Security means uncurling my toes....

What does security mean to you? That was the question surrounding this year’s 16 days of activism theme. Militarism, conflict, state sponsored violence, political violence, were some of the sub-themes we campaigned on. We talked about the big stuff, the big news tickets of the moment. The news coming out of Syria continues to be unbearable. Libya is still on the boil. In the DR Congo, thousands are fleeing across the borders, fearing for their lives as the election results are about to be announced. In Burma, Hilary Clinton smiled for the cameras and got paly-paly with the generals, temporarily shorn of their uniforms for better picture quality. In various Northern capitals anti capitalist protestors were carted off the streets, sometimes violently. At COP17, things got ugly and civil society had to be shoved back into their small allotted space. The wars in Afghanistan and Pakistan rage on. None of these places is too far away or too foreign. I know women there. I have met them. I know their names. They are my friends. I worry about them. I text. I email. I skype them. Just to make sure they are ok. Being a global citizen means you curl your toes each time you watch the news.

The so called ‘security forces’ and law enforcement agencies continue to frighten me and other women out of our wits. In my home number two, the South African Police service decided that adopting militarized titles and ranks was the way to…..what? Instill discipline? Show seriousness? Give the service more gravitas? Induce fear? Each time I enter Rosebank police station to get my documents certified, I am greeted by a “colonel”, and sometimes a “lieutenant” looks over his shoulder. I clutch my bags in fear. I smile feebly and answer their questions with too many words, and run out as soon as I can. Thankfully I have never had to report a crime, or ask to be taken to a place of safety by these “soldiers”, because I just don’t know where they would take me! I don’t feel secure with a police man called “general”, no matter how much he smiles, or tries to convince me he is here for my protection.
In home number one, my state President goes by the grand title of, “Comrade Robert Mugabe, the President of the Republic of Zimbabwe, the First Secretary of ZANU PF and commander in chief of the armed forces”. This for a man with seven (well earned), University degrees! If he needed any accolades he has the BA, BA Hons, etc to pick from. Being told that the president is the commander in chief of the armed forces is not meant to make me respect the man. It says, ‘Be very afraid. He has guns. Pointed at your head. One move we don’t like and we pull the triggerS”. I know who is in control. And if I forget I am reminded on the hour every hour by the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation.
I curl my toes. I draw my knees together. That is the effect men in uniform have on me. The military industrial complex announces itself, advertises itself and reminds us ‘they’ are in control of our countries, our lives, our bodies.

But it is not only these visible manifestations of our militarized world that make me insecure. Going to the supermarket makes me frightened. I am scared to see the price of food. I worry about whether there will be enough month left at the end of the money. I am too scared to ask a woman with three children how she lives on a twenty dollars per month wage. Yesterday I took my son to a doctor and she asked for 50 dollars just to write a referral note to the radiographer. In the space of two weeks I have buried two women, both aged 44, both died from diseases that could have been easily managed. I don’t fear death. I fear an undignified and painfully unnecessary death, such as I have seen countless times around me.
Two days ago I met a beautiful young person who identifies themselves as trans-gender. I immediately started worrying about how she was going to get out of that hotel back to her home in the township. What hoops she would have to navigate to ensure her own safety. I keep hearing the hateful sermons preached at one of those funerals I went to, “these ngochani are an abomination! We must cast the devils out of them! If you are a ngochani come forward so we pray for you!” I keep curling my toes and drawing my knees up.
A lot can happen in 16 days. And it did! So we come to the end of this year’s 16 days of activism against gender based violence. It has been an amazing two decades of organizing by women, and a few good men, all over the world. To hear some talk today you would think they invented the campaign and made us women too while they were at it. Well let us not go there. I suppose we should just be happy that what started off as an idea, almost a pipe dream, with only 24 women, has grown to be one of the most well known global campaigns. Who says the feminist movement is small, insignificant and the changes it has brought can’t be “measured. If anybody had asked us on that bright summer day at Rutgers, what will success look like? How will you measure it? I don’t think we would have been able to provide an answer, let alone imagine that this is what the 16 days campaign would achieve. Hear yee, monitoring and evaluation zealots. This is what success looks like!
So what does security mean to me? It means uncurling my toes, unclenching my knuckles, free of fear - real or imagined, and living a life of dignity, experiencing sexual and other kinds of pleasure, and having the right to make choices.

What security means to me

Great Britain, to itself. Blighty to the rest of us. A country that probably was once "great", and wanted everyone to know it, see it and feel it. Today, the signs of that greatness are dimming, except perhaps in the big statues that dot the city of London. Big, huge, grandiose statues, celebrating the (imperial) heroes of old.
In this Britain is not alone. All over the world, it seems, our city fathers, (good name that, city fathers, very appropriate for who I think has this mindset), think it is necessary to erect (another good word), these grandiose reminders of their nations' MILITARY greatness. Military/war heroes are immortalized in marble and other indestructible material, so that we remember them, we celebrate them. On a visit to Cambodia in July, I could not complete the obligatory many hours in Angkor Wat. Dozens of wall murals - which must have taken years to etch, reminded us of the many wars fought and presumably won.
In Rome, the military statues are a marvel. One can not help but be taken in by them. You can hear the chariots of the Emperors clop clopping through the cobbled street as you gaze up at the imposing things high above your head.
It is interesting isn't it? We with forked tongue speak about the evilness of wars, we decry the violence perpetrated on women and girls during these wars. Yet, everywhere around us, our countries' history is celebrated through military statues and displays celebrating the greatness of war.

Even more worrying is the fact that, to this day, visiting heads of state or dignitaries are welcomed by "a military guard of honour". I still do not understand what that is about. Well I do. The message to the visitor is; look how what a great nation we are, see our men in uniform, don't mess with us now, we are very capable of blowing you and yours to smitherins, better behave yourself and speak nice to us during this visit, because we are armed...to the teeth.
Is the display of military might the only way to welcome a visitor to your "home"? How about, just stopping at the garlands of flowers? Would that not be nice and civil enough? If we must parade anything for the visitor, how about our smartest and brightest young people, showing what a great new generation we have coming up? No guns, no goose-stepping, just a nice welcome.
And why bury people with a 21 gun salute? A gun salute? That is supposed to....what? Send the deceased in a blaze of military glory to their maker? Get ready you up there here he comes! Ka boom! Ka boom! Better be good to him or else...ka boom!

Security for me means not being reminded that the world is a giant militarized zone. It means not celebrating war and all that goes with it.
And it means not being greeted by reminders of imperialist wars - of any kind.

Security in an insecure world 2

I don't know why it always happens to me. Maybe I smile too much? Maybe I am too nice? Maybe I just don't get the protocol right. But what is the protocol? I thought we were all supposed to treat one another with respect. Be kind. Be courteous. Be friendly. Just be human. Is that not the standard protocol?
It seems there is a different one for taxi drivers. No sooner had I fastened the seat belt than he mistook my thigh for the gear shift. I chose to be charitable. Shifted slightly to the right, out of arm's way. No. There the hand went again. This time it was accompanied by a wink and a smile. There was nowhere else to shift to. I can't sit in the back. I don't like looking like some corrupt government official, being driven to yet another shady meeting. Besides, I suffer from car sickness. Sitting in the helps! But the hand keeps following my thigh.

We chatted about the weather. The busy road. Exchanged notes about where we are from. He from Pakistan. He was just there on holiday. He asked me about the situation in my home country. We chatted about politics. About the world. I don't know how we veeered into sex? Somewhere between Heathrow and Walthamstow, he asked me, "So do you like......(moving his pelvis suggestively)?" I looked out into the London horizon. I kept a straight face. Kept my mouth shut. I jammed my MP3 into my ears, and put the volume as high as it could go.
We got to my destination. I thanked him. I grinned. I paid the full fare.
I am just too happy to see my friend, opening her front door.

Security in an insecure world

Come with me on a journey, as we go through this year's 16 days of Activism against violence against women. Safety. Security. Peace. All very critical for every woman, everywhere in the world. Do I feel secure? Always? Do you feel secure? What does security mean for you? That is the question we have to grapple with in this year's theme.
As I start this journey. I am in Ottawa. Canada. Apparently one of the safest places in the world. I arrived here a week ago. Two little chatty questions and I was let through by immigration. They didn't even stamp my passport. Is that normal? I don't know. But it made feel happy and unhassled. Very much the opposite of what I am made to feel in airports - frisked and undressed, even if I keep my hat on. No marines loitering all over the place. No military dudes with guns watching as I picked my bag.
On departure from London, nobody went through my baggage, asking me dozen questions about why I was going to Ottawa. No zap-zap machines peeking into my brookies.
Except....the flight attendant kept referring to "the commander". Is that what pilots are called nowadays? The only meaning I know of that word is not synonymous with safety, and relaxed flights.

Across the bridge 2

What exactly is one supposed to do when you are granted Permanent Residence status by another country? Do you send flowers and a note to the Minister of Home Affairs thanking her for her niceness and kindness? Do you tip the official who hands you the certificate with a lot of pomp and ceremony? How much is a decent “tip” for such a thing? Is it legal to tip or might it be picked up on the cctv cameras and you are accused of paying a bribe? And what are you supposed to do with the very glam looking residence certificate - printed on beautiful paper, complete with the country’s coat of arms? Do you frame it? Silver or gold? Where do you hang it, lounge or bedroom, next to your school certificates, or much closer to your children’s first photos? Or maybe you are supposed to carry it in your handbag? But it is too big, so can you fold it into your purse? Will the police want to see it when they stop you looking for “illegals”. More worryingly do you write to your country of citizenship to notify them? How does the letter read - dear Minister of Home Affairs? Or is that Foreign Affairs? Or is that the Registrar of births and deaths and all things in between? Then what else do you tell them? This is to inform you I now have another home, however please don’t take this the wrong way, I still love you, (I mean our country, not you, yourself), so please don’t revoke my citizenship.
This is my dilemma dear friends. I was finally granted permanent residency by the Government of South Africa. So let me be polite, thank you South Africa. Sadly I don’t know whose totem or clan praise poem I should recite, (on my knees?), since there are some 45 million of you. So a simple thank you will have to suffice. I am not being facetious. I am truly grateful. I have joined the ranks of the truly global citizens of the world, no longer defined, identified, and limited by one geographical boundary, which boundary my ancestors had nothing to do with. The other half of me that which I inherited from my mother’s people who came up North with the great leader Mzilikazi ka Mashobana is firmly formally recognized. I feel that I have finally broken that cage, that box, in which I was solely defined as a Karanga person, belonging only to my father’s side and never to my mother’s. As a feminist who has struggled for my right of CHOICE in many other areas of my life, this is one area that was left, and I celebrate my fulfilment of it. Having two homes means I have the choice to be in one or the other. I pick and choose how much I want to invest in each one - emotionally, financially and socially.
Being a resident of two countries is truly a privilege. It shouldn’t be like that. We talk about freedom of movement, the world being a global village, and our common humanity. Yet, each day, we put up the fences - literally and figuratively to separate us from one another. Hectares of papers, and millions of human hours are spent, tightening these fences, pushing one another out.
The privilege belongs to a select few. As single, black, African woman, I am fully aware of just how much of a mega privilege this is. My class status is what made this possible. Thousands of my fellow Zimbabweans are still stranded, they queue up for weeks on end, at Home Affairs offices looking for the right to stay and work here. Most of them have been here longer than I have. Some even qualify for citizenship given how long they have been here. But no, their papers are not in order. Their “stories” are not enough to qualify them for residence. I didn’t do anything special. I just happen to be in an economic and social bracket that made my application hassle free and more acceptable.

My friends and family are totally ecstatic on my behalf. I got flowers, chocolate, a bottle of wine, beautiful cards, e-cards, e-hugs. Several proposed a celebratory party. But I don’t feel like a party. Congratulations are not what I want to hear. For the last month, I have wept as I looked at this pretty certificate. I don’t feel ecstatic. Deep in my heart is sorrow and pain. I am happy I now have this choice. Believe me I am. I am deeply grateful to have this ability to traverse across two borders, and call both Zimbabwe and South Africa my homes. No two countries could make me happier. These two countries with their glorious histories of my ancestors and foremothers whose heroic struggles I cherish ever so.
Yet I am still deeply sad. I love the country of my birth. I will forever carry the green and gold passport of Zimbabwe to signify my real citizenship. It is the country that raised me and made me who I am today. Growing up, I never ever thought of leaving Zimbabwe, going somewhere else to study, to work or to live! Even as I got to know more and more countries, it always was the place to come back to. In the three years of my working, (not necessarily living) in South Africa, when Zimbabweans asked “how is South Africa?” I would reply, “how else can the land of others be?” It comes out with much deeper meaning in Shona or Ndebele and it’s hard to capture the nuance in English am afraid. As someone said it so beautifully, I worked and stayed in South Africa, but my heart and my head lived in Zimbabwe. I slept in Harare, but woke up in Johannesburg.
Seven years later, I deliberately applied for residence, and got it. I wanted it. In one sentence; the love of my life was no longer enough for me. I needed more. I needed other things, which she could not give me, or let me enjoy.
I feel rotten inside. I feel I have betrayed my country, slapped it in the face, thrown dirty water at it. This beautiful certificate is written proof of my betrayal and rejection of my Zimbabwe.
The residence permit couldn’t have come at a strange time, the very day I put in my resignation in my current job, and signed my new job offer! The new job will take me back to Zimbabwe, as an expatriate! Yes, I will be an expatriate in my own country of birth. What does that mean exactly? If war breaks out and I have to be “evacuated”, do I head to the South African embassy and leave my parents behind? What does that say about me? What kind of person do I become? Or when I am talking to my team mates do I say, “we Zimbabweans”, or I adopt the rather derogatory, “you people”? The books and academics say we all have multiple identities. How does one carry them all equally? How do I find the true me, in these many identities?
When I called my mum to tell her I was coming back home, she kept silent for a few minutes, and I know she was stifling her sobs. Why? She wanted to know. Why come back to Zimbabwe? To do what? Did I not know the elections are coming again soon? What about money? How would I make enough to survive, to look after her and my dad? She told me their medical bills had gone up. Loud hint - will you afford to keep up our insurance if you come back? She continued to scare me about the ever increasing power cuts, the water cuts, the scarcity of firewood.
This is what makes me deeply sad. When a mother would rather their child goes far away, than be close enough to share the love and care, what can one do besides weep for what was, could be, and should be? My parents are both in their late 70s. I want to be near them to fix their broken windows, take them to their doctors’ appointments and see them as often as possible. I am sure they want that too, but they are afraid. So they would rather I am away from the ‘troubles’. When a country begins to “sell” its own children, then we have to mourn. Deeply so.
So back to my earlier questions - how am I supposed to behave differently now that I am a permanent resident? Is there some South African rite of passage that I must go through to show I am HERE? I am too old for the reed dance, (which I would never have done anyway). Am I required to choose between Kaizer chiefs and Orlando pirates football clubs? I still don’t know the difference between them by the way. I already have a favourite radio station, Kaya fm, so I am ahead on that one. Ditto favourite newspapers, the Sunday Times and the Mail and Guardian. Should I do the dailies too? Do I use Zambuk instead of Vaseline on my lips? There are some things I won’t do though- rugby, cricket, and saying, “Jane, he is not here”.
For the next few weeks, I think I will carry around my framed residence certificate and show it to all those who used to treat me badly and tell me to go back home; the taxi drivers, that nasty woman in the snooty shoe shop in Hyde Park, the other one in Pick and Pay who throws my change at me when I don’t speak Sesotho, the bank teller who gets so weary when she has to deal with my special account, and oh yes, the really mean security guard in our building! I will shove my residence permit in their faces and say, see I am one of you now. This is my home too!

A real War Vet

I only met General Solomon Mujuru, a.k.a Rex Nhongo just once. All I remember was that he looked very...ordinary. Just a normal human being. I remember very clearly that he stammered. Colin Firth in The King's Speech reminded me of him. I also remember that unlike other military and political types whose hands I have shaken, he did not give me the hibby-jibbies. No cold shudder went through my hand, no strangeness in his eyes. Just a very well bathed man in a nice suit.
It is no surprise to hear all the accolades pouring out about this hero of my country's liberation struggle. Growing up, "Mukoma Nhongo" was for many of my generation synonymous with the armed struggle against colonialism. A famous liberation war song went, "hona Mukoma Nhongo, bereka sabhu tiende chauya-chauya", (brother Nhongo take up your sub-machine gun let's go. What will be, will be). This was the only name some of us knew. It was as if he was the whole liberation army, all by himself, carrying that sub-machine gun. In my childish mind of course, a sub-machine gun sounded like a glamorous thing to carry on one's back. I had little idea of the gravity of the struggle and what it was like for the women and men actually fighting this war. My war. Our war.

Fast forward to the present day. Each year, when ZTV plays the footage of the struggle, it is Rex's picture chatting and laughing with his "boys" that keeps playing, over and over again. He keeps laughing. It is always hard to imagine that he went to war in his early 20s.
At University I shared desks with dozens of military people. I was to learn that it was thanks to Comrade Rex that many of them went back to school after independence. I learnt that he pushed them to get educated so that they could run a better army, or even get out of it if they so chose. The mark of a leader, always wanting the best for his/her team. No wonder we have one of the most educated armies this side of the Sahara.

Over the last few years his power and influence has acquired mythical proportions. Yet he held no official position, and neither did he ever speak to the media. He was there. But not there. He was talked about, and he didn't talk about himself. Unlike some of our so called "leaders" in present day Zimbabwe who have the habit of calling themselves "Honorable", or "Ambassador such and so". As one of my mentors, Gemma Mbaya, used to say, if you have to call yourself Honourable, rather than us honouring you, then there is something totally dishonourable about you!

To say my blood went cold, when I got the text message telling me about Comrade Rex's death and how he died, would be the understatement of the year. I froze. From fear. From pain. From sheer disbelief. Here was a man who survived the Smith regime's forces for so long,unable to save himself from a house fire? As my Kenyan friends would say, a whole General, burning to ash in a large house, all by himself. No alarm raised on time? Nothing? I am one of those who just doesn't believe this was a simple fire accident. We have seen too many of these accidents to know better.

I hold no brief for the man. But we all must hold a brief for one another as human beings. Nobody deserves to die in this way. A liberation war hero, a political opponent, the wife you no longer want. Noone. Even if it was an accident, nobody should die in this manner.

I fear for my country. I fear for all of us lesser mortals. If Comrade Rex could die in this manner, what about we of no consequence? As we would say back home, isu hedu vana kapuracha?

Thank you Comrade Rex-Solomon for the good fight you fought for me, for us. Thank you for being an exemplary leader. Above all, thank you for showing us that it is not too hard, to be just a normal human being.

Across the bridge 1

I have filled seven sheets of paper. The other six are already too long. I have to trim this list down. Using what formula though? Everything looks very important. The purse will ultimately determine if any of this ever gets bought. I worry about how I am going to carry all this stuff across the bridge.
And so it came to pass. I got a new job back home in Zimbabwe. I leave my present one and my little nest in the Johannesburg sky, in three months’ time. I should be doing cartwheels. I should be planning farewell cocktails. Instead, I am stressing myself out with putting together what I now call the “Zimbabwe survival kit”. It is not supposed to be this hard. I do have a home in Harare to go back to. It was my city of choice when I first looked for a job, after University. My best friends are there. My family is in Zimbabwe - STILL, to use that strange word I always find weird when people ask, “Is your family STILL in Zim?” As if, what? They were supposed to have all upped and left, all 102 of us, moving to Johannesburg? Leaving their homes, lives, and other pursuits to go where? On whose wages? Let me not start on that one.....
I don’t really know my real “home” anymore. A lot has changed since 1999. I was not there when all the big political and economic upheavals happened. Each time I went back, and I did so religiously each Christmas, August school holiday and Independence days, I couldn’t relate to this new country. I also went back for all the family funerals. And there were so many I lost count. I became a visitor in my own country. I no longer belonged. When I finally put lodgers into my house, it was a sign that I could no longer keep up this illusion of “two homes”. I threw my hands in the air when I could not figure out who to call to fix a leaking pipe, and where to buy something as simple as bread. Over the last five years, when I went back, I stayed with my friend Nozipho. She became my mother, and I her little child. When I needed airtime, she would simply whip it out of her bag. I would express an interest in sweet potatoes and magically they would appear in front of me. When the power went off, I would sigh and lie back in her nice bed, knowing that soon, very soon, someone in her house would figure out how to cook the next meal, boil me some bath water, and even provide cold water to cool it down! I don’t think she will be driving from the Eastern end of the city across to my Western part, just to bring me bath water!
My friend Bella became my transport manager. Needed to get home-home to see my parents? Bells provided the car, the driver and the fuel. Need a one night hotel booking? Bells knew every bed and breakfast in town and I would zip in and zip out like a business executive. Our wonderful driver-tour-guide-handy man-reliable third hand Andrew knows where to find everything from tyres, to cheaper beef to hair salons that open on Sundays. Geri the doctor had to make house calls when I got the odd flu or needed some hard to get drugs.

When I visited any of my family, I was feted and spoilt. Nobody expressed any impatience with my stupid or strange questions; how much is bread? When will the electricity be back on? How do you get money these days? How much do we put in the Sunday collection plate? I was a visitor you see. I was sister/aunty/the child from Joburg, a whole planet away. I was smiled at and tolerated for my not being in the know. “Sister, this is how it is done in Zimbabwe now”, one of my brothers always chided me. That kept me mum for the rest of the fortnight. When I finished reading the books I had brought on holiday, and I got tired of bathing from a bucket, or the lack of internet access got to me, I simply changed my ticket and ran away.

I will no longer have this luxury. This is why I am putting together my ‘survival kit’. The big essentials I will need to cope in my now dysfunctional “home”. I have listed plastic buckets for storing water, a gas stove, long lasting lamps, matches, candles lots of candles. Someone says I need a bread maker - but who will be making the bread? Moir? This is stuff I never had, let alone knew where to buy. I have also been advised to buy a power generator, an invertor, a water tank. Eish! What size do I get? Where? I haven’t listed the groceries yet.
The political conversations, if one can call them that - are what I am particularly dreading. Over the years I had learnt to just listen, smile, and shake my head in a non-committal manner. Depending on where I found myself, it was along these lines; Tell us what Mbeki/Zuma are saying? What are they saying in South Africa? What will they do? The high expectations of what South African mediation was (and is still), supposed to deliver still baffles me. This very South African government which from where I have been sitting, lurches from one crisis to another of its own? When people asked me “what the South Africans are saying”, I wondered which ones they were expecting to hear from? The media here which if it devotes an inch to issues beyond national borders it is about an American celebrity or the Greek debt crisis? Or did they want to know what black South Africans in the townships think of Zimbabweans? Was May 2009 instructive enough?

In civil society, what I consider my real political turf, the conversations were along the lines of: Haa, Chipo? Don’t talk to her she is Central Intelligence that one! We don’t work with James anymore, he is very MDC-T. Ugh, what can you tell us about Stella? That stupid woman who is sleeping with all the men in MDC-M, and you know she is also sleeping with that guy in ZANUPF. So really she is ZANU PF”. All this would be said with such hyper-ventilation. So much venom. You had to jump backwards to avoid the inevitable spit that would follow. You had to take sides in these “conversations”. You had to declare your interest. I was scared into silence.
On more than one occasion, when the ‘conversations’ got so hard, I switched off, packed my little bags and feigned some important meeting I had to get back to Joburg’ for. I have avoided political debates in the Zimbabwean diaspora spaces because the debates were no longer debates. I refused to speak to the media because I did not want to be pigeon-holed. I chose instead to write. That way I could be in control of what I wanted to say, when to say it and to whom. I will need more than survival strategies for my return. I need re-engagement strategies. Who to engage with? How? I will need to think long and hard about that. For now, I will continue to write.
So since you asked. Am I excited about going back home? Umm, erm, ahhh, well, yes. Sort of. I am ecstatic in the morning and by nightfall I am in a complete state of panic. I do not know how to survive in the new look Zimbabwe. I have become used to an easy, on the tap lifestyle. For the last 12 years, I have slowly become removed from my rural credentials that I like parading around. At least in the rural village I knew where to find firewood, or clean water. It was a given that we went to bed at 7pm, because that was the life. I read books by candlelight because that is what we did. I do not know how to speak the political languages anymore. The shark infested political pool and discourse looks too murky to wade into. The social languages of getting by how you can and screw the next person, is one that will take me years to get used to.
Now where do I buy that good Indonesian coffee in bulk?

Liberia - Living on Hope

I have an abiding fear of men in uniform. Unlike most women who (allegedly), swoon over them, I was raised to fear them and hate them. Confession – I did swoon over Colonel Qaddafi before he had the botox that went awry! So it didn’t matter how brightly or widely the tall and supposedly dashing military officer smiled at me as I arrived in Monrovia – I was ready to run back onto the ghastly Air Nigeria plane that had brought me from Accra. I quickly got used to soldiers all over the place. Driving up Tubman or down UN boulevard, across the city, and into the UNMIL HQ which we had to pass on our way to......anywhere it seemed.
The last time I had seen such a heavy military presence was in Goma, Eastern DRC. Just like in DRC the military seem to run the place. In Liberia UNMIL even has a radio station. If that is not running a country what is? In modern day speak we say these are peace-keeping forces, meant to instil a sense of security in the citizens, recovering from many years of conflict. But has anyone ever asked the said citizens whether in fact this is true? I grew up during Zimbabwe’s war of independence. The army and police were synonymous with violence, arbitrary arrests and rape of women. As we transitioned into independence, none of that changed much. I am from the Midlands province where mass atrocities were committed by armed forces straight after 1980. Fast forward to the 1990s and once again the army and police reverted to type. I don’t go anywhere near police stations unless it’s a matter of life and death. I stay away from soldiers. I sadly have a son in the military, and he knows to remove his uniform as soon as he enters my space.
I did not ask any of the Liberian women I met what they thought of their militarized country. My friend K, had already summarized it on the first day of my seven day visit; “Each day we ask ourselves am I dead or am I alive”. War is bad. It is terrible. I tweeted when my phone finally caught a wave. How profound EJ. As if anyone needed to be told. That is all I could say after driving down Monrovia’s city centre. War wounded buildings, all in various states of decay or reconstruction make what is supposed to be the capital city. K kept speaking in the past tense; this used to be the main pavilion where we used to have national events, this used to be a party headquarters, that used to be one of the best schools in Liberia, Ellen (H.E. the President of Liberia to us mere mortals), attended that school. That used to be Samuel Doe’s palace. I tried to imagine how beautiful it must all have been. The Doe palace is a sight to behold. It is quite ugly by any architectural standards. At least there is one monstrosity I don’t think anyone should try to revamp.
But where does one begin to make this right? A coat of paint, and a broom won’t fix the mess of war. Neither can it fix people’s bodies and souls. But Liberia is definitely getting “fixed”, in the nice sense of that word, in many respects. There is the church and religion trying to fix souls. There are more churches per square-mile than there are schools in Monrovia alone. I gave up counting on day two. The place is swarming with development and donor types of various shades. Together with UNMIL they run the place. The (extremely beautiful), sea side hotel we stayed in was full; The World Bank, US government, this Aid, more Aid, Save the world, International Rescue the suffering inc. We were all there. By day we were saving Liberia from...itself, poverty, whatever. At night we drove back to our air conditioned rooms, into safety of our Egyptian cotton sheets, shaking our heads. It depended of course on where you spent the day.
The city of Monrovia itself is like a metaphor for how Liberians are divided into “Congo” and “country”. The former are descendants of the ex-slaves who came on the ships from America. They see themselves and are still seen as the upper crust of society. The latter, are the indigenous peoples, seen as less refined, with ‘bush’ behaviour. I was told that although this was no longer as visible as it used to be, it still underlies a lot of the country’s politics and ever simmering conflicts. The organization I work for deals more with the “country” people, and that is where we went; poor urban slums, a very poor rural county just 45 minutes outside Monrovia. Here women queue at the few water points. It suddenly struck me one evening that there were no street lights in these parts. Dozens of women were flagging lifts in the dark. I worried for their safety. I also noticed there were no landline phone lines criss-crossing above our heads. Everyone relies on mobile phones. Coca-cola billboards have been edged out by those of mobile service providers.

I visited the part I mentally called the “Congo” on day 6. It is a different world that. Driving down UN Boulevard, you suddenly realize the air is getting fresher, you can hear the ocean, there are less people walking and more cars driving around. Then you enter this sweet smelling world of tall, well built, nicely painted buildings. The lights shine brightly from within. Even the people darting in and out of there are dressed well, women in make- up and high heels. The men are in dark Saville-Row suits. Everyone carries a cattle bell round their neck – an ID tag, the kind favoured by embassies and UN offices. We decided to lunch at a perch on Mamba point. The air kept getting fresher as we went up the stairs. From the bad service we got, it was clear that we were seen as too “country” for this fragrant hood. T-shirts with campaign slogans and having no cattle bell screamed “here comes the bush!”
I hadn’t quite internalized the phrase Americo-Liberian and what it signifies. The American influence is all over Monrovia and even the rural county we visited, (the word ‘county’ itself kept fascinating me). The first is in the Liberian-English accent. It is a cross between rural Georgia, urban Kentucky and a dash of Harlem. “Yuh weh hii?” the tailor asked me during a dress measuring session. For the life of me I had no idea what he was asking! He repeated, “yuh weh hii?” I shook my head in that enigmatic Indian shake, which can mean yes or no. K came to the rescue. I leave that to you translate!
It took me until the last day to finally understand why the “American flag” was fluttering in the wind all over the place. Driving past what used to be Samuel Doe’s palace there are big concrete road-blockers painted in red, blue and white. I kept wondering. I looked up at the flag, then across the street was a mobile phone shop – Lone Star. I looked up at another flag. And stupid me finally got it, this IS the Liberian flag! It is the American flag, with one exception – the number of stars. I am still in shock. Actually I am more in pain than shock. Why, to this day, has this been allowed to continue? What does this flag symbolize to the majority of the peoples of Liberia? There is no colour BLACK in that flag. Not even a small dot. Does this not bother the leaders and people of that nation? I can hear some of you grumbling in the background, fighting poverty and dealing with the post conflict situation is more important blah blah. Sorry folks, it does matter. If the flag of the USA was half black there would have been a huge outcry. If the Congolese flag was completely white it would have been discarded long ago.
Maybe it is the spirit of tolerance and what Rastafarians call ‘niceness’ that pervades Liberian society which explains all this. Another indicator of this niceness is the fact that all of Liberia’s dead and former heads of state have been accommodated on the national currency. All the way back to the ‘colonizers’ who came by ship, those deposed in coups, the coup leaders, everyone is on the dollar notes. At least if they couldn’t stay in State House they can stay on the money. In the rural county we visited, one of the oldest latifundistas is accommodated in an agricultural development project, together with all the landless peasants. Miss Molly as I secretly renamed her, is the epitome of Congoness, to coin a term. Her family and a few others own most of the land in the county. Everything about Miss Molly says; we are it. We are the upper crust. We are entitled to things. Everyone seemed to defer to her, wittingly or unwittingly. Maybe accommodating each other is what a country wracked by conflict needs. Long may that help fix the country.

For all its troubled history, its fractured communities, and the heavy burdens of reconstruction, (or mere construction – since there was never any in some places), I enjoyed being in Liberia. The food is a fabulously nice and hot! Even though my tummy fought vigorously against the spices, I just couldn’t stop chucking them in. The chicken, the fish, all came drenched in lots of spices- just the way I like them. If you are straight out of Gweru or Lusaka you are advised not to try the Liberian ‘fiery’ everything. My favourite, fried plantain was in abundance, so I gorged.
I drank proper Liberian coffee, something I had missed in both Nairobi and Accra – where you would think they serve their own coffee which they grow? No, they give you the cheap, by the packet, awfully dreadful instant Nescafe! I am yet to understand what that is about. The big downer though, was that the coffee nearly always came cold, (another American habit? Ugh!). And horror of horrors it came with sweetened condensed milk! Yikes. There is something I haven’t eaten since my grand pappy used to give it to us a bribe.
The highlight for me – Zimbabwe please take note – Monrovia alone has at least five FM radio stations. To top it off, there are some five independent newspapers. In the deep of the night, I channel hopped among the stations, playing fabulous music. The news coverage is extensive, Pan-African and global, South Africa please take note. To quote our driver cum tour guide, Moses; My sister, we may not have a lot in Liberia, and we might be suffering, but at least we are free to say what we want, to who we want, on anything we want! That is freedom. That is democracy. We might be scared that the war might come again, or that the elections might be violent. But we live on hope my sister. We have a lot of hope. Listen to what these young people are saying. We live on a lot of hope!
Indeed I shall “weh my hii” and go back to see more of Liberia. One day.

Nepal, land of the serene

I don’t know who nicknamed our former Chief Executive “the Monk”. The first time I heard it I just thought it was such an apt name for a man whose face is always looking very serene, never looks agitated or fazed by anything, or betrays any emotion. Little did I know that most people look and behave like that in Nepal where he comes from! It hit me as I boarded Qatar airways on my way to Kathmandu from Doha. I was probably one of five women, and one of less than 12 non Nepalese on that flight – not counting the flight attendants.
I wondered why they announced boarding for that flight at least an hour and half ahead of slated departure time. I was soon to find out the reason. That flight is the equivalent of the “chicken bus” to Zimbabwe departing from Johannesburg’s park station. Some 250 men returning home, carry lots of “stuff”. The airline staff – migrant workers themselves – harassed these men no end. Packages were weighed and re-weighed. Solidarity groups were hastily formed, so that everyone could carry home everything they had bought. Nothing could be left at the boarding gate. I volunteered to carry on someone’s package, but I was given such a tongue lashing by a Kenyan “official”, I dropped it hastily. I was about to let rip some vile words, and then remembered the documentary I had watched about the justice system in the Emirates, so I scowled and walked away muttering to myself. The Nepali men all took it in their serene stride. Nobody cursed. Nobody shouted back at the flight officials.


I sat between Keshav and Raj, who were both returning home after five years’ absence. Keshav showed me pictures of his twin sons, who he had never seen. He had left his young new wife pregnant and gone in search of work in the sweat-pits of Doha. Raj was on his way to find a wife, get married, leave her pregnant – he told me with a wink, and return to his job, all in three weeks! I told them stories of Zimbabwean migrant workers in South Africa. By the end of the flight we had become kindred spirits, united by the bond of our dysfunctional countries.
I arrived in Kathmandu 20 hours after I had left home, tired but strangely energized. Must be the serenity vibes transmitted to me in that B seat. Going through customs and immigration was a breeze, with officials very happy to see someone from “Jimbabwe”. I had to remember not to laugh throughout my stay in Nepal. Whenever I needed a good laugh in the office I would ask the big boss to pronounce the name of my country or the name of the South African country director. Jimbabwe and Janele, would just kill me every time. I was to discover other little Nepalisms; for some inexplicable reason an extra S always finds its way into Nepa-nglish, as in “providing supports to partners”. Then there is the disappearing H, as in “socks” – instead of shocks, “soez”. In a little mountain hotel, on my third night I asked for the room service menu. This was an absolute delight. On the menu were two interesting items; Chicken domestic, and poise egg. We shall return to these delicious items later.

Nepal is an ancient country, whose history dates back many centuries. Never having been colonized by anyone, the country is...how do I put it, just itself. My history lessons failed me totally. The country was not at all what I had assumed. I had expected a smaller version of India. No it isn’t. First difference was the food. I had expected very spicy, oily and ghee heavy curries. Nepali food is what health fanatics live on; steamed rice, nicely cooked lentils, lots of steamed greens, and the tiniest portions of chicken or lamb. Even the rotis were made from healthy unrefined flour. I am afraid my non health conscious- carnivorous- Southern African- beef cattle farmers’ daughter’s palate was not impressed. By day two I was near starvation. I resorted to the only two items that could satisfy my cravings, fanta orange and white bread. There was no McDonalds or Pizza Inn to run to.
Travelling to Dolakha district in the NorthEast of the country, I kept wondering why there were so many flags fluttering in the wind. Every household we passed had a flag pole, and several colourful flags. I thought Nepalis must be a very patriotic people. When I eventually asked my colleagues, (I am always afraid to ask things, nay I am too stubborn to ask, always thinking that my Form 3 history lessons should have covered all this and I can’t betray my ignorance), I was told these were Buddhist prayer flags. Even though we had called our boss the monk I just hadn’t internalized monk of which religion. In Nepal Buddhism and Hinduism co-exist side by side. In some cases, I was informed, families practice both, Buddhism today, Hinduism tomorrow. I like with this way of practicing religion, not the kind where you feel it is this or nothing else, or where people kill one another or violate women’s rights supposedly on behalf of distant Gods. Although I was made to understand that the caste system, enshrined in Hinduism was still rampant and a huge problem in the country, I still felt a huge difference from what I had experienced in India where caste discrimination and negative attitudes hit you the minute you land. In India, blacks are regarded as untouchables, as I have discovered in my travels there. Shop keepers will not take money, or put goods directly in my hand. In some establishments I was not greeted back despite my cheerily acknowledging people. If I was a Dalit in Nepali Hinduism then they certainly have a good way of hiding it. Everyone was polite, gentle, and always wanted to talk to me. Some wanted to touch me – my hair and size 18 hips being the big attractions!

Speaking of touching, my daughter’s friend, Maia, a young South African who has been living in Kathmandu for the last five months and I reflected on how we felt very safe with Nepali men. We each felt that in Africa, Europe and the Americas, we were often treated like pieces of meat each time we came in contact with men, who behaved like dogs. From security guards, to newspaper vendors to colleagues in offices, we are often hit by the sexual vibes, undertones and direct harassment. Yet in Nepal we both felt safe. That Buddhist monkish thing again?
Because of its unique history, Nepal can be described as “untouched”. Yet there was another intriguing part of it that I was to discover, its flirtation with and love for the hippie and rock and roll! Saturday night found me sitting in a beautiful bar-restaurant with Maia and her Danish partner listening to ‘70s to 80s hard rock. Earlier in the day I had seen a poster advertising a Bryan Adams show. I had assumed that someone had stuck it atop the tallest building just for fun. Oh no! My lovely little hotel simply called Hotel Tibet – and run by Nepali-Tibetans cranked up the volume on Sunday morning when Van Halen’s Jump played. For the life of me I still cannot imagine these quiet sweet people actually throwing their hair back and yodelling “Jump! Yeah! Yeah! Jump!” But apparently Nepal was once the hippie and rockers’ destination of choice. According to the internet and Nepalis old enough to remember, hundreds of long haired, weed smoking westerners made their way to Nepal in the last century. Ostensibly to smoke, and go mountain climbing. Reminders of that era are still very visible. Dozens of shops and stalls in Thamel, the tourists’ favourite market in Kathmandu still sell some rather dodgy looking long skirts, bell-bottomed trousers and some seriously off season jackets and sweaters. And the long haired ones, sans ganja, are still to be found wandering all over Nepal. These days though they come dressed in funky parkas, designer climbing shoes and matching sun shades, complemented by Arnold Schwarzenegger muscled torsos. Every hotel I went to was full of them and they were dotted over every mountain track.
Travelling inside a mountainous country was a huge challenge for someone with bad vertigo. The roads were narrow and the terrain – hairy, to put it mildly. Competing for this narrow space with “kombi” drivers made it even more hairy. You know the type that hog the road, and have a “my car is bigger than yours” mentality. We were pushed to within inches of a precipice several times that I began to worry if I had signed the latest version of my will. In the rural areas I saw dozens of people, young, old, male and female riding on the roofs of people carriers. This did not deter the drivers though, they careened and zig-zagged through this terrain without a thought for those holding on for dear life.
When several people asked me how Nepal was, I had said something quite foolish like; It is India without the spices, its China without the billion, and its Tibet without the Dalai Lama. But actually, Nepal is just, itself. At the risk of stereotyping an entire nation, the people are indeed gentle like “the monk”, quietly laid back, and struggling to find its democratic feet in the 21st century. Just like most of us.
Back to that delightful menu. I didn’t have time to order the “poise egg”, but I thoroughly enjoyed the “chicken domestic”. A bottle of the best Bayerskloof red wine coming your way if you can tell me what those are!

Happy Birthday Mr President

I am not Marilyn Monroe, so I can’t say it in that breathless tone of hers. Happy birthday, Comrade Mugabe. You have had one so many, it must be tiring now, no?
I turned 46 two weeks ago. I could hardly stay awake throughout the festivities of my little soiree. I amazed myself by staying awake till 2am. How do you do it? How do you manage to stay so……energetic? So alert?
I really want to know your secrets. But first I want to know the reasons.

At a mere 46 I feel tired. If anyone could give me a nice package which can send my 16 year old child to school I would simply take it and run to the nearest island. I love my life, my job, and all the travelling. But I find that I love myself more than all these things. I want to take care of ME! I want to sit in a nice chair and write. My blog. Letters to my friends. Letters to my children. I want to read nice books. Watch good fun movies. I just want to put my feet up. Heck! I am tired of running a three bed-roomed apartment, and five children. I have to keep a job so I can meet my obligations.

Why are you still working at 87? Don’t you just want to love yourself for a change? Take care of number one, you? Aren’t you exhausted? Surely you must be tempted to just take your little back pack and wave goodbye to running a country? When will you write your memoirs? You can do that. Plus you can wake up to the Herald at your door each day. Read all that interesting “news”, they publish. The very laden obituary pages should keep you entertained and happy when you see how young they seem to die these days, compared to yourself. When you are done, you can watch nice reruns of the armed struggle, the ones ZTV seems to have plenty of. If you don’t feel like those, you can watch reruns of Dallas, they stock those too. You will be spoilt for choice of reruns of films you can relate to. Whatever you do, don’t watch DSTV. Please sir. It will depress you no end. What with all your friends and presidential cohort in trouble. You really don’t want to see those silly Libyans calling for Gaddafi to step down. The rest of today’s television is pointless drivel, or naked girls your daughter Bona’s age. No, it is just too much. They say you like cricket. You can watch that to your heart’s content. I avoid most of what they call entertainment. I watch the history channel, football, and of course Al Jazeera. But as psychologists always tell us, television is not really good for relaxation. So stay away from it or watch very little.

When the eyes hurt, you can take a little walk around your neighbourhood, with an MP3 in your ears, like I do. Only yours will be filled with great revolutionary songs. Or when you get bored you can listen to any of our four radio stations. They are a great delight those. Every half hour your blood gets pumped up by rendition of a revolutionary advert or song. Don’t let your young son Chatunga convince you to get an I-pod. Useless things those, to people of a certain age. They don’t have FM radio. If Chatunga is like my son he will load it with hip hop from I-tunes. Not recommended. It all sounds the same after the first three songs.

Anyway, back to your secrets, how do you do it? My father, who is 78 can hardly remember the names of extended family members. Very frequently a relative will pass by and say, “how are you khulu?” And he will respond enthusiastically, “I am well mzukhulu how are you?” Only for him to ask one of us nearby, who the hell that was! How do you remember the names of everyone in the politburo? How do you tell Nick Clegg and David Cameron apart? I am not even half a century old but I struggle to remember the names of some of my work colleagues. Last week I wrote an email in Ndebele to one American and in Shona to a Greek colleague. How do you remember stuff? Is there medication for that? Do share it please.

As I grow older I am increasingly suffering from attention deficit disorder, blind spots, and selective hearing. Do you suffer the same? Would that be why you seem not to hear certain voices in the country? Or why you seem to have a blind spot to very poor people’s plight? Do you pay attention to all parts of the country and all your citizens the same? I am failing. I blank certain things out. Completely. Do send me your recipes for how you cope with these age ailments. Relying on those around me doesn’t help, because they seem to tell me only what they think or what they want. Don’t you sometimes have that feeling?

The day before my birthday I wanted to buy a cheaper facial brand to the one I had used for five years, which I must say did work wonders for me. It seems many people can’t work out how old I am by just looking at my buffed and cleansed face! That was never my intention. I only intended to keep my skin looking clean, and bright. So on this day last week the beautician suggested I use something called “Age-Defying”, something or other. I politely explained that I was happy with my age and did not want to defy gravity. She frowned in amazement, and shoved the brand into my basket. It really was half the price of my former brand, so I took it. Do you use the same age defying what not? I know you dye your hair pitch black. I have never understood that sort of thing, because it really does confuse matters. I don’t want to have a disconnection between my hair, face hands and age. They also say you eat very healthy food, and take lots of energy drinks? Good luck with all that. Each to their own, eh comrade?

So happy birthday once again, I don’t know why, or how you continue to do what you do. Enjoy your cake. Good luck with blowing that many candles. You will need it.
I will continue to write and enjoy myself. I love myself that much.

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.

Why I am "de'friending" you

Dear fr…..ahem, person,
Happy new year, happy birthday, anniversary, new job, new lover, divorce, new baby, new hairdo, and whatever other happy occasion will come your way this year and thereafter. I am doing this to save time, space, and the guilt – when you accuse me of having forgotten any such event in the course of the year.

Having been this nice, let me immediately say why I am writing this letter. I have decided to de-friend you from this day hence-forth. I am de-friending you on Facebook, Plaxo, Linkedin, skype, google-chat, yahoo chat, and of course my mobile phones. All three of them. You see dear person, the new year is a time to take stock of one’s life, set new goals, clean up one’s nooks and crannies, and generally move onto new and fresher things. At the beginning of each year, I clean out my cupboards, my wardrobe, my desk, my emails, and my files. But I have noticed that I have neglected one area – people. Relationships. These too need cleaning up, don’t you think? Now that I am done with cleaning all these other areas of my life, I am paying doing a people clean up exercise. There are various reasons that have led to this. Some of these might apply to you, while others you may not be aware of.
I really don’t know you really do I? When I happily accepted your “advances|” on facebook/plaxo etc, I was just too shy to say no. It didn’t seem right to reject you. Truth be told though, you don’t know me, and I don’t really know you. You can’t possibly be my friend when I have to keep reminding you how many children I have? And you can’t even remember any one of their names! There are five of them. If you just kept asking me about one of them, I would understand. But five? Nah! I on the other hand, don’t know a thing about you other than your name and the odd conference/gathering/once off event where we meet. Or I simply know that we work/ed in the same organization. That hardly makes you my friend does it? If it does I might as well befriend the guy who waters our plants each week, the regular DHL delivery man, and the cashier at my favourite coffee shop? I think I have much richer rapport with my hair dresser and my gynaecologist. The former has two children and her mother has diabetes, while the latter knows my entire biological make up and we have running jokes about our body parts. You, no, I don’t even know where you live.
Let’s just walk away now. At least nobody will be hurt. I am just one more name in your inbox and on your profile.


Then there is you, the one I was under the illusion I knew and liked. But over the last year, I found out I really don’t. First, there is the company that I see you keep; that reactionary politics, that homo-phobia, those misogynistic views – all paraded on public platforms. The less said here the better. Lets just say, I can’t afford to be seen in that company.

Then there is your own politics my, erm, friend; the same homophobia, the anti women, anti other human beings’ rights stuff you make little comments about via email, on skype, on text, and on those social networks. I shall none of it. Goodbye.


Then there is you, the religious zealot, who thinks you have been sent on a mission to save me, (not sure from what?), convert me, make me see what you call “the light”.
Let me break it down for you honey. I am over 40 going on half a century. I know where I am going, and what I believe. The only relationships I want to parade in public are sexual ones, strange as that might sound. My faith or lack thereof is a private matter. Jesus, Allah, Lord Shiva, the prophets and I go way back….sometimes earlier than when you were born my dear. I don’t want to be assailed by religious verses in my own space. I don’t want you to preach to me. Between my mum, my spiritual mentors (who don’t include you please note), and my Grade 2 teacher, (she is alive and sings beautifully), we have the whole faith thing covered. If I want to get some ‘ol’ time religion, I know exactly where to go and who to go to. It’s certainly not to facebook, outlook, or text messaging. I live in a secular world. Let me enjoy it please. Goodbye to you too.

I am tired of you, my soon to be ex-friend, trying to mobilize me to a “cause”. I am a cause! Plus I have enough causes that I actually work for day and night. Maybe you haven’t been politically active, so YOU need a cause? Good for you, and welcome to the world of human beings who care about others. Let me know if you need help identifying worthy causes as some of the ones you have been sending me are, eh…..suspect.

You are my relative, not my friend. We are simply related biologically, but we don’t have a relationship as such. Do you get the difference my relative? I am de-friending you too because other than our blood ties we haven’t got much in common. We hardly exchange more than two sentences at funerals and weddings. So I don’t see why I should keep you on my books. Sadly there is no chance of me deleting you from my life, or you deleting me. We just have to bear it and grin when our mothers ask, “how is your sister there in Johanazbeg”. We will say what we always say, |”ha she is ok”, meaning, you are alive and if you had died, then I would surely have been the one to repatriate your body home. You I will simply keep on the contact list stuck to my fridge. That way my children or the complex care taker can reach you should they need to. Off with your mug on my facebook list!

Finally there is you, my old friend. You were my friend in many senses for many years. I knew you from primary/high/work/socially/church/mosque or all of the above. We had something in common, once. But we have both moved on. We hardly communicate. Be honest when was the last time you called me on the phone? Sent me a note on my birthday? Do you even remember when it is? When did I last sit with you and laugh at a private joke we share? When we try to communicate, the conversations are strained. I don’t know half the folks you now call your friends, neither do you know mine. We give each other’s contacts to others who make better use of them than we each do. Let’s stop pretending. It’s not working anymore.

Happy everything once again and have a fantastic the rest of your life!

PS. Feel free to de-friend me too, in case you relate to what I said here...