Dear Women: Patriarchy Not Men!

 

Dear women

I write to you to honour the promise I made to men sometime in March. In what was one of my earliest blog post, I wrote a letter to men to commemorate Women's Day. I asked them to choose to challenge the system that keeps haunting us as sisters, as women living in the shadow of patriarchy. I pleaded with them to take bold steps and help us fight for our recognition as being human not just women. I promised them that I will definitely address them as subjects in my letters addressed to women. Now the time for that has come and I write to you ladies, hoping to address the plight of our fellow brothers.

I write this two days after International Men's Day. Sadly, I have also noticed (I'm sure that you have noticed too) that it is not as widely celebrated as Women's Day is celebrated, but we are not about to get into that. On November 19 every year, this day is celebrated for many different reasons that have to do with men, the major one being to celebrate the contributions and achievements of all men in society. It is the day that as society we should come together and honour the positive contributions that men make to society.

Now, I know some of us might be far gone into this feminism thing that it almost borders on the edges of misandry. So you have all these questions, have men ever done anything positive? Are they even worth celebrating? Are they not the ones responsible for creating this monster we call patriarchy? I get it, I really do. As women we have suffered oppression chained to the rotating wheels of patriarchy and naturally, maybe unfortunately, have blamed men for it. Not to exonerate them completely, but society birthed patriarchy, not men. Men and women breathed life into this patriarchy thing, men claiming dominance and women accepting docility, submitting to what was subjugation and oppression dressed in fancy names like respect and honor. All I am saying is that before we entirely put the blame on men, remember patriarchy is society's baby, and you do not need a Harvard certificate to know that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby.

This year's theme for International Men's Day is Better Relations Between Men and Women. You would think that as humans born of men and women getting together, this would come naturally. You would think the mere fact that nature saw it fit to unite a man and a woman in bringing life would make us equals. The  sacred ties between brothers and sisters sharing a life together, the love that comes with friendships between males and females and definitely the meeting of souls between a man and a woman vowing to spend eternity together, you would think all these ensure that there are better relations between men and women. We have more than enough avenues to stand together as one, celebrating each other's light and living together in harmony. But unfortunately, as the most advanced society, we are far from that.

Dear women, is there anything more fundamental to our collective well being rather than better relationships between men and women? I do not think so. But a closer look at the state of things, relations between men and women are far from healthy. They are still strained, marked by hypocrisy, unhealthy competitions, mistrust, concealed hatred and an urge to hurt each other to prove either that society is right or society is wrong.  The relations between men and women are still under the influence of societal and cultural conditioning, where one sex still believes they are much better than the other resulting in the monster called toxic masculinity and the other sex doing anything to fight that but instead of fighting the toxicity they fight everything associated with it, resulting in the emasculation of men. Masculinity in its true form does not oppress and ought to be celebrated, but well, we fight more than just evils disguising themselves as masculinity, we are fighting masculinity itself rather than cherishing it.

I understand your anger my sisters, even though it  seems misplaced. Each day, horrific stories are told of the predation of women at the hands of men and not just any men, men in their lives, from fathers killing their wives, to brothers stabbing their sisters, male bosses forcing themselves on their female colleagues, uncles molesting their own nieces. We heard millions of voices, female voices rise to tell horrific tales of abuse in the """"$%^^&MeToo movement and as such it would seem our anger as women is justified and almost natural and we have no reason to celebrate men at all. These negative feelings thus become almost natural and can even seem to be unavoidable, as women we have been hurt but hating each other is not the solution.

As women, as society, we will not be able to move forward and call out patriarchy for what it is if we are to treat men as adversaries rather than allies. It takes both men and women to slaughter the monster, our femininity and masculinity complementing each other. It takes both men and women to eliminate bias in the workplace. It takes both females and males to tread a path towards real equality and harmony.

As women, we need to embrace unique male strengths and treat men as individuals. 

As women, we should always remember there is beauty in being either a man or a woman and men and women are not interchangeable and maybe that is a good thing.

As women, we should fight for change but still get to celebrate progress.

Let us not constantly bludgeon men with examples of what not to do, let us take their hands and show them how to do it better.

Again, without losing the sense of urgency that is needed to address gender disparities, let us not lose sight of good men, hear their stories and continue to celebrate them.

Let not our anger lead to a backlash among men who will withdraw as a defense mechanism rather engage to grow and change.

Dear women, let us value manhood as we value womanhood so as to help make practical improvements for positive relationships between men and women. 

Let us keep fighting for a better world.

Happy International Men's Day!

Yours sincerely in the fight for gender equality

Mitchel (a woman).

NOT AN ENTREPRENEUR?

 Reporting live from the unemployment office!

 I do not believe in hell. I believe in unemployment, but not hell- Dustin Hoffman. I have no idea what he means, but in my books unemployment is hell and hell is unemployment.

I have always wondered how it felt like to wake up everyday, make the bed and have to face the reality that you are stuck at home for the rest of the day because you do not have school to attend or even a job to report to. I have sometimes complained of long working days when I would start work at 0800hrs and end the day at 2000hrs. I have cried over the fact that I would work six days a week and get only Saturday off which had to be dedicated to laundry, to grooming, church, family, friends, men, sleep.  I have made fun of the peanuts I would get at the end of the month and I have certainly splashed some money on unnecessary items in the stupid name of living only once. I have also woken up my whining sister in the dead of the night to massage my feet and back after a long day of work, I also have escaped dish washing duty because I actually had a few dollars to have my brother do it. I have balanced school and work like a pro because I had to.

But now, I cannot do all this because my reality is that I am on a proper holiday where I do not have to attend online lectures or submit assignments or take care of the kids and I do not have a job. At first I romanticized this, it really was easy after that one hectic exam week in October which I am still convinced was a death trap. I explained it away as taking a well deserved rest, so I embraced the early nights and late mornings, enjoyed catching up on some favourite shows, solo dates in bookshops in search of old favourites and new discoveries and men in spectacles, laughed like a kid on dates with my favourite human, basked in the joy of writing new poetry and got lost in Brett Young songs and fantasised about visiting Mykonos which is not going to be anytime soon from the look of things. 

Evaluation of first week in the unemployment office: I love it here! I could do this everyday if I have an obese bank balance to fund it.

Then week two had its turn to show me around the hidden compartments in the unemployment office. Suddenly Sunday was a lot like Monday, Tuesday and Saturday were twins. Everything was now just monotonous, something I have been running away from my whole life. And the dishes had to be done too. My head, a mess. And now I would actually feel the first stings of unemployment when I had to ask my mom for money to do my hair and had to nag my Dad for airtime of all things. I felt my independence slide away like it was escaping a poverty infested being and dependence perch itself on shoulders too tired to try and shrug it away. A whole nightmare! So the week ends with an email marathon, an overflow of LinkedIn job notifications, dropping CVs in almost every little corner with a door and a desk. I swear this week alone, I have gained secretariat expertise I am ready to attend to the President's emails.

Evaluation of second week in the unemployment office: Aaaagh !! I hate it here but hey you, there's light at the end of every dark tunnel.

Then third week, well am I not chest deep in this water? Wait; it is tears! You know those tears I once cried for that stupid man, I want them back because I am running out of tears for these painfully polite rejection emails and for the calls which start with an "unfortunately ma'am". Now I have to face the reality that I might spend the holiday without a job which means more than just not having money. I kiss independence goodbye and hope I get the hang on this whole dependence thing. Also, where do they sell marriage at low prices, Shoprite?

Evaluation of  week three: I AM DONE! I AM DEAD! HOW AM I EVEN HERE? JOHN GRISHAM, WHO IS THAT?

Well, there you have it, my first three weeks of unemployment and I have always had a vacation job since 2018. Thing is my life has been simply school and then a holiday which meant finding a job and making my own money so I can take care of my other needs without my parents having to bear the burden of taking care of me. Unemployment comes with a lot of frustrations and overthinking, escapism which sometimes is through the most dangerous tunnels, depression and a whole lot of suppressed feelings which are even hard to identify.

Then there is the entrepreneurship advise which I am sure everyone has had it given it to them without asking. trust me, I have nothing against entrepreneurship, I believe in it, have tried it on countless occasions, will be my go to plan when push comes to shove. I believe in entrepreneurship and its ability to turning around the plight of unemployed youths. I believe in its ability to answer the unemployment question and resuscitate Africa's economic potential. But I hate that have you tried selling this, start something of your own, be your own boss kind of advice. It really feels like rubbing salt to the economic-coated wounds.

However, if entrepreneurship is really the answer, what about the existing frameworks? Can they sustain entrepreneurship? I do not think so.

Firstly, there is no doubt that Africa is the world's youngest population with more than half its over 1 billion population being under the age of 25. As such the future of the continent's economies rests upon the shoulders of the youth. My Zimbabwean experience is that many young people are willing to venture into this entrepreneurship field, even forced into it by this unemployment situation. Youths are all over the place selling stuff, WhatsApp is one big mall where you get clothes from Zambia, Avon cosmetics, eggs from Gutu, grain from Dotito wherever that is, gadgets from China, you name it. Everyone is selling something we might as well be on our way back to barter trading sooner than we predicted. Truth is entrepreneurship at this point feels like a convenient solution to job creation and providing a better shot at a secure shot to Africa's young people. 

But not everyone is an entrepreneur and it is cruel that people are forced to seek survival in areas they do not stand a chance to make it. Majority of people are not looking to be entrepreneurs because it is not something you just wake up and decide to do, it requires skill, tact, market and even worse, it requires money. Majority of people are actually looking for jobs rather than entrepreneurial break through. So yes, we need entrepreneurs but not everyone is an entrepreneur and I have always found it disturbing that the situation is so bad to the extent that if you are not trying to make money the entrepreneurial way, you are labelled as lazy and deserving of the money drought and the fruitless job hunting.

Besides, how supportive is Africa's or even closer home, Zimbabwe's environment to entrepreneurial quests? Zimbabwe's economy is very hostile for most entrepreneurs, talk of limited infrastructure, transportation huddles, capital financing or even basic things such as communication what with data prices escalating like inflation rates nowadays. Huddles exist even in less tangible things such as legal frameworks and competitiveness. We can not even start with politics what with incumbent presidents thrice the age of average young people. The future of Africa's young population is left in the incapable hands of old men who are tasked with driving the youth agenda which they do not even understand because of the generational gap. See the problem of such governance is that it would limit entrepreneurship to buying and selling while neglecting the most fundamental things such as reviving manufacturing, in creating ease of passage into not only accessing funds for cash-flow but accessing raw materials which are very essential. The fact that the country does not have a currency of its own and relies on multiple currencies is in itself a barrier to entrepreneurship. Hyper inflation, absence of proper regulations, standard policies and laws regarding business ethics are just but a few challenges to entrepreneurship in Zimbabwe and these are things that young people cannot control.

So it really is painful to watch everyone try and be an entrepreneur in a quest for survival. How  we have glorified it as the one size fits all answer. Being an entrepreneur is more than just coming up with a business idea. There is nothing shameful about helping others build their dreams. Some people are meant to be  builders and others supporters or followers. It really is like some people being meant to be mothers while others really do not have that maternal instinct to become mothers. 

There are certainly other ways to make your mark in the world so do not beat yourself up for not possessing entrepreneurial prowess. 

We can not all be entrepreneurs!

Till next time

-Mitchel

SMART ADULTING: ADULTING WITHOUT BEING ADULT.

Hey, lovelies.

I've been trying to figure out this life thing  and I still do not have any solutions to living, just clues. By the way these clues are just as cryptic as life itself, so here's to attempting how to break adult puzzles and living life on the edge and pursuing things that really matter.

From falling off an orange tree swing in the dark to missing two weeks of school having a nasty cut whose badge I still carry on my left foot today. From sitting an almost perfect one-eighty degrees which in some private school would have meant I could join the cheerleading squad and learn to tie a perfect ponytail( Lord knows I need to learn this), to joining the drum majorettes at nine, I was pretty much a very flexible kid. And so was any other kid in primary school.

But physical flexibility was not the only kind of flexible which ruled our young lives. Our flexibility was proven by our life choices, from liking pink to adoring blue, loving dogs to licking cats, graduating from swings to bikes, we even changed best friends on a weekly basis. That is how flexible childhood was, nothing was ever constant. Life was never punctuated by patience or endurance. We never had to sit down and think things out. The beauty of life was highlighted by impulsiveness of childhood, by the innocence of choosing not to know and by refusal to acknowledge that there were consequences for every little decision we made, innocently or calculatingly. Result: we were blind and happy and were immune to life’s strong blows.

Unfortunately one cannot relive their childhood, even Biblical Nicodemus understood that one can never be born again, which kind of sucks. But one good thing about knowing what childhood felt like is knowing exactly how you navigated it and made it out a happy child so why not use the same principles to be the happy adult you wish you could be? Ever heard of he is sixty-four but with the soul of a sixteen year old or its only plenty years but a younger soul?  If you did, congratulations, you just deciphered this whole article. I do not really care about anything else, only that as the bones grow weary and the wrinkles set in, may the spirit grow even younger. 

A look back at years after childhood, I honestly tried my best to be the adult I was supposed to be. I had to, my teens were filled with lots of responsibility, more than those of my peers that is. I usually am the last person to complain of life’s blows but the teens were just a phase I would not want to revisit and now that I am a bit older and a little bit wiser I came up with the conclusion that while things were not really as bad as I imagined them to be, the fact that I had to be an adult and think like an adult and let me tell you what, even things that were not in the least bit difficult were like gigantic monsters and I was constantly plagued with thoughts of failure, with fear, death. It was so bad at some point I even attempted suicide which I was not prepared to do and it went awfully wrong and would make a good book someday. All because I decided to adult my way through life.

Just do the adulting thing without actually being an adult!

Back to flexibility which is quite a prominent feature in childhood. It would take you far even in the adulting game but with a little bit of adult adjustments. Ladies and gentlemen, I am talking of mental flexibility. Of course I am aware of the beauty of fixed life choices, well thought future plans, rigid life maps. I get it, it gives a picture of a well organised adult who plans their life in advance and goes about in life following their adult-made path and ticking off boxes and nothing looks more like winning as this does. But a fixed life does not seem like too much fun for me because I know very well it is not. While back in primary school I would write a different profession every time we wrote the famous What I Want to do When I Grow Up, ranging from being a teacher or nurse then graduating to wanting to be an architect after reading Growth and wanting to be an air hostess after watching that Indian movie with the heroic flight attendant who saved people amidst a hijacking. But something changed, which everyone would say is merely growing up. I grew up to want to be a doctor and I am pretty sure that is the path my parents really wanted me to take because they really did a great job hammering it into my mind that I should never drop Chemistry and pay a little bit more attention to my Physics teacher and my mom personally gave me extra Biology lessons. Even back in childhood, my mom really bought me a medical kit complete with a stethoscope and scrubs and she would play patient while in my Red Cross apron and gloves I would be the doctor which I did not really mind as a child. Then adulting came along and doctoring was supposed to be my fixed path, with my teachers even helping make that a reality. I could not bear it but I thought it was my destiny so I followed the path.

But what is related to mental flexibility is divergence. You can agree with me that diverting a child’s attention is the easiest thing to do. Even in the middle of something serious, it takes a very trivial thing to turn their whole focus away which kind of explains why pregnant women act in some certain universal, uniform way. Like a kid going through an adulting phase, my path to being a doctor was diverted which is one good thing about reading and crushing. So I read about this guy Admire in a newspaper about some STEM stuff and that meant he was quite a smart student with the obvious sad story. Today I would also mean it with my heart when I say DO NOT FALL FOR A MAN IN DISTRESS like they say do not fall for a damsel in distress, it almost made me an accountant. What began as a joke turned into a whole big thing which made me take accounts seriously and attend after school Business Studies lessons. The Admire story is a crazy one, I mentioned a newspaper right and in that newspaper like God’s blessings was Admire’s contacts obviously for well-wishers who wanted to help. And because he was cute, looked like he had a nice diluted English accent and had brains which back then before going to law school I thought was quite rare, fifteen year old me went crazy, really crazy I wrote Shades of Love a novella based on fantasies of me and Admire which is embarrassing because I did not even know him. My friends and I after reading that newspaper took his number and truth is it was kind of a funny thing to do, we wanted to see who would text him first which was very unfair given that they knew very well they were dealing with a very impulsive person so all the odds were stacked against me and two weeks later, I did the very thing I was not supposed to. I texted Admire, OMG!!! I literally went like I read about you Admire, are you okay? In my defence and in all fairness I was really concerned it was not a mere pick-up line just that there was some complimentary infatuation. I do not want to believe I really did that but then this is me we are talking about, I am known to dive into things without giving it second thoughts. To cut the story short, Admire was really nice and soon we were vibing and I discovered Chartered Accounting because the one man I was crushing on was doing it so well, representing it well and living his best life and so I was swayed and I started planning my life based on accounting. I wanted it so bad all I would read of was ACCA and search accounting firms and look up salaries, I even started getting along with my accounts teacher whom I thought was boring at first. That was the first diversion, but like all diversions, it was also short-lived. I really hate figures, I am not even good at them but I had thought I wanted it so bad I could not see myself doing anything else.

Then along came another diversion, a real one this time which was not influenced by things as trivial as men. My aunt borrowed me a Stanley Pottinger book she was reading, The Fourth Procedure which marked my inauguration into the most amazing community I know, the world of law. It was like clicking souls, you know like that Biology principle, the lock and key hypotheses. Victoria was one boss babe, fighting for causes she believed in, doing to judges what they did not see coming. I could almost imagine her coming alive from the pages and all I saw was me, fighting for women, holding leaders accountable, standing for what is right, championing for human rights, I was awed. I wanted to be Victoria, I saw myself in a new light, a light that was Victoria and I accepted that this was what I really wanted and like Victoria I had to fight for it. My parents were worried when I enrolled for Arts because they thought I was narrowly confining myself to law and did not have favourable second options like I would have had if I did sciences. My teachers also made a big deal out of it, but I was a kid who had found a purpose, I could not be swayed. It did not help that Victoria’s fictional husband was one hot congressman and petty me thought she got him only because she was a lawyer. What that says about me I do not know, I know I still crush on men in suits, a Paco Rabanne scent and with brains and are drawn towards the dirty world of power. Do not judge me!

Later on I would read the Pelican Brief and I was convinced law school would be the most amazing thing.  Now that my life is steered towards being a Victoria, I am grateful of the mental flexibility that allowed me to not stick to already set straight lanes. The moment I chose to live my life like a kid, taking on big decisions without second thoughts, I knew had found wings that finally fit me perfectly. Through impulsively taking on what I would normally not have if I thought hard about it, I would not have known some of the most amazing people I know, would not have learnt stuff I know now, would not have known of new worlds, I would not even have discovered things I love doing now like writing. Rebelling against the order of societal norms, of expectations and beliefs is not only brave, it is a beautiful continuation of the creation and discovery process and every day as we shed our old selves and discard old mind-sets we create new bigger and better worlds we would not have known if we accepted things as they were and did not embrace the idea of change, if we did not choose to take different paths. Allowing one to lose a rigid, fixed mind helps widen opportunities and diversify explorations and accounts for happy souls. 

We might have a single life, but nothing can stop us from living multiple times.

So like a child, make that impulsive decision, take that different route, do not overthink your choices, forget consequences, be reckless as you are flexible, be careless as you live, welcome the scars of consequence, embrace the moment, and watch yourself  conquer your fears and ultimately, the world.

Till next time

Mitchel.

Temples We Know Nothing Of!

You have hid so much of yourself from everyone else because you strongly advocate for realism. If they gonna be nice, at least it's genuine not because they feel sorry, if they are laughing, at least it's genuine cos' they do not do it to try and heal your depression. 

Hey! You chose to hide from yourself so that you do not have to face this reality that says you are human, you got no super power, you got problems like everyone else but maybe you are a little different cos' they have got no solution. So you say the mind like everything else can be programmed to be what you want it to be, so you choose a super power, strength, they will know you as the Strong one. You are unfazed, you got everything under control. You're not a weakling, you do not cry. 

Uuum! Wait a minute. Is that why you say the duck is your spirit animal, I mean bird or whatever spirit it is? Because ducks look so smooth and unruffled on the  top yet inside, within themselves they are paddling furiously just to make it to where the reeds are? Wow! Clever. 

And now that you do not know yourself anymore, you love strangers because somehow with them, you are a whole new person, dressed for that day, ready with a new personality and a different tale of who you are. Sigh! You feel a rebirth, a renewal of a soul you could have been if you had not chosen the closet but then forever is a scam, so are strangers. Soon they become common people who pry too much, who feel that you have let them know so much about themselves and reciprocation is what every soul craves so again, you run. What do they call it, ghosting or you block or you are just going to act like you do not know them. Crazy huh? 

But they choose to see it as cruelty which is so harsh a judgement because all you are trying to do is hold your  pieces together, so your hands are full you need nobody to hold hands with.

 Then comes the battle you never win, never tried to win. The body craves bodies so your mind wrestles your body telling you are a temple but you know you're not a temple because somehow, your flesh already knows more than a temple knows. And it is so unfair that they have to call you a temple because where a temple is a house of peace and healing, your body is loud, these thoughts wrestle each other, and how does it heal when everyday you cover up scars with fresh scars. So No! You are not a temple, but again you're not filthy. You are just that house by the highway, nice, lone and deserted with only echoes of past inhabitants to show that at least the whole structure is not yet down.

Then comes the occasional need to be convinced that someone out there wants you, that you are like everyone else, human. So you feed your insecurities with one night stands, you hook up with people you barely know because deep down you trying to convince yourself that you might not be worth anything at all, but you are capable of giving something, pleasure. So you give it, and you carry the guilt and shame and hide it where you hid the rest of you, in exchange for the glow and knowing you are capable of something you can give a name, something someone can confirm.

 And you smile when you are reminded of them telling you you are good for nothing and at nothing, they were so wrong about you. And you carry your dignity on your shoulders because what they do not know will not kill them. And so when the world tells you that doing such is cheap, when they think they can term you loose,  you do not fight because for you it's fulfilling, it's healing and at least it comes with no expectations, you already have a lot of those. That sucks! 

And now, when someone says they love you, you pick a fight and tell them they are dumb or their nose is a bit off the contour line or they are light skinned. Because broken, you cannot be loved and it is only a matter of time before they choose something whole, new and shiny and you like the broken toy you are, discarded, waiting for the next scavenger to pick you up, and if edible enough, the vultures will feast on what's remaining of you. Because you know love is beautiful but not for everyone and you, you have never had it so what is the point of adding heartbreak to your already full baggage bag? 

So when you hear that it requires commitment you ask what commitment is because you have never committed to anything not even yourself. And when they say it requires reciprocation you do so much of it that you reciprocate even the worst, like if they cheat you don't trust yourself not to, if they buy you a car you most probably gonna rob a bank to buy them a plane. It's simple really, you love more where you do not even have to and you give so much of yourself where you are only given some shoulder. So you avoid that by all costs.And when they say you should talk of yourself more, be open, tell them of the good and the bad but you know they can not handle you so you rather not get close than suffer rejection. And talk of vulnerability, did you not just say you are strong so anything that jeopardises that title is dangerous so you run before missiles are shot.

And so you wish everyone knows being happy is a state of mind and a state of mind is relative. You're happy watching everyone else happy, you're happy making sure everyone has what they want, so you fight their wars, feed them, tell them you love them even when you do not really mean it. So you vicariously live through them, their happiness yours, when they glow, you glow because maybe somehow this is the temple you are, you serve happiness despite your broken springs.You are at peace with who you are.

We are all temples!

Do Not Let Yourself Go!

I actually can't believe that I'm really doing this again. I had convinced myself that I'm quite okay with never being able to write ever again for the rest of my life. It was hard but  it comes with acceptance and this was me accepting that I just could not do it anymore, no matter how hard I tried. I had let myself go and was quite fine with it. All the time I would tell myself that it is an okay thing to accept defeat, and I would comfort myself by telling myself that I was never good anyway, I wasn't getting money from it, I did it because I liked it back then and that is no longer the case. I had all these excuses which made it easier for me to just call it quits and I really thought I was ok but no I was not. 

I missed this, the squeals of the pen whenever it hits paper, the tud of my thumbs on the keyboard, I missed watching these letters get mixed up to form a comprehensive sentence, a paragraph, story, poem. I missed the magic that writing does to my soul, calming, soothing, comforting, controlling, you name it. I missed offloading my nagging thoughts, asking questions, educating, discovering, communicating. All I'm sure of now is the fact that if I ever think I cannot write ever again for the rest of my life, I would most probably kill myself with a pen and ask to be wrapped in paper before you bury me, just kidding.

See the thing with writing is simple for me. I write to control myself. And in the past weeks I had no control at all and ended up contemplating doing the worst things ever. So after a hell of a month, scary weeks, dark days, I feel like myself again. Normally I would not be sharing this with anyone but I feel that maybe somehow in its weird ways this could help someone a bit. 

The past months have been really draining for me. It all started as just an emotional roller coaster. I have always prided myself in being able to control my emotions, an advocate of do not let your problems ruin you, you're strong, you can handle anything. But now I was absolutely not in control and the fact that I had school, exams and projects I was working on did not help me at all. I had a lot of stuff that had to be done, deadlines and worst of all I was working in an environment where I had to constantly think of other people's likes, work according to the dictates of a client and that is the hardest thing ever, some clients are rude for no reason at all, some will mock you, call you names and I had to take it all with grace. For a person who is not really patient I was triggered the whole time, could not take it but had to because I needed the money, I had to take it all in like the broke lady I was.

The craziest thing is I always always said I'm strong enough to handle all things that came my way. And people always say it, I'm strong have always been strong from ever since life learnt to land it's fists on tiny me. But then this time it felt different. The kind of struggle where you do not even want to get in the battlefield and fight even if it means saving your life.

 So you wake up everyday, tired and hope you make it through the day without strangling yourself. You smile, you laugh, you say everything is alright because somehow denying it and pretending the problems you're facing are non-existent and are simply a make up of your creative imagination. And you survive the day, the fortnight, the month. You think you have a grip on it, super girl, nothing is gonna bury the seed that you are. Then silly little thing like your mother telling you in a fit of rage that she wished she strangled you at birth. You know she does not mean it, like she loves you right, but then the nightmares begin and you lose it all.

But still you face the day with a glow that seems to avenge the gowry nights. Nothing moves you any more. Not even strangers who possibly can not know who you are. Not even books you used to love so much, I mean you can't finish an action packed Jack Reacher novel and James Patterson can not race your mind down the alleys of Los Angeles. You once said you're a comfort eater but here you are not even able to think of food, even if it's your mother's tempting cooking, you know she's gonna say you're pregnant so you gulp it down anyway and pray your tummy does not burst. You hate yourself so much that you do not care at all like you don't feel yourself anymore but hey you can't spend the day in blankets because you got lectures, demanding ones too. So you push yourself out of bed and pretend you're playing dress up so just you look at least presentable enough to sit in class and face people you really have no energy to face. But you carry it all with grace like the lady they taught you to be. You feel that you are good at fooling the world, let them think you are in control while you are amidst a tumbling block. So you reward yourself with a nap, when your friends ask you to hang out with them you say you are busy, well physically you ain't busy but your mind is.

Then it gets worse. You have to make hard decisions. Choose between evil options that you ordinarily would not go for. But then the tears come and you now feel defeated because you made a vow to yourself that you ain't gonna cry over anything yet here you are six months down the line crying your eyeballs out over whatever it is that you can not pinpoint. 

You think of getting married as a way out so it's mission find a husband, a rich one. You know you are not doing it out of love but heyy this is it, someone has to take you to school. But interviewing the potential candidates is even draining because they are either misogynist, they are way too conservative, they want to tame you, they want a wife who cooks everyday. And well those are sacrifices you can not make even for a billion dollars, but wait didn't you say you're desperate, it's crazy but you have to go with the flow. Somehow for all your quest for independence, you're choosing dependence praying it really is the twisted labyrinth to your future independence.

Then you reach a breaking point. One where it's way past midnight. You observe the moon and see that its such a beauty, if only you possessed that glow. You think of all the things gone wrong, possible deferring from your studies looming by, possible marriage by December, a baby most probably next year. You think of the siblings who need a sister that you are really not at the moment. And it breaks, you're everything you despise. A failure, a quitter, loser,a dependant, wife to be, mom to be and it's all because you somehow contributed to it. Now look at you, unable to fix anything all you gotta do is drown in the mess you dug. Ironically, your pajama top is written sparkle in sparkling glitters, yet you don't feel that at all.

So you cry silently with your shaking fragile fist shoved into your mouth to silence the sobs. Your other shaking hand is busy typing, a note or whatever that is. You have embraced it, death by your own hand, literally waking up the sleeping Grim Reaper, begging him to make steaky dinner out of your curves, get drunk in your blood, get high on your last breaths. You think this is it a way out, the only one to wherever the place of rest is. It won't be so bad, at least you do not have to witness anyone get hurt and you have to do this, sacrifice yourself. 

But then that too, you can't do it. You cry even harder when you realise you failed at this attempt too but it's not the ordinary salty, peppered chilli tears. This feels good because you feel that you stopped something tragic from happening, you are a hero because you saved your life. So the tears cascade down, beneath it a watermark of a victor's smile. You know you are finally home, where you have vented everything out of your system and you are now ready to have another go on this whole life and living thing, which you remind yourself to never take for granted. While your problems are still not solved, you know tomorrow is gonna be a better day because you decided to make it so. So as the sun rises, so does your soul waking up all it's other cousins with it, stamina, courage, strength, endurance, patience, you name it. While it's all not rosy, you know you are gonna work to make it shine without ever sacrificing yourself or your dreams. You did not let yourself go.

So  do not let yourself go nomatter what blows life lands on you. Because you would have chosen what you thought was a temporary solution to your battles yet it echoed six feet beneath the ground and it's effect was indeed permanent. 

 Do not let yourself go because no matter how vulnerable you may be, you will eventually emerge as a victor but only if you allow it.

Do not let yourself go because there is nothing as precious as your life no matter how many holes it got, there is no problem worth sacrificing a drop of your blood, let alone your life.

Do not let yourself go because you can not afford to extinguish the very breath that makes you, the master piece you are deserves to be preserved, the art you are needs not be erased.

Do not let yourself go because you're worth a breath, you are worth of existence, you deserve to live.

Do not let yourself, ever!

Barefoot and Free.

What mental health needs is more sunshine, more candor, more unashamed conversations- Glenn Close.

It's been a couple weeks since I wrote anything serious. Main reason being that I had exams which my lovelies left me half dead. Yea, they were that hard. The other reason being that I no longer feel the urge to write, like it's straining, like I'm in some kind of writer's block which I want to believe I'm not, like I can't do this anymore. This is very worrying, because there is no way I can imagine my life without writing, I wouldn't cope at all but here I am people, failing to even update my diary. But we move and sometimes you force yourself to do even those things you feel like you no longer have the energy to face.

So today I was at home all alone, bored to death. I've got nothing new to read, nothing new to write, no people to talk to since I took a break from WhatsApp. Simply put, I was the definition of alone, lonely and bored which is not a good mental state for someone trying to make sense of the mess that my life currently is, but well that's a story for another day. So I'm a'll alone here, and I find myself observing myself, from my skin, to it's tone, my height, voice and everything. Guess what? An amazing discovery!

I discovered I have 12 scars on my hands, most of them burns and 6 scars on my legs, most of them scratches. I honestly wish these scars would disappear but no, I gotta carry them for life which I do not mind except for two particular scars which really really took me back to a dark past which I vowed to never share with anyone but for someone trying to come to terms with a past I hate so much, I think it is time I finally owned up to the demons I never wished to unveil. And it being May, mental health awareness month I think this is the best time to face it.

So I have two scars which are not like any other. They stand out, angry red marks on my inner arm. Angry at me. They are aligned like two eyes staring at me, cross, demanding answers, accusing me, calling me names. I've ignored them for a while now and I think it's high time I address them. The two twin scars are my babies of pain, of the price I had to pay for choosing to be strong rather than vulnerable. They are marks of a dark episode where I chose everyone else but myself, where no one cared about me not even myself. They are a reminder of how far gone I was, how I could have easily embraced death than cry out loud, how I wished I could die rather than live a lie.

I was in Form 2 and a lot of stuff was going on in my life. Stuff I won't say here to protect the people I love, but trust me it was really a dark time, a time where my diary was filled with Quick ways to kill one self and make it seem like an accident and a lot of Counsellors' contacts which I never dialled not even a single day in my life. It was a time when waking up was as hard as getting to sleep at night, but actually making it through the day was such a big achievement that I always rewarded myself with tears. Now that I think of it, it was crazy, I was crazy but it was real. I was 14 and depressed and no one cared.

And that's how I found an outlet in pain. If I inflicted so much pain on myself, then I wouldn't feel so hurt and lonely. More like two negatives creating a positive. So as first it was the books, I would read the saddest books ever written, books that would have my heart breaking in pieces, books that would draw even my last tear drop. It worked for a while but the mind is programmed in complex ways, the book remedy was not meant to last forever. So I had to find more effective ways. And that is when the self inflicted scars began. 

I would pour wax on my skin. Seeing it turn red was satisfying. It gave a name and a face to the pain in my heart. And so I kept doing it, till I felt I wanted something complex and fulfilling, something permanent and that's when I started burning my arms. How fulfilling it was, the smell of burning skin and the tears and the thawing of the pain in my heart. With every burn, I felt the burden lessen, with every burn I was convinced I was human too and could actually feel pain, which everyone thought because I was a teenager, I wasn't supposed to feel. So it felt good.

Till one night I actually felt I really needed to die. I felt that death was better than anything else and I had everything ready for the final crossover. Talk of mission gone wrong, what a joke I was. I'm glad I was not bold enough to do it, that is one moment I will always respect my cowardice, one time I will always say f*** bravery and raise hands to the fear that gripped me when I thought of dying, no achievement, no legacy and just fading into the night like a ghost. The idea of being forgotten or being condemned for the way you chose death over life, I could never be the one who cut short their own life.

But my 14 year old self did not see it as that. I saw it as betrayal to a conviction I had that death was the only way out. I viewed it as failure of executing a plan that had been my brain child for weeks. And so I had to pay the price. That is how I got the two scars. I would burn a lollipop stick by the candlelight and drop the burning contents on my delicate inner arm. It was satisfying, it was penance and I deserved it. That is how I still got the scars a reminder of how far gone I was, how self destructive depression had made me, how I found comfort in pain, how with more pain, I felt more alive.

What happened afterwards is a story for another day. The good news is I realised that this was not life, my siblings needed me and I also needed me. I had many dreams to achieve and if I was bold enough to choose life over death, I was bold enough to choose anything and I chose myself, my life and the people I loved. I chose to face my fears, I chose to confront them and I lived.

But what I'm trying to bring across is that such stories are real. Depression knows no age or person. It has no one size fits all cape. Last week my friends and I had a pretty serious argument on this self inflicted pain issue to ease pain. Sad to say, most of them dismissed it as a lame attempt at getting attention and stuff. All I can say is most of these things happen every passing day but it goes unnoticed.

The reason why it goes unnoticed is depressed people never speak out about it. And reasons why people never speak out about it vary but mostly because people will always laugh and dismiss it as attention seeking or trying so hard to live a white life. My parents dismissed it as having read too much fiction. Society has always been judgmental but when it comes to mental health issues, their judgemental sides border on the lines of insensitivity hence people will always have to choose carrying the burden alone than be the subject of every bored person in society.

The other reason why people never talk about is fear of being treated differently  once you share your woes. Like we are so misinformed about mental health that we do not know how to treat people who open up to us. The worst being pity. It legit sucks when everyone starts being extra nice or treating you like you're some fragile precious porcelain. Being depressed doesn't make people any different, so don't be extra nice because they opened up to you. Be you, make them comfortable around you like they always were, treat them as normal as they are, trust me, if it was pity they wanted they would have asked for it directly.

So now that this chapter of my life is over and I have embraced the fact that there is more to life than death, I want to say I look at my scars and be reminded that they are not a sign of pain but a mark of healing.

A sign that we go through moments of darkness that we plan the worst but still we emerge as victors in a new sun filled morning.

A reminder that truly we are like the moon going through phases of emptiness only to be full again.

A souvenir of battles we fought alone, they broke us yes, but they never destroyed us.

A sign that everyday is a blessing, that one small rushed decision could have stopped an entire process of a life that is now so fulfilling.

So be kind to yourself. Don't let your battles defeat you, I know it's not easy but fight your way to your ultimate victory because it is all worth it. Free yourself, go barefoot, free and wild.

Choose yourself over everything else!

#MentalHealthAwareness

P.S: A WORK OF FICTION.

Daddy's Little Girl.

Every girl deserves to be their Dad's princess. What happens if they are not is quite scary and heartbreaking- Siphathisiwe.

 Because he didn't, I had to master the art of being Daddy's little girl in a man who held my hand, hugged me tight, opened car door for me parked outside what I thought was a hotel in Las Vegas yet he called it home. I had to learn in the arms of a man who took me to expensive dinners, who pulled a chair for me, who listened attentively, lay my head on his chest and told me he would fix it and he did.

He did.

One call at a time, one chair at a time, I am becoming Daddy's little girl.

With every hour I spend on the mirror at 1900hrs, I feel wanted. With every honk of that big car by the dark street at 2000hrs, I feel needed. With every purple  and red and white bouquet and a perfect card calling me love or baby at 2010hrs, I feel loved. The holding of hands under the dinner table at 2045, the whole attention as I blurt my childhood dreams in that fancy club at 2200hrs, damn, I am precious, I am worthy all the attention.

Because he did not, I do everything to please the one who does. So I drown the Margaritas in that fancy club at 2215hrs. Ask for some strong whisky instead of some Tequila at 2220hrs, and delightfully lose it when he nods his approval. At 2230hrs, I am all in. Daddy is mine so I will please him, like he pleases me. Bold now at 2235hrs, I have Daddy's arms around my tiny waist which he pays for in that up town gym. My head is somewhere unseen close to the glass floor and I am drowning in this whole noise while his arousal awakens as he follows the rhythm set by my perfect behind trying to please his hungry front. Daddy provides, Daddy's little girl serves.

Because he did not, my knees hurt, these heel straps cut into my ankles but damn they are Jimmy Choo and Daddy bought them for me so they stay. At 2330hrs, The Weekend says he Feels it coming, so does Daddy. So we leave having danced all our troubles and drunk my fear away. 2335hrs, I feel amazing, out of this world. Daddy tries to steal some kisses in the elevator. I feel naughty and that is some wild fantasy so I give in but some janitor gets in. I sober up, I hate the way he looks at me. I say, "Grandpa, you are so judgmental". Daddy chuckles, rubs my back and says to me, "I love it when you are naughty". The janitor watches Daddy's perfectly manicured hands, which are way below my back, something like 15cm away from where my back ends or starts, I do not know.

At 2340hrs, Daddy opens the passenger door for me, I feel amazing. I love how strong his grip is, like the man who would slay for dragons for me. Daddy kisses my cheek and tells me to sleep, he will wake me up when we get home. He cares right? 0010hrs, we are by the mansion on the hill. I love it here, the fresh air which blows my hair away and everything that seems heavy. Somehow, I feel happy, my soul is light as I watch the sparkling pool and I'm elated as Daddy's neatly shaven beard tickles my neck which is bare of anything but a little chain neck with some tiny black opal which accentuates my skin and reflects my soul, black, shiny, beautiful. I love Daddy's cologne, I know it, it is called Dark Rebel Rider, some top expensive John Varvatos brand with some woody scent. Daddy says he will help me start my perfume business since I am so obsessed with them, all I have to do is work on a detailed business plan. Daddy is a whole meal, and so am I.

0030hrs, I cannot hold it in anymore. Daddy says he is teaching me a relativity lesson. So I am an obedient, attentive student and willingly let him do all the work. Last time we had the handcuffs, I do not think I want them ever again. So Daddy opts for something else. He calls it 69. Feels good but I have to fight so hard not to gag or puke, there is always a bitter end and a sweet one, funny how one can have both at the same time and enjoy it too. 0040hrs, I am beyond reasoning. Drowning in a pool of ecstacy and what seems like mucus only that it came from a strange place. My thoughts are wild and naked. So I want to be naked too. Daddy can not keep his hands to himself but he wants some play. A daddy who plays with me, that is really something  I have always wanted. So what is more funny than a tutor who wants his student so badly that he wants his body on hers and she in equal measure wants all the loving like it is a ritual. With every stroke, I forget my name, with every caress I forget home, with every scream, groan and moan, I am filled with purpose, I forget that mama says I am useless, I forget that the real Daddy never loved me. With the throbs of a violent orgasm,  I lay there on the spacious bed and the white sheets, spent, mended, defeated, filled, conquered and healed.

0130hrs, I lay there in Daddy's  warm embrace. He kisses my forehead, heaven. Holds my chin up and looks me right in the eyes, "You're precious, my little girl" and that is all that matters. To know that I matter, to know that I am wanted, that I can make  a grown man moan, that I am worth something. As I feel Daddy's light snores of a satisfied man, his rhythmic heartbeat, his legs entwined tightly around mine, his hands pressing my head closer to his chest, sharing the air we are both breathing, I regret nothing. I do not feel ashamed or remorseful, I feel safe here. I am protected from everything that would have hurt my little fragile heart which was never loved by the first man who was supposed to love and protect it. So I give in to the calls of sleep with a content smile on my face. And tonight, I do not dream of chocolate papers and piggybacks and the attention little me craved. I am content, here tucked safely in the arms of a stranger. All that matters is I am Daddy's little girl.

And at 0600hrs as I watch the sun rise through Daddy's glass walls, I am grateful for a taste of a love I longed and yearned for from one man who did not care enough to grant it.

Because he did not do it;

One bed at a time, I am wholly loved.

One notification at a time, I am spoiled.

One call at a time I am  wanted.

One chair at a time, I am Daddy's little girl.

One man at a time.

 

Guka Makafela: A crystal clear death.

Yatongova Guka Makafela, dai matogara guva makachera- Holy Ten.

 A conversation with my friend goes like, 

"Hey Tino, what's guka." He rolls his eyes and I guess that's because I didn't say the name right so I try again with the full name.

"What's guka makafela?" And now I know I have his absolute attention as he puts his phone down and carefully assesses me before shaking his head. That doesn't seem good, but I'm on some information searching spree so I do my absolute best not to burst out laughing.

"What do you need it for?" he asks after a while.

Innocently, "Studying. Heard I can stay awake for days on end"

He loses it!

I get the information I want!

It's dangerous! 

And then, "Don't ever try it if you wanna live".

My own risk taking, adventure lover, experience seeking, fearless and free spirit friend won't even hear of it and that's one thing he vows to never ever take whatever the circumstances. Of course I get some scolding but the information is worth it. 

But Tino isn't the only one who has expressed great fear of this new drug on the block. It definitely gets you high, but the crash is so down low, so low it could be 6ft under.

Guka Makafela also commonly referred to as crystal meth or Mutoriro is a man-made drug which potently stimulates the nervous system. Depending on where you're from, it's referred to by many names. The ghetto youth would call it Guka or Mutoriro and the suburbanites would most probably deceive you into thinking it's all lights and life by referring to it as Ice or Glass or Speed. 

The drug is strong and highly addictive, hence even in the medical field, it is less commonly used as a second line treatment for obesity and Attention Deficit Hyper Activity. So the only legal methamphetamine product is the tablet to treat these two but well, we wouldn't be here taking of this if this drug has not gotten into the wrong hands and is being used for all the wrong purposes.

Remember, crystal meth unlike cocaine or weed is synthetic. It has been around for so long and can be traced back to World War II where it was used by German Soldiers to keep them awake for long hours. So if they could have made it then, what's to stop young people from making their own. 

You know, with poverty comes desperation and with desperation there comes creativity. And necessity is the mother of innovation. So in case you wonder where the youths are getting this highly addictive drug, all I can say is they are creative, they make things happen. So a lot of simple day to day products is where drug producers are getting this drug. One common ingredient is the common cold pills for common cold remedies. Some ingredients are extracted from these and are combined with other products which you won't believe. These other products could be anything from battery acid, drain cleaners, lantern fuel, some powders extracted from Smart TVs and fluorescent lights and once these are mixed, the drug is stronger than ever. Also, mangemba/ dai papa (anti-psychotic pills) are being mixed together with crystal meth and honestly speaking this should give law enforcers a clue on who to nab in relation to supply of guka makafela.

Now one would wonder why young people would go to all extents to consume such dangerous stuff and it does not even come cheap. At $12 a gram, its more than what an average young person can afford. 

Rudo says sometimes looking your absolute best is everything and opens doors which won't open if all they see is her big tummy and wriggling thighs and bingo wings. So if Guka can make her feel good about herself while helping her get that trim waist and long thin legs, and a form anyone would die for, then she would definitely pay $12 for a single gram of meth. But then she says, "you know there is a price to pay. "Ukaramba uchirova Guka, you can't stop the premature aging". Now that's scary! Looking 40 while 18 all for a slim figure.

"Wangu, wangu!" a young boy of about 15 says to me, "tiri muma streets and we want to cope and stay vigilant so Guka ndozviripo mdhara". I don't even know what to say, but well, the street kids say Guka keeps them vigilant. What a way to survive!

Kai, coloured and a vibe to be around won't even hide that Speed is his thing. But watching him talk makes you so uncomfortable because his teeth are not like ours and his breath is heavy and makes you want to puke. "Its all for PnP, and trust me you won't regret it. Once you take it Mitchel, you become a binge and crash baby". Of course I have to ask him to explain these terms to me in laymen terms which he does because he thinks I'm a new recruit to this new crystal life. He says it makes him happy and that is all that matters so he would rather live a Guka-induced happy life and die young rather than live a long miserable life.

By PnP he means it is a "Party and Play" drug. After smoking, snorting, swallowing or drinking Guka, there is a quick rush of euphoria, high confidence levels and the party becomes lively and vibrant. Quite useful, right? By "Binge and Crash" pattern, Kai means that they repeatedly take the drug because the high from the drug starts and fades within a short space of time so they take repeated doses in a binge and crash pattern. Now think of how much Guka that is and how much money that will cost. From a medical perspective, the Binge and Crash pattern is influenced by the release of dopamine in the brain as an effect of taking Guka. Rapid levels of dopamine release strongly reinforces drug taking behaviour and acts as  motivation for user to want a repeated experience of meth.

Again, Kai suffers from what is called meth mouth and this is an irreversible dental problem caused by Guka intake. Check your friends' mouth and teeth you might know if they are on a Guka run or not.

Thabani says she watched Why Women Kill and knew that the answer to all her studying problems would be solved by meth. When she takes Guka, she gets her assignments done on time and covers most of her studying without feeling drained of energy. That way she says at least she won't have to ever sit through long family meetings discussing her poor grades and she is sure she has studied and will ace her exams. Thabani says when she takes the drug, she goes on for several days without sleeping a wink. She likes the increased wakefulness, decreased appetite and increased physical activity. But you know what else she doesn't like, the violent behaviour hence she keeps away from people and she hates the intense itching which might explain why she is always wearing long sleeved shirts nowadays. Seems to me like a case of trying to save yourself from everyone else by losing yourself.

While these are just a few examples of ordinary people, taking Guka on a daily basis, there are many others taking this harmful substance and it is disturbing. We stand to lose  a generation of brilliant minds, of eager young people. In a population made up of 77% young people, we can't afford to lose the face of tomorrow against a drug pandemic that could have been easily solved had the underlying issues been solved.

And don't be fooled into thinking that the drug users ain't aware of the danger they are putting themselves through. They know very well that Guka means irregular heartbeats and increased blood pressure, they know that it affects judgement leading to risky behaviour, they know of the hallucinations and paranoia and anxiety. They know that Guka results in cognitive and mental health problems and changes in brain structure and function but they are helpless and in their helplessness they dig an early grave for themselves.

But won't we go down as a nation knowing that maybe something, anything could have been done to help a number of these young people? They have expressed the death trap which is Guka in everything they do, their lifestyle, their hustles. We all know an average young person can't afford Guka at $12 a gram or $15 per  grams depending on wherever they are and we all know what they are doing to get money to feed their insatiable appetite for a drug which to them seems like survival when slowly, it sips life out of them. 

We've heard them express in songs that Guka is a pandemic, that it's crystal, it glitters and draws them to it yet it's dombo, a stone that hits them right on the temple and they die without even bleeding.  We dance to the Mhofela song and choose to be deaf to the lines that really matter- "vakuswera vakadzima, vaka sticker" or are we all takadzima as a nation. They  paint pictures of youth smoking through glass pipes bluish, slightly transparent stuff and to us, it's all a painting. Are we blind or we just do not care?

It's all a shame that we are yet to watch a number of our own die a slow painful death which no matter what good we mean, we can't justify by saying umenzi kakhalelwa or kurumwa nekuchera because somehow we watched it happen and did nothing about it. Because we all want to be a brother's keeper when the going is well and success is striving, we should also be the same keeper when we are going through the most. 

So consider this a plea to save a nation rocked by a pandemic  that seeks to destroy our youth like that biblical  Angel of Death and all the first born sons. 

#SayNoToDrugAbuse.

Till next time

Mitchel

*All names have been changed.

Maybe love isn't overrated.

Hi.

I find it hard to believe that I, Siphathisiwe is really writing on love, like love love, pure love. I know I've written most of my poetry on love themes, heart breaks especially. I've written stories on love but much of these bordered on impractical things as I've come to realise and I do blame those Korean movies for all the crazy stuff I used to write. I've written beautiful poems on beautiful love stories, so beautiful that I've never experienced it myself, the kind that Siphathisiwe thinks belong to a certain type of people if not only in novels because it all seems too good to be true, to be real. And also most of the stuff on love I know, write and experienced is basically limited to lust, peer pressure, sex and just the idea of being in love without really thinking deep about it.

How many times have we heard people say love is overrated? As for me, I say it all the time and honestly it's starting to be so unhealthy. Everytime things don't work out I find myself telling my self it was bound to end anyway, after all it's just love. Everytime you face betrayal, heartbreak, you're lied to its easy to find that little comfort in saying that love isn't as nice as we always see on those Instagram pages. Everytime we give more of ourselves to an un-reciprocated energy it's always always easier to tell ourselves that love just isn't it, it's all just a scam. And so to use the popular phrase, no matter how nice it is, we rather choose to believe that because it is love, it will end in tears.

But what if we have been doing it wrong? What if love is done differently?

What if one not only finds love that takes but nurtures and grows life itself?

What if one finds love that not only mirrors them, but sees through their physical being, through their hurt and fears, down to their very own soul? I'm talking of love that accentuates.

What if one finds love that they didn't have to ask for but a love that found them and wanted them and took all steps to make itself a home?

Is love still overrated where one evolves into a being they have always dreamed of being?

A love where one can completely give in despite the doubts, the past heart breaks, the pain and the fear to surrender to these feelings?

What of a love that is liberating, a love that that nurtures and gives meaning to life?

What of a love that loves naturally, where one is truly him/her and still feels loved? A love where energy is reciprocated to near perfection?

All this would never be considered as a love that is overrated. All this is what we want, what I know I want no matter how many times I tell myself that I'm doing well with playing little games and moving on before it ends in tears.

Thing is in an attempt to protect ourselves from what they call tears, from heartbreaks we choose to stay a safe distance away. In attempts to do so the ability to truly love and be loved back is lost in all this armour. True love is underrated and is left to die behind the shadow of past betrayals and the fear to get hurt again for the hundredth time.

So may we let love win.

Let love run its course without being overshadowed by all these misgivings.

Allow yourself to be loved the way you deserve.

Till next time

Siphathisiwe Mitchel.

Patriotism: Choice or Coercion?

Hi

"My kind of loyalty was loyalty to one's country, not to its institutions or its office holders"- Mark Twain.

Zim-Twitter has been abuzz with this Patriot Bill thing and I'm guessing most of you have heard of it and so me coming here and writing on a subject so cliché might seem so insane but hey, what has to be said gotta be said, no matter how old it gets. 

I would like you to picture this scene in the National Assembly on the 2nd of March. Allow me to quote Honorable Alum Mpofu who talks of enacting a law that, "prohibits any Zimbabwean citizen from wilfully communicating messages intended to harm the image and reputation of the country on International platforms or engaging with foreign countries with the intention of communicating messages that are intended to harm the country's positive image and or to under its integrity and reputation."

Fair enough, that is if you're not Zimbabwean or rather you are blind to current issues in Zimbabwe.

Now, Honorable Togarepi doesn't beat around the bushes. Picture him saying, again I quote, "If you attack the leader of this country, that has an effect when that leader goes out to source business. Nobody wants to do business with a person who from his country is called so many names. So it is very important that the media, politicians, business people and all citizens of this country understand that they are people of Zimbabwe first before their political and business interests."

Well, I have a lot to make out of that bold statement but for now I can say, "Excellent job". If you were ever fortunate enough to read the Logan Act, that is a brief and clever summation of it by Honourable Togarepi right there. Just in case you want to find it in the Hansard, the right potion is beautifully but deceptively headed, "Promotion of the Country's Positive Image and Brand".

That's the foundation of it all, the Patriot Bill which so many political activists are urging people to resist in anyway possible. Which is really interesting, isn't patriotism supposed to be a good thing. It obviously is a good thing so why then are we so set on going against the Bill which seeks to put patriotism and a manifestation of our love for Zimbabwe on the legal sphere? 

Maybe we should deal with what patriotism is, without attaching some political connotations to it (and that is almost impossible ladies and gentlemen).

Patriotism is the quality of being devoted to and having a vigorous support for one's country. It shows robust support for one's country even when it is going through tough times. It's more like that love which conquers even when put to the test, you know the Romeo and Juliet kinda love. It embodies sacrifice for the country to protects it's honour (yes, sacrifice).  

Again, allow me to take you back to one interesting conversation back in 1816 which I'm hoping would in a simplistic way, explain the concept of patriotism. Stephen Decatur's well known 1816 toast goes like, "Our Country! In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right; but our country; right or wrong." Now that really sounds like a parent who doesn't want to hear that they are wrong, always right.

John Quincy Adams' reply to Stephen goes like, "My toast would be, may our Country always be successful, but successful or otherwise; always right." Indeed that's interesting, like a loving mother who would always be there for you no matter what but also defends you even when she clearly knows you're in the wrong. 

So clearly, patriotism sounds like the old adage, "blood is thicker than water". And now that makes it so questionable because sometimes in it's thickness blood won't quench your thirst as efficiently as water does and sometimes it houses viruses and cancers we really do not want. Just saying.

Ok, now let's move on to the political side of patriotism. Most interestingly, patriotism doesn't mean support towards a particular political party or leader but rather it means abiding by the system of governance laid down by constitutional makers. And in Zimbabwe and anywhere else, once you involve government, that's politics. Politically speaking, patriotism seeks to provide a rather significant source of commitment to the country and this somehow indirectly extends to how one now has an obligation, a political obligation of loyalty.  It seems to try and instill  within citizens a feeling of responsibility and pride towards one's nation but that pride and responsibility is put through the test of political allegiance, loyalty or dedication. Frankly speaking, that seems harmless but that is only until you open your eyes to the relationship between law and politics.

The relationship between law and politics, particularly here in Zimbabwe is one thing you don't need to have gone through law school in order to understand. By reading newspapers or watching ZBC, you can already establish that something controls the other. Legislation has always been an old age political tool and clearly government relies on it to influence the civic space. So my question is, is the proposed Patriot Bill on national considerations or is it just one of the commonest and shrewd political tools?

Thing is, the Bill aims to criminalise and prescribe stiff punishment for citizens who are said to campaign against national interests or publish falsehoods and a lot more depressing stuff. Given the Zimbabwean context, this is one wicked but clever way to silence critics but this is stretching it too far, given the Constitutional values and principles that the Bill would bury if it is approved. The country has been a hub of human rights crisis, electoral violence, press censorship, Gukurahundi genocide, corruption, you name it. And now citizens can not talk of that or tweet about it because they are tarnishing the country's image. Crazy right? If citizens do not call upon government to be responsible, who then will. It's clear that this Bill is just a sick attempt at silencing voices that call for responsibility from people holding office and once you see them trying to silence people, something is definitely fishy.

 Thing is, this Bill goes against the most basic tenets of democracy and respect for fundamental rights like freedom of expression. Why would someone go through such lengths unless they have been personally affected by those utterances they seek to silence. And this makes me wonder, do our legislators know of Constitutional Supremacy or are they deliberately set on not upholding it? It is against corruption, against incompetence, against arrest of students, against abuse of human rights and electoral violence that people campaign against and nothing is wrong with that. But as the Shona would say, "Ukabata chidhoma, amai vacho vanochema." 

Patriotism, as an emotion, does not even qualify as a reason for obedience or shoving obedience down people's throats. The Bill calls for political obedience, absolute obedience in life or death situations. It calls for obedience where children of political activists prematurely become orphans, where children of civil servants sometimes go to bed hungry. It calls for obedience where half its young people marry strangers in Sweden and Australia just so they can leave the country.  It calls for obedience where men lay on their deathbeds, defeated by life, regretting a life not lived because someone made it impossible for them. 

How is one expected to be loyal to a country whose ideological basis is seemingly evil? Do the tenets that underpin this Bill bear the fact that it isn't intended to prevent fraud or treason or promoting loyalty or is it is rather a wolf in sheep's clothing?

Truth is, if a person loves his/her country, they strive to make it best and silence really is nit how it is done. So real patriotism is not one governed by a draft of paper, it is not one where its citizens are coerced into silence and watch every institution collapse with rot. It is a voluntary feeling of allegiance that is driven by the knowledge  and belief in the potential that our country has and the ability to demand the absolute best and accountability from our leaders. Real patriotism has always been a willingness to challenge the government when it is wrong.

So as long as the Patriotic Bill does not address this and seeks to repress rather than progress, our answer as Zimbabweans will always be a bold no.

#StopThePatrioticBill

Till next time

Mitchel.

Culture! A Murderer?

Hi.

Kaleidoscope is my favourite  Danielle Steel novel. I would put it on my top 20 list of best books ever written. I love it, read it in Form 3 and cried a lot because I couldn't imagine anyone going through all the stuff that Hilary and her sisters went through. I repeated the story to my brother and sister as a bedtime story, the tough little kids broke down and cried without even reading the book. The storyline was that powerful and so was my emotion when I told it. But if I ever read a book from Danielle Steel that got me thinking really deep, emotions set aside, then it's the Silent Honour. The book has a Japanese and American setting but it got me thinking of Africa, of Zimbabwe, of Insukamini, of my home. And so here we are revisiting culture and where it has failed most of us.

I would define culture as a collective set of ideas, customs and social behaviour, which a certain group of people adhere to. Take note of the words, Collective set and People. We will be revisiting those.

So first question is do I think culture is a bad thing? No, not always! But is it so bad that it could be  a murderer? Yes, I think it is! And I feel that a lot has to change because somehow we all have been tied to the heavy yoke of a culture which has done nothing but kill our dreams and in the process of killing our dreams, sent many of us to early graves of depression, goody-two-shoes, fake lives, repression, hate and suicide. And I know most of us don't want to hear an attack on culture, well, we're gonna tug it apart, not the good, just the bad.

There is thing called internalised oppression. This is oppression so deeply woven into our daily systems, so deep that it becomes almost normal. Societal institutions like government, education and culture reinforce these internalized systems of oppression and we all become so blind to it that we all accept it as normal yet it's wrong and destroying everybody. 

In my view, culture is the most effective of these systems in preserving and reinforcing internalized oppression. It is the most rogue culprit, in most cases of oppression and repression because somehow as an individual despite your own convictions, you're somehow obliged to follow some collective ideas which do not help you at all, which you do not believe in, which do not fit your narrative and which block your path to a future you.

In the definition of culture, I highlighted the words collective set and also the word people. There is nothing wrong with those words but come to think of it, culture seems to group people into one composite thing. Like it erases the individual person and makes him a part of a people. I get it, it really is for social identification purposes but is that it looking at it now? Do we all have to pay allegiance to  certain standards of living, governed by the same set of ideas when we are all separate individuals, with different ideologies? In that case is someone obliged to follow certain cultural ideas which go against their personal convictions? I mean he/she is a person not a people, he is a person before he becomes a people.

So I got a big problem with culture when it becomes repressive and oppressive instead of progressive. I remember a friend of mine who got accepted for a USAP Scholarship and got a place at some Ivy League university in the States. I don't know if this story has anything to do with culture but her parents definitely made it so. Her father expressly told her that she could not go to that American University because America was no place for a 19 year old girl on her own and it wasn't good for her cultural upbringing. The main issue was how she would go there and start wearing bikinis or start living the American way which to her father was an unacceptable thing for any African who has been raised well to indulge in. Like really? Just like that, because of the father's  cultural convictions, my friend is at UZ yet she had that opportunity to go and make it at a better institution. And she is depressed, it gets so bad, all in the name of culture. I don't get it.

The fun thing is how people are always all for the fact that culture is dynamic. They know how to say it, but be pragmatic about it, I don't know if they even attempt it. I'll give you an example of a dynamic culture. Remember the book Takadini? Yea you know it, the famous Zimbabwean book wasn't just a novel. There was once a time when culturally, albinos were deemed to be curses or bad omens. And it didn't stop with albinos only, twins, babies born with disabilities and many many more people were viewed as bad omens. And viewing them as bad omens was not just a point of view where you would see them roaming around and say "ooh that's a bad omen", these unfortunate individuals were murdered at birth and it was culturally justified. But fortunately, culture being dynamic, we no longer have such killings and discrimination justified under any cultural laws. 

Why then did we stop viewing culture as dynamic then? Why did we stop at that?

We live in an age and a country and a culture where it is acceptable to discriminate on certain individuals because somehow their person does not happen to be able to adhere to a set of ideas followed by a collective group of people. You all know what I'm talking about. I'm talking of Insukamini which would hate a lady and call her a whore because she wore trousers and wore a bright led lipstick. I'm talking of a Gweru tabloid which would have a field day on a man who does help his wife with the housework. I'm talking of people in Harare who would taunt a man who carried his baby, his baby on his back. Yes, I'm talking of Zimbabweans who would say it is unacceptable for a woman to be way too powerful because no man would want to marry her. There is an Africa which would do anything to criminalise someone's sexuality all in the name of culture, I'm talking of it. An Africa which pushes for a death sentence on not being heterosexual? It's crazy but we see it and we do nothing about it because if you do speak out against it, cultural guns waste no time silencing you. Isn't that oppression?

Culture is a good thing but it does not really have to go all reformer on an individual's conviction. How many people did not realize their full potential because culture defined their limits? A Christian culture which would view too much wealth as a gateway to hell and in the process it's people are always most willing to be rich but not too wealthy. An African culture where the children won't be able to talk about certain things to their parents and in the end they are sexually molested and they suffer all alone in silence and parents would only find out about it in a morning paper. A culture where when one aspires to be in the entertainment industry, their mother would say she is very disappointed and their father would tell them to pack their bags and leave. A culture where aunties are the loudest voices in the promotion of gender based violence for they would say a wise woman keeps her home tight, endures the beatings in silence for men are all like that, just little boys with a beard and balls. A culture where men suffer in silence for they have to man up or else they are called some nasty names or sissy boys. A society where 50% of its dark skinned girls would do anything just to marry a white guy so their kid will not have to go through what they know very well they would.

A society where kids grow up in toxic homes, watching their parents fight every single day because once their mother leaves that marriage, she is called some names and her means of finding a livelihood are scrutinised and most always found to be unacceptable in society's eyes. A culture where a girl is afraid to make dreams a reality for not only is she sexually labeled, she is a threat to men and her life is threatened, a culture where I can't say I don't like cooking because my mom gets worried that she won't have a son in law and my friends will tell me that I just upped the probabilities of my husband cheating on me and the pastor would say that's the devil talking through me. A culture where because of religion and moral laws, one cannot do the profession they have always wanted because there are more seats in hell than there is in heaven. A culture where people won't talk of their  mental health issues which need urgent help because then they become too Westernised or crazy or ungrateful  little people or weaklings or living too much in a world of fantasy. 

And then we all act clueless and surprised when mental health related illnesses are on the rise. When 1 out of 4 children has depression, when 4 out of 10 Zimbabwean adults have attempted suicide. When 1 out of 3 people have tried highly intoxicating drugs, when 2 out of 10 spouses have tried hurting their partner and kids. 

If culture means oppression then I don't think it still serves the purpose of social identification and unity. A culture which doesn't agree that at the core of our being a people, we are different individuals but it doesn't mean we should alienate some of us because they are different. Where our differences break us instead of build us. It ceases to be culture when it discriminates, when it preaches hate, when it murders, when it buries it's own.

So be careful of nurturing a snake that would bite your children some day, if not you.

Till next time

Mitchel.