First Floor Gallery Harare presents Maoko Maranda, a new body of work by Zimbabwean artist Tashinga Majiri. Here, hands are never just hands — they become metaphors for identity, memory, and resilience. They carry stories of labor and struggle, but also of tenderness and creation. In this conversation, Majiri also speaks about hands as characters, the rhythm linking his poetry and paintings, and the dialogue between tradition and contemporary life.

You have an exhibition on view at First Floor Gallery Harare titled Maoko Maranda. What does the title mean, and what is the theme of the exhibition?

Maoko Maranda comes from the Shona phrase “Maoko maranda, haana muranda” — “Hands are servants, they have no master.” Growing up in Mufakose, a township built for the colonial workforce, I saw how life depended on labor. My father was a welder as well as a farmer, my mum was crocheting; survival was in their hands. For me, hands are metaphors — they represent people and carry memory, family, livelihood. And they hold a duality: they can build or they can destroy.

You can express a lot of emotions using only hands, without showing the whole human form. How do you use them to express emotion or relationships?

I watch how my hands interact with those around me — my wife, my daughter, my friends.  When I think about hands, I think about everything they’ve done: the good, the bad, the scars, and the tenderness. My daughter holding my hand, seeing me as her hero, is one of the strongest images I know. Her innocence, her purity, is contained in that small gesture. So when I paint hands, I paint personalities, even characters: some marked by struggle and resilience, others still innocent and untouched. Hands become storytellers.

One of your works features boxing gloves, a powerful complex symbol — it reminded me of defense but also aggression, even violence. How do you see it?

For me, boxing gloves represent courage. In karate there is kumite — “the exchange of hands.” Wearing gloves means you are ready for that exchange, ready to face the unknown. It’s fear and adrenaline, but also responsibility: once you put them on, you accept the weight of your actions. True discipline is not just having power, but knowing it and holding it with composure.

Your works are very layered, balancing figuration and abstraction. How do you approach this?

Abstraction is freedom. I begin with pure emotion, which is an abstract layer — the first mark always calls for the next. Out of this flow, figurative elements appear, often hands. My printmaking background shaped me: I usually start with a monotype, creating chaos. Then figures emerge, then abstraction again. It’s a back-and-forth between structure and emotion, anchoring the work while keeping it alive.

When do you know a painting is finished?

That’s always tricky. Sometimes the thought is simply: don’t mess it up. There’s a fine line — if I push too far, I risk losing what’s already there. I try to stop when the painting has said everything it needs to say. Overworking or underworking is easy, but when you hit that sweet spot, it feels like magic — you just know.

I also enjoyed your smaller paintings of hands — almost like portraits. How did those begin?

At first it was practical, but they grew into characters. I worked on several at once, each developing its own personality, yet all connected. Because of their size, there was also a kind of freedom — anything could happen, so I really enjoyed exploring all these possibilities within such a small space. It’s like concentrating the energy: you only have room for a few gestures, so every mark has to count. Like with a haiku, you have to say everything in just a few lines.

You also write poetry. How has your background in poetry shaped your art or your compositions?

Poetry and painting are parallel worlds. In poetry, you arrange words for impact; in painting, colors and forms. Both are about rhythm, both are about resonance. Some ideas only work in words, others in images. I try to be a vessel for whatever form the idea takes.

How did you find your way from poetry to visual art?

I’ve always been interested in creating — both drawing and writing were there from the beginning. For a while, poetry took the lead. But then I met people who really opened up the world of visual art for me — artists who mixed fantasy and reality in fascinating ways. Visiting the National Gallery of Zimbabwe and being exposed to that environment pushed me more and more toward painting. The writing never disappeared, but visual art became the main focus.

At some point you began combining the two: you had compositions where you included automatic writing.

Yes, exactly. For me, automatic writing is part of the abstraction process. When I start a painting, I sometimes write down whatever I’m feeling in that moment — words, fragments, even scribbles — just to charge the canvas with life. It’s about capturing that instant honestly, leaving behind a trace of emotion. Later, many of those words get layered over or partially erased, but something of them always remains, adding to the depth of the painting.

In this exhibition, your forms often feel fluid, almost like writing. What does fluidity mean to you?

It’s about metamorphosis. Life is never still; everything is in motion. Fluidity makes the canvas breathe, as if forms are shifting. It’s also tied to music. I paint to rhythm — fast strokes, slow strokes, like translating sound into movement.

Do you consciously connect rhythm in painting, poetry, and music?

Yes, it’s about finding the heartbeat. In music, you have lyrics and instruments, but what stays is the emotional pulse. In painting and poetry it’s the same: you try to capture that resonance. When the things I’m reading, listening to, and painting align, that resonance creates a connection — and when it’s there, I know the work is alive.

And your colors? In this series you use intense blues and reds.

Colors are energy. I choose them by emotion, not symbolism. At the time of this series I was swimming in blues and reds — heaviness, urgency, intensity. Those colors carried the frequency I needed to express.

Let’s go back a little. Before this current body of work, you were more focused on nature. I’m curious about the path: how did you move from nature to human forms?

Nature was my starting point. At that time, I lived close to wild, open spaces outside the township felt like another world. Nature is where life begins, so it felt right to start there. But soon I turned inward, asking: What is our role in shaping or destroying that nature? That’s when hands appeared: tools of both creation and destruction.

You grew up in Mufakose. How did that background shape you?

The word that comes to mind is resilience. Mufakose is a place that tests you. Growing up there, you think it’s the whole world, only later do you realize the contrasts — the different standards, the access others had that you didn’t. But struggle gave me questions — and questions are the raw material for an artist. The downside was the lack of role models. No one around us was an artist. When I told my family I wanted to be one, they asked: “Who has made it?” I said: “Then I’ll be the one.” That stubborn energy pushed me forward.

What do you think is the biggest challenge today for an artist in Zimbabwe?

There are many challenges, but if I had to choose one, I’d say access. As artists, we’re now part of a global audience — but where you’re coming from still shapes what’s available to you. Not just to opportunities, but to knowledge.

I sometimes see my peers who had access to certain things as children or teenagers — things I only learned in my twenties. And I ask myself, where would I be now if I had known that earlier? But being an artist is a long journey. If someone starts at five or ten, they’re already far ahead, while if you discover it later, you’re always catching up.

Zimbabwe has a strong culture and history, but also a colonial past. How do you express these contexts in your paintings? 

For a work to resonate, it usually begins on a personal level. But I’m always aware that I belong to a culture, to a country, to a history. The personal always connects to history.

For example, Mufakose itself was a colonial creation — built for workers, with bachelor houses later overcrowded into family homes. That shaped generations. So I ask: who is the real “master” behind the hands? We see labor, sometimes violence, but who directs it?

That ties back to Shona rituals, too. Hands carried symbolic weight. Using Shona titles is my way of reclaiming that heritage, making it visible again.

How did your style change when you became a husband and then a father? 

It changed a lot. Sharing a studio with Amanda (Amanda Shingirai Mushate — ed.) influenced me — spending so much time in the same space, looking at each other’s works, there was cross-pollination. Later, our practices grew apart, but the dialogue remains.

Becoming a father added urgency. Suddenly, I felt I had to push harder, to grow faster, because someone was looking up to me. It deepened the work, gave it more weight. But I’m grateful for the whole journey. It’s all about transformation, development, and preparing to be better tomorrow.

What does your daily routine look like as two artists sharing family life?

It’s a balance. I’m a morning person, and Amanda works at night, so our rhythms complement each other. When deadlines come, we cover for each other — one takes care of our daughter so the other can focus. It’s teamwork. And we still critique each other’s work, keeping both of us sharp.

Who are your role models?

Mostly Zimbabwean painters I’ve known personally. Watching their dedication has taught me more than looking at international names online. The First Floor Gallery community has also been vital — tough critiques, high standards, but also deep support. It makes you stronger, and it reminds you you’re not alone.

Technically, you blend painting, printmaking, and spray. How?

Each medium brings something different. Printmaking gives precision, painting gives freedom, and spray adds bursts of clean energy. Together, they balance control and spontaneity. So in the end, it’s like a kind of alchemy: each medium brings a different energy, and when they come together, the painting feels more alive.

Earlier some of your works felt dreamlike, even escapist. Do you still see them that way?

Yes, I’ve always loved fantasy, sci-fi, anime — they sparked my imagination and let me escape. But recently, with the hand series, I’m facing reality more directly. Becoming a father shifted my focus: now it’s about responsibility, legacy. Still, I filter reality through imagination — that’s where new meanings are born.

You once wrote about “the ingenuity buried in African culture.” What does that mean for you today?

It’s about continuity. I am here because generations before me lived, worked, and created. Their knowledge is in my DNA. I try to echo that — something that has always been here, responding to the African environment, the rhythms of sun and land, the cultural traditions shaped over centuries, while still speaking in today’s language.

That’s exactly what I wanted to ask next: how do you preserve tradition while also being contemporary? 

I think the questions themselves don’t change. People have always asked about community, responsibility, and transformation. What changed are the materials, the processes, the histories we inherit.

So I take the old questions and filter them through today’s tools — printmaking, spray, canvas, digital influences. In that way, tradition stays alive, but also evolves. It’s not about repeating the past, but about carrying its essence into the future, with new voices, new forms.

Looking ahead, what comes next?

After an exhibition there’s always emptiness, but I see it as a new beginning. Right now I’m working on larger canvases, pushing the theme of hands further.

And there’s another dream I’ve carried for a long time: creating my own anime. I’ve been deeply inspired by Japanese storytelling, but I want to bring that spirit to our own context — to tell Zimbabwean stories, to create superheroes drawn from our history and traditions. Combining sci-fi, fantasy, and Shona culture could open up new ways of sharing our heroes with the world.