Boutique.

I was not deterred by the squatter camp resemblance. The smells wisped through the air with a mixture of burnt corn, evaporating sweat, musty and freshly washed clothes and dust. I didn’t bat and eyelid at the screaming babies or the yelling vendors. The sun beat down on all of us, blazing above with all its glory. This was an open-air, rubbage-dump-like, second-hand-clothes trading-floor. It was about the size of a soccer field. There were hundreds of little “stalls”. Each one consisted of a piece of black plastic, that was piled high with clothing, laid over the rocky bare earth.

I would draw in a deep breath, smell the odor that only this place had, and find my sense of power. As many teenage girls do, I loved to shop. I was in control of things here; I controlled my money; I controlled what I chose and sometimes I even controlled the prices, I didn’t care how long it took, I would find my bargains. That look of determination would enter my features just as it does any teenage girl who loves to shop. But while they were gracing the aisles of luxurious malls and delving through racks of modern, designer clothes, I was swooping down towards the ground rummaging through mucky, “nearly-new” clothes. Everything was at my feet; I had to hunch down to sift through the pyramids of clothes. We fondly named this place “bend down boutique”. All Zimbabweans knew this was the name for it. The irony of it being a boutique was something to giggle at and the bending down speaks for itself.

Like many girls do I had a shopping buddy. Her name was Rosie. We were kindred spirits when it came to “BDB”. We were also best buddies, she was a year younger than me but we did everything together. We weren’t in the same classes in high school, but we made up for lost time at lunch time or on the weekends. Our budgets were limited but we thought it was worth the sacrifice. We saw it as many women see thrift-store shopping, time consuming but well worth it. My favourite moments were ones when we would find outrageous fashions from the nineties and hold them up to our bodies.

“ Look at me, Rosie. Puffed sleeves really suite me; don’t they?” I would say, holding up a giant pink and blue flowered blouse with oversized inflated shoulders. “Awwww, what about this awesome neon green and orange track suite?” Rosie would counter, with matching tops and bottoms. “It would really suite you, Amy.” I would chuckle at her antics and then keep rummaging through the clothes. Our “friends”, the vendors, would laugh with us and hold up items they thought we would like. Once in a while we did like them, but most of the time they would be tiny mini-skirts with mesh tanks tops, or something like that.

We shopped together because it was more fun that way. It may have been because our parents thought it was safer if we weren’t alone. We never felt threatened. The vendors new us by name. Sometimes they called me “Rosie” and Rosie, “Amy”, “White girls all look the same.” We didn’t mind. I found it just as hard to remember their names. Eventually I remembered some names, Amai Bertha or Sekuru Love-more. We usually remembered the names of the peddlers that had the “best” clothes. Some of them would even fold piles of shorts and shirts, and make it easier to look through the clothes.

All the clothes came from Europe and mostly America. Africans often don’t question where things come from, and we didn’t. In our young, teenage, shopper’s minds, we were simply excited to be able to afford “new” clothes. Once in awhile I would find something with a Goodwill tag on it. I am not sure how I knew what Goodwill was, but I did. I remember slightly flinching at the thought that these clothes may be meant for someone other than me. But it wouldn’t stop me. I never really wanted the Goodwill clothes anyway because they weren’t new. I considered it more of a feat to find something with a price tag on. Once in awhile I would find a shirt with a $20US. I had no idea what the exchange rate was but I knew that the 400 Zimbabwean dollars I would pay was well worth it. At that time $400Z would have been about 20 cents in the US.

Time-after-time I would receive a marriage proposal. Glistening white smiles would greet me and offer their hands in marriage. I would always smile and politely decline, knowing I would be back and they would ask me again, so the offer was always on the table. I never really thought they were serious. But I secretly wondered if I said yes what would happen. It’s very normal for white girls to be proposed to; it seems there is a hidden agreement that we won’t say yes and they know that. I think it was more of a joke to them, to see if they could really get us to say yes.

If it wasn’t a marriage proposal, it was clothing one, “Amy, I have good body-tops for you today, body-tops, body-tops, body-tops!” I never was sure what a body-top was, but I always smiled and thanked them. Somehow we all found pleasure and security in this distorted way of shopping. As many thrift shoppers do, Rosie and I went almost every Friday afternoon. Once in awhile we would beg either of our moms to take us after school, and sometimes we went on both Friday and Saturday. For us, it was an adventure we wanted to see if there were new things, or get great deals. We also didn’t have much else to do, so this was a form of entertainment.

Around the time of the 2004 Olympics, Zimbabwe had a swimmer, Kirsty Coventry; she won one gold, one silver, and one bronze. This was very unusual for Zimbabwe; she was one of the very few who has ever represented our country. Needless to say, her name was everywhere, even at BDB. For a few weeks whenever I would I go to bend-down I would have everyone yelling at me “Kirsty Coventry, Kirsty Coventry” and waving swimming costumes in the air. A sales pitch that was somewhat unusual, however, it must be noted that I was one of the few white girls who shopped at bend-down, if I was white it was assumed I was a swimmer. I was a swimmer, but second-hand swimming costumes weren’t something I wanted to purchase. I did purchase a yellow Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt. I had no idea what Abercrombie and Fitch was, but even though I didn’t, I still felt like I had “status” because of it. As women often do, they would ask, “Where did you get that?” and I would always reply, “bend-down”, knowing I had a one-of-a-kind item.

My Abercrombie T-shirt had had quite a journey. It was one of those that did have a Goodwill tag on it. How did it get from the original buyer to me? Year after year many Americans will purge their closets of unwanted clothing. Americans, on average, give away or throw out 68 pounds of clothing and other textiles each year, 2.5 billion pounds total, according to the Secondary Materials and Recycled Textiles trade association. This clothing is often donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. If the Salvation Army or Goodwill does not sell my T-shirt, what is its next destination? It is sold to what they call brokers. The brokers are the ones who divide the clothing into bundles depending on value and type of clothing. These brokers then sell the bundles to foreign countries such as, Japan, Chile, Tanzania.

So there I was sitting on the black plastic. I would fumble through shorts, t-shirts, jeans, socks, bathing suites (swimming costumes) and even underwear sometimes. My mom would come with us sometimes. I was often embarrassed with her shopping choices, Rosie and I knew the “good-stuff” we knew what to look for and what not to look for. My mom, however, had no problem shopping for underwear. We would tell her to quickly buy it and put it in her bag so that no one else would see her. Like any teenage girl I would say,

“Awww mom that’s disgusting, you can’t buy someone else’s underwear.” To which she would reply, “I will wash it, and its in perfectly good condition, so why not.”

There were so many in-between brokers for the clothing, that no one knew the clothes weren’t necessarily meant to be given out for free. It was legal for them to be sold and re-sold and re-sold. No one seemed to know that Zimbabwe banned the second-hand-clothes-trade in 1994; this was 2004. If Zimbabwe had banned the trade, then that meant the country could not buy straight from the brokers. To get the clothes they would have to be smuggled in through neighbouring countries. Zimbabwe may have banned the clothes trade, I speculate, for two reasons: one, if the government had no way of “sharing” the profits of this trade then they would want none of it. Or, they were afraid of constant foreign export and what that would mean for exposing all the other corruption within the country.

We always washed our clothes from BDB. In fact, most of the time we washed them two or possibly three times. Once I had this black t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon character on the front. I loved it. Cartoons were very “in” at that time as well as the fact that we couldn’t find them in Zimbabwean stores. The shirt had terrible pit-stains and the smell was abominable. I tried to get the stench out. I tried everything, hot water wash, cold water wash, spray and wash, spray deodorant on the shirt, another hot water wash; nothing worked. The shirt had to be thrown out. Sometimes our bargains didn’t quite work out.

Everyone was so friendly and willing to bargain that I never imagined any of them smuggling those clothes in from Mozambique. Police continued to increase security at border posts, so how were the clothes still coming in? The police were willing to take bribes; they were always willing to take bribes; the clothes still came in. Often if the clothes were confiscated, they would still corruptly be shared amongst police and end up in the markets again.

The customs officials at the border posts are also smuggling through these clothes. Customs officials are said to make less than US$200 a month but they are buying posh cars and houses because of smuggling. Police are said to earn less than custom officials and so they make more money by smuggling also. It has been said that smugglers prefer to work with police officers because they demand less than customs officials. The smuggling has become more and more serious over the years. Smugglers have made this their livelihood and will do anything to keep it that way. It has been reported that they have become “mafia-like” in their operations. They work at night and they have confidantes among security officials. They even have vehicles with cameras that are sent out as “spying missions” before they transport the clothes.

I never thought about the fact that buying things from this market restricted my business in normal stores. My family could never afford the clothes in the normal clothes stores, Meikles or Edgars. Most of the clothes in these stores were not made for skinny white girls; they were made for the more voluptuous figures.

However, in neighbouring countries like Uganda the national textile industries are not surviving. Used clothing is said to account for 81 percent of garment purchases. Different African countries are dealing with this issue differently; South Africa cut off imports in 1999 and Nigeria, Ethiopia and Eritrea have imposed certain bans on the clothing. Although the clothes were banned in Zimbabwe, they were still everywhere and still to this day are helping the decline of the local industries.

I had hoped that my little yellow Abercrombie t-shirt had made it to me through the correct means. Sadly, when things goes through so many loopholes to get to an end there is often at least one corrupt step in the path. Did it start with the re-sale of freely donated clothing in the U.S? Or end with the smuggling of this clothing from African Nation to African Nation? That is a hard line to define. While all that illegal trade was going on, Rosie and I simply shopped. We were oblivious to the means in which our favourite clothes came to us; most shoppers are.

Cheese Scones

Nana was the cooking queen in our family. Whenever we went to Nana’s our mouths would water at the thought of the foods she would make. She made ginger-nut biscuits that had no nuts but were full of gingery goodness, moist chocolate cake with raspberry jam in the middle and dollops of fresh, whipped, cream sprinkled with chocolate flakes on top. Milk tart, with its sugary crust dough; the sweet milky custard filling was covered with cinnamon and served cold with a good cup of tea. Cheese scones, however, oozing globs of cheese with thick slabs of butter on top, were a family favourite. A weekly gathering without these scones would have been unusual.

Ingredients:

• 12 ounces self-raising flour

Nana was always in the kitchen. Her kitchen was small and nothing special. It was bright and inviting; it felt yellow. The kitchen door was the one the cousins ran in and out of because the main front door was always locked. I was a middle child. I refused to associate myself with the younger ones, so I was always tailing along with my two older cousins and my older brother. The kitchen was the easiest place to get to the bathroom, the dining room, the bedrooms, and Nana’s bedroom. Nana was always busy in there working with the maid, Aggie. I was too obsessed with what my cousins were doing to pay attention to Nana. I remember seeing Nana—out of the corner of my eye—always sieve the flour. For a moment I would stop my hiding and seeking and watch her. Tap, tap; tap, the sieve would go on her strong hand. The flour would fall ever so delicately into the bowl, as if suspended in time, it was what I imagined snow to look like. Crack, and egg would fall into the middle of the flour and I would realise my impending doom if I did not hide, so on my way I would go.

• 2 teaspoons baking powder

Nana always got the measurements right. She never made flat cakes, or ones that rose terribly high and then caved in the middle, like I did. At the age of seven my family moved away from Nana and Poppa’s house. This was the age I began to cook on my own. I tried to do everything she did, but mine still never came out like hers. I was an extremely stubborn child. I insisted that recipes needed not to be followed. I knew that all recipes had flour, sugar, baking powder, oil and anything extra one wanted to make it something special. My “extra special” was green food colouring, or no sugar, or sometimes omitting baking powder. Mom began to ban me from cooking unless I agreed to follow a recipe, because everything I made was inedible. Nana knew her recipes by heart; she always had the recipe nearby but she hardly used it. Maybe that was where I got the idea that people didn’t need recipes. But, I have also carried this stubborn streak with me. Or maybe I finally inherited Nana’s cooking skills. Now, I follow a recipe slightly but I add things, as my heart desires. I smell, taste, and sometimes touch, to see what ingredients are needed; Nana did this too. I did learn, in my experimental six to eight years, that there are some things that cannot be “felt” into a recipe. Baking powder was one of these. Many times I omitted baking powder, as I wasn’t convinced it was truly necessary. My cakes would resemble a large, flat, spongy cookie if I left it out all together. If I added too much, which I did to a chocolate cake recipe, it would rise tremendously in the oven and then immediately sink in the middle when removed from the oven. Although Nana didn’t teach me this lesson directly I still think I learnt it from her. Some things can be “felt”; others cannot.

• 3 ounces butter or 3 ounces margarine

Nana had fresh, creamy butter to spread on the scones when they were finished. This may have been why I hardly ever made scones; I couldn’t eat them without butter. In our house we could only afford margarine. They sometimes say that genes skip generations, when it comes to food this is very true in our family. Mom never inherited Nana’s cooking abilities or her taste buds. Mom has an iron stomach and can eat anything after it’s expiration date. Mom also had to make do on a very limited budget and that is why we only ever had margarine. When I was a teen I would sometimes be able to coerce mom into buying butter, then I would make scones. We would all devour them as if we hadn’t eaten anything good in months, but without butter nothing is worth eating.

• 11 ounces strong grated cheese

Strong cheese was the key. Nana’s scones were always so cheesy; mine never seemed to be as cheesy. Was it the type of cheese? Once again we never bought the good quality stuff. Or was it simply that we never had a full 11 ounces of cheese to use? Although I only made these scones rarely I was always so frustrated that I didn’t have Nana’s magic touch. At fifteen I had given up the idea of green cakes, or baking powder-less recipes, so I was convinced my food should have tasted as good as Nanas. It might have been that I was fifteen and she was fifty, but I never would consider that fact. I never asked for advice, or for anyone to help me. My two younger sisters hating cooking with me; I always gave them dish duty. I would never really let anyone interfere with my art; this was how Nana was too. It wasn’t that she didn’t want company but that she was creating in the kitchen. It’s hard to interrupt someone, or try to “help” when they are crafting something dear to their heart.

• 6 fluid ounces milk

I think Nana always used measuring cups to put the liquids in. She may have had a small measuring jug too, but I think its measurements were worn off the side so it was easier to use measuring cups. I also used measuring cups. However, the one-cup had to be used with delicacy. In my “younger” less experienced days I had tried to melt a cup of butter on the stovetop in the plastic measuring cups. Luckily I caught the disaster before the cup was completely deformed. The bottom of it was full of little holes and the handle had a nice, perfectly rounded hole melted right out of it. I used that cup for years and years; I learnt the fine art of pouring liquids fast into the cup over my bowl and then decanting it. Probably not the most accurate measurement, but it seemed to work.

• 1 dash pepper

A dash means different things. To some it’s a pinch, to others, it’s half a teaspoon, and to some it’s a simple shake of the shaker. Nana had a sixth sense about the dash; she knew the perfect amount. There was never too much or too little. The dash was where freedom was allowed, where judgment calls had to be made and where sensitivity to little grandchildren played a part.

• 2 teaspoons mustard powder

Colmans’ Mustard is what we used. I am not sure if that is what Nana used. In fact, I am not sure most of the time what Nana used, or how she did things. She just made perfect meals, and baking; we gobbled it up. I never baked with Nana, not once when I was little. I gleaned things from her as she talked about the recipes while we ate them. I learnt to bake through eating. When our family would drive the four hours to go visit Nana, she would always pull out the stops with her best recipes. Without realising it, I would eat and analyse. I would then go home and try to recreate her creations. I never cooked with Nana back then, mostly because we grew up far away from her, but also because she liked to cook alone as I did.

I have baked with Nana once. We made cheese scones. It was Christmas 2009. I hadn’t seen Nana in 7 years. Nana and Poppa had moved to New Zealand and my family had moved to the States. My two sisters were there, my parents my husband and Poppa of course. We were at my parents’ house in the mountains in Colorado. My family had been bragging to Nans and Pops for years of how good a cook I was. I was terrified to finally cook around my idol. The recipe had to be adapted for high altitude—Nana needed help—so I shyly offered to lend a hand.

Directions:

Prep Time: 35 mins

Prep time took much longer than the 35 minutes that the recipe said it would take. We were in no rush and we also had constant disruptions. Nana slowly grated cheese. It wasn’t the “good-cheese” and so it was very crumbly. Dad kept coming in to “taste-test” the cheese, so Nana had to keep grating more, as I stood by trying to defend the cheese with a random swat here and there. Dad always has to “taste-test” things to make sure they aren’t poisonous for everyone else. I never bought that reasoning when I was little and I didn’t that Christmas either, but I indulged him as we had enough cheese. I wasn’t so generous when cheese was once-upon-a-time scarce. I had to convert the ounces to cups—I am mathematically challenged and so that took a while. Mom and Dad have a conversion chart taped to the pantry door because this a problem our family often runs into. I couldn’t figure it out on the chart, I asked Poppa to double check, as well as Dad. They stood there quizzically studying the chart and got nowhere. So, to the computer I went; Google had a fast answer: 11 ounces was 1.375 cups, approximately one and a third cups. We also needed Google for high-altitude methods; for 8000 feet we needed to add three to four tablespoons of water for each cup of liquid, and we needed to decrease the baking powder by a quarter of a teaspoon. Poppa came in and needed a whole scientific reason behind this method. He wanted to know exactly why more water needed to be added, he was convinced that one would need less water for high altitudes. I tried to come up with one, but I am also far from a scientist. I Googled once again and gave him the reasoning. According to thecookinginn.com,

First at higher elevations, water boils at a lower temperature, thus requiring you to cook longer once you hit boiling (and the time it takes you to prepare your recipe). For example, the water's not as hot in Denver as it is in Boston, even boiling. This is the reason, when cooking in the mountains, your coffee and hot chocolate can be merely tepid, even though the water was boiling. Second baked goods tend to rise faster, requiring a change in the proportion of ingredients used in leavened foods (such as breads and cakes). Sometimes, you may need to adjust the baking temperature in your oven as well!

This was not sufficient enough for Poppa, and I didn’t have the time to keep Googling so we left it at that and he went on to question my other siblings about altitude and its affects on cooking. We also had to figure out the American equivalent to self-raising flour, for each cup of flour we needed to add half a teaspoon of baking powder and half a teaspoon of salt. Needless to say, after figuring all this out the preparation time took closer to and hour and a half rather than 35 minutes.

Total Time: 50 mins

All the mathematics threw both Nana and I off. We are both free-spirits in the kitchen and having to work everything out proved to be rather exhausting. We took a break. Nana couldn’t stand for very long and so we sat in the lounge with a cup of tea and let the ingredients rest for a while. I enjoyed this moment thoroughly. I got to just be with Nana; our main goal was cooking, but I got to glean from her, listen to her and share my life with her. It was something my childhood lacked, but we made up for lost time quickly, even in just this simple recipe.

1. Sieve the flour and dry ingredients.

When Nana’s energy was renewed we hit the kitchen again. I watched her for the first time—since that one glance—sieve the flour. I have always sieved my flour. Many times to make sure there weren’t little maggots in it. I watched Nana tap the sieve ever so gently on her hand; the dusting flittered down into the bowl. I knew the recipe would turn out perfect because Nana had sieved the flour.

2. Mix in the butter or margarine.

Nana gave me a special gift that Christmas. She went to Wal-Mart and picked out the best whisk she could—I already owned a whisk, but I didn’t tell her that—she told me that anything could be done with a whisk. Nana never used a hand beater and she had never heard of a Kitchen-Aid. She would just hold the bowl tightly in one hand and go to town with the other one. She became wonder woman with that whisk, beating the life out of the hard sticks of butter, eggs, and cookie dough. She could whip anything into submission with a whisk.

3. Add grated cheese, mix well then add the milk in slowly.

Nana added the cheese, what was left of it after my Dad had snuck in and out of the kitchen, and I added the milk. She of course, whisked it altogether.

4. Mix into a dough, pat with hand then cut into shapes. (I like to add cheese to the top of the scone too).

Nana always used her hands—for everything. I have the same disease. So we showered the counter with flour and pounded the dough with our fists. (The other day I finally found the perfect scone cutters, just like Nana had when I was a child). Nana had some cutters years ago; they were almost a flower shaped with lots of little curvy edges. They were the perfect size, about three inches wide and one inch tall. When we baked the scones at Christmas we didn’t have the cutters. So we moulded each doughy mess into the best circular shape we could. This took a while as we had made a double batch to satisfy the masses.

5. Bake in the oven at 230 degrees C until risen with lightly golden tops.

230 degrees was 440 F. This seemed a strange temperature so we rounded up to 450. Just because the scones were in the oven, it didn’t mean the hard work was over. Nana wasn’t used to Mom’s oven so she checked them every two to three minutes. She hardly ever opened the oven, because she said that let all the heat out. She had the oven light on and would get up every now and then to check. This is a gift I did not inherit from Nana. Once they are in the oven, I often forget about them; a timer is my best friend. However, even though there was no time limit on the scones we both knew when they were done. It was as if an imaginary device went off in both our heads and we simply knew. Golden brown and risen perfectly, we took our creation out of the oven. Nana hardly let them cool before taking each one off of the cookie sheet with her bare hands and placing it on the cooling rack. I helped her, but they were hot.

We let them cool just a little before we decorated pretty plates with them. We both had a plate with piping hot scones on them and we served them with globs of butter and a little extra cheese on top. We watched the family devour Nana’s famous cheese scones with joy, something deeply satisfied both of us, good food had been served and enjoyed.

I have always baked with Nana in my heart and my head. Everything I have cooked has had her stamp on it. Somehow, I learnt things from her without ever cooking with her. I will treasure the moment I did bake with Nana. Our two cooking worlds came together; we baked as if we had always baked together, and in a sense we had.

Drowning Daffodils

Spring has decided to hold out on me this year. It is as if I am playing hide-and-go-seek with Spring. It has been hiding and I have been seeking. I find myself quite mad at Spring, it likes to play these games. Once in awhile it will come out of its hiding place, giggle at me, and then go back into hiding. This hiding has been particularly cruel it is as if I am a five year old and Spring is ten. It has the best hiding spots, and I simply cannot seem to find it. It has toyed with me by sending some clues here and there, little Daffodils that have come with their smiling yellow faces to great me. I have smiled back and have found myself thinking I must be close to finding Spring. I follow the path of Daffodils knowing I must be close. But then spring sends more tricks, it sends torrents of rain. My little Daffodils hold out, trying to help me find Spring. April is upon me, another clue. but then Spring hides behind winter and sends the worst kind of joke, snow. My heart drops, as the Daffodils can no longer stand the games. They too stop look for spring, they close their dying yellow petals and hide from the weather. All I can think of is, il fait mauvais, it is simply terrible outside. While I know Spring is just around the corner, I have become to weary of looking. I must simply pull on my wool coat and refuse to plays games with it. When it is ready it will come, it will find me, I will not find it.

Flown high from the castle of my heart.

In the three years I have been at Moody my flag, the Zimbabean flag, has flown three times. Each time I have found myself spiraling down the deep, dark tunnel of missing.

My heart, I can only describe, feels suspended from my body. It does not belong to this land I now call home. I lives apart from me. Yet, I have to get it back. So daily I pull on it's strings begging it to belong to me and this land. Many-a-time it obeys. It allows me to forget and love where I am. But then suddenly, on its own accord it will disapear on me. I search for it, I look high and low. It has gone to a place i cannot go to. One i have longed to return to but never have. One that is ingrained in my memories, and past. Is it part of my future? I do not know. My heart tells me it is, that it belongs to me as I belong to it. But my life must be lived in seperation from it.

The flag is flying today. As it waves back and forth in the spring air. I allow my heart to leap 5 years into the past. I revell in past events and moments. My eyes drip here and there and I remember.

I must keep moving though, i cannot stand and stare at the flag forever. There is a life to be lived here and now. I can only hope that my heart allows me to live in two worlds; that it is gracious to me and helps me to give to both then and now. But for today, it is not so gracious i stare into my past and long for a taste of days gone by.

Life loves.

I am having a terrible tangled of a time trying to figure out what's next. So far my life has not been one smooth road. The lord has taken me on many a path that i never dreamt would come my way. I have so many passions and loves. At the moment two are very prevalent, photography and people. I am not sure what this means, or where the Lord is directing me. Some days i want to throw everything out the window and take pictures forever, then others i see the Lords hand guiding me to graduate school, to study counseling. I know in the end it will all work out, that He will lead me where i should go. But i just don't know how to figure out these loves of my life and how they fit into what i should do with my life. I'm glad He knows, even if i don't.

Soundtracks to our lives.

I was on the train the other day, listening to my new favourite movie soundtrack. This soundtrack is peaceful, quiet and sometimes slightly daunting. It helps me think and process all that is going on around me. To be honest it makes things come alive; makes things jump out at me. It may make me a little more dramatic than i usually am, and may also make me feel like i am living my own move, but i like it. It takes me at least an hour to do my regular travels on saturday, so i usually play the soundtrack twice. This time the music bothered me slightly. Often the songs don't end because they are designed for a movie. When you are watching the movie you don't notice that the songs don't end, but when you are simply listening you do. Then my mind wandered to this movie that the music comes from and i realised i don't like the ending to the movie. It is sad and depressing; not the usual happy-go-lucky ending we like.

Why is this all important. Well, as the music continued to lull me on the train, my mind continued to wander. We as humans don't like things that don't complete themselves. We like things to come full circle, a beginning and and ending. It makes us feel stable and balanced. Most of the time, we don't like movies with sad, abrupt, or even strange endings. Things must end in a somewhat level ground. Why do we do this? Our lives are never perfect, they often don't end in a complete perfect circle. Things are messy, painful, strange and unclear.

I couldn't help but think that it is because we were not originally designed for this imperfect world. Often people are annoyed at romantic comedies because they are too "perfect", yet we all long for that "perfect" life. Why? Because we were supposed to have that "perfect" life. We were meant to live in a stunning garden, eat fruit all day, love our spouses with an unconditional love and never be ashamed of our bodies. We were meant to walk in perfect union with our maker and have a relationship with Him that never fails.

One day, in heaven, we will have this perfection. I think it is natural to long for it in this world; for our songs to have a great start and a wonderful ending. We may not always get it in this life-time. But i for one, am grateful that one day my circle will come to a full complete; perfect end.

Colourful promises.

So Today i saw my first double rainbow. I must say it was somewhat of a supernatural feeling. I've seen my fair share of rainbows, but not like this, it was the kind that takes your breathe away. Where you know the God is whispering down His promises. I have been having a rough time lately, knowing i am going into another time of great transition. My thoughts have been muddled, my heart jumbled and my spirit low. Living a normal day, i happened to glance outside and see this beautiful sight. My heart lifted in an instant, knowing that the God i trust makes promises He keeps. He is constant, He is loving and He will never leave me. This i know. I was so encouraged to be reminded of this. This God i serve is one who makes covenants with His people, these oaths are stronger than anything man can imagine. Looking at that rainbow, i can only imagine what Noah felt, a promise that God would never flood the earth like that again. A promise that they were safe and protected, a promise that has lived to this day and will for an eternity longer. I am so thankful i serve a God like that!

Water drops

I haven't had much inspiration lately; so i haven't written. It's funny how life gets mundane, how the things you were once excited about become boring, how the beauty around you becomes mundane, how the blessings of life become reality and you don't notice them anymore. This morning my husband and i were up early and on our way to our internships. It's been a rainy gloomy day today, but when we arrived at the church our surroundings were stunning. I couldn't help but stand and stare. The sun was shining through the clouds just enough to light up the splendor of green earth around us. The church (where we work) is on a hill. So we were up above the little town of South Fork looking down on God's creation.

I have seen this view endless times and when i come to Colorado i am often amazed by the beauty, but it quickly becomes old news. Whenever i face a new faze of life i get all excited--or terrified--about what is to come. When i face the new "challenge" I am always amazed at God's provision, or at the blessings He has bestowed, or at the beauty of what i am engulfed in. Yet every time, just like clockwork, i get bored, or used to my predicament. I forget what is around me, even if it's punching me in the face.

I sit here with rain pouring outside my window. I stop. Pause. Breathe. That scent of freshness, of clean air. It's funny to me this thing called rain, in the city when it rains everything is crisp after. The city dirt and grim, washed away. Yet today even in rural Colorado the rain clears out the cobwebs in the air. The already pristine environment is cleansed further.The mountains are a more stunning blue, the already pure oxygen hits your lungs with an unusual oomph, the leaves on the trees are a sparkling green and they looked refreshed, they enjoyed the long drink!

I see myself as the renewed piece of Colorado. Restored, even though i thought i was already clean and pure. I had been missing all the goodness God had around me. The oxygen tastes almost sweet as i breathe it in, i stop, pause, breath. This is the life He has given me today and i will rejoice in it!

deep thinking

So i am sitting right next to my husband. I am blogging and he is doing a systematic theology paper. I have already taken three theology courses in my time at Bible College and have one more to take. I must say this before i continue to write, i am not a theologian. In fact i really struggled in those classes, it was hard for me to grasp all the theories and theologies of those that have come before me. The tests were always very painful for me, i never ever did well. That is partly my dyslexia and partly, i just didn't get it. Don't misunderstand me, i think theology is very important, especially correct theology. However, there are many things i cannot remember and could not tell you which theology is which. So it has got me thinking, what in the world are Adam and i doing to ourselves. We are both doing internships right now in a small church in Colorado and all these theologies don't really seem to have a place in our ministry right now. When you try to discuss them with the average lay person you end up sounding like a smart aleck. So where is their place? I guess personally they have helped me see God in a better light, to understand this great God just a little bit better. I will never grasp them all and will probably not use them in everyday jargon but if they have brought me even one step closer to my God, then how amazing. So my attitude has changed from one of dissatisfaction to one of understanding. I may not understand all the theologies that are out there, but i have a deeper understanding of God. For that i am thankful.

Dzimba dza mabwe: The House of Stone

I can sing my national anthem in three languages. The government changed the national anthem when I was eight. They wanted a new anthem that truly reflected the nation—they claimed the original one was not indigenous enough—so they changed it. One line always bothered me in the new anthem, “Mwari ropafadzai nyika yeZimbabwe” which means blessed be the land of Zimbabwe. The country would sing this national Anthem with pride and gusto not knowing the changes that would come with it.

“Oh lift high the banner, the flag of Zimbabwe. The symbol of freedom proclaiming victory, we praise our heroes' sacrifice...

I have always been proud of my country. Zimbabweans are a very prideful people. They have nothing left to hold onto so they hold onto their pride. I was one of those. I have always been proudly Zimbabwean. I have wanted to fly the flag of my country everywhere I went and let the world know that I was Zimbabwean. I have often wondered why I wanted to fly the flag of a broken land. Why I have wanted to hold onto a crumbling nation with all that I can; why I have wanted everyone to know I am Zimbabwean when the land that I call “Zim” no longer exists? We have a flag. Its colours are black, red, yellow and green. I would not say that this flag could be flown showing victory, or heroics. It is more a symbol of a country disintegrating, and in devastation.

There are these ruins in Zim called the “Great Zimbabwe Ruins.” The history of Zimbabwe is so corrupt that no one really knows the true history of these ruins. I will always remember what they look like. They are these great, giant walls of grey brick, with one main grand wall surrounding the possible “village” that was once there. However, these grey bricks are crumbling—as most ancient buildings do—the country Zimbabwe derived its name from these ruins, Dzimba dza Mambwe, “the House of Stone.” I have wondered, looking back on those ruins, if the name Zimbabwe itself is a prediction of what was to come for the nation: the house of stone that will crumble. Yet most Zimbabweans will still hold their flags high, and cling to what is left of the degenerating land, if there is anything left.

My family once went to visit these ruins; I think I was thirteen, the age where you think you know everything. I was very disappointed in the history of the ruins. The tour guides claimed that these ruins were Shona ruins (the Shona are one of the main African peoples in Zimbabwe). However, I knew that the historical evidence of these ruins was not clear. They are so old it’s most likely that they are true African ruins, but the structure and style of the ruins are unlike anything else African. Basically my thirteen-year-old mind was convinced the history of the ruins was warped. I believed the government has changed the history –they have changed history books before—and made it sound like their ancestors had built the ruins. I knew I was right—there is no evidence that I was right—and there was no doubt about it. Needless-to-say my family was very sick of me after that trip. Every wall, every broken down brick, every crumbling mud hut, I would say, “Don’t tell anyone, but its all lies.” I felt I lived in a world of conspiracy, and I did to some extent.

…And vow to keep our land from foes;

And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.

When a one nation or piece of land is taken over by another, the flag is often the symbol used to claim that land. In the year 2000, war veterans staked their claim and took the land they thought belonged to them. A war veteran in Zim was someone who had supposedly fought in the liberation war from 1964 to 1979—they should have been at least 45 years old—most of the claimed “war vets” were 19-25 (so it was a lie, they were just normal people taking over land). President Robert Gabriel Mugabe wanted to redistribute all commercially owned, white farmland and give it to the war vets (basically he took most farms owned by white people and gave them to back people, with no compensation to the previous farm owners). There was much violence (if the people refused to leave there farms they would be tortured until they left, or died), and when the seizing of land stopped, a total of 110,000 square kilometres had been taken; the country only had 112,000 square kilometres in commercial land. Most of the white farmers left the country. This began a mass exodus of whites in Zimbabwe; even non-farmers were migrating to other nations around the world. The crumbling had begun; the land that once was the breadbasket of Africa was dying fast. The fields that once produced wheat, barley and maize now sat desolate, dry and damaged.

How could the Almighty protect this land that man was certain to destroy? I have often asked the question, why is there suffering, especially in African nations? One of the small insights I have had from this journey is that when man sins there are huge consequences. Sin was brought into this world through the fall and ever since then man has been power-hungry. We see these consequences sometimes in small ways, but I have seen them destroy a whole country. One man, Mugabe, managed to single-handedly destroy a growing nation. He chose power and it affected and entire nation.

…Oh lovely Zimbabwe, so wondrously adorned

With mountains, and rivers cascading, flowing free;

May rain abound, and fertile fields;

I spent many hours of my life enjoying the beauty of Zimbabwe. I enjoyed the natural wild-life, riding horses to see some of the great African animals. On the horse I felt part of the animal, like I was part of nature; the horse would take me as close as two metres away from giraffe, wildebeest, impala, and more. The dry high-grassland was a beauty in itself. However, there were times Zim was bursting with green, especially in December the warm-rainy month. My grandparents lived in the Eastern-Highlands, otherwise known as Inyanga. Those were the mountains of Zim; it wouldn’t snow but it would still get pretty chilly. My brother, sisters and I would spend hours running around the botanical gardens, building forts out of pine-needles, and swimming in the icy-cold streams of the Tsanga River. Childhood was blissful adventures of nature and all that she had to offer.

It had been about ten years since I had been to this particular campsite we spent many family vacations at, Vumba National Park—now Bvumba—known for its misty mornings and botanical paradise. When I was little my family would set up camp there for 6 weeks, it was our temporary home. I remember one distinct holiday when we had terrible storms for days. We had set our tent up—this tent was huge with two separate “bedrooms” on both ends and a middle “lounge/dining room” area—on a hill. After two straight days of freezing rain, our tent flooded. We had a foot of water on the floor of the tent. Us kids thought it was such an adventure—our own personal swimming pool—Mom and Dad didn’t quite agree. I remember after the rains stopped other campers were hanging out their carpets, and airing out blankets and sheets. We were shocked to see carpets, but when Zimbabweans camp, they camp for months at a time. It really was a short-term home.

When I returned to this temporary home, as a teen, it was nothing like I remembered. The campsite was over-grown with weeds, and patches of dead earth. Most of the trees had been ripped out of the ground, leaving gapping wholes and mounds of dirt. The pool that we spent days in as kids was empty, cracked, and useless; the little rivers that once had all kinds of colorful fish in them, dried up. It wasn’t returned to its natural state as they had wanted it to, but it rather look like a tornado had been through it. No one cared about these campsites anymore, they weren’t taken care of. The trees were taken out because most of them were pine trees. Pine trees are not indigenous to Zim they are exotic. Therefore, the government wanted all the trees to be indigenous again, so they ripped out all the pine trees with the intention of growing trees that originally came from Zimbabwe. I never saw new growth, only the demolition and devastation. Even the natural, beautiful, Zimbabwe was falling to pieces.

…May we be fed, our labour blessed;

I was in grade three when a program demanding that all children must eat porridge at break time, was implemented. So when 10 a.m. would roll round, all the children would line up and file into a large dining area. I hated it, but I am not a porridge fan. It lasted about two months. It was mielie-meal porridge made out of maize. It was, I am sure, aided by foreign aid, a way to easily feed starving children in Africa. As I said, it didn’t last long, either the money ran out, or the government decided to keep some for themselves, a very normal practice. They must have been hungry.

The land that once produced food for its people and for exportation produced nothing of its own. All food had to be imported from neighbouring countries. This meant that if there was food on the grocery store shelves it was expensive. The average rural family could not afford this food. Therefore whatever they farmed in their backyard would be what they ate. Most of the indigenous people had no knowledge of farming, and so the land went untilled. The war vets were in the same situation, farming just enough to feed their families. The land was slowly returning to its original state. Where the land was no longer commercial, it was simply used for personal use. Therefore large amounts of crops weren’t being produced anymore and it was slowly starving the country.

The biggest fight I remember my parents having was over bread. My mom had been at the grocery store for three hours waiting for the bread to come out. The usual procedure would be that the women (and sometimes men) would wait in a line for hours. Then whatever bread was made for that day would be put out and it was first come first serve. My mom came home that day with probably twenty-five loaves of bread. My dad told her she had to take them back. They were all terribly stale. She didn’t want to, she had waited for hours, and she didn’t know if she could get more. It was a silly little experience, but it’s etched in my mind, the fight for bread.

…And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.

Oh God, we beseech Thee to bless our native land;

The land of our fathers bestowed upon us all;

The land of our fathers: who are the fathers? That is the true question. If you are white, then your idea of “fathers” is most likely from Britain. If you are black your fathers have been in Zimbabwe possibly since the beginning of time.

I was eleven when this was made very clear to me. I was in grade six and my teacher, Mr. Nyangombe, was teaching our class the history of colonisation in Zimbabwe. “It’s your fault! It’s YOUR fault!” he said, pointing. I was one of two white girls in my class. Somehow the fact that the white people took over Zimbabwe made it my fault. Instead of looking back and saying both sides made wrong decisions, it became evident that my teacher blamed the whites, and therefore blamed me. I remember being so angry with him. I knew it wasn’t even slightly my fault, and my ancestors were Scottish anyway; the English took over Zim. I didn’t say anything to him; words just didn’t come. What could I say to this man, years older than me, with a warped view of race? This same teacher had beaten a boy with a belt once in front of the entire class so I was too afraid to speak up. So I never did. My parents knew about it and the school board was informed, but nothing ever happened to Mr. Nyangombe. I remember I just had to let it go; we lived in a world where things like that happened everyday. No one was in danger because of it; I just had to deal with it. Injustice was what it was, but that was what our country was full of.

White people were no longer friends, but enemies of long ago. My fathers had not bestowed land, they had apparently stolen it and now the other fathers—the black ones—wanted their land back. So maybe God would bless the native land, the land that used to be, not the land that the whites polluted. Would he bless that land? I knew that God couldn’t bless that land; not one full of hate and animosity. If the nationals were asking God to bless their native land, it seemed He was. God was giving them what they wanted, a nation returned to mostly a black nation, a nation that was full of racists, a nation that had nothing to offer the world at large. If that was what it meant to bless the native land, then it was blessed in abundance.

…From Zambezi to Limpopo

May leaders be exemplary;

I could never sing this line. “May the leaders be exemplary….” The leaders were not exemplary. Robert Mugabe has been ranked the seventh worst dictator in 2007, and then went up to first place in 2009. In 1980 the average annual income for Zimbabwe was US $950, and a Zimbabwean Dollar was worth more than the American by one. Inflation then hit beginning at 623% in 2004 and eventually reaching 14,840.5% in 2007. It continued into hyperinflation and went to 10,500,000% in June 2008 it kept rising until the currency collapsed. Now the country works mainly in U.S. dollars.

Mugabe has been called Hitler before, and even grew the little toothbrush mustache known as the Hitler mustache. This was Mugabe’s response to this accusation, “This Hitler has only one objective: justice for his people, sovereignty for his people, recognition of the independence of his people and their rights over their resources. If that is Hitler, then let me be a Hitler tenfold". Oh, Mugabe never massacred millions of Jews, but he has massacred hundreds of Ndebele people (the other African people group in Zim, a minority to the Shona). However, no one knows about that, or can prove it. He’s a very smart man. Wonderful at covering his tracks, and making himself look good. For example, when he first started taking over the farms, he offered a million Zimbabwean dollars for each farm. To the rest of the world this sounded fair. What the world didn’t know was that a million Zimbabwean dollars was, at the time, equivalent to possibly twenty U.S dollars. Who would sell their huge commercial farm for twenty dollars? He was (and still is) a man who makes Zimbabwe’s problems sound minor and nothing compared to the rest of the world.

We would often drive past Mugabe’s house in the capital Harare. You could only drive past there from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., or the guards that lined the outside walls would shoot at you. The car could not slow down drastically or definitely not stop, or you would be shot. They would, of course, aim for your tires, but if they missed, oh well. It was one of the first times I felt hate. I would stare out the window and stare down the armed guards placed all around the walls. I thought if they could at least see the anger in my eyes, the pain, the hurt, the torment, then maybe they would care. They never flinched, or even blinked. I mattered not to them. I wondered what would happen to me if I grabbed one of their guns and shot the president. He actually was never home, unbeknownst to me. He has other secret homes he lived in. I wish someone would just pop him off; then maybe it would all be over. He wasn’t the only corrupt one; it wouldn’t all be over. The man was Prime Minister in 1980. Then in 1987 he changed the constitution and made himself President. He has been changing the constitution ever since to remain in power.

Sanctions, war-veterans, land-redistribution, operation Murambatsiva, Xenophobia, Alien, Refugee, immigrant—all words I never thought would be a part of my everyday vocabulary. On my passport it says; “The government of Zimbabwe requests and requires all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.” I have never been able to pass freely into any land, not into foreign lands and even traveling back to Zimbabwe has never been easy. The passport I own might as well be the tree it came from it does nothing. Just as my passport is a vapour, the country is the same. It was one a house made of stone and is now a mound of rubble. The land I called home is hardly recognisable and the pieces will never be able to be put back.

And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.”

We as a country end our anthem with this line. We have repeated it over and over throughout the national hymn. Man often does this, he does whatever he wants, and then asks God to bless it. Black and white Zimbabweans long for their land back, they long for it to be restored, to be blessed. This verse has often come to my mind when pondering Zimbabwe, “If my people, who are called by name, with humble themselves and pray, and turn from their wicked ways. THEN I will hear from heaven, I will hear and HEAL their land,” Chronicles 7:14. The wicked government is still in power and the country is not turning to the Lord for healing, so can he really heal it? I doubt it. The land will be restored when it can turn to the Lord, it can only be healed when the wicked ways are turned from. Until then my crumbling nation will continue to crumble.

heavy heart.

My heart has been heavy lately. So heavy the normal things of life have been painful, breathing, sleeping, eating. I have done a great job of distracting my brain, with cooking (i just can't eat what i cook), cleaning, art, and t.v. My brain loves me for this constant exercise. I keep it occupied and it thanks me by not thinking about what weighs on my heart. I have become so good at this distraction tactic that i look back on my days and wonder where they went. I am distracting myself out of living. On the outside i look fine, and perhaps even feel fine inside. But my heart tells me otherwise.

I have done everything i can to please this brain that wants to punish me with it's thoughts. But in doing so i have neglected my little heart. I have realised that i actually don't know how to distract my heart, in fact it's impossible. So i ignore it. This doesn't work. I cannot make my heart be peaceful.

There is a reason for this. In my human capacity i can distract the brain, confuse it even, make it think it's happy. But my heart, well it's God's and only He can heal it. Somehow i forgot He could. I have not just ignored my heart but ignored the one who holds it in His hand.

I have never struggled so much with grasping His peace. Sometimes it takes me a day or two. This time I have to wake up each day, and remind myself minute by minute that I have His peace. A peace that passes all understanding.

This takes work, I can not trick my heart into thinking it's happy. Even if I have to do it minute by minute i will continue to grasp His peace. Why? Because it is the only thing that can distract me, that can fulfill my soul, that can make me content.

I think the human body is ingenious. It knows how to cope when the heart does not. I will keep doing the things i enjoy, but not to distract me, but rather just to enjoy them. His peace is what sustains.

It's about that time

It was the fifth of December, 2005, at 2:50p.m. and flight 6268 from Harare to Johannesburg was about to take off. As the plane rose higher and higher I physically felt the distance grow between me and my family, the scene of goodbye playing over and over in my head.

“O.K, it’s about that time,” I mustered up. Everyone surrounded me in a claustrophobic circle; it seemed we couldn’t get close enough. I swallowed over and over, blinked over and over; breathed deep— all to keep those dreaded watery eyes away. My sisters were the worst, crying so much I had to be strong for them. I had to be strong for Mom too. “I’ll be back soon,” I told her, not knowing if it was true. They say you often leave the best for last; I definitely left the worst for last. It was Dad’s turn. Deep hug—there was that deep pain that seems to rise from your toes, punch you in your stomach, and then pour out your eyes. I looked up into his face full of pride, love, and fear; it mirrored my own. It was about that time.

I got lost staring out the window; lost in the pallid downiness surrounding the aircraft. I had always dreamed of soaring and slicing through the billows of clouds; I couldn’t quite believe it. I was put out by the fact that I sat above the wing, my view slightly obstructed. It would catch the corner of my eye and I thought it was a car trying to overtake us; I had to keep reminding myself I was in a plane. My eyes were riveted on the big grey wing, with all its movable flaps and specific design, the end of it edging upward just perfectly to create the right framework. My nose was pressed up against the glass like a little one seeing it all for the first time. My eyes traveled inward to the double panes in front of me—if I pushed really hard would they break? There were tiny little snowflakes on the windows. I had never seen a snowflake before. I was intimidated yet valiant, enthralled yet perplexed.

“Are you flying alone?” Gordon Robb asked me; I nodded. I knew his name from seeing his ticket when he sat down next to me. I never asked him his name, even though I knew what it was.
“Have you flown before, a young girl traveling by herself?” Gordon asked.
“Not since I was two,” I replied, “so no, not really.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Ummmm, Los Angeleeeese,” I pronounced.
“How old are you?” he asked, surprise etched in the lines of his face.
“Nineteen, tomorrow…” I trailed off.

My eyes moved out the little hole again, wandering through the blue and white expanse, a storm of clouds on my left and blue skies on the other side of the plane (I tried to glance out both windows at the same time). It was my first birthday without them all, my family, my home, and my friends. How would I do it? I wished the endless sky would answer me.
He asked me a few more questions; which I enjoyed—it helped distract me. Eventually he must have realised I was in a world of my own, so he stopped talking. Leaving home at nineteen to go and live with distant relatives was not something I had ever imagined for myself. I left with nothing to my name, one tiny suitcase with hardly anything in it besides pictures of family, some books, and one or two items of clothing. I was going to college; I was going to make something of myself—little did I know it was community college, everyone is accepted into community college—but I knew this was what the Lord wanted for my life. Countless doors had opened for this journey of my life to happen; doors opened that we could never have physically pushed open.

I wanted to go to university; this was the only way my family could afford it. Getting a visa in Zimbabwe is close to impossible—especially if you are a young white female who could potentially get married—but I got mine, in a day! Paying for the flights would never be able to come out of my parents’ pockets, but the tickets were fully paid for. I had someone to live with; they would pay for a car and the beginnings of school. It was close to miraculous, so why was it so hard?

I knew my Dad hadn’t wanted me to go, but I also knew he knew that I had to go, that this was what I needed to do. He was proud of his eldest daughter but couldn’t imagine a world without me in it; I couldn’t imagine a world without him and all of them. So we all put on that face, the one that pretends to disguise the fear, an almost smile and a glistening eye, the face that I held the entire trip.

The short flight ended. As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign turned off, everyone unbuckled and stood, grabbing their stuff from overhead compartments, even though we wouldn’t deplane for another ten minutes. Eventually, I followed the crowd down the long hallway into the airport. All of a sudden I was gripped with something—I just stood still—staring but this time not out the window; hundreds of people rushed around and they all knew exactly where they were going. I did not. I am not sure how long I stood there, wishing I had Dad to show me where to go (He didn’t always know where to go, but he always figured it out).
Dad had decided to never tell me about this American Dream. In the beginning he believed it was not for me, but over time the Lord softened his heart. Amazing Americans were brought across his path that opened his eyes to a country he thought was full of divorce, immorality and materialism—of course it is a country like that, but so are many other countries—slowly but surely his mind was changed. It became apparent he had to let me go, he needed to let me go.

Never knowing when I would return, it was done: I was let go.
Eventually, I made it to my terminal; somehow I had missed the fact that bigger airports have more than two gates, and beyond that more than one terminal. There was hardly anyone at my gate and I realized I had a good 6-hour wait before my next flight left. So with bravery renewed, I decided to explore. The Johannesburg airport was a bustle of activity and it was all mine to

conquer.

I aimlessly wandered through many different stores, looking at all the touristy African trinkets, examining each one with great detail, knowing it would be a long time till I saw anything like that again. I bought a pair of earrings—I thought I got them for a steal—twenty dollars, that was so cheap, right? I was used to paying twenty thousand Zimbabwean dollars for an ice cream (probably equivalent to fifty American cents) so I thought I had a great bargain.

I was excited to be on my own. It was a strange excitement; one mixed with apprehension too. I assume I looked somewhat like babies do sometimes; their faces go bright red and you can’t tell whether they will laugh or cry; you just have to wait and find out which response you will get. I think I chose the laugh, or was it the cry? Possibly both at the same time?

I began to grow weary as the adrenaline wore off, so I trailed back towards my gate. This time there were lots of people there. No seat for me so I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, observing people. I heard many different languages—nearly everything but English. Whole families—especially Indian families—were waiting. Moms jostling crying babies, Dads running after the stray two-year-olds. Business men were typing with furry, others at the ticket counter begging for a flight, and other poor exhausted folk sitting and watching others as I was. At least they all had each other, someone to talk to, I thought. It’s amazing how alone I felt when I was surrounded by so many people.

I had no one to talk to, no one to share all these emotions with. I had no idea if I would have anyone to share with for a long time. Dad was always the one I could take my big, philosophical or biblical questions to. Like, “Dad it there such a thing as being slain in the spirit with laughter?” Or “Daddy, how do you really tell the difference between a leopard and a cheetah?” Mom was always the one I shared emotions with; broken hearts and tears were often with her and yet I could always make her laugh. We would often burst out into hysterics of laughter at the smallest things. I had finally reached a place where I was becoming her friend, not just her daughter; now I had lost that. Late at night I would often sit on mom and dad’s bed sharing my thoughts, dreams, fears, problems; but not anymore.

“British Airlines flight 56, Johannesburg to Heathrow is now boarding.”
Two hours flew by. But I had ten more to go, and I wouldn’t get any sleep. The flight attendant walked by and asked if I wanted any tea. I giggled to myself; I loved his British accent; who knew that in the future I would be the one people that people would giggle at? I politely declined his offer of tea. That was the last time I was ever offered tea on a flight; it would always be coffee after that.

I did not sleep a wink that night; I watched every episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. I got lost in the essence of family: making fun of the ones you love, fighting, laughing and enjoying family, something I knew I had left behind. When I started to miss home, I would shake it off with false hope of the joy ahead, excitement at the new, being able to do and see things that had never existed in my world before. Things like malls, being able to drive (I couldn’t drive in Zim because there was no petrol in the country), Disney Land, the beach, college, new friends. I created a fantasy list of endless possibilities to dull the ache inside.

When that didn’t work anymore, I began to watch the little map of Africa. It was a surreal experience to watch this little plane move ever so slowly over the map they had on the screen. I felt like I was suspended in time, not moving at all, yet moving at a speed that would have taken years on land. I watched the map for hours; it was something to do, something to get lost in.

The night finally came to an end. We landed in Heathrow. I deplaned again with everyone; I knew to go to the big boards that had all the flights on them. I knew to look for Los Angeleeeese. My confidence quickly dissipated. There were at least ten different Los Angeles’ on the board; I had no clue which one was mine. I froze once again, staring, wondering how I would ever figure out which was mine. I placed my backpack on the floor and just stood there.
I missed having Dad take control. He always knew where to go, or at least was always a strong leader in the family. Where was he when I needed him?

Someone noticed my little lost face and pointed me in the right direction. I found my terminal and had a ten-hour wait. I was sleep-deprived and hadn’t had much food. (They served meals at the strangest times on the plane, 11p.m and around 3 am; I didn’t eat any of them). I meandered around, found a sandwich and magazine and tried to entertain myself. I tried to read, but I started to get sleepy every couple of minutes. I was afraid to fall asleep because I kept hearing, “Please do not leave unattended baggage; if you see any unattended baggage please report it to security.” I thought that meant I couldn’t sleep, otherwise the airport police would take my backpack. So, wait—awake—I had to and I did. Until it was time to go up in the air again.

By the time my ten-hour layover was done, I was in a complete daze. I boarded the next flight and barely remember doing so. My seat this time was twenty-three J. I had a window seat, and no one sat next me this time. I could stretch out and wished that I had had that in my overnight flight. No tea was offered this time by the flight attendants, only sodas—which I call fizzy drinks—and coffee.

The window was my friend again; hours were spent staring out of it, as the same episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond were being played. I watched them all again. It seemed I found comfort in their family. If I could play their family over and over again maybe I would be able to have mine again?

As we got closer to our destination; I saw snow-capped mountains. I was so excited; my first sight of actual snow. I wanted to jump up and tell everyone. However, I quickly realised there was no one to tell. So I turned my inspection back out there, making images out of the fluffiness and imagining how cold snow really was. Lost in my stupor I ignored the anxiety that bubbled up inside of me and let the plane carry me to my next destination. As the plane lowered, I knew it was about that time.