In Chizezuru, my native language, we have a saying: “tsitsi dzino tsitsiridza.” Tricky to translate, it implies that, when one is compassionate, it might not be reciprocated. You could say, in English, that “no good deed goes unpunished.” My family says I am a collector of strays, determinedly rescuing and tending to wounded souls. This is usually to my detriment. On an October morning in 2023, I tied the dog leash around my waist to take our husky Loki out with me on a bicycle ride. Loki, miserable and mourning the recent loss of his longtime kennel-mate Sega, had howled so forlornly when I set out for my errands that I decided he should come along.
A short time later, as I lay on the pavement surrounded by frantic Italians who were trying not to look at the bone protruding from my left foot, the Chizezuru saying went through my head. Loki the dog, supremely ungrateful, went home and I went to hospital. This is, in a nutshell, the story of my life.
The severe Chopart fracture of my foot is a physical sign of the divisions and contradictions which have defined my life. It’s been a battle of dichotomies: in identity, in culture, in love, religion and politics. It’s been shattering, gratifying, alarming, empowering. Car and plane accidents, a hostage situation, an HIV diagnosis, extreme surgeries, domestic abuse and divorce have ruptured my life over the years. Family, children, travel, work, advocacy, friendship and, recently, crocheting, have helped to heal the cracks.
It started early. I present as African and yet I have never identified as African. The first 18 years of my life I lived in two worlds, where my parents, fighting and yearning for Zimbabwean independence, nevertheless advised me to “think and act like a white person, not an African”. They sent me to a multi-racial private school in Zimbabwe and to university in the USA. Though they longed for self-governance, my parents taught me that Africans were not prepared for this: colonialism stripped Africans of self-esteem. We do not believe in ourselves. Yet another dichotomy existed at home where the Zezuru culture, in which the girl child is not revered, loomed over the family. Having sons to carry on the family name, urges the culture.
My parents had four girl children. Do not educate daughters, dictate the culture; for they will marry and “belong” to their husbands. My father ensured we were educated and independent.
“Imba Mukadzi” insists the culture – “the woman is the home”. The woman ensures the household stands firm and she is responsible for the success of the family. Any failures are hers.This accountability is immense; the pressure unrelenting. You will take in those strays, accommodate all manner of reprobates and rascals, wayward dogs, reckless men (whom you may marry) and hopeless causes, in order that your house stands firm. It’s on you. Because I was also born to privilege in an under-privileged society, I was taught to give back, with an imbued sense of guilt. Added to this is a special helping of Catholic guilt gleaned from the 13 years of Catholic schools I attended, despite my father being an Anglican and my mother a Methodist. Contradictions rule, the pressures and tensions are scarcely tenable. Fractures can, and have, appeared.
It has taken me 57 years to finally realize that my life’s journey has been that of putting everyone else’s needs before my own, and yet - the universe’s lesson to me is, until and unless you put yourself and your needs first, you will never realize your potential; you cannot pour from an empty cup.
The many shocks and traumas I have endured have emptied the cup which was made, to start with, of a flawed clay. Now it is time to mend the cup, carefully and mindfully, in the manner of the art of kintsugi. The universe has had its fun with me, visible in the cracks and fissures which the capricious gods have visited upon me. To mend the fracture lines, I must tell, and revisit, the times of stress. I will make my peace with those gods, and – drop by drop – fill the cup. CONENCT WITH WADZANAI: LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/wadzanai-garwe
Facebook: www.facebook.com/wadzanaigarwe
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