I was raised by a father that loved Dancehall and Reggae. Consequently, my days always looked like this; Morgan Heritage's “She's still loving me” would wake me up for school. Whilst my mother showered and smothered my face with Petroleum Jelly lotion, Jah Cure's “Longing For” would serenade us. By the time I was a little shining diamond eating peanut butter porridge, Luciano's “Its Me Again Jah” would blast through the home theatre speakers we had at the time. This was a somewhat pretty playlist. It was on Sunday, the day of the Lord, that my father played the music that has stayed with me over the years. It was on the day of Lord, as we prepared for church service that my father played songs that would make Martin Luther King's speeches blush in comparison. Songs that were meant to radicalise, conscientise and speak truth to power. Bob Marley's “Get up”, “slave driver”, “Revolution “; Peter Tosh's “Apartheid “, “Downpressor Man” and Bunny Wailer's “Battering down sentence”, “The oppressed song” amongst many other songs were the order of the day, the Lord's day. Now, it would be dishonest of me to claim that 10 year old me understood those songs beyond the mere acceptance that the beat made my brother and I dance like drunk men, in a bid to imitate our father whose struggle with rhythm is a public secret in our family. However, as I got older, I started appreciating the themes and imagine my joy when Winky D finally releases a purely reggae album speaking on those same themes; the nostalgia is cathartic!

My favorite Winky D album has always been his 2018 offering, Gombwe: ChiExtra. I absolutely adore its lyrical depth and how he leaned heavily on African spirituality to liken himself to a great ancestor of music. However, like a recently married Harare man, the temptation to cheat on my favorite album with his latest offering is seducing me in ways I imagine drugs tempt a junkie. The 16 track album was released soon after the highly electric Tete-a-tete concert and here is my track by track appreciation of the work!

1. 2 LAW.

The first song starts with “For how long do you want us to suffer?”. In classic Winky D fashion, he starts the album by questioning systems that oppress the masses. The song exposes what doesn't need an exposè; the violent violation of the rule of law in Africa. How the law often applies selectively, so much that there seem to be two laws, one for the rich and one for the poor. The song takes us into the Winky D ideal world, where propaganda has no place, where the people are free and the rule of law is prevalent. In my opinion, this is a good album introduction because not only does it introduce the body of work, but it stays true to Winky D himself, the lyrics matching the ideology he has always preached in his previous songs.

1. BLIND PATRIOTS.

“What is patriotism?”. This question has always amazed me because most often than not, we are made to believe patriotism is loyalty to the incumbent government. This is simply untrue. Patriotism is love and loyalty to the motherland, not systems or authorities. In this second song, Winky D provides a critical dissection of patriotism as we have come to define it in a certain Southern African nation. In a way, he reprimands those that are patriotic to systems and money instead of the motherland, going as far as questioning the cleanliness of their souls after pleading loyalty for the sake of material benefits. “Court Jester, Court Jester!”, he chants, and I cant help but visualise those that are loyal to oppressive regimes as textbook clowns!

1. HELLO AFRICA (FT ROCKY DAWUNI)

Featuring Ghananian artist Rocky Dawuni, this track expands the geographical scope of the the album into a continental dialogue, addressing shared post colonial struggles and African identity. He greets Africa and calls her to wake up, asking her to unite the nation. This is a child pained, going to the mother to report and pray for change. Hopeful indeed. He is aggrieved by the collective African leadership crisis and misuse of resources for the benefit of the elite. “Mama your children are crying”. Wake up AFRICA INDEED!.

1. FREEDOM.

Here Mr Wallace Sir gives us an emotional and motivational anthem that examines what genuine liberation means. “Freedom is enough and it is a must”. He calls on his listeners to help him stand for freedom for all. He stresses that silence is agreement, not speaking against injustice is being an accomplice.

1. ADVERTISE

This is my second favorite song on the album. In a bit I will tell you my favorite. But in this song, Baba assumes his fatherly role, calls his daughters to the table and speaks to them. He tells them they're worthy and beautiful beings “pretty likkle ting”. And he then tells them of the SUV driving vultures that would take advantage of them if they “advertise what you dont sell”. A parental plea. A father warning his beautiful daughters to remember their station in life and not beg from said vultures. This is beautiful. In this highly immoral world, where men are supposed to be protectors but rather prey on litte girls, its refreshing to see a man of Winky D's calibre take the time to warn the girl child of the snares and traps in the world. The way I see it, though he is speaking to his daughters, panorairwa mwana wamambo muranda terera, everyone can learn as well. It is not wise to live on handouts, it is not wise to allow the vultures of this world to tarnish your essence!

1. DESPERATE SITUATIONS.

A gritty and reflective narration depicting how systemic poverty forces citizens into dangerous corners and survivalist mindsets. He chants “me no give in” and boasts how a few silver coins cannot buy him because he leads millions and millions. To the wise, this is a call to be hyper focused on the goal, and not sell out for a few coins. He admits the big responsibility he carries as a man followed and listened to by many and I find that commendable. To know your influence and endeavour to use it positively. VaChirimuko, you genius, you!

1. GREEDY. (FT RAYBEKAH)

This is my favorite song on the album! Joined by Nigerian Raybekah, this track zeroes in on the accumulation of wealth by the privileged few at the direct expense of the struggling working class. Is this even possible you ask? To see a society where resources are equally shared? Where leaders are not greedy, fat gluttons? His answer is yes and he walks back in time to answer this question. He speaks of the Africa of Thomas Sankara, the man who famously said “clean water for all and not champagne for a few”. He speaks of the Africa of Julius Nyerere. The Africa that used to touch the world. I love this song not only because it speaks against greed, but because it also reminds the average African that our heroes are at home. We have our Sankaras and Nyereres to look up to. And in this era of identity crisis, its important we remember who we are, and that includes drawing inspiration from our forefathers.

1. ELOQUENT SILENCE.

A poignant meditation on the quiet complicity or forced silence of societies witnessing injustice. The title itself is ironic, because how can silence be eloquent? Our silence is in our cheer, cheering them as they squander taxpayers money. Fear, fearing as they destroy our collective future. Fear, fear, we can't stand for anything right we just fear. “Just stand up as a man and air your sentiments”. Instead of just speaking to those abusing nations, in this song he speaks to the abused who support the abuse by silence, by cheering their lavish lifestyles, by refusing to speak. Eloquent silence indeed! In our silence, we are speaking volumes.

1. SCARS.

He starts the song by describing his plight and dilemna. Having a stone and knowing the bird he wants down, missing goals like Lukaku, etc. He speaks of his wishes, the life he wants, what he wishes to achieve. This song is an introspective look at collective and individual trauma, using physical and emotional marks as metaphors for the pain we have as a people. The scars we carry from broken dreams, from wrong perception, from damaged economics. We have scars.

1. TÊTE-Â-TÊTE.

The 10th song is the albums namesake. The word finds its roots in the French language and it means “head to head”. It describes an intimate, face to face discussion. He calls the opposition and the ruling to sit together behind closed to map out a way forward for the good of the nation. This is a man that understands the power of unity, the beauty of coming together to rebuild, one can only hope the intended audience hears.

1. SPIRIT OF KUNTA.

HANDISI TOBY BA! He mourns how Africa has become a religious and cultural dumping site. He momentarily leaves the economic shackles he usually favors and starts speaking of mental slavery. An identity loss. An imposition of the name Toby on a man named Kunta. He reminds us he is a Bantu man! I think there are many angles to interpret this song, but the nucleus of it is freeing the African mind from mental slavery. He calls upon us all Kuntas to refuse the Toby name, and reclaim our personhood, our culture and ways. And not latch on on other people's identities. A masterpiece!

12. LEADERSHIP (FT PATORANKING).

A collaboration with Nigerian powerhouse, Patoranking that questions institutional failures and contrasts self serving authority with true stewardship. He echoes our selective sentiments, that Africa's problem is leadership and that is true considering the crop of leadership most African nations have had in post colonial times.

1. SORRY LOVE.

A momentary breather from socio-political commentary. A vulnerable song regarding romantic relationships. But of course, the man that penned Extraterrestrial and Idya mari cannot finish an album without baring open the compartment of his heart that deals with love. He admits he is flawed, he admits he fails, and he apologises for it. Sorry Love! Might use this ndarwadzisa munhu!

1. ROOTS AND CULTURE.

In so many ways, this song is like Spirit of Kunta. A call to reclaim our identity. He is praying we go back to our African values, identity and wisdom. He questions the system imposed on us by white colonialists. He wants us to go back to our roots and culture. Because clearly those that came in a war ship cannot preach peace especially when their remarks about our ancestors are derogatory. Teach the youths!

1. WHITE CAR, BLUE LINE.

“The rich never do time”. He takes us back to 2 Law in a way. Speaks of how the system zooms in on the poor but seem to ignore the rich. “Searching for the poor who do crime”. He uses stark imagery of authority and state machinery to critique surveillance, power imbalances and the constant gaze of control over civilian spaces.

1. WISHES.

And so the album comes to a close. The final note. The conclusion. What have we learnt? What have we realized we need to do better? Only you dear reader can answer yourself that. But after all his lamenting and wailing, he warns his listeners that not all that glitters is gold. Half of the story is never told. And so he prays we are content, fight for a better life and remember reality isn't always as it appears.

I know I am biased, but this is an excellent body of work. Dare I say “kana usina 5 O levels haunakidzwe” finally applies. So is Winky D a pessimistic man without any good report? My learned judgement is he is a very patriotic man aggrieved by the state of affairs and hoping for change. I know I am too!

I am a 25 year old woman. I am not the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, but I have definitely had my fair share of male attention. And because I have, I am an expert on how men mostly react when you turn down a love proposal. However, in this essay, I do hope my expertise will not be needed, because in doing so I risk treating one 25 year old woman's experiences as universal. That would be dishonest. What would be honest however, is to speak what I have seen, because as great philosophers of our generation often say, “hatiregedze kutaura zvatakaona nemeso, kana kunzwa nenzeve”. Before I proceed dear reader, let me warn you that as you read through you will be tempted to think the opinions expressed here are from a bitter, unmarried and lonely older woman. Let me categorically state that I am neither bitter nor lonely, and as far as the issues of romance are concerned, well my not publishing a book on being a proper lover/wife to help you is selfish at this point.

There is a lie society has accepted as truth. Naturally so because when a lie is repeated as many times as possible, it feels confident to sit in the presence and counsel of truths, it feels at home and starts believing it is a truth. This lie is that older women are single as a consequence; a penalty for a crime committed in her youth. That she refused a “good man” when she was 21 and so she must wallow in the cold embrace of loneliness at 41. This is not to say there are no single older women that really passed out a chance of Nirvana gassed up by youthful hubris. However, two truths can coexist. And these two truths are that not every single older woman lost a good man when she was younger and that sometimes young women do miss out on love for different reasons, as do their male counterparts. I am more seduced by the first truth.

Naturally, women start getting male attention as early as 15, and some even younger. Though this is regrettable and harmful, it is the sad reality we find thrust upon our existence. And because of this, society in a way expects a girl so young to be decisive enough to filter through the 50 love proposals and settle on a “good man”. At 17 she is expected to choose a man she will still love at 37, and at 53. We collectively agree that teenagers and early 20 year olds, though legally adults, are still children. And like children, they make mistakes, mistakes from which they must learn from. But somehow, we do not extend this leniency to young girls navigating relationships, we expect them, at 23 to be wise enough to know a good from a bad relationship, as if things are always black and white. And if she fails, we punish her for a lifetime.

There are two problems with this system. The first is that it assumes every man that courts you when you are young is a good man. “Tichaoonana wakuda kuroorwa imi maishanira varume vanokudai”. Every girl can attest that they have heard this statement, or a variation of it after rejecting a love proposal. But what is a good man? And even if he is good, is he entitled to affection simply because he is? And is he a good man by the simple act of loving a younger girl? And is the world in such short supply of good men that if I refuse one when I am 16 I will never get another one at 26? We have allowed this illusion to grow so much. Unfortunately, not every man that courts younger women is a good man. If men that court young women were inherently good men, surely we wouldn't have such high numbers of abandoned single teen mothers, the good men and fathers of their children will be there.

The second problem with this system is that it assumes, as far as relationships are concerned that young women are perfectly intelligent beings incapable of mistakes. These young women, are still learning life, still finding their footing in the world. Some are not yet sure which career path they want. For the lucky ones, they still have their parents or guardians making important decisions for them, such as which religion to follow, which school to attend, which subjects to focus on and which clothes to wear. Clearly, these are children, still evolving, discovering themselves and so prone to mistakes and or wrong decisions. Many people got tattoos at 17 that they regret at 53. But we laugh it off, and even forgive it, became we understand that that age is the age of mistakes and learning. And yet, despite knowing this, we expect these messy, still learning, still need mommy's approval beings to be wise enough to choose THE ONE. And if she fails, she must be doomed to loneliness and a lifetime of ridicule. How many people still enjoy the music they enjoyed at 15? The clothes they wore at 19? The shows they watched at 26? We accept that we grow and change and our mistakes become learning points, yet we crucify women when the mistakes they made as girls become regrets. We expect children so young to make decisions so paramount. And when they err, we persecute them till they die. This is not to dodge accountability for the ones that despite warnings and counsel throw their lives to the wolves, but to interrogate why we burden girls so young with responsibility so big? If she can choose the wrong dress because she is still a child, why do we not forgive her when in the same manner when she refuses a “good man”?

This system ultimately does three things:

1. It shames women - with the belief that every older unmarried woman failed a good man when she was younger, we create a greenhouse where we plant and harvest shame in a controlled environment. We overlook every other reason an adult woman can be single and assign shame to her and her story. We shame the one that was betrayed by her “good man” after years of being together. We shame the one that was never “pretty enough” to be hitched that young. We shame the one that waited but never found what she wanted and is now content with other pursuits. We shame the one that had no time for romantic relationships because she was too busy being a mother to her younger siblings. We bundle all these stories and deliver it in one wrapping, with a note saying “you lost a good man when you were younger”.

• It breeds entitlement in men - it teaches men that they are entitled to a young woman's “yes”. It teaches boys that as long as he thinks he is a good one, girls must say yes in hopes of securing a husband. And so when he courts a pretty young girl and she says no, it creates resentment, resentment which manifests itself in the global statistics of femicide and misogyny. Ending her life because she refused a good man. Ironic, isn't it.

• It erases childhood - when we collectively accept that a girl must endeavour to secure a husband at such a young age, we deny her a childhood. We deny her a chance to be a child and thrust premature womanhood on her. We deny her a chance to be young and full of life. We deny her a chance to be whimsical and light. Because how can you can jolly when you must a choose a man at 21 that you will spend forever and ever with? How can she enjoy her childhood when she already has adult responsibilities? We perpetually stunt girls by imposing premature adulthood on them. And we turn around and call them mature. Yet what it is in reality, is a child refused childhood.

Should this essay find itself in the hands of a young woman, my dearest sweetness, be mindful of the curious situation you find yourself in. You live in a world where a decision you will make drunk on youthful energy will be used to judge and categorise you for the rest of your life. By all means, make good ones. Is this a ridiculously big responsibility? Yes, but its going to take more than essays till our society changes, so in the meantime I wish you all the best, though sometimes no matter how much you make the right decisions, results are not always certain in this world that is uncertain.

In conclusion, I implore ye that we be mindful how we navigate our conversation with each other. The world has evolved so much that a single person can be single for many reasons, and to assume that women are singke because they lost good men is to assume that every woman that approached her whilst she was younger was a good man and a last chance at human life. Not only is it untrue, it is unfair.

So, to the men I never loved, for one reason or another, no, my refusing you does not have ripple effects, you are simply not that important. That she refused you at 17 does not mean she will be poor and unloved at 52. Life is not a Nollywood movie.

The world is a dynamic place and in the past two decades social media has been one of the greatest drivers of change. Social media has become an integral part of our daily lives, its tentacles reaching to businesses, marketing, communication and education. Relationships have not been spared this change and this includes all types of relationships not just romantic. However, the nucleus of this essay is how big and how positive or negative of a role social media plays in romantic relationships. Many a beautiful relationship have been birthed through social media, and many a beautiful relationship have found their graves on same social media.

Imagine if dating through to matrimony were a play and each stage an Act. Whilst social media did not invent romance, it rewrote the script, the stage and the audience. From the first signs of flirting to wedding pictures with captions throwing jabs at exes and messy breakups with receipts, every stage of a relationship now plays out on our phones. The play unveils as thus:

ACT 1- THE DM INVASION- COURTSHIP GOES DIGITAL.

Our fathers met our mothers in person, and had to approach then in person, convince them in person and start a relationship in person. A man had to impress, be poetic if need be and send through a follow up love letter pouring out his heart and intentions. Today, courtship no longer happens at the bus stop or after church service, at least not as much. It happens in the inbox. A like on a 2022 selfie followed up by a heart emoji on your story. Where our fathers serenaded our mothers and used hyperbole to appreciate their beauty and build, the modern man comments , “LOL you're funny” and from that comment courtship starts. This is followed by a vetting process. You exchange filtered pictures where, thanks to iphone cameras you shine brighter than your future. You send your friends the pictures and together you dissect them. A date is set up, at a restaurant or fast food outlet, but by then you've already spoken to each other into the night, you're just here to eat food you dont always eat at home and officialise what you already know to be true, that you're now an item.

Wonderful? Or is it?

ACT 2- THE HARD LAUNCH- LOVE AS CONTENT.

The date where you eat sushi and cocktails seals the deal, you're now official. The next question is, “when are you posting us/me?”. Anniversary posts with romantic captions, birthday shortouts coupled with gifts good enough to post and brag about and couple Tiktoks. This stage comes with more pressure than a pressure cooker. The comparisons of reels and pictures, proposal videos and baecation trips to Vumba wearing Shein matching outfits. It creates both inspiration and insecurity. If he does not post you, you start wondering if he loves you? If she doesn't send you Tiktoks you wonder who she's sending them to. This stage also turns you from a lover to a surveillance system. When last were they online? What did they post? Why did they post a screenshot of “kana ukandi cheater baby ndichaku cheatawo song?” Why are they liking pictures of naked men on Instagram?”. Each post becomes an encrypted message to be deciphered. Each retweet on Twitter a silent message to the overgrown man you call baby in the name of romance.

For us nosy people, just by observation alone, we can determine the temperature of the relationship. If your crush starts posting sad songs you know its time to attack, her relationship is in its dying moments. If that cute guy starts randomly posting motivational quotes you know a sister somewhere has done it again. This publication of romance, what does it mean for the union in the long run? Is it love or a performance? When you have allowed the world to see everything, what else is left for you two to cherish and cradle in your arms like a babe?

ACT 3- THE FINAL DANCE- CONFLICT GOES PUBLIC.

At this stage, the same social media where you met and proved to haters that you are loved, becomes a courtroom where the story viewers assume the fitting role of an unforgiving jury. The break up is loud, reputation tarnishing, sexual prowess questioning and gut wrenching. Our fathers, after meeting and marrying our mothers, in times of conflict, always had family elders andclose friends to turn to for mediation. Some still do. But for most, social media becomes the courtroom where a marriage is dissolved by public opinion. Instagram posts explaining your side. Twitter treads exposing how small their phallus is. Facebook flirting to hurt them. Messy. Indeed it is messy.

THE DOUBLE EDGE.

What social media gave:

1. Access- with Instagram, you can have a conversation with a person so out of your league you know for a fact you wouldn't speak to them in person. With WhatsApp, comes a confidence so palpable you can almost touch it, you say things you're otherwise too shy to say face to face.

2. Connection- with video calls, married couples separated by migration can talk face to face, stay close and love each other through the screen.

What social media took:

1. Privacy- “rudo vaviri”. This has lost meaning. Her friends have stakes in the relationship, dissecting everything in their group chat. His friends know how she likes it in bed. We tend to overshare online. And in an attempt to appear happy and loved, we give the world parts of our relationship that we ought to keep for ourselves. And when you spend the whole day performing a caricature of what a happy marriage looks like, do you still have the stamina to actually be happy? When the camera shuts and we go offline, what have we left to cherish? Or have we given everything to an insatiable audience online?

2. Peace- for all its beauty, social media has successfully extracted peace from romantic relationships. Constant comparisons online breeds anxiety and a feeling that maybe you are not in the right relationship. So and so posts his girlfriend. So and so bought a car for his wife. And so, juiced up by what you see online, you embark on a journey to also experience that. But because your partner is a different person from whom you're comparing them to, you inevitably fail. And so you sit alone, in the dark, thinking that a woman who has birthed four of your children does not love you because, unlike your friend's girlfriend she didn't post a hundred pictures on your anniversary. You sit there and convince yourself that a man who has protected you for years does not love you because, unlike your besty's man, he didn't send bhosvo on your birthday. You keep chasing online standards, whilst ignoring the one person you should hold tighter than a wallet.

3. Presence- because of the constant need to appear happy online, every moment spent with your better half is spent curating the perfect picture. Instead of kissing them until you swoon, you keep trying to make sure you look cute for the camera. Instead of enjoying their presence, you prefer to perform for your online viewers.

So, is social media bad? When it allows us to get instant replies from our lovers who are halfway across the globe? When it allows us to communicate in real time and not wait seven days for the mail?

Is social media good? When it reduces intimacy to a performance? When it takes away the joy of companionship and replaces it with the inconsequential thrill of “favorite couple “ comments?

This author believes it is neither. What it is is a tool, not a villain or saint. How you use it, can either strengthen or dismantle relationships. Ultimately, make sure that you have the kind of relationship that survives when WI-FI is off and the only audience is each other. Because at the end of the day, screenshots and posts can end a relationship, but I am not thoroughly convinced they can build one.

Consider the nature of a dream. It shows us things that have no existence, people who have never been born, places that exist only in the fevered imagination of a sleeping mind. And yet, while we are trapped in that spectral theatre, we accept it all with a credulity that would shame a child. Our vaunted reason, that pillar of our self-respect, is humiliated, reduced to a gibbering idiot that nods its head at the most preposterous absurdities. We walk through walls, we converse with the dead, we fly through the air like birds, and never once does our waking intelligence protest. It is as if the soul, freed from the tyranny of the rational, delights in its own degradation, wallowing in a mire of impossibility. And when we wake, we shake our heads and say, "What a strange dream," and we go back to our coffee and our newspapers, as if we had not just witnessed the utter collapse of everything we hold to be true. Is this not madness? Is this not a profound and terrifying indictment of the very nature of our consciousness? We are creatures who can believe, with every fibre of our being, in the impossible, and then, in an instant, dismiss it as mere fantasy. What does that make us? What is the point of a mind that can so cheerfully betray itself?

This, I confess, has been my obsession for many years. I have lain awake at night, staring at the ceiling, trying to find some thread of meaning in the chaotic tapestry of my dreams. But the more I searched, the more I saw only the grinning face of the absurd. Dreams, I concluded, are the playground of the meaninglessness. They are not prophecy, not wish-fulfilment, not the secret language of the soul. They are simply the noise the mind makes when it is left to its own devices, a kind of spiritual flatulence that signifies nothing at all. And yet, this conclusion, so neat, so rational, was challenged by a dream I had last week, a dream so pathetic, so exquisitely cruel, that it seemed to confirm my worst suspicions while simultaneously torturing me with a perverse, inexplicable joy. It is this dream I will recount, not because it has any importance, but because it demonstrates, with surgical precision, the essential emptiness of the dream-world.

I am an amputee. It is a fact of my existence, a cold, unalterable truth that has shaped every moment of my waking life. My right leg ends just below the knee, a stump of scarred flesh that has long since ceased to feel, replaced by a prosthetic leg that I have learned to use with a kind of bitter proficiency. I am a half-man, a fragment of a human being, and I have made my peace with this. There is no self-pity in me, no longing for what I have lost. The leg is gone; it was gone, perhaps, before I was even born, in some sense, for I do not want to remember the time when I was whole. There was an ancient, accepted sorrow that has become as familiar as my own breathing, a dull ache that has calcified into the very structure of my being. The world belongs to those who walk on two legs, and I am a spectator on the sidelines. It is a simple, brutal equation, and I have long since stopped trying to solve it.

But the dreams I have, the dreams are a different matter entirely. In these dreams, I am not a spectator. I am a participant. I stand in the starting blocks of a vast, sun-drenched stadium, the roar of a hundred thousand voices washing over me like a living tide. The air will be thick with the smell of sweat and grass and ozone, and my body a symphony of coiled power. I am a sprinter, one of the finest in the world, and I will be running the race of my life. And my leg, my missing leg, is whole. It is a perfect, beautiful instrument of muscle and sinew, a thing of such exquisite power that I can feel its potential energy singing through my veins. The absurdity of it is, at first, so profound that it seems to have a kind of purity, a pristine unreality that my sleeping mind simply accepts as the most natural thing in the world. I do not question it. I do not wonder. I simply am, a perfect, whole man standing on the edge of glory.

And then, a subtle shift. As the starting gun is raised, a strange, crystalline thought begins to form in the depths of my consciousness. It is not a loud thought, not a shocking revelation; it is more like a whisper, a faint, persistent humming that grows louder with each passing second. ‘I know I am a ghost from the knee below. I know I have a prosthetic leg. The thought is a splinter of ice in my warm, dreamy complacency. It is a fact, a stubborn, undeniable fact of my existence, and it should shatter my dreams into a thousand pieces. My waking reason, the feeble tyrant that is being or has been dethroned makes a desperate bid for power. It insists, with all the force of a lifetime of bitter experience, that this is a lie, a joke, a cruel illusion.

But the dreams do not shatter. The gun fires, and I explode from the blocks. And here is the heart of the matter, the terrible, incomprehensible crux of the whole experience. I run, and as I run, I am acutely, terrifyingly aware of the impossibility of it all. With every perfect stride, with every rhythmic beat of my heart, with every desperate gasp of air, I know that my leg is a phantom, a fraud conjured by a sleeping mind. I am a cripple, a half-man, a creature of absence and lack, and I am running like a god. The knowledge does not stop me; it does not even slow me down. Instead, it transforms the act of running into something else entirely, something I have no words to describe.

I am not just racing, I am defying the very laws of my own existence. I am a ghost proving that ghosts have substance. I am a ‘zero’ proving that zero can be a number. The other athletes, those whole, unthinking men, are simply running. They are experiencing the simple, uncomplicated joy of motion, the animal pleasure of the race. But I, I am experiencing something infinitely more complex, infinitely more exquisite, and infinitely more perverse. I am experiencing the joy of the lie. I am feeling the ecstasy of a thing that is not. The wind is in my hair, the sun is on my face, and the crowd is a roaring testament to my magnificence, and all the while, a voice inside me is whispering, ‘This is not real. You are not here. You are a dreamer dreaming a dream of something you can never be.’

And yet, the joy is real. That is the final, damning twist, the monstrous joke that the universe plays on us in our sleep. The joy, the rapture, the overwhelming torrent of happiness that floods my being is, in that moment, more real than any joy I have ever felt in my waking life. I am not cheering the triumph of a whole man; I am cheering the magnificent, hollow triumph of a ghost who has forgotten, for a blinding, incandescent second, that he is dead from the knee down. It is a happiness that is born, not of achievement, but of delusion. It is a happiness that feeds on its own impossibility. It is, in short, a meaningless happiness, a happiness that had no foundation, no justification, no reason to exist.

This, I tell you, is the true nightmare of the dreams. It is not the terror, not the monsters, not the falling from cliffs or the being chased by faceless horrors. Those things are simple; they are the stuff of penny dreadfuls and Gothic novels. The true horror, the horror that has lodged itself in my soul like a splinter of poisoned glass, is the happiness. It is the feeling of a joy that has no right to exist, a joy that is predicated on a lie, a joy that mocks the very concept of meaning. In my waking life, I have known moments of contentment, moments of quiet satisfaction, but never, never have I felt such a pure, radiant, all-consuming happiness as I feel in my dreams. And why? Because I am a fraud. Because I am a man who has forgotten his own grief. Because I am a cripple pretending to be whole.

Is this not the ultimate meaninglessness? To be given a gift that you cannot keep? To be shown a vision of paradise and then told, "But this is nothing; this is only a dream; this has no more substance than a puff of smoke"? It would be better, I think, to be given nothing at all. It would be better to sleep in a black and dreamless void, to be spared the cruel mockery of a happiness that is not real. For what is more cruel than to be happy for a reason that does not exist? What is more torturous than to feel joy in a state of knowing that it is a lie? The philosophers tell us that happiness is the product of virtue, or of wisdom, or of the harmony of the soul. But I have seen the truth, and the truth is that happiness can be produced by nothing at all. It can bloom in the barren soil of a dream, a flower of pure, meaningless ecstasy that withers the moment one opens his eyes.

I cross the finish line in first place. The crowd erupts. I am a champion, a hero, a man who has achieved the impossible. And in that moment, the culmination of all my impossible glory, I feel a surge of emotion so powerful that it seems to tear my very soul apart. It is not pride, not triumph, not the simple satisfaction of a goal achieved. It is something far more profound and far more terrible. It is the recognition of my own absolute, utter emptiness. I am standing on the winner's podium, a gold medal around my neck, and I am nothing. I am a hollow shell, a puppet whose strings have been cut, a man who has achieved everything and, in achieving it, has achieved nothing at all. Because I know. I know that I have no leg. I know that this is a dream. And I know, with a certainty that burned like acid in my veins, that this victory has no more meaning than a child's scribble on a wall.

I wake up with a gasp, the phantom sensation of the race still thrumming in my muscles, the taste of phantom victory still on my tongue. I sit up in my bed, my heart pounding, my breath coming in ragged gasps. And then I look down. I see the familiar shape of my stump beneath the covers, the cruel, silent testament to my reality. The joy that had filled my soul just moments before evaporates like morning mist, leaving behind only a cold, bitter emptiness. I am a cripple again. I am a half-man. I am the spectator, not the participant. The dream is over, and I am left with the ashes of its impossible glory.

And the worst of it, the part that I cannot shake, is the knowledge that the joy I felt was more real, more vivid, than anything I feel in my waking life. This is the final, damning indictment of the dream-world. It is not that it is less real; it is that it is more real. It gives us emotions that are purer, more intense, and more profound than anything we can achieve in the world of cause and effect, of bills and breakfasts and prosthetic legs. But these emotions are attached to nothing. They are rootless, floating flowers of feeling that have no ground to grow in. They are a feast of fine wines and rich foods served to men with no stomachs. They are a beautiful symphony played in a room filled with deaf men.

When I tell my friends, they laugh and say, "It was only a dream. What does it matter?" But they do not understand. They do not see that the question is not whether it was a dream or reality, but whether a feeling that springs from a lie can have any value. If I am happy in a dream, if I am joyful in a fantasy, if I am triumphant in a world that does not exist, is that happiness real? Does it count? Is it not, rather, a kind of poison, a false currency that devalues all genuine feeling? To be happy for a reason that is false is to be doubly unhappy. It is to be a man who has been given a counterfeit coin and who, in his ignorance, rejoices in his wealth, only to discover, upon waking, that he is penniless.

And yet, and yet... a part of me, a stubborn, foolish part, clings to that dream. A part of me cannot forget the feeling of the wind on my face, the roar of the crowd, the perfect, impossible rhythm of my phantom stride. It was a lie, a grotesque, impossible lie, but it was a beautiful lie. It was a dream that gave me a happiness I have never known in my waking life, a happiness that was born of nothing, that was sustained by nothing, that led to nothing. It was, in short, a perfect distillation of the meaninglessness of dreams. They give us everything and they give us nothing. They show us the face of God, and then they snatch it away, leaving us with only the memory of a smile.

So, I ask you, what is the point? What is the purpose of this nightly theatre of the absurd? Is it simply to torment us, to show us the things we cannot have and then to mock us for wanting them? Or is there some deeper, more sinister game at play? I do not know. I only know that I am haunted by a phantom leg and a phantom joy that I can never recapture. I am a man who has tasted the nectar of the gods in a dream and woken to find himself chewing on dust. This is my truth, this is my nightmare, and this is the meaninglessness that lies at the heart of every dream. It is all nonsense, I tell you, a cruel joke played on a sleeping mind. And yet, I cannot stop myself from closing my eyes each night, hoping, against all reason, to find myself, once again, standing in those starting blocks, a ghost with a phantom leg, about to run the most glorious, the most meaningless, the most perfect race of my life. For even a ghost can dream of being whole, and even a lie, if it is beautiful enough, can make a man weep. Are they tears of joy or tears of a depressed amputee? It does not matter. They are tears.

Death is a curious thing. Mainly because despite all the advancements in technology and feats we haveachieved as a species, we seem to fail to agree on what happens after death. Each religion, each tribe, each group has its own theories, each differing significantly from the other. But, if there's one thing we can all agree on, is that death is merciful. For a lot of people. Death rids of pain. Death brings turbulent lives to an end. Death ends sorrow. Death is luxurious escape. But most importantly, death amplifies, and at times exaggerates peoples' lives and legacies. This is particularly true for celebrities. When a popular person dies, death gifts them the rare opportunity to be seen in a different light; records that seemed normal suddenly seem larger than life and achievements that once looked petty transcend into worship worthy post death. And that is what has prompted this write up. There are artists, whose mastery seemed absolutely mind blowing once their hearts stopped beating. This is not to say they were not good, far from it, but it is an appreciation of how death at times solicits public sympathy and awards them larger than life status. Perhaps it is the nostalgia, perhaps it is the human fear of loss, but somehow, once someone passes on, their greatness suddenly becomes bloated, exaggerated and overly blown out of proportion to the exclusion of their flaws.

The list of public figures that I think have benefited from this phenomenon is too long to exhaust, but few stand out and will be the focus of this essay.

1. 2Pac.

Tupac Shakur was equal part gangster, equal part revolutionary, equal part performer and equal part lyricist. Couple that with his charm and energy, he lived a life that embodies what most people imagine when they think of hip-hop as a genre. He met his tragic end in September 1996 at the young age of 25. But within such a short life he had achieved so much you'd think he lived longer. His impact whilst alive is undeniable. His 1995 album Me Against the World hit #1 on the Billboard 200 while he was serving time in prison, and the 1996 All Eyez on Me is considered hip-hop’s first double-disc classic, debuting at #1. He popularized the term and ethos of "Thug Life," acting as a voice for marginalized and impoverished communities. He was a successful lead actor in films like Juice and Poetic Justice, showing that rappers could seamlessly transition into Hollywood.

There is no denying his impact and how his life was fruitful. But, death did something spectacular for him. While his popularity was already immense, his murder elevated his status in several specific ways. Dying at just 25 years old froze his image as a passionate, rebellious, and fiercely complex artist. It aligned his life with the tragic heroes of poetry and history. For 2Pac, death cut off any chance of a “fall off era”. He never got to live through damaging scandals, sit through interviews where he speaks out of order or incite public disapproval. Suddenly, his albums and lines like “i see no changes” stopped being mere rap verses but transcended to become words of prophecy, immortalising him into a ghetto and gangster prophet, whose wisdom still echoes in modern day.

Today, CEOs in boardrooms, motivational speakers on podcasts and coaches on fields quote him. Even children born long after his death wear Tshirts with his face. I do not think this would have been the case had he been still alive. Perhaps he would still be a legend, but i doubt he would be as revered as he is now. He would be an old chip, seen as bitter and irrelevant in this age of rappers. Perhaps he would be struggling and begging for support through GoFundMe links. We'll never know, but what we know with certainty is that the moment that bullet claimed his life, it gave him, in exchange a legacy so big his peers alive will never attain.

2. Nippsey Hussle.

Before March 31 2019, Nipsey was a respected independent hustler. Before his passing, he was highly respected in hip-hop for his independent business strategies, such as selling his $100 physical mixtapes (the Crenshaw model) and earning a Grammy nomination for his debut album, Victory Lap.

However, his sudden death brought global attention to his tangible community activism, real estate investments, and "the marathon" mentality, transforming him into an enduring cultural icon of entrepreneurship and generational wealth. His streaming numbers surged by thousands of percent immediately following his murder. While it was the work he did whilst alive that set the foundation for his legacy, it was his death that sealed his name as an icon. His death brought more attention to his name than his work did. His death immortalised him and brought attention to an ongoing work he was doing.

1. Juice Wrld

Juice Wrld's greatest accomplishment, at least to me was popularising “emo rap”. He definitely did not pioneer it, but he was one of the few artists who told the world that there is more to hip hop than lyrics of sex, drugs, fast cars, Thug Life and non chalance. In Juice Wrld the world, for the first time in a while had a rapper that was vulnerable, that rapped about depression, anxiety and loneliness; concepts that are very real and very alive to the youths of today.

However, Juice WRLD’s tragic death at age 21 cemented his legacy and triggered massive posthumous streaming numbers. His death, viewed through the lens of his lyrics, became more than just a tragic end, but a prophecy fulfilled. Streams for “All girls are the same” exploded posthumously. In an ironic manner, his death humanized him. He became more than a successful Soundcloud rapper that broke out and made it. He became Gen Z’ s voice of mental health and kids that used to skip his music, suddenly played it on repeat. Had he lived, there is a chance he would have been reduced to a cry baby crying on songs. With the popularity of the red pill movement, he would even have been labelled a weakling. But because he died, his music became relatable. Sad? Yes. But surely you see death at work here, in a positive way.

1. Soul Jah Love

We cannot talk of Zimdancehall music as a genre without mentioning Soul Jah Love. Equally important, we cannot speak of tragedies without speaking of his death. Soul Jah Love was insanely talented, brutally honest in his lyrics where he opened his chest open to lament his woes from family dilemmas to his issues with infertility. He was a once in a lifetime talent. A trailblazer. A trendsetter and a musical genius. Very few people can do what he did- string together rhyming words without any meaning but still land a hit. His career was so good that half a decade later after his death, there are still rising stars that imitate and draw inspiration from him.

Whilst his star power cannot be ignored, his scandalous life is also undeniable. He often appeared in Newspaper headlines for unflattering things such as drug use and allegations of domestic violence. This has often made me wonder. Had he lived, would he have remained relevant? Competitive in this age of sober and crafty Zimdancehall artists? Or would he have drowned in the ocean of forgotten stars? I think his lifestyle suggest an affirmative answer to these questions. He would have burnt out, exhausted his star source and lost relevance. Or, he would have gotten his life in order and reminded everyone he was the hitmaker we all loved and the ghetto idolised for showing that it was possible to come from nothing and become something through sheer willpower and hardwork. But what we cannot ignore is the mercy his death brought. Death stripped away the controversy, the ugly headlines, and what remained was the voice of a ghetto child who made pain sound beautiful. His death amplified one message: no matter how low you start, your voice can always reach the highest of highs.

Across these examples, death, in his ugliness still awards our celebrities a unique mercy and does three things to that effect:

• It freezes them at their peak- No aging, no bad albums, no Twitter scandals. 2Pac stays 25 forever and Soul Jah Love remains the Chibaba we love.

• It creates scarcity- Unless there was music to be posthumously released, death creates scarcity. No more music. No more albums, and so fans, in their nostalgia, are stuck with the same bodies of work. Streams spike and so does public appreciation of the deceased.

• It reframes the art- Lyrics about love, pain, suffering and depression become more meaningful when the artist does not make it. “Ndichafa rinhiko” by Soul Jah Love has a whole new meaning now that he is dead.

Death is a double edged sword, taking as much as it gives. It takes the human, but leaves the legend. It snatches the artist, but in so doing their work becomes louder, bigger and more sacred than before. And maybe in our selfishness we are not mourning these lost stars, but we are mourning the new music we will never get to hear and the performances we will never get to witness. And that loss induced by death is what immortalises them. A mercy, in my not so humble opinion.

In Zimbabwe, the sight of religious leaders draped in scarves, which has become the President's brand or simply clothed in ZANU PF regalia has become commonplace. That, coupled with a growing symbiotic relationship and an unusual bromance between the government and the pulpit. What, from face value appears to be a spiritual blessing, is actually and unfortunately a transactional relationship, as transactional as a horny man soliciting the services of a prostitute. Who is the prostitute and who is the amorous man in this metaphor? One can never know, but what is axiomatic is that the pulpit is now a platform to legitimatize political power and the government in return provides access to wealth and fortune.

Whilst it is not necessarily wrong for religious leaders to be in cohorts with political leaders, paying attention to the Constitutional right of freedom of association, the bohemian relationship between these two has effects so obvious we cannot ignore. Zimbabwe is a largely Christian nation, with almost 84% of the population professing to be believers. With such a percentage affiliated with the Christian faith, it then reasons that the activities and choices of religious leaders have ripple effects so devastating they manifest not only within the four walls of the church, but they overspill into homes, election ballots, business places as well as minds of the youths.

The Christian religion is governed by the Bible. The Bible is not a mere collection of folktales for them, but rather a manual by which they live their lives. In the Bible, at 2 Samuel 12, the prophet Nathan confronted King David directly for his abuse of royal power in the adultery with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah. In 1 King's 18, the prophet Elijah rebuked King Ahab and Queen Jezebel for state-sponsored idolatry and the unjust seizure of Naboth's vineyard. Jeremiah condemned King Johoiakim for exploiting his citizens and failing to pay fair wages for labourers building his royal palace. John the Baptist rebuked Herod Antipas for moral corruption and an unlawful marriage. When informed of King Herod Antipas’ plot to end his life, Jesus simply called him “that fox”. These Biblical examples prove beyond reasonable doubt that the relationship that should exists between religious and political leaders is one based on accountability. Religious leaders in the Bible did not cuddle with the government of the day, but rather rebuked violation of human rights, condemned evil practices and confronted Kings when they erred. This seems to be the blueprint. Theirs must not be a friendship, lest it blurs the lines that should exist. If the Bible governs Christian's lives, is it actively governing the relationship between the pulpit and the government in Zimbabwe?

Throughout recorded human history, there have been many a clergyman that followed the Biblical example of confronting the government when it erred. A spiritual office correcting and guiding the physical office, so to speak, in a bid to have better leadership that respects its governed. Martin Luther King Jnr, a Baptist minister and prominent leader of the American Civil rights movement opposed segregation and systematic racism in the United States of America. In an example much closer to home, Archbishop Desmond Tutu used the pulpit to fight apartheid and speak truth to power. That these men used their offices the way they did is an example that it is indeed possible for religious leaders to be independent and pro-people and not puppets and sanitizers of governments that oppresses people.

The modern day Zimbabwean clergyman seems to ignore the Biblical blueprint governing the relationship between religious and political leaders. Nehemiah Mutendi, leader of the Zion Christian Church, has openly supported and endorsed the current government. In September of 2020, the president toured Mutendi's farm in Nyika, showing the growing closeness between the country's leader and the church's leader. Since 2017, political leaders have been invited to ZCC's church gatherings and campaigned to thousands of people. Can Mutendi, like Elijah, when need arises, condemn a man who tours his farms? A man whose friendship shielded him in 2014 when he displaced more than 1000 farmers to construct church properties? Or does the growing transactional relationship blur that line? I would wager that it does.

Prophet Uebert Angel (formerly known as Urbert Madzanire) is the founder and leader of the Spirit Embassy Church, a church with thousands of followers in Zimbabwe and many more in other countries. Uebert was appointed as Zimbabwe's Ambassador at Large and Presidential Envoy following a 2 weeks of induction and a training programme for diplomats in Harare. A March 2023 Al-Jazeera investigation linked him to global money laundering operations. One of the hidden cameras caught him saying that him and the first family are so close he is in a position to close deals faster. How a prophet could not prophecy that he was being recorded is beyond me, but certain questions arise from this relationship. Has Angel compromised his position to call out human rights violations should need arise? Can you call out a man whose proximity to deepens your pockets? Is that perhaps why during the 2018 shootings our religious leaders kept silent? Would they dare speak out or for the sake of their wealth keep quiet?

Emmanuel Makandiwa, formerly known as Shingirai Chirume, is a self proclaimed Man of God and founder and leader of the United Family International Church. In the run up to the 2023 election, he invited the president and his deputy to his Chitungwiza church and gave them a platform and opportunity to campaign to thousands of people who not only see Makandiwa as an appointed man of God, but who think he is the best thing after sliced bread. Now, there have been reports, that allegedly the Chitungwiza Church is built on a wetland. Is his relationship with the modern day crown the reason the authorities have not pursued this matter? Should the need arise, will Makandiwa condemn the government? In a volatile and melting economy where an 18 year old makes qualified nurses twerk for money, will Makandiwa, like the Biblical Jeremiah call out the government for low wages? Or will he abide by the principle “an eating man is a silent man”. Should the government spill blood, or impoverish the masses, will Makandiwa speak out? Quite honestly, how many can call out the evil of the people shielding and enriching them? I would say very few if not none.

Passion Java, formerly known as Panganai Java is another prophet worth noting, though in recent times, he has fallen from grace. Like his mentor, Angel, Java is quite the supporter of the incumbent. Ironically, Java is known for his annoying and childish tactics online, where he praises the government and berates opposition leaders more than he is known for his clergyman work. Or so it seems to me. Other than his useless rants online, he is also known for his silly “tongues” of prayer, a happening that has made me conclude that anyone who sees Panganai as a man of God is unfit for society and should be domiciled in a mental institution. Ahead of the 2023 elections, Panganai hosted Congolese Koffi Olomide in Zimbabwe where he produced a song that praised Emerson Mnanganwa. If Panganai laughs at opposition leaders arrested for protesting, will he not laugh when they are wrongfully detained for long periods without bail? Will he speak, like Biblical prophets when the government abuses it's people? The answer is inconsequential really, Panganai is no yardstick of morality nor sanity, unlike his peers who at least act like God actually called them in their demeanor and elegance.

Beyond the noted prophets working openly in tandem with ZANU PF, many more religious leaders have formed these alliances. From the Pastors4ED gimmick, to the church leaders gifted cars and cash by Wicknell to the Mapostori also showered with cash and gifts.

What then is the impact of this dalliance on the Zimbabwean society? Citizens see corruption shielded by religion which breeds cynicism towards both institutions. Trust in the church is eroded when its leaders are seen as beneficiaries of a system impoverishing the citizens. Economically, state resources channelled towards the protection and loyalty buying of religious leaders are funds that could otherwise have been channelled towards hospitals, schools and public services. Socially the merging of political and religious identity deepens division in a country already somewhat divided by tribal identities.

For ordinary Zimbabweans, the cost is a weakened Civil space, where neither the political nor religious leadership feels accountable. The scarf becomes a symbol not of humility and patriotism, but of access and patronage. The church, deemed to be home to the widows and orphans and moral anchor becomes an extension of political machinery. At the end of the day, it is the poor Zimbabwean who is told to pray for grace to excel by a prophet who is not excelling by same grace, but by proximity to power.

The unholy matrimony between the government and the pulpit distorts faith, entrenches impunity and leaves society bearing the consequences of compromised institutions.

Before I say my say, its imperative that you know three things about me. If I were to die and you were tasked with writing my obituary, know that it would be incomplete without a mention of these three core elements of me.

1. I AM A HYPOCRITE

2. I LOVE NICKI MINAJ

3. I DON'T TRUST POLITICIANS.

Now that that's out of the way, let's talk. Most often than not I have heard people say that they dont like being liked. They flag that one attribute as a show of maturity, maybe it is, maybe it isn't, who knows? But it has become increasingly axiomatic to me that whilst we claim that we dont care about being liked, we spend most of our lives performing to an audience that is society in the hopes that we fit in. We are mindful of how we dress, what and how we post on our socials and even who we sleep with, in a bid to conform to accepted standards. Yes, we may argue that its saving face, but I think its because deep down, we all crave validation, one way or the other. And because we have reduced being liked to a terrible and immature thing, we never admit how much we like being liked. Well, I think that's wrong. I think, if you have the skill set to make people like you, then you should. Life is easier when people like you. Of course “people's opinions shouldn't matter”, but making them like you is terrific. Let me show you how.

Zimbabwe is at a very curious point as far as her politics and governance are concerned. A lot of curious things are happening; politicians’ underage children devising a hunger games type of game at Trabablas Interchange, nurses twerking for what a decent salary should provide, unemployed young men licking boots online and a certain man whose face only a mother can love wearing diapers and performing some derogatory things online. Even more curious is the courts postponing bail applications for political activists over and over again. But perhaps the most curious of all is the gifting of cars and cash to celebrities by Wicknell Chivayo, he prefers the title Sir but I will not because this is my essay and I do what I want.

As with all curious things, people try to theorise and find explanations in the hopes of coming up with a diagnosis. When he started gifting cars and cash, the general consensus was that he is using tax payers money. How and where an ordinary citizen whose only peculiar attribute besides his proximity to the President is his weight got access to tax payers money is a mystery to me. But after incessant gifting, even the tax payers had to sit down and accept that maybe we dont pay that much tax. Then the masses moved on. What else can we do but come up with other explanations? The next explanation was laundry. Yes, the masses are of the thought that he is cleaning funds for the big fish. Again no credible source, just another explanation.

One of the first beneficiaries of this ploy was Jah Prayzah. The “eishhhhhhh dangerous” hit maker was gifted a Mercedes Benz S500 worth USD$180 000 in January of 2024. In May of 2025, again, he was given a Land Rover plus USD$150 000 cash. Around the same time, his band members were also gifted Toyota Aquas. The first time nothing much happened as far as public outrage is concerned. The second time was different. People were angry. I am not sure people know who exactly they are angry at, but if you are hungry and struggling as most Zimbabweans are, you tend to be triggered. Accusations flew around. Some as malicious as questioning “baby halla's” sexual orientation. The jokes flew all over Twitter, with very clear accusations, I was waiting for someone to be slapped with a defamation lawsuit. But in all the smear campaign against “you shine like a star from the sango” man, I was happy. The evil in me celebrated his berating. Every “he is gay” post, every “his music isn't even that good” lie made me happy. I felt alive. I cheered.

But more and more cars were dished out. To pastors and their flowery shirts, to footballers and their quick glances and to singers. Each announcement, more outrage. But as time went by, instead of anger I noticed acceptance, and even celebrations. Alick Macheso on 8 March 2024 was gifted a 2022 Mercedes Benz GLE400d worth USD$140 000. Here started my dilemma. I have a soft spot for Baba Shero. Maybe because I was raised on his music and that guitar. Maybe because during his playful beef with Tongai Moyo I chose Dewa. I too, like any other woman could not pick a sweaty guitar player over a dimpled handsome well dressed fresh looking Dewa. And so, when Macheso got the car, I did not appreciate the jokes. That's my GOAT. My hypocrisy seeped through the cracks, but I was not surprised because, like I said i am a hypocrite. In October of the same year, Daisy Mtukudzi, whose talent is being Oliver Mtukudzi's widow was gifted a 2024 Toyota Fortuner. The outrage persisted. I was happy. So happy that when she later had an accident in that same car, I could not find it in me to sympathise. Evil? Yes. Do I care? Hameno.

Now, in December 2024, after a long year of celebrities receiving cars and us being angry, Mai Chisamba was gifted a Toyota Fortuner 2.4. As Zimbabweans, there are things we have classified as untouchable. Things we love so much that we will curse your mother should you bad mouth them. These things are, but not limited to, Mazoe Orange Crush, Chilli that comes in the red bottle, Pfuko Buttermilk maheu, Cerevita, Congo dust and Zambezi! Mai Chisamba somehow fits into that list. Our national baddie. Our own vampire. The woman who has graced our screens long enough to be loved by grandfather, father and son. So when your national baddie gets a car from an allegedly corrupt businessman, do you curse at her or you rejoice with her? We did the later. We rejoiced with her. Mai Chisamba got the same gifts that had people doubting the activities of Jah prayzah's rectum. What changed? Mai Chisamba is liked. Loved even. Simple as that. Mashoko makukutu!

Some short time ago, Feli Nandi was gifted a car by Wicky Wicky. On that day, she also had a show in Bindura. She collected the car, accompanied by a retinue of people I suspect are her friends and she posted her gratitude on Instagram. People, that cursed Jah prayzah for the same thing congratulated her and even told her how much she deserved it. Even at her show that night, she was more jovial than usual, jumping and singing out loud. Was I angry? No. I love Feli Nandi, her voice is good enough to invoke my hypocrisy to overlook what i hated Jah prayzah for. The point I am trying to make with all these examples is simple. When people like you, they forgive, defend and overlook your faults. That is why if you can, its imperative to charm people so much that in their eyes you can never do wrong. Its good for survival.

One last example: NICKI MINAJ.

The queen of rap who also released the Queen album in 2018, an album that I hold as tightly as in the picture, is a very unliked person. I could write another essay on why she is disliked so, but my simple observation is that a successful and outspoken yet insanely talented black woman is a natural magnet of envy. Now, Nicki Minaj had never publicly aligned with any politician. Not explicitly, not in her lyrics nor interviews, until recently when she publicly supported Donald Trump and even said she is his number one fan. She has since explained her stance but the public outrage was so heavy a petition was signed online to have her deported. You would think she is the first celebrity to publicly support Trump. Many have. Elon Musk, Nick Cannon, Sylvester Stallone (Rambo! His name is Rambo!), Mike Tyson, Jake Paul, Mel Gibson and Sexxy Red amongst many other have publicly supported and endorsed Donald Trump. But none got backlash for it as much as Nicki Minaj did. It was so bad that Trevor Noah mocked her at the 2026 Grammys (doesn't matter he is a loser anyway). The point is, what she was attacked for, she was not a pioneer in. Many have supported Trump, but because she is an already unliked person, the ripple effects of it were damaging.

I know your motivational speakers on podcasts tell you that you mustn't care what others think of you, and that its ok to be disliked. I know you believe that and live it and it makes you feel like a god amongst mortals, free from public approval. Forget it. That is nonsense. Load of bullshit. Without necessarily losing your spine, be a likeable character. Be the guy at work everyone vouches for. Be the student that lecturers swear by. Be the child that your mother relies on. Be likeable. It may, maybe uncool, but the benefits are terrific. Or maybe they are to me because I am not shy to use people to my advantage. A likeable person succeeds in interviews. A likeable and charming man gets the ladies. A likeable salesman sells more and makes money. A likeable person walks to a rich person without an appointment and sometimes, successfully pitches a business idea. If you can, be LIKEABLE. DON'T BE A JAH PRAYZAH, BE A MAI CHISAMBA!

I have had the same best friend since I was nine years old. We were both in Grade 4 at Ardbennie Primary School and he was a new student. Somehow, we became friends instantly, like kindred souls that are destined to always find each other. Unlike most childhood friendships, ours did not die with age nor did we outgrow it. If anything, the older we grew, the closer we became and with much closeness comes much conversation. My best friend and I talked and still talk a lot. Now one favorite topic of ours is religion, its nuances and complexities, its impacts and beauty. In all our debates about religion, one thing was clear, my best friend was, still is, a pendulum. See he was raised by a Muslim mother in a Christian country. And so, like a pendulum, he oscillates between the amazing grace message of Christianity and the tenets of his mother's religion, Islam. As fate would have it, my ambiguous friend relocated to the United Kingdom around 2022, and whilst still half Christian, half Muslim, his relocation came with a change. His WhatsApp statuses changed from Bible verses and Quran quotes. The faith messages became a rarity. Its almost as though migration migrated his heart far from religion. He still posts the Bible verses, but the frequency has reduced just like romance dies a natural death in marriages. This was my first observation. My second observation was that his concept of God also changed with migration, from an all powerful God who breaks chains of witchcraft to a loving father he speaks to once in a while. The God he, in his ambiguity worshipped in Africa, was a God of immense power and terrifying presence. In UK, ohhhhh that one is a sweetheart, and that disparity has prompted this write up.

I do not fancy myself a dedicated Christian. No, I'm far from it. I did, however grow up in a Christian household and so have a somewhat accute appreciation of the faith and the holy book, so much that by the time I was 8 I could recite the whole passage of Psalms 23. The Lord is my shepherd! Ndiri hwayi! What i am though is an observer, I sail through the oceans and tides of life by paying attention to detail. And one such detail I have noticed is the nature of faith in developed countries, like UK which now accommodates my best friend, and the faith practiced in developing and third world countries. This glaring disparity is obvious when you listen to the music and sermons in these respective geographical areas. Let's look at music as our first issue.

Music is a universal language, and that is why a non-French person can listen to a French love song and feel like a lover girl. The same is true for gospel music. Like I said earlier, I am not God's strongest warrior and dont often go to church, but you see gospel music, it has my heart. My father, before he started attending Delta Beverages Ministries, used to attend church and his favorite gospel musicians included the calm Shingisai Suluma and her serene vocals and the talented Charles Charamba and his message filled songs. My mother, listened to Takesure Zama and his ugly crying songs as well as a whole lot of Nigerian ministers whose songs speak of God the warrior, rising like a flood to bind and cancel Lucifer as well as grant them visas after granting daily bread. My favorite is Hillsong Worship, with their calm vocals and lovely lyrics that rival a 16th century poets love sonnet-indeed spirit lead me where my trsut is without boarders. Across all these different artists, the message is one-CHRIST IS LORD, but depending on the artist's geographical location, this same Christ can either be a weapon deadlier than Kim Jong Un's nuclear weapons, attacking and demolishing demons, or he is a loving Saviour who walks with us. Same God, different appreciation. Black gospel music is all about God fighting enemies, his thunder wiping wickedness, his heavenly treasurer giving some funds etc etc. White gospel music is all about confessing love to a loving God who saw it proper to love. The former seems to spring from a source of discontentment, strife and agony and the latter springs from fulfillment and peace. Same God, different appreciation. There are exceptions yes, but today I'm focusing on the rules that seem to be in operation and not the exceptions.

The second disparity I noticed is with regards prayer and teachings. At its simplest definition, prayer is communication with God. You can walk, stand, crawl or fly while doing it, the goal is to speak to God. A conversation. In developing and third world countries, prayer is a session of groaning and mumbling that can not be uttered. Here, we cry, roll on the floor, jump and ululate whilst in prayer. The Pentecostal movement ushered this and its been growing since perhaps the early 2000s. Here, our pastors schedule prayer marathons, 10 hours non stop deep in prayer. I cant imagine talking to someone for that long, but its happening, especially in Nigeria. Here, church services are a day long affair, with activities like demon exorcism where pretty lightskinned girls roll on the floor convulsing and saying they are mermaid queens from the Atlantic Ocean. Here teachings are about how to pray a prayer that attracts a rich husband, how to disconnect yourself from the demonic history of your ancestors and how to cover yourself with the blood of Jesus that speaks louder than the blood of Abel (relax, I know my Bible😌). On the contrary, again from my observations both of my best friend and YouTube Conferences, church in developed countries is hardly a day long affair, especially with white folks. Prayer is not a violent undertaking, but rather a private affair between Creator and creation, with creation holding their hands softly in the prayer gesture. The sermons almost sound like motivational speeches, Joel Osteen could give podcasts a run for their money. Sermons are about the peace of faith, the lovely Jesus in our hearts etc etc. Not that these messages are absent in African sermons, they don't take much time, we need to hurry to cursing demons and rolling on the floor whilst ushers hold you in place. By now you've seen the differences. Same God, same faith, different appreciation.

To wrap it up, lets talk about Christian authors. I've read over 10 Joyce Meyer books, quite a few from Joel Osteen and many from T.D Jakes. I have virtually attended services led by Creflo Dollar, Joseph Prince and Kris Vollaton. Similarly, I have also read books authored by Pastor Chris Oyakhilome, David Oyadepo and also watched YouTube services led by Joshua Selman. The difference between the first batch of authors and speakers and the second is in the content of the message. Same God, same faith but different appreciation. The former are inspiring, calm and even offer career guidance. The latter are fear provoking, tongues blasting deliverance ministers who lean heavily on the spiritual side of things.

Dear reader, this was not a comparison to determine which is the better way of faith, that is your choice to make, depending on where you stay. If you stay in a country with poor health care, you do need the violent type of God to shield you against bacteria because government hospitals wont be much help.

In conclusion, the white people God seems soft and cuddly. He's the type to offer you a shoulder to cry on when you are having a terrible day at work, the type you can talk to about your cheating good for nothing boyfriend that crashed your car. The black people God seems occupied with far more serious things, demons, curses, curing HIV etc. In all this my last observation is the better the government of a country, the softer the God. Who needs a spiritual shield when 911 is just but a call away? And who needs a teddy bear God when witches play on your roof the entire night?

Selah!

I was 19 years old the first time a man asked me to send him nude pictures of myself. Technology did not only ease business and communication, it also increased one's chances of seeing their lover completely naked with the click of a screen. I refused with my nudes. Now, this was my first relationship and I was deeply and obessedly in love with him. The kind of love endemic to hormonal and pimple ridden 19 year old girls. I saw my future in his eyes. Cliché? Perhaps. But at that age it made sense. We'd finish our law degrees, get married, have one or two kids so I would proceed with my education and stay in a house littered with plants and dogs playing outside in the suburbs. This was what 19 year old me saw when I looked at him. It didn't make it easy on my heart that at the time he was a heartthrob, many girls wanted him, he was not lost for choice, but somehow he had chosen me. Me? With my weird laugh and tomboyish tendencies? Me? Who rather watched cartoons than dress up? Yes! Me. He had chosen me. And I was in love. All this shattered when he asked me for nudes. I just couldn't send them. I felt invaded and violated by the mere fact that he had asked. Our relationship didn't survive much after that. We broke up, as do most relationships where teenagers are the stakeholders do, but I've always known it was because I refused with my nudes.

Relationships, just like nature abhors vacuums. When a tree falls and dies in the open, a new one will sprout in a few years. What's lost must always be recovered. Such is life. Similarly, after my nudes demanding boyfriend left, another had to, like trees in the open, sprout in his place. And so the cycle started, a heart wrenching kind. Meet a boy, fall in love, get asked for nudes, refuse and get dumped. So on and so on. When you refuse with nudes, a lot is said. “You're so childish!” “Clearly you're sending them to someone else “ “You've never loved me”. And this was a terrible thing because love i did love them. By what I knew love to be then, I loved them. I called them baby, ran errands for them, visited and watched movies together, and sometimes even kissed them. How dare them say I didn't love them because I wouldn't send silly nudes pictures? Well, I was wrong, they were right. There can be no love without nudes pictures.

As I have gotten older, I have realized love fails where nudes are withheld. Unfortunately, it was too late for me. I had lost many men of my dreams at the point of realisation. My young boyfriends did have an idea, albeit incomplete. The nudes they wanted, quite honestly the nudes many people want are sought after from a place of lust. After all we are a pornography watching generation. But for love to thrive, in whatever form, nudes are essential. Nudes in the sense of unclothing yourself of your bias I mean, not the ones where you tease your phallus or the mounts on your chest.

You see for love to work, you need to be naked. Undress yourself of the bias society has burdened you with. Expose the parts of your heart that have been shredded and still need healing. Show the areas of your mind that are bohemian and unconventional. Bare your past and aspirations, let them see who you are when you're not playing a caricature of who you think you must be. You see, where there is no vulnerability, nakedness, love cannot survive. You cannot love what you do not know, but to know someone they must be willing to expose themselves. I was unwilling to send images of my naked body and so could not be loved. That was the wrong idea. You must show your emotional and psychological nudity to be loved.

Many times, someone has trended on social media and become the topic of choice in virtual communities because their nude pictures were leaked. This is the ever constant danger of baring yourself. What if I show my fears and they are weaponised? What if I tell them my pain and they see me as less a person? What if I uncover my paranoia and they leave? We all refuse to be nude for this simple reason. LEAKED! And because we refuse to send these nudes, much like me in my teenage years, we're left. Because who can love what they dont know? Who can embrace you when you keep your hands to yourself? Who can kiss you when your cheeks are covered in cloth you refuse to remove out of fear of vulnerability?

We need to start sending our nudes. To take a risk of exposing ourselves if we wish to be loved. Life is risky anyway! Why not add one more risk of your friends knowing why you behave the way you do? Of your lover knowing the root of your trust issues? You might win, you might trend, whichever way I think life is for living and a few leaked nudes won't stop that.

SEND NUDES TODAY 😊

When I was in high school, the boys were notorious for layering many shorts under their school uniforms. One time, our teachers did a “bvisa layer” operation. They went on a witch hunt, full blown exorcism of inner shorts. When we returned to class after the boys’ forced peeling of said inner shorts, the room smelt like a rotting place. It smelt how I imagine decomposing waste smells at dump sites. Personally I never understood the need to wear five shorts inside your pants. Even more puzzling to me was why the shorts were always worn and never washed. Its one thing to assault your private parts with dirty and unwashed shorts, but to burden those around you with the stench, is, well very cruel.

Last week, whilst scrolling on Twitter, I saw one of my favourite Nigerian Twitter accounts being vilified. Uncle Ayo, as he is known, implored his fellow men to be hygienic; to change boxers daily and have overall good body hygiene. The response? He was called gay! Some even went as far as posting AI generated images of him selling boxers. Whilst many found this funny, I found it very concerning, because it showed a truth we always meander around, that many men think cleanliness is gay.

Like the 16 year old boys in my Form 4 class, a lot of grown men are very unclean. What's concerning is there seems to be a justification for this dirty behaviour. He doesn't wash his body? Ohhh he's just a boy! He doesn't change his undergarments? Ohhh that's what men do! At what point did we agree as a society that being unkempt is the SI unit of masculinity? Or rather heterosexuality? Why does a man have to rival a pig to qualify as a man?

Now, much to my happiness, my favorite Twitter account didn't fold under pressure when they called him gay. He simply reiterated his point, louder and louder. Reminded his followers to bath, take care of their skin, be mindful of their environment and most importantly, to change their boxers daily!

What piqued my interest in these two scenarios, the high school boys and the men on Twitter, is that men seem to think that being clean is gay. I think not. I think, (well I thought everyone knew this) being gay has to do with sexual attraction to the same gender, not body hygiene. There is a thriving culture of bullying men who take care of themselves, men who know that being a good citizen starts by making sure your body does not assault other citizens outside. We need to tell our brothers that brushing your teeth, washing your body, maintaining your skin and looking good is not the definition of gay. Look good, feel good!