Love In The Time of Xenophobia



As she turned into the sanitary lane, her blood turned cold. A thousand thoughts and memories raced through her mind: Should she turn back and go the other way? Should she press on ahead? A few metres away was Vusi and his friends standing on either side of the narrow lane, leaving a small gap, enough for a person to pass through. Without breaking her pace she pressed ahead, and was almost past the group of boys when Vusi in one swoop grabbed her by the wrist.

“Let me go,” she said from under clenched teeth.

“No, let’s talk. I want to ask you a few questions,” Vusi grinned showing large ivory coloured teeth.

“We have nothing to talk about. Let me go!” Lindo wriggled helplessly like a worm on a fish-hook.

“Well, we have lots to talk about.” His face shone with evil pleasure and his voice was laced with mockery.

The other boys watched passively, showing little excitement. She was slightly heavy in stature while Vusi was short and small. He had big eyes and a scar ran from his left eye down to his cheek, a reminder of an encounter he had with a sharpened toothbrush while he was in jail. Apart from that, his boyish looks hid flashes of red hot anger he was well known for.

“I will call the police if you continue like this. You know you are not allowed near me after what you did. Let me go!”

Angibasabi mina abokgatha.[1] I paid for my sins. Do you think they will arrest me for trying to make peace? Something called restorative justice”

Lindo’s chest heaved and he was close to tears. Something about Vusi made her turn to putty in his hands. Memories of that fateful night, about five years back flashed through her mind. He still reeked of sweat, dagga smoke and alcohol in his breath like on that fateful night. She remembered how Vusi had wrestled her to the ground, and the hawkish grin he wore as she writhed under him. She remembered how she yielded, unclasping her thighs as his rough right hand gripped tighter and tighter on her throat. She also remembered the satisfied mocking grin he wore on his face as she gathered her tattered, bloodied and soiled clothes before hastily limping home. Today, he wore the same smile and this drove her mad. After a violent struggle, she broke free, but not before Vusi playfully pinched her soft behind.

“Go to your kwere-kwere[2] boyfriend, you whore! I heard that they have bigger tools that can satisfy loose women like you.” His friends laughed derisively behind her. She angrily stomped the dusty road, her face flushing red from the humiliation.

Eish! Bafethu[3], we will be late for the meeting. Asambe[4]!”


Tendai could smell that something was bothering his lover. He also knew that no matter how hard he would press her to empty the contents of her heart, he wouldn’t succeed. He therefore resorted  to the best tactic that was sure to work: letting her be.

“I cooked some pap[5] and seshebo[6], exactly the way you like it. Want some?”

“No. I’m full.”

“Juice and some biscuits then?”

“I said I’m full, Tendai!” she almost screamed, her eyes popping wide.

“Ok, Ok! Sorry!”

Tendai was bothered by this state of his girlfriend.  She was not herself. They had had minor fights and had seen her angry and upset but not like today. She would be moody sometimes, like when it is her time of the month but this was different. His mind wandered back to when he first met her. He was a junior teacher at Mabandla High School where he taught Economics. Lindo and her friends had come to him seeking assistance with Maths homework. The girls watched in awe at the ease at which he explained the principles in impeccable English and solved the problems with relative ease.

“You Zimbabweans know almost everything. You teach Economics but you explain Maths better than Mr Mhloki. Don’t tell him we said so.”

Mr Mhloki was the Maths teacher.

Lindo continued to visit Tendai for Maths extra lessons. Tendai was always there to assist willingly and enthusiastically. She passed Maths with flying colours at matric, then took up Economics at Wits University. Tendai continued to be of use to her since Economics was his forte. He had all Economics principles and theories at his finger-tips and helped with research via social media, phone calls, e-mail and the frequent visits which he now sponsored.

One day as he explained a difficult concept, Lindo gaped at him. She was obviously not listening. He struggled to explain the concept in her mother-tongue, IsiZulu, Lindo giggled. Startled, Tendai blushed and stopped mid-sentence.

“Do you have a wife and kids back home in Harari?”

“No, I don’t. I came here immediately after university since I couldn’t get a job. By the way it’s Ha-ra-re.”

“Hahahaha! Ok, a girlfriend, back home or here?” she pressed further. His discomfort intrigued her.

“No,” his face was a full blush now.

She gave him an I-don’t-believe-you look. Suddenly he noticed that her eyes shone. Her face was moving towards his, her lips parted. She moved her face until their foreheads touched. The sweet smell of her hair chemicals, lotion and perfume overpowered him. Their mouths inched closer and locked in a passionate embrace. They held each other tightly and suddenly realized that it was too late. It was that night that she lost her innocence from the violent act by Vusi who had been pestering her since primary school. Tendai had not yet forgiven himself since that day. He wished he had allowed her to sleepover and face the wrath of Gogo or accompanied her straight up to her gate. He had taken her halfway up to the local ground where she had fatefully met Vusi.

He gave her support throughout her ordeal, attended the trial that sent Vusi to jail for five years. He stood by her as she received counselling and treatment and was relieved when results came showing that she was not pregnant and had not contracted HIV or any venereal disease. The two then became naturally inseparable. . .

“I think you should go and stay in town,” she spoke to the wall.

“Why sthandwa[7]? Here it is cheaper and nearer my workplace. Staying in town means I will spend more on transport or even have to buy a car which I can’t afford now . . .”

“Tendai do you even listen to me? Yeh?! I hate it here. It is dangerous. It’s no longer safe for you here! Don’t you watch the news? Didn’t you see what’s happening to foreigners in other parts of South Africa?”

“Ok! Ok! I understand. Sorry darling. I will work on it,”

“Tomorrow,” she looked at him with soft and apologetic eyes. She knew she had been too harsh on him since she arrived.

“Tomorrow mudiwa.[8]” She knew fully well what the Shona word meant and smiled, like all times he called her that. The word was a magic charm that softened her each time she was tense or upset. She moved closer to him and they held each other in silence. He felt her relax and begin to doze.


Vusi and friends hastily made to the meeting at the nearby Mhlabunzima Hall. When they arrived it was utter chaos. The local councilor who had attempted to address the irate residents was heckled and booed off-stage. Efforts by the police to restore order were futile. After assessing the situation and realizing that they were out-numbered, escorted the councilors and community leaders off the stage and out of the hall. That was when Maphetsa, popular for several unsuccessful attempts at the post of councilor, stood up to speak. Each statement of his was hailed, cheered and clapped at. He had become a hero overnight. The crowd was eating out of his hands.

“Comrades, let me tell you the truth! Even if I die, I will die for the truth! We have lost our community” he yelled into the microphone.

“Yeeeeees!” roared the crowd in agreement.

“Who owns all tuck-shops in this location?!” His eyes panned the excited crowd and answers, like confetti, were thrown onto the stage with abandon: “Indians!” “Pakistanis!” “Somalis!”

“Who is getting teaching jobs in our schools?!”


“Now comrades, who are these Indians, Pakistanis, Somalis and Zimbabweans?!” He was possessed now.

“Foreigners!” the crowd roared in unison.

“We have to take back our community! We can’t be ruled by foreigners in our own land. During apartheid we were ruled by whites, now we are ruled by foreigners. They commit crimes. They don’t have papers. Our police is useless.

“Let’s take back our power. We fought apartheid alone, now foreigners come and reap the fruits of our hard-won freedom? They are taking everything we own while we watch!”

“They are taking our RDP houses,” shouted an old lady near the stage.

“They are selling drugs and alcohol to our kids!” intoned another.

“They are taking our women, enticing them with money!” shouted Vusi, who was now frothing from the mouth. His eyes had turned blood-red.

“Comrades,” Maphetsa was now speaking softly, in a calculated manner, “let us go to the tuck-shops and tell these foreigners nice to pack their stuff and go in piece before things get out of hand.”

The excited crowd did not wait any further. Immediately they surged towards the exit and made for nearby Babajee tuck-shop. Like a tsunami wave the crowd crashed into the tuck-shop and grabbed whatever they could and within minutes the windows were broken and shop floor trashed. As the crowd moved back to admire their work of destruction, one threw a bottle filled with petrol chocked by a burning piece of cloth. It landed softly but immediately burst into an inferno. Thick flames, like huge hungry tongues licked the wooden stalls. The wood responded by burning like tinder. The crowd did not wait for the roof to cave in but were baying for the blood of the owner. He had slunk out of the shop in the melee and managed to reverse his car into the street. He slammed the accelerator and the creaky little car lurched forward powerfully. Crowds littering the streets dived out of the way while those behind pelted the little car with whatever they could lay their hands on. The missiles seemed to propel the car forward and within seconds on a tail of dust could be seen.


The usually sleepy location of Themba was abuzz that night. Through social media, word, like a veld-fire in a summer wind, quickly spread that foreign-owned spaza shops were being looted. By the time the police arrived at each tuck-shop, it would be a smoldering trashy rubble. Not only were the police out-numbered, they had been out-foxed.

In Tendai’s room, Lindo woke with a start. She had had a scary dream. In the dream Tendai was crossing the river and went to the other side leaving her on the other side. She had screamed to him to come back and fetch her but he did not respond, he simply turned around and stared at her helplessly. Lindo took it upon herself and waded through the ankle-deep water but with each step the river was getting deeper. In the middle the water was up to her chin as she tip-toed the river-bed. Then, to her horror, the water turned to blood! She was up to her chin in flowing blood!

She woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. Tendai continued to sleep peacefully with a gentle snore. She heard what sounded like a faint scream of a police van. Or was it an ambulance? She could also make out what sounded like singing. She knew that song well. Each time the song was sung things would not end well. Usually burning and destruction followed.

She cat-footed to the window and slightly parted the curtain. There was a crowd brandishing sticks, whips, pangas, assegai and all assortments of weapons. In front of the crowd was the unmistakable short frame of Vusi. Suddenly it made sense to her.

“Tendai! Tendai! Wake up! They are headed here! Quick!”

“Hmm? Who is headed here?” Tendai rubbed sleep off his eyes. Lindo had thrown a pair of shoes at his feet. As his head cleared, he heard the singing. It was much closer now. Even though his IsiZulu was elementary, the song sent a chill down his spine. He hurriedly slipped on the shoes.

“Don’t run, walk down the road and by Ausi’s yard jump over the fence then out of the location. Call me when you are in Standerton.”

The moment Tendai broke out of the gate, the crowd spotted him:
“There he is! There he is! Stop him!”

Tendai quickened his pace but after looking over his shoulder he broke into a run. His knees felt like jelly as he ran. Some people watched the spectacle from the safety of their yards.

“It’s the teacher! They are chasing the teacher!” screamed one child to his excited parents who quickly got out of the house to witness the unfolding event.

Tendai ran and ran. He was making good progress against his persuers when one burly man jumped over the fence and cut in front of him. He tried to dodge him but the man’s deftness belied his stature. He jumped and rugby-tackled him. The tackle knocked all the air out of his lungs and the two fell in a heap on to the dusty road.


By the time he came to, Tendai was bound hand and feet with shoelaces. The laces were so tight they sunk into the flesh of his hands. He could feel his veins throbbing and numbness setting in as the blood flow was disrupted. He was on his knees and sat on the soles of his feet. Suddenly he seemed old. There was commotion around him and Vusi pranced around him in what seemed like an awkward celebratory dance.

Tishere,[9] I told you. I told you leave our women alone but did you listen?” taunted Vusi.

From the back of the crowd an old tyre was thrown in front of Vusi. The crowd laughed nervously. A small boy moved forward, picked it up and placed it onto Tendai’s neck. Another boy moved forward, playfully doused Tendai’s head with a liquid and poured the rest into the lower part of the tyre. The crowed shifted back a bit. The petrol fumes stung Tendai’s nose, throat and eyes. His nose ran. He lifted his shoulders and his head and came face to face with Vusi.

Vusi fished his pockets and took out a box of matches. From the other pocket he took out a shriveled and broken cigarette. He slowly and deliberately lighted the cigarette, puffed once or twice and held the flaming match in his hand for some time. As the flame approached his fingers he quickly threw it towards Tendai. The crowd gasped in horror. Mid-air, the match-stick flickered and appeared to have gone out. Before it landed on the tyre a yellow flame exploded onto Tendai’s face. His upper body was a ball of flame. He tried to jump around but the laces held fast. Like a beheaded chicken he thrashed blindly around. A chorus of wailing police sirens suddenly and the crowd ran. One policeman jumped off the truck with a small fire extinguisher but it was too late. The air was filled with the pungent smell of burning rubber and human flesh.


Lindo locked the door and skipped out of the gate as the crowd trailed past. She was silently praying that Tendai will make it safety but when she saw the dust and the crowd congregating into a cycle she quickened home. Her grandmother knew the face she was wearing. It was the same face she wore when she arrived home after she was raped. She embraced her grand-daughter and literally carried her inside into her room. She sat on her small bed while her grand-daughter slumped on her lap, tears streaming down her grief swollen face. “He was a good man Gogo. He never hurt anyone. He was helpful. He was full of love. He loved me. I should have told him that I missed my period Gogo. I should have!”

“Shhhhhh! Sleep my child. You will need one of these.”

Her grandmother handed her a container of sleeping pills and made for the kitchen to fetch water. Lindo took one of the sleeping pills and held it in her mouth. Then a second one. Then another. She could hear the hiss of water from the tap filling the glass in the kitchen and her grandma would be here now. She poured half the contents of the pill bottle and held them in her mouth.

She drank half the glass her grandmother handed her then lay on her lap as the old lady sang her a lullaby.

It was only the next morning when Grandma realized that half of the near full pill-bottle were empty. . .





[1] I am not scared of the police.

[2] A derogatory term used to refer to foreign nationals, specifically those from Zimbabwe.

[3] Brothers.

[4] Let’s go!

[5] Thick mealie-meal porridge.

[6] Stew.

[7] Darling.

[8] Darling in Shona.

[9] Teacher.

On Donald Trump’s Maiden UN Speech

Emad Hajjaj / Jordan

Image Source: Internet

So Blair, keep your England and let me keep my Zimbabwe!”

It is not Donald Trump who said those words.  It was President Robert Mugabe during a climate summit in 2002. So peeved was Mugabe, and the rest of us who no longer supported him at that time, and the rest of Africa, at the then British Premier Tony Blair. Blair had committed the unforgivable sin of referring to Africa as “a scar on the conscience of the world.” How dare he! Despite my dislike for my president, I remember myself cheering him on as he went bare-knuckle on the grandson of an imperialist who knew what was coming, had cowardly left the summit and was no longer in attendance. I so badly wanted  to see the reaction on his piggy-pink skin. Obviously, he wasn’t going to show that ugly set of teeth. There wasn’t going to be any smiling because our president was going in hard.

So happy was I at Blair’s humiliation that I missed the nuance in Bob’s speech. You see, the problem with Bob is he gets people excited, then say something that serves him. By that time people would be drunk on joy, admiration and excitement that they miss the true meaning. England doesn’t belong to Blair, he’s just one of the citizens there, but when Bob said “. . .my Zimbabwe”, the smile on my face should have frozen. He meant it, literally. He owns everything, even the oxygen that citizens breathe. This post is not about Mugabe. It is about Donald Trump. It is about his first speech at the United Nations. . .

You see Trump is a rogue. A bully.  Most POTUS-es are but then Trump is an unsophisticated one. This is one of the reasons why I envy Americans (yes, the USA is America, just as Africa is a country to citizens of the USA). Citizens of the US have the luxury to elect any fool to that White House because they know for sure that the idiot won’t be a resident there forever. Of course they know that every idiot occupying that house will tinker with the economy to detriment of the poor, bomb other countries and kill innocent civilians, send naïve young marines to be massacred in foreign land and lock up as many men with a beard and believes in Allah as possible at some rented jail. However, they know that he (yes, he, they don’t elect women presidents there) will do that within a limited time. In Africa we do not have that luxury. We have leaders who believe that they were anointed into power by god. We citizens simply have to vote to endorse god’s will. Of course we do endorse god’s will. We are god fearing people and love to worship more than anything else. If one is to teach us a new way of worshiping, we try to out-do whoever taught us. If worshiping were technology, by now we could have designed a cellphone that works on no battery, no sim-card and does not require airtime . . .

I arrived back from work just in time when Trump was starting his speech. Ever since he became POTUS, I was looking forward to this kind of speech. Not that I expected it to be one that will change the world. I knew he was going to stir the pot and I was not disappointed. DT’s maiden UN speech was lit. I just didn’t expect him to refer to North Korean leader Kim as “Rocket man on a suicide mission.” I expected him to after Iran and Venezuela. I had predicted that he would come to the defence of the bully of the Middle-East and it’s prime Minister, an ardent supporter of DT to applaud his every word. Also, I correctly guessed that he won’t mention our country, which will never be a colony again, and its dear leader who was blissfully resting his eyes as trump rumbled on. How would he dare mention our country when his (Trump’s) children came to Zimbabwe to murder our animals for sport?

Like a wedding cake, DT’s speech had many layers. From the reaction, the ‘cake’ tasted differently to the different ‘wedding guests’; some finding it sweet while for some it was bitter. The speech showed all the different sides of Trump; the statesman, the proud American, the business-man and the showman. The speech contained some hard hitting truths; the UN needs reform, it needs to change with the times, the USA is paying through the nose for the useless organisation; some governments whose dictionaries does not contain the words ‘human rights’ sit on the UNHRC. I was serious and funny in some way.  It contained a message for everybody; the UN, Yankees, citizens of the world, Pyongyang, Teheran, Venezuela and even his predecessor and the opposition democrats got a share. Some parts sounded plagiarized though. The delivery was 100% original.

We live in a world where fundamentalism is slowly taking root and the right-wing monster is slowly waking up from deep hibernation. With these kinds of speeches and showmanship politics, DT might be the fuel and his drunk opposite number in NK might be the match-stick that is going to light up the world into one nuclear inferno. That is my prediction. One that I wish and will be glad that I’m wrong.

The Bob was in Bindura

Bindura Rally

Image source: Internet

Bob was in Bindura. Bindura is that never-developing town +/- 98km North of the dirty and chaotic capital. The little sleepy town used to buzz when farms surrounding it were still productive. Trojan Mine still had nickel and Freda Rebeca mine still produced gold. There is still  some gold in Bindura though, I’m told. Kitsiyatota area is still teeming with illegal miners but kuNjanji was wrestled away from illegal miners by the famous Man of God and he built a university. So the mines close, the universities open – fair deal.

Speaking of universities, the only development taking place in Bindura is that of universities. I can count three; Bindura University, Zimbabwe University and the Man of God’s university bearing his name of course. Bindura University has taken over the whole  town. Each and every building is now owned by BU. The whole area surrounding Bindura; next to Chipindura High, along Trojan road, Mount Darwin road is all Bindura University. If  people are not careful, the whole town will turn into a university. Didn’t they wrestle a farm away from SOS recently? I am not saying it’s wrong if the whole town became a university. My worry is where will the graduates get space to sell, since jobs are hard to come by in our country.

So, the First Secretary of the ruling party was in that little town. I’m told it was abuzz. He was there for his “Youth Interface Rallies”. He wasn’t campaigning. He doesn’t need to. Not only are elections light-ages away but campaigning, especially too early like this will be a sign of weakness to the opposition and the world at large that the ruling party is scared of losing elections. Ruling parties don’t lose elections in Africa. They came to power through the barrel of the gun and you expect them to be removed by the stroke of a pen? You must be kidding. After all we know that all African opposition parties are stooges, puppets of the West, so voting them to power is tantamount to selling off our hard-won independence for less than thirty pieces of silver.

From the video evidence I couldn’t recognize the all familiar Chipadze Stadium. Not that it’s a stadium, I grew up visiting that place. It is an ugly piece of land next to the now defunct Bindura Musika. It is hidden by a durawall and past the durawall are mounds of earth surrounding a rectangular piece of land. From above it looks like a crater of an extinct volcano. Did I say volcano? I am ashamed I used that simile. It looks like an abandoned open cast mine. Now that’s better. But over the weekend it was spilling over with colour, all and sundry were there to see the dear leader and hear words of wisdom. After all he’s usually out of the country so this, his visit, was not an opportunity to be missed.

Like I said, there isn’t much development to talk about in Bindura. Most of the buildings look old and in need of facelifts. The roads are pot-hole ridden and swarmed each side with sellers. The town looks old. So the visit by the president was something to look forward to.  Almost everyone turned up. After all Bindura is the provincial capital of Mash-Central. And Mash-Central is Zanu PF strong-hold. We come second after Uzumba-Maramba-Pfungwe if I am not mistaken.

The speeches by the speakers did not disappoint. From the videos I got on whatsap and twitter it was fire. The first lady ‘Doctor’ Amai was in her element. With her razor sharp tongue she summoned one Kazembe to the front, rebuked him like a naughty schoolkid before ordering him to sit down. What’s a rally if ‘Doctor’ Amai doesn’t rebuke someone? Like a boy scout to a master, Kazembe obliged, never uttered a single word. These men always surprise me. They are untouchable when dealing with us commoners but powerless when in front of the first citizen’s wife. Ray Kaukonde and the even the wordsmith of note, George “Nathaniel manheru” Charamba almost wet themselves in front of the Ballamine’s Mother. Amai then dismissed reports that there is something called G40 but made it clear she knows that Lacoste exists. The president later, in his drawling, sleep-inducing tone, acknowledged the existence of G40  and singled out Kasukuwere who he accused of being inspired by Obama. This was a Youth Interface Rally where the Bob was making it clear that no youth will lead in his lifetime and ambition is akin to treason.

I loved this rally because it gave some of us a chance to peer into what happens behind the scenes. In trying to justify that anyone in Zanu Pf can get a runny-tummy Chatunga’s mom told us that Mugabe was bed-ridden for two weeks, surviving on drips, suffering from diarrhea. She also told us that he (Mugabe) called for his Minister of Defence, Sidney Sekeramai, instead of his two lieutenants. Of course we understand, Sekeramai is a Soviet trained medical doctor, so let’s say he wanted to analyse the defence system in the dear leader’s body and fix it. The president got better as a result. So we can forgive Sekeramai for being duped by that criminal traditional leader that pure diesel was flowing from some rock in Chinhoyi. These things happen. No matter how high our literacy rate or how educated we are, we remain Africans and we believe in these things.

The president also told the crowds about a man named Majonga. Apparently this Majonga guy was found in a multi-storey flat with someone’s (the Croc) girlfriend. He was told to choose between sitting on a hot-place stove which was on or jump a few stories to the ground. He chose to jump. He’s now a paraplegic. The president never told us why whoever told the poor chap to jump was not brought to book.

After all was said and done the party left. Bindura is still it’s poor self. Youths don’t have jobs. The circus moved to another town.



I Love Sam Levy Village


Sam Levy village because it is far from the madding crowd, to borrow a phrase from renowned author Thomas Hardy.

Everything there works, including the newly installed robot. Of course I call traffic lights robots. That’s what I grew up knowing. Speaking of robots, the ones at The Village are not manned by spike wielding cops. Those notorious cops who spend the whole day monitoring traffic-light violators and issuing out tickets for inane offences like ‘proceeding through late amber’. We all know this is nonsense. It is a revenue collecting gimmick. They have caught me several times. The robot has a habit of changing on me the moment I cross the pedestrian line. I never complain. I pay and go. The only time I had a problem with them was when one tried to give me change for my brand new crisp fifty-dollar note. As change, he wanted to give me an assortment of unsightly dirty dollar bills and a mixture of bond-note coins. I demanded my fifty dollar back and counted the bond-notes and coins till I had the required twenty-dollar fine. He had refused the South African currency I had. So much for a multi-currency economy.

Harare CBD is difficult to navigate, either driving or on foot. The streets are teeming with pedestrians. What used to be pavements are now trading zones. A cacophony of voices advertise various wares: second hand clothes, fruit, airtime, rat poison, Facebook, Whatsapp etc. I remember having an interesting conversation with two guys. Out of curiosity I had approached them and asked how they were ‘selling’ Facebook and Whatsapp for three-dollars. “Haa idzi ndofunga dzabva kuUzumba Maramba Pfungwe idzi.” I heard one of them remark as I walked away. And these Hararians have perfected the art of advertising. They record their voices on a device which they then play over repeatedly through a speaker. It is irritating. Made my head ache but then I understand, they are trying to eke out a living.  At Sam Levy there is none of that. No hawkers will pester you with their wares, giving you those hungry looks that will have you buying out of pity. Everything is quiet and orderly, save for the boys in one popular supermarket who offer to pay for your goods via ‘swipe’ or Ecocash in exchange for US dollar notes.

The supermarkets at Sam Levy are squeaky-clean. I remember complaining that OK First was a bit dirty. The shop assistant who was busy shoving goods onto a shelf looked at me and smiled. It was past midday, he said. In the morning, he went on, it is usually clean. I knew what the look and smile meant: Where are you from and why are you not used to the situation? I was supposed to get used to the dirt, buy what I wanted and leave. I don’t earn that much, so I always try to get value for my money. That includes a clean shopping environment. I no longer shop there. Each time I am Harare I drive to Sam Levy.  The gleaming shelves and floors ease the pain of the prices which I feel are a bit steep. They aren’t, It’s just me who complains too much so don’t mind me.

Parking is a nightmare in Harare CBD. During peak hours it is difficult to find a parking spot. And you pay a dollar per hour for parking. The parking revenue collectors are so efficient and ruthless like the Biblical tax-collectors. The moment you indicate that you are taking a parking spot, they are already in position, machine in hand. They annoy me, but not as much as the police who guard robots. At the Village, I know I can park the whole day and not part with my hard earned dollar. The cars are safe in the parking lot which is patrolled by professional and polite security guards. One of then, while assisting me to reverse of a parking spot, called me “sir”.  It’s not a big deal to be called “sir”. The last time I smiled at being called that was in Bethlehem, by a white waiter. It felt so good I tipped the guy generously.

Everything works at Sam Levi. Sam Levi is how the Harare CBD should be like. No wonder why it is teeming with white people. I wondered why we rarely see them in the CBD. Now I know they are all at Sam Levi. All ages: Young, middle-aged, old, female and male. I saw one old white lady being assisted by a uniformed shop assistant to her car in the car park. I am yet to see the same being done to a darkie.

Sam Levy reminds me of a normal Harare. But then, abnormal is the new normal in Harare.




The Burden of an Unmarried Man

Image result for marriage images

Image credit: Google


My childhood friend married at twenty-two. He told me that he had met the love of his life and had felt it in his heart that she was the one. They still together now. Their ten-years-plus union has produced three fruits.

I remember his aunt, who also happened to be a friend of my mother, coming over our homestead to break the good news. The two women discussed the issue at length, a bit too loudly in my opinion, obviously to make sure that I hear about it. My mother obviously lept to my defence, arguing that she wanted her son to further his education before settling down.

As soon as I turned twenty-five, my mother’s responses changed a bit. Each time a neighbour, friend or relative pointed out that I needed a partner she would either keep quiet or openly invite the person to talk to me about it. I would laugh off every single suggestion that I find a soul-mate and start a family. I always had an arsenal of excuses, some of which I have since forgotten now. Most of the time, I simply said I am yet to find the right one. I was lying. I wasn’t looking for one.

A few years ago I turned thirty but still no wife and no family. Conversations with relatives changed completely. Insinuations and persuasive language made way for blackmail, scorn, ridicule and at times insults, all aimed at goring me into marriage:

Have you no shame to be this old and unmarried?

If you don’t have money ask your father to sell cows or did we refuse to contribute?

How do you survive single life at such an ‘advanced age’?

Who will agree to marry you when you are fourty?

How can you be so selfish, don’t you think your parents deserve grand-children?

Your children will look like your grandchildren!

You will still buy pampers at 50!

Uri kuhura!

Of course I laughed all of them off. That was water off a duck’s back. I had developed an elephant-thick skin towards this nagging issue. But sometimes conversations about my not being married have turned bizarre. One such encounter was with a relative who happens to be a charismatic pastor in these new churches mushrooming all over the place. He said that I had a demon. Only demons make handsome, young men like me not to marry. He then quoted some verses about marriage and gave examples of people who found wives in the Bible. He didn’t tell me at what age they married and neither did he tell me about Paul and those other prophets who died single. He ordered me to kneel down and after a lengthy prayer, laying of hands and speaking in tongues he ‘gave me’ three-months in which to marry. It has been three years since.

Let me admit that I almost yielded to the stigma of being unmarried. Almost everyone has a reason or reasons as to why I remain single. One relative was of the expert opinion that I was HIV-positive, and I answered that there are also HIV-positive women out there ready to marry. Another opined that probably my manhood doesn’t function, which I found funny and I had knew no way to prove to him; I know of men with ‘broken backs’ who got married, I would if I was and wanted to. The weirdest suggestion came from one relative from my mother’s side who said he thought I was gay. I told him in South Africa where I work and stay gays are allowed to marry. He didn’t find my response funny.

My head is now clearly bald. A few days ago I discovered about two or three grey hairs in my beard before I stopped counting. I remain single. I do not have a reason as to why. It does not bother me at all. However some, if not most of my relatives are.

The Light behind the Shadow

Tatenda Hanyani

There is a light behind the shadow

It leaves its footprints on the wall

The closer the light the smaller the shadow

If the shadow lies the light knows not

For it differs greatly from a footprint

The shadow does not last for ever

Neither does the footprint last

Yet the shadow always returns with the light

This wind has blown for a short while

Yet it has blown the footprints away

No one will get lost again

Fresh footprints in the mud now

Where they will stay forever

The wind will come and fail

Will you walk with me in the mud

Whilst our shadows tell of who we are

Shadows remain even though they change

They give hope and interpretation

What do I say when I see you

What do you see on my shadow

I wish you could see the footprints

The wind blew them away


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Poem: Shambles

by Moses Tatenda Hanyani

Motions of this world blow to and fro

The dust rises up in unanimity with the stillness that has been broken

All voices notice not the ears that hunger to hear

For the light has not found the spooky darkness

None chooses to go forth and start a proposition

The mighty have fallen and tumbled again

The waters unwearyingly wait for the storm to die away

As the wind rises it does not leave the earth unclothed

We have been bathed by this earth that we despise

Its pillars remain resilient day and night

Peace has reigned outside it 

Yet the disarray within it is at times unbearable

It’s amazing it does not crumble upon its very own

Wonders cannot cease to appear

For we are all part of them always

Will the mighty rise again to the dare?

Where is the unlimited friend that coasts and wanes?

The sun still burns and never tires

May aid appear as a force swifter than the wind itself

The weak have been furnished yet still too wretched

Who will revitalize the sword for them?

Will the mighty wind speak for them?

Time is life and life is time

These shambles that we see will be mend

Shambles are not part of the equation

Shambles are fiascoes

They will not rise up again