They’re like tiny bricks that we stack on top of each other. Like the choice to have a certain kind of breakfast every morning, the choice to wake up or stay in bed, the choice to have friends around or choose to be a loner. But we don’t seem to dwell on the thought process behind these seemingly small leaps that we take everyday. How emotionally draining a workplace becomes so much that you decide to quit. The moral dilemmas that arise from associating with certain people. Because over time, these small bricks build houses that we’d have to live in in the long term.

Then comes the internal war. We find ourselves at war with our minds as the year comes to a close. For months, we think about the way forward for a friendship or relationship that constantly drains us everyday or everytime we talk to the other person. We think of leaving because you’re drained, but we also don’t want to be the bad person. So we end up staying in the middle. Indecisively holding a brick, trying to choose between layering it or letting it be.

But it’s not just people. It’s the degree programs we pick at 18 because they sound “safe.” Now we’re in second year lectures taking notes we will never read again and wondering if we’ve wasted 2 years of our lives. But quitting feels like admitting we were wrong when we took that leap to go to university and study “serious courses”. And staying feels like lying to ourselves every Tuesday and Thursday.

It’s also the job you took “just for now.” The “now” turned into 14 months. You clock in tired and clock out numb. Your friends ask “how’s work” and you say “it’s fine” because “I’m drowning and I don’t know what else I’m qualified for” sounds dramatic.

It’s the 2am scrolls. Watching people your age buy houses, start businesses, get engaged. And you’re here deciding between data or airtime. Between cooking or just bread and tea again. You tell yourself comparison is the thief of joy, then compare anyway.

It’s the small leaps you keep postponing. The application you saved as a draft. The “I need to retake that module” conversation you keep avoiding with your parents. The “I don’t want to go” you never say to the party, to the church group, to the family function. So you go. And you come back more empty.

We’re all doing this quiet math in our heads. If I choose A, I disappoint them. If I choose B, I disappoint me. If I do choose, it’s like this huge achievement, a huge leap. And if I don’t choose, time chooses for me. And it does. Time chooses. The year ends.

And you’re left with a list of things you thought about but never did. Not because you’re lazy. Because every choice felt like a leap off a cliff and you were never taught how to build a parachute.

I’m tired of being 19 and feeling like I’m behind. Tired of calling anxiety “overthinking.” Tired of calling burnout “just a phase.” Tired of telling myself “next year I’ll get serious” like I haven’t been serious and scared at the same time this whole year. Maybe the architecture of a leap isn’t one big jump.

Maybe it’s admitting in a voice note to yourself: “I’m not okay with this.” Maybe it’s emailing that lecturer. Deleting that number. Skipping that class to go to therapy instead.

Maybe it’s choosing breakfast that actually feeds you. Choosing bed when your body begs for it. Choosing the loner season because your soul needs quiet.

It starts with choosing the small decisions, even if they’re hard to accept at first. Even though the first day after that leap might feel like nothing. Or the first week. Or the first month. It’s just plain silence where the dread used to live.

But that’s the thing, we see the impact of those small decisions, no matter how insignificant they may seem, in the long term. And that’s the beauty of it.

So right now I might be exhausted from law school. I might be failing to show up for others, let alone myself, and I might be letting go of the smaller things. But I’m trying to build something in a way I see it best, and I’d give other people the same grace as well.

Whatever leap I decide to take going forward has been well curated.

In Nicki’s famous words

But I needed to grow.

And I know these leaps aren’t meaningless.

In another universe, I would have been a mortician. This is probably because of how I love doing post mortems. Dissecting dead bodies. Except that my dead bodies aren’t actually bodies, but relationships. Relationships, friendships, associations that ended long back. I always wonder if I am the only one who thinks about the things that ended long back.

Date of Birth: The Day You Called Me Your Home

Cause of death: Neglect With Complications of Promises.

Contributing factors: lies, inconsistency, lack of communication……I always log them in.

Time of death: 11.42pm, the last text left on read.

The moment someone decides to leave my life, I treat them like a dead person. I wash the body, I label it, I zip the body bag myself so no one can ever open it again. The relationship or friendship that was existent becomes a corpse for me to dissect. Dissection helps me understand why what happened happened. If I don’t understand why, I will spiral into a state of confusion. I hate confusion.

In my head and my heart I even have a funeral for them. I pick the songs. I write the program, and I even choose who gets to speak. It’s funny that those who speak on it don’t know that they’re participating in a funeral service. I mourn what could have been so much so that if I ever see that person again it’s like they never existed to me. Am I mentally deranged for this?

With the way I plan these funerals in my head, I would run an excellent funeral parlor. The orbituaries I dedicate to the deceased are always so exceptional. In my heart there’s a whole cemetery. Row after row of graves that belong to people who left too early, some still with fresh flowers and still painful to walk past, others with faded names, covered in dust, long forgotten.

“Here lie the remains of the friendship that existed between Chiedza and so and so……..who promised that our friendship would last forever, but then again, what is forever to mere mortals? Buried with this friendship is the idea that I’d be at this person’s side when they got married, when they had their first child, when we were to grow old.”

I sound delusional probably, but it always seems easier pretending they’re dead. Afterwards, I can easily ignore them so thoroughly that they start to question their own existence. Because dead people don’t text you at 2 am. Dead people don’t make empty promises. Dead people can’t hurt you twice.

I thoroughly establish the factors that will have contributed to the death. I can’t bury it before I’ve made peace with all the factors.

It’s funny how months can pass by and everyone will watch me smiling, laughing, living, without ever knowing about the huge funeral I’ll be planning in my head. They see the version of me that copes with loss so flawlessly, and not the mortician that works overtime.

I collect evidence. Forgotten replies. Overlooked inconsistencies. Incompetence. White lies. Seemingly insignificant misunderstandings. Built up resentments. One sided efforts. Boundary violations. Evidence of anything and everything that could have contributed to the cause of death. I lay it out on the table like exhibits in a courtroom. And it’s only when the case is closed that I allow myself to finish grieving.

The reason why I love these post mortems is because they push me to heal. Because for me, healing is finality. And I know that if I ever have to heal from something, I can never allow it back into my life again because I’ve buried it already, and there’s no such miracle as resurrection in this day and age.

So this is for every minute that I’ve lost trying to make sense of a friendship or relationship that ended before I could let it go.

For those relationships and friendships I lost because of irreconcilable differences.

For every version of me that died trying to keep them.

I dug the grave. I held the funeral. I said the eulogy. I carried the casket. And I’m here now. I don’t want to be a mortician anymore, but I am so dedicated to this task that I don’t know how to stop.

It’s not fair that I hold a funeral single-handedly for an association I parented with another person.

Maybe one day I’ll dedicate myself to other tasks. Maybe one day I’ll learn to leave bodies unburied like how everyone else does it. But for now, I am still clocking in.

Malaika wa Azania in Memoirs of A Born Free made me think about this a lot. She writes about a dilemma that a lot of colonized countries face. Being free on paper while being chained in practice. It makes me wonder………how many of us are free but still choose chains for other people through our silence?

Because I fail to find neutral grounds where there’s a clear perpetrator, I have had to burn lots of bridges…………..most of them being political.

I think about how many times, when other people were in situations that were unfair to them, I would always pick their side, and I would fight for their welfare. But when it came to me, those same people were silent. They chose to remain neutral. That was when I understood Tutu. Neutrality is not passive.

Where there is a clear perpetrator, neutrality is an active choice that one makes to protect their comfort instead of confronting the situation. Kind of like how Will was acting with Lisa and Jackie in Season Three of BelAir. He wanted to be the one with the clean image while everyone else was clearly in a field of tension. To the person being harmed, “I don’t want to be involved” sounds like “I am okay with whatever is happening to you.”

I remember in Lower Six, this boy groped this girl, and she tried talking about it but most of the the other girls shrugged her off because they either had a crush on the guy(who was very popular)and didn’t want to agitate him, they felt it had nothing to do with them or they believed she brought it upon herself. But the fact that she spoke up about it meant she needed help from the sisterhood. I remember using my own radical methods to ensure that this boy knew what he did was wrong, even though for the rest of the year all the boys hated me, but honestly, I would do it again given a chance.

I understand that people choose to be neutral maybe because of strategic reasons. Choosing to speak out against any form of oppression seems like suicide most times. It costs us a lot. It costs us invitations, social media likes, opportunities, money deals, connections and a whole lot more depending on what exactly you like. But isn’t the guilt of staying silent about something you could have chosen to speak about a greater cost?

In social circles, the ones who are always neutral are seen as easy to deal with, people seem more drawn to them because they don’t complicate things. They’re the most liked, the ones who get the most invitations.

In places of work, silence gets people promotions.

Online, silence protects numbers, followers, it gets you the most engagement.

Internationally, the pattern is similar. During the First World War, the USA considered itself a neutral party. That was until its own interests were threatened and it chose to join the war on the side of the British and French. Neutrality lasted for as long as it was convenient. When the cost became personal, the USA chose to pick a side. We do the same in our friendships, relationships, at work, at school and online. As long as we are not affected, we ignore oppression, we choose to be blind to it.

I also understand that those who choose neutrality believe they don’t owe the world anything. Well………. I hope one day I can have such a strong resolve and just look away. But for now, we fight against any form of injustice.

What’s cruel is how strategic silence actually works. In the short term, comfort is guaranteed, access to opportunities is still there. But in the long term, the person who could have gained from you speaking up against their perpetrator sees you as their villain as well. And over and over again, it hurts them.

Malaika waAzania writes about inheriting freedom and yet still having to fight to see its gains, politically. Socially, we also face that too. We live in a world that rewards people materially for being strategic instead of doing the right thing. But then again, right and wrong is all based on utilitarianism and what works for the greater good, right?

Those who speak up always pay the price, while the neutral ones get to enjoy the favor of the perpetrators. So then in this dynamic world that can chew us and spit us out without a second thought, what should we choose? Tutu already gave us a guideline. There is no neutrality in injustice. Silence gives a perpetrator permission to move on to the next victim.

Frankly speaking, I don’t think we owe such a cruel world our silence. Sometimes speaking out seems futile, but our voices are actually louder when we choose to speak out collectively.

I feel that this has led to a lot of people being pretentious in order to impress the other person or keep them around. I will illustrate this through various observations that I have made.

Scenario One

A guy is talking to a girl, it’s just banter though……..and he tells her he will pick her up so they go to his place and they chill together. The girl immediately says yes, and instantly, the guy is disappointed. The girl asks why, and the guy explains that a girl has to appear to be shy or uninterested so that the chase seems fulfilling for the guy.

But guys, if I’m genuinely interested why should I pretend to not be interested? Why should I play mind games just for someone to want to be obsessed with me due to the thrill of the chase? Kwete amana let’s not waste each other’s time by pretending just to maintain a certain image of ourselves in the other person’s eyes, it’s very annoying. And it’s also irritating how girls who actively make their interests known are labeled as easy targets when interest is actually two sided while at the same time, those who clearly say no are said to be playing hard to get and have to bear the burden of persistent men when really, a no means no. And me saying yes is me genuinely showing that I am also interested.

Interest is two-sided. There’s no need to play mind games bathong.

Scenario Two

A girl is dating a certain man. This girl smokes cannabis. She doesn’t tell her partner because she’s scared of judgment. But guys, if you’re scared of someone judging you, are you even supposed to be in a relationship with that person? Let’s say their relationship ends in marriage, how then will she consume that weed when the person she’s married to doesn’t know that she smokes?

I for one, am a take me as I am kind of person. I feel like it’s a good thing to just put all our cards on the table and let the other person decide if they want to stay or not.

If there’s initial judgment that makes you feel small, then that’s a clear indication that that person is not the one. Relationships built on hiding will always have a guaranteed expiration date.

Scenario Three

Apparently, people are interested in talking stages. I don’t subscribe to that, but let’s move along with the plot. During the talking stage, whoever is wooing the other constantly calls to check on the other person, they take them out on dates, they are constantly reassuring them of their genuine intentions. Then the other person gives in, and they start a relationship. Suddenly, all of that sweetness goes away. The whole facade of being an intentional person is replaced by excuses like “I am busy” and “I’m going through a lot”.

Kanti why would you introduce someone to a vibe you can’t maintain? If you’re not monied, then don’t try to show up as a monied individual to the other person. Not everyone is materialistic. If you’re a busy person, make it known from the start. Yes people make effort for people they genuinely love, but if the effort was there from the start then see it through.

Scenario Four

This one is a classic. To quote someone from TikTok,

Vanhu vari kuita move on vanhu vavo vasingazvizive

People tend to move on without breaking up with the person from their previous relationship, and that, dear reader, is cheating. We really need to understand that the majority of people who decide to date tend to be monogamous, and unless there has been an honest discussion allowing polyamory, cheating is wrong. I am diverting from the main gwan.

I was saying, people move on without breaking up with the “previous partner”, then when the current partner finds out, they’ll be too deeply invested to leave. So you asked someone out, you pretended to be single, you indicated that you’d want an exclusive relationship with them, then when they find out you’re currently in a relationship, you say ,”I didn’t think it mattered” or “Me and her/him haven’t been in good books”……..veduweee, let’s not waste each other’s time.

The whole point of this article is kuti……..we’ve turned dating into theatrics. Act humble to get her. Act available to get him. Act unavailable so he doesn’t think I’m desperate. Act rich. Act single. Act like I don’t like grooving till the next day. Act intentional. But then the moment the curtain falls, the real you shows up, and people end up getting hurt.

And I do understand that maybe pretending, most times, isn’t out of malice, but out of fear. Fear of judgment, fear of rejection, fear of not being chosen because of past baggage or lack of emotional support. So then people pretend, they perform, they hide, they love bomb, they lie by omission. Just to get a yes. But then, after performing to get that yes, is the satisfaction still there? When the lies get discovered and the person you lied to threatens to leave, that’s when the malice begins, you start gaslighting and projecting, wave kusimudza musoro manje.

Why can’t honesty come easily to everyone? The proverb warned us long back, but we keep on subscribing to being pretentious in order to keep people in our lives. We really need to do better. Because I for one believe that a love that starts with performance always ends in disappointment. And I feel like many of us would thrive in relationships where we’re allowed to be real the same way we’re thriving in solitude. Where everything starts and ends with honesty, no matter how much the truth hurts.

So long as it seems like people want to build on lies, pretense and judgment, most of us would rather be alone.

We don’t call people ugly as much anymore. We just tell them to fix it. Get rid of acne. Wear a waist trainer. Drink supplements for your hips and glutes. The cosmetic industry has benefited greatly from parts of the human body that are normal and yet people still get insecure about them.

Hyperpigmentation, acne, stretch marks, body hair, pores, cellulite……none of these are signs of a failing body, and yet when they show up we treat them like terminal illnesses. We make each other feel out of place for possessing these. Buy this serum. Use this soap. Drink this tea. And the beauty industry makes billions of off us being insecure over parts of us that are normal to our bodies.

I love Rorisang Mohapi so much. A few months ago, I admired how she handled a certain situation on TikTok. Someone commented on her skin, talking about how flawless it is, and she replied to that comment using a video, where she showed everyone the acne scars on her cheeks. She didn’t make any effort to appear as though her skin is indeed “glass skin” as contemporary beauty standards require. In doing that, she showed us that regardless of what society and the beauty industry have decided to coin as imperfections, human beings are still beautiful.

Such lessons are what we should be teaching young children as they grow. That hyperpigmentation is normal for anyone who has melanin and goes outside. It’s not a mistake.

That acne is normal and just because someone has it it doesn’t mean they’re any less beautiful.

That stretch marks are just a sign of a growing body. That cellulite is evidence of the body’s ability to produce fat. We spend so much time looking at ourselves in the mirror, nursing insecurities, that we forget to actually celebrate our existence regardless of what we see as imperfections.

I feel like, at some point in time, people of color really didn’t have such insecurities. Before European beauty standards of straight hair, fair skin and skinny asses seemed superior to us, we were comfortable in our own skins. Curves for most, full bodies. That was normal. Hair that had coils and an amazing texture. That was normal. That was beautiful.

Then suddenly, we were supposed to desire corseted waists, flat tummies, skinny bodies, smooth poreless skin and lighter tones. The cosmetic industry saw an opening and ran with it, our bodies became something that needed to be auto tuned into perfection. They turned our normal into a billion dollar insecurity.

Just to make it clear, wanting your body to look a specific way is not a problem. From my reading of Rutendo: The Chief’s Granddaughter, I actually realized that our ancestors had natural ways of enhancing beauty without making it feel like an insecurity, for example ruredzo was used as a hair shampoo, women who had given birth were encouraged to sit in the red water of a specific tree bark so their waists could return to their original forms. Clay was used for skincare.

If you want clearer skin or a different body shape, that’s your own choice. The problem comes when society imposes such desires in order to satisfy a capitalist regime’s needs. When glass skin stops being an aesthetic and becomes the only acceptable skin. When “slim thick” stops being a preference and becomes the requirement in order to be regarded as possessing a beautiful body. When you feel ugly for being dark skinned. That isn’t really self care, it seems more like pressure, and pressure is what the beauty industry sells best.

We shouldn’t shame people who are comfortable in their own skin or try to make them feel insecure or inferior by imposing conventional beauty standards on them.

Jah Prayzah has a song called Kwayedza, and some of the lyrics are

Kuchiva rumwe rudzi hurema, mwana wemutema, ucharamba uri mutema,

Vakakuti chinja ruvara, woita ganda jena, unoda here

The song drives home the fact that bleaching skin because of wanting to look white or more beautiful is futile because one’s identity won’t change. Jah Prayzah sang about it, Rorisang showed it in a TikTok video. The message hasn’t changed, our bodies aren’t problems to be solved.

I want to be free to post without worrying what people will say about my skin. To wear whatever I want without worrying about being called too skinny or too fat. It’s so frustrating just going about your day and having someone recommend a skincare product to you for something that has to do with your hormones. It’s a process though, and I might be getting there. I just had to write this to acknowledge that I need to give my body grace for its natural appearance without trying to enhance it.

“Chinoziva ivhu kuti mwana wembeva anorwara” is a Shona proverb that suggests that it’s the people closest to us who know when we’re not okay, but how far true is that? A very realistic example would be parents…….they are the individuals closest to us biologically, we share first hand DNA with them, yet, if they were to watch an entire movie demonstrating what we’ve seen, heard and experienced, they’d realize that they don’t know us.

The people who are close to us only know what we show them. There is a difference between physical proximity and emotional closeness. We stay in households everyday with people who don’t know that we are suffering mentally. We say we have friends but they don’t know we’ve broken our own hearts countless times trying to make excuses for some of the bad things they’ve done to us or said to us. We suffer from PTSD because of the very same people who are supposed to be our primary emotional anchors. Deep down, we’re alone. All day, we forget everything, we keep ourselves busy, yet behind closed doors, when no one is watching, we live and breathe the reality of loneliness.

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. Vari kumhepo vanozviziva kuti I’ve been lonely countless times in rooms that are full of people. Loneliness is sad, it’s solitude due to lack of options, lack of choice. We live in houses full of people, we walk through spaces that are overpopulated, but we’re still lonely. Aloneness is more liberating. It’s choosing to be in solitude. On socials, some of us have chosen to be alone. WhatsApp seems like just an accessory to have because everyone else has it, but given a choice, some of us would probably delete that application. Instead of focusing on togetherness, everyone just wants to “aura farm”. Authenticity and enthusiasm have been rewarded by lack of appreciation because people are only interested in what you have to offer if you come across as uninterested in the interest that the world offers.

In such a world, I choose to see myself. I choose to exist outside of the boxes that everyone seems to try to put me in, and I choose to just be.

A lot goes on in our heads everyday, but not even the people closest to us know because we’re too guarded to let them in. “I am here if you need anything,”……that’s what the more genuine among us say, but no one ever seems to take us seriously. Questions like “how are you” have automatic responses that make us seem like we’re okay when we just don’t want to bother others with our internal demons.

I’ve stayed in a room with someone at rez for three months and I almost died without her knowing, but all she and her friends did was judge me for thinking I was a snob because I didn’t talk to her much. It’s funny that I was going through an inner breakdown and her biggest worry was that I didn’t like talking.

The people closest to us don’t know us. We don’t know the people closest to us. Who we are behind closed doors is only known by us, and it’s scary. Because it haunts me every night. What if the people I am being genuine with are just being strategic with me. I hate it but it keeps me up at night. It hinders me from making new friends, because I know I can never know the version of someone that is theirs to keep.

So then, is chinoziva ivhu kuti mwana wembeva anorwara still a true fact, or it portrays what is supposed to be?

The war between my mind and my heart always makes me suffer. It leaves me in the middle all the time, wondering. While my heart yearns, my mind chooses to ignore, while my heart wants to reach out, my mind chooses to isolate, and it’s always me outside of this raging war, wondering which side to pick. Wondering which decision is more socially acceptable. Wondering what keeps me safer. If I choose to go with my heart, I get disappointed and end up being angry and upset at myself. I end up failing to trust myself in the future. If I go with my mind, I know it’s the safer option, I know I am always protected from the constant state of heartache i will have avoided, but at the same time, I know i always end up alone again.

In everything, I know my mind always conquers. It tends to be faster than my heart. Whenever I decide to forgive myself, or someone else, out of the goodness of my heart, my mind seeks revenge. My mind tells me to get even. It’s an internal struggle that threatens my peace until I decide to give in. I fail to forgive even the people closest to me for things said or done to me by them, because in my mind and heart, I know I wouldn’t have done or said anything to hurt them. Constantly, I ask myself why it’s always me getting hurt in ways I wouldn’t hurt another person. I even punish myself for mistakes that have cost me emotionally in the past. I have had to admit that I am hurting, and nothing I try to do can reverse the trauma from the past. Whenever I try to get vulnerable, my mind refuses, it tells me that anything that I say can and will be used against me in a court of public judgment.

Then there’s my heart. My heart that loves so deeply. My heart that yearns so violently. I lie awake at night tugging at it, desperately wanting to erase everything that it feels. I protect my heart all the time, because I have this belief that it’s too precious to be tainted. In a world where people love easily, my heart only does so eternally. It makes me feel like I am difficult to love. Like I am undeserving. So much so that I have conditioned myself to be resigned to the fact that I don’t need it. I am not as desperate to be seen, known, perceived, because all the times I have tried, I have been rejected. This fear of rejection kills any desire I have to accept that I am loved, it’s always too good to be true.

Make sure your heart is never hungry. You tend to eat lies when your heart is hungry.

Then there’s my soul. Oh my artistic soul. In another life, ndingadai ndiri gwenyambira, my soul feels alive whenever I play mbira or hosho or listen to Chiwoniso or Hope Masike. My soul feels so alive when I flaunt my locs, when I adorn my body with my soulful desires. My soul that loves music with meaning. My soul that is always sensual. My soul that seeks belonging, yet it is so comfortable in solitude. I love how connected I am to my soul and how connected it is to the earth. I find myself being so grounded. I love being rooted in peace, in love, in art. My grieving soul. I love how my soul has found so much peace in its grief. My grief is intrusive and unpredictable. Sometimes it shows up as anger at what could have been, and sometimes it shows up as sadness for what I have lost.

But I love how I can always say, my soul is at peace, my heart is full, regardless of the turmoil that is inside. Even though I know its lies I feed myself, I know those lies help me survive the mental struggles.

That’s how it is, mind, heart and soul, the mind being the deciding factor.

It’s sad really, the acceptance of knowing you are destined to be alone is sad. But if the price of companionship is choosing to ignore lies and manipulation then I guess I really am better off alone.

[If you got to the end, thank you for reading this, I am not good at putting my inner feelings into words or dissecting myself like this]

According to the Termination of Pregnancy Act, a woman can only be allowed to have an abortion under three circumstances

1. If the sexual intercourse that led to the pregnancy is incest

2. If the woman was raped and got pregnant as a result of that rape

3. If the pregnancy poses a risk to the mother

Earlier on this year, there were discussions to try and extend the conditions to accommodate women with mental health issues and those who are not financially stable enough to support children. Unfortunately, it was not fruitful.

Time and time again, the average woman’s right to bodily autonomy is limited because of morals and ethics, yet we know that laws should be made to protect a society while at the same time adapting to its constant needs. While it is appreciated that certain religious groups and sects are pro natalist, we honestly can’t let people give birth to children they don’t want in this economy.

Premarital sex is a thing, whether or not we would like to deny it, people are doing it. Unprotected sexual activity is also a thing. If a country can provide contraceptives legally, then why can’t it also allow individuals to make their own choices regarding their bodies?

“Abortion is murder” That is the statement that most use to criticize those who are in favor of it. We are seen as people who support murder. “Thou shalt not kill” People quote the scriptures. What about those who do not subscribe to those scriptures? But scientifically, isn’t it that a human being is considered a full human being after birth? I am not a sciences person but I am sure a foetus does not count as a fully developed human being.

Abortion should be legalized for women who do not have the financial capacity to take care of a child. It should be allowed for women who are not in a good enough mental state to carry a child to term. It should be allowed for those who have been using their contraceptives religiously and still got pregnant. It’s not fair that a simple law that seeks to maintain a state’s conservative status without considering the needs of the masses should decide on thousands of destinies. Unwanted children always pay the price. Emotionally, financially, socially, they find themselves in a constant state of abandonment, and that’s not fair.

Honestly I don’t even have a conclusion for this piece, but I am very passionate about such issues.

Women should be given freedom to choose what they want to do with their pregnancies. Else, they are not truly free.

I asked him to define the word undesirable. Undesirable by what standards. Undesirable by whose standards. I asked him who she was now undesirable to. I asked him who had told him she was trying to be desirable. Ohhh my days I was so frustrated.

I have been thinking about this for such a long time and had been failing to put much of it into words, sometimes I become too emotional to write and if I don’t have a calming agent then I can’t reflect upon my thoughts properly.

The thing is this

WOMEN CAN’T JUST EXIST.

If a woman is young, people audit her body. If she’s old, they still audit her body, but now they’ll be weighing it against age. If she’s single, they audit her social status, they call her lonely, arrogant, ugly, they point out negative possibilities to her being single. They fail to acknowledge that she might just be single because she doesn’t want to be in a relationship. If she’s married, they audit her husband. If she’s childless, they call her barren, if it’s by choice, they call her selfish for not wanting to contribute to humanity. If she has a child, they audit her waist. They compare her to who she was before she gave birth.

By “people” I don’t just mean my cousin. I mean ordinary people in TikTok comment sections. I mean men who make snide remarks towards women who will be minding their own business. I mean married women who shun those who choose to stay single. I mean old women who criticize our choices in terms of fashion.

We can never be comfortable with our existence in any form. I think that one thing people have to understand is that some of us want to exist peacefully without worrying about how people perceive us.

I want to live in a world where I can just exist outside of any of my relationships, as an individual. I don’t want to be that woman whose actions are easily predictable considering social expectations. And I continuously work towards that every single day. But some days it gets hard. Days when it seems like the whole world is against you. Days when it seems like the most you can do as a woman is just subdue yourself.

Constantly, the concept of happiness eludes me, and it is on those days that I feel hopeless the most, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s ever a point in time when women were fully at peace.

[I feel like this piece is very intrusive, but regardless, I am more at peace now that it’s out there]

The title, Tomorrow I Become A Woman, is in reference to what Nigerian society would call a “real woman”. Several expectations are placed upon women like Uju, Ada, Chinelo and their mothers, among others. You are not a woman until you get your period. You are not a woman until you get married. You are not a woman until you give birth to a son, Ada keeps on getting pregnant in the hopes of getting a son. She is not satisfied with her seven daughters. Chinelo risks her life in order to give birth to another son. The expectations placed on women are endless and prejudicial. Chinelo ends up dying at childbirth, her death signifies the fact that Nigerian society’s expectations on women lead to those women losing themselves in the process of trying to please men.

Uju’s mother sends her to university with one instruction:don’t come back without a husband. Her education is disregarded unless she gets a dowry from it. I love Uju as a character at the start. She seems headstrong and ambitious. Until she meets Chigozie. “Don’t scare him away”, those are her mother’s words when she finds out that Uju is now dating Gozie. Uju follows her mother’s instructions. She becomes a “good girl”. Women are expected to compromise their characters so they can be seen as “wife material” and that is exactly what Uju does. She finds herself trapped in an abusive marriage because she is reduced to a people pleaser. Every time her husband hits her, her mother blames her. “Don’t talk too much, don’t question him, pray harder.” The blame is always on her for her husband’s actions. This is a story that we are all too familiar with.

The book also highlights the emotional and social impact of the Biafran war on Nigeria. The Biafran war was one of Africa’s deadliest post-independence conflicts. Biafra was made up mostly of Nigeria’s southeastern states, dominated by the Igbo ethnic group. Nigeria got independence from Britain in 1960. It was a federation of 3 regions with 3 main ethnic groups: Hausa-Fulani in the north, Yoruba in the west, and Igbo in the east. Eastern leaders concluded the federal government wouldn’t protect Igbos, so the only option was a sovereign state. In 1967, Biafra declared independence. Nigeria declared it illegal and went to war.

The impact of the war is intrusive. Instability spills into the current government, and throughout the novel, Obiageli and Uju are on a mission to look for Obiageli’s brother, Ikenna, who went to fight in the war. The book is about wounds that we can never heal from. Losses that we can never recover from. Permanent scars. Ikenna is Uju’s first love, and she loses him forever, she thinks she has found him in Gozie, but he proves her wrong.

Odafen also shows a disturbing pattern in churches concerning religious hypocrisy. Status is measured by wealth. Proximity to God depends on how much money you have and how much work you put in. Chigozie starts out as just a mere member of the church, but as soon as Nasir helps him financially emancipate himself through illicit government deals, he is elected to be a deacon. Gozie is a church deacon but he beats his wife. He gets his wealth through illicit methods. He comes home drunk. Yet he stands in church as an elder. He doesn’t confess to his sins. He cheats on Uju. He is not repentant. He is not apologetic. One is inclined to ask, shouldn’t religious leaders be leading by example? If the religious leaders themselves are ill treating their close ones, what hope does the rest of the flock have?

Women are never in charge of their sexuality. Uju puts off having a child because she wants to get a master’s degree, but hell breaks loose when Gozie finds her contraceptives. She is labeled a witch. It’s as if her value is tied to how much children she can give birth to. A woman has to put her academic and professional ambitions on hold in order to take care of the family unit. Even Uzondu, Ada’s husband, makes it clear that his children are being groomed for marriage. Zina, as juvenile as she is, is monitored on how she dresses, how good she is at doing household chores, and how obedient she is. The mantra is “It’s never too early to talk about marriage”.

Women are not safe anywhere. Ada seeks refuge from Uju when her husband hits her, and they’re both scrutinized. Uju tells her mother her location when she separates from Gozie after he almost murders Ego, and her mother sells her out to Gozie. The one person who helps Uju is a woman who society deems as incomplete, an unmarried friend from her varsity days. We are constantly in pursuit of safety in a society that does not provide it for us.

Odafen’s message is to the youth. The beliefs in patriarchy and oppression of women that have carried our mothers and grandmothers society are not safe for us. We have to grow away from it. We are women today, tomorrow and forever, regardless of expectations placed upon us by social stereotypes. If we wait for society to crown us as women, we will wait forever. We give society too much power and autonomy in our lives, we give it authority over our bodies, our dreams, our futures. We forget about ourselves in the process. Odafen stresses on the fact that we need to love without compromising ourselves. Sacrifice in relationships should be two sided. We can’t keep on breaking our own hearts trying to please the other person when that person would never do the same for us.

When I picked up this book, I was hopeless. By the time I finished it, I felt less alone. The struggle is universal. The revolution is never ending.

Odafen’s sorcery is that she writes about women who lose themselves while waiting for tomorrow for society to see them.

I find comfort in that the ending of the book hints at a happy ending for Uju. I hope whoever reads it finds comfort in that too.

The sequel is We Were Girls Once, it’s also a frustrating read. I am still deciding on whether or not I want to write an article about it. This is because I don’t feel that I’ve done enough justice to this article itself, but I have written what I can without giving away too much.

I remember a boy I liked during my first year in uni silently judging me when I told him I loved Jah Prayzah…….his response to that was that Chris Brown is better. I felt so inferior at that time because he made it sound like not listening to Zimbabwean music is a flex. I did try to explain that I also listened to people like Amanda Black and Kwesta outside of Zim, he still concluded that I was primitive. But how could I have explained to people that Shona music was the one way I could learn the depth of my language as a child who spoke Ndebele and English at home. How could I explain that Shona made everything that I spoke feel so genuine.

Now I can proudly say it with my chest no matter how controversial it may be………I enjoy African music more than I enjoy American rap

Jah Prayzah has a song called Tenda. English says “Give gratitude to those who help you in certain journeys in life”…….while the Shona lyrics for this song are “Tenda vanokuperekedza murwendo, kufamba wega haungagone uchira……”

I have noticed that English tends to be dismissive if you don’t put in any effort in trying to sound as sincere as you are. A simple “Thank you” would really not be enough to show gratitude. Ndebele has “Ngiyabonga” Shona has “Ndatenda”, but I feel that the message gets through more sincerely because the language is one we can relate to.

What connects me more to this specific song, apart from the traditional instrumental that gives me nostalgia for a time I didn’t exist in, is how it seeks to show the struggles one might be going through before they find help through whatever personal journey they walk, and hence when they offer gratitude it comes from a place of deep appreciation. “Kurarama ingoni ndakanga ndabaiwa” is an expression of someone who had been in a place of suffering to the extent of almost perishing.

Gratitude being expressed in one’s indigenous language shows that we are a community. Even on WhatsApp, I find it rude to say “Thanks” to someone because I feel like I have failed to express my gratitude enough.

I feel like it shows even through our names. My little sister’s name is Tatenda, meaning we are grateful. Expressing that gratitude would have been hard had they tried to give her that name in English.

Gratitude in my languages reminds me that we are a community. No one walks alone and survives. No one is an island.

So on WhatsApp, in class and in life, I would rather choose to say ndatenda chaizvo instead of thanks….at any given time.

Because some things can only be expressed in languages that you and your own understand.

They put the rope around her neck in 1898 Salisbury. A British colonial officer asked for her last words, and she uttered one iconic statement…….

Mapfupa angu achazomuka, my bones shall rise again

For the British colonial masters, this was just an indigenous spiritual leader’s last attempt at redemption, but for the Shona descendants to come, she became a symbol of power and a sign that they could win the war against imperialism. Her death marked the end of the First Chimurenga, but it was also just the beginning of black rage at the system of oppression that would make all inhabitants of the space between the Zambezi and Limpopo rivers lose their land and their freedom for more than 80 years.

Nehanda is said to have existed in three physical figures, the first of which was the Nehanda of the Mutapa Empire, Nyatsimba Mutota’s sister, royal blood flowing through her veins in the 1400s. According to Shona oral tradition, she helped Mutota in his transition from Great Zimbabwe to his establishment of his Mutapa dynasty in the Zambezi valley. She was his spiritual guide. His mhondoro. She was given land later on to honor her power as a medium.

The second physical figure was the Nehanda who was hanged. She was regarded as a reincarnation of the original Nehanda. In Shona she would be what is known as homwe yevadzimu. She was the latest spiritual vessel designed to raise consciousness in relation to the loss of land that was happening to the Shona people at that time.

[Nehanda Nyakasikana of 1898]

Now, we have already established that Nehanda being hanged does not mean she died. Her words lived on. Although black people seemed to have made peace with colonization in the early 1900s, a younger generation was being born and slowly starting to question what it was that made white people be the ones to take the richer pieces of land. Oral tradition was being passed on.

Nehanda in the third form came during the days of the Second Chimurenga. Her name was Charwe. Oral tradition says she was an instrument in helping freedom fighters know which paths to use and in providing moral support with the reminder that her predecessor’s spirit was there to help them get back their land.

Her words were like a ticking time bomb. In the eyes of white people she had died. In the eyes of black people, she had been planted.

70 years later, the country that had come to be known as Rhodesia saw a massive rise in black nationalism. Robert Mugabe, Herbert Chitepo, Josiah Tongogara, Joshua Nkomo, Ndabaningi Sithole……..all these political figures were on a quest to acquire freedom for the nation.

Personally, I think that Robert Mugabe was spiritually ordained by the spirits of the land because of the fact that, in the days leading up to the ceasefire declarations, the Lancaster House Conference and the Independence Day celebrations, he faced so many assassination attempts. He would always escape by a narrow margin, maybe he had sources telling him what the whites were planning. But what I’m saying is just speculation.

In the end, the black people won back their country. The land question is still an ongoing process, even after 46 years. Nehanda’s bones still exist in every land reform date. In every Zimbabwean who says ndiri mwana wevhu. She even exists physically in Harare, they erected a statue of her. Because who wouldn’t want to honor such an iconic figure.

This article may seem pointless and speculative. But it’s a 19 year old girl’s attempt to reconcile with her country’s rich history and cultural background. It would have been easier if all of this had more documentation because those with oral evidence are soon to die.

If Nehanda did exist, if her spirit was what helped us be born free, I adore her, I honor her. Dai mapfupa ake atibatsirawo nanhasi.

When I was younger, my mom used to hire a helper to take care of us at home because she worked away from home and she also couldn’t leave us alone with my father because he used to work long hours at work. The people in my neighborhood seemed to have a problem with this, the whole basis of their argument being that my mother was spoiling me and I should learn to oversee the household myself. Me. A ten year old. Oversee a household. Cook whole meals for my father and my little sister.

During holidays, the helper would be dismissed until schools opened because my mom would be around. The thing with my mother is that she does not like overworking herself. Ours was probably the only household in which the inhabitants would wake up after 8 in the morning and the friends I used to hang with at that time would find that weird. That was because their parents made them wake up before the sun was up to do all the chores. Yet the male children would be out there playing street soccer. The assumption was that girls should be able to do anything in the household while the boy child can just play outside. Basic conversation for those people would always be “Uyu kwaacharoorwa haambonetseke nekuti basa repamba arijaira”, and in their eyes I was the girl who would struggle to get married because I didn’t wake up at 5am to clean the house then spend the rest of the day doing nothing.

At some point my mother and I had a hostile relationship because she gave in to the social pressures. She would treat me so badly and badmouth me to my aunts because I refused to wake up at the crack of dawn. Trust that I would do whatever she wanted me to do, just not so early in the morning. My parents are still so disappointed with me because they say I am spoiled…..they decided to be a bit tougher on my little sister. I feel sorry for her because when I am not home they make her do any and everything because she has conformed herself to a life of service. I am not saying cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, washing dishes….etc is wrong, but then I am saying if I decided to do all that last night why am I being woken up so early. Regardless, even at 10am all that is still doable.

I’m 19 years old now, and most times I am alone at home. Recently, my mother had to travel for work and she left me sleeping at home, that was at 5 in the morning. She later asked me what I’d eaten for the day because I have a habit of starving myself and I told her I only had supper because I’d woken up at 2pm, which is wayyy later than my usual 11pm waking up time. Her response killed me. She said ,”Zvakadai hapana anoroora”. She was referring to the fact that habit of me waking up late and using it as a justification for no one to marry me.

It goes without saying, Zimbabwean parents groom their children for marriage. The general rule is that a girl has to be useful to be loveable. The moment you decide to be domestically useless, you are automatically a disappointment.

We went for a family gathering a few years back……at my father’s paternal rural home, and to say the women were overworked is an understatement. I resented the whole idea that the men were chatting leisurely the whole day and we were their beasts of burden. I ended up escaping to the house next door and everyone kept on asking about me because already I had a reputation of avoiding such gatherings because I didn’t like being of service in a place where the division of labour was so unequal. When they found me, my father was so angry because “I embarrassed him”.

A year later, we went to a family gathering on my mother’s side of the family. This time, it was the men who were doing hard tasks while the ladies had fewer tasks because there were helpers for the more “feminine tasks”. My father constantly avoided people because he couldn’t keep up with slaughtering a simple cow. I couldn’t help but ask myself who the real embarrassment was.

The object of life is not to get married, but to celebrate our existence

These words are by one of my favorite authors, Tsitsi Dangarembga, in She No Longer Weeps. I have grown into a lady who the typical Zimbabwean man would not marry, so then they should just kill me. The Zimbabwean social landscape makes it seem like all that girls are good for is marriage. “Do this, the family you marry into will be impressed”……..”Don’t be too vocal, men don’t like it”……….. All that conditioning for what? Most women who have absorbed that conditioning “for the people who will marry them” aren’t even married. I am the black sheep of the family because I refused to lose sleep because of an imaginary future husband.

Because of such social conditioning, the average Zimbabwean girl child is of the belief that she should be loved conditionally. That love should be transactional. Tasks such as cooking and whatnot are necessary, they are basic human tasks that should be known by every human being regardless of gender. The burden that is placed on us is too heavy, and I have refused to succumb to it.

Everyday I wake up at 10am, and I do my chores before I sleep. My mother has decided that I am not getting married, and I couldn’t care less. There is more to a girl’s life than getting married. I don’t even think I was meant for it at this point.

But I love my parents, and if they want roora cows, I will buy them cows and hand them over so that they’re happy and I can live my life.

Middle class children in Zimbabwe do not have a choice other than joining the capitalist system of working a 9 to 5 everyday as soon as we finish school, that is if you’re lucky enough or connected enough to get a job.

After finishing A level, there are always three types of people: the rich kids who go abroad to study music or art, those who take gap years trying to figure out their next step, and us, the middle class who take law, accounting, medicine. Anything that is a degree. They are called “serious courses” because they earn you prestige as a learned individual. It’s not what we want, but it’s the safest option. Trying to pursue my passion for music, art, writing or sports as a child born into the middle class would land me in poverty if I don’t have the right connections. One bad semester, one retrenched parent, one terminal illness, one failed business, and we fall.

Quitting always seems like betrayal. Imagine throwing away more than a decade of elite education and thousands of dollars in school fees for something that won’t land you in the corporate world. Besides, every parent wants the prestige of saying “mwana wangu ndigweta” or “mwana wangu ndi doctor”, quitting would definitely be social suicide because everyone will be watching you. You’re no longer chasing money or passion, you’re just trying hard not to embarrass the people at home.

You just wake up on a random day, they give you a school uniform and a bag, suddenly you’re expected to uphold the family’s status through academic success, then corporate success, and you’re lucky if you ever retire before you die

You realize after a very long time that you don’t know life, you’ve only known survival.

I don’t have an escape plan. If I did, I’d be on a beach, not writing this on my phone during winter break.

But I have a name for it now. The Conveyor Belt.

And naming it matters. Because once you see the belt, you stop pretending you chose to be on it. You stop shaming the kid who says “I want to do music.” You stop telling yourself “I’m free” when your calendar is owned by a boss at 21.

One day they took me to school.

Nobody asked if I wanted to get off.

I’m still on the belt. But I’m looking at the sides now. And I’m writing this so the next middle class kid knows: it’s not just you who’s tired.

It’s the system. And systems can be walked off. Even if we’re scared to do it.

Personally, I have decided that whoever is next in my bloodline won’t have to pick the safest or most conventional option. I just have to work towards it.

“Uchazovei” is not a question that will be imposed in my household!

I love beautiful women. Women who do not need to prove themselves to anyone. Women who embrace their sexuality shamelessly. Women who are not insecure about their bodies. Women who do not conform to social beauty standards. Women who acknowledge that bloating is normal. Women who know that hyperpigmentation is normal. Women who know that acne is normal. Women who appreciate that all other women are beautiful in any and every form. Women who appreciate their beauty in their natural forms. Women who know their natural hair is beautiful.

I am in love with artistic women. Women who are able to carve out pieces of fabric into fashionable art. Women who write their hearts out. Women who feel everything intensely. Women who are able to put paint on paper and create beautiful images. Women who take beautiful photographs. Women who appreciate the abilities of Mother Earth. Women who adorn themselves so beautifully. Women who tattoo their bodies as a method of self expression. Women who adorn their wrists and waists with beads for the love of it.

I adore intellectual women. Women who want to know about anything and everything. Women who are interested in mathematics, physics, engineering, humanities, philosophy, art, literature, entrepreneurship. Women who want to discover their purpose in life.

The list goes on and on and on. What would the world be without women?

Colonialism came and erased our tribal identities, calling our religious practices paganism in the process, yet we all worshipped the same God. According to colonial logic, I am a citizen first, Christian second and Shona last, if at all. 46 years after we have gained independence, I still have to Google my clan names because the education system has not taught me them, yet at school I can quote the Bill of Rights in accordance with the Constitution. I can argue human rights in English, I can quote Biblical scripture but I flinch when I try to honour my ancestors because I have been taught that it is demonic. My identity is in exile.

They criminalized African spirituality. Totems, clan praises, kings, chiefs, rain making ceremonies, spirit mediums. All of it was labeled demonic under colonial laws. Nhembe ne shashiko, our traditional ways of dressing and expressions of sexuality, were shamed by Christian views on modesty. Churches preached everything out of us. Shona order was replaced with British order, Shona cosmology was replaced with Christianity and Shona laws were replaced with British laws. Shona is not even the original name, rather a collection of tribes that include Karanga, Manyika, Zezuru and others that I do not quite remember (for the sake of this article I will just call them Shona). Shona and Ndebele were merged into one to create Zimbabwe.

However, one cannot build a nation by erasing the nation’s people. I am Zezuru before I am Zimbabwean, but all identities have been placed under one colonial blueprint.

If I enter a room, clad in traditional glass beads in my waist, ankles and wrists, face bare with no form of makeup, I am called backwards, because the model woman is only beautiful in makeup. If I enter a room full of black Zimbabweans and address them in Shona or Ndebele, I am not taken seriously because they have been conditioned to believe that English is the more superior language. In primary school, my fluent command of the English language made people call me intelligent, but is intelligence really supposed to be measured by language abilities?

Africa earned its independence on paper, but mentally, religiously, academically, geographically, and in all other ways possible, we are perpetually in chains. Independence gave us a flag. It never gave us our altar.

Years later, children are given Biblical names or Irish or English names, yet we have beautiful names in indigenous languages. David, Matthew, Brian, Brendon, Mary, Charmaine, Rose…….those names are considered more preferable as compared to Chiedza, Ruvarashe, Nyanza, Takomborerwa, Tadanwa.

Years later, the same religion whose scripture was used to pacify Africans in the face of colonialism so that they would not fight against it, is the same religion whose God is seen as superior. I ask again:isn’t God the same?

Now it’s just grief without ritual, land without connection, identity without spiritual connection. We are anxious because we are cut off from the cosmology that established who we are. I have reflected on it a lot. I have decided to reclaim my cultural identity. To manifest that in the way I dress, in my hair and my jewelry. I am still learning to pray without feeling guilty for being a traditionalist. Without feeling guilty for my bloodline.

You can’t be free in a country if you’re still a stranger to your ancestors.

Tsitsi Dangarembga suggests that freedom for Zimbabwean women is choosing which cage to live in.

“I was not sorry when my brother died”………with those eight words, Tsitsi Dangarembga unfolds one of the most socially daunting books to ever hit the Zimbabwean literary scene. The narrator we are introduced to is Tambudzai, a girl who goes by the rules, whose main goal is seemingly to receive an education and uproot her family from rural poverty while emancipating herself. The book gives an honest assessment of how Zimbabwean patriarchy mixed with colonialism affect the people born into that system, this it does by making the reader feel that they are actively involved due to a use of the first person narrative.

Through Tambu’s transition from her rural homestead to the more affluent mission school that her uncle is the headmaster at, Dangarembga shows how colonial education frees children while cutting them off from their cultural roots. Tambu and her brother are enemies yet they have a similar reaction to the education they receive…….they both go back home as different people in different ways, in Nhamo, it manifests in the way his mistreatment and disregard for his sisters are accentuated, while in Tambu, this shows up more subtly……she slowly starts to resent going home and when she does go, many of the aspects she previously finds normal are now detestable to her. Yes she is slowly emancipated mentally and academically, but her mother is not impressed and mockingly refers to her as “vekuchirungu”. This is symbolic of cultural imperialism and how it alienates one from the uneducated ones.

Dangarembga constantly highlights hunger as a recurring issue in Zimbabwean precolonial societies. There is an immense shortage of food in the cultural homestead where Tambu grows up in, while food is in abundance at Babamkuru’s home at the mission. The sharp contrast shows the advantages of education…….those who embrace the missionaries and their ways have more material wealth, they have a nicer place to live, and a generally better quality of life. Those who resist the ways of the whites remain stagnant in hunger and abject poverty. Dangarembga has a way of showing that the precolonial world is fast developing and those blacks who do not go with the flow get left behind in the future. Hunger also manifests in Nyasha, who develops an eating disorder in starving herself trying to look “svelte”. The author’s message is clear, materially, educated blacks can be wealthy, but the feeling of lack is still there if there is no connection with their culture. Nyasha is disconnected from traditional society and the only connection she has to it is Tambu who tries to help her but she seems too far gone.

The author also dissects patriarchy in many forms and different stages of life. One of the earliest encounters one has with toxic masculinity in this book is with Nhamo, who constantly belittles his little sister and even steals the mealies meant to help her pay for her education. Nhamo is too young to belittle his sister because of her gender, but Dangarembga has a clear message:patriarchy in Zimbabwe is preconditioned. Furthermore, his treatment of his sister is recognition of how his father also belittles her. The cycle is recurring. Nhamo’s death symbolizes a desire for poetic justice as it opens up the way for Tambu to receive the education he was receiving. The message being brought home is on the fairness in terms of access to opportunities for both genders. The fact that Tambu is awarded the same opportunity as a second option after Nhamo and still flourishes is evidence of the fact that young girls can still be as academically brilliant as young boys.

Another significant indicator of patriarchy and its impact is the relationship between Babamkuru and Maiguru. Maiguru is docile yet her educational achievements are as great as Babamkuru’s. She shrinks herself in order to accommodate him and his dominance. The question is, when a woman is educated and financially equal to her husband, should she downplay her achievements to make him feel good about himself? Mainini, Tambu’s mother, is not educated, but she is vocal about her resentment for the patriarchy and this is seen in various situations where she tells her husband to let Tambu make her own mistakes, dominating him in terms of his decision making skills. Lucia challenges the patriarchy by directly confronting Babamkuru when she sees fit and physically challenging Takesure when she pinches him by the ear. She intimidates men, but still, like the rest of the women in the book, she is criticized. Dangarembga shows that there is no safe version of womanhood in African society, married or unmarried, educated or uneducated, young or old….every woman is in danger of negative criticism in favor of patriarchy.

Every Zimbabwean female reader who reads this book has to accept that they are a victim because of how the female characters in the book are treated.

Even in modern Zimbabwe, the expectations for girls are still the same:leave home, go to school, get educated, but do not be too emancipated, be a bit subdued for men, so that they marry you. When does this end? The setting is in precolonial Zimbabwe, but the nervous conditions stated by Dangarembga are an existential concern even today. Same plot, different story.

Yet as I put down the book, I could not help but sympathize the most with Nyasha. It was almost as if Dangarembga wrote about me. Nyasha is me, but there are still pieces of me in Tambu. But it’s mostly Nyasha. Nyasha needs to be seen.

Nervous Conditions, the book that made me angry at the system.

I hate male presence in places I consider sanctuaries……for example, I feel more comfortable at home when my dad is absent. Which is funny because at some point he was my idol and I couldn’t wait for him to come home. He was always there to provide for me, to answer my million questions tirelessly. He still provides for me, but now there’s this silent tension between us, maybe im the only one who notices how we can’t wait to get out of each other’s sight so quickly. I feel that he hates the person I became because I don’t embody the values he tried to instill in me.

While the world he showed me was in black and white, I saw multiple shades of grey. While he tried to teach me submission, it was too late before he realized that I was a rebel, i didn’t want to be cropped into the pictures he painted me in. I feel restricted in his presence because that is what he embodies…..a medium of limitations to what I want to explore limitlessly.

This is why I feel restricted when he is home and all the time I avoid him and can’t wait for him to leave. We don’t share the same values anymore and he struggles to accept it, that I’ve grown. But isn’t that the whole point of raising a child, to allow them to explore their individuality without judging them? Maybe it’s because our moral compasses face different directions, while im open minded in theory and practice, he is absolutely rigid.

This is why I am jealous of who I was before I started absorbing information, I want to enjoy my father’s presence again. For now, all I can hope for is for him to see the world through my own eyes and respect my individuality because I’ve seen it through his and accepted his beliefs as applicable to him. However, all a girl can do is yearn.

It then came across as a shock to me when I came to university and I found that going to a boy’s room means you have automatically agreed to sleep with him. i came to learn about this mentality in a very disturbing manner. Imagine that you are Chichi at uni in your second year, and you decide to join a certain club that is very much politically dominant at your school. I was actually enjoying the club activities as I was going there with my very lively friend whose social battery does not seem to run out.

It started as playful banter…….this high ranking boy was always following us, trying to woo Chichi….and at some point he even said,

”If me and Chichi aren’t dating by the end of this week then I’m not who I am,”

(obviously he said this in Shona) and being the blunt person that I am, I would tell him that I would never agree to his advances. The problem is that people think I joke when I say I hate men, and he was one of those people………so then we may blame him for being so delusional.

This boy took my number, I did not mind giving him my phone number because I knew I would not respond to him if he decided to text me. This boy did not text me, instead, he called me. And it was so weird that he always chose to call at 9pm, his choice of time was strategic because he knew it was just before curfew. And what was also peculiar was how he was always drunk at night, if I was into him I would have called this a red flag, but it actually became a point of banter whenever I ran into him.

He kept calling me on WhatsApp for three consecutive nights, asking me to come to his room or something along those lines, and I would always refuse. I don’t know what made me agree, maybe I was bored, or maybe I just trusted him blindly….. I also like taking walks at night on campus…. I used to be friends with an acquaintance of this guy and we would take walks and he never tried anything creepy, so I had told myself that he might be just as harmless……..I didn’t think that he would do anything because he had become more of a friend to me and my friend. He was drunk as always, asked me to accompany him to his room so that he could charge his phone and then he would accompany me back to my room before curfew. I knew it wouldn’t even take that much time to go to his room and come back to my hostel, so I agreed to go.

Everything was fine when we were going to his room, but one thing I noted about this boy was that he loved touching people, a pat on the back, rubbing your hand….it was always one thing or the other 😭my Lord it agitated me sooo much. I hate being touched by random people, there is only a small number of people who I give mental permission to touch me in any way, in Shona

“Handidi zvekugumhiwa”

So I noticed this small detail about this guy, he was always touching me and I was always telling him not to do that. Maybe he thought I was joking about my boundaries. Nevertheless, we walked to his room and he arrived and put his phone on the charger. Guys, the single rooms at rez are literally a fraction of a matchbox. His room was soooo tiny, I didn’t even bother to sit on his bed or chair, I didn’t even enter the room because because we had agreed that we’re going to charge his phone and leave. Guys!!!!!! Tell me why this boy was now saying telling me to feel free to sit. Then he started eating rice 😭to be honest, at this point I was just agitated and missing my blankets, I was trying as much as possible to stay calm.

Earlier, I mentioned that this guy had a high standing in our institution, so he explained that he’d been busy the whole day and just bought food but didn’t get a chance to eat it, so I actually understood this and decided to wait for him while he ate his cold rice. As soon as I decided to sit on his bed, this boy left his rice on the table and tried to come between my closed legs. Honestly I was very much pissed, but I was not shocked. I just told him not to embarrass himself, I wasn’t there for that. I even stood up and he blocked me and wrapped his hand around me in an attempt to hug me, I did not hug him back. At this point he was very agitated, he tried to gaslight me saying

“Unenge uchingobaka baka iwewe”

Which basically means you’re always acting up 😹This probably came from the fact that I had previously rejected him in public in front of my friend, and this time I was rejecting him in private, but the problem is that my voice has a very high pitch, so even his neighbors might have heard that there was a scuffle as I kept on telling him “Handisi kuda” meaning I am not interested. Even though he kept blocking my way, I managed to make it to the door, but he blocked the door and I had to wrestle my way out of his room. I am glad to have escaped this situation, even after he tried multiple persuasion techniques to make me stay. He even offered to sleep on the floor if I stayed for the night but I was not moved.

I did not take this situation seriously, but I later on realized that this was a serious case of attempted sexual assault because no really means no. Now, I am part of a certain club and I decided to ask the boys what it meant for a girl to agree to go to their rooms, and they all seemed to agree that a girl agreeing to visit automatically means she has agreed to sexual activities, and a girl saying no is just her way of playing hard to get, because culturally, a girl easily saying yes means she is loose.

This mentality almost got me raped, and even now I still don’t know if I was wrong in going to this boy’s room. Guys, to go is to see, that is all I can say at this point.

[Picture by Hessah Art]

As an African child, I was brought up with the idea that a proper person in society is someone with a job and a family. The ideal child would always mention a white collar job that they would want to do when they grew up. Everyone in our middle class societies wanted to be a lawyer, a doctor, a nurse or something along those lines. That was the conventional African dream. Our parents were working so hard to put us through primary school, high school university so we could be who we wanted to be. Not to mention that these schools were sooooo expensive especially those considered A class in Zimbabwe…..However, as I went through life, seeing stuff from different perspective, I have realized that we were being prepared for capitalism.

Hear me out……..after we finish university or whatever advanced studies we decide to do, we just get incorporated into the system, working a 9 to 5 for the next forty years, building a family and trying to work with a measly salary and climb the corporate ladder and then get a measly retirement package after those many years. This is from the perspective of the average Zimbabwean, because honestly speaking we can’t all be great or famous or whatever. The so called lucky ones are those who move out of the country and get incorporated into a more Western capitalist society, regardless, capitalism is capitalism.

Regardless, I have started asking myself……all this for what? I read and reflected upon the biblical book of Ecclesiastes and even a non Christian would agree with the person who wrote that book. All is vanity!! Regardless of how rich or how poor someone may have lived, from a materialistic point of view, honestly, in the end, everyone is the same…….It doesn’t matter if you got pregnant as a teenager, got pregnant in your twenties, or never got pregnant at all…….in the end we’re all devoid of life. Even those who fought for liberation and those they were fighting are all the same now, even though the need to eliminate human suffering at that time was an understandable need to fight…

Dan Brown writes a lot about the afterlife but one thing I have understood from his novels is that once a person dies, they won’t even know they’re dead. Life just goes on……regardless of whether one was a billionaire or a homeless beggar. But as humans we have sold to each other, or rather the idea has been passed down to us……that happiness is dependent on the amount of material wealth one has. I have always wondered why we can’t go back to how it was when wealth was equally distributed but that is a story for another day.

I continue to live miserably knowing that all I am working hard for is just so I can die in the end and go to an afterlife that possibly doesn’t even exist. I could have been happier had I not thought about this. Ignorance truly is bliss. And regardless, the pressure to be unforgettable pushes us to keep on working while being absorbed by a system that spits us out in the end.