Dear The Past

As you might be aware, I have moved on. In case you didn't know, take this correspondence as a formal termination of the relationship that we have had. Yes, we broke bread and partook from the same glass. But that was then. Staying together henceforth would give me a false sense of security. Look, the bread is since gone, and the glass is broken. Although we have beautiful stories and memories to tell, they are not helping anymore since they are just but stories. Memories of good times bring tears not good times.

Yes, I have erred and trespassed back then. I was tried and convicted. Because I am stuck in you, with you, my sentence is not coming to an end. Is it a life sentence? When am I going to be pardoned and left to pick the pieces of whatever is left and mend them? Is it a crime that our paths once crossed? Each time I attempt to move forward, you either trip me to fall and start all over or you persuade me to start all over again. You keep on reminding me of the petty things that I did. You keep on bringing it back to obstruct me from moving forward. For how long am I going to be a prisoner, your prisoner? For how long am I going to be blackmailed? Not this time again. I am moving on.

Dear Wakanda

You know everyone is talking about us, me and you and everyone else here. They just can't stop talking and envying us. Ours is a story of progress and development. A story of prosperity and innovation. A story of protection and care. A vibrant story of Vibranium. It feels so good when they are talking about us like this - when they've got good and positive things to say. The past weeks I've been in euphoria. This is us, this is our story I would say whenever I hear your name. We all thank the Black Panther for that alternative voice. Our story has been told differently this time around.

But the excitement of the past weeks is finally dying down - the flame is almost gone, just left with some glowing embers in charcoal dust. Now is time to reflect and let reality sink in again. In fact, we don't have Vibranium here. That's the truth! But we have tungsten and bauxite in Sierra Leone. Both tungsten and bauxite are on-demand world over. But a whopping 7682.00 Sierra Leonean Leones are equivalent to just 1 US dollar. How does this work?

Dear Ma - I am Still Standing (Same Old, Same Old)

It's been a long run ma. No time for crawling, just running. Running in the heat, running in the rain. No rehearsals, no practice. No running shoes. No pathways. I have been running in the bushes, in the bundu, in the floods - barefooted. But I am still standing.

I have adopted a little corner on the street where I can see a little clearer now. You remember that street? A lot has changed around it, but it is still the same. Same old, same old. Still unpaved, still dusty and even still potholed. We look at it every day and hope… They say dreams come true.

You might have heard of the new changes taking place around here. Again, it’s the same old, same old. You have seen this before. One guy putting the horse before the cart and another cutting the branch he is sitting on. Drearily predictable and familiar. They keep promising that the cut tree will shoot again. But they are mum on the fate of the guy. And ma, that season is upon us again. The season of endless pledges from those vying for office and hunting for power. They flatter and make us blush. For a moment we forget that the same hymn had been cited many times before. No one actually sang it though. And no one is even now.

But don’t worry Ma, I am still standing.

Your Son, Phenias F. Sadondo (Written on 17 October 2017 and first appeared here Dear Ma

Dear Kirsty Coventry

Years back I heard of you. They said you're a very special swimmer, the queen of waters. It sounded very special to me, a swimmer too, albeit an amateur one. My swimming was out of necessity. With no special skills, no special clothing, no googles; my swimming was for two reasons. To cool my body in the scorching summer sun or to cross the river to and from school or shops. It was very special in its own way. Holding clothes in one hand and splitting the waters with another, gulping the muddy waters a couple of times before finally crossing with reddened eyes and a shaking body. Fighting drowning, fighting germs unconsciously, fighting logs, fighting aquatic species - from ordinary fish to dangerous snakes. That's all I knew about swimming.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 6

Now the Dean started with a question that was not welcomed by many. He asked, “What’s your problem?”. We found it sarcastic and ironic. So he couldn’t see? He couldn’t read? Notices that fees have been hiked, and was going to be paid in foreign currency - greenbacks, were now plastered everywhere at the university including the Dean’s Complex. Does he need someone to remind him that, I wondered in silence. Before I could find the most appropriate words to politely condemn him in my mind, I found myself subconsciously running together with everyone else. I was in the middle of everyone and couldn’t see what was going on. I could have cursed my vertical restrictions but I took solace in my functional instincts. I don’t really have to see it, I just need to feel and sense it. I comforted myself. I ran in the direction the mob was taking. My instincts told me there was an intruder. Our gathering was unsanctioned by the police according to the provisions of POSA.

Tuku Tribute: Todii?

This past week was a very difficult one for Zimbabwe, Africa and the world at large. The world-renowned Afro-Jazz Icon, Oliver ‘Samanyanga’ Mtukudzi, also known as Tuku, died after a long battle with diabetes. Tuku had been in and out of the hospital in the past months. The worst came on January 23^rd, 2019 when he eventually succumbed to the disease. Judging from stories that were reported in the local press, the beloved Tuku was losing the battle. Newspapers reported about cancelled and rescheduled shows, postponed engagements and the fight for survival in Tuku’s last days. And then the inevitable happened.

I struggled to accept the news as they were filtering in. One Twitter user and editor of Harare’s popular tabloid posted a very short yet strange tweet on his timeline. ‘I hope it’s not true’, that’s all he said. I was clueless, just like most of his followers. But I realised, as I was scrolling down the comments, that some seemed aware of what it was all about. Whilst most comments were trying to push the journalist to give details, a few were already sending in their condolences. One follower was very brazen, ‘Yeah, Tuku is no more…’, he posted. I searched on Twitter again and found one ‘ghost’ account which had posted about the news. They tagged various news houses in Zimbabwe. My heart skipped a beat and I hoped it was not true. Since about 2012, fake news about Tuku’s death had been spread leading to Tuku to jokingly say, "Kana ndafa ndichavafonera". (When I am dead, I will call to inform them). I did a quick Google search, Newsday had a developing story; Breaking News: Oliver Mtukudzi dies. I had no reason not to believe Newsday but I found the urge to doubt it given that they quoted anonymous sources. Those were just wishes but deep down I felt it too. Mdhara was gone. A few hours later, it was all over the internet and press.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 5

Someone in the crowd suggested we go to the Dean’s Complex. We did. I estimated the number of people to be somewhere between 800 and 1000. When I saw Darlington Zaranyika, whom we also called Dalas, in the crowd, I felt yet another bout of relief. Darlington and I had been friends for over four years. I vividly recalled the first day we met for the first time. What a confident lad, I thought as he was quizzing me about where I was coming from, what I was studying and my O level grades. This was my first A level day. He was studying commercials and I was doing sciences but Mathematics was our umbilical cord. Even if there was no such connection, Darlington appeared like someone I could trust and hang around with. Our first conversation was quickly aborted when a Senior Master, Mr Sanyamandwe, appeared on the window. He quickly glanced at everyone before setting his inquisitive eyes on us, Darlington and myself. I felt uneasy but Darlington didn’t appear bothered at all. Perhaps because he had been at this school for a much longer period than me. In contrast, this was my very first day. “You two are making noise. You…,” the unimpressed teacher pointed at Darlington, “sit properly”. Darlington’s chair was turned around so he could speak to me. He was also sitting on the wrong side of the chair. His chest was leaned on the back of the chair and his arms embracing it. I looked at Darlington praying he would comply. He did, I sighed. The tall teacher, wearing a heavy white beard and an afro, walked away convinced he had instilled some discipline in our little and 'receptive' heads. Little did he know the compliance was not to last. Almost immediately, Darlington repeated his stance. 

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 4

I wanted to leave immediately but I couldn’t. Curiosity urged me to stay a little longer and watch. Watch? I was equally affected by this. How could I just watch a stone that was about to strike me? Just to borrow from Dambudzo Marechera… The student who had gathered the courage to address everyone else wasn’t discouraged by cautions about the Great Hall being locked. He quickly improvised. A few moments later, he was now on the small wall surrounding the Great Hall. “Ahoy UBA!!! Ahoy USA!!”. UBA and USA are monikers used by university students in Zimbabwe referring to university male students and female students respectively, standing for University Bachelors Association and University Spinsters Association. “Ahoy!!!!”, both UBAs and USAs responded to the war cry as started by the brave man who had gathered the courage to address everyone. Although this was my very first time of physically witnessing this, I wasn’t oblivious of the course it was taking and the consequences. With the Public Order and Security Act (POSA) intact, this thing was likely going to be violently crushed by the security forces. I contemplated leaving again, but once again curiosity forced me to stay. I looked around, some UBAs and USAs were still undecided, just like me. But because this was affecting all of us, they were gathering some courage. Meanwhile, the man addressing us never got discouraged.

Back then

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are demonstrating against the 400.00 US dollars that we have been asked to pay before exams”. He erased all my doubts. This was a demo, I confirmed whilst securing my shoelaces preparing to run away. With my shoes done, and my belt tightened, I decided to wait for a few moments and listen a little more. And then a battle started in my mind… If I leave, will I not be betraying the cause? Am I not affected by this decree just like everyone else? Do I have the capacity to pay? Who is earning that much in US dollars? Yes, in January - the previous month - that year, the Acting Finance Minister had officialised the use of multicurrency in the country. But even government workers were earning just $100.00 which was coming in the form of grocery vouchers and redeemable fuel coupons. I had no capacity to pay what was needed, let alone in under two weeks. After a few moments of reflection, I decided to stay.