31 Aug 2011

Make that The Bathroom!


My fingers are itchy, my pocket is empty, and our Honourable Finance Minister called our President a murderer. Parliament was shocked. I was delighted. maybe finally someone we'll start a revolution!



The accountant wants to rape the president's daughter; I am appalled and amused at the same time. No means no. But my wallet has been raped TIME and AGAIN. Every time I pay more than I should,it cries out, "no!". So I laugh at the accountants boldness and pat him on the back, and applaud his bravado...  Rape the president's daughter, indeed.


I told a man, to remove his hand from behind me today. I told him to release me from the grip his yellow coated foul smelling armpits had me in. Perhaps he expected me to ease back and lean on him. Or perhaps the bus made him feel comfortable, at ease. Perhaps he was making a statement. I know he made one to me, "check your armpits before you leave the house." heck make that the bathroom!

30 Aug 2011

60 Page Romance



I went through so many of these i felt like a junkie


How do I put into words what was going through my head when I wrote my first and only book at 14, a romance novel at that. I was going to send it over to the good people at Mills & Boon.


After all, their books followed a simple enough plot. 

An older man in love with a much younger woman. Believe it or not that is still my idea of an ideal relationship, but let’s leave that for another day.

What I wonder though, about my book, is where I got the content from because believe it or not, I actually got to page 60. Now, I had no idea what went on between a boy and girl let alone a man and woman. Oftentimes I found myself wondering what all those people talked about with their boyfriends for hours on end. I asked Carol once, and her reply was a mixture of bashfulness and secrecy. Only years later did I figure out what that look meant.

My one attempt at romance during my 14th year was with one Peter who had the misfortune of taking an interest in my large eyes and a body that wouldn’t make up its mind about starting puberty. He asked to see me, not on a date but more of an appointment to assess my worthiness as a future girlfriend (I tell myself that now). This appointment ended with the hapless chap waiting for me by the music room, and me eyeing him from the safe haven of a phone booth some 200metres away. Tucked deep inside it. From where I watched him pacing and watching his watch. I daresay he was nervous but I couldn’t be sure whether it really was nervousness or growing impatience. My self esteem chose the latter. This went on for a good 15 minutes. He gave up and walked off, head held low and shoulders slumped... that’s how I choose to remember it.

Needless to say, our Peter never made any attempt to see or talk to me again (I mean this literally). Whenever he had the misfortune to bump into me in the corridors he would all of a sudden develop an interest in everything but me. The walls with their combination of peeled paint and some that appeared too stubborn to come off, a fallen leaf on the ground. At one point I dare say the sight of me made our Peter suicidal… he leaned over the balcony so far that his tie tangled over the edge. He leaned over, with one foot in the air and the other on the ground, straining to keep him from toppling over. Calf muscles drawn and taut. Maybe my heart stopped then, scared for him. But the look of disdain on his face stopped any feeling of pending doom or any panic for this boy who had shown an interest in me. That’s how my 14th year ended, in botched love affairs and aborted puberty.

Afraid to bump into Peter I went through the school corridors like an amateur S.W.A.T team… I couldn’t bear the look that crossed his face each time he saw me.

So you see I was ill equipped to write that book of passion, love and romance which I knew nothing of. 

29 Aug 2011

Immortal Moments


i did something with my life. i climbed to the top of the Delta building and erected a Castle Lager sign. No fear of heights for me.
I expected to see smog, settled over the city but it's safe to blame developed countries for global warming. the air above Harare is clean..even if you happen to be right next to a beer boiler
Man gazing at signage, the pull of Castle Lager is phenomenal.

The view is breathtaking, and the wind fights to push you over the edge.  but like someone  once said any aerial  view is priceless. Moreso for someone like me who has never been on a plane.






this is the sign that Vulnavia built and that is the man who helped Vaal build it. gratifying to know that something you made will be seen by  a lot of people. even if those people just flick their eyes to it an look away.

my vanity couldn't stand me being left out of this montage. so there i am with one of the little elves that helped. sweet old man he is.
i have more pictures somewhere in my camera, things i will show people who care to ask. or things someone will stumble upon and know that thats what i did. even though i know i didn't really do anything. for whats life about if you cannot imortalise the little things for someone else to see? 

26 Aug 2011

Hwindis and Trailers


I am no fan of violence but there are a couple of things i'll give concession to:
1. A conductor (Hwindi) being beaten up by a woman, 
2.Hwindis beating each other up, preferably to a pulp. That is what I call gratifying violence. Or better still
3. a civilian coming up to a hwindi and beating the living daylights out of him. I mean what fun? What joy? For me and everyone else around. 
Imagine us piping in.A bite of the foot, savaging of the clothes, hair coming out in clumps, a resounding clap to the left ear. Nail scratches from one cheek across the lips to the other. The crack of bone chilling crack of rib bones cracking.
A heavy  thud and a yell from outside bring my thoughts back to the present; it seems there’s been an accident. Some woman dressed in red is howling hysterically. The car she was in just got hit by a fella on a motorcycle. In his defence I doubt he actually saw her, the poor guy must have been seeing red. And like a moth to a flame he went for her. Or perhaps to fit the violent nature of the act, like a bull to a matador, he charged...Never understood why bulls would charge for the the red when they were colour blind. if anybody knows, please. leave a comment.
But, i digress. Back to the present, again.I can’t help but think that my violent train of thought brought this on. After all whatever energy you give out is comes right back at you. Or in this case some reckless driver on a motorcycle. But since I do not believe in any of this hocus pocus mumbo jumbo, I’ll blame it on the trailer parked right by the curb of the T-Junction, and no one can see what’s coming or going, or careening. And with that I leave my chair in a huff to go and tell the owner of the trailer that their recklessness and not the woman’s red dress nor the other driver’s negligence caused the accident!


You really can't see traffic coming from your right

filthy thing, like a death trap it is.
                                                                                           


25 Aug 2011

The Emperor's New Status Update


I like the way everyone is so philosophical on social networks. So witty they are, and if it's not natural they fake it. It’s not their fault though. The world is cold and intolerant to stupid people.
So you click on a post full of clever little sayings and poetry... not forgeting quotes of famous people...you slink away in shame. Hoping and knowing that nobody noticed that you passed by.
You slink away because really you can’t make heads or tails of those quotes. And those poems, really? Who talks like that? Heck it’s ok to be dumb as long as nobody's watching. But just in case somebody guesses that you passed by. Do what I do. Click on the like button. Heck it’s The Emperor’s New Clothes all over again.

(Gotta love that dead dude Hans Christian Anderson for such a great read)

24 Aug 2011

Thank you very much Mr. Internet Sir!



I once had an American pen pal who kept asking me if I saw lions in my front yard and rode bareback on elephants to my bush school. The Africa she knew was confined to silly Eddie Murphy movies and doccies on Discovery Channel that focused on the plains of the Serengeti and the Masai people of Kenya. 
( i fought the temptation to send her one of these)

I too knew nothing of where she came from, save for what I had seen on telly, not the documentaries which then I had no access to. In this way yes my home was backward.  I only had access to ZTV for information. And the place she came from was fantastic, who could blame her for thinking that the world was my urinal and I had no access to tap water?
Or for the pity that seemed to ooze through every word, every punctuation mark, “how is it,” she asked “do you stay warm at night?”
“Do you sleep around the fire in your hut?”
Far be it for me to say that our house was a solid brick construction with asbestos roofing. Much like that of that hapless Mujuru fella. How could I tell her? For in my letters I poured out my almost orgasmic pleasure at having a friend from the land of my television. I poured out my insecurities and my childish need to be liked (which I carry with me still to this day). My inability to say no and to refute a comment if it meant losing her, and I dint want to lose this one, she was way too 'television'.
Damn the internet for creeping into her life, years before it came into mine. Her letters became less and less, and much shorter. No longer was I an exotic friend to be marvelled at and envied. Instead I felt the mockery and pity from her every word. After all, poverty is not attractive at all... although it does get you a lot of sympathy...sickeningly so.
Which brings me back to the present, I should put a daily reminder to myself. Somalia needs all the sympathy I can give, and you too. Plus money, especially the money.




23 Aug 2011

Question Existence


Homeless man, have you been to a tap lately? Your face looks hard and caked with dirt. Do you know the coolness of water on your face? Do you look forward to its lingering caress down your cheek like I do? or do you go on, without a care and your heart content.





Is your belly filled like mine? With tasty treats and spicy meats.
Do you scrounge and scavenge for emptiness to fill your stomach?

Do you sleep at night like I do?  Warm, safe. Or do you dread the cold fingers of the night as they caress and stroke and engulf. 

Do you worship the African sun like I do? Or do you dread its heat? For you cannot take anything off. Like a snail you carry all your belongings with you. Saddened and burdened. Tired and hungry.
Why do you dress like I do not? In old clothes tattered and torn. In rags and dirt and plastic bits. Do you not worry about the seasons? The colours I wouldn't be seen in?
Do you preen and admire your reflection as I do? Or do you turn away in distaste and spit at the sight of your winter ravished face.
 When the dawn comes and the African sun rises do you see the world like I do? Do you think about your life and kick yourself for the dreams you let go? Or do you hope for a meal? A smile and a coin in your hand? Those things that I take for granted as I rant and rave at the Africa that lies barren in front of me.


17 Aug 2011

$0.40c Worth of Trouble

I dressed warm today, bundled myself in a coat and packed a flask of hot hot coffee. The sky was overcast and the wind was doing its best to blow me back, I was ready for it dressed for it. Too bad I had to suffer the conductor who refused to give me my change. Had me holding on to my handbag whilst I ran after him. Flustered and panting, fighting to sound firm authoritative whilst rearranging and arranging my clothes. 

I gave him a good talking to, but that didn't get me my change. Amazing how 40c can cause such a hysterical foul exchange of words (foul on his part and hysterical on mine). 
I got it in the end. With a curse and eyes brimmed with tears. Female manipulation still works on these buffoons. So I left with my coin in my purse and my dignity left in the mud where he stood with a curse hanging on his lips…

I cursed too, as I fought to wipe the mud of my shoes. In my head I cursed him to hell and back. I grabbed him by the collar and banged him against his bus. I punched and scratched. whilst yelling at the top of my lungs. This time he didn’t answer back. Instead he stared at me with fear in his eyes, an apology on his lips and the coins in his hand. That’s right I showed him. I rattled him.

The wetness on my eyelashes reminds me that I could never, that I would never. That I have joined the league of oppressed Zimbabweans, and this time I can't blame it on my president. It's all me and my very own cowardice.

Musings of an Office Worker


Outside my window... a parked car, a dark wood shed and an unkempt lawn. A cold wind blows ceaselessly, and a shy sun peeks throught dense cloud cover.there is nothing else to see save for a potholed road and the odd car going by.
I am thinking... coffee, warm fires and long baths.

I am thankful... for letters from the grave, strangers and the lessons that are thrown at me
everyday

In the kitchen... an old man tinkering away at the pots, water boils over. The smell of beef fills the air. A loud curse and a rush to the sink. He’s cut himself the old man has. My tummy rolls, I guess I’ll pass lunch today.

I am wearing... a red overcoat and fine
hounds tooth slacks. That’s all you can see really. Inside I am dressed for summer. Ready for the sun.

I am creating... a thought. To form a word. To become a habit. To become me.

I am going... to listen to music, to dispel this cloud that lingers around me, that makes me shiver so.

I am wondering... if I will get better. If I will become and if my pending birthday will herald a new age of wisdom.

I am reading... Jane Austen's Persuasion one chapter a day... my eyes have been giving me a hard time lately. Denial stops me from seeking any medical help. Or perhaps it’s the lack of money.

I am hoping... for that coffee now, the wind is blowing harder against my window. The shawl around my shoulders is not working.

I am looking forward to... coffee, lunch and a chat with a friend.

I am hearing... Adele...Chasing Pavements, she seems as confused as me, but i console myself. I am half heartedly chasing those pavements.

Around the office... a cluttered desk, a lone fax machine and a safe behind me.

I am pondering... how I might get out of it, and escape to a warmer place.

One of my favorite things... payday, it’s what I live for






16 Aug 2011

Dig yourself a hole


Make big promises.
Burn your boats.
Set yourself up in a place where you have few options and the stakes are high.
Focused energy and serious intent will push you to do your best work. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. (Better than the alternative)

15 Aug 2011

Peacocks and Eyelashes

I'm normally not much of a mascara wearer as I have quite thick eyelashes already (it was the first thing my mother noticed about me when I was born! Forget ten fingers and toes, it's all about lashes!), so I oftentimes don't see the difference with or without.
coming from a family of large eyed females, i've never felt the need to draw further attention to them. save for a dash of neutral coloured eye-shadow, all this to draw attention to the colour. and not so much the surface are they   take up. also. 

besides women wear make up for romantic reasons. or more importantly the peacock parade. i cant use that to make up my mind either. ever since i started having relations with my boyfriend his feelings on wearing any have ranged between indifference and a sloshed revelation...he thought it made me look sophisticated, but that was once long ago. so long ago that i sometimes think that i made it up. although he did once send me a text asking me not to wear any. talk about missed signals.
so these days i alternate between over reliance on my mascara and total indifference. never mind about the peacock parade. my peacock seems to have no feathers.

11 Aug 2011

Big Fat Blues



Once you wake up late your day is bound to go downhill from there. You can’t find anything to make lunch with, so you ditch lunch and suffer your first hunger pangs the minute you walk out the door. You can't seem to get a bus and when you do get on the fare is doubled and because your luck is so bad you get squashed in between two fat ladies, who in your opinion should pay double. A fitting punishment for people who fail to realize that their weight affects not only themselves but everybody else who has to suffer through their heavy breathing and constant wheezing. Not only that butt do you have to go through the agony of contact with their skin which seems to have a perpetual sheen of sweat!
By the time you get into town, you smell just like them. Sweaty and stale. You are relieved because finally you can get off the bus but appalled at the time. All that suffering was for naught. And all those great sayings of the ages seem to mock you. No, there is no light at the end of the tunnel and this cloud does not have a silver lining. You are late for work again.
In the ten minute dash you make to try and get to work on time you are alternately inspired with good excuses and chagrined at the realization that you have used them before... maybe after all the best lie is the truth, you tell yourself. wait, no that won't do either, you don't want the boss to know that even after all these years, months, weeks, days you still haven't championed your inner clock. That little tiny voice like clock that is meant to wake you up from the deepest sleep. So once again you are left with no excuse. No tale of a dog eating your homework (sadly this is not school anymore). No story of some of bravery which involves you carrying people out of some wreckage... your brain has nothing zilch. 
So caught up in excuses that refused to materialise and be just the right tale to placate your boss you don't realize that you've reached your gate.
It’s almost too late for inspiration to hit, for that light bulb to go on in your head... it's going to be long day



10 Aug 2011

Heroes hangup



I feel like someone put me in a washing machine and forgot to take me out again… Or perhaps  I feel rightly like someone who just experienced a public holiday placed inconveniently at the beginning of the week. Lulling you into a no-work-yeay-fun lassitude. Which is abruptly overridden by a hectic midweek start of a working week.
Because of that, I have the worst type of hangover. It is not alcohol induced so I cannot blame it on some vile chemical downed during ill thought out drink to impress weekend festivities.
No, it is my brain that is hungover. It just won’t compute.
 Like the brain of a 6year old pumped with too much mathematics…Or an abacus which simply does not understand the way of standard deviation.
it is in a mental rut, So used to the inane nature of television, twitter and facebook that it refuses to call forth a single accounting standard, or the reason for my being here at work today asides of course the forced activity that is brought about by the midweek epilogue of an awesomely elongated weekend.
Why couldn’t our heroes’ holiday have been placed at the end of the week? That way Monday would dawn busy and true. I would wake up, get my pda out. Plan my week ahead, a lot time for the reports and the weekly meetings. Go about my business with the complacence that is borne of Monday instead of the resentment towards a week that was bound to be lazy and filled with so many complaints and a general lack of productivity.
No one wants to meet on a Wednesday, start a report due on Friday, or work at break neck speed so that when the weekend starts they won't be bogged down by unnecessary mounds of work. I for one am not paid enough to work under these conditions. I find it easier to plan my week out over five days and spend the rest of the week leisurely going about the company’s business in my own time. 
Not to be forced to finish everything. To type. To make follow ups. To get up and go and meet. To go and see. To placate to entertain...all at the pace dictated by poor holiday planners!

4 Aug 2011

cartoonish whiffs of kharma


Hwindi - (shona) an uncouth conductor

Karma is an Amazon of a bitch with a sense of humour. Everyone complains about how hwindis always manage to tuck them under their armpits and try as they may, to get away they never quite manage.

I felt sorry for myself the other day when I sat next to a fella who was hell bent on reading my eBook with me.
Mind you it was on my phone, which made it awkward when i had to scroll down before he was done reading.

Mind you the awkwardness of our situation was not helped by his insistence on breathing with his mouth open. Nothing wrong with that if you are familiar with oral hygiene or the occasional mouth wash.

With their foul mouths and the things they spurt you would think that once in a while a hapless mum/ wife/ aunt would at least take the time to rinse out their mouths with soap. but nobody bothers anymore everyone goes about their business not caring that once in a while you need to take that pail of soapy water and give your errant son...or daughter to make things fair, and give them a thorough washing out. 

To stretch their mouth wide and scrub out their tongue. Whilst you’re at it rinse out the hairs in their armpits. and if it’s not too much trouble maybe grab a pair of clippers and make sure that by the time you are done their as clean and hairless as a new born baby.
On to karma being the baddest bitch. Imagine my pleasure when this loud mouthed hwindi had the displeasure of being stuck in his cadre’s armpits (which i caught a whiff of every time the fella riding shotgun did a fidgeting act in the front seat and let a sweaty stinky draught come our way. I could almost see the yellow cartoonish whiffs coming from his armpits).

Try as he might the hapless fella couldn't get out of the armpits.

Imagine his consternation.
Imagine my glee.

The look on his face. Priceless. Utter and total anguish with the right mix of revulsion. His face mottled and near green- considering that he was a dark skinned brother that's saying a lot. The fact that he didn't puke, or heave also says a lot about him. Nobody could have been made of sterner stuff. Nobody could have been made of smellier stuff.
Kudos to him for surviving the 15 minute of pungency of that bus ride.
 Kudos to him for restoring my faith in the old adage, what goes around comes around: D 

3 Aug 2011

Pet Monsters

i have verbal diarrhea, which comes out through my hands. i say things and then i think later. lately i have been saying a lot of things. posting a lot. the best form of escapism. a thousand followers and all of them dote on me -except for my sister, but thats a story for another day.
so there i am social-networking. talking to my cyber crowd. there lost in my made up reality i forget all about the real world. about my real relationships.and the people that really matter. here they don't matter, hapless pawns i use to embellish my avatar. the fuel for my likes, my comments and my pokes. everybody wants to be friends with me. this is my reality.
it doesn't matter that i hurt the people that matter. this is the one place i get my flashing lights and my red carpet. the Picasso to the life i want, the spider to my social web. reeling them in. becoming their go to person. i love to be loved. i love to be referenced. to have them all come to me. their oracle.
i blame it on my childhood. noone noticed me, i was the scrawny little kid nobody paid any mind to. i sat  in the front row, did my homework in time. got my sums round. and voluntarily babysat the Grade 1s but i never became the teachers pat. filled with a child's hope i blamed it on my non existent prowess in the swimming pool. i said to myself, 'tomorrow i'll practise harder, swim faster. then she'll like me' 
but i never got it right, i'd do 2 strokes and stop. or so it seemed (only years later did i discover that my swimming was fantastic!), they would lap me still. the coach would scream and curse, till finally out of breath i emerged under him, shivering cowering.
so let me glory and swim hard on my social network. there i become the teachers pet!