With all due respect Mr Cupid - you should consider retiring if you can't aim straight... or try taking a refresher course and just stop hitting the wrong targets!
I want to know why I love you; so that I can find the eject button and flush you out of my system.
I want to know how you crawled under my skin so that I can find the tear and extract you.
I want to know when I fell for you so that I can replay the sequence of events in my mind and find a different ending to the narrative.
I want to know why you matter so I can reason you out of my affections; using logic to drive out sentiment.
I wish I knew you better so that I could have things to hate about you.
Like maybe if you always leave the toilet seat up – I could hate that about you. Or maybe if you snore in your sleep – I could learn to loathe you for it.
I just need to know one thing about you that I can hate. I would latch onto it, make it a fixation and use it to obscure whatever qualities that attract me to you.
I want to know why it’s you and not someone else?
What qualified you to be the recipient of my affection and why are you such a frequent pedestrian in the corridors of my mind?
The things I know about you wouldn’t fill a restaurant napkin and yet here you are; nestling nicely in my heart without my consent.
How did you get here?
Which room in my heart did I leave ajar, for you to stroll right in and make yourself at home?
I want to un-love you but first I must figure out how I came to love you.
I want to reverse it – this feeling I have.
I want to grab cupid’s arrow, yank it out of my chest, tell him to keep his aim straight next time and then break the stupid arrow to pieces!
I guess what I mean to say is you’re not the one.
And I know you’re not the one because I can’t be the one.
Not now, not yet and maybe – not ever.
Dear Cupid, I don't want to tell you how to do your job but next time make sure you keep your aim straight and spare me the grief...
Today someone asked me what makes me happy. I told them – laughter. I am happiest when I am laughing. And I have found I laugh whenever I am with my girlfriends.
I think it is because I find safety, acceptance, love and compassion in these women. They know my mess and they love me regardless.
It’s Valentine’s Day today and I want to wish these special women, a Happy Valentine’s Day… they are all my Valentines; in their unique, wonderful and amazing ways.
And girls – wherever you are in the world, wherever you are in your journey of life and no matter how long we’ve been apart – I wish you laughter today and every other day.
And if things are hard, and I am too far away and my Blackberry is off, and I’m silent on Whatsapp and not visible on Skype or not available on Facebook and not accessible on G-chat and I am not responding on Twitter and have gone AWOL from LinkedIn… please remember every occasion we shared laughter and may the warmth of that memory sustain you til I am able to re-surface from wherever life and its schedules bury me.
And if the pain dulls the memories and you find it hard to smile through the tears – you have my permission to think of all the times I made a complete fool of myself – and laugh your head off (at my expense!).
I love you all so much. If you could all be combined, your intimate knowledge of me would give the most accurate portrait of the woman I was, the woman I am and the woman I am becoming.
Before I name (and shame you); every Valentine’s deserves a soundtrack don’t you think? So here’s my song to you all:
There is more than one kind of love by Joan Armatrading
Talema Moyo: For all the tears you wiped away, all the nonsense you scolded away, for believing when I couldn’t and mostly for the fierce love.
Confidence ‘Kisha’ Mshakarara: For laughing at me, for loving me, for laughing with me and for the ferocious loyalty.
Nomxolisi Ncube: For picking up the pieces when I was shattered, for loving me, for poking fun at me and making it impossible for me to grow a big head.
Destelia Monalisa Ngwenya: For taking me as I am, for loving the good and the bad; for being there when it counted – for the years past and the years ahead.
Samkeliso Belinda Ndlovu: For bearing witness to my pain and for understanding (probably more than others) what it cost and what it took for me to become whole again.
Maureen ‘Mossy’ Sibanda: For sharing the fears, for being strong so I could be strong too and for your incredible resilience that inspires me.
Simiso Mlevu: For claiming a space in my heart, for the laughter, the acceptance, the craziness and mostly for the amazing example of courage you have given me.
Thandekile Moyo: For being near even when you’re so damn far. For being quick to laugh, slow to judge and willing to empathize. And for always knowing the right thing to say.
Nomakhosazana ‘Zana Kay’ Khanyile Ncube: For the astonishing beauty of your soul, the sharpness of your wit, the steel of your will and for your beloved brand of ‘craziness’.
Fungai Rufaro Machirori: For knowing me as I am, accepting me and still thinking that I am wonderful (girl, quit faking! You know I’m a mess! Lolest!).
Natasha Msonza: For your wit, for your strength and for the courage with which you hold your convictions. For inspiring me with your word-smithery and for always making time to listen.
Koliwe Nyoni: For being a friend and a sister. For being who you are – you’re so crazy and I love you for it – because your craziness gives me permission to embrace my own kind of craziness.
Rumbidzai Sithole: Who vanishes and reappears; and picks up the conversation from wherever we left off. For understanding without my explaining. For laughing and letting it be.
Nshalati Khanyisa Hlungwane: Who happened out of nowhere, crawled under my skin and made herself at home. But mostly for never condemning and always having an understanding ‘nod’ to spare.
Shonisani Ndou: When someone can count their big sister among her friends -she’s blessed. You’re my own blessing. For knowing the deep, dark and dirty secrets (and quietly bearing the burden of keeping them). For being my big sister no matter what I do.
And there are many others, who’ve walked in, walked out, walked by and walked on… may life be kind to you all. May love find you and when love hurts you – may you have friends like mine to give you laughter when you cry and to always prove that there IS more than one kind of love.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all my Valentines!
May there always be laughter in your lives to sustain you through the inevitable trials
Yet another young person, very inspiring and set to make Zimbabwe a very proud nation, or should I say prouder since she has already started making strides in achieving that. One of the most inspiring articles I have read written by this remarkable young woman explains who she is, or rather who she isn’t. Entitled kicking out paternalism, in that article Delta Ndou introduces the subject matter by saying; “I have never been too fond of radical feminism or any form of extremism for that matter; finding it …
So I got this in my email this morning… They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers …
I have been struggling to write of late. And it is a frustrating and frightening thing. Frustrating because writing is something that has always come effortlessly to me.
And when I have to exert myself when writing an article; I let it go. I cannot force it.
That is not the kind of relationship that words and I have… I don’t force them to come. There is no coercion just camaraderie.
Words and I. For as long as I can remember we have been ‘in this’ together. And by ‘this’ I mean the business of living. The business of thinking, of questioning things, of seeking answers, of trying to do better, be better and be relevant.
I need the words. I need to write again.
I am frightened. Frightened by this silent treatment my mind gives me when I say to it, “hey why don’t we find words and scribble something up?”.
Writing has always given me release, always allowed me free reign – enabling me to make my thoughts visible where I could not make them audible. I want it back. My writing.
Anyway I have worked it out. Why the words won’t come. Why the writing is being so aloof. It’s because I am distracted. Because my mind is on a leash… tethered to that nasty thing called ‘unfinished business’.
And in my life there are people who go by that name as well – the people I have ‘unfinished business’ with whom I have judiciously avoided dealing with to the point where it is stressing my mind out!
And now even my writing has packed up its bags, is standing at the door and telling me how things won’t work between us unless I get rid of the distractions.
Now the ‘unfinished business’ is people or things that fall into these categories:
1) The hurts I can’t let go of…
There. I said it. Every year end when I sort out through the stuff I want to enter the new year with; there are certain hurts I make sure I pack to take along with me. I keep the hurts, the really deep ones because I want the pain to be a constant reminder of why I should not let people in. Why I should not trust or depend or need anybody. Why I should learn to crawl if I can’t walk rather than accept the outstretched hand of someone offering to help me to my feet. I keep these hurts because they are souvenirs of risks I was once willing to take, gambles I was once brave enough to make and I especially keep them so that I don’t forget the person who inflicted them on me. So that I don’t ever forget. If I forget it may trivialize the enormity of their transgression against me. But if I keep the hurts – keep them minty fresh – hold on to them tight; through the years and seasons; then it will be reminder that I got hurt and that the hurt was so bad it has not healed and so the offense cannot be pardoned.
2) The things that could have been…
And every year when I pack up for the next year… I pack again a little box of the things I almost had that life cruelly snatched out of my reach. By life I am referring to specific people and their choices that impacted on my life because I had been foolish enough to bank my life on theirs. I keep this box as a set of lessons that I must never attempt to travel through life without. All the things that could have been have one thing in common – they all required the cooperation of somebody else and they all failed because that somebody failed me. So the lesson I learned from the things that could have been is that I increase exponentially my chances of succeeding in life when I go it alone. I learned that if I premise my life on relationships or make someone other than myself central to what I am hoping to achieve – it has the terrible potential of becoming a colossal failure. In short, it has taught me to regard with fear, suspicion and scepticism the hand that would interlace its fingers with mine.
3) The hopes that got deferred…
Each year I carry over, the hopes from the previous years that never came to fruition. And with the years, I find there are some hopes that lingered year after year even when I can see that there is no way they can ever materialize. These I keep locked away and double-bolted in the attic of my mind because they are the worst form of self-torture. They are the heart’s refusal to accept what is and the soul’s refusal to let go of what never was. Because these are things that were fed by everything in me that was beautiful, good, well-meaning, pure and positive. How can such things, fed on such a wholesome diet of everything that embodies goodness in me not come to be. For hope is fed by nothing dark, negative, malicious or twisted. No. Hope is the stuff of goodness. In the balance of life and karma… the hopes that got deferred hurt the most because they sting my innate sense of fairness, of rightness, of just reward and deservingness. So I carry them along too; to remind myself that life is too stochastic to entertain certainty in self, in people and in what the future holds. In short, the lesson I carry from this is – you never know what’s going to happen.
4) The people I won’t forgive…
I have a list of people held captive in my dungeon of grudges. These are people who have let me down; and these people who’ve walked away when they’d said they’d always be there; and these are people who returned my good with evil; these are people who took something from me that I have not yet figured out how to restore – my faith in humanity. Every year, I declare an amnesty for these captives of grudges and I am glad to say many often go scot free. BUT there is a select core of people whom when I release others; my heart reinforces the cage of bitterness and resolutely increases the chaining restraints to make sure they don’t escape. This dungeon is safely guarded somewhere in the recesses of my heart and they have made for light luggage over the years to the point where I can go for months on end without thinking of them but some little thing will trigger a memory and before I know it; I am standing in that dungeon reliving the unjust treatment they gave me and wishing I had more rope to tie them up in. They are ‘unfinished business’ because I am afraid that if I set them free; it will make what they did to me right… it will sanction their actions and it will trivialize the gravity of how they wronged me. I don’t want it to be okay that they hurt me. Because it is not okay. And it will never be okay. Forgiving them would be like saying it’s okay. And it’s not.
5) The things I regret…
Of course the most unfinished business is the stuff I regret. The choices I made that I shouldn’t have made; the people I hurt that I shouldn’t have hurt, the places I stayed when I should have left; and the places I left when I should have stayed. The promises I made that I failed to keep; the people I rejected when they deserved a chance; the people I kept making excuses for when they didn’t deserve the generosity of my loyalty; the people I have betrayed when they’d honoured me with their trust; the things I did that I shouldn’t have and mostly the things I didn’t do that I ought to have done. I carry these along with me to remember that I am not better than others. That I am as messed up as the next person. That I have no right to judge. That my pain is not special, unique or more noteworthy than that of others. That I am only human and can only do the best I can with what I have when I have it. That I too have done horrible things and yet remain a good person. That people deserve a second chance to redeem themselves but also that some people cannot be redeemed and regardless of how many chances they get – they will be what they’d rather be. My regrets teach me that no one can save me from myself and I can never save others from themselves. In short, I cannot change other people; I can only change me.
So my writing is still standing at the door, all packed up and ready to leave – my mind is still tied to a leash, straining to get past all the ‘unfinished business’ so that we get on with the dreams yet to be fulfilled.
...in 2009; this woman said something important. Maybe she was wrong, maybe she was right - but I'm just glad she had the guts to say it!(pic by lfla.org)
The name ‘Dambisa Moyo’ is one I vaguely recall hearing here and there, but my disinterest was such that I cannot even pinpoint where or when. I just have a fuzzy notion that the name has been said in my hearing on many an occasion.
Until recently; it is not one that would have piqued my interest, never mind galvanizing me into writing an entire blogpost on her.
This sudden interest was sparked by the fact that I befriended a Chartered Accountant a while ago and he is an engaging conversationalist whose only fault is that he just won’t shut up about how remarkable Dambisa Moyo is.
Now seeing as how Dambisa Moyo’s awesomeness was becoming a recurring conversational theme and how she was a constant reference point in our discussions- I thought it wise to find out who the hell this woman really was and what all the fuss was about!
Well, I did my research and I still cannot answer who the hell she is but I think I have a good idea what all the fuss is about.
If you’re really interested in specificities regarding Dambisa Moyo you are welcome to ‘google’ her; I am not really writing authoritatively on her – so for the purposes of this post I’ll identify her as Zambian-born author and economist.
Now, I am not an economist, have never been particularly concerned with that field of study and having come across the storm of controversy Dambisa Moyo’s books have stirred – I think I should read around the subject a bit.
A disclaimer before I go on – I have NOT read Dambisa Moyo’s books (I hope to do so soon) hence the title of my post… as far as I know she is a woman who said ‘something’ important in one or both of her books. I say ‘something’ because I have no idea what exactly she said I am just convinced it was important.
The reason why I think she said something important is because while doing my research I came across a lot of praise for her book and insights on economics, Africa, aid and what-not. The praise was lavish and made for some entertaining reading.
However, it was the harsh criticism that really caught my attention. Oh, didn’t they just shred her, tear her to bits and pieces, flog and flay her views; stamp and spit and spew venom in response to whatever she had opined in her book (specifically Dead Aid: Why Aid is Not Working and How There is a Better Way For Africa published in 2009).
It was the criticism, the meanness and the vileness of it that convinced me (as nothing else would have) that this woman said something important. Again I am not at liberty to state categorically what the important thing she said is for the reasons given above.
I am just of the opinion that you have to have said something pretty damn important to grab that kind of attention, stir that sort of controversy and attract that kind of brutal criticism.
Sometimes even when what we have to say is wrong… if it is important – it will get a reaction precisely because its wrongness points to what is right. I don’t know if that’s the case with Dambisa Moyo but a lot of learned people disagree vehemently with her and a lot of equally learned ones agree with her views.
Whatever it is they are quarrelling about (what do I know about economics?) – it must mean she said something important.
Below are quotes from various reviewers including Donor Organizations on the contentious matter of Dambisa Moyo’s writing:
Zambian economist Dambisa Moyo, who advocates scrapping aid to Africa, creates a sensation wherever she goes. Her critics say she is nothing but a media hype, but she is nevertheless an African voice in a debate dominated by white men. – Critics dismiss Dambisa Moyo as 'media hype'
One suspects that behind this book is a remarkable woman with an impressive career and very little time for learning how to write a good book. The result is an erratic, breathless sweep through aid history and current policy options for Africa, sprinkled with the odd statistic. There are so many generalisations skidding over decades of history, such frequent pre-emptory glib conclusions, that it is likely to leave you dizzy with silent protest. This is Moyo at her weakest; she is an economist by training and her grasp of the political economy of Africa is lamentable. Time and again, she fails to grapple with the single biggest factor determining the poverty of the continent – how the state functions, and has failed to function. – The road to ruin
…here we have a Zambian academic weighing in on a subject that has been the preserve of self-appointed “development experts”. I have always found it challenging to review papers or books penned by fellow Zambians as my natural propensity is to cheer every sentence and offer support. But of late I have found the call to review Dambisa’s book too loud to ignore…Dead Aid falls far short of what is expected of a book advocating such a radical proposal of “turning off the aid tap”. If there’s any consolation in this assessment, it is that Dead Aid will hopefully not find any intellectual traction. – A Zambian Economist Review
The book is sporadically footnoted, selective in its use of facts, sloppy, simplistic, illogical, and stunningly naive…Moyo’s concerns are old and poorly argued, but I close constructively. For her concerns are also serious. She is passionate and authentic as she tries to tackle and explain big ideas. This is an early effort, and she can improve. Going forward, she must give up the search for easy answers. – Dambisa Moyo Discovers Key to Ending Poverty
“Mrs Moyo is not the voice of Africa”, he said. “She lives in an Ivory Tower far away from the reality of Africa. Perhaps she should go back to Zambia to see how much that country still needs help. Maybe then I will pay better attention to her” – John Kufuor, former president of Ghana</a
I could go on and on… but the bottom line is I am inspired. Inspired to go right ahead and write my own book about whatever the hell I like and state whatever the hell I think and fearlessly express my own opinion and not be afraid of the critics. They could be right and I could be wrong. But I’ll have my say regardless. Thank you Dambisa Moyo, for whatever it is you said – that seems to have been so damn important!
"Too many African countries have already hit rock-bottom -- ungoverned, poverty-stricken, and lagging further and further behind the rest of the world each day; there is nowhere further to go down." - Dambisa Moyo (pic by wikipedia)
When T.D Jakes’ daughter fell pregnant at 14, he says when push comes to shove and you’ve gotta choose – choose your child.
She wrote a letter saying she was sorry to see her parents go through the kind of pain they were going through but told her father ‘it was worth it all to see how much you love me’.
In Zimbabwe, we don’t often get parents who stand by their daughters when they fall pregnant prematurely.
We have this tendency to dump teenage daughters who fall pregnant to ‘punish’ the erring daughter and to ‘penalize’ the man/boy responsible – so in the end we have a percentage of the society who are married by default.
Would you stand by your daughter? And if you’ve been there, did your parents stand by you? Was anyone there for you?
Sarah D. Henson’s father told her unequivocally, “I would give the whole church up before they make me disown my daughter.”
A while ago I decided that I wanted to learn a new word every day. I even subscribed to A.Word.A.Day
It may sound lame to some people (like, really Delta get a life!) but we all have our quirks and mine is that I love words.
I especially love new words (by ‘new’ I mean words I haven’t come across before). New words are stimulating as far as I’m concerned.
So I found myself salivating when I stumbled upon the word: bloviate
I immediately looked up its meaning (although I had a general idea picked up from the context in which it had been used) and some of the definitions were as follows:
blo·vi·ate/ˈblōvēˌāt/
Verb:
Talk at length, esp. in an inflated or empty way
- is a style of empty, pompous, political speech
- to speak pompously
- to speak or write verbosely and windily There are more; you can look them up if you’re interested but for the purposes of getting to the point (i.e the insult) I’ll end here.
Excited about this latest ‘find’ (words have that effect on me!); I read through several articles online until I came across American writer, H. L. Mencken’s description of someone he considered to be a bloviator i.e President Warren G. Harding.
The description is sooo insulting but elegantly put that I thought it merited a blog post of this nature. But first, a picture of the alleged bloviator to ‘set the mood’…
President G Warren Harding, 29th President of the United States (In office March 4, 1921 – August 2, 1923); preceded by Woodrow Wilson & succeeded by Calvin Coolidge
Now that you have all taken a good look at him; I can now share H. L. Mencken’s view of this President:
He writes the worst English that I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abysm of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash.
I know insults should not be celebrated but for someone like me (who has this thing about words)… that sentence is one of the most elegantly constructed ‘put-downs’ I have ever come across. My only regret is that I can’t seem to get any sample of President Harding’s writing or speeches so that I formulate my own opinion on the matter.
Nevertheless, for fear of being accused of bloviating (I just had to use the word!) I will leave you to either enjoy this paragraph as much as I did or shake your head wondering whether the air in Britain disagrees with my mental faculties!
