We go to the river banks and weave joy out of algae. We scratch the slime off with trembling fingers.
Surprisingly, it always comes right off.
We weave joy. We will it. We seek it and so it becomes. When we go home and share it with our kin,
It is never labelled ‘the joy that was weaved out of algae’.
Underneath our skin and bones, a never ending stream of ability overflows into the earth. So the celebratory birdsong assumes a higher pitch, for behold, the earth is parched.
We learnt from Mother Nature, to sway our hips with ferocity…to hit the ground with a heavy softness. Under her tutelage, we learnt how to balance the gourds. They glisten on our heads,
pottered to perfection by our grandmothers. The balm of life spilling over and leaving a trail of unintended greenery.
Flowers sprout along those trails. In the sand. In the rubble. Even in the potholes.
One of us was maimed. On the news they spelt her name,
Declaring it was her who had been maimed.
I was nauseated. Do they not know by now?
That there is no distinction.
That we have no names.
That she is me and I am her. That it’s all of us as one.
It’s the women in my life
The women I’m yet to know.
The girl bosses in heels and suits and bobs. The women trading on the pavements of Julius Nyerere Street, drowning in trepidation. The women at church. The women arriving at the club on Friday night, designated driver in tow and in charge. It’s the women sedated in giggles and growth at Swinton Hall. It’s the rookie mother, laid out, legs akimbo, wallowing in both joy and terror. Ana MaGumbo naana MaNyoni. The MaMoyos, the MaDubes, the Chiheras. It’s the girl using ones and zeros to rearrange the female narrative. It’s the woman on her couch, breathing and just being. It’s the mother at Glen Forest, watching as they confine her entire world into a rectangular hole, clutching her loins in blame. To her, they are responsible for birth and subsequently, death. It’s the bride signing into partnership, hands quaking with unfathomable joy. It’s the middle aged woman at home affairs, filing for dissolution…weary, yet aware, that even the sun retires, but emerges brighter on the morrow. It’s the women assembled at the village stream, chatting about everything and nothing.
It’s all of us.
All those women,
With their dreams, triumphs
And circumstances.
They are me and I am them.
And these are the gourds we carry.
Now that we have touched the edge of the sky,
We will never again walk
Within the watered down version of ourselves,
Which it seems, is palatable for most.
We are no longer afraid of being perceived. We dream with audacity. When those who are used to conformity, worship
And servitude from our species encounters us,
We will award them the grace and space to mourn, What will never be.
Tafadzwa Chimwe is a budding writer and poet from Zimbabwe. She was born in Kwekwe, and educated at the University of Zimbabwe. She holds a Master of Public Administration Degree and is passionate about good governance, the continued mainstreaming of women’s rights and social justice. She aspires to tell stories and dismantle prejudice with the written word.