Each time that I create a story in my mind, I rumble words in a sequential-trialorder to forge a line that attempts to crack the puzzle in my mind. But no word, I have sought, can ever match my expressions and no word can decipher my intentions.
I wish to tell how much I am inspired by life to live life once because there is no other life. I wish to define the beauty of dew and its sentiments that inspire my day from the beginning as it speaks peace in me and I agree back. I wish to describe my emotions in a lighter scale without adversary as I lay them naked on the horizon and decode its code to understand it elementally. I wish to converse with myself to be more of me, since no one else can be better than me in being me, besides me. To inform my fears to hesitate not in taking the bait of life, for an expected end I am assured. To hear beyond the singing birds and the mooing cows from my neighbors’ livestock and hear nature speak. Even in differed norms I seek to listen to my blessings untied from cultural servitude. I wish to just listen. Just listening! Being a spirit as I am and listening.
I evolve in a world defined by pain and joy; I have grown to balance the weights of the contrast in its mediocrity. A world that has borne much grief and pleasure into my existence and has kneaded the curved path of my life to where it cannot fathom. A world that has afforded the fitness of the soles of my feet to walk over the hot ashes on its braai stand, to get to where I am supposed to be in life. A world that has bid seduction towards me into its gullible homestead congested with polygamous fears. A world whose juicy sentiments many have salivated, and has fed eviler promises to the virgin’s convictions. I listened when my mother told me, zvichengete mwanangu (preserve yourself my child). Sadly, some could not make the same choice like I did. Like all the other cultural girls they succumbed to the abusive tricks of the world, it sucking the sweetness out of their innocence in premature commitments. Blindfold and brainwashed from their paths with idioms that stole their focus with implicit customary whodunits, moyo muti unomera paunoda (love is like a tree, it sprouts where it so desires). Love grows uninterrupted. It blooms in consent. The rest is rape.
Love is an unwrought and independent decision exclusive of expectations for symmetrical reciprocity. Love is not forced into understanding by environmental, financial, social, biological, CUSTOMARY … constraints. Love is amicable. Love is attentive. Love listens. And as fair as it is spiritual, listening and loving are both intangible. They can never be made!
But what if they can be compromised? Like principles that are bound not to be compromised by discipline, what if the path grows thin and choice has to squeeze one side to fit? What if the cultural girl does not want any of this, and her fears victimize her self-realization? What if her tears are inaudible to the screaming terror in her heart? What if she said no to all this, would her dreams be buried in the curses of kuramba kutumwa nevanhu Vakuru (disobeying the wishes of elders) too? Suppose she said yes, would it define her a weakling?
Perhaps the dreams of the girl who is caught between ‘lying with an old man in a ritual ceremony’ and ‘risking a curse for her life’, are guarded in the walls of her heart. Perhaps the old man cannot destroy her hopes for a brighter future, because her spirit heeds her heart’s desires. She believes in herself and the strength that she possesses to survive the dominance of the society. She is confident in herself, even when men treat her like dust. She listens more to the whispers of her future calling unto her and giving her hope. But she can’t rebuke the odds without tangible sustainability. Until when the whispers arrive to take her away, she will have to remain subordinate to the fears of her society. After all she was trained to conform to the harshness of the man’s voice and believe that his thrust into her is much love to her, no matter how many he has done that to. The pain is just a bonus; a blessing in disguise. I ponder!
I am grateful for the ears that listen beyond every hope and fathom every silence. With that understanding there is no greater joy harvested from within than that which is found in the peace of the mind. The mind that tells stories that happen in the extinction of reality and beckon the spirit to fold its knees on the ground and listen attentively to the good news. The mind that divorces the reality and the ‘wish it could happen’, when the ‘wish it could happen’ is the good and loved Dorcas and the reality is the prodigal son. If only Dorcas could adopt the prodigal son reality would be subordinate to our wishes!
Surrounding the bone-fire men drink masese (traditional beer) and choose women for the night. She is drowned in the uproar, but her internal silence speaks louder than the intonation of the drumbeat. In that deep confusion of feminine demeaning she finds herself delivered from the cages of fear and claws of the abuser by the peace in her mind. Back and forth she is stroked but in suspending her faith in the mediocrity of ‘the pain inflicted in her’ and ‘the joy in her spirit’ she finally discovers the path in the meanders of her life. In as much grief and pressure summoned upon her to become a complete cultural vacuum, she holds on tighter to the limitlessness of her heart and her mind to set herself free; her love and her listening to set herself free. Fortunately, all the turbulence of life and the tempers of men are just thunder in the storm; they are required! It is just but an ingredient for self-realization.