For my son Andile at 18

The day you have been waiting for has finally dawned. I have watched you desperate to come of age. In many respects 18 is the magic age. First you get to vote! And you must vote. The world is run by those who participate. I have told you that before. I know you have heard too many people say oh it’s a waste of time. Politicians are corrupt. They never do anything for us. Your silence makes it worse. Vote, show them that you matter. Even if they rig, they will be rigging based on knowledge that you don’t want them!

You are now allowed to have pleasurable safe sex. Yes you are. Sex is a wonderful thing, to be enjoyed, with someone you genuinely like and love. Sex is not equals to pain, disease, and death – as you may have seen all around you as you grew up. It doesn’t have to be like that. Take your time though. Sex will always be there, when you are 69 or 103. As I told you when you turned 16, know yourself, your sexual preference and your sexuality. There isn’t one pre-destined-cast in stone-this is how a man should be thing. No. We live in a world of choices. That is why I have exposed you to the world, from Vietnam to Cambodia, Johannesburg to New York. It’s all yours honey. Be a global citizen.

Narrow mindedness and fundamentalism has no place in a rights respecting family or society. Be open to learning. Be open to other cultures. Appreciate diversity. Value every human being. We all have a story to tell. Or as that lovely song by Ray Phiri says, “we are all tributaries of that great river of pain, flowing into one ocean”. I prefer to see it as a great river of joy and love. Hatred of “the other”, intolerance of those whose lives you don’t understand, or stereotyping them, should be anathema to you. You would know this better my son. They said children of single mums were badly behaved brats with no manners or direction. Look how you have turned out, even if I say so myself!

You are at the point of choosing a university course of study. It is hard. Choose something that you will love doing, and as someone once said to me, something so portable that you can make a living anywhere in the world from it. Choose something that will not only earn you money but that will enable you to make a difference to other human beings’ lives. You will enjoy your university years. So much freedom, so much to learn, so much fun stuff to do, so many mates! These will be the best years of your life. Enjoy them.

A year ago you chose to be confirmed as an Anglican. Good for you. Grow spiritually, in whatever direction you choose. Always remember that a church or a mosque, or a temple doesn’t make you a better person. It simply helps you along. It is not about mouthing it each day or proclaiming your religiousness on your face-book page. No. It is the love, care and compassion and respect for the rights of ALL your fellow human beings that matters. You can live your entire life without ever darkening a religious establishment’s door, but it is what you do, say and how you live your life with others that truly matters. Your faith is yours. Don’t foist it on anyone else. Respect others’ choices.


I am so proud of how you have matured in the last two years. You now watch and read current affairs. You have to know your Achebe from your Dangarembga. You care about South Sudan. You don’t know how proud I was of the week you spent during your last holidays building a school in Alexandra township. I have seen you indignant when you witness injustice and pain inflicted on others.

You have turned 18 in the year that your dear granny left us, three months ago. I don’t know what she would say to you if she was here. What I do know is that she will always love and protect you wherever she is. She will be happy if you continue to grow up as a gentle, caring, loving and GIVING man. Giving to others doesn’t mean you have excess, or you want it publicized through megaphones. Just love and give. That is the rent you pay for being on this beautiful planet.

I love you my youngest ‘baby’. You keep me sane each day.

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.