The dam wall was giving way

I can never be able to express myself in all the rightful ways considered, even if I were to try. Yes, I lived but I was never alive. My emotions were always so weak. The hardest part was pretending I was fine.

I would always die a thousand times whenever I thought of it. I had this stupid thought that made me think somehow wounds could heal but whenever they would turn to scabs, they would crack open and hurt much more than they already did. There was never a ray of hope that was brought upon the rising of the sun, the story of my life was never that interesting, it had no ending. Everyday I ached to know the truth, who my father really was. But whenever I asked my mother she would snap at me and become angry. She beat me up once when I angrily demanded to know who my father was. She walked into the house brandishing a mango stick. It cut across my back and with every whip like an African mom should, it carried a sentence.

” Has- he – ever – clothed- you?”
” Does- he – ever – feed- you- heeee?”
“You ungrateful child”
But all this didn’t bother me. I was on a quest. A quest to know my father. I was sorry I couldn’t be the perfect daughter for her. It stabbed me to see other girls brag about their fathers and how much they loved them. I couldn’t do any of that, I had nothing to brag about, not even a story to tell them that he was alive but then died before I could really memorize the shape of his face, or the colour of his hair or even how he laughed. I didn’t have a picture. My father was the wind, invisible to the eyes. I had to know which corner of the world he belonged to just so I could ease my quavering hunger.

I never knew any paternal relatives. I only knew those from my mother’s side and it was mostly her sister who visited us and that was it. Mother and I rarely spoke at times. We were like two strangers living together. When ever I tried to spark a conversation with her, she’d either act deaf or change the topic, especially if the conversation was about dads. A concrete wall began to build up between me and my mother, a concrete wall of silence. I slowly began to lose the bond I had with my mother, even though it wasn’t even strong but I had to sacrifice. To feed the anxiety that ate my up every day. To find the shadowed stranger whom I ought to call “father.”


Mother was young but never really bothered to find love. She was very beautiful but tried by all means to cover it all up. She would wear baggy clothes that made her look like she was fifty, long dresses that covered her legs and old fashioned tops. She was constantly moody and that made it worse. At times I would feel stupid for trying to find someone who I wasn’t sure if he was looking for me too. But there were demons in me that pushed me to keep searching. Sometimes I felt as if a raging wind was howling inside me. I’d try by all means to seal everything but it would whisper still. I felt like I would keep plunging into empty voids and I was surrounded by darkness. I couldn’t carry on living like this.

I can still vividly remember the day my aunt came to see us. It had been ages sincee I last saw her. She wasn’t constantly smiling like a shy school girl like she always did but instead she bore a serious face. Mother tried to lighten the mood but it was by all means useless. She sat opposite me clutching her bag very tightly as if she was amongst thieves then finally, she asked to speak to my mother in private.

  They closed the kitchen door behind them and began to whisper back and forth to each other. It went on for minutes till I leaned and tried to listen to their conversation, but it was useless. They spoke as conspirators. Suddenly I heard mother break into a burst of tears. Due to my curiosity, I slowly opened the kitchen door although I knew fully well that I wasn’t mandate to. To my surprise, neither of them sent me out or shouted at me for my illmannered behaviour, instead aunt continued the conversation in my presence.

” Tell her now, she needs to know the truth. She’s old enough to understand.”

Understand what? A train of questions began to race across my mind. What were they talking about. Mother then signaled me to come and sit beside her. I felt as though this was my sudden moment of truth. I could feel my chest throbbing very fast I couldn’t even breathe. Mother lay on the kitchen floor crying her heart out. I wanted to comfort her but I didn’t know if I could. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t even comfort myself. My aunt stood in a corner watching and waiting so I did the same as well. Finally she blinked back her tears and gathered up her self to speak.

” There’s something you need to know Tafadzwa.”

I felt a large lump rest on my throat. My ears grew hot and my throat became very dry but I tried to force something out.

” I -i- is it about my father,” I asked
“Yes it is she said vigorously nodding her head.”

She told me everything. How she was raped by her own uncle and became pregnant at 19. She emphasized the pain she felt, the rejection she went through. How her fate was signed and Sealed when he successfully and forcefully found a way with her body against her will. The way he stole her innocence knowing well he could never return it. The greediness he had to satisfy his own sexual desires therefore leaving her torn and shuttered. The way he was heartless enough to degrade his own niece and demand her to remain silent.

I regretted the strong urge I had all those years to know that beast in human flesh. I regretted distancing myself from my mother, but was she really my mother? Was I hers to call her daughter? Besides the fact that she gave birth to me. The man who was embraced by the four wall of prison was my father, but who was he to me besides my father?
So what was I? Who was I? I was the black sheep of the family they could call an abomination.

Why did she not get rid of me before I could feel the warmth of her stomach.
I wanted to run but I didn’t know where to go. I wanted to run from myself as well. I felt disgusted of my own being and irritated by my own existence. How could I even have a family of my own, what type of generation would they be? A curse!

I was a state of immortality. I felt as though a part of me had been snatched away the very moment I possessed it. I couldn’t be me, I couldn’t be the girl I was either. Then what was I?

The day I die

The day I die,
Do not sit in silence
Mourning my instant departure
Take to the wide streets
Celebrating my fruitful existence

Do not let the trees sway alone
Join the wind
Making melodies of nature
Never remember,
The days I said I can’t
Take heart
In the days I said I will

Do away with times
Times moody, harsh and angry
They will do you no good
Remember the days,
My smile warmed your heart
And my words touched your soul

Take comfort,
In days I was around
Than scorn the days I wasn’t.
Heal the souls I wounded,
Than mend those I never.

The day I die,
Let nation upon nation,
Notice I was once a part.
Never let them remember,
All the difference I once gave

Forget the days I sinned
Its never for you to judge
For then we’ll both be sinners
Forget the days I forgot you,
Remember the ones I cherished you

Erase the times,
That you painfully pushed me away
I don’t need you to die of guilt
Cherish the times,
You held my hand
The moments lasted longer.

When finally,
I surpass my time on earth,
Yes, I’ll be gone
Gone but not forgotten
Tell generations yet to come
The stories I once told
And the legacies I left

The day I fade away,
Disappearing from the earth
Do not let mother mourn,
Because she has lost a child
Let her rejoice
For a legend has left a legacy

Dear YOU!

Everyday you wish you were like her or him. You wake up and try to dress like them or plant sheets of powder on your face just to hide that beauty that you’ve never shown. You hear them laugh and you wish you had the same type of giggle, the same type of hair, same type of clothes. You yearn for everything they have just so you think of yourself as perfect. So then you hide even more. You tell yourself you go unnoticed, yet YOU make yourself insignificant.

Everyday is a war with your heart. You tell yourself you can’t be fixed because you’re broken, you can’t be beautiful because you’re scarred. You’re always over thinking, trying to be normal. It won’t change anything, no matter how long you stare into the mirror and beat yourself up for what stares back

You eat less and less just to deserve the perfect body. ‘Mirror Mirror on the wall ‘ you always say ‘I wish I was as prettier than them all ‘ Then you watch yourself fade away in a shadow of insecurities, disregarding the body that you never wanted. Yet God made you one of his perfections and said ‘ This is good ‘

Stop hiding yourself in a shell. Your scars are what make you special and make you perfect like white roses. It’s only you that matters. They’ll keep making you feel small but that’s your power, they’re words.

This to you. Free yourself from your cage of insecurities, your prison of self doubt and your shadow of hidden beauty. You have the light to fight shadows. You maybe a little different but don’t be afraid. Let them see you for who you are. Love you for what you are and accept you for what you have. Stop trying to always fit in it’s okay to fit out. You have a place in the world just as the sky is big enough for every flying insect.

Dear YOU, if you could trade eyes with me just for a moment, you’d see what I see . You’d see that you’re amazing just the way you are. From your hair, to how you eyes match the smile on your face that could easily make people wish they were you. From the way your face lights up when you smile , you’re like a diamond up to the colour of your skin. Take pride in yourself. Love yourself even better than how you did yesterday. You’re not broken. You don’t need to be fixed, it’s the souls of the people around you that need a surgery, for they won’t stop hating till you begin to be your own hero.

Dear YOU
Learn to love yourself before you want the world to do the same

There is no better You than the You that you are ‘

The widow

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Her eyes were dug up by tears, and her body was frail from mourning. Her smile was shallow from crying, and her speech was dry from screaming. I couldn’t seem to comfort her. Words of commiseration wasn’t what she needed. I couldn’t seem to smile too much. She’d think I never cared. She was so pail and thin. Life having been sucked from her. Just as death had sucked what she loved. The cold wind swept past her. As it snatched her husband away. Leaving her entitled, ‘The widow’

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