A smart aleck once said “if Africa was a bar, Zambia and Zimbabwe would be the two guys fighting over a white girl named Victoria.” (continued)
The rims of her eyes looked swollen and red, like she had been crying. Her hair was chaotic, like she had just been out on a windy day. The multicoloured dress she wore – black, red, yellow, green, white – was speckled with what looked like soup stains. But beneath her harried exterior, I saw a beauty that overshadowed her evident predicament.
This morning I have no headache, I have no champagne hangover and I didn’t wake up with a strange woman’s arm flopped across my chest… (read on)
The Zodwa matter went to the censorship board. I imagine the board members drove all the way to the office in their $30,000 Ford Rangers. I imagine around the oval boardroom table was a neat row of mineral water and Mazoe Orange bottles, for them to sip on while discussing Zodwa’s weighty matters.
My lengthy bachelorhood and living in Harare – which is a cultural melting pot – enabled me to date women from different tribes. I can’t say I found Karangas to be better kissers than Ndebeles. With the lights dimmed and Marvin Gaye CD rotating, Karanga, Korekore, Matebele and Zezuru lips possess the same texture and taste.
In the photograph that caused my heart to shed a tear, Tait holds the Zimbabwe flag to her face. Just that single photograph tells the sad story of Zimbabwe. When I learned her personal story, it was easy to see why she took that picture.
When Zimbabwe Republic Police Commissioner General Augustine Chihuri fell over and blamed his tight clothes, the more cynical citizens said he summed up the state of the police force; collapsed.
Valentine’s month is the most tortuous 28 days on the calendar. The inane commercials, the red and black clad professional women, the bouquets of roses carried proudly from offices, more for exhibitionism than the need to take them home…
The evidence is irrefutable. Where are the police, who do nothing but chase motorists at roadblocks – fundraising points – that outnumber traffic lights on Zimbabwe’s roads? Where is the uncle of this “Reese”character when his nephew is busy kicking women?
At the conclusion of the war, we collectively put on a show of pretence. Bob Marley sang “Zimbabwe.” Thomas Mapfumo sang “Rita, Rita, hondo yapera Rita”(the war is over). We celebrated. But nobody ever thought to rebuild the minds that had been traumatised by years of rape, killing and torture.