All about my recent visit to Zimbabwe

Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe entrance

I had a two-week visit to Zimbabwe during the festive season. I had last been there in 2013 and was looking forward to going back to be with family and be “home”. After this recent visit, I suddenly started believing that home is not necessarily where you were born and raised, or where your father, mother and siblings are. We should gladly embrace our host countries as real homes, and Zimbabwe as our first home, our other home.

I really did not feel at home this time around because commodity prices were way beyond what I thought was normal, especially for anyone carrying the South African Rand in their pockets, as we did. Many of my rand-earning friends cancelled their visits to Zimbabwe when the exchange rate against the US dollar fell to an extremely unfavourable 16:1. Others still went home, but shortened their stay after their pockets quickly became depleted. A can of baked beans, for instance, was close to a dollar, that means it was about R16 when converted, and a 2 litre of Coke was R32. We buy those commodities for about R6 and R18 respectively. It didn’t help that the usual Zimbabwean problems such as power-cuts and water shortages still persisted. I had huge adjustment problems because in Manzini we hardly have power-cuts or water shortages, although Mbabane is currently having serious water problems because of the drought and has started water-rationing.
The people with the longest faces, however, were most civil servants. They did not get their December salaries until January 5th and are still waiting for their bonuses. 

A week before we even left Swaziland, which was also a week before Christmas, I had been informed that there was no electricity at my parents’ house in Rusape where we were visiting first. A transformer was said to have exploded.  I assumed by the time we got there, things would have normalized, but alas… We stayed there for a week and never saw electricity once. A small section of the neighbourhood was affected, so we were able to charge our phones at my aunt’s house nearby. That’s also where we kept perishables. The other option was to also charge in the car. It was a hassle, and I usually didn’t even bother to charge my phone.

As they say, every cloud has silver lining. We actually were forced to have candlelit dinner every day J. Not having power in the house also meant there was no TV and there was minimal use of mobile phones. I thought we would have to go to bed at 7pm for lack of entertainment, but for the duration of that week, we slept at around midnight almost every day. There were so many stories to share, and I always prodded my father to talk about ghost stories. He always gets animated when he talks about ghosts, as he says there were many in Dowa, west of Rusape, were he grew up. Everyone, including myself, also had a story to tell. Read here for my ghost story.

Uncollected refuse at the Rusape Bus Rank

I had done my nails for the holidays but ended up breaking themL while carrying pots from the fire where we cooked into the house and from exposing them to the fire while pushing bits of wood into it. I got ash in my newly-done weave trying to blow the fire after it had rained and the wood was damp. Eventually we bought a gas stove. Power was only restored on January 2^nd.

Now I hear there are fears of typhoid outbreak and that doesn’t surprise me at all. People just dispose of their refuse willy nilly. I hope the outbreak is quickly contained, because given the water crisis in the country, many people would surely perish from it. My sister has stayed in the low density suburb of Mandara for the past three years, and through all those years, has not seen a drop of water come out of her tap. Word on the street is that council decided those living in low density areas could afford to dig boreholes so they would not have water channeled to their houses. When we were in Mandara, we had to use water very sparingly and only took a bath from a bucket once a day. They have to buy 5000 litres of water for $50 and it lasts about 3 weeks. They also have to harvest water when it rains, and their pool has become another storage place for water to use for ablution purposes.

I enjoyed the communal way of life in Rusape, which I miss sometimes while I’m here. My parents’ neighbours lost a relative and one other neighbour called my mom from behind the durawall to inform her. As soon as my mom heard, she called her other neighbours from her sink behind the other side of the durawall to also spread the word. In less than five minutes of word of the death coming, many people knew. They immediately joined each other on the street and made way to the grieving neighbours to convey their condolences. That’s how it has always happened even when I was growing up. News spread like veld fire in the township. It would get really hectic if the news wasn’t so positive for your family, because it spread faster than the funeral ones. Woe betide if your child got arrested or pregnant, or if your husband was sleeping with some known prostitute. Everyone would know and talk about it. Read here about life in the townships, as I know it.

Children playing on the street in Rusape

It was sad to note how, because of the economic quandary Zimbabwe is in, everyone has been reduced to a vendor. Everywhere you turn, somebody is selling something. The streets were lined with people peddling their wares ranging from vegetables, second-hand clothes, cheap products from Chinese shops, everything. They have even bought small loudspeakers to lure people to their merchandise, which results in so much noise. If you park your car or drive in town, you are mobbed by people who walk around selling small things like foot powder, air fresheners, Zimbabwe flags, pirated CDs and DVDs, and all sorts of things. Sometimes their efforts to make you buy are borderline harassment, but you have to keep telling yourself that life isn’t easy here and they are trying to send their children to school, pay their rents, and put food for on their tables. It’s heartbreaking. You feel really guilty when you decline to buy something from someone because you can see the determination to make a sale in their eyes, but you check yourself and have to keep repeating in your head, “I can’t buy from everyone. Someone else will buy even if I don’t.” I did buy a flag on the street for $3 and my husband negotiated from $5. Speaking of streets, the potholes on them have grown in magnitude, and it’s almost hilarious to see all cars from left and right driving at their very extreme side as they all try to avoid the middle of the road riddled with potholes almost as deep as bath tubs

Vending stalls in Mbare, Harare

Despite the semblance of poverty, there are also pockets of affluence all around. People are building big and beautiful houses while being overcharged for building material and services. Zimbabweans have amazing tenacity. Because they have become so used to being swindled, some of them have become spendthrift without even realizing it. People pay ridiculous amounts for something and you are just left flabbergasted. My friend says she’s struggling financially but bought a facial product for $29=R464! I would never buy anything that overpriced. The same product, when on special here, costs R116=$7.25, would you believe it!

Because everything is overpriced, many people have resorted to buying second-hand clothes and shoes, in some cases even underwear, which come in huge bales from Mozambican ports. I had a glimpse at the financial results of a well-known clothing brand and noticed how it had done very badly. I just assumed it was because people were now looking for cheaper options.

Notwithstanding all the challenges being faced at home, I’m still super proud to be called a Zimbabwean, I had a great time with loved ones and was able to recharge my batteries. I will keep praying for better days for Zimbabwe. They will surely come. God hasn’t, can’t have, forgotten us.

Read here for my traumatic trip back to Swaziland.

Anecdotes about township life

Recently some loved ones lost a sister, who was just discovered lying dead in her apartment. She had not complained of an ailment and didn’t do drugs or anything like that. The family was very distressed over what could have happened to her and pinned their hopes on results from the post mortem. Unfortunately the post mortem results were inconclusive, so the family will always wonder what happened to their loved one…

Commenting on this, one of my friends said, “That’s the UK for you, most anti-social country I have ever seen. And if you don’t network, might be a year or more before anyone even notices you are dead. If you are a casual worker, no one will raise the alarm that you’re missing. They will just think you got another job.” That is really quite sad. I was raised in a high density suburb, and a thing like that would never happen. Neighbours are always a stone’s throw away and always keep an eye on the goings-on next door. In my post All about my recent visit to Zimbabwe, I mentioned how communal life is in the area that I was raised. Neighbours actually talk to each other. You don’t get out of your gate and not meet one of the neighbours. If you are sick, they will know about it, because they will ask if you’re OK.

Children playing on the street in Rusape, Zimbabwe

Everybody knows everyone, including their occupation and denomination. Sometimes your occupation would be used as a surname. When I was a child, I remember there was Mbuya Ruredzo Mustawara (Gran Ruredzo the Watchtower. She was actually Jehovah’s Witness but people had their own way of addressing her.) Then there was Smart Mbavha (Smart the thief), and Lizzy Muhure (Lizzy the prostitute). There were times when we got first-time visitors. All they needed to do was get off the bus, approach the nearest vendor and ask if they knew were my family lived. They would immediately be pointed in the right direction. Try doing that at Bree or Manzini rank and you will immediately become laughing stock. Life in “the suburbs” is hostile.  I got new neighbours about five months ago and I don’t even know their faces. I just know their car, which I see driving past my house every day.

My friend Erica said she missed people just rocking up on your doorstep without making appointments, which is almost unheard of now among people of my generation. They expect their parents to let them know in advance that they plan to visit. A mere neighbour doesn’t stand a chance.

There was never a lack of entertainment in the township. News spread like veld fire in the township. It would get really hectic if the news wasn’t so positive for your family, because it spread faster than the funeral ones. If your child got arrested or pregnant, or if your husband was sleeping with some known prostitute, everyone would know. There were many occasions when our parents had to chase us into the house when a prostitute or mistress tore down the street in her birthday suit after being caught in the act by a livid wife who had just arrived from the rural areas. There were also fights between husbands and their wives. I remember our neighbours who always fought and before long the husband would run down the street like a bat out of hell, with the wife in hot pursuit.

Now everyone wants to move away from the high density suburbs because they think staying there is a sign that you have failed in life, you have stagnated. Townships, especially in Zimbabwe, are now associated with filth – inappropriate refuse disposal, rivulets of raw sewage, outbreaks of diarrhoea, noise, and overpopulation.  Back then, things were more orderly and cleaner.

Life was so much safer back then. Now you have to keep your eyes on your child because there sex predators always lurking in the shadows. My husband mentioned how we didn’t really need TV because children could play on the streets until they were dog-tired. Then in the evening they would sleep better than the kids we are raising now. Mine sometimes only fall asleep at 2330 hours!
This is what Ngoni, my friend, had to say about township life: I miss the Ubuntu, the camaraderie and the unity of people. Everyone knows each other, and when you've been away for long and go back home, the whole neighbourhood comes to see you. they want to see how you have changed, what you  would have brought, etc, but in all that curiosity and gossip they do do care about each other."
And care they do! When someone from the neighbourhood dies or loses a loved one, there are women who go around collecting mealie meal and monetary offerings to take to the grieving family. 

I could go on and on about the happenings in the townships and never finish the half of it. Life was good during my time there, and one would certainly not die all alone without anyone noticing for days.

My ghost story

The exact spot where we saw what we thought was a ghost

One night, in 2007, my son’s temperature suddenly soared. I gave him something cold to drink and some paracetamol but both didn’t help much. We decided to take him to a 24-hour clinic a few kilometres from home. Just as we approached the main road after Letombo Spar, Harare, I saw a woman in a long yellow skirt walking in the middle of the road. At first I wasn’t sure what was odd about her, apart from the fact that it was around 2am and she was walking all alone on the road. Then I noticed her gait. It was like she was gliding. There was no movement on or from her feet but she was going forward. When we took the right turn towards town, I observed that she was unperturbed. It was like she did not even hear or see that a car was coming her way, she just kept walking in the middle of the road. I had goosebumps on my arms and felt like there was another peculiar, unwelcome presence.

I didn’t say anything to my husband about my observations, but after our son had been treated and admitted for observation, I asked him if he had seen or experienced anything odd on our way to the clinic. He said he had seen the woman at the Letombo Park robots, and that after we had passed her, he checked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing. Poof, she had disappeared just like that. 

The most fearful journey I ever had

Outside The Royal Belfast Hotel

My trip back to Swaziland after enjoying the festive season in Zimbabwe was quite nightmarish. Somewhere along the way while we were heading towards Jane Furse in South Africa, our car developed a problem and limited speed to just 60km/hour, nothing above that. It got dark and we were on an unfamiliar unlit road for about 60km. at some point, the car must have hit a pothole and veered off the road and zigzagged for a few metres before stabilizing. I noticed that there was a car which was steadily following us all the way and wouldn’t overtake. My husband tried indicating that it was safe to overtake but it just continued to follow us at that slow pace. I was really terrified out of my head and snapped at my 10-year-old who persistently asked me to spell lizard. He had no idea what was happening around him and that my mind was quite a tumultuous place at that point in time. I silently prayed for safety and started removing important things from my handbag while being mindful to leave a bit of money in it, in case we were about to be robbed and the robber would probably just ask for the bag and run with it. A part of me also feared what if they just want to take the car and I’ve put a substantial amount of money, bank cards and driver’s licence in the compartment at the back of a seat? How would I retrieve them? I did not even communicate my fear with my husband because vocalizing them would have probably have worsened our situation by causing panic. Just before a town called Stoffberg, the car tailing us suddenly overtook and sped off into the night. I was, and still really convinced that our lives were under some kind of threat, and was really relieved when the car left us alone. If anything bad had happened to us, it would have been difficult for anyone to know what happened to us because the road was totally deserted.

I suggested to my husband that we used the navigator to find accommodation. There were no visible hotels, but there were some lodges. We tried to go to one but the road leading to it was unlit and untarred. I refused to proceed because we didn’t know the neighbourhood and associated dangers. I insisted that we went to the police station to inquire. The police officer on duty called the one he thought was an option but it was fully booked. He said the nearest place we could get accommodation was in the next town, Belfast, which was about 50 km away. After our episode earlier, I insisted that we put up in the car at the police station. My husband refused and insisted that we went to Belfast. The road was even worse. It was extremely dark and ours was the only car on it. Who knew why other people weren’t using it? What if there was a history of sinister things happening on it? I was back to saying my prayers again.

People get raped and butchered in the comfort of their own homes in South Africa, and there we were moving around in dark places whose history we didn’t even know.  There can’t be worse folly than that. Eventually we got to Belfast and saw an arrow leading to The Royal Belfast Hotel. I had never been so happy to see a building, any building in my life before! Upon getting into the premises, we discovered that it was just a seedy backpacker’s accommodation, nothing at all royal about the place, but who cared! Certainly not me! I’m usually picky about accommodation but I was so thrilled to be off the road, inside a building where I could lock a door!

Inside the 'hotel'. To the right of the wash basin is the toilet

I hope I never have to go through what I went through that day. I remember watching a Steven Segal movie where he left a note for his nemesis written, “The anticipation of death is worse than death itself.” I tell you, if you didn’t know already, feeling endangered is the worst thing ever! We might not have been in danger, but I believe we were. If it were up to me, I’d never have travelled with 2 small kids into the dark night not knowing what dangers were lurking out there. I would have quickly looked for accommodation before sundown. In Shona we say kumhanya hakusi kusvika, rushing isn’t necessarily arriving. I would have gladly put up at the police station. Safety means more to me than comfort. Every time I think about that night, I get shivers down my spine. Who said there’s security in numbers? Sometimes the risk is actually higher than when you are on your own. 

How important are our first languages?

Happy New Year everyone! May 2016 be kind to all of us. I know it’s a bit late to be saying this now after I’ve already posted a few things here. I meant to write about my visit to Zimbabwe during the festive season earlier, but things just keep getting in the way. I will get round to it, there is a lot that happened that I have to talk about.

Relocation to foreign lands has resulted in children who can't speak their parents' home languages

Our recent visit home was the first for my 2-year-old who was born in South Africa, while my 10-year-old was last home in 2011. It was an exciting trip for all of us as family members were keen to see the “new baby”, who they were surprised to find was pretty much old enough to run her own show, and theirs!

I patted myself on the back (just a little bit) when I got home and my children were conversant with our mother language, Shona. Many people were quite amazed as it has become the norm for children coming from the diaspora not to speak or understand their parents’ first language. I am very uncomfortable with that, and a little embarrassed too when the elderly and those that can’t speak English cannot communicate and bond with little relatives living in other parts of the world because of the language barrier. Where a grandmother is supposed to have fun with her grandchildren, she is found biting her tongue and stumbling over her words as she tries to construct a meaningful English sentence. She sees a millipede and wants to excitedly point that to her grandchild who might never have seen one kuti, “Hona zongororo!” (Look at that millipede!) and just ends up saying, “Look! Look!” animatedly because, for the love of God, she doesn’t know the equivalent of zongororo in English. Precious moments are lost and poor grandparents are restricted to just overfeeding their grandchildren, presenting dish after dish of food in front of them with broad smiles on their faces as a way of expressing their love because they can’t talk to each other.

It’s not just the children caught up in this quandary. One day I met a woman I grew up with, and was very excited to see her as it had been long. We hugged and jumped around some, and two minutes into the conversation I discovered we were not speaking the same language anymore. I was speaking in Shona and she kept responding in English. To say I was flabbergasted would be an understatement. She was with her mother, who just stood beside her with a sheepish smile on her face, probably feeling embarrassed for her offspring and wondering what had happened to her flesh and blood’s tongue. I quickly removed myself from my old friend’s presence and realised what we shared before was completely lost L.

Another time, I met a former schoolmate who actually grew up in the rural areas (where people have a richer culture than in cities) but had gone up in the world and was keen to show that off. I greeted her and was again taken aback when not a word of Shona could come out of her mouth. It was utterly shocking! We exchanged numbers and promised to visit each other as we stayed not too far from each other, but as we parted ways, I knew I would not be calling her L. I felt, for the second time, that we did not have any common ground anymore. When in a group with people who do not speak Shona, the polite thing is to speak English, or whatever common language you have with the other people. But to fail to speak Shona amongst ourselves, with nobody else present is ridiculous.

I believe we need to guard our first languages jealously as it is the only thing setting us apart from people from anywhere else in the world. We can be in a room full of fellow Africans and might all look the same, but there has to be that special something that distinguishes us from the rest. Many people find it shameful to speak their languages among people from other countries. Even back home, there are children who can’t speak Shona because their parents prefer it that way. Speaking English is seen as a sign that you’ve progressed, you are doing well in life, and you are classy. I think our children, by all means, should be fluent in English because they have to be able to communicate with people of other nationalities. But they should also be able to speak Shona so that they are able to communicate with their kith and kin. But different strokes for different folks, right? Some people I spoke to said they couldn’t care less that their children could not speak their home languages because they hardly visited their home countries anyway. On the other hand, others, especially those in the West, said they worked extremely long hours and didn’t really have time enough time with their kids to incorporate Shona lessons. That is quite unfortunate. I am fortunate that I have time to teach my children my language, our language, which I am very proud of.

I spoke to a good number of my friends, resident outside Zimbabwe or other countries they come from, about how their children fared regarding the language issue. Below are their responses. I know it’s a lot of reading, but do try to go through all their comments. I found them quite interesting. On that note, I would like to thank all my long-suffering friends who are always willing to be bombarded by my surveys. May God bless you and give you strength and tolerance because I have more surveys up my sleeve for 2016. Love you all <3.

Responses:

Charlene* (Zimbabwean in Qatar): He loves Shona and thinks it’s so fascinating so I try to teach him but I rarely have time for it. What I have done is taught him a couple of songs. He likes to harmonize with me. We are at work most of the time. What I’m grateful for is his keen interest. I hope it stays that way because I find some kids in the diaspora don’t even want to know their languages. They are actually embarrassed. Shona can help them in the future. I’ve seen it firsthand here in Qatar where they employ people according to nationality. If you are employed company isina wekumusha kwako wadzva (where there are no fellow countrymen), you will not survive. Each nationality tries to dominate and kick you or undermine the other, and those that speak same language can help each other progress because the working culture here allows multi languages in office or on site because the whole workforce is made up of foreign nationals. So the more languages one can speak, the better. It’s a bit weird here. Vanoto advertiser kuti “Indian or Nepalese wanted for a position” (They actually run adverts based on nationality).

Sam (Zimbabwean in South Africa): They both speak both languages. My family is Shona and their mother is Sotho from Zimbabwe but they use Ndebele. You know what socio-linguistics say about language acquisitions at a tender age; there is a blank slate on the human brain that is responsible for language acquisition and it’s most effective at a young age.

Seble (Ethiopian in Swaziland): My kids are 7, 4, and 1. I believe they understand a few words of Amharic because they don’t have much exposure to the language. We are very far from home and are exposed to very different languages and culture. We do speak Amharic at home, though. I believe as they grow older, my 4 and 1 year-old will have an understanding and should be able to speak the language. It is up to parents to teach kids because they are very receptive. They must relate to who they are through speaking their home language.

Namatayi (Zimbabwean in the UK): They hear and understand some words. I lived alone with my son from birth so he did not pick up the Shona language as there was no other person in the house for me to converse with. Secondly we live in a country where English is predominantly used. At school it’s all they use. Third, I’m not really bothered whether they speak or hear/understand Shona as they are able to communicate with my mum, relatives and grandparents well even with broken English lol. I speak Shona because I was born in a household where Shona was spoken. I did not have to be taught the language – I just listened when others were talking and I understood and spoke too, whereas I had to be taught English. I have also observed that some kids who are not fluent in English or whose first language is not English tend to be alienated by their peers and some become victims of bullying. I was a bit disturbed when a little girl from Rwanda who goes to Sean’s school was awarded a certificate for “being able to construct a whole sentence in English independently.”

Chiz (Zimbabwean in South Africa): Of course, my kids can speak Shona mainly because it’s strictly Shona at home. They can’t speak deep Shona, though, because even I can’t speak that as well.  They also can’t read it, obviously. And another thing, whenever I go home, people are surprised that my kids can speak Shona. I don’t know what all the fuss is about, but I get all the praises for that.

Wunmi (Nigerian in South Africa): my kids can understand about 70% of my home language but they can’t speak it. I do encourage them to, but due to laziness they don’t. I think lack of consistency on my part is the reason why my kids don’t speak and understand the language 100%. We speak to them in English and not in Yoruba. We should have also have, from birth, made the language of communication in the house Yoruba.

Esnath (Zimbabwean in South Africa): Yes, she can speak and I think she understands 100%. Accent is a bit funny but it’s ok. What really helped is that we got a helper from Zimbabwe and my daughter believed that helper could not understand English. As a result she made sure to speak Shona whenever she conversed with her. And it’s like that up to today. I think speaking Shona helps with identity and it will also be cool 15 years from now when she meets another Shona speaker from HarvardJ.

Wilbright (Zimbabwean in South Africa): They can speak Shona, but not fluently. They don’t understand much of it. They can’t write in Shona and they also don’t know the meanings of most words. I should say they will be in a position to communicate with elders but not too deeply. Only one reason to them not being able to speak is that they didn’t grow up among Shona-speaking people and their friends at home and at school speak English. They speak a bit because they hear us speaking at home and at church.

Jasper (Zimbabwean in South Africa): She can speak very good Shona, but sometimes it’s broken and she mixes up words. There are a lot of Shonas in the area we stay, so it makes it easy for her to practice speaking the language. If she’s playing with a Shona and a Xhosa, she will use the mother language of each of them when talking to them. Next year she will be going to an Afrikaans school so she can have an advantage.

Mary (Zimbabwean in the UK): She can’t. And how I so wish she could! She understands some words. She can’t speak because she is cared for by Ghanaian twins for 80% of the time. So she speaks fluent English, limited understanding of Shona and limited understanding of Twi. I have been told to speak to her in Shona till she gets it. I take her to Zimbabwe every year for her to learn. But the people at home all default to English when communicating with her even when I ask them not to.

Rumbi (Zimbabwean in Mozambique): They speak and understand a little but if it becomes too deep, it’s difficult for them to understand. The reason is they were born in Bulawayo; language is Ndebele though at home we encouraged them to speak Shona, but because of schools, they are comfortable with English. We moved again to Swaziland and the school being English medium, they stick to English. And now in Maputo where first language is Portuguese, they are trying to master it too.

A monument at Save Bridge, Mozambique

Daniel (Zimbabwean in South Africa): Now they understand some words and say a few words. The big problem was the crèche spoke English and Afrikaans and he obviously spent quite a bit of time there. So when Bradley was younger we had to speak English for him to understand us and also help him with his English, but now we speak Shona and he understands but can’t speak all the words. The little one’s comprehension of Shona is better and faster because we all speak it, including her brother.

Rejoice (Zimbabwean in South Africa): My children can speak a little, but they understand and reply in English. Their father instructed them to speak Shona indoors and English outdoors.

Sekai (Zimbabwean in SA): All my kids can speak Shona and they understand it, I think it’s because we use Shona at home. They are not exposed to any other language at home except English and Shona. Not speaking our language harms our culture.

Miriam (Zimbabwean in Botswana): my kids understand Shona and English but it seems now it’s easier for them to use English even at home. First two years I teach Shona and when they start crèche I start English. Because they will be struggling, I also try and help at home but I notice the second born had it easier because of the older sister. Shona may somewhat become like a second language because English becomes more dominant after they start school. I would love them to be able to communicate with our countrymen, both young and old when we go back to Zimbabwe.

Chinga (Zimbabwean in South Africa): My daughter understands Shona very well but she can’t speak it.

Ottilia (Zimbabwean in South Africa): They can both speak Shona. I have taught them so they know my language. However, it’s broken at times, plus deep words havanzwe (they don’t understand).

Fortunate (Zimbabwean in South Africa): Ryan does speak and understand layman’s Shona though he prefers English and isiZulu. The funny thing is I know he doesn’t enjoy speaking Shona but hey I do force him.

Leslie (Zimbabwean in South Africa): They can speak and understand Shona. This is because we speak Shona at home.

Farikanai (Zimbabwean in Namibia): My kids understand but they can’t speak Shona. I talk to them in Shona but they answer back in English. They even have British accents kkkkk because they learn with whites. I think it’s inborn for them. Havadi (they don’t like) Shona kkkk. I think it’s because they are still young. When they are grown they’ll love Shona I’m sure.

Vongai (Zimbabwean in South Africa): Mine can speak and understand but have not been exposed to writing it. Speaking as well is not so perfect because exposure is only at home where we are mixing with English as we are used to communicating with people of various languages.

Chido's musings

Five-year-old  poet and short-story writer Chido Sowa

My friend Mary has the most adorable daughter ever! Her name is Chido, five years old, and she fancies herself a writer and poetJ. I’m keeping my ears to the ground she will bring us a Pulitzer Prize one day.  Here is some of her work, with very minimal editing to preserve the aesthetic quality of Chido's musings.

A poem about queens

Queens are royal because they have crowns and money

Like Queen Boudicca, Queen Elizabeth and all queens in the world

My mummy is the queen of the house and I am the princiss

A poem about planets

There are nine planets

Their names are Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars,

Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto

Those are the planets

Some are bad for you.

You can’t breathe and some you can

Some are dark and have moons

The best of all is Earth

I love Earth

All the planets lit my earthly sky in winter

I love doing poems

A poem about my family

My family is nice

When I have a mess they help me.

When I need them to help me with something that’s hard

They help me

Cut your paper

Make a rose

Make and blow

Make sure it fly like a kite

Put a hole for the ribbon

And it fly all around the place and world

To the top of the cloud

Like a boat

Floating around the world

 Let's see who manages to make sense of the story below :). I did!

A Story about Charlie the Chick

Once upon a time where was a chick called Chalie one day he went out on the farm he said this “maybe I should go for a walk then when mummy Hen wake 123456 where is Charlie. “oh I have to find  Charlie maybe  Mr Fox ate him he is trap maybe I ask Mrs donkey kid stay here and off she went Mrs donkey “have you seen Charlie yes where is he in that  party over there thank you but there come Mr fox he going to eat there there’s a trap that let him step on it it to late let do another trap yeah it worked come on Charlie OK mum don’t do that Charlie OK but I wanted a walk but you have to tell me OK I won’t do it again a were are you going for a walk no OK mum thank you

Happy 10th Birthday Victor!!

THIS month on the 12^th, my son Victor turned 10.  What a ride it has been! As I mentioned in this post last year, his birthdays are always very emotional for me. A dark cloud engulfs me as I keep wondering if there is something I could have done to stop the autism. I vomited a lot during his pregnancy and my gynaecologist prescribed medication to stop the vomiting fearing I would miscarry. I can’t help wondering if the meds are what caused the autism. I also had a difficult delivery. At 40 weeks, there were no signs of labour whatsoever. The doctor decided I would have to be induced, which was done on the night of January 11^th, I was induced. Whatever was used had no effect at all. I only vomited but there was no progress with regards to labour. They upped the dosage, and in due course, the pain set in. I only vaguely remember the pain, everything is all blur. Eventually, after 12 hours of labour and no progress, Victor was delivered via emergency C section.The fact that I don’t remember much torments me. I wonder if something went wrong during the labour to cause the autism, or if the prolonged labour caused it, or if the gynaecologist was negligent in some way… endless and countless scenarios playing in my head. Anyway, it is what it is. No amount of thinking will take away the autism.  I know I should channel my energy towards things that count, like helping him with his social skills and school work. I believe I have really tried, though I don’t feel I have done my utmost best. There is a lot that still needs to be done. He can now read simple books, a feat I never thought he would achieve any time soon. Every time I heard him read, my heart falls short of leaping through my heart for joy. It swells with pride and gratitude to the One above. And he understands what he reads. I always follow up with questions to assess comprehension and see that he’s on top of itJ.

In Swaziland we don’t really know many people. We live a reclusive life: no one visits us, and we don’t visit anyone. I kind of like it that way, although I miss having a social life too. Being around people and especially neuro-typical kids can be very harrowing. That’s when we really get to see how different he is from the rest – from the way he talks, plays and relates to the world around him. You listen to other 10-year-olds speak and you are so bamboozled and think, “What? Is this what 10-year-olds talk about? Is that how they think?!” It’s as if you don’t have your own 10-year-old at home. It can get very heartbreaking. You see someone with younger kids just tell them to go and change and they come back ready to go, and you have to assist a much older boy with everything. When you’re alone in your little corner, with no basis for comparison, it doesn’t bother you at all. It’s your daily life and you’ve gotten used to it. But when you see that that’s not how everybody lives and your life is way harder than most, you do shed a tear or two. People say don’t compare your child with others, but that’s easier said than done. You see things, hear things, and think things, and you can’t help wishing… It’s inevitable.  

There are also some hallelujah moments when I see that what happened to my son is not the absolute worst thing to happen to a child. He is intellectually slower than most of his peers and his motor skills are poorer, but he is not incapable of learning. He is quite in touch with the world around him in his own way, he can go to the loo by himself and can tell me when he is not feeling well and where it hurts. Other autistic children cannot do all that. I have mothers in my circle who are having a really tough time with the debilitation that comes with autism, a tougher time than mine, I have to admit. While I struggle with my hyper-verbal son, they yearn to hear their children say, “mom” for the first time, and some of these children are in their teens. Research has indicated that about 40% of people with autism will not be able to speak. So I am aware that I have to be grateful, it could have been worse. But I will not stop wanting more for my son.

The comparisons are the least of my worries when I travel with Victor, as I recently did during the festive season. Some people have the worst attitude towards autism. More often than not, it is those closest to you that say the most atrocious things that make you say, “Jeez, why on earth did I even visit?” Unfortunately my relationship with such people makes it difficult to tell them off the way I would want to. I, however, say things in my heart that would make them zip their mouths if they could see what’s in it. There are also good, sensitive people who, when they see the negative behaviour that sometimes accompanies autism, simply reprimand Victor as they would their own kids, or ask me how to deal with him. I feel at ease with such people.  Others just don’t say a thing, even though I know they are probably saying a lot in their hearts, or just enduring some quiet bewilderment. I also respect them, although I feel asking questions so that you can have a better understanding of the situation could be a better option. I know they do have questions. I’m happy to address them. What I can’t handle is people running their mouths commenting on him and how I should feel and all sorts of nasty things.

The purpose of this post is not to rant and rave, but to shine the light on autism, and how misunderstood the condition is. It is also to let my son know (since he can read now, WHOOP WHOOP!!) that he will never be alone as long as I’m here, and to other parents walking the same path, a luta continua! No retreat no surrender!

Fly high Veronica Mhere

I am extremely sad to be writing an obituary so early in the year. I was quite upset to receive word on the passing of someone I knew just a little, but who touched my life in a big way and she did not even know it.  Veronica Mhere-Dzinomurumbi was one of my sister’s closest friends from high school. We knew her well before we met her from stories that my sister, Tadiwa, told about her. Eventually I met her and she struck me as this exuberant character, and that explained why she had made such an impact on my sister.

Strange that I should be writing about my sister’s friend who I only had minimal contact with, but she made a generous gesture that I shall never forget. For someone who wasn’t really my friend, we had quite a few things in common. We got married during the same year and wore the same wedding dress because she lent me hers. It was gorgeous and fit like a glove. I dazzled on my wedding day, thanks to her. My mother-in-law, a traditional woman, had her work cut out for her pulling and tugging the dress on the special day because the dress showed too much skin as far as she was concerned J. In the run-up to the wedding, it felt like I was being overtaken by events because I had been denied leave to prepare. When the dress was offered, I quickly snapped it because I was clueless where to get one quickly. I was prepared to pay for it, but Vero refused to accept the money. That also meant a lot to me because with the wedding around the corner, the coffers were running dry and we were trying to pinch pennies wherever we could. I remember buying her a peach bed cover after my wedding, just to say thank you.  She also offered the cake stands. Every time I peruse my wedding photos, I will remember this fantastic woman.

Veronica and I shared August 2 as our birthday, and our first-born children were also born on the same day, January 12. I’m sad for her child who only just turned 10 and has lost a mother. It’s always heartbreaking when a young mother dies. May the good Lord watch over her precious children. They must have been the one thing on her mind when she took ill and knew she would not make it. My heart really bleeds for her and the kids, as it does for every mother that leaves her brood.

I have written this post with hopes that one day, when her kids are old enough to surf the net, they can see yet another testimony of what a lovely human being their mom was, and hopefully emulate. I

know they will get many other versions of her beautiful spirit from other sources. 

Veronica’s death has taught me to appreciate every waking moment, every day that I wake up and my children say, “Good morning mummy.” There is so much to be depressed about in life, but the fact that we are here now - the gift of life far outweighs all the negatives. Sleep peacefully Veronica, I pray for your soul, and I pray for the loved ones you left behind, especially the children. The world is a much poorer place without you in it.