What about me?

Who am I in the maze of labels that society has given me? What about me? Who am I, outside the labeling? These are simple, important and sincere questions which in today’s world might be perceived as a self-serving, selfish and irrelevant.

I was daughter first, a first child. Then I became a sister and a sibling. Soon, at school I became a friend. In my late teens I became a girlfriend, followed by motherhood and then became a wife.

Daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend, mother and wife are all social constructs, labels that identify us within a group but most importantly, the labels are given to “guide” us on navigating societal desired behavior at any point in time.

First born. Yes. But I did not choose to be the eldest, yet there has always been an unwritten code of conduct, an overflowing manual of how I am supposed to behave. Why? Because, if you do not show the way, the right way, those who come after you, because of your first born status, will follow your ways good and bad. Really? They will follow my ways and not the parents’ ways. Seriously? When did being first born equaled a familys’ best practice? I thought everyone is born with their very own independent mind with the Creators’ given ability to make informed choices.

This responsibility of “leading the way” is burdensome, tiresome and a heavy load to carry. The conversations are veiled. The remarks are deliberate. The announcements are loud. “You are the eldest, you must be a good example. First born leads the way.” But, quietly I ask, why, because I did not sign up for this. If there was a memo that was sent, the email probably dumped it in the spam folder.

Every child is born into a different family. When I was born, my mental model of “family” were two adults, trying as best as they could, often experimenting to be good parents (because they do not teach you anywhere to be a parent, never mind a good one.) When another child was born, a girl, her mental model of “family” were two parents and a child, who more or less looked like her but just slightly bigger and older.

The second child has to find her own space and voice within this set up. For a first child, at least for me, it did not affect my mental model of “family”. I was told and just accepted that there would be others, AND I would be responsible for them.

For the second child and the rest, the messages are also crystal clear - you must look up to your BIG sister for cues on  “how we do things around here…” So when did I become BIG and where did I learn the cues?

In all our societal given roles, we are expected to behave in particular ways, roles that we were never been taught specific actions and behaviors. Because of this, I was the most smacked child within my family. I resorted to making up the rules as I went along. I created my own rules as a sibling, friend, girlfriend, mother and wife - my own rules and not societies’ rules. Oft times, my rules of coping with society and living my life, have been at variance with those expected from me by my family and society. Short of calling me a deviant, they have often resorted to creating new labels in order to justify to their discomfort, for example, a rebel without a cause, etcetera.

Out of all the labels, the one I have found most uncomfortable is motherhood. It is a blessing but way too overrated. Just because you have a womb and can give birth does not make you a “natural” mother. I love everyone I gave birth to, but many children I have encountered, including my own, do not realize that inside my body, is a person, young at heart with their own mind of “how we should be doing things around here!” And in that space, my space, we are sharing with you my children, when you are home, I am the solution. When I am the solution, for that moment in time, democracy takes a back seat. I have since come to the conclusion that children are at their best, bare foot, with tops off, wearing just hand - washed, ill - fitting, one hundred percent cotton nappies, with thick mucus coming out of their nose, crying for you to pick them up and completely unable to utter a single word!

The truth is, all of the labels, daughter, sister, sibling, girlfriend, wife and mother bother me. They pigeonhole the more in me.

So what about me? What about the person that resides inside the matter you refer to as daughter, sister, girlfriend, mother and wife? Why do families and society at large scoff at engaging the real you, the real McCoy? Why do families and society create their own image of you and then proceed to interact and engage with that figment of their fertile imagination.

I am still standing, always refusing to have the committee of three; me, myself and I, sidelined, in preference for my mirage, an illusion, a mask, fully formed in their own heads.

I stand here triumphantly over the remains of the fallen, who became despondent and weary and eventually ejected their own limb and life from this twisted space, because, they could not bear to be passed over and completely ignored whilst their substitutes, the non-existent but very much alive social constructs of themselves, affirmed. 

The inconvenient truth about the private school project in Zimbabwe

The private school project (PSP) in Zimbabwe has failed many black children.

Without a doubt, beneficiaries come out of it with fantastic tones that sound ( when you are behind the door) like the Queen speaking and very little else. 

In today's Zim, heads of Ministries/govt, heads of parastatals, captains of industry and commerce and the technocrats in government are people who attended missionary schools. Even in the diaspora, the critical mass of those succeeding to phenomenal heights attended the Tegwani, Gokomere, Kutamas, Waddilove, Monte Casino etc. missionary schools of this world.

You see, the PSP is unconsciously hostile to the black child. It alienates them from self whilst giving them cold comfort that, this is the real deal : the only deal that will deliver sustainable milk and honey in the future. The PSP plants confusion in the hearts and minds of black children, leaves them unsure of their blackness, what it stands for, whether or not it should be embraced and celebrated in addition to failing to prepare them for an "African eventuality" which we have become. 

The African eventuality is where, the "boorangoma" rules! The boorangoma tends to be a rule new rules creator and old rules breaker. They create their own rules that are anti-establishment or anti-all-the-assumptions of life that the black beneficiaries of the PSP hold dear. 

The boorangoma comes in all shapes and sizes. They can wear suits and ties and also t-shirts, tattoos and earrings (by the way, there is nothing wrong with that). The essence is, the boorangoma is foreign to civility and gentleness, is prone to cut corners, defy all rules and does what they can, if allowed to, for the benefit of self. 

They are often uncouth, very unpolished and give you labels when you speak like the Queen. They boo you down and condemn you when you cannot speak vernacular. (But also, why be black and not speak your mother tongue?) 

If you find yourself in that situation, and hopefully you were brought up to be an all rounder, not a coconut only, you need to quickly make a survival assessment and be able to boldly and unashamefly tell them, "pfutseki bhuradhi furu", "ibva apa mhani" so that they know, as the child of the soil, you can operate at any level and you will not be taken advantage of.

Many, who were privileged to attend the PSP shy away from interacting with boorangoma who is now prevalent in the country and across the continent.

What this means is, many beneficiaries of the PSP will either remain unplugged in their country of birth, a country they grew up in and will not be able to carve out viable spaces for themselves to transact. They become completely alienated. The PSP also stunts their ability to be hungry enough. When you are not hungry enough to succeed beyond the level of your privilege, you just do not.

If you have failed to move a notch or more higher than what your parents achieved, you are not a success. In fact, you have taken the family down. This means the next generation will have to work harder to achieve your notch and theirs too. Otherwise, future generations can easily slide backwards to oblivion. The PSP project fails to prepare black children for this urgency.

Unfortunately, both the PSP beneficiary and boorangoma parents, aspire to send their black children to the PSP. We hear of black parents telling black nursery school owners that "we will only support you if you have white teachers." Even those parents, who went to predominantly black missionary schools, who are decision makers in Zim today, queue up to get their children into the PSP. Ideally, they should be mobilising the alumni of the missionary schools that built them up to be who they are today, to go back there and plough resources.

I attended both the missionary and PSP schools. I also queued up to send all my four children to attend the PSP. I once pulled out my son from St John's Prep School to Chishawasha. In just one term, the transformation was phenomenal. But I was overruled at family indabas. He went back to the PSP. 

Let us rethink the models that we follow. All the glitters is not gold.

When the familiar makes you weary

Mother, my head is spinning. I cannot paint today. I tried to do touch ups, by I just can't. Why? I ask. I gave the bus driver who goes to my village money to give my parents and he diverted it for personal use.

I enquire, but there is ecocash. Why did you not send it directly to them via ecocash?

Because, we have always sent groceries and money via this bus driver and he has never cheated. This is the first time.

I answer, but you know we are living in times of hunger, even, people who were trustworthy before are loosing their credibility because when they divert funds meant for others hoping to pay it back, they are failing to pay it back.

He answers, Mother, I need money. Have you got money to give me. Even the kids at home do not have anything to eat.

I reply, sorry I do not have any money today.

Mother, I am going to wait for the driver at the bus station, I have to go. Bye.

As Morgan leaves, I wonder why I continue to transact with him. I get irritated at myself, for always entertaining new and various stories from him every time we make contact. 

It is now official. I am a sucker for pain.

I have known Morgan for the last 13 years when we moved into this area. We commissioned him to paint all the buildings on the property. In later years we found work for him at other sites and family and friends. We parted ways with Morgan some 8 years ago, when he went raving mad after overdosing on marijuana. We had given him accommodation in our compound because there was a lot of work to do and he was coming from very far so it was uneconomic for him to travel to and from his place of residence everyday.

We worked relatively well together until one afternoon, women who were weeding the lawn ran up to the main residence shouting Mother! Mother! Please come and see, come now!  

I was busy in the study and had asked not to be interrupted unless someone was bleeding, broken, burning or beaten by a snake. So, when I heard the pandemonium, I called out to Sisi, the house help to go and check what it was and if it was a snake, ask her husband the gardener to kill and burn it.

Sisi went out to check and came back with a puzzled look shaking her head sideways and blurting, Mother! Mother! just come outside and see for yourself.

There, in broad daylight in the middle of the compound was Morgan, in his nakedness walking in all kinds of directions and speaking in tongues. Yes, it did sounded like those ones you hear in spirit filled churches, the tongues that no one is able to translate or interpret.

Morgan, I enquired, what is going on? Go back inside and cover yourself, I demanded. He started running towards the women, who started running towards me and we all ran away from him towards the main residence. We quickly got inside the garage and closed the doors.

I called Bernard the gardener on his mobile, to round up  two other men on the property to catch him, dress him up and physically detain him until the driver comes.

The long and short of it is he was detained for 5 days at the unit for the mentally challenged people at Parirenyatwa Hospital.

When he came out we paid him and asked him to take leave for sometime at his rural home in Murehwa. We were in contact for the first 6 months and thereafter, never heard from him for a while.

He started calling to give me updates on his health after 2 years. We were all just delighted that he was still alive because he loved weed and when he inhaled it, he went overboard. Over the years he would phone and say, Mother, I am now on medication so I need work. I would brush him off saying, when there is work, I would call him. He remained persistent until last year, he begged and advised that he had married sometime back and needed to work hard and feed his wife and 2 kids and pay rent in Chitungwiza. 

In August 2014, I commissioned him to do some maintenance painting. We agreed the work would take 3 months. In November he had not finished and 5 months later in March 2015, we are still discussing the same thing, the very slow pace and quality of his work.

Morgan is now on permanent medication. Apparently he stopped taking weed. My take is there was something in the weed that made him an exceptional painter because nowadays the love and passion for his work is gone. He was an artist painter. You could see a paint effect in a magazine and Morgan knew how to do it better. These days he gives many excuses and tells wide ranging stories on why things are not getting done. There was creativity and perfection in his madness. His sober demeanor does nothing for his work because we are forever arguing why he has not prepped for example, areas that were damaged by water before he started painting.

He is the sole breadwinner. Most importantly he is honest. Nowadays you cannot leave people painting the indoors without full time security. Morgan is trustworthy in that regard.

I feel I am stuck with him, like we are tied at the hip. He started working for us 13 years ago when he was hardly 18 years old. He had been taught painting by his uncle who later departed for greener pastures in South Africa. Morgan is like my child.

The sensibilities of my subconscious prefers that I rather deal with a problematic child that I have known for years than commission an unknown quantity who study the terrain of our compound and come back later to rip us off blind. 

When you stick with the familiar that makes you weary, you are indeed a sucker for pain.

Of Death, Desperate Relatives, Disappointment and Destroyed memories

A family friend's Mom passed away a couple of weeks ago. A hardworking woman she was, who since her 30's (she died at 72 years), was winning accolades left, right and centre for her capabilities and competences in innovative farming methods from which she received above average yields. So you can imagine what she had accumulated by herself from her sweat over the years.

Together with her husband, they had succeeded in raising several children who went on to become very successful in their own right. They pampered her until one time she called a meeting and advised her children to 'stop sending gifts', because what she had was enough.

She had a city home and a rural home and it was at the rural home that she thrived in animal husbandry and cropping of all sorts. A few years ago she won the "Small Holder Farmer of the Year" award, over and above the other awards she had won over the years.

A few weeks ago, she asked her daughter for a piece of paper and pen as she wanted to write her will because it was her wish, in the event of her death, to have ALL her excess assets distributed to her grandchildren. The daughter refused because she thought it was a morbid idea (many black Africans are uncomfortable talking about death, particularly with their parents).

A few days later, she died of a massive heart attack.

In a nutshell, before her burial (in Zimbabwe they bury those who have passed on within 2 and usually not more than 4 days unless they are waiting for those travelling from overseas), her relatives which the children had never seen before in their lives had cleared everything from her clothes, matrimonial beds, curtains in both homes, televisions, pots, carpets, tractors, ploughs, in essence, all farming equipment. They wanted to remove the solar panels on the rural home but found the connections too complicated to tamper with.

Our friend is distraught. None of the children wanted their Mothers' assets because they have enough of their own. They just wanted most of the things to remain intact so that when they visit home, visit their Dad, the memories of their inspiring, hard working Mom would still be on exhibit. All those memories have now been destroyed. They feel violated, the memory of their Mom disrespected and are completely disappointed. 

Moral of this abridged story : write a will now :)

Steve Jobs Speech

The speech below is very illuminating folks.

Make time and read the speech below written and presented by the late Steve Jobs - co founder of Apple at the 2005 Commencement @ Stanford University.

"I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That’s it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first six months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?

It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: “We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?” They said: “Of course.” My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents’ savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn’t see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn’t interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn’t all romantic. I didn’t have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends’ rooms, I returned Coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn’t have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it’s likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn’t know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down – that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn’t see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the world’s first computer animated feature film, ‘Toy Story,’ and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple’s current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I’m pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn’t even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor’s code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you’d have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I’m fine now.

This was the closest I’ve been to facing death, and I hope it’s the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960′s, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.” It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much.”

An escapade with Tsitsi Vera

Tsitsi Vera, seriously, how could you depart from us all, before Facebook. I have been thinking about you this last week and would have just gone into your inbox and told you how I feel right now.

I miss you. I miss the intelligence, laughter, noise, unconditional love, the tolerance, the naughtiness and the organizing streak.

Talking about organizing, when I was dating my husband many moons ago, we recognized that property prices were going up and needed to secure a property without delay as we had been on the market for 3 months with no joy. We were planning to marry but only after we had secured a home for ourselves in joint names.

We were young and uninformed although we thought we knew everything. We did not know that we were eligible to buy the house in our own different names. We then decided that getting married would fast track the process of us getting our first mortgage bond from CABS, a building society/home loan bank.

The following morning, we both dressed up and went to work. Whilst at work I called Tsitsi Vera and said, "Hama (Relative), I need to get married, now and privately. Are you able to swing a fast one?" She said, no problem, give me 30 minutes. In 12 minutes she had secured an appointment at the Magistrate Court. 

We needed a second witness so I called my young brother Mr S and swore him to silence after I had convinced him why he needed to be the second witness. 

We all rushed to Rotten Row Magistrate court and in front of us in her office was Edith Mushore, who with a twinkle in her eye was wondering why they were no cameras, flowers and why it seemed like a "quickie" wedding. We told her to just get on with it. She did the honors and we got our Las Vegas equivalent marriage certificate - quick and legitimate.

Thirteen months later we married in church and that marriage certificate was "blessed". 

Six months earlier, my Dad discovered that I was married privately without him receiving a cent for lobola. He then invited me for a drink after work at his offices on Jason Moyo Avenue opposite Meikles Hotel.

There were beers and wine. I asked him why we were having a party at his office and he said, to celebrate your marriage. I looked at him, grinned and mumbled something to the effect that it was necessary for us to conclude a property deal. He said, he knew but proceeded on to say that "I heard Tsitsi orchestrated everything?" I said yep. He said, this child of Abigail and Jerry is quite forward, but she loves you. I know she would never facilitate a union that would jeopardize you. But listen now my girl, you are grown up, or so you believe. When R is ready, he needs to come and pay lobola, but please advise him that there will be an added charge, a small fine for not inviting us also to the signing ceremony. The point is, your brother was there. He witnessed the union, even though it was under duress but he is equally your father (patriarchy talking), so if he sanctioned it, I have to sanction it as well. Good luck my child." That was the end of the story. We drank with my Dad and were merry.

Later on, we hooked up with Tsitsi and continued with the merriness. We were free. The secret was out and we had gotten away without any important family elder causing a brouhaha about it.

I miss that spontaneity and craziness that made you such a free spirit Tsitsi. I will always love you, my mothers' child, my cousin, my sister, my best girl at my wedding, and my confidante. There will never be another like you. I will love you always, till I also depart.

The fragility of trust

Trust is a very fragile virtue. Like milk, once it is split, it is difficult to gather. 

People need to determine what is informing their thinking before they embark on behavior that is perceived to be agonizing, cantankerous, suspicious, incoherent and untrustworthy by others. The truth of your untrustworthy actions always comes out and when it does, you must be willing to face whatever consequences that arise.

Trust takes years to build but just an instant to destroy. Being mindful of this, we must always remember that in all our daily interactions with other members of the human race, we are dealing with the intangibles like honesty, credibility, character, consistency, integrity  and sincerity. These intangibles are the unwritten rules of society that govern us. Often, when you do not play by these implied rules, word spreads around and you end up with a bad reputation.

Reputational risk is bad for your social and particularly business interactions and once your risk profile is ingrained in the hearts and minds of people, you would have lost your credibility.

People know when there is sincerity within another. It does not matter how much a person hugs and smiles at others, when there is no sincerity, people see it for what it is, a smokescreen and that the love the insincere is purporting to be giving out is not there to give in the first place.

There is really no point in exuding love through speech when immediately after your back is turned you do the opposite. Human beings are clever mammals. When their is no harmony between what is said and what is done, they always believe the behavior ; what is done. When you are consistently unreliable and not dependable, that is exactly who you are. That is where you live, in untrustworthy land. It is a choice you would have made.

May I please be allowed to repeat once more again ; trust is a very fragile virtue. When it is scattered, like broken china, it is virtually impossible to piece it back together. 

I rest my case.

Patriarchal manifestations

There are three calamities facing Zimbabwean sisters today : Patriarchy, patriarchal men and patriarchal women.

These three are a serious danger to sisters not only in Zimbabwe but around the world. Patriarchy and misogyny are so entrenched, self perpetuating, second nature to many and are being propagated and promoted unconsciously, in Zimbabwe, under the name of culture.

The hate for sisters has reached alarming proportions. The recent case of the death of a degreed sex specialist for a mere $600 which was not found on her anyway and the mother of three caught having an extra marital relationship after her husband invaded her privacy by reading her whatsapp messages unauthorized, are cases in point.

Patriarchal men and patriarchal women informed by patriarchy and misogyny were at the centre of hate speech in these two cases and as always in all the other cases involving human beings, who happen to be women, who have made a transgression or mistake.

May I remind everyone that all life, of the human race kind, was transported to earth via sisters' wombs and vaginas. If sisters were as hateful, scornful, judgmental, selfish and unkind as patriarchy and its agents, there would be no human race, finish and klaar! You are here because we chose that you live.

As a sister, a daughter, a mother and very much a member of the human race, I am feeling rage inside me, about the diminished status of women in Zimbabwe. There is definitely a correlation between the eroded economic status of many from amongst us and the general hatefulness being spewed at women everyday.