What It's Like To Go Home

If like me, you’re settled in a country other than your country of origin, then you will know how exciting the holiday season can be. That time of year, when most of us are preparing to visit our loved ones back home. 

Harare International Airport (now Robert Mugabe)

I come from Zimbabwe. As most of you know, it is the country in Africa that borders South Africa, Mozambique, Botswana and Zambia. It is also the home of one of the seven wonders of the world, Mosi-oa-tunya, commonly known as Victoria Falls. But that is not what my blog is about. I’m here to take you through what it is like for me to visit my home country.

It's beginning to look like Christmas.

As soon as I get off the plane in Harare, I fret about unreliable Wi-Fi, sometimes settle on being hot spotted by those in my company, usually my brother or his wife. Once that business is taken care of, I finally decide how I am going to spend my holiday. 

I can be organised, but I have since come to the realisation that planning my activities in advance when I go to Zimbabwe is a futile attempt. For example, every time I visit, I tell myself that I will not move from house to house greeting the neighbours, relatives, friends, their cats, and dogs, all of whom I will not have seen in many months, and that instead, I will let them come to me. I tell myself that I am the visitor, so I am going to act like one and that my only motivation for doing anything is to relax and indulge in every possible way.

Alas, I always seem to break my own promise. Because the moment I place my suitcases in the house, I am already knocking on doors. There is something about the African soil that just won’t let you sit still.

Back home, I do not need Facebook or Twitter to announce my arrival. All it takes is Jonasi down the road to notice me and the whole neighbourhood is buzzing with news of my arrival.

You had me at mango!

When I am in Zimbabwe, I delight in the little things. Things such as plucking out a ripe mango from a tree and eating it at my leisure, knowing that I can pick another and another, whenever I want.

I love the Zimbabwean markets, especially during December, the rainy season. Not only do I get to bask in the soothing sound of rain as it splatters on the roof when I am in my bed at night, but it is also the time I find my trips to the market the most rewarding. I love viewing the stalls with their bountiful stashes of available merchandise, from clay to brooms.

I love scouring these markets for the vegetables and fruit I cannot get from the garden and orchard in our backyard. I delight in the taste of wild fruits such as mazhanje, the flavour of which leaves a lasting taste in my mouth.

Me holding mazhanje (wild fruit)

The markets in my hometown, Chinhoyi, are always buzzing with excitement - from the man who uses comedy to lure customers to his stall to the chubby-looking woman who quietly flashes you a ‘come hither’ smile as you pace up and down, perusing through the merchandise. Then there is the aggressive vendor selling from the back of his truck parked outside the market, who yells to remind you he is not going to hang around forever.

Often, in my silence and stealth contemplation, I imagine the chubby woman wondering how she will feed the grandkids she’s left at home if she does not shift her goods. I imagine the animated man who paints the marketplace with his antics willing his ancestors to open doors for him for they know he is the sole breadwinner. As for the aggressive vendor, I see in my mind’s eye, the frown on his boss’s face as he reminds him how precarious his position in his enterprising business has become because he cannot sell everything. These people do what they need to do to survive.

I mean, come on, you’ve got to love Africa and her resilience.

For some, including myself, you cannot go home and not visit the grandparents in the rural areas, if only for a day. It is almost a ritual. You see, in Zimbabwe, you cannot live in the city/town and not have a rural home. Having a village to go to means you know your roots. It separates you from the foolish. That's just how it is.

I'm fortunate that my grandfather only lives half an hour from my hometown, so a day trip is entirely possible. When I go there, grandfather delights in showing me around. He treats me as if I am visiting for the first time. Together, we will explore the fields, the borehole, the cattle kraal and he will show me all the new buildings in the neighbourhood. We will even visit the graveyard.

For me, it is the colourful people the culture and the spirit of the extended family that makes me appreciate home. Back home is the place where people greet strangers in the street and stand on the sidewalk to discuss their children or the state of their garden. It is the place I get to appreciate the little things. Playing the role of a doting aunt, basking in the sunshine, and just being able to stand and stare, grateful to be alive. 

 Going back to the town where I was born and raised always makes my heart sing with joy. I glow, and the experience ignites within me, a deep sense of longing. I often find myself longing for my childhood days. Days when my parents were still alive and saw to my daily needs. Days when life was as it should be. Beautiful. Uncomplicated. Fun. And predictable.

Even though I have been there a dozen times, each time I visit the Chinhoyi Caves, I always learn something new. There is always a different tour guide to take you through the monument, but what remains constant is the way their eyes glint with pride when they recount the legend of the Chirorodziva Caves. This is a story I have heard many times, but hearing it being told by a different person and with such passion and conviction, always installs in me, some degree of novelty to my understanding and feeling towards this tourist attraction.

Staring at the sleeping pool at Chinhoyi Caves.

So, whenever I go, I tour the two caves with a fresh pair of eyes knowing that my experience will be just as thrilling, inspiring and intriguing as those viewing the caves for the first time.

At home (UK), I am forever telling my daughter about our African culture. I wish to pass on and to instil in her the values of our tradition. The thought of her not knowing what I grew up knowing terrifies me. I want her to develop and to enshrine within her soul, the same pride that I have as an African. I want her to be inspired by the stories of my childhood.

During our trips, I have the pleasure and privilege to show her. I tell her how I spent my typical day as a child growing up in Zimbabwe. I recount, at times demonstrate, to her dismay, how fun it is to climb up a tree. I sat with her on the same veranda where I spent time playing with my home-made dolls and where I played ‘nhodo’ (jakes so I’m told) when the ground was too wet for me to sit. I make her taste the liberating experience and the freedom of walking barefoot, allowing nature to entertain you instead of relying on gadgets and social media.

With each visit, I discover that many things would have changed. People grow old and die, some mature and leave for greener pastures, infrastructure is built, some destroyed. What remains constant, however, is the way people still treasure the little pleasures in life. Pleasures such as sitting in the park and taking pictures. People still greet each other with a firm handshake and inquire about each other’s day. 

Back home, you quickly realise that life is but a mixture of sadness, wonderment, faith, hope and joy. But one thing we are guaranteed is that the sun will rise regardless of what season it is. 

                                      Playing a game of nhodo

Dear Dad,

I am writing to tell you why the month of April haunts me.

It is the month we bade you a final farewell, all those years ago. At your funeral, people wailed, I wailed, and songs depicting your character tore the atmosphere. Finally, you were at peace. Since then, the memories you left behind have become taxing on the heart and soul. 

We were close; as close as father and daughter can get. You were not one for gushing, but your love was noticeable in the little things–your smile, your lousy jokes, your far-fetched tales, your warm gaze when you thought no one was watching, and in the way you hammered into me that the only inheritance worth having was a sound education. 

I get it now, I really do.

You entertained my curious mind, all that endless talk about my dreams, and you believed I could become whoever I wanted to be. You said all I needed was to be grounded, to have the faith and courage to hold on to my authenticity and uniqueness. To cement your words, you reined in on my immaturity and over-inflated confidence by recounting poignant moments where you had experienced failure, missed an opportunity and took unnecessary risks. However, you were quick to heighten my spirits by stating that life had not denied you some glory. From your overflowing bag of wisdom, you drew upon your success stories. How you scaled your trips around the world; and navigated the challenges of diversity as you interacted with people from all walks of life, among other things.

Of all the things I remember about you, it is your belief in your ancestors that I found staggering. I was a Christian; you regarded yourself as more spiritual than anything else. As I write this, my mind recalls one of our conversations where you spoke in riddles:

‘Can you see it?’  

‘See what?’

‘The future.’

‘What? In your palm?’

‘Yes, and yours, my dear child, is as bright as the morning star. Look, right there.’

I creased my brow, laughed, shook my head in disbelief at your unearthly utterings. It was utter nonsense, and yet I hung onto every word. You became my muse. Now, having experienced life as I have, I know why you did it.

The last day we talked, you ditched your usual eccentricity and crammed your speech to give me the abbreviated version of your sentiments. You did not mince your words for you knew we had limited time. I treasure those final words. Sacred words of the dying every loved-one seeks to find closure.

I wish I could say that the adage time heals all wounds rings true for me. It does not. 

After your untimely departure, I rode the dragon of grief, just like everyone else. I heeded the advice you gave me over the years. I am grateful for your preparation which gifted me with the resilience to withstand tough times. The foundation you laid, cultivated in me, a rooted sense of self, and the propensity to accept that, in life, we do not always get what we want, when we want. You taught me that sometimes down is up and lost is found.

And yet, the ache of longing for your presence never fades.

During my rueful moments, my mind threatens to explode with pent-up emotions. I have things to say. Things to show you. If only you could feast your eyes on what I have achieved. It is not much, but you would have rejoiced and reminded me, with a smug look on your face, of the day I dubbed you a crazy old man because of your weird prophesying. I regret you are not here to listen to your grandchildren’s insane stories, perhaps teach them a thing or two. I want to whine about my problems, share my joys with you, and seek your advice, draw from your well of wisdom, but I can’t.

Your face has become elusive in my dreams. I see your lips moving, but your voice is distorted, and I do not understand the words you speak. There is a misty fog billowing around you, and my eyes cannot penetrate through it. Everything has become a blur.

You were not the most perfect dad in the world, but in my eyes, you were kind and prudent. 

Despite your flaws, you insisted on my schooling. 

You were by no means the perfect parent, but you were the one who stayed. 

There have been many seasons since your passing, but I am still consumed with rage. My heart still jolts from the harsh reality–you are gone forever, and all I have are the relics of my heartache, the constant reminder being the tombstone under which you lay interred in the cold grave.