A greeting for when you have parted briefly with someone, and you reunite. Pachipamwe, meaning, we meet again.

Friends, I was not on a break, or a sabbatical – I was just not writing. Writer’s block – quite common amongst writers. And my-oh-my, It feels so great to be back home!

Did you notice that the site name changed? Just rebranding a little bit. AllThingsEverything is an extension of Thoughts from a Distant Land – but more conversational and casual. The goal is to publish interesting and nourishing pieces, and to change the world one conversation at a time. Of course, it takes a village – so expect some amazing and insanely talented guest authors!

Here’s to 2023! (clink) Until then…

House-hunting  meets all the qualifications of being classified under extreme sports, apart from being a Zimbo of course. Here’s my ordeal ,  judge me not with harshness – I am not an original Hararean.

Stage 1 – Joining useless Facebook & WhatsApp pages/groups.

“Rooms to rent in Harare”…”Rooms and cottages : Your one-stop-shop”…”Landlords and tenants- No agents”, the list goes on. This is when your  contact list becomes flooded with agent numbers from the “No agents” page/group. By the way, 3/4 of those numbers don’t even work.

Stage 2 – Viewing

You’d think a picture of a house is just…a picture of a house. Not with an agent involved. You will only get to view the place, physically or through pictures, after paying an “agent fee” ranging somewhere in-between $20-$60 United flipping States dollars. The fee gets in effect upon the first view, then “expires” once you have found what you want. Hehe, should I go on?

Stage 3 – cheaters reloaded

Cheating doesn’t only happen between lovers. An agent can make you pay for a property that has already been paid for by someone else. But don’t worry, once you find out, they will get you something better or worse than the one you wanted. One of the agents I engaged actually received a call while we were coming from meeting the landlord, and he made the desperate lady pay over ecocash for the place I had already secured. It’s all  about the ching-ching.

Stage 4 – Bananas

This is when you realize you have spent all  your rent and grocery money on agent fees. Still nothing to show for it .

Stage 5 – The breakthrough

All of a sudden, something authentic comes up! The place ticks 3/4 or even all the boxes (talk about the distance to public transport if you are a  John Walker, the availability of water, ZESA and security). Congratulations – have fun paying your rentals and bills.

If you are carless like me, you’d understand how much of a hustle it has become to move from one point to another using public transport. First of all, lifts ain’t stopping for nobody because of COVID. The bus is even worse because it fills up so damn quick. And besides, the proximity situation on the queues is a no-no. Backs tightly knitted with fronts so that there is no space for vanopindira. Then you pass by the conductor who has absolutely no regard for personal space. The police stops you at every roadblock to check if you have travel permits, and that alone takes about 20 minutes.

One of these days, I came across a soldier who was eating some carrots by the roadblock. I didn’t know soldiers eat carrots – I always associated them with serious things like cement, bombs and bricks. He  looked so tired and burnt out . His friend – the traffic officer, stopped the car and asked  where we were all going. We were related, according to the driver, and we were going to a funeral. The problem came when he asked us where, and who had passed.

“Please forgive us. You know transport is a problem these days.”

“Horait! Kutonyepa henyu?”

The soldier came over to my window, leaned over with a smirk exposing all the particles  stuck in-between his teeth and asked, “Since when do beautiful girls like you lie, heh?”

You see, these guys feed on fear, so when they ask you a question you don’t  want to sound too clever or too dumb – find a balance between the two otherwise  you’ll sponsor their lunch. So I told him I’d need $20 for him to get my number. He asked if I had change for a $USD100 note, to which everyone in the car burst. That just angered him even more, then he asked me to step out of the car. “I will get you a ride, will stop a car for you, don’t even worry.” 

At this moment I was more than convinced he was just an idiot in a uniform, eating carrots whilst holding a gun on the other hand, wooing girls by promising them rides in other people’s cars.  I refused to step out. The poor driver had to pay twice the fine.  More carrots for the soldier, and so much for COVID.

 

( Disclaimer : I do not own the rights to the attached media.)

“I weighed the possibilities, anticipated the worst possible scenario, and prepared to scream as loud as possible.”

“Pss…Psss…Bhebhi.” I increase my pace and pretend as if i’m not listening.”We mean you!” I try to concentrate on the music but the bass is failing me. I’m immediately stopped by one of the guys who is now standing right in-font of me, in my face, extending  his hands and plucking out my earphones violently from my ears. “Handisi Kuenda…”, i say this with my voice shaking and my eyes almost watery. I’m angry, confused and scared.  There is a police station right behind the bus. But some of the touts are sharing lighter moments with the police over the girl who is being forced to get into the bus. “But…” before i finish my statement my handbag is pulled from behind. I look over my shoulder and i see three men behind me. One breathes down my neck and whispers ,”Get into the bus, girlie.” I follow the instruction.I am escorted by the  guy holding my earphones and the three strangers following closely behind me. My adrenaline shoots when a lady in the bus screams at me, “Imbavha! Pinda mubhazi vanokubira!” The grip on my bag is tightened from behind, and i feel my clothes being pulled by the other guy. I push forward and rush for my salvation. Panting and teary, i sink into the seat in the front row and thank the lady for coming to my rescue.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass by. I am still in shock. And remember the lady who just rescued me? Turns out she is the conductor of the bus. She carelessly chews gum as she scribbles on the receipts. Upon noticing my disappointment,  she avoids eye contact. After some time, duty calls. She rushes to the entrance of the bus to save more victims like myself. To tell them to rush into the bus lest they get robbed. It is a cycle. And i feel helpless just from watching through the window.

You are probably curious to know how i broke free, right? I’ll tell you how…

I weighed the possibilities, anticipated the worst possible scenario, and prepared to scream as loud as possible.I got my phone on standby for a voice note. A video could have been more ideal, but the phone could get easily snatched.

I meditated and asked God for strength. Courage. Balls. I did this as i slowly rose from the seat and walked towards the exit of the bus. “Unofunga urikuendepi?” One of the touts asked with a smirk on his face. Doubt and fear embraced me once again. “Handisi kuenda. Handitorina mari futi.” Time stood still. At this point i noticed how peaceful life was on the other side of the road, with people getting on with their lives. Back to reality. I was contained. Imprisoned. And i was once free just like the people on the other side of the road. I negotiated with one of the guys who agreed to walk me away from the bus. Another savior. And my salvation costed me two dollars.

Translation :

“Bhebhi“– Babe

“Handisi kuenda” – I’m not going

“Imbavha! Pinda mubhazi vanokubira! “- Thieves! Get into the bus, they’ll rob you!

“Unofunga urikuendepi?” – Where do you think you are going?

“Handisi kuenda. Handitorina mari futi.” – I’m not going. I don’t even have the money.

 

 

Disclaimer : Picture insert obtained from Newsday website.

I struggled putting this one together. I found myself caught in-between my personal experiences , beliefs, what i should and should not say, risking my reputation  and the feeling that i should probably just shut the hell up. So, sometime back i came across a video of the “Red Table Talk” by Jada Pinkett Smith, her mother – Adrienne Banfield-Norris and her (Jada’s) daughter – Willow Smith. Three generations of women – the grandma, mother and daughter talking about SEX by the Red Table. Quite interesting, right?

To start off with, the color of the table was striking – red. A symbol of sacredness, life,blood. Red is bold, daring, sexy and these are some of the things that are demonized by society, for example, growing up i was not allowed to wear red nail polish or red lipstick because it was said to be meant for “prostitutes”. Something that i had to unlearn at a later stage in life, and today i wear my lipstick as red as can be. Still on red, i remember being told never to wear red clothes during heavy rains because red attracts lightning. I know there are many other meanings , but for now i will try and stick to the context of sex talk within our families.

Facts on the table – sex is happening  amongst young people. We just do not talk about it because we are taught from an early age that it is a taboo subject. Around 10-11, that is when sex is introduced in a very hidden manner by our aunts and other figures who tell us to start pulling our labias for reasons unexplained. “Without those you will never get married. But if you do get married, you will be sent back home.” Believe me, i was frightened by the idea of being sent back. Days, weeks, months and years passed by before i got to know the real reason why i was told to “pull”. Uncle Google was not yet around those days, and today we can’t deny the impact that globalization has had on sex and young people. Children as young as 3 are exposed to sex through the media. In this global village,  a password can only do much to “bar” a young person from bumping into the birds and the bees. Those things will always pop up  unexpectedly on the corner of the screen.

I do not know how far true this is, but it is a widespread belief that discussing sex with young people will only encourage them to indulge. Maybe that is why sex is “officially” introduced to girls at  kitchen parties. For boys, oh well, it’s a totally different issue.Their masculinity is measured by the number of girls they “deflowered”. Most families  shy away from having sex talks with young people .That contributes to why young people end up acquiring wrong information and become silent about issues of rape and sexual assault. Maybe that is why today we even have higher rates of teenage, unwanted and unplanned pregnancies that are consequential to young people. Maybe that is why young people lack the power and courage to say no, to give consent and to make informed decisions on issues affecting their bodies. Our families are primary agents of socialization, and it is time we at-least have discussions around sex education with young people. That’s just my two cents.

 

Oh! You might want to watch this video 😉

Disclaimer :I do not own the rights to the video and picture insert.

 

“It is taboo in my African culture to question a relative whom they are or where they are from.”

We had finished saying our evening prayers and were about to call it a day when the phone rang. It was an unknown number, unknown voice too.My mother felt a bit apologetic for not remembering her.I had never heard of her. Apparently her bus to town had broken down just close to our house and, together with the other passengers, she was stranded.It took about a minute for her to explain whom she really was. None of us really understood, but my poor mother could not further question how exactly we were related because that would seem rude. “I am not sleeping in, just send the food to the bus stop. I am wearing a green jersey and a black skirt.” Then the call ended. Wait a minute…”the food”?There wasn’t any. “The food” made it sound like all we had to do was heat it up, yet in actual fact we had to prepare it from scratch! 

Doing the things that make the pots to be done…

‘The eye’ gave my sister and i the signal to get up from the sofas and rush to the kitchen.The feeling of having to start dealing with the pots at midnight was almost similar to that of hearing your name being called soon after closing the toilet door. Having to change from our pyjamas and having to boil water for sadza from a pot was just exasperating. Worse still, our stove had been acting up for quite sometime. And just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse – BAM! Power cut! So guess what, we had to go and light a fire outside, at midnight. All this couldn’t have happened if we had just gone to sleep before the phone call (face palm!).

The long walk…

Lol. Ever watched “Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom”? Ours was a long walk to go and deliver sadza at midnight. Fuming and growling, we left the house. Once the bus got in sight, we saw a lady standing outside. She had a green jersey and a black skirt. “Makadii? Ndimi?”, my sister took the initiative. “Vana VaSonile!”, she said with a wide smile.The greetings went pretty well, but every now and then her eyes wondered to the basin full of fresh vegetables, sadza and scrambled eggs. I could not tell whether it was guilt or shame that was written in her eyes. What if the bus had not broken down? What if the takeaway shops were still open? None of that really mattered any more. 

They ate ate hungrily!

She shared the food with her friend whom she had made  along the way.They washed their hands, handed back the empty basin and instructed us to run back home as fast as we could. There was no thank you. It could have been nice to get a thank you.I mean, we had sacrificed our sleep for crying out loud! Do you even know how many time we had to blow wind into the stubborn midnight fire for this meal to be possible? We fumed as we walked from the bus.Some seconds later, the bus disappeared into the thick darkness. 

We never heard from her again. Karl Max wasn’t so wrong after all! 

 

I could not believe it!I tried convincing myself that I had probably scratched myself unknowingly whilst playing with my friend next door. But no! There was no pain whatsoever! The blood was there. On my panties. I did not have to look twice. I was paying next door when I rushed to the toilet after I had  felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar trickling. I was so miserable.

What now?

I did not know what do do or whom to tell.Worst nightmares confirmed. We had covered the topic in science, and our teacher at the sewing club had tried in vain to open up the dialogue in one sewing session. Her opening statement, “Is there anyone In this room whose blood dribbles on a monthly basis like mine?”, marked the end of the discussion. Talk about awkwardness. My mother had also tried to tell me about menstruation, but the language was too metaphoric for me to understand. She had a friend from my school who was also a teacher. The late Mrs Philime would hunt for me every now and then to try and tell me about menstruation.Still, all these conversations were awkward for me! I mean, I was not even comfortable in my own body – I had started developing hips, my butt all of a sudden started growing bigger and not to mention my breasts. I became very conscious of how I looked, and I became more worried about how my body would jiggle every-time I walked. A double-knitted jersey became a permanent feature of mine, and the periods made life more miserable for me. I had no idea where the blood was coming from, and for how long it would be coming out.

 

“ It should never fall…”

I remember my mother ululating as she called my sister to come and hear the news.  “Mwana akura!” ( the child has grown!).We went to our bedroom, and as my sister rolled a ball of cotton wool for me, she desperately emphasized that “ it should never fall.” What would my brothers say if it did? And what would my schoolmates say if I dropped it on my way to the board to solve a mathematics problem? I’d be a disgrace, so I guarded my cotton wool with all my strength. I felt more like a sin than a disgrace. I stopped playing ball during break-time. Walking to the board became scary. The worst was having to walk into a shop and ask for a packet of pads.They would know that I was having my periods.

An unusual item on the grocery list

We stayed 60km from town, and less than 1km from our shops. I could not bear the shame of having to ask the shopkeeper for a packet of pads, so I decided to add my sanitary wear to my mother’s grocery list! This came as a surprise to my brothers. One day my mother came back from town and rushed to answer the phone before we could unpack the groceries. My brother came holding the packet and asked what it was. “Those are face wipes for Vimbi’s face.” I grabbed the packet and retreated to the back of the house.

Let’s have the bloody conversation!

When a subject is not often discussed about, there are higher risks of the development of discriminating myths. Very often menstruation is a subject that family members and communities shy away from discussing. And this has given birth to dangerous myths such as the ones below :

• Menstruation is dirty
• Menstruation is a curse
• Menstruation is a sign that one is ready for marriage
• Menstruation only affects women

Menstruation is a totally natural phenomena whereby the lining of the uterus sheds. It prepares the body for reproduction, and this does not justify the marrying off of young girls in the name of culture. If menstruation only affects women, then why is it that most industries that manufacture sanitary wear are predominantly run by men? Demystifying menstruation is a key step in the attainment of women’s sexual and reproductive health. Access to information about what menstruation is, the changes that happen to the body, and also decent and affordable sanitary wear is just but what every young girl and woman deserves.Now is the time to start having the dreaded conversations around menstruation!

 

 

We all have a strange connection to you,

Yet we’d  be lying if we said you are attractive.

Misleadingly shiny when new,

Rusty when  old,

Yet invisible throughout.

With or without permission,

You roll and wrap yourself around innocent beings

Leaving no space for movement.

You chase away the light and make the eyes loose sight,

Hands tremble as they try to fight,

But how can we fight that which the light has not made bright?

You have  left us wounded.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ever tried holding on to a thought,

Then you feel it slip into a place unknown?

Hiding Or hibernating, who knows.

Then your lips stammer as you feel betrayed.

“I know what I wanted to say, but it slipped! ”

You are pardoned.

But you never rest.

Digging deeper and looking for clues to retrieve the hidden.

Going back in denial that the battle is over.

You close your eyes so hard it hurts,

And feel the rush in your heart.

Nothing comes back still!

Stubborn! Stubborn thoughts!

I give up.

Back to reality…What were we talking about?

Now that I have embraced defeat.

And the clock has ticked.

I care less about that which grew wings and flew!

Gracefully floating in the skies of my mind.

Freedom is a virtue anyway

Until the lost thoughts boomerang back to life.

Good for you if destiny gives you the second chance.

Still be content if not,

Because recollecting lost time can be a pain.

 

Stories. I love stories, especially when they are being told in a way that doesn’t make me end up dozing or wishing the end would soon come. Only the heavens know how many folk-tales I have listened to ever since I was growing up. Good stories just didn’t come in a snap, I had to work for them. Id spend minutes trying to convince my grandmother to tell a story. It’s like she knew how desperate I was, and she used that to her advantage. She would give me some small tasks to complete before telling me anything.

There was no Medusa, or Pandora, or Zeus, unicorns or trolls in the folk-tales we were told. We never heard about Harry Potter or Snow White or The Beauty the Beast until recently. Stories were used to get through some moral messages, and animals we could easily relate to were used as main characters in the stories.

There was no Medusa, or Pandora, or Zeus, unicorns or trolls in the folk-tales we were told. We never heard about Harry Potter or Snow White or The Beauty the Beast until recently. Stories were used to get through some moral messages, and animals we could easily relate to were used as main characters in the stories.

The Hare and the Baboon:  Better known as Tsuro naGudo respectively in my language. Everyone knew about those two. You had to know them. Tsuro was always the protagonist, clever and in many cases managed to make a fool out of the baboon. So, after completing some small tasks, we would all gather around the fire, my brothers and I, and warm our little hands as we awaited to hear the magical phrase…Once upon A time!  For some reason I felt like my grandmother had talked to the two animals in person because she always added a personal touch in the way she narrated the stories. She made the stories sound so real. Tales were told over and over again, but every time with a renewed touch. A few new details added for convenience if one of us was fidgeting… “And then the rest of the animals decided to slay the naughty monkey’s mouth because he did not listen to his elders when they spoke!”  I tried to be as still as possible, but for those whose sugar levels were not affected by the hidden threat, the cooking stick, the sweeping broom and the fire sticks were always close to Granny’s reach.  I loved when we got to the singing parts of folk-tales because everyone seemed to cooperate.

My mother was also good at telling us stories, only that the setting was different and a bit disruptive. Sofas, a black and white television and “important” phone calls phones that gradually interrupted. I enjoyed both settings, but my Grandmother’s kitchen was always the best. The round hut itself told a beautiful story. Old steel plates rested against the walls of the handmade cupboard whose colour resembled that of the smoke that rose against the thatched roof. In the corner lay a blue big tin covered with an oversized rusty lid from which we got scoops of yummy peanut butter. The small triangular windows did not serve any other purpose but display because the smoke always won and barely left any air for us to breathe. This was followed by hysterically ridiculous coughs then drops drizzling carelessly from our little eyes. I miss those times.

With age came the assumption that I had outgrown folk-tales, but deep inside I know I’m still craving more. Storytelling was passed down from generation to generation; Great grandmother, Grandmother then mother. I was at the receiving end, and I patiently await the day when I shall gather young souls around the fire with my eyes glimmering with wisdom and utter the words, “Once upon a time…”