A Melting Heart in the Land of Survival
The road to healing
This week’s audio:
In this week’s issue:
A Journey
The Mission
A Day of Celebration
This week’s issue is best served with context. And that context is the newsletter from when we had the car accident. If you have been following my journey, you remember how I described the tense atmosphere and the challenging family dynamics. Family is a huge part of meditations on migration or, again, meditations on life in general.
A Journey
Yesterday - Wednesday, September 7th, I woke up early in the morning, about 5 am with one mission in mind. My stomach rumbled, unsettled, dreading the prospect of the journey ahead of me. My neighbor’s son came over to the house, and together we finished the haphazard preparations for my journey. Then he helped me carry the heavy luggage the 15-minute walk to the dust road. The bus’ horn had not blared since waking. It was late. Some women approached our stop and told us about its breakdown the night before. Instead of its usual 6 pm passage of that spot, they had had to catch it at midnight, and even then, the driver had sped past them, leaving them in the dust. So now they were back, and they advised me to take the next car that would come up. Which I did, and it dropped me off where the dust road meets the paved road. Presently, a bus to Harare via Bindura came by, and I paid my fair, including the luggage fee. We were off. I found myself sitting at the very first seat on the bus, right at the front by the windshield. The whole world sprawled in front of the driver and me as we gobbled up miles and let distance and time - the inseparable pair - pass us by. Soon we were in Bindura, but we were not going to pass through the marketplace or the CBD.
The bus slowed down towards the main intersection since I embarked. Roads meeting and staying together. The only ones who parted ways were the travelers. There was a sign right up ahead; it read-Shamva on the bottom, followed by an arrow pointing left, and then on top: P1 Harare, followed by an arrow pointing to the right. An arrow pointing to where the sign had never been and never would visit or see. A sign next to traffic lights. The traffic lights were broken like the country which hosted them. And so the bus turned, stopped, dropped off some travelers, and picked up the ones heading in its direction. My throat was dry from thirst, and I didn’t have any plans to quench it just yet. The bus roared like a hoarse neighing dramatically and continued on to Harare, a cesspool also known as the capital city. Before long, we arrived, and I was starving, grumpy, and quite unfriendly.
I found a bus to my parents’ in Rusape and again paid for my fair and my luggage. I placed my bag on a seat to hold my place and decided to explore a little and figure out what was for brunch. Not too long after, I was fed on a gaunt, malnourished meat pie and a soft drink. And then I needed a bathroom and remembered that alleyways and hidden corners are the Zimbabwean way to deal with such human necessities in public spaces. I remembered the piece I have been fixing to share, the one titled “These people urinate everywhere.” It’s still a draft, but now I will dare myself to finish the draft and share it. I found an alleyway for sure, and some enterprising people had already snatched the spot with some makeshift bathrooms made of heavy-duty plastics, poles, pieces of corrugated iron, and a bucket. For about 10c or 100 Bond, I was allowed to use one of their two bathroom stalls which had no roofs. Then I found my way back to the bus, which promptly left at 11 am. The CAG buses are supposedly on a schedule, and I was happy to hear it otherwise, we would have had to wait until it was packed. Then it was time to make the Harare to Rusape trek, onwards to my parents’ to finish the mission.
The Mission
Over the years in the USA, I’ve been asked how long it takes to travel from Rusape - my parents’ - to Harare, the city. My answer all that time was that it takes 3 hours. Then one day during my 2018 visit, I drove the distance, and it took me less than 2 hours, and I concluded that I must have been terribly speeding. I updated my answer to those who would ask to be reminded how long it took. But when asked about the correction, I often said; It’s because I was young, and time drags on when you are young. And when you are young, hedges loom and seem like monsters. And when you are young, you get hurt by people you love, and some of those people can be your parents.
Yesterday, I left my farm to head home to my parents with one mission in mind. To figure out what it meant and what it looked like to honor them. Figuring it out for myself, for them, and to bring my family together after years of disintegration and turmoil.
I arrived, and my Father was already there. Shortly my mother came back from running her errands. I sat them both down and talked with them about my mission. I let them know how important they both are to me and how important it is that they both know and understand how equally loved and equally honored they are now and forever by yours truly. It was a wonderful conversation that settled so many questions for my parents. It cleared the air and opened up avenues for healing and collaboration.
It sounds like it would honor my parents to use their land to embark on the goat farming adventure. This is quite hilarious to me, as I could not have imagined a better plot twist given all the hurt and tension from years before. My parents do have way more land, and working together with them in some capacity would be great. We made arrangements for me to move to the farm and to split my time between there and their home. We also updated the accommodation arrangements when I am at their house. I will be getting my own set of keys soon and will be treated as the grown man they are getting to know. The one who turns 31 in 3 days.
A Day of Celebration
So yes, this Saturday, the 10th of September, is my birthday. It was a good excuse to travel home with the mission to figure out what it looks like to honor my parents. For many in the wind, this is why I am here. But for you dear readers, friends, mi familia en Christo, you know the deeper reason; you know my soul’s desire. Family is an interesting adventure indeed, and I hope and pray that those who are still finding their footing in this adventure find peace soon. I am going to miss my home, the space I had to hammock, and the silence with a place all to myself. And I will be continuing to develop it, but for now, we honor the parents and figure out what else life has to offer in Zimbabwe, a land where most are focussed on survival. I find my heart melting with the peace in this place, and I am excited for the future and all its opportunities.