I die the liberated this country

Holding on to sanity

The back of the lorry where I listened to music and watched the countryside speed by. - Hitchhiker’s guide to migration

(Audio coming soon - a terible cough and a cold are making it difficult to get a smooth enough recording)

In this issue:

• Hitchhiker’s guide

• I die the liberated this country

• How are the goats

• Holding on to sanity

Hitchhiker’s guide

As I pen - type - this one, I find within myself the bubbling bubbling resounding echo of laughter while my fingers type somewhat furiously, and the words come out slowly; troubled. Why did I leave the USA to come here again, and why did I ever go to the USA, to begin with? These are questions whose answers I believe I have, and yet something in me says there is something deeper here, a grander purpose than I could fathom. And so we meditate on this migration and the adventures in between.

This week I found myself on buses and in private cars hitchhiking. There was an emergency trip to help with a tragedy in my inner circle. A gut-wrenching 3 am call alerted me to the incident of a life lost and I was saddened. I was on the next fast car out of the city and I delivered some supplies and headed back home. I had to rush again to catch a kangaroo court for the case of the man trying to steal an acre of the 5 hectares of my parents’s land. As I hitchhiked, I found myself jumping into the open bed of a small lorry. I plugged in my earphones and watched the countryside speed by us. It was a serene moment that reminded me that the sun and the trees, the grass, and the birds all seem like they don’t care about how challenging life is for us humans. They remain beautiful and unaffected by our troubles while persistently being themselves; immutable. It was the first time in a long time riding in an open truck like that. It brought back memories of my growing up in Zimbabwe.

I die the liberated this country

It sparked thoughts of what could have been in Zimbabwe, and out came memories of the liberation struggle I never got to see. This was the war that this other older gentleman was doing his best to remind us of as we rode together in another vehicle. He had hopped into the car I caught as I hitchhiked back to Rusape. “Do you know what we call a female n’anga (sangoma or traditional healer)?” he asked. Someone repeated the question, and he replied, “Yes, but I am asking this Mhukahuru” referring to me. The term he used literary means, ‘Big Animal’, and you could translate it to, ‘Big Dog’ or ‘Big Kahuna.’ I was surprised at this elderly gentleman giving me such a term of respect and I believe he was referring to my being dreadlocked. I failed to answer the question not knowing the answer was ‘Nyahana,’ but it didn’t stop him from throwing more questions at the Big Dog. Someone else was more talkative, and he ended up directing his questions to her. He claimed he was the first black person on the moon and that he had flown with the Apollo 7 mission. He also claimed that my dreadlocks would land me in the most desirable romantic relationship abroad. “They consider dread people as very handsome,” he announced to the car which responded which chuckles and shaking heads. The man talked about Robin Island, and about the other prisons in Zimbabwe during the liberation struggle; Gonakudzingwa, Wha Wha, and so on. He continued on to make his next bold claim: I am Joe Biden’s grandfather. (Ndiri sekuru waJoe Biden) I believe it is safe now to mention the alcohol on his breath and yet it’s also sad to do so as it may seem to dismiss his claims, the other wisdom he shared with us on that ride, or his calling me handsome and Big Dog. He spoke about his flights to different countries for liberation war training and then finally, he spoke the words which gave me pause: “I die the liberated this country, ndakatoconributor wo” I will attempt a translation, “I suffered and was willing to die for the liberation of this country. I contributed to the freedom we won from white minority rule.” 

His words made me wonder what gives me the same pride. This man could not string together a complete English sentence, but he carried in his heart the sense of worth of having made a difference. Talk about changing the world and impacting people’s destinies. Yes, we may find it difficult to appreciate the way things have turned out, and yet as individuals, this man and his peers could claim to have done what Millenials and Gen-Zs across the earth want to do. I wondered what I will say when I am his age and can’t string together a good sentence in Mandarin - it may very well be the language of business in the future - and I realized that “now” is the time to act and contribute. Now is a good time even as I settle in Zimbabwe and look for ways to impact my people. Is a successful business of my own enough to compare to the contribution of this man? Should we even compare ourselves to Shak Zulu, Alexandar the Great, or Queen Nzinga? And so, the goats:

How are the goats

I have received some encouraging comments and messages with regard to my journey and this newsletter. A recent popular question goes something like, “how are the goats” I love this question because it echoes my own desire to arrive home to a farm that is thriving and running. It’s interesting to note that right now, as I write, I am on the journey to that kind of farm. We managed to re-roof the kitchen, adding a better thatching design and well-sourced grass so it won’t leak in the rain anymore. We rebuilt the garden fence of grass, which was destroyed by the caretakers when they left after I had arrived in July, and we are just about to wire the place for lights. In terms of livestock, I have a few chickens and ducks right now and plan to add more of these hard maShona roadrunner chickens and some turkeys. They are being hosted by Aunt Vimbayi at her place. Plans are underway to build a chicken and goat enclosure, but that will be a little slow coming as I gather up some more funds from work and writing projects. This slowness is the nature of the farmer’s journey, and it’s pretty eye-opening. This is the season of preparing the land, and soon, when the goats arrive, it will be planting season.

The well in our backyard has been finished. Now to redo the other well on my parents’s land.

Holding on to Sanity

And so I sit here, having been tossed around this week on many other journeys. I have a terrible cough and can’t record the audio for this issue. On several occasions this week, I attempted to steal time and swindle the laws of physics as though I could be in two places at once. I had to take over the construction of the well for a little bit as my mother got busy. I have resolved to dream again in Zimbabwe. I am not casting away my desires to write and raise goats; I am only adapting and expanding them to the opportunities at hand. From Goat farmer to Animal Husbandary Enthusiast, Marketer, and Tech Innovator and from writer to Storyteller. I am expanding my horizon and am in search of some mentors. I need help holding on to my dear sanity as the culture shock, the need to get a move on, and the demands on my wallet stay the course. In all these outward-looking ambitions, I also carry a desire to travel the world again and to settle down someday. The dynamics in my family are only getting more revealed, and the loneliness of a small town where all my peers left is creeping up on me. This newsletter and your support have been a great tether to keep me from floating and violating the laws of gravity by drifting effortlessly into space. As you might tell, I am juggling several heart desires as my heart and mind seek stable footing for my soul.