Finding My Writing Voice

Stephen King says, ‘If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. He is right. Nothing fires me up to write like reading a good book. 

I reckon writers, seasoned or burgeoning, will do well to read others and to explore all kinds of writing styles and genres. There are authors whose works have inspired me and informed my appreciation of the art of writing over the years. Authors that include Bryce Courtenay with his African tales, Tess Gerritsen, the former surgeon who draws from her medical experience, Christian author Chris Fabry, Maya Angelou, Chinua Achebe, Alice Walker, Naomi Alderman, to name but a few. 

But writers who want to grow and expand their horizon will understand that it is not enough to just read a good book. They should sit down and write, for it is only through the practice of writing that one gets to explore their thoughts and feelings, experiment with the various writing styles, and ultimately establish their own unique writing voice.

My writing has evolved over the years. Finding my writing voice has been and still is. The process can span for years as one seeks to perfect and establish their uniqueness in the writing world.

Even though I cite other authors in some of my writings and find their works intriguing, I relish being able to create original content of my own: a quote, a poem, a blog, an article or indeed a novel. 

I like to depict my own version of life as I draw from my own experiences, choose my own words and expressions. Over the years, I have discovered that writing is not so much about the words or phrases I use, but rather the way I use those words to depict the world around me that give character and authenticity to my writing. 

My kind of writing's exact nature should provoke, in my reader, specific thoughts and feelings. This way, the reader experiences what drives me and explore my heart and soul.

My experiences are my most significant resource from which I draw knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. I am a product of my own interpretation of the world. How I embrace, receive and digest my experiences determines the ‘product’ which is my message to the world. The end-product, which becomes palpable and tangible in all my writings 

My voice is the rhythm, the tone and the vibe the reader gets when they absorb and digest my works. It is that uniqueness in quality that separates me from other writers. It is writing in a way that does not seek to deceive or betray my personality or what I represent. When, in an instant, a reader recognises that vibe and uniqueness the second, they open my book to read. 

As a reader, I tend to gravitate towards certain books. My mood and needs at the time often determine which book I choose.  I also want a voice to appeal to my senses and to speak to my soul. Therefore, developing and establishing a reliable voice as a writer is your gift to the reader. It is your unique voice that gives the reader the motivation to pick your book over another. And the only reason a reader will keep coming back for more is the satisfaction and the established chemistry. In other words, they are getting, from you, something unique that no other writer can provide. When this kind of familiarity begins to happen, a writer can claim to have established their authentic writing voice. 

I am a versatile writer. I weave a blog is not the way I write a poem, an article or a novel. I derive pleasure in exploring different writing styles, offering different perspectives to diverse audiences. I should delve into uncharted territories and continue to evolve and not remain stuck in my comfort zone. I should be able to let loose and allow myself to explore the strange realms of imagination and create works of art. I am a writer, after all. 

But moving from my personal experiences and letting my imagination soar does not, in any way, take away my authority as a writer. If anything, stretching my creativity will take me to new and greater heights and allow me to develop facets of my character that I never knew existed. Not only do I extend my appreciation of the world at large and grow as a human being, but I also discover a new potential within me. This process of expansion, if I allow it to happen organically, believing in my powers and letting my personality shine, could be the unveiling of a ‘new self’. The self I was meant to become all along.  

And perhaps, just perhaps, I get to become the kind of writer the world has been waiting for all along!

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 Mystery Man,

I don't know how long you have been following my blog, but if you have, then you will know by now that I’ve been in love with love for as long as I can remember. 

You would have learnt that despite the unfortunate things that have happened to me, I remain optimistic, idealistic, almost to the point of being foolish. I suppose you could say, I have the faith of a mustard seed.

But for a while there I wasn’t sure you had read my blog entitled: To the Man Who Will Love Me. I wasn’t sure you had grasped what I had stated in my open letter to you. And for one horrible moment, I doubted you even existed. 

I was wrong. 

You are out there, perhaps wishing upon a star.

In case you're wondering what I am on about, well, let me break it down for you. A few days ago, the dandiest thing happened: I was at work when a colleague came to tell me there was a man outside, looking for me.

Was it a relative? A friend? A bearer of bad news, perhaps?

It turns out, it was just the delivery man. 

I must tell you, Mystery Man, that you fulfilled one of my fantasies. Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, for Mr Teddy who has since become my most treasured companion, the beautiful message on the card and the voucher which I will squander with little guilt.

   

Could this be the beginning of something amazing? 

Clearly, I am over the moon, but let us not get ahead of ourselves. 

I am not naïve, thanks to this thing called life. The path to true love, I've learnt, is never easy. I’ve tried and failed before. But I have learnt from my mistakes.

And this is what I've learnt:

Passion and emotions can swell our hearts for a time, but it is through some seasons in our lives that truly capture the very essence of the kind of love that our hearts long for so much. Seasons when nothing seems to be working. When nothing makes sense. Seasons when we find ourselves uttering the words, 'why won’t he/she hear me?' 'How will we ever get through this?'

So, what do you do when that happens? Do you give up and hope that one day you will once again stumble upon another opportunity at amazing love? Or do you stay and fight?

                

                                 

Sometimes people drift apart. At times, pride gets in the way. But love is a decision. A decision to stay. Life will test you, and there may come a time when you will need to fight for that love.

Speaking of fighting, here is what I believe one needs to win the battle:

Loyalty

-         Isn't it the essence of true love? Being on the same team, fighting for the same result? A good friend can weep with you in times of trouble, but if your tears keep falling, and the sun remains set, it is the one who stays with you to the bitter end that loves you the most.

Compassion

-         Understanding the other person and how our words and actions impact the other’s ability to love and understand us. When we aim for the same resolution, it is easy to stop each other with compassion and understanding when a line is about to be crossed.

Trust/Respect/Communication

-        earned and built through honest communication, resisting the urge to entertain the negative voice which says, ‘do not believe anything they say.’

-          Broaching whatever subject with patience, love, and understanding.

-          Lay your cards on the table. Holding back = willing your partner to fail.

-         Giving clues on how to fill that hole by being honest about your feelings and thoughts. The truth may hurt but being on the same teams makes it easier to ride the tide. 

Reassurance

-          Reassuring each other of our devotion, commitment and love. Things may be hard right now, but if we know love and appreciation is there, then we are assured of their commitment to try no matter what.

Change.

-          Willingness to make amends, doing whatever needs to be done to improve the relationship.

-         Recognising that change does not happen overnight, therefore, giving the other person space and time to process everything.

-         Rewarding positive change; showing gratitude and being genuine in our thank yous. And when we change, remaining consistent.

Forgiveness

-        Genuine forgiveness does not keep dragging up the past when new conflicts arise. It is not that we fight, but it is how we fight.

Love gives you the courage to lay bare your soul and be vulnerable.         

Love is not the loudest voice in the crowd of supporters? It is the voice that is still there after the crowd has gone home. 

You can be diseased, stripped naked by the burdens of life; but it is the one who remains by your side that loves you the most. For how can genuine love only be shown when times are good?

That, Mystery Man, is what I think.

To the Man Who Will Love Me,

I don’t know who you are, where you are or what you’re going through right now, but this is from me to you.

Image from the internet

I’m a stickler for romance.

Even though I’ve been hurt in the past, I still believe in love. Not just any love, but real, guttural kind of love. Love that makes you weak at the knees.

Either that or my entire relationship with Mills and Boons, Harlequin and Silhouette was a lie?

You see, there was a time I could not get enough of romance novels. The time when my love affair with romance began. Even though I knew how each story would end, I felt an insatiable appetite for the clichés. I became starry-eyed, envisioning a great love written in the stars for me too.

Perhaps it was my fascination with the characters’ determination to navigate the pitted terrain of love that ignited my romantic idealism. How boy and girl conquered the challenges life threw at them.

And so, I figured, if the flawed characters portrayed in the novels I read were anything to go by, I had a pretty good chance at meeting you, the man of my dreams. You, the cliched tall, dark, handsome stranger destined to sweep me off my feet and sail into the sunset with me.

Thanks to These happy endings, I have relationship goals. Call me crazy. Why the hell not? I am woman enough with a lot of love to give. 

I am not naïve. Life has since taught me that nothing is handed to me on a silver platter. We do not always get what we want. And sometimes we have to fight for things.

Let’s face it, it would be easy for me to just crawl under a rock and hide behind the usual platitudes: a relationship does not define me. I don’t need a man. I can be happy and whole on my own. Jesus has my heart. 

I get all that, I really do.

But try telling that to my grandmother who has been married for sixty years. Try telling her about online dating, and how it has become the modern-day art form of throwing the handkerchief. 

I want to see you try explaining how we do the courtship dance while hiding behind the keyboard nowadays. How easy it is to end a relationship using the 'block' button.

You see, my grandmother cannot fathom how impossible it has become for us to meet, let alone establish a relationship. She would rather have me see a ‘sangoma’ to fix me and to hasten our union. 

My friends, out of love, tell me to get rid of ‘the list’. No man is perfect, or I will have to marry Jesus Christ himself, they say. 

Speaking of lists, my definition of love is:

-          Bearing all things, forgiving all things, trusting love to handle our deepest fears and desires, and always willing to support each other's dreams.

-          Allowing vulnerability and picking each other up when we fall.

-          The ability to see the tears behind each other’s smile.

-          The secret glance we share across the table, the twinkle in our eyes, the inside joke that explodes our lungs, but one that no one needs be privy to.

-          Willingness to fight, standing toe to toe until an issue is resolved.

-          Being patient, compassionate and kind.

-   Worrying about the other person.

-   Embracing flaws, warts and all.

-   Till death do us part.

There is more to this list, and I don't care what my friends say. Love is many things to different people, but one thing it is not is uncertain. Love just knows. I hope you will agree.

Someone once told me that love is not meant for everybody. They say, what are the chances
that all of us will meet the love of our lives and live happily ever? 

So, what are the chances that I will meet you, the love of my life? I shudder to think that you could be roaming this earth, scared, lonely, unable to find me, or worse, stuck in a relationship you have no business being in. 

Go figure.

And yet, despite that, I get myself out there and take the risk, trying to find you. I still cling to hope that one day, fate will unite us. I hope to God that when that happens, little damage would have been done.

My Long Lost Love...Poem By Bertha Mukodzani

Internet Image

I keep a trunk under my bed,

Occasionally crack its rusty lock

to reveal bundles of epistles from yesteryear,

before the winds of separation tore a rift so wide.

I remember the sound of your footsteps,

as you tracked behind me after school,

the warmth of your surreptitious hand,

as you slid a page into my pocket, 
the sound of your unassuming voice,

and the look in your eyes,

that finally jolted my heart into submission.

There is something about the earthy pages,

that reminds me of our first heady kiss beneath the tree,

on that sweltering summer’s day,

when due to sudden terror, I spoke of Baba’s menacing rage,

should he unmask the designs of our hearts.

Tender-aged, I had no business falling in love.

Still, I harboured faith in your stamina,

your determination to confront his disdain.

The world could hang for all I cared.

What we’d planted could never be uprooted,

Love that survived our aching bellies,

when savage locusts stripped the fields bare,

and the treacherous terrains we scaled

barefoot for our daily dose of tutelage,

not to mention the green-eyed monster.

We plodded along,

dodging every peril like soldiers in the Gulf war.

We had glorious plans to sheath our minds

Plans for our future,

And it was not long before you gained your worldly ticket.

Perseverance and sagacity had finally granted you victory.

Now, seasons have rolled into decades,

and all I have to show are these yellowing sheets.

Tears have dried, and yet the heart still bleeds.

As I dissect every word, phrase, and sentence wreathed with the promise -

I shall return, I will marry you someday.

I exhale a huge breath,

A breath of exasperation.

The Price of Going Viral

Image Courtesy of the Internet

A while ago, a friend of mine forwarded me a video of a man lying on the floor, foam seeping through his mouth, begging his wife (the one shooting the video), to save him as he was dying.

Fast forward, 2 months later, as I scrolled through my Facebook wall, I saw several other videos - a woman being beaten to a pulp by her husband, a husband exposing his wife for the whore she was, announcing to the world he was divorcing her.

You would think that's all fake news, wouldn't you? No. None of it was, and I can’t help but wonder about the kind of society we have become.

Granted, unfettered access to platforms such as Twitter, Instagram and Facebook have opened doors for many, myself included. Social media:

§  Introduces us to people we would not otherwise meet in real life.

§  Reunites long lost friends while blessing us with new ones.

§  For burgeoning writers, social media broadens one’s horizon. Had I not embraced Twitter, for example, I would not have taken part in pitch contests for my yet to published manuscript or received the valuable feedback I need.

§  Social media has also become a place to unwind, air one’s views, share knowledge, experiences and gain inspiration and insight into the world at large.

§  As every honest, adept social media user will tell you, there is something soul-stirring about seeing the number of views for your video rise. Of seeing that ‘like’, ‘love’, ‘retweet’ and ‘comment’ notification pop on your screen. A chemical called dopamine is released into our body, and we can’t help but feel a surge of pleasure that comes with it.

§  Humans are gregarious creatures and with that comes the occasional craving of validation. We revel knowing that our selfies, motivational messages and videos are well-received and that we have secured our own little community. One that embraces our so-called brand.

§  What’s not to like about following someone’s journey to Timbuktu, watching videos of animals being rescued, men surprising their girlfriends with marriage proposals, a baptism perhaps?

§  I’ve seen people gain instant fame and success via social media. Sometimes all it takes is sharing a status, tagging someone, retweeting and a mention for the right person to discover raw talent.

Beautiful things happen when human beings embrace their uniqueness, authenticity and creativity, offering something no one else can to the world. Isn’t that what we all desire? To bless the world with our gifts and talents, and to show what we bring to the table. Social media has made this dream even more accessible to most of us.

But, during my years of scrolling through my timeline, I’ve noticed an eerie trend. A much dark side of social media that causes us to sacrifice our rationality, humanity and dignity for instant gratification. One must be heard and be seen now.

          “I have a three-strike rule. If I post 3 times and you don’t like, I’m unfollowing you,” one Twitter user wrote.

          “To all my haters who only read but never like or share, f**k you,” another ranted.

One Facebook user, after going live and getting 12 views, deleted their video and suspended their account. They were done!

The problem with dopamine is that it is addictive, which means we must continuously seek the same level of attention to remain satisfied and sane. It is no longer about seeking our hearts and doing what’ right. It’s about how big a tribe can I pull by doing this? 

Unfortunately, for some of us, that means resorting to deprave means to gain popularity and the following are some of the pitfalls:

§  Our hearts have become somewhat hardened, and we become immune to human suffering. For example, what would be one’s motive for standing in a crowd, hiding behind a camera, acting aloof while recording a painful incident instead of coming to the rescue?

§  We all want our fifteen minutes of fame. To be the one that saves the day by providing evidence or highlighting a situation, but at what cost? Why is it no longer enough to do a good deed in secret and still be satisfied?

§  The so-called ghost accounts have made it possible for people to settle scores via social media. Information shared in confidence is shared needlessly, giving little regard for the consequences. We no longer know how to confront issues in person and resolve conflicts behind closed doors. Instead, we seek justice by airing our dirty laundry in public. When we've all logged out of our devices, no one spares a thought for the ruined lives. a

§  Thanks to smartphones, we have mastered the art of doctoring images to name and shame or out of revenge. Even if one eventually proves their innocence, isn't the damage already done? This little regard for human dignity has been the cause of many a suicide. 

  §  Need I remind you of the terrorists who showcase their work on social media?

I once read an article that claims inhumanity has always been ingrained in us, and that social media has just brought things to light. That may be true, but now that we are aware of the consequences, isn’t it time that we work towards curbing the problem and going back to the basics?