hertimeout (8)
Blood Work for Blood Money
Lady Braeburn is looking at me. It is with that look which says, “I don’t like black people”.
I know this look, because it is the same look that dressed her pallid face the day she said clearly, like a ventriloquist, without moving her flaccid lips:
“I don’t like black people”.
Blood Work for Blood Money
Lady Braeburn is looking at me. It is with that look which says “I don’t like black people”.
I know this look, because it is the same look that dressed her pallid face the day she said clearly, like a ventriloquist without moving her flaccid lips:
“I don’t like black people.”
Casting off the burdens of time
At nine, I have already outgrown other girls my age; I have dealt with some life situations that my peers only read about in novels of fiction.
My mother and father were married for twelve years. Father was a church elder whom everyone respected for his wisdom and invaluable advice. I sometimes felt deprived of his attention and a tad bit jealous because of all the time that he spent with the hordes of fellow worshippers who flocked to our house daily, like a swarm of bees, to sip from his fountain of wisdom.
I am a Zimbabwean
My identity does not lie in a square metallic object
It is not in a series of numbers
And a badly taken photo
In the registrar general’s office
My identity is to be found in the vast plains of Matebeleland
As sure as the Ntabazinduna Mountains
It is as precious as the emeralds of Zvishavane
It is as ancient as the paintings on the cave walls of my ancestors.
The Abathwa-San, the first citizens of our country
Before the nation was they were and thus I am
My identity is as defining as the Great Zimbabwe
The ruins of which have ruined any misconception about who I am
And I am a Zimbabwean
From Strength to Strength: A Dedication to Mothers
The buzz of the alarm clock fills the room. It’s greeted by along fragile hand with a sloppy slap in its face. Despite the topple, the shiny object glares back and continues with its eerie echo. She knows that it knows that they know, that it´s that time again.
The Power and The Glory of Grace Mutandwa
I simply could not put this book down.
‘The Power and The Glory’ is an inspirational story of one woman – Grace Mutandwa – who made a conscious decision to take on the world and make a mark in a male- dominated arena. This is, after all, a woman who braved the newsroom and wrote business and political stories when women were expected to focus on health and other ‘safe’ topics.
OBI IS Nigerian, you know this before he even introduces himself and you hear the thick staccato- tone of his accent. Staccato, like the rapid reports of the rubber bullets that bruised your skin as you scrambled all over the place like a headless chicken during the university riot back home. Doo doo doo, your aunt Ntombi said of the empty shells fired at the illegal vendors on Lobengula Street when they defied government orders and refused to move. Doo doo doo, instructing mayhem while everyone looted the abandoned stalls, including the policemen themselves.
Poem: Beyond These Walls
My blood is cold beneath my skin
Frozen with shame
They undressed me
In front of a thousand strange men
Stripped me of all pride and dignity
Laughing, pointing at my withered breasts
Hoping for subjugation they beat me
Beat me in my nakedness
Then they chained my hands, chained my feet
Trapped me with dank sour smells of lost hope
In a cold cell with rusty bars
Then clanked the door shut
Threw the keys in a forgotten mine
Hoping I too would be forgotten