Of Infidels & Weeping

Books were an intimate part of my formative years. My father, an immensely intelligent but uneducated visionary placed a high value in education and reading in general. He made sure we were surrounded by books- an amazing thing considering where I grew up.

Enid Blyton's Famous Five and Secret Seven series transported me from our four-roomed township dwelling to a world of adventures, castles, moors – a beautiful experience that cemented my love for the written word. I devoured great literary works by Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Charlotte Bronte, Thomas Hardy. I discovered Alice Walker, Maya Angelou (my absolute favourite!), Tsitsi Dangarembwa, Charles Mungoshi, Wole Soyinka – and hundreds more. In later years I stumbled on pop psychology, and have paid my dues to the Dr Phils and Eckhart Tolles of this world. Honestly, if someone could pay me for every page I have ever read – I could decently retire on the French Riviera.

But, (yes I know, Ms Meyer said not to start a sentence with "but"), but, once in a while you come across a book that completely captivates the essence of your being; A book that persuades you to slow down, to stop, to think, re-examine - A book that challenges your status quo – and Ayaan Hirsi Ali `s “Infidel - My Life” has been such a book for me.

"Infidel -My Life" is by no means the greatest of literary works (Of course I should know – I have had an illustrious reading career!), but the story is riveting, captivating, heart breaking. It tells of a girl’s journey from a third-world, poverty stricken up-bringing, a world of abuse, of arranged marriages to a world of asylum seeking, college and degrees, a world of Dutch politics, of film making, of writing - It is a remarkable tale of struggle, survival and making it against the odds, by an ordinary (or is it extraordinary!), intelligent, courageous, beautiful woman!

When I could eventually put it down, after relentlessly working through the 368 pages in nineteen hours – I cried – no, more aptly, I wept. I wept for myself, for my daughters, for my sisters – I wept for all of us beautiful people, who read many a great book, remain unmoved, unchanged, lead mediocre lives, hide behind our upbringing, behind inactivity, procrastination – more excuses – never conquering our small worlds. I wept.

The Market Place

My colleagues have warned me against making this trip.

"These people are hostile towards foreigners, you must be careful," they counsel.

"But they are white," I reason, "what do they know about being black in a foreign African country?"

I exchange a few greetings along the way. "Bonjour madam," someone calls out every few metres.
"Jambo Sana," I respond. Ah! Africa, warms my heart, always friendly.

Then I get to the market place, loud rhumba music welcomes me. The market is crowded and noisy, I can hardly hear myself think – but then I suppose I didn’t come to the market to think. “I must just flow with the rhythm of the place, and be fully present, focus, focus," – I remind myself.

I walk from stall to stall, admiring the kikwembes – African print cloth, buying a few, conversing in a concocted mixture of Swahili and French. I meet Francina, she speaks English, and has a bubbly, likeable personality. She is selling pots, kikwembes, shoes, - everything. She is married, has children, she tells me.
"I am married too," I volunteer. "I was tired of the corporate life, the meetings, being stuck in traffic, and I needed to liberate my soul, that`s why I am here," I want to tell her.
Instead I settle for, "I am here for a short while, will be going home soon."
She looks young, beautiful- in her 20s, I conclude. She tells me her husband has travelled to buy stock for the "shop" "he always does, at least once a month," she says. I buy a kikwembe from her, more out of obligation than need. She appreciates my purchase "Do come back my friend," she shouts as I move to the next stall.
"I will be back," I promise.

I stop at a few more stalls, exchange friendly chatter, buy a beautiful purple dress, laugh some more, even promise my hand in marriage to an enchanted young man. I look at my watch- the market has completely absorbed me, It has been two hours since I arrived.

I walk slowly back to the camp, admiring the sunset in the distant horizon. "I love this place," I say to myself. "I love the people, the languages, the lush green vegetation- and I enjoyed the market place." But I feel sad, depressed, "Why should I be?" I admonish myself.
"Its been a good day, a wonderful day. I laughed, flirted and even made friends – I should be in a jovial mood."


The foul mood persists right past dinner. Surely it can’t be the poverty I witnessed. I have seen similar gut wrenching poverty so typical of Africa, before. I distract myself by flipping through television channels, drink some more coffee – no, it does not help, I am unsettled. The picture of young, scantily clad children running down the street is deeply engraved in my mind. Who are they? What are their hopes, their aspirations? Will they have dinner tonight?

I think of Francina, in hers 20s, in her stall, walking the dirt road back to her home, tending to her three toddlers, making dinner, rushing to her stall in the crispy morning breeze – waiting for her husband. No facebook, no manicures –
"Ah! the randomness of it all," – I resign myself, and swiftly fall asleep. "I could have been born here!"

Red shoes and hindsight

The 90`s would have been a decade of gaieties, celebrating thin waists, smaller behinds, beautiful, youthful faces that could be worn in public with no air-brushing. I would have known that the boobs would sag, weight gain would mark the passage of time, that stretch marks would herald motherhood and concealers would become a permanent feature of one’s wardrobe. If I knew then, my teens would have been one long dance, completely secure in my own skin.

I would have known that life is not necessarily a competition, showing up, taking part, doing my best would carry the day. I would have known that college is a time of exploration, discovery, of experimentation. I would have sat in the student bar, sipped a beer, a coffee, had fantastic, stimulating scholarly conversations with those intelligent, charming minds; And still not flunked out.

I would not have waited up for Mr Dodgy’s phone calls that never arrived. I would have known that I would not live to be an old maid so didn’t need the twenty seven cats. I would have known that I would convince one to walk down the aisle and so would not have worried about the ones that got away.

I would have known that after a night of mourning, morning does arrive and tears do dry.

I would not have been insecure about my shoes or lack thereof, I would have known that fortunes do change, and one day I would own a pair of red shoes, red shoes, yes, red shoes – unbelievable!

Of green books and blog names

“I’m starting a blog, baby”, I say to her.
“What will you write about?” she asks.
“Anything, everything, nothing – I will write from the heart”.
“What will you call the blog?”

“Musings of a Stateless International Traveller.”

“But you are not stateless”, she protests. “You still have your “green book” from the homeland, you have held on to your metal ID, your birth certificate, your marriage certificate. You have documents to prove you are not stateless. I mean you still celebrate when the nation wins four Olympic medals from one athlete. You were on your feet, rooting for one Brian Dzingai in the 200m men final, even if you knew his chances were limited against that lightning bolt, that is Usain Bolt. Really you are not stateless.”

“What is the meaning of stateless?” I shoot back. “Are you saying I am not a dislocated civilian, a displaced person? Haven’t I been denationalized, dispossessed – how else do you explain my bringing up offspring in a land with no aunties, grannies or cousins. How?”

“Ok! Even if we could agree on your statelessness, I am not sure you do qualify as an International Traveller either. I mean how many countries have you done? If you have done 10% of the world, I will give it to you.”

Ok! How many countries are there in the world? 192,193, 194 or 195 (Damn! Why the confusion, I thought the boundaries were well established. Anyway, it seems the status of Taiwan, Palestine, Greenland, Western Sahara (where is that???), and the Vatican, as countries is open to interpretation. I settle for 195, turns out I have only done 4.6% of the world.

“So, Ok, you clever bastard, I can’t prove I am stateless, and as per your definition am no traveller either. So I drop the name!! I will call it “Tales from this end - fending for the offspring in the Diaspora.”

“Really! You have an obsession with the diaspora. Are you gonna let that define every aspect of your life?”

“Doesn’t it already? But ok forget it. I will call it “Life and times of a mad Zimbabwean girl.”

“Yah! Right, sounds really original!”

Ok! Ok! I know, I know – “And Still We Dance” that’s what I will call it. Yes, we continue to dance, we choose to dance the tide, no sitting it out – shall we dance, Babs.”

“Ok, Just one more question.”

“Will you be anonymous?”

“Its too late isn’t it? I have already told you the name.”