The flames rage. They say they purify.
The fire does not refine as it does with gold.
The fire scorches, the smoke chokes,
The smell lingers, for generations. It clings to everything.
They strike the match, pour paraffin.
They know the fire colors everything black,
They want the fire to color it black.
They are the winds that fuel the fire,
They stoke the fire & with the poker etch the soul.
Then they paint over the black,
& praise themselves.
I think about being a Zimbabwean and I seethe. Of all the nationalities I could have been, I am Zimbabwean. I am Zimbabwean, twice. My maternal and paternal citizenship is Zimbabwean. Zimbabwe has taken so much from me and it continues to do so, without batting an eyelid. Being a Zimbabwean is like living within the trajectory of a pendulum, oscillating between states of hope and hopelessness. Zimbabwe creates hope and just as you start to believe that perhaps there is an opportunity for something better, that hope is quickly destroyed. It’s not the destruction but also the manner in which the hope is destroyed. It is an incredibly violent process.
Nothing never just is in Zimbabwe, anywhere really, but more so in Zimbabwe. The money is not money. The simple things are marred in obstacles. It is so difficult to separate Zimbabwe from those who rule it. Like a fungus does, dysfunction has penetrated every single Zimbabwean celebration, culture and system and stamped its presence. And just as fungi proliferates at an exponential rate, the dysfunction has spread to the personal.
I am a Zimbabwean. I am not one of those Zimbabweans who would choose Zimbabwe again if they could. I would run, far and fast. I would choose life. Even though I dream, Zimbabwe is all I have, I have no claim to any other citizenship. I so desperately want to belong, somewhere, anywhere. Legally, Zimbabwe is where I belong. Nobody can question that, nobody should question that. But the Zimbabwean government continues to defy all logic. My belonging is continually questioned, as though there is one way to be Zimbabwean. The audacity to police citizenship. This attitude translates to service delivery and the view my people have of their citizenship. “Ngokwabo”, “Kabayenze khona eHarare,” “Yizinto zabo.” Gukurahundi weighs so heavily in our community. The disappeared loved ones, the unmarked graves, the lack of access to documentation, the emigration. Gukurahundi continues.
We raise the banner in defiance.
We raise it, to take back Zimbabwe.
We fly the flag to claim our country.
We raise the flag because it is ours.
We fly it high, and proud.
We lift up the banner to signal who we are.
To find one another.
The flag binds us together, until we can be home again.
My heart is pulled to many different places. My heart is in Canada with my sister, Germany with my brother, South Africa with my brother, UK with my brother, Zimbabwe with my loved ones. My body is in Malawi with my work. I want to piece my heart together again, but a visa on a Zimbabwean passport is like winning the lottery. Once in a while, our schedules will sync and we’ll hop on a Zoom call together. At 2AM, I will laugh my heart out loud, I will speak to those to whom my heart belongs. Then I will cry, for everything I have lost and everything I still have.
Perhaps it is time to accept that Zimbabwe has never been what I hope it was. The innocence of childhood afforded me the privilege to imagine a peaceful and enjoyable Zimbabwe. If I let go of this imagined Zimbabwe, what then will I hold on to? This is my way of creating hope, of creating an elusive dream to chase and aspire to.
I am grateful for the privilege to move between countries as I try to find a place that will allow me to call it home. Till I find the home I so desperately long for, I will always boldly pack my suitcase and try again. I will always keep Zimbabwe in my heart, I will be cautious about how I keep Zimbabwe in my heart. When I feel the hope for returning home, I will keep in mind that home has never been homely for me or mine.
Home is a choking weed.
A vine that strangles, suffocates
Will I suffocate under the smothering vine?
Or will I set my feet on the ground
& allow my roots to take place & bloom
into forests, woodlands & gardens.
Home is a parasitic plant, it feeds to destroy
It kills dreams, crushes hope into fine sand
It creates mountains from molehills
Everything is work even that which should be seamless
