Reality Slap!

Five days from today I will be in plane headed home after four years of being away. It is a difficult trip with a mixed bag of emotions. So let me pen it out a bit and ease the pressure before I go insane.

See my September has been a rollercoaster of emotions, one minute I am excited and happy I will finally get to see my family and all those beautiful landscapes of my motherland that i have so dearly missed. l will get to sleep in my room again, see my childhood friends have real food, beautiful sunrises, breathtaking sunsets, wildlife etc, the list is endless.

Then the next minute I am shivering and reaching for the blankets afraid to face the misery of it all, the poverty at home, the depreciated infrastructure, the economic hardships, the battered souls, everything and anything l ran from six years ago. Will I cope?

I am afraid of those coming to embrace me with a smile with the hope of me upgrading their lives materialistically even if just for a day. I cannot, I am but just a student.

l am afraid of going back and not being able to fit in no matter how hard I try to camouflage myself. Will my misfit behaviour no longer be labeled as different but arrogant now that I have been away for a while?

I am afraid of being me and voicing out my opinions on some of our cultural practices, and offending family in the process.

I am afraid of so many things…

Anyway, moving on

So last week l decided to escape to England and visit my sister for a bit until my travel dates were near. l had started loosing sleep due to my stress levels. Pulling all strings of my budget tight to allocate as much as I could for the home trip. Getting as much work done as i could to give myself enough time to enjoy the time i will spend home. Studying hard to try to compensate for those 3 weeks i will be away. My planning OCD didn’t help either, see with me everything is always meticulously planned. Everything also means a detailed plan B, C, D and E incase A doesn’t work. So yes l was definitely loosing it, thank God for the England getaway.

While here l have refused to acknowledge or entertain anything and everything reminding me of the trip. The only significant thing i did was to go and get a short tapered haircut ( the naturalista movement girls out there know!). By the way my sister aint very pleased about it, she feels my sophisticated haircut makes me ooze of a gay vibe and the family will be gob smacked and totally fail to recognise me at the airport, I mean this is the first time I have cut my hair in six years. Fail to recognise me? Please!!! I will start world war three single-handedly! Better not try that with me!!!!!

So yea,

it’s not easy being the girl from Bulawayo. On top of that I have to gear myself up for my two different lifestyles I lead when in Zimbabwe. See at home my life is equally divided into two halves, moms family versus dads family and weirdly enough they are the extreme opposites. So in a nutshell half of my holiday will be spent lounging around the different mansions, chilling by the pool going for game drives and just living the life. And the other half will be spent in constant worry, living from hand to mouth, hustling for the next meal and trying to survive. Both of these worlds are me and i have come to accept that at the moment everything is beyond me to bring these two in unison. But hey i am the libra in the family, one day is one day.

Okay so putting all my whining aside, today I got a reality slap. So real so deep I had to observe a minute of silence. One of my brothers, the eldest has up to now not been on social media. So today out of the blue, he appeared on my whatsapp and we had the usual brother sister banter. After the chat, i decided to check his profile picture. By the way i have not seen any image of my brother in six years. We just communicate on the phone, and you can imagine how deep that moment was. That one picture summarized my brothers last six years for me in one phrase. The Zimbabwean Struggle.

Staring back at me was a middle-aged Zimbabwean man, father to five. Skin singing tales of the savannah sun, eyes telling of a bitter truth, a life lived in struggle. But despite all the hardship that was embroidered on that face, the expression was happy.  How do they do that?

That picture was a reality slap for me, it vividly reminded me of how I came to study in Europe and of the cushioned life I have lived ever since. What will i say to him in a few days when i look at him? How do i even look him in the eye? Why is the world such a unlevel playing field? Why is my country in such a mess?

I am bleeding, and I don’t know to handle it. I am at a loss for words, my heart is breaking but I can not cry when i see them now can i. For i know only joy and sound of ululating will await me at the gates. Shall i wear mask while i die a thousand deaths inside? How,? How do you undertake a trip like this?

Oh well, love can only prevail right?

and where there is love there is hope and where there is hope there is a future.

Love will prevail.

Where there is love there is Hope

Where there is Hope there is a Future.




The Lifestyle Choice of an immigrant

This week I am in Manchester, spending some much needed family time with my sister and  niece. Something happened though this afternoon and again i found myself perched in a corner zooming out and pondering on the topic that had been thrown at me.

The lifestyle choice of an immigrant.

We had driven down to visit this older Zimbabwean lady, who has lived and worked in England for years now. She has a great home, spacious, modern and tasteful and she was unapologetically Zimbabwean. From the minute we walked in, she spoke our Mother language in its original tone, no alterations whatsoever. She handled herself in an original manner, like a woman still at home. In a nutshell she has not allowed her geographical location to change her, she has adapted yes, but she is who she is. It got me thinking.

While l was still in awe of such strength to be unapologetically you, they started to talk about the behaviour of fellow immigrants who choose to isolate themselves from everything Zimbabwean and of how those individuals tend to fall prey to drug addiction, depression and all that mess which is considered a white people’s thing in our culture. Even though I don’t share the same sentiments, it got me thinking. It got me thinking of where I stand as a person.

So basically there is two lifestyle choice extremes for most immigrants and everything in between. You either get to a foreign land, adapt and integrate into the society and have your “white friends” ” white habits” and bury everything and anything that links you to your roots. I will call this extreme end one. At extreme end one you will find those individuals that take it to the deep end and are embarrassed and nauseated by being linked to their background in any way. And then there is the other extreme end, extreme end two, the one with immigrants who get to a foreign land but stick to their own, speak only their language, buy only from their shops and basically live in a foreign land as if they are still in their own country.

Both extremes have their positives and negatives, and I try not to judge either although I have my strong feelings towards both. I believe you should maintain a balance, be open-minded enough to adapt and integrate into your new environment but at the same time not lose your identity and uphold your roots. Or maybe that’s just a libra trait, always wanting to keep the balance.

Today though as they spoke, I wondered, so where do we draw the line. Where is the cut off point of the perfect lifestyle choice of an immigrant.

I perused through my immigrant chapters. During my time in South Africa, I never hid my identity but people always assumed I was a local, and this meant no control stops from the police for me. This even played in my favor as a safety net during the xenophobic attacks on Zimbabweans at the time.  So yea i noticed i was mistaken for something i was not and i let it be because it played out in my favor. And i am also aware of the hate speech given to individuals who act this way by my people and at that time i was willing to take the punch.

Fast forward to Germany… I would love to believe the years of dating my German ex were viewed as leaning more towards extreme end one. But yet again for me, the person in the situation, all I noticed was me adjusting my lifestyle to the compromise levels of a relationship needed to make it work. Everything had to be neutral enough for both of us not to be exposed to any dominant extreme. And after the breakup when I reverted to my habits at no compromise level, my connections from end one believed i had flipped to extreme end two. So it’s all a matter of perspective really.

So even though what people say is not relevant, because you live for yourself and not for people. For me, the question still stands, where does the perfect point lie on this curve?

How much of a foreign culture can I incorporate before diluting my own culture?

Up to what level do I mix in my indigenous flair?

Where is the perfect equilibrium? lf only there was an equation for this.

I havent found the answer yet, but hopefully one day I will strike the balance.

Its not a sprint, but rather a marathon

“it’s not a sprint , but rather a marathon.”

Said a friend to me this morning, and the minute he said it, l knew l had to record these words, repeat them over and  over again, until they were embedded in my very soul.

It was a much needed reminder for each and every one of us as we go along this life. How cool would life be for all of us, if we kept this in mind. Many at times we are kept awake at night, troubled about our lagging progress, worried about how our counterparts seem to be progressing steadily in this race called life, but alas, remember it’s a marathon.

We all have different strengths, different abilities, different lanes and more often different start times. Hence it is important to keep our eyes on the finish line and neither look left nor right, for life is an individual race.

Comparison is a thief of joy! Never make the mistake of comparing yourself, for we are all not the same. We are all destined for different things and the sooner you realize that the better life will be for you.

As for me, l will continue to strive to be

  • patient, gentle and kind to myself
  • not compare myself
  • & be the best person l can be


Exactly a year ago from today l started my Blog and it has been quite a journey.

Why blog?
1. Paper listens. Paper is patient. Paper is dynamic. Paper offers an escape. Hence l always pen my heart out on here.

2. As the very opinionated petty individual that l am, who is always lost in thought, l figured l should let the world into a figment of my mind.

3. Talking to paper is quite therapeutic for me, and if you know me then you know how eventful my life always is. Hence time and again l need to detox.

4. If you have grumpy for a nickname, sharing your opinions will mostly be painted with that brush. Paper on the other hand doesn't stick labels on you.

5. There is just something about words.

How has it been?
When l started l imagined l would write a blog every week. Fast forward to a year later, this will be entry number twenty. I have so much l want to talk about but believe me you l have deleted so many drafts. It is not easy putting yourself and your emotions out there like that. l am not as brave as l thought l am. Maybe l should have gone with ghost mode, but yet again maybe this keeps me human.

How will it be?
We pen on.
There is such power in words and
am proud to be actively part of a generation involved in a dynamic art of writing.

Above all else it is all about the other blogs l come across on a daily basis. My eyes have been opened to a whole new world and day by day l discover just how vast and magnificent this world is through the eyes of other bloggers.

…we pen on!

She is!

                      “Just making sure you know when u go back im coming with, 

                                       but I will be kicking and screaming.”

Said her to l

She is one of the persons l am blessed with

But today l want to talk about how she sees me

Where all others are too scared to step up and say something

She will

She will be the one to say, l see you

She will be the one to say, l feel you

Though they may all see me drowning

Though they may all see the light die in my eyes

She will be the one to say, fine then am drowning with

She will be the one to turn her own bright light off and say, fine lets sit in the dark till you can face day. Let me not torment you with my own flame

& sit she will

Be it days or weeks

Never failing

Never tiring

Never nagging

Never complaining

& sit we will till my shadow has passed

& sit we will till l can face daylight again

On those dark days where l have been failed by own strength

When l have reached my limit

When l tell them l have not left the house in 3 days

When they will continue with the conversation like l said nothing

Either not hearing my cry for help or simply overwhelmed by the weight am putting on their already burdened plates

She, hears me

No matter how faint the whisper

She picks it up

She may not make a sound

But in that silence

She moves and holds me

l see you, she says

I feel your pain, she laments

Hold on, she says

For we are in this together

& she stays

& she holds my hand

Till the morning has broken
When its now so deep you begin to question lf you are gay

Just because she is consistent

Every Single Time

Roller coaster after roller coaster she cruises, if l were to tell you of the things we have lived through

When the going gets tough she will let me take life decisions for her and she for l.

Did l tell you at some point l am going to mother her child

Yea, its that deep


That day when we sat in a room amock with clutter everywhere and she only could take back 30kg of her her German life with her. When after 5 Rounds of packing, sorting and throwing away stuff. She walked out, blinded by tears, and left me to do it

That moment was life defining for me. She found the cases closed and took them like that. Thats how much she entrusted me with her life

You have to be a woman first to understand how deep this is, to let someone pack your suitcase for you for a one way journey, with no return.

Oh we have done it all. We have had the most. Partied like Kings. With no cent to our names. Karioked like pope stars with our frog voices. Oh yes and all that too… Trotted around the globe with our non existent budget

You have not known life lf you have not cried simultaneously over miles

Only because the other is bereaved

You have not known life lf you haven’t woken up with a lump in your throat and a giddy feeling in your stomach, only to find out the other person is in distress

You have not known life lf you haven’t discovered telepathy
Surely we live among angels

How can one person always see you

How can one person always be there


How can one person always look over your flaws

& love you irregardless of them

How can one person be bold enough to say that which shakes the hinges of friendship and never doubt the power of the pillars that hold them

How can one person never get tired

How can one person never give up on you

How can one person hold the strength of a thousand man

They may all be amazing, but surely there is a Usain Bolt in your turf

I am convinced that God sent us all down with our guardian angels, each and every one of us

No words can ever describe how l feel
…when u go back im coming with...”

Schwarz sein in Deutschland (Being Black in Germany: German Version)

Rasse ist ein sehr sensibles Thema, welches die Menschen oft  vorsichtig und verunsichert reagieren lässt. Aber dennoch müssen wir unbedingt darüber reden!

Ganz oft habe ich versucht, meine Gefühle zu diesem Thema zu äußern, aber die Angst vor kontroversen Reaktionen der Menschen hat mich meist zurückgehalten.

Aber heute, nachdem ich mich im Zug auf einen freien Sitzplatz schräg gegenüber einer älteren Dame hinsetzte, und Sie unmittelbar aufstand, um sich für den Rest der 40min Fahrt lieber zu den Fahrrädern hockte, wurde wieder mal etwas in mir berührt.

Einen Moment dachte ich, einfach weg zugehen. Dann überlegte ich Sie anzusprechen.

Hab ich Sie erschreckt?

Hab ich üblen Körpergeruch vom einen langenTag?

Mag Sie Ausländer nicht?

Oder vielleicht wollte Sie nur alleine Sitzen, warum auch immer.

Genau in diesem Moment, wusste ich, dass dieser Blog ist überfällig.

Schauen wir zurück in die Zeit wo ich mich entschieden habe nach Deutschland zu gehen. In meiner Heimat, verbindet man Deutschland unweigerlich mit der Nazi Geschichte. Umso erstaunter waren meine Mitmenschen über meinen Plan in dieses Land zu gehen.

Ganz ehrlich, mich hat diese Tatsache nicht davon abgehalten in Deutschland zu leben und tut es immer noch nicht. Von außen werden die Deutschen nach ihren ernsten Gesichtern und ihrer korrekten Arbeitsweise beurteilt. Sobald man Sie kennengelernt hat, sind Sie eigentlich auch ohne viel lächeln warmherzige Menschen.

Überall auf der Welt wird es immer  Rassismus, Vorurteile und Diskriminierung von Minderheiten geben, da es immer Fremdheit und Unverständnis geben wird.

Aber ich sehe auch, dass Rassismus gegenüber Farbigen hier in Deutschland anders ist als der Rassismus in Amerika, wo die Polizei uns mit Aufnahmen von Körper-Kameras oder Dashboard-Kameras ständig erschreckt und präsent ist. Hier in Deutschland  kommt mir Rassismus schleichend und unauffällig leiser entgegen.

Viele meiner deutschen Freunde sind ausdrücklich schockiert wenn ich so Etwas sage. Aber ich sag euch, egal ob Sie es glauben oder nicht, Rassismus ist überall.  Man muss erst diskriminiert werden, um es zu spüren und es zu verstehen:

Fahre im Bus oder  Zug und du wirst immer als Erste von der Polizei kontrolliert werden, egal wo du sitzt.

Erlebe eine Fahrkartenkontrolle und du wirst immer im Gesicht des Kontrolleurs die Erwartung sehen: Sie hat keine Fahrkarte.

Setz dich irgendwohin zu anderen Menschen und du wirst erleben wie Sie plötzlich aufstehen, dumme Äußerungen machen und durch ihre Körpersprache wie Beine kreuzen oder Rücken zuwenden deutlich machen, das du nicht willkommen bist.

Besuche ein angesehenes Geschäft und du kannst sicher sein plötzlich und ungefragt einen ständigen Begleiter aus dem Sicherheitsbereich neben dir zu haben.

Checke nach einer Reservierung in einem besseren Hotel ein, und du wirst mit ziemlicher Sicherheit wiederholt nach deiner tatsächlichen Identität gefragt werden.

Try it, try…. Try …..try….

Wir alle behandeln andere Menschen rassistisch- oft ohne es zu bemerken. Ich auch.

Mit dem was mir begegnet, habe ich meinen persönlichen Weg gefunden damit umzugehen. Ich versuche so unauffällig wie möglich aufzutreten und keine Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen. Trete ich aus dem Haus, nehme ich die Rolle einer Schauspielerin ein. Ich mache es Harry Potter nach, ziehe eine Decke über den Kopf und wandle unsichtbar wie ein Geist durch den Tag.

Deshalb ganz wichtig: mein Motto, wenn in Rom, tue wie die Römer.

Manchmal frage ich mich, ob der lautstarke Rassismus im Vergleich zu dieser subtilen stillen Art leichter zu ertragen ist. Aber das ist eine Frage für einen anderen Tag,  und einen anderen Blog,

Für Heute, soviel zu meinem Leben als Schwarze in Deutschland.

Being Grateful

My last week has been one of those filled with moments that allowed me to slow down, ponder for a bit and put things into perspective.

Gosh we have to be grateful!

So it all started as l was taking a walk down by the Dublin canal. Being the hopeless romantic that l am, l am a sucker for such tranquil moments. And it was during such a moment as l basked on a bench, coffee in one hand, watching the people go about their busines, that l had a serious flashback.

Suddenly l was in my room, in our four roomed house in Nkulumane, a location in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Perched on my bed with my diary in one hand and a book l had just finished reading next to me on the bed. l cant remember which one as such because l read anything and everything l could get my hands on back then, lf only my diary had survived l would have checked my read list. But thats a story for another day.

Anyway l suddenly remembered how at that point, studying abroad, going for adventures in different countries, having the luxury to sit on a bench and watch people or read a book, cycling through a forest, going for jogs, participating in color runs or marathons, indulging in healthy diets, having my own unshared space, etc. The list is endless. All these things used to be but just a dream at some point in my life. They used to be things l desired and which l wished to grow into.
Fast forward to ten fifteen years later, and here l am. l have all of that and more. But why then am l so miserable. Complaining about the weather, no sleep, the food, being overworked, etc. Like really though. 

I think at times, we as humans are responsible for our misery with our unending hunger. It is wonderful to aim higher, It is important to tap into ones potential until we have exhausted our limits, but let us not let that keep us from being grateful. 

Because each time we achieve a step, our eyes automatically look higher and we begin yet again to ascend to that which we have seen beyond. But let it not keep us from being grateful for what we have achieved. 

l choose to be grateful, yes l am only human l will always complain, but looking down the road l have come. l should take several seats, stop making much ado about nothing, let go and let God.

Time will set you free.


Time will always eventually run out!

When you have been patient enough, but waited in vain.

When you had hoped, but unfortunately in vain.

When you have tried, but to no avail.

All the sleepless nights.

All the shattered dreams.

The troubled mind.

The misery of it all.

At last the time is up.

I can be content knowing, l tried, l fought, l waited, l was patient.

Time can finally set me free.


 I have a renewed affection for this word. Silence. 

As the year broke, the older me did not reach for journals for the usual resolutions. As much as l love writing, planning and dreaming, this year l just let go.

However here we are eleven days into the year and l have caught myself acting differently. It’s like l have this new attitude to life and l am finally presenting myself in a way l have always desired. 

Silence at last. 

Last year was such a noisy,busy and hectic year. So much was happening simultaneously. I revisited old paths, hoping to take that satisfactory walk they once offered. It didn’t work, those similar curves and views only drained me more. 

I ventured onto new ones, and was thrilled from the taste of something new, something different, something alien. But just like anything new the unknown corners trip me and keep me guessing.

When l was young, l was always so fascinated by those quiet girls. Those capable of going through the day with only nods and grimaces. To this day l always play a game with myself when l meet new people. I always try and act the queit girl who has not much to say to see how long l can keep up the act, but alas l always catch myself being my talkative bubbly self, interrogating the people with unending questions and going on and on about the world. Gosh how annoying l must be.

Anyway finally this year l find myself in the much desired silence. I guess it was not the queit character l yearned for, but inner peace, tranquil and silence.

Nowadays l enjoy nothing more like my company. Am at piece with me myself and l. I am learning to improve myself and work on my dreams behind those closed doors. I am learning to separate myself from the unnecessary noise and drama. Am learning to appreciate those few good friends l have. I am learning to separate myself from toxic environments, because at the end of the day it’s unnecessary 


l do not know how to talk about this without coming off as arrogant and highly opinionated. But then again this is me and l cannot hold silence anymore.

The issue at hand is of the hands of my fellow Africans, specifically those from this one particular country in the West. *Big sigh

I need answers guys. Those hands speak volumes. What are they subjected to that hardens their hands to that extent? Maybe let me put a little disclaimer upfront for my sensitive folk, ´not all of them okay, just a few individuals here and there´.

Its as if they are made to grow up digging graves with their bare hands l swear.

Growing up in Zimbabwe, l did a lot of manual work too, and l definitely knew the contrast between my hands and those of a higher class child who did not do much work. I also knew my place in comparison to that village child who had to labor from sunrise to sunset. But alas, these hands are on another level.

Most at times l will be in the train minding my own business when my fellow brother or sister from another mother takes a sit across me, and believe me not, those hands are always the first thing l notice. Sometimes, they are so dry l almost want to reach for my hand-cream and offer it to them, but then again the thought of being embarrassed or put in my place as a miss too goody two shoes restrains me. On one particular day it happened when l was with my friend, and astonishingly enough when we left the tram,the first words we exchanged were, “did you see those hands?”

Gosh l need answers, somebody, anybody, please!!!

What is the story behind?

l need answers.