betrayal

My heart pounds, like the rhythmic sound of the pestle as it hits the mortar
Blood rushes through my ears, like a burst sewer pipe in the streets of Harare
I lose my balance a bit, my equilibrium is definitely not what is should be
I wait for the anger to kick in, nothing
I wait for the tears to start stinging at my eyelids, nothing
My tear ducts appear to have gone on hiatus on me
All I feel is the dry, numbing, excruciating pain…
I imagine looking into my chest and seeing my heart shatter…
The fragments noiselessly falling to collect at the bottom of my stomach
I need to go; I need to get out,
Out of this body and away from the piercing pain that threatens to suffocate me.
I have to remember how to breathe; 30 seconds have gone past without a grain of air being expelled from my lungs
I need to run, to shake it off.
But my eyes go blank, darkness engulfs me
No I do not swoon, but the eye of my mind shuts down on it own volition
The agony is too much for it to continue watching
I feel my legs giving way, and I stumble to find a place to sit
I have tasted betrayal’s vile, foul-smelling palate in my mouth,
Wake me up when it’s over.

HIFA

This past week has been nothing short of exciting. I always get really excited when one of the biggest shows (at least in my book) comes to town and that is the Harare International Festival of the Arts (HIFA). I was just telling some people the other day that sometimes I think I am more excited about the euphoria, the adrenaline that surrounds this show. But the performances are exhilarating all the same. And this year I have managed to watch more than any other year due to the fact that I was still on that month long leave, what perfect timing.

One of my favourite performances this year, (well so far coz as I write I am yet to watch all the shows that I have earmarked) is an all woman cast performance by some of the finest divas around. It had the soul and grace of a woman. It was a celebration of the essence of a woman, the African woman and as I sat there I couldn’t help but be reminded again of how much I am proud to be an African woman. As I listened to the magical voices of Prudence Katomeni, Dudu Manhenga, Hope Masike, Ruth Mbangwa and the rest, I got transported to a beautiful place. I got to step out of my body and look at myself afresh. I saw the strength, the resilience, the power that lies in me. I saw the love of a mother, the selfish strength of a lover and I saw how all the burdens that a woman carries are balanced because we were built for the rough terrain. I saw the softness and kindness only a woman can possess, and I saw the grace and charm inherent in our DNA. But you see it is not actually me I was looking at, it was the woman I want to be, the woman I always strive to be. I always remind myself that I have to always strive at being a Proverbs 31 woman, and it fills me with ultimate delight when I realize that, all the things described in that beloved scripture, are the perfect description of an African woman, who holds the world in the palm of her hand. Did I tell you how proud I am to be an African woman?

HIFA always rekindles my love for theatre and every time I sit there enthralled by a performance I always get stirrings to find my way back to the stage. You see I used to love theatre, I used to love the stage, the emotions you evoke when you stop being yourself for a moment and become someone else, the warmth the beams set off when the spotlight is on you, and of course the pleasurable thundering beat of your heart when the audience breaks into a loud applause. I always wonder how I lost the passion, or rather how I left it drift to the recesses of my mind and heart such that I only get the stirring only once in a while. But you know what they say, its never too late to follow that dream. But I don’t know, life does have a way of sucking out of you passion for anything that is not directly linked to your livelihood, and it has a way of fooling you to prioritize things in an order you are not entirely happy with all in the name of doing the sensible thing.


P/s well of course I proceeded to finish HIFA before I posted what is above so I might as well make it into one LONG post. The rest of the shows were electric to say the least but I am more interested in what I observed during the festival. This might spark some controversy but I couldn’t help noticing the number of mixed race couples at this event. White woman + black husband or vice versa. And what tickles me is almost always, the black component is spotting dreadlocks. Is this perhaps an expression of their “Africanness” which in turns adds to their appeal in the eyes of the Caucasian partner? Don’t get me wrong I love locks, hell I even have them myself and I absolutely love them. And in a way yes they do make me feel more of an African child than my former straightened hair. However I still don’t get how dreadlocks become the ticket to bag yourself a Vanilla spouse. Yes I said it, shoot me.

And now in other not so exciting news, my month long leave has finally come to an end. People ask me what I did with it, obviously meaning what meaningful thing I did. I never know what that questions requires of me, but what I know is , I rested a lot (read slept), I spent time with my parents, and I discovered that there is hardly a sentence that my three year old son cannot construct by now. I read a lot too, and I watched a fair amount of television, I learnt new recipes and I strengthened a bond with my cousin by spending time with her. In fact I achieved quite a lot in this one month and I am not sure how I feel about going back to work yet but I have feeling I will do a much better job at it than I was doing a few months back. Even though of course the urge to look for another job is definitely still there, but that’s a post for another day!