Mankhokwe...

If someone ever tells you that in chasing dreams then you need not rest, nor chase anything else, then you will have met a liar. Or a prophet. Or a fake motivational speaker. Most likely, two of these. For, there will be moments when those dreams become elusive and frustrating. In that, you will need something else – a distraction. Or, a detour – a longer route to the dreams. You do not give up on dreams. Not that easily. But you detour from them and return with a new energy. She never had to sit under a fake motivational speaker, so she knows all there is to chasing dreams. From an actual practice. “The thing is: I had my life planned.” She gave herself deadlines: marriage? Yes, I want that thing but not before getting my Master qualification. Children? Yes, those tiny little angels; I want them too, but only after I am properly married. Love? Yes, that too. Overflowing. I want it. Anytime. Anyhow. And, of those, love was the first one to come. It found her w...

The other option – the very last one – was death. It scared her. But she was told it can happen. Just like that. Or, a lengthy one: a cough this week, a fever the other week, then swollen feet as the sickness progresses, a loss of mind in the very last days – something like dementia, and eventually death. She could just choose one. He assured her it would happen. If she was to choose the quick one, it would even happen long before she left that place. She would arrive to the news of a death. Even for her, that option seemed evil. She said no. She was not going to settle for it. The first one? No, too. It seemed riskier. She would have healed someday and that would be chaotic. Also, she did not want to see that misery on the face of a mad woman knowing fully well she was behind that madness. She is a Christian and, sometimes, her religious inclination gets the better part of her. The second one? Yes, at least that one. It would hardly make her sad. Chances of it being tr...

Because, they never tell you that you will be hurt – these people.  When you add a year, gain some muscles (or hips), and start developing those broad shoulders, they tell everything there is to life but leave out that bit: life will hurt, humiliate and shock you.  The time they start seeing you with him – or her – they do not come and say:  “Hey, are you ready for the heartbreak that will come from there?” Instead, they talk of grown up people things. Like pregnancy. And, you stagger from there laughing. Just a chuckle really, a suppressed one. Pregnancy? These people, they already know you are acting like a married couple, who told them? And, you wonder why the person who told them did not also tell them that you know how to protect yourself from that pregnancy.  So, you dismiss them. And enjoy the ride. But, truth is: you will be hurt – mostly, by love.  Some things can hurt you, of course, and hurt you deeply but the hurt of love will be hug...

In this city, there is a man who is driving around with a bomb. He might be your driver, neighbour, boss, husband, father or drinking buddy. But, most likely, your drinking buddy. Because, he drinks. And loves his drink. And, he loves music. And dancing. His favourite song, for now, is not état-major . But, at some point, it was. He does not understand French, does not know what the song talks about, he just liked the shouting and clapping at the beginning of the song. It laid a good ground for showcasing dance skills. That time he was in love with that song, he still had the bomb with him. In his favourite drinking place, having had asked for état-major , he would dance. Sway his hips. Place his right feet there, have the hands clasped together as in some prayer, while the left feet stood rooted in the ground to give balance to the waist that would be tossed up and down as if in some dingy on a chaotic Mediterranean sea. Spectators would abound. The new ones would buy hi...

She woke up one day to a ring on her finger: engaged. On Facebook, unknown to her, there were people fawning. And falling over themselves. Heavy with congratulatory messages. He had tagged her in a post: engaged to... Her WhatsApp was full, and overflowing, with messages. When she opened that app, she was welcomed by a group. Her friends had apparently formed that group to plan her wedding. She says it was crazy – that morning. Just below that group were messages from all over. They were all congratulating her. A few asked when the big day would be. Him. The conversation with him. It laid at the unimportant bottom. Like a pile of forgotten emotions. The last message from him was sent the previous night. It was one word: ‘whatever’. But, we will come to that later. For now, the engagement. It was her birthday. He had ignored her for the whole day (spoiler: most guys do not actually forget the birthday, they pretend! When your man – applicable to boyfriends on...

He always came through. Or, maybe, we should say He almost – key word: almost – always came through. Although, for her, she would rather we remove the ‘almost’ because, well, that word never counts. So, He always came through. She says that, throughout her life, He has been coming through. Sometimes, four days late yet still on time – like that time the good book says He had to resurrect Lazarus. Her journey, especially from the University, has been punctuated by His timely showing up. The other time, He showed up at noon. The previous night, a timid and excited student happy that she was about to finish her first year, she had gone out with friends. It was her first time going out. It was her first time drinking. She blacked out. Or, rather, went into a quiet dark sleep. She does not remember what happened. But, nothing bad happened. At least, not that evening. If anything, it nearly happened during the day. That time she woke up with a headache. The moment...

This moment, there is a woman. And, she might be your wife.  She has been married for a few years, maybe two or three. Or four. Even just weeks. I cannot disclose the actual duration. It might give her away. But, she is married. And childless.  Most Saturdays – and they might not even be Saturdays – she fasts. And locks herself in the bedroom. Or climb hills. Pretends to be praying. And crying. For a child.  Once in a period, she goes to a small clinic out of town to renew her vow: she gets contraceptives.  Her husband – we do not talk much about him – might be busy wondering what is wrong with him. Or her. Or them, as a couple.  He might be, at this hour, crouching under the shade of some traditional doctor. Maybe for the fifth time.  The doctor, a quack, might again make him drink something bland and bad-smelling.  “This must work,” he might tell him.  The husband, tired and frustrated, might gulp with all the urgency. Hoping th...