a kind of vent through which a character shows himself or herself. And the reader, in same breath, acquiesces the self into the make-up of events and characters because they had been shown, perhaps subtly too.
On the contrary as earlier surmised; children are intelligent, sensitive, grasping every detail with the slightest prompt of perception. In the process, making audible what is obvious that should have been left to lie.
Another, their glaring innocence in speech and act, as matter of fact, is one thing that shouldn’t go on unappreciated. At least, one could be appreciated for not living sham. They show you in plane transparency the society that nurtures them. As a host of interpreters that we are, of varying length, we sooner begin to view/understand a particular statement/gesture in a different light-light of adulthood. On how silly, probably spoilt, wild or disciplined a character was. Nevertheless, citing a perfect incorporation of this feature of innocence and sheer portrayal manifest in Noviolet Bulawayo’s Hitting Budapest;with unclasping/steady eyelids, we observe Chipo, Bastard, Darling and others in one of their abrupt moments of discussion while roaming about for guava’s into Budapest.
The other kids had stopped short for Chipo who was pregnant. Barely had they given in to wait that Bastard quipped; “when are you going to have the baby anyway?” even amidst Bastard’s reservation on playing with the pregnant fellow; Chipo. On how badly she slowed down things, and they wouldn’t forego the luxury of letting themselves be caught up by her. Still, peers always are. This group of children from same neighbourhood had blended so well that they always are a group, considerate!
On a face level, one might begin to wonder about this adult who asks one where her baby was going to come out from. Then we begin to presume such, child-like, and never to be unhinged as child-like. Until it bulged into another detailing:
“Where exactly does a baby come out from?”
“From the same way it gets into the stomach.”
“First, God has to put it in there.”
“No, not God” One interjected and immediately adds; “A man has to put it in there, my cousin Musa told me. Didn’t your grandfather put it in there Chipo?” he submitted in the stead of God.
And how ordinarily their conversations wore on without being forced up and jittered as a result, in the end, things looked as though they hadn’t been a fiction after all. And how it had been a perfectly written recant of past experiences which otherwise would be a non-fiction.