I can smell the sausage cooking in my oven while mbira music is blaring from my ebony speakers. I am a long way from home, but the two giraffes caressing on my table give me some sense of homeliness. Perhaps its the African basket weaving next to the giraffe or my Burkina Faso tailor made mat on the floor. I do make an effort to remind myself of the motherland. However I constantly have to take those white vitamin D pills, because my being is affected by the lack of sunlight in the land of the Vikings. This is indeed part of the struggle of being exiled in these sunless viking lands. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the Western world, but daily I find myself with the same question on my mind. How long can I put up with this? Yet I know my fate should I return to my beloved Zimbabwe now. So I await the death of the tyrant who is holding my country at ransom. Meanwhile, I write for several publications about the plight of my homeland. I write several books to try and encourage my generation to stand up and take destiny into their own hands.
I made a pledge to myself. I will not allow my hair to be cut until democracy and justice reign in Zimbabwe. It looks like its going to be a long way until we have free and fair elections in Zimbabwe. So my hair grows longer by the day, in protest of the autocratic regime. Sometimes I imagine that my hair will grow so long, it will begin to sweep the streets of all injustice. I look forward to the day when I will meet my family and friends again. Most of them have no idea what it is I am involved in. They think I am living large in Europe. If only they knew how difficult it can be. But I guess they will never find out. Anyway, I find solace in the Chimurenga music blaring on my speakers as the legendary Thomas Mapfumo sings about Zimbabwe being home to the mhondoro, “the lion spirit of Zimbabwe.” The words send vibrations to my heart, forever reminding me that home is Zimbabwe.
Oh how I wish to return to my mother. How I wish I could see my father and my brothers again. How I wish to sit down with them on the same table. How I wish to taste my mothers sadza and stew. I miss those beautiful sunny days I used to take for granted. I miss the smell of the dust in the streets. I miss the beautiful green trees and the chipping birds. I miss the beautiful horizon and the astonishing sunrise.
But a day is coming in the future when I will set my feet once again in the land of my fore fathers. When I return to the motherland my first order of business will be to organize a political rally and gather all the young people who are disenfranchised, to mark a new beginning. That can only happen when freedom of expression and association is guaranteed. When the playing field in Zimbabwe becomes free and fair, I will go to the countryside and call rallies at schools and at chiefs home steads. I have a message for my countrymen. I will have dialogue with my countrymen and work together with the grassroots to set up a real empowerment movement. Everyone should have a right to express themselves without fear of persecution. I dream of such a day in beautiful Zimbabwe.
Meanwhile, I contribute to the fight of a better democracy through my writing and media work. I will make films that capture the story of my generation. Many of us have suffered considerably under Mugabe's autocratic regime. Unemployment is raging at 90% and many young Zimbabwean graduates find themselves with no employment. Their only prospect for a brighter future is wheeling and dealing in the streets of Zimbabwe. Many are also suffering in neighboring and far away countries, working several jobs to try and help their families back home.
I never wanted any of this. I never dreamt of living in a foreign land where I am constantly reminded that I am an outsider. I never wanted to fight with the Zimbabwean government, but they gave me no choice. How can I keep my mouth shut when life expectancy has been reduced to 39 years under Mugabe's tenure in office? How can I keep silent when the majority of the population is my generation which makes up 75% of Zimbabwe's population. Yet the agenda for our beautiful country continues to be set by a cabal of old Zanu Pf stalwarts who seem out of touch with reality.Their only concern seems to be fattening their already deep pockets. My spirit refuses to remain silent about such things, therefore I turn to non violent political protests in order to help bring about political dissent.Anyway, let me go and prepare noodles and sausage in the kitchen. Its a far cry from my mothers home cooked meals, but for now it will suffice.
Sometimes, I cook traditional Zimbabwean food but it doesn't taste the same when you are alone. At times some dear Zimbabwean friends pay me a visit and then we cook good old sadza and stew. Sometimes we eat it with peanut butter sauce and chicken. We talk for long hours and laugh at our predicament. Will we ever go home? I would like to think so.
I cant imagine myself being an old man and living here in Europe. I cant imagine climbing the spiraling flight of stairs daily just to get inside my apartment. I dream of a day when I will construct a large African hut at my farm in the countryside and live a simple and sustainable life. Of course, I am also addicted to the trappings of African City life and I will have a home in the City too, but from time to time, I will go to my farm in the countryside and enjoy the peace and tranquility of nature. I will continue writing many books about our history and everyday life. I will give book readings to schools, universities and villages. I will give readings on street corners. I will gather the homeless and downtrodden and organize a movement that will bring real progress for the grassroots. I will awaken their political spirits and urge them to demand participation in the democracy of Zimbabwe. I will share and exchange ideas with my countrymen and help chart a sustainable way forward.
I am dreaming of a free Zimbabwe and meanwhile the Danish sausage is burning the my oven. It has been many days since I had a decent meal. I deliberately starve myself at times, to relate to the millions in my country who can not afford 3 meals a day. Quite often, one meal a day suffices for me. As long as I keep writing for freedom and justice, I feel strong.
