Mother

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So in my last post, “F is for February” I wrote about a personal frustration with Valentines Day, Black History Month and paid tribute to #blacklove I was recently introduced to.  Nowadays, I consider myself a friendly social disruptor bringing hopefully bringing hope to the masses, a preparer of good, tomato sauce, and ghostwriter for the man dem and gal dem quietly.So another frustration.Why do I have to wait till Mothers Day to appreciate my mother?  I started writing this piece yesterday evening when I was waiting for friend and fellow artist @Tamramusic to arrive at my compound or hut that has no couches.  We cook, reflect and write. Why spend all that money wrecklessly? In any case, I gave up eating out for Lent, so here we are.Regularly and carefully, I disclose some of our #Tribesmen and #Tribesladies as long as they are comfortable with the exposure and disclosure.  If they already have an online presence, it’s usually okay.  The ones you should worry about are the ones who remain anonymous because they love their privacy.  I protect it.  I salute and honor their wishes because they are true ghosts.  I guess I’m the public overly talkative ghost, trying to lead the tribe collective one post at a time for the man dem and gal dem.  We kind of need a marketing strategy hence, welcome to this website. Just the other day on our Instagram story we said,

“Corporate Ghosts,

Man you can’t kill us (our spirits)

or Penetrate our Hosts (our minds)

Not seeking fame,

That would be doing the most!

PhD Ghosts out here working so hard – so our mothers can Toast!”

So, she is just a little girl from Rusape, Zimbabwe. Her mother had green eyes, golden hands and bronze skin.Her mother used to call me “Mabunhu” which if you google, it means “white boy”. Well lowkey puzzling but when I was five years old till I was thirteen, my best friend was Dikson.  He is @ComradeFatso’s little brother.  Yes, the one who founded #ShokoFesitval and started #MotoRepublik in Zimbabwe.Dikson doesn’t know he’s in the #TribeofGuruve, but he’s the kind of lad that doesn’t need an application to join our #Ghosthood.  He is a master at this writing stuff, but nonetheless, this post is not about him. It’s about her daughter.It’s about the little lady where I get my funnies from.  The little lady whose bosom gave me strength to grow my tiny bones – after a remarkable premature birth in the late 80s. Then,  Zimbabwe was literally on tribal fire.  I don’t want to go into the circumstances besetting my big sister Zimbabwe at the time, but let’s just say I am lucky to be alive and so is she.   Part of why I used to have random nosebleeds in my adolescent years is because I flew from the back seat of her little green Golf, hit the windscreen in a car crash.  I have survived many since then. The sheer luck of the ancestors, right?Part of why I have 20 stitches on my  left thigh is because she rushed me to the hospital in Macheke, Zimbabwe.  Patrick used to make fun of me about it, but it’s okay. I forgave him. One day in 1999 my Yugoslavian brother Branko UK got a black eye for trying to defend me and my scar.  One Blue with Mr. Trinci was a gas though.  Maybe that’s why every time the “new Yugoslavia” plays I support them individually (Bosnia)and wholeheartedly.  Just the other day, I watched USA draw with Bosnia.  A fellow Bosnian was the first person to text me when Zimbabwe was all over the news in November 2017.  He too, was the first person to text me when Morgan Tsvangirai passed away.  Zimbabwe has mad love for Bosnia. But do you?Anyway, I still remember the pain of each stitch piercing my naked, brown skin because they didn’t use anesthetic.  Well, that’s what you get  for trying to climb through a cracked glass door. Yes, I know I was foolish. It’s called youthful exuberance.After one of my mischievous escapades, I decided to scale the ladder of our ZUPCO sponsored home and fell backwards. Go figure what happened next. I fractured my elbow in three places.  Lowkey – I was so proud of my cast like it was a rite of passage.  All the six year old gal dem signed my arm including my crush Jane Norrissey.  Anyway Baba, was doing some graft, before he worked too hard and got a home.

The good old days of Zimbabwe, man. That barely happens nowadays – but it still does.  Companies still give plenty benefits, but now sadly not as many as the late 90s – very few. Hopefully, the new Zimbabwe provides restoration to this fruitfulness.

Part of why I have a cast in my first grade picture of Mrs Dzvairo’s class in 1992, is because this little woman rushed home to take me to the Doctor.  Ironically, this Doctor’s son would become the Head Boy at my High School thirteen years later.I sadly couldn’t be there when she slipped on some ice and broke her ankle a couple of years ago.  It pained me that 4,000 miles separated us.  As if FaceTime or Skype was going to allow me to return the favor.  Please my G! The same little lady who cried with me when I didn’t know what to do about being temporarily homeless in a foreign country. I had nowhere to go, so she and her husband, Baba give me all her little pennies for me to get something to eat and water to drink. The same little lady that would make Razzle Dazzle and I try on her nieces dresses because we were supposedly the same size. It was hilarious, but it’s all because she has a good heart and wanted to make her little nieces happy.  *Special shout out Lulu and Lucy and Aunty Sally.She’s the first person to listen to my songs, read my blogs and leave comments 4,000 miles away.  Even when her iPhone stopped working, she’s the kind of woman who would rush to an internet café just to google “SonofGuruve” and read our art before you do.Even through her own sadness or pain, you can always hear her ironing or cooking for the family – daily.  Sometimes unappreciated, I feel deeply sad I can’t take her out for coffee on a random day.  I would do anything to fly her here to cook me Sunday dinner.  I can count the number of times she has done so in the last eleven years – on one hand.   But it’s okay, she prays for me everyday.  At least she sends me unprofessional selfies of her cooking too.I feel bad that I never helped her with chores enough before I left for the United States to study at Bearcat University. I simply took advantage of this little lady, now I’m out here burning my food and spending too much money eating out.  I’m so grateful she taught me to always use olive oil and wait till the onions are glassy before adding the tomatoes and spices. She’s the woman who’s always “Busy” on the line when I try to call her on Sundays because, she’s solving someone else’s problem or lending someone some money.  That’s my Amai.Oh, I didn’t add that she foolishly ran away from her rural home to join the liberation struggle of Zimbabwe and witnessed bombings at camps in the wilderness of white minority ruled Rhodesia.  I’m not sure how she was able to study for some exams and end up with a scholarship to study in Sierra Leone at the then illustrious Farabay College.She’s the reason I always order Karlberg everytime I’m at the Alley Pub.  Dixon will tell you. I convince myself that I am pouring back into her bosom each time I take a sip of that Danish lager.As I type this, and as you read this I want to let you know that I am who I am because of my Mama. I love her, and I hope you love yours too.If your mother is no longer here with us, I want to let you know,

“Live an honorable life that she can be proud of.  You too, can find an earthly mother.  I don’t know what that grief is like, but there are plenty available”.

I’m glad that I when I moved to the United States, I found American mothers who my mother probably asked her Lion Tribe 🦁 ancestors I’d find.  I don’t have to wait till Mother’s Day to write about her.  This post has been in the works for four years, I just didn’t  know how to deliver it.  I figured it would be more special if she didn’t expect it.It’s also dedicated to all the mothers I have including Juanita (“Juju”), Ms. Sandra and Annitta who were temporary replacements for Charie, and hugged me when I lost Ndudzo some years ago and when @DJLeonsa and Mikeyy passed away this week.This post is dedicated to my Mother, Charie.I love you.Anyway, I’ve got some Afro Beat jams to ghostwrite for the mandem.Bye Chale!https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb1ZvUDvLDY*I have not gone through everything Tupac says in his song neither has my mother, but its perfect. As you were ladies and gents.  Have a good day and give your Mummy a hug.  If you see Charie, give her hug and say it’s from her first-born son, SonofGuruve.© SonofGuruvé 2018

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