I was walking along, feeling despondent about this, when suddenly, I came across something along the gravelly tar I thought to be extraordinarily beautiful; a lone red bloom lying regally on the ragged road. It seemed to be whispering, “For all the ugliness that you will encounter, there is beauty to contrast it.”

It’s Wednesday and we are half-way through the week now. What can your beauty do to counter the world’s ugliness today? Have a happy Wednesday!

This weekend, my friend and I went to Epworth, which is an area just outside Harare famous for its scenery of big bold balancing rocks. One of the rock formations used to even feature on all of Zimbabwe’s bank notes (many years ago), symbolising the then strength and security of the currency.

The main aim of our excursion was to get shots of the famous rocks, which we did. But as we made our way through the tall grass and dust paths, we were accosted by something I hadn’t really expected; a complete sense of serenity. Being the only people within a radius of at least a kilometre, we were overcome by the silence, only interjected by the melodic tweets of the birds hovering overhead.

Being city girls, we always have to contend with the blaring traffic and noises of busyness that the sounds of silence – when we have the opportunity to experience them – are profound. I turned to my friend momentarily and said to her, “I feel God.” She turned back and nodded in agreement.

In feeling this sense of God, I realised that the big balancing rocks were not the only manifestations of strength that could be witnessed at Epworth. Just like the city busyness can become commonplace and unspectacular, so can big rocks!

So small, a child's thumb could have crushed them.

And that’s when I took a step back and asked myself, “What else about this place makes it beautiful?”

Ah, and there was so much! While I had been moving through the tall grass looking for perfect angles to take pictures of the imposing rocks from, I’d neglected to think of the ‘small’ things happening in the grass as particularly spectacular, or worthy of capturing.

But after I’d pricked my senses and opened up my mind to the idea of God all around; God in the big things, and God also in the small things; I found the hidden treasures that I had been neglecting.

The tiniest of wild mushrooms were growing quietly amid the tall lashes of grass, so tiny they were that a child’s thumb could have crushed them. Wild flowers that I’ve never seen before were making their presence known to the grasslands. And other foliage told the story of recent rain as droplets clung like memories to different parts of it.

I was in awe.

And what I realised was that sometimes, when you take a step back from the bigger picture, you get to enjoy the smaller things more. Getting out of the hustle and bustle of Harare to take pictures of the tiniest pieces of existence did more for my happiness than a loud party or trip to some busy and overcrowded place ever would have.

It’s not always easy, or possible, to do. But I try to live by that mantra: to see the small things in the big things, and vice versa, and enjoy the experience as much as the big things we pursue with such passion.

Today, what ‘small’ thing can you focus on that will help you take more pleasure in the bigger things? Being able to see, talk, walk; to be able to live without physical pain or hunger? While these may seem like small things, they should never ever be taken for granted. God dwells in these things – the ‘small’ things that help you do big things.

Happy Tuesday!

All the pictures will be of a scene or sight captured in Zimbabwe. And I hope they will help me – and you – understand and see the different faces of this nation; what makes it the nation that it is, and what inspires me to capture it in photography.

So here it goes!  

The revellers who let me in: I simply adore the energy in this picture!

Last week I’d seen a big fiery-red  road show truck doing the rounds through my suburb and couldn’t figure out what the noise and dancing was all about (the truck boasted a group of dancers blaring loud music and having a ball).  While I knew it all had something to do with Coca Cola, I was not too sure why we were opening happiness (Coke’s tagline) so early into the new year.

I only found out the answer to this conundrum on Saturday afternoon when I happened into the city centre and heard a commotion of noise and cheering throbbing from Harare Gardens, the central park. I was waiting for a friend to pick me up and wasn’t so far from the venue and so decided to wander into the direction to investigate.

And there it was, that same road show truck! A knot of spectators was gathered around it and there was live music playing. Form what I managed to gather, it was the day of the Coca Cola ‘Pimped Up Ride’ grand draw to give away a few brand new vehicles to some lucky competitors. And to add to the fanfare, there would be live performances by some of Zimbabwe’s best-known contemporary musicians.

What luck to fall into such a windfall of action! Well, that’s what I thought until I realised how self-conscious I felt about navigating my way through such a crowded area with my SLR camera on me. You see, usually when you are identified as wielding a large weapon of mass distraction (a camera or some such other device), you get these violent and antagonistic responses – either people fear you or experience bouts of fascination about you. A camera often has the effect of de-neutralising a lot of people’s response towards you; people who would not ordinarily notice you but do because you have a contraption in your hands that could record and store a part of themselves.

Becoming more experimental as Baba Shupi takes centre stage: By now, I was up for playing around with angles and different interpretations of the scenes.

As I brought out my camera, I instantly felt the wave of judgement. And I didn’t like it. I thought to put it back into its bag and just saunter off, defeated. But I held on to some hope and soldiered on. I just slung the big sucker around my neck and kept carving my way through the crowds, hoping that I’d find a few carefree revellers who didn’t mind a few clicks.

My first shots were awful, woeful even; out of focus, blurry and taken with fear more than any artistic flair. Because they were ‘stolen’, through my most ardent efforts to be discreet, they were just not up to any standard of repute.

And then I stumbled upon the scene that would change everything. Two revellers, obviously having the time of their lives, had made a space for themselves amid the tight crowd. Baba Shupi, one of Zimbabwe’s most popular singers, was singing the hit song of 2011 ‘Godo’ and everyone in the area had come alive; as though an electric surge had gone through everything.

The two men summoned me towards them and happily urged me to take photos as one of them tried to balance a half-full bottle of Sprite on the backside of the other. It was a hilarious scene, replete with audacity and fun; and I was pulled into their exhilaration instantly.

After that, I felt more confident to wander around and try my hand at different angles. I somehow felt accepted, welcomed even.

So what’s the lesson in this? Fear is everywhere. Sometimes it can be everything. But a friendly welcome, a sense of acceptance and appreciation, can melt fear and build confidence. In continuing to have their fun and allowing me to be a part of it, those two men allowed me to have my own share of fun.

A more condifent showing: By this time, I was far less self-conscious.

Today, how can your smile or welcoming arm help someone else shed their fears or doubts and be themselves?

Happy Monday!

Saying Goodbye: It's never easy...

2011 was a long and brutal year, and I only got through it with a lot of help from a lot of dearly loved people. To say goodbye to them was proving extremely difficult and I’d woken up early the morning of my departure, inconsolable with sadness and tears.

At the same time, I had a lot of fears. Returning home. What would it be like? How would I feel? Were the dreams that I had swirling in my mind realistic, reachable? I had a lot to contend with that dull grey December morning; and the last thing I needed was to discover that I couldn’t find my tax refund form for a digital camera I had purchased a week before.

The camera had cost me a lot of money and the refund would be very handsome; I couldn’t leave without claiming it. And after having looked everywhere possible for the form, I realised that making a trip back to the shop and getting a new one would probably save me more time than trying to unpack all of my stuff and decode my arranging system from the night before.  But I still wasn’t done with getting everything together and I had more than enough last-minute tasks to perform. The last thing I needed was a journey into town.

In the end, there would be no other solution and I had to get on the bus and go. As the double decker wended its way through the narrow streets, I looked at everything it passed; the terracotta pavements, the people, the shops, the lanes; everything I realised would soon fade into a memory I’d carry with me over 10 000 km away. The trip was adding to my melancholy and warm tears were nestled in my eyelids, threatening to dance softly down my face. Somehow, I managed to blink them back in.

And then I got to the camera shop. Its narrows aisles were packed with Christmas shoppers and everywhere, the attendants were busy with helping clients decide between Canons, Nikons, Sonys and many other brands. I remember feeling a twitch of anxiety at the busyness of the place. It was about noon and my landlord would be coming to my place around 2 pm to do a final check of the room. I still hadn’t finished packing and tidying up and I needed to leave town and get back as soon as possible.

And then it got too much for me; the waiting, the thinking, the sadness; the fears. And right there, in the middle of the shop, I let go of what I’d managed to hold back in the bus and began to cry. Soon, a young female assistant materialised at my side. I recalled her face from having seen her before when she worked in another shop; a babies’ store where she’d been very helpful in assisting me to select some adorable stuff for my friend’s newborn daughter. I don’t usually forget people with such a genuine glow of kindness. And I definitely hadn’t forgotten this young woman.

She asked me if I was alright. And behind my veil of tears, for some unknown reason, I began to recite my long story about how long of a year it had been. I told her how I’d lost my dad and how it had made me fear losing my mother; how I had made the most amazing friends and couldn’t imagine leaving them; how I had big dreams and things I wanted to do in Zimbabwe, but how I suffered from fear and uncertainty; how I was leaving for the airport in the next 3 hours and still was not sure how I could possibly say goodbye to my friends who I just loved so much.

What happens next is something that words cannot ever make full comprehension of or give the meaning that it symbolises. Having listened to my story, and offered me some tissue to wipe away the tears that kept cascading from my eyes, this young woman put her hand on my shoulder and amazingly began to cry too.

She said to me, “You have made such a big difference in so many people’s lives. You should be so proud of yourself. Goodbyes are never easy but you have made your impact, and I know that you will continue to do so in Zimbabwe.”

I was more than overwhelmed. She knew absolutely nothing of what I do, or had done in my time in the UK, and yet she was firmly convinced of my impact on people’s lives there and back in Zimbabwe. She didn’t know I blogged or had any accolades to my name. She didn’t know a thing about me except what I had just told her, and somehow she saw something in me that she thought could be of benefit to many people.

And then she continued. “I too lost my father this year,” she said. “And I also worry about my mum and how I can make sure she has the best life possible.” Like me, she had a sister. And amazingly, just like me, her sister was in the US. Her fears, concerns and thoughts were so similar to mine that we seemed kindred spirits.

She told me about having studied a course at university, the same university I’d attended, but that she’d dropped out because she realised that that was not her passion; that what she really wanted to pursue was photography. At that point, she didn’t know how to make it happen, but she was determined. So she took up the job in the babies’ shop, where I first met her. She said she’d hated the job… but you would never have guessed this from her diligence, constant smiles and passion for service. That is, after all, why I had remembered her (and trust me, I don’t remember any and every shop attendant I encounter!).

Eventually, she’d managed to find a way to get the photography shop to hire her. No previous experience in the field, no credentials on her CV matching the job specification. But with faith and belief in her dream, she’d gotten the job. And she was as happy as she could be, she said; she was finally exploring her life’s purpose.

When we’d gotten over our tears and I was finally served, everyone was very empathetic and kind, wishing me well with my trip back home. Clint, one of the assistants (and of South African origin), asked me to say hello to Africa for him and to try to keep smiling. And the young lady also wished me a safe trip. She even asked me to drop her an email when I had time.

Obligingly, I asked her for her name and email address. But then she got busy with a customer and told me to get all the information from Clint. Before she went off, however, I asked to know her name.

“My name’s Faith,” she responded with a smile.

If I’d been attentive enough, I would have noticed that she was wearing a name badge that bore her name. Faith.

And then it all made sense.

How so wonderfully God’s hands work. That He would know that I needed to meet that young woman at that moment in my life is simply profound and beyond the capacity of my understanding. She was just about the only person at that point in time who could comprehend my life and my year in a way that I could gain strength through. And her name was Faith.

This young woman, harbouring fears similar to mine, was subsisting on faith and a cheerful spirit even when everything about her was difficult and the road ahead seemed impassable; even amid her grief and fears for her life.

She had faith… She was Faith.

Being honest with one’s emotions is never failure. It always creates an avenue to learning something new – not just about you; but also about the world around you. It creates a bridge for someone on the other side of the same problem to meet you halfway. It creates vulnerability, something which we all possess as human beings, yet are sometimes fearful to show for fear of being rejected.  If I’d have never cried in that shop, I’d never have experienced one of the most important lessons of my life. And the lesson was too beautiful for me to give away for anything; for it was the lesson that living a life of faith and believing, like Faith did, in my dreams would always lead to fulfilment.

Feelings are facts: Don't deny them!

They say we are strangers in this life. But a lot of encounters in my life have made me challenge this. I have friends, whom I have never met, who share their lives with me through warm and heartfelt emails. I have friends, who I should classify as strangers since I don’t know them personally, who mail me cards to remind me that they are thinking of me, who commit so many acts of kindness that calling them anything other than friends is simply an act of ingratitude for the blessings of God.

Faith is my friend. I may never speak to her again, but that one encounter was enough for her to take a permanent place in my life story.

She didn’t just help wipe away my tears that day. She helped me wipe away an old self that has clung to me for far too long; a self that doubts and struggles to believe, a self that hides too much light under a blanket of fear; a self that has lost hope in goodness and boldness… and faith.

Faith gave me back my faith.

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”

Hebrews 11: 1

Teach and child to question and you both will learn.

Tuesday marked the start of a new school year in Zimbabwe. And as is always the case, life becomes a hive of activity for students, teachers and of, course parents, who are faced with multiple challenges in ensuring that their children are well prepared for their big day. I am writing this piece for them all – to reflect on their collective strength and resolve to give their children the best of what they can. But I am writing this article especially for the mothers, and one woman in particular; forty-seven-year-old Gloria Sekwana.

Gloria was not preparing her brood for school on Tuesday morning; she was not even in Zimbabwe as the sun rose over the start of a new academic year in the nation. No. Gloria was all the way in Johannesburg queuing with her 19-year-old son on the grounds of the University of Johannesburg (UJ), one of South Africa’s well known and reputable academic institutions. Thousands of young South Africans and their parents had set up camp for 24 hours at the university, hoping to grab one of the remaining places for admission for the new academic year beginning soon.  The university would select only 800 more students for the 2012 intake. But in those 24 hours of pandemonium, officials say UJ received more that 7 000 applications from poor students who hadn’t had access to the Internet to apply online during the normal application process window period in 2011.

Gloria had travelled from the UK, where she worked as a nurse, to try to ensure that her son got a place to study biotechnology at UJ. But what should have been an ordinary, if not energy-sapping, day spent queuing turned ugly when a stampede broke out among the crowds of students waiting to learn their fate. It is understood that the university’s gates were opened and a  rush of people forced their way into the premises, making a beeline towards the admissions area. Some people, numbering about 20, were trampled and injured.

But Gloria was not so lucky.

Not so fortunate: Gloria Sekwana did not make it out of the stampedes alive...

She died during the crowd’s unforgiving onslaught, unable to keep up with the ferrocious and unrelenting pace.  Gloria didn’t die in a politically-fuelled protest march, or in a dark, dangerous, derelict downtown alleyway as you might expect to stereotypically read about in South Africa; Gloria died on a university campus, trying to secure a better future for her child, playing her part in contributing to a better South Africa.  The irony is frightening and painful and cruel.

And while I didn’t know Gloria personally, I empathise with her and celebrate what she stood for, and sadly had to die for; for what Gloria represented, and still represents, is the kind of woman that Africa already knows but needs more of; the woman who understands how important a sound education is to her child and nation’s future, a woman who does all she can to ensure this.

I have seen many examples of this everywhere – the woman who sells old clothes on

We celebrate the mothers and the champions of our cause.

the street corner to make enough money for her child’s new school shoes and stationery; the high-powered professional who works to her absolute limits to ensure that she has enough money saved up to send her children to the best schools; the mother who walks obscene distances from home to work to allow her child the comfort of travel on the bus. I have seen many examples and they all stand out in the way that Gloria’s does, reminding us of our privilege to have parents or guardians who have valued our potential, and made sacrifices to see it blossom through education.

My own mother is not much different to Gloria. I remember one day when I’d been to Harare to visit her and was on a bus back to Bulawayo (where I studied), how chaos broke out as people rushed to ensure that their travel cases could be accommodated in the storage space on either side of the base of the bus. I was already in the bus and watching my mother from below as a swarm of bodies attacked her from all directions. She was not prepared for this and she fell over, still holding on to my bag, heavy with books and clothes. But she was determined. And soon she was back up on her feet, fighting the swelling army, doing as best she could to ensure that my bag found space on that bus, that I could take all the possessions I needed back with me and continue my studies comfortably.

I felt awful watching her; a voyeur to my mother’s suffering for me. But I couln’ t get out of the bus. And my mum had shown herself equal to the task by picking hersefl uo and making sure my bag was on the bus. Only later did she think about the bleeding gash on her knee. All along the way back to Bulawayo, the image kept replaying in my mind as the bus hummed along. She had phoned me to say she was fine. But I kept thinking of that determination, that selfless love that made her lose sight of herself for my own sake. She would have done anything to ensure my comfort.

And this is something I saw constantly. When food became a scarcity in Zimbabwe, I knew my mother would always send me the best of what she had and sacrifice her own nutrition. I knew that if I needed money for something urgent, she would make it come together somehow – she just would!

And I suppose this is why I empathise so much with Gloria… because in her, I see my mother (who did the same thing and queued with me when I was late to register for my undergraduate degree); because in her I see unconditional love for her child.

UJ has said it will give Gloria’s son a full scholarship towards his studies, but I hardly believe that that will console him at this time. But as the years go on, I do hope that he honours his mother’s spirit by excelling far beyond all the expectations he ever set himself.

And I also hope that UJ and universities all over South Africa institute some sort of award, in the name of Gloria Sekwana, to celebrate her spirirt and the spirit of other mothers who wake up early every day – not just at the beginning of the academic year, but EVERY waking day – to ensure that stomachs are fed, lunches are packed, uniforms are ironed, homework is ready, and that we, as children, are in the best possible mindset to go to school or college or university and make a difference.

It is women like Gloria who build nations. And it is women like Gloria whom we should celebrate.

May her soul rest in peace.

They are blue!!!! After all, I know it all!

I remember that night so well.

We’d been swinging and dancing to our hearts’ content until he let out that lethal barrage of words.

“Fungai, you never listen to what other people say.”

Even though the music was still blaring and the smoke still misting up in that dance club, it felt – for me – as though everything had stopped and I was left standing bare and exposed.

-          The awkward and unwelcome pause        -

After I had regained my bearings, I did what came naturally to me; I retreated back into myself and calmly stated that I needed to go and use the bathroom.

I didn’t really. But what else could we talk about at that point in time? He’d exposed me and I simply had no cover.

While in the bathroom, I remember encountering a bevy of party queens, one even came over to tell me how much she loved my bottle top earrings. Perhaps, she’d sensed that something was wrong, as I stood looking at my own reflection in the tall mirror; perhaps she hadn’t. But all the same, I accepted her praise, even told her where I’d gotten them, and then – when she’d made her way back to her giggling crew – continued to look at myself.

I was embarrassed. That’s why I had excused myself from my friend’s company. Part of the embarrassment was what the whole ‘falling out’ had been based on, and the other part was that he’d simply exposed a weakness that I prefer to be kept safely tucked away.

The affair had begun a few minutes earlier when we’d noticed a pair of boys, also at this dance club, spray-painted from head to toe and flashing like fluorescent disco lights. My friend, as well as another friend, had been convinced that the colour of the eye-catching paint was green, while I was adamant that it was blue. Well, it’s difficult to tell these things when you in a club with all colours of lights dancing around. But they were convinced, and so was I.

This not being a matter that we were passionate enough about, we simply dropped it and

Sometimes being wrong can have dire implications...

continued dancing. I was even dancing on the table at some point until a burly bouncer came to tell me to get off! Needless to say, I was having a good time. Until the two fluorescent boys passed our way again. This time, they were close enough to see clearly – touch if we even wanted to – and the argument resumed.

“Can you see it now? They are green,” re-stated my friend.

“No,” I maintained. “That’s blue.”

At this point, our other friend weighted in and endorsed that the chaps were indeed green.

I was outnumbered but I wasn’t backing down. I could now see too that they were green, but I didn’t want to lose the argument so I kept going with my side of it.

And that’s when it all blew up and I ended up in the bathroom.

“Fungai, you never listen to what other people say.”

The words were embarrassing and hurtful, not because they were completely unfounded, but because they symbolised something quite shameful – that people could see what I sometimes am; something that I struggle with internally and hope no one on the outside notices. Argumentative without being accommodative of differing opinions.

For most of us, it’s really hard to accept alternative views. I see blue and you see green. The colours are distinct; there can be no intermixing; a turquoise or aquamarine or any such other hybrid. I have seen this quite recently in Zimbabweans’ debate about Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai’s U-turn on homosexuality. It’s either people think this is very bad or very good, and for many people, that’s that! Understanding homosexuals as individuals? No, it is nigh on impossible. What they do (in their own private time, mind you) is judged so harshly and passionately that to imagine that these are human beings is almost unfathomable for most.

I learnt this a long time ago when I first opened my mouth to speak:  that when you have something to say, not everyone will like it. And would it be so good anyway if everyone did? The whole point of being anything – an advocate, an artist, a thinker, a leader, a writer – is to get people so passionately engaged with what you do and say that they feel compelled to say their own bit, whatever it may be. This is the joy of bringing critical debate to the fore.

But yet in learning this lesson, there have been stumbling points when it comes to accepting criticism. I am a perfectionist, you see, and so when I do something, I am usually convinced that I have done it as thoroughly and comprehensively as is possible; done the research, gauged the public mood etc etc… And then boom, someone comes and cuts me down to size.

“It’s not blue. It’s green!” they shout.

Not all arguments are as trivial as this, but what it boils down to is that often, people will disagree with what you say; some will even use personal attack as their defence.  And if you feel strongly enough about something, sometimes you just have to take the bullets.

It hurts, yes. It’s disappointing, sometimes. It’s hard to accept, many a time.  But running off to the bathroom to collect yourself while suckling your hurt feelings isn’t always the best solution. Sometimes, you have to stand out there and take the criticism. Trust yourself enough to know which of it is constructive (keep that kind); and then let the rest go!

Load those guns, I am ready!

And by all means, be humble enough to admit when you are wrong. Oh, it’s so hard, I know! But that builds a lot of character and leaves space for further learning and growth.  Always, always be open to this and never believe that you have reached the height of your game. There’s always room to jump even higher; and to learn from others.

It was awkward when I returned from the bathroom. My friend apologised. Poor soul, he just wanted to keep the peace. But I didn’t deserve that apology. And silly me and my ego the weight of a sack of maize meal, I didn’t proffer an apology of my own and simply accepted his.

I will make him read this post and humbly admit to having been a proud and overbearing she-goat that day, and many others, I know.

I am really sorry.

And to everyone else out there, keep hitting me with the truth. I promise not to storm off into a stink… unless of course you see scarlet when it’s OBVIOUSLY just a shade of red! Then, I might just see red all the way home baby!

She lived what seems such a long time ago that it’s almost miraculous to remember her. She was so young, so long ago.

And she was me.

I missed that young lady so much tonight that I decided to go back in time and try to find her. She was 21; confused about life but certain about one thing. She was a poet. A poetess, in fact. When all else and all others failed her, there was always that note book; spiral-bound with a cow skin cover; into which she could set herself free. Red loops, black full stops, blue sentences,  untidy sketches of  the things pulsing through her thoughts, stickers, famous quotes, lyrics to unknown songs… in the unjudging privacy of that book, she could be she.

With time, though, the notebook ran out of pages; no more blank milky stares; no more planes landing or flying off from  the runway of her imagination. By then she’d moved on to other kinds of books. Books with screaming red margins that instructed her where thoughts began and ended; books with blue-green lines that confined her musings to straight tracks running left, right, left, right, left, right like military men.

And then her notebook became too heavy to carry around as solace. Besides, she  never had the time to open its pages and read and escape back into those warm and moist and fertile soils,  to harvest a thought and fly into space.  So she stacked the notebook away  and instead began to carry ‘erudite’ literature – textbooks, how-to books, bank books; books on everything else but her lingering passion.

In a world where passions are often relegated to hobbies, I have been fortunate to have my own great joy, poetry, taken seriously enough to get published internationally. But still, I am always aware how, in the hum-dum of life, I have lost the original unadulterated romance that I shared with words; how at times I have abused them, molested them even, to get a quick dollar and thrill out of them.

Tonight, a longing stirred within me. A longing to return to the simplicity of writing for the simple pleasure of it… not because I am trying to convince you of anything; not because I am angry or defeated or disillusioned, not because someone’s going to pay me if I write something down. Just to write and free the little exiled birds pecking away at the cage that I have created for them within myself.

And so I have dredged up some old thoughts; taken from an email I wrote to my mentor on August 11 2005. He’d asked me to come up with a line that represented why I wrote. And from it, I was to try to write a poem.

Black cords of ink bind the unborn in my restless womb of thoughts, to words. 

The colour black is so definite and conveys richness I write in black whenever possible. There is blackness in most things we consider fertile – soil, raven-black hair, blood. But black also conveys uncertainty, mystery, magic. So black evokes many images that I feel are apparent in my writing.

When I wrote the word ‘cords’, the first image that came to mind was an umbilical cord. It throbs with life (more fertility) and connects lives. Also, I thought of a telephone cord. Cords supply vital human needs – oxygen, nutrients, communication. Ink is rich-sounding, like black blood. It is the medium through which the ‘unborn’ are given life.

Binding is holding fast, again conveying that connectedness. The ink connects the intangible to the words that give it life. The unborn are metaphorical. They are the unreal, the non-existent, the unseen, the secret. They might be my unshared meditations and emotions, or the fictitious characters I make up. So writing them down is liking giving them an existence in this world of dimensions. Restlessness has much to do with my constant procrastinating, my mind tossing and turning. I used the word ‘womb’ because it acknowledges my womanhood and femininity which in turn connotes softness. Also, a womb is a secret place – very private.

A womb of thoughts is hard to explain. It is giving concrete existence to something abstract. But it is basically my mind I am talking about. And the words are the external, the end-product, the physical manifestation of the unborn, their finger print.

So all of this says that I am a complex, feminine writer. I deal a lot with the abstract, the emotional, the internal. I try to find new imagery to convey things that have been conveyed before. And the words are all powerful. They direct me and not vice-versa.

This is the poem I wrote from all of this…

Black

Fingers plough through me,

Scraping salty scars into my womb –

In moist secret tunnels of silence,

My walls haemorrhage black.

Glistening hands, supple feet – sweet perfection

dismantling itself,

Slips a velvety mess to the ground

Licked and burnt to dust

whisping into arid eyes that only bleed hot ash.

I try to find centre and stand

- not mourn –

My insides swiveling, colliding, howling

In loss,

Lost.

 This poem is simply about growing up – ‘miscarrying’ your youth and all of its innocence. The fingers that plough through you are those aspects of life that demand maturity – death, poverty, love…So they have invaded my private space and infected me with blackness and disease, decay. That is when the childlike trust and faith is detached and burns to dust on this planet. It blows in the breeze hoping to find someone who cares but age hardens people, makes them arid. Their eyes cannot provide solace, they can’t weep in sympathy. They just vomit someone else’s ash, someone else’s dried up youth. So I try to stand and do as everyone else does – deal with it, grow up, toughen up.

But my insides tell a different tale of loss and yearning for the simplicity of youth.

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She was so young.

And I wish she would return.

If you read my blog, you will understand what I mean when I say that that ant has been seriously crawling the corners of my mind, casting heavy shadows over all I think and do.  And I – powerless, or perhaps allowing myself to be powerless -  have done nothing about it. You see, whenever I achieve an accolade, I am always plagued with fears of the responsibility that it entails. I always wonder who didn’t make it because of me and then interrogate myself about why I deserve it.

Perhaps this isn’t the way to approach issues but my name, Fungai, means ‘think’; and it often seems that I cannot escape its self-fulfilling prophecy. And so I must think. I must question. I must understand.

I am a runner up! To find out more about these awards, visit www.youthaward.org

I am still trying to make sense of everything so I won’t give you a nice Oprah-esque passage about how I have had a light bulb moment, because I haven’t yet. I think things will only make sense when I get to meet everyone else and fully grasp what is happening around me and why I have been chosen to participate.  It will only become real then.

And so all I am taking with me is an open mind, an overstuffed knapsack and the words from a beautiful email I received this Sunday from a dear friend to me. She said that I shouldn’t reveal her identity and I will not. But here is what she had to say:

I have been greatly encouraged by your life.

We have known each other for a long time. I know the insecurities of our high school years. The things people said about you, the things you said about yourself. Very few expected much of you and you were always surprised when you did well because nobody thought you could. You went to a varsity that you really didn’t want to go to and people looked down upon you but you excelled in spite of yourself and in spite of them. You continued to excel and budded like a summer rose. A more apt description is the ugly duckling that became a swan.

I am constantly in awe at the grace God has over your life and am confident that you really are the next big thing out of Africa. Nobel Peace Prize here we come!!! I was your friend in high school simply because I was your friend. It wasn’t a conscious decision we kind of gravitated towards each other and grew close over the course of the years. However we didn’t stay close to everyone we were friends with at high school. In time I chose to be your friend because you add such value to my life.

I am a better person because of you.

You taught me alcohol…Lol. Published my poem. Brought me nice gifts from overseas and overborders. More than that you have introduced me to a world I do not know. Abortion, homosexuality, gender Issues. I’ve always been staunch in my views but you brought the personal touch that made me wonder and ask why do I hate and judge in the name of Jesus when Jesus Himself never hated nor judged.

I am writing this email mostly because you have greatly influenced my life. You are a strong woman who has overcome great odds. Because of you I believe that I can. I had given up and resigned myself to a mediocre life because I couldn’t see a way out. BUT you have shown me it’s possible. There are tons of people out there who look at you and wonder. I want to be like that. A wonder.

You have been a great influence in my life and I love you dearly. More than words can tell.

Congratulations for excelling in your studies. Congratulations for engaging in a battle with Life and emerging the Conqueror.

Sigh. I go with a letter and a prayer.

Yesterday as I went about loading my washing, one of my new housemates had the nerve to put his grubby hands on my waist as he passed me by, acting like it was okay to touch me without my consent. I recoiled in horror and all he gave me was a smile that I read to mean, “Come on, you actually really liked that.”

My body is my kingdom

It hasn’t been two weeks that I have been living in this new place and by Day 2, I had already singled this one housemate out as a jerk. After a few harmless conversations, he’d  zeroed in on my relationship status asking me that afternoon – on Day 2 – if my boyfriend came from Kenya “because I’ve already seen you wearing two Kenyan T-shirts since you came”. I was taken aback by this line of questioning, particularly since I had initially reckoned the guy to be a friendly soul. But after this, I realised he was a bit too friendly. All the same, I chose to tell him the truth that no, my boyfriend did not come from Kenya and that instead, I simply loved the country.

Day 3. The man decides to get more direct.

“So does a beautiful girl like you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Where does he live?”

“In this area,” I lied some more.

And that was that… or so I thought.

Then came the comments about how beautiful my hair looked, how pretty my dress was, how lovely and tall I was. All I have given him back these past two weeks are curt responses to show him how I really didn’t care for his opinion.

And then yesterday evening, he decided to put his grubby hands on me.

Once I’d regained my senses, I felt the anger melt my insides like lava getting ready to erupt from a volcano.  Still I managed to maintain a calm tone with him because I didn’t want to get angrier than I was. I plainly told him to NEVER  touch me again; to never ask me personal questions about my life again because we were not friends, just housemates, not friends! Ask me how my day was or make comments about the weather but don’t dare delve into my private life or space. We are NOT friends!

A woman's body, when she chooses, is her paradise.

And you know what he did? Do you know what all 6 foot-plus and 40 years of age of him decided to do?

He did what so many men do when they violate women; what women who’ve been abused endure so often.

He played it in reverse and made it seem like it was all my fault. Of course, he apologised at first but when I kept silent because I was still seething too much to speak, he flipped the switch and I became the devil and he the saint.

“From now on you are a ghost in this house. You don’t exist to me!”

His tone had gone from gentle to increasingly steely.

“I didn’t ask to be a ghost,” I retorted. “I asked for respect as a human being you share a house with!”

And then he began to walk off, but stopped after a few paces to point a big index finger in my direction.

“I am so much older than you, do you hear me?!”

I didn’t respond because yes, he is correct. He is much older than me – in age, but not in actions.

“Do you hear me?” he repeated after I’d failed to respond the first time.

“But I thought you said I was a ghost to you, so why are you still talking to me?” I asked.

And then he walked off.

The guilt trip. The ugly guilt trip that men who can’t take a woman standing up to them play. How dare he, for a second, assume to put the insensitivity of his misdeeds into my lap?! I am still burning with rage.

This happened to me before, and then I was ten years old, far too young to know what to say or do. As I walked home, an old vagabond came down the street towards me, dragging an old dirty sack on his back. I had stopped at the window of one of my favourite boutiques and was peering in at a pair of glass shoes when he approached me and tried to fondle me. Thankfully, two older women came marching towards me and prevented him from getting beyond reaching for my chest. But then I heard a few weeks later that a friend’s sister had been a victim of this man. In absolute broad day light.

Who the hell do you think you are to touch me; to touch us?!

She is a queendom

I was saved again, at about the same age, when a pair of older schoolgirls told me to get off the bus-stop bench where I was sitting and wait along the roadside with them for the next bus. If my head hadn’t been buried in a book, I might have noticed that the man sitting about one-and-a-half metres away from me on that still and sunny afternoon had unzipped his trousers and was performing sex acts on himself.

I have had saviours. And today, I know how to stand up for myself. But what about those 10-year-olds who don’t have adults looking out for them? What about those women who get fondled then beaten then raped then try to speak but get a laugh of ridicule thrown into their faces, or worse still, that wagged finger of blame. It was all your fault.

I am angry beyond imagining, beyond words, beyond anger itself. I am angry because though I stood up for myself, I am still left with that feeling of fear. What if I’ve just fuelled a fire? Did I overreact? Would I feel less awful if I’d have just kept quiet?

Isn’t this why so many of us keep quiet until something ‘really serious’ happens?  In our minds, we somehow justify that it was all well-meant and that to say anything would be to blow it all out of hand.

Well, I am not playing that game. If I let you touch my waist, then where next will your hands feel comfortable to navigate? Will it be my back, my butt, my breast?! No thank you. Your hands have absolutely no business on any inch of my skin, unless I allow them there. My skin is like fine silk and my body is a queendom.

I am not for free!

And you will never know the answer to that question because you never gave yourself the opportunity  to find out because you were scared; afraid that it wouldn’t work out and that you’d come out of it with a bleeding heart, but perhaps even more afraid that it could turn out like your dreams always played out. You were frightened out of your wits that he could be the right one, the one you would have babies with, celebrate the rest of your birthdays with, lie next to each night for the rest of your time alive, be accountable to as well as for. You were simply afraid that you weren’t good enough, or too young, or too full of other dreams – and so you pushed him away until he was backed up so far into a dark corner that all you could hear was that gnawing voice inside telling you what an idiot you were to let such a good thing go.

Letting bad things go isn’t all we humans do. Sometimes, we let the good things go because, ironically, we are so intently focused on the bad.

I am writing this one for the ladies who spend too much time with a lousy excuse of man who’s not treating you right; the man you are always calling and yet never getting so much as an SMS back from, the man who forgets about you until he needs something and coos you into submission with those three little words, the man who you love so much that you blind your eyes to his many failings, the man you sacrifice better suitors for because… because you love him and you don’t know how to stop.

This one is for you because I am going to speak from a little place inside me called truth. I am going to tell you that if you’ve been trapped in this kind of love rut for a week, a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime, it’s been too long honey! Don’t lose your worth to someone worthless. Don’t lower your expectations of love because you are with someone for whom love is shown in erratic deeds and hollow words instead of acts that don’t need statements to tell you what love is all about.

Don’t marry the one who you can feel on your inside isn’t quite Mr. Right, but happens to be Mr. Right Now. Time, time, time – yes it’s ticking! But it’s been ticking since the day you were born! Settling down with the wrong person won’t settle you down; it will just make you want time to go at the speed of light so you can finally escape the agony of being that caged bird whose wings can’t spread. Don’t for one jot of a moment think that you are into the business of changing people and that if something on him’s broken, you can fix it until it looks brand new. None of us can change another human being. Change comes from within … and only if a person wants to change.

I have never been married, but I sure have wasted my time on the unworthy; have invested love into a black hole that yielded nothing but echoing emptiness, have waited for promises of change that never materialised, all the while letting better options go by because I couldn’t help what my heart felt. If I could only turn off my feelings like a tap it would all be okay…

This one is for anyone else who identifies with this sequence of events because I know too many of you who are trapped and don’t know how to get out anymore. I know too many of you who convince yourselves that a slap in the face from your man can be justified, or that when he stands you up and makes you walk in the cold dark all by yourself it’s okay because he didn’t really mean it. Your tap, my dear friend, is in flood and there’s a river of lies collecting at your feet that’s slowly rising up to your ankles and then your knees and waist and chest until it will finally drown you.

You are that gem!

You’ve got to wade out of it and start to see yourself again. You aren’t cut glass; you are the purest form of diamond there is and when you don’t see that, you are selling yourself short by millions. As Lauryn Hill sang it, “Don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem!”

Something compelled me to write this (at 4:37 am on a Monday morning!). Something told me someone had to hear this and snap out of a bad funk. Something told me that today, I can help stop some lovely, smart woman from asking herself that sad question, “What would have happened if I’d have been brave enough to give us a chance?”

Be good to yourself sister friend. Please please  think about giving that nurturing, thoughtful kind of love to yourself. Because woman, when you love, you love deeply. And any man who deserves that has to deserve you!

So here it is in plain talk: Be brave enough to let go!

And really, you do know when it’s time to let go…  your friends may try to console or advise you, you may read all the books you want to read about relationships, but we all come with an internal radar that tells us when we can no longer steer in a certain direction and need to change course.

You already know.

To those who are happily and crazily in love, I am wishing you even more of it this coming week. And to those who are miserable and clawing away at their walls, I am asking you to give your body some rest, your mind some peace, your heart some swathing from the cruel stabs and jabs of the heartless. Free yourself. Run. Let the racing wind evaporate your tears.

I leave you with this poem by Alice Walker, which I first wrote into my poetry book many years ago. It will give you strength.

Never offer your heart

to someone who eats hearts

who finds heartmeat

delicious

but not rare

who sucks the juices

drop by drop

and bloody-chinned

grins

like a God.

—

Never offer your heart

to a heart gravy lover.

Your stewed, overseasoned

heart consumed

he will sop up your grief

with bread

and send it shuttling

from side to side

in his mouth

like bubblegum.

 —

If you find yourself

in love

with a person

who eats hearts

these things

you must do.

—

Freeze your heart

immediately.

Let him – next time

he examines your chest -

find your heart cold

flinty and unappetizing.

—

Refrain from kissing

lest he in revenge

dampen the spark

in your soul.

—

Now,

sail away to Africa

where holy women

await you

on the shore—

long having practiced the art

of replacing hearts

with God and Song.

Sail away to Africa

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