2010 in retrospect

It really was a good year. Nobody died. Well, lots of people died. But I didn’t have to go home to bury anyone. This is how I measure goodness and badness in a year. My family and I were very happy and grateful for this rather long respite. My brother Bruce thinks that we are in for a bad year now. But we shall see.
You might find it odd that I am writing this piece in February. Technically that is when my year starts. I was born in Feb. January always passes in a blur anyway, fees to be paid, Christmas over-expenditure starring me in the face, performance evaluation, (work not sexual, but of that later), and just the hassle of trying to convince myself that it will be indeed a “happy new year”, as we all like to think at this time. February is a good time to reflect on the year that was.
The bad

Who can forget the haunting images of the Haitian earthquake which opened 2010? I had been to Haiti in September 2009, with my two colleagues, Ennie and Korto. One evening on the way back to our lovely hotel in Petionville, I thought – rather loudly – I hope this place never gets hit by an earthquake. Nobody said anything. Korto called me from Liberia as soon as she saw the news on television, “EJ your fear has come true, Port-Au-Prince has been hit by an earthquake”. It took me a few minutes to turn on the television. I thought of all the people I know there; Jean-Claude and his beautiful daughter named after the country, Marie-Ange, Myra, Marie-Andree, my colleagues in our office in Haiti. I even remembered the rude translator who had refused to translate what women in a village were telling us about sexual and domestic violence! I thought of the wonderful feminists whose offices I had visited, KayFamn, the feisty young woman in the Ministry of Women. The fabulous service staff at our hotel who took turns to give us delightful pancakes plus a nod and a wink each time. Oh Ayiti! I am going to go back one day. I just need the courage to face it.


The year closed on yet another sour note, the disputed elections in Ivory Coast. What more can one say to what has been so well chronicled and analyzed by more able people than me. Save to say, my heart broke, just seeing yet another beautiful African country held hostage to the whims of a few men. Ivory Coast is one of those countries that some of us counted as a possible place to go and live. Who doesn’t want to stay in a nice, clean, functioning, hip and happening place? Plus fashions to die for! Poof went that dream.

My country continued to limp along, still deeply wounded. No end in sight. Not that we know or agree on what a good “end” would be. The story has become more complex, opposition parties changing their constitutions so that their leaders can continue to stand. All parties have such internecine fights that, as Zexie Manatsa once sang, “vaparidzi vawanda hatichazivi wokutevera honai baba tadzungaira!” English translation, we have too many preachers we don’t know who to follow anymore. Occasionally I broke my own mantra, wake me up when it’s over, to read the papers, the online news, and even to participate in a little political palaver or two. But each time I came away more cynical, more disheartened. I reverted to my original state of non-engagement. It’s a coward’s way out. But I can only cope with limited amounts of idiocy and even more limited amounts of anger that follow. As my favorite (new obsession), singer, Beres Hammond asks in Weary Soldier, “As smart as we are, can we tell ourselves that we have really done our best? Give me one good reason why this war must carry on…”


Love from a safe distance

In one of my first blogs last year I said that I felt that something big was going to happen in 2010. I said I felt it in my bones. Two major things did happen. And it’s not just about the World Cup, of which I wrote several blogs last year, read them if you haven’t.
First, I finally, here goes, finally, I can’t even write it. I applied for Permanent Residence in South Africa. This dear friends, was one of the most painful things I have ever voluntarily done in my life, second only after choosing to walk away from a deliciously painful relationship many moons ago. Remind me to tell you about it someday when I am in a good head space. I finally had to accept the reality that I have kept an illusion in my heart about going back to a Zimbabwe that no longer exists. The Zimbabwe that I was born in, grew up in, where I was first loved (that story again), where I loved, no longer exists. This new country I can’t relate to. It always feels weird saying that. The Shurugwi of my idyllic childhood is now a ramshackle village wracked by poverty. The beautiful city of Harare where I set up home and shop for most of my adult life is a dysfunctional city running itself on auto pilot. My beautiful suburb of Westgate each time I go back, has growing heaps of uncollected rubbish right in front of my gate. I can not kid myself by saying that I was born kwaNhema with no electricity or running water therefore I can cope with the unscheduled cut offs of such essential services in the capital city. Not having google-chat on my mobile 24/7, and no access to AlJazeera for even three hours drives me to hysterics. I am an urbanized-mall crawling-news-entertainment-internet junkie. The three occasions I went home in the 18months preceding my unpatriotic decision, the penny finally dropped. I was kidding no-one. I love the convenience and simple pleasures of my neon lit life in Johannesburg. The deafening traffic outside my bedroom windows give me a little kick each morning, just a small reminder that I am in the middle of a functional city! I can sit for hours at Melrose Arch, watching the well heeled shopping, eating, drinking or just living out their lives in prayer to Mammon. I live for my sundowners with Nancy in our favorite bar, at the top of Southern Sun Hyde Park Hotel. Just looking across that beautiful landscape as the sun sets gives me a zing which lasts all week. The mojitos from there or from Doppio Zero at Rosebank carried me through many a dreary week in 2010. This is now my life. And I love it!

I stopped pretending that I will settle for less. So I applied for permanent residence. I am waiting for it to come out. I still wake up at night and hope that they lost my application. Sometimes I pray that I don’t get it. I want it. But I don’t want it. I feel as if I have let my country down. As if I have abandoned it. I continue to carry my green-mamba, my Zimbabwean passport, as proof of my citizenship. This I am not ready to let go of. Sometimes I take it out of its pouch just to check on it, to make sure that my passport is still valid and it’s safe.

Then came the second big thing. In November, I made a decision to leave my current job. I will be leaving at the end of August after 9 glorious years. And they have truly been glorious. Look out for the long letter that I will write all about my 9 years when the time comes. This is a great organization, full of passionate, committed people. It’s a fabulous employer, and seriously, the perks were wonderful. Where else can one “shop” from allover the world without ever leaving home? The shoes from Brazil, the cute bags from Vietnam, the amazing jeans made for my butt from New York! All of them landed on my desk. I am a moving United Nations. I have truly learnt what it means to be a global citizen, and it’s not just about the shopping. But after 9 years I feel it is time to move on. Some people are lifers. I don’t think I will ever be one in any relationship! I will be leaving this great organization absolutely proud of the magnificent achievements that my team led on women’s human rights. We put it on the organization’s map and if the new draft 5 year strategy is anything to go by, it will stay there for life…I lied that I wasn’t a lifer didn’t I?
I am even more proud to be handing over to a new generation of young feminists who joined my team during 2010. They are all smart, full of energy, seriously well read, (I can’t cope with the amount of literature they churn out and their levels of knowledge on everything!), and they are all stunningly beautiful. I know it’s considered sexist to talk about women’s looks, but I don’t think so. Give praise where it’s due. After all, these women shatter the myth of feminists as ugly and badly dressed! Yoh! Yoh! Yoh! This lot has style. I always see a lot of men we interact with trying to cope with each one of them’s beauty while at the same time trying to take in their seriously well thought thru feminist analysis of global politics. One has the most amazingly beautiful eyes, another flawless mocha looks plus a sexy French tinged but unplaceable accent and the other two’s gorgeous dreadlocks –The internal conflicts! I digress as always.

So to all the world’s young women who are always giving us old feminists lots of lip that we don’t want to let go and we don’t support them, there, I have done my duty to movement and globe. Can I get my gold star please?

Having made the decision to go, I don’t even know where I am going. I just know I am going. Somewhere. This too has been a difficult decision. I get mini panic attacks about how I am going to pay the blasted mortgage I went and got after the age of 40? How I will send my youngest son to Stanford, (if I keep saying it, it will happen right, Andile is going to Stanford, Andile is going to Stanford)? How will I sustain my parents’ medical aid?

Of all the weirdest answers I give myself or to anyone that dares ask, I say, Jesus will intervene! The fact that I haven’t spoken to he of the miracles for the last decade is taken into account of course. There is nothing like delusion to keep one in a good mood.
I am scared stiff. I don’t know how I will navigate my own way round the world. I don’t know if my new employers will allow me to have meetings in Doppio Zero? And I worry that my much cherished work-life balance will go out of the window if I work for some workaholic organization. But I have plenty of time to worry so I am not yet hypertensive. Worst case scenario I will simply up and go back to my parents, who I am sure will be glad to have me back, for a month or two, before their hypertensions start playing up.

The scary parts

My very good friend Shamim’s mother Fatima Meer passed away during the year. Shamim is a dear friend who I first met way back in 1990 when I first came to visit South Africa. We became fast friends. As I sat in Fatima’s lounge absorbed in the Islamic prayers and chants by the women around me on that sunny day, I marveled at the spirit, the patience and the love of women. The men could not concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. They came in, gave quick hugs, said few words, and quickly retreated. It was the women who stayed. I sat next to the famous and very, very stunningly beautiful Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, (my three hours of fame!). She gave a heartfelt and deeply moving eulogy to Fatima.

In August, my dear friend Nozipho’s dad suffered a serious heart attack and was hospitalized for weeks. I went to see him in Bulawayo and spent time with Nozi and her mum. I was so frightened. Thankfully daddy Dube has recovered and he is still with us. When I saw him in December we engaged in our serious political debates as always. Although I noticed he got tired after a short time, (he could normally go on for three or four hours, lecturing me about how my generation doesn’t fully appreciate the struggle for independence!).

Both Sham’s mum going and Nozi’s dad being seriously ill showed me how as we grow older we change roles with our parents. They are now the children, we are the parents. We take care of them. My mum whines when she wants a new hat, just like I used to whine when I wanted new shoes. My dad calls me all the way from Gweru to ask me some tiny thing about banking or his medical aid. Both of them now depend on one of my sons to send and read text messages. If Colin leaves the house they don’t know how to operate the television. I have always thought of my parents as immortal. Who hasn’t? That they will always be here, clever, solving my problems, dusting me up when I fall. I am scared of waking up one day without one or both of them. They are the true North on my compass and I don’t know how I will find my bearings. So I worry. Thankfully both of them are largely in good health. Long may it stay that way.

It was a good year…….


I have to keep saying it, it was a good year. In April I went on a 10 day visit to Brazil. I visited Recife in the North and various parts of Rio. I shopped for shoes till I was afraid that South African customs would throw me in prison for smuggling. I communed with my black sisters as we swapped stories of racism, sexism and huge inequalities.
In November, I went to the other end of the world, India. There I communed with my Dalit sisters and swapped stories of our different “tsunamis” in life. I had an equally great time and shopped for nice cotton and silver jewelry. My wonderful teammate Neelanjana had left us in October to go back to her home in Delhi, (the pain, the pain, I still can’t write about that!). She took us to the most fabulous linen shop and the best jeweler. And we had the most tasteful coffee that side of the Indian Ocean in a cute café. It was so funny to see and hear Neelanjana being….an Indian, in India. For the five years and some we worked together we had never been to India together, and I had never seen here in her natural lair so to say. I giggled and told her continuously how funny it was to see and hear her in this context. Don’t ask me what I mean. But even hearing her say, “chalo, chalo, tikke tikke”, (Ok I know that is not how its all spelt but hey that is how I hear it!), was hilarious. She was like a different person.

I spent close to a month in Kenya during the month of May. Now there is a story to be told. Here is a country fully in love with itself and it shows. Here is a country that has found its voice, its pride and restored itself to its former glory. Each day I had a choice of radio and television stations to tune into. I gobbled up the newspapers. The analysis. The political satire. I drank the best coffee on this side of the Indian Ocean at the famous Java cafes. I bought exciting jewelry from Kazuri. I engaged in deep political conversations with my friend Christine, her brother Tom, and the barman at Naro Moru lodge. There too we had a week long shared learning forum on women’s rights to land with my colleagues from all over the world. It was such a joy being in a functional black African country at ease with itself. Seeing black people talk to each other and to themselves with such pride and understanding. In August I stayed glued to my television watching them celebrate the adoption of their new constitution. For a more selfish reason I am happy to put Kenya back on my list of countries to run to should I need another refuge. Deep down I am jealous of what I experienced in Kenya. This could be us…I wrote to my friend Percy. This could be us.

Aches and pains

Way back when I lived in Shurugwi I hardly went to doctors, dentists or quacks. When I acquired these things called medical aid, read too much book and knew too much, I have discovered I have diseases whose names I can’t even pronounce. In one year alone, 2010, doctors told me I have; calcaneal spurs in both my feet, my degenerative muscle disease in my lower back is not slowing down, and I have low blood pressure! Wasn’t life simpler when we just knew…I was bewitched by Mai Xander next door? I am happy that what I have has a name, medications, plus means of managing. At times I feel like I am being very yuppie for acquiring such fancy diseases. Still, I am happy I am in good shape.

In February, I deluded myself into signing up for gym membership. Hmm, the less said here the better. I enjoyed the first three months. I had a cute personal trainer, Rodney – fancy Group A school graduate with the most hilarious Ndau accent heard anywhere outside Chipinge. His good looks were not enough to keep me interested though. I dropped out by July. I have firmly concluded that I do dislike gyms and their culture. Full stop. All that preening, my-ass is better than yours and ain’t I wonderful subtext just left me quite frazzled.

So I took up walking. Yes, walking, from my apartment, to the office, and back. Three times a week I do this now. And it’s not a bad route. Highly entertaining actually. I walk past groups of men and women who drink moonshine right behind the walls of a very “toff” preparatory school. Morning, noon and night they are there. On some occasions when I am feeling friendly, rather than listening to the Reggae on my MP3, I smile at these drunk men and their antics and we chat. Several of them say they want to marry me. I am waiting for them to turn black again (since they are now all orange or some reddish hue from drinking too much of the stuff). It’s actually quite sad to see human beings reduced to this condition.

The walking has done wonders for my achy muscles and feet. I have discovered these glorious shoes called Fit-flops! I can walk from here to Hyde Park (the Joburg one not the London one), in them. Johannesburg is a truly beautiful city, and walking around my neighborhood has given me glimpses of its beauty. Granted I still feel unsafe. But walking is truly a liberating experience in so many senses and I will keep at it. Best of all it is free!

Somewhere old somewhere new

In July I travelled back to Vienna for the world AIDS conference. I was invited as a plenary speaker. Everyone tells me I spoke well on VAW and HIV. I am not sure I will be doing another AIDS conference anytime soon. Because AIDS is an issue so close to my bone, I find it hard to talk, engage and listen in a dispassionate way. I find it extremely difficult to look at those figures on power point presentations without thinking of my siblings. I know I should see the importance of it all and be grateful for the scientific advances that have enabled many more of my family to survive beyond the 34 year life expectancy that had so become the norm. Yet, I just feel I want to be as far away as possible from AIDS conferences and all that goes with it, because I can’t relate all that to my life.

I said “back” to Vienna because of course it is the city where my friend Georgina died in such terrible circumstances two days before I was due to visit her in January 2009. It was a good thing this was in summer because I don’t think I would have coped being there in winter again, as I had done when we went to repatriate her body to Zimbabwe.
Vienna was lovely, bright. I spent time with another friend and ex colleague Srilata. Trust Sri to have already discovered the nooks and crannies of Vie. She took us to a party held in an old restored castle on the outskirts of Vie. I saw cakes I have never seen in my life! Pink ones, green ones, square ones, triangular ones. Sweet and sour ones. We did not stay long enough to eat the pig that was roasting on the spit. It looked like that piggy would be a-turning till the stars came out!

We also reconnected with the delightful Chetty, who now works at UNESCO in Paris. Five minutes in Chetty’s company is enough to put anyone with a sense of humor in a good mood. He told us hilarious stories about the snooty tomato sellers in Paris who correct his pronunciation, the equally snooty waiters who roll their ears when he gets the table, wine or food etiquette wrong. Note to self; send Andile to Paris in 2012.

Then there was Istanbul. Ah the land of the Sultans! In July I also went to an AWID forum preparatory committee meeting. Just getting the visa is a story that needs some documentation. Getting there was a real pleasure. The food was as wondrous as they always said it was. The sights and sounds are as grand as the books painted them.
Strangely I didn’t even buy a rug! I was too overwhelmed by such a wide variety that I didn’t know what was which. A trip to the Grand Bazaar yielded nothing because….too much choice. I walked right in and walked right out! I will be going back this year.

My pride and joy….my rhyme and song

My children continue to be my pride and joy, and as the song says, my rhyme and song. My eldest son’s daughter Ratidzo was a mini bride at Doris’ wedding. She still can’t get over herself I hear. She is now a talkative little Miss, with her own ideas about what she wants and how she wants it. Long may she stay that way. Go girl!

Colin started his BA in International Studies at the Midlands State University. I so enjoy our long conversations about politics, the economy and life in general. Finally a child after my own self! This one will go far. He came down to Johannesburg in December and was so taken by mall-hopping, (that might delay his journey to that “far”). Colin is now the eyes and ears of my parents, helping them navigate this strange new world. He is a loving, sensitive and patient soul, and knows how to manage the two of them gently but firmly. It’s so gratifying and so much fun to watch him with them.

Miss Lorraine finally got a work permit to remain in South Africa, after losing her job in August. She now has a job as a hostess, (no it’s not a sleazy joint, trust me), in a very famous restaurant. We shall visit her soon.

Levison is fleeting along in Durban. Let us just say I am glad he is alive. That he can look after himself. And he calls his grandparents each month. We lapsed Methodists know how to be grateful for small mercies.

Andile inched towards his final year of high school, passing all his Grade 11 subjects comfortably. He still hates Maths, (incurable family disease), but loves English, History and Dramatic Art. We are trying to encourage him to lower the bar on being the next Denzel Washington. Selfishly I need him to be a lawyer or famous journalist whose royalties will keep me in the manner and style I am entitled to! We shall see.

Dancing into the new year

What started as a good year, ended as a good year, Ivory Coast not withstanding. My daughter (don’t ask for the English explanations please), Doris got married on December 18, same day that her late elder sister Dorcas was born. She was so beautiful and graceful in her gown and our whole family was delighted to be in a joyous gathering for a change. We all put on our finest hats. If I haven’t sent you the photos with the hats let me know. On the 22nd of December, my sister Laiza (did I hear you ask sister, sister?), also got married in a fuchsia themed wedding. More hats.

We rounded up the year with the joint 40th birthday party for my sister Portia and my brother Fungwa, (ok stop asking or I will throw this computer at you). As we danced to Solomon Skuza’s very danceable song, ‘Banolila,” (me, my brothers and my son in law, a whole army general please note!), my heart was filled with joy and gratitude for a good year. A good life. A wonderful family. Relatively good health, (no menopause yet, still! Yeah!). Amazing friends, like you!

I want 2011 to be a good year. It has started really well. It will end well. I can feel it in my arthritic bones.