#ThisFlag – Blood on the Blouse

Close your eyes for one moment.
Imagine as if you watched your birth. Imagine you were the cameraman or camerawoman when your mother pushed you out of her bloody womb.
Imagine the celebration that ensued. Imagine the first picture taken of your immaculate figure. Think of Ambuya. Think of Sekuru.  Think of your proud Baba and relieved Amai, joyful Tete, Babamukuru and Babamumini. Clearly the seed planted in her womb finally became a reality.  Think of the pain and spillage of Amai’s blood when you were born.
It was a bloody struggle for her wasn’t it?
You can open your eyes now.
Ladies and gentlemen, that day was April 18, 1980.
This is the day Rhodesia became Zimbabwe. The House of Stone.  The Warriors.  The Cheetahs. The Sables.  The descendants of the Monomutapa Dynasty.
I come from the greatest country in Africa. I entered this earth 6 years after her rebirth.  She was a beautiful little girl in the third grade.  She was growing, brimming with bubbling potential. She introduced me to her sisters and brothers.  She told me about the struggle to free her from captivity.  She told me about the valiant veterans who lost their lives to see her freed from her chains.  When everything calmed down, she was told her name would change, and that’s how she got to be called Zimbabwe.
She told me that Bob Marley came to Rufaro Stadium and sang about her in the Mbare ghetto while the rest of the world was watching.  She got to be known all over the world.  She was honored by Kings and Queens and she remembers a cosy, yet deceptive relationship with the Commonwealth.  I began to learn more about my sister, Zimbabwe and in due time good grades in my seventh grade allowed me to enter the best boys school in her city.  Suddenly, I had to leave because frankly I had to go and so did 3 million others.
Zimbabweans are at the core of the most profitable entities in the universe. The country can alarmingly be self sufficient, but sadly it hangs on a thread of what I call dasporan funds and donations.
Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Hollywood and The London Stock Exchange and even Tesla.
All of these entities are full of bright and talented Zimbabweans who would love to contribute to their homeland directly, but over the last 15 years, Zimbabwe has suffered brain drain that is insurmountable.

I received a call from her and she told me some sad news.

She told me people are tired.

She told me people are scared.

She told me people are rising.

She told me $15 Billion is missing.

She told me people are dying.

She told me the water is not clean.

She told me companies are closing.

2.2 Million jobs are missing.

She told me the fields are barren.

She told me her big brother Evan started talking about the flag.

She told me this is forsaken.

But now it has sparked a movement that is rather potent.

She told me there are factions.

She told me she can’t sleep at night.

She told me she can’t pay her child’s fees.

She told me they are stepping on her mothers blouse.

She told me the corruption got her anger aroused.

She told me she doesn’t want to live anymore.

She told me no one knows where the diamonds went.

She told me no one is accountable.

She told me her mothers womb could no longer give birth.

She said someone is stepping on her stomach.

She told me there is blood on her blouse.

She is in pain and she is disdained.

She told me there is a brain drain.

She told me the situation is just insane.

All I could do was cry and pray with her, because I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t  have the solutions, but could only hope that those in power could wake her up from her nightmare.
I am a product of the loss and brain drain in my beloved Zimbabwe.  I had to leave because Baba had to leave.  Over the last 12 years I have had to gallop across foreign lands in England and America hoping to return to one day return to my beloved Zimbabwe.  Now, I have to negotiate going back to my own place of birth because of the fear of the unknown.  That is ludicrous.  That’s the true reality of the Zimbabwe diaspora.  No one Zimbabwean-born man or woman in America, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, UAE or the United Kingdom wants to stay there permanently.

No one.  

Voluntarily, Zimbabweans have accepted living in foreign lands, but sadly because of involuntary, unbearable circumstances.  It’s sad to the point it is heartbreaking and depressing.  It’s sad that it was a joyous breakthrough to leave Zimbabwe through a visa. It’s sad that many Zimbabweans in this very moment want to leave.  I once imagined a utopia of all my friends going to the University of Zimbabwe, but sadly this never materialized. I was advised by my own Zimbabwean friends not to go there because it was a derelict, unfruitful situation.

It’s somber.  It’s melancholy.  It’s depressing.  It’s missing family events, funerals, graduations and celebrations. The homesickness. The corruption in the papers. The greed in the deals.

We, in the diaspora are haunted and all of us know someone like Ambuya vaHector.  But it’s people like Pastor Evan who are making us believe in the hope of the future. A free and fair Zimbabwe where all Zimbabweans can simply enjoy their lives and take care of their kids for centuries to come.

For those of you in the diaspora, this why you can’t ignore what is going on back home. It’s not politics. It’s not Ian Smith. It’s about those entrusted with rescuing our daughter, yet now she has been raped multiple times and now there is blood on her blouse.

Can we give just give her a chance to give birth for a future and give us grandchildren?


#lethergo and Read this:

Son of the Soil

© SonofGuruve 2016

4 thoughts on “#ThisFlag – Blood on the Blouse

  1. Pingback: Ice Cream | #SonofGuruve

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