It’s been 6+ years since I published my first blog. I was a simple Zimbabwean guy who had a dream of sharing his thoughts with the world. But I didn’t know whether anyone was listening. But I didn’t care. This is why.
In 2001 around this time, coming from school, I saw my mother lying on the floor unconscious. Although not physically intimidating, my mother was a strong woman. She raised six kids alone following my father’s death. But a mysterious illness rendered her hapless for a couple of months.
The inevitable finally happened. I still remember a violent rap on a bedroom I shared with my three brothers, early morning. It was my sister. She was crying and someone was trying to calm her down. My aunt.
“Eddy, Eddy, Eddy,” her pensive cries cut deep into my being, “Eddy, she is gone. Mom is gone. What are we going to do?”
I was not the oldest in my family. My older brother was in the bedroom with me, yet she chose to call out my name. Mother had finally rested from the pain that troubled her – the physical, economic and emotional pain. Being a widow in Africa is tough; you’re either a prostitute, a witch or useless. Mother was neither
Being a widow in Africa is tough; you’re either a prostitute, a witch or useless. Mother was neither but society said otherwise. She endured the pain for seven grueling years. And finally, her body gave in.
I did not have anyone to talk to about the pain that haunted me following her passing. We didn’t have post-traumatic counseling in Karoi.
- Wotoshinga semunhu wemurume – be strong, be a man.
- Indoda iyaziphandila – a man works for himself.
My brother chose the bottle, drowning his sorrows. And my sister chose marriage, eloping from her misery. My young brothers chose me, looking at me for answers. But I was 16; 16 years old. Imagine.
I wanted to tell someone about my fears, I wanted to tell someone about my anger, I wanted to tell someone how much I hated God, I wanted to tell someone about my lost dreams, I just wanted to tell someone something but there was no one listening.
This Is Why I Continue to Write No Matter What
I opened a notebook and started writing. When I couldn’t sleep, I used the moonlight to write poetry. At one time, I had the worst depression imaginable and spent the whole night writing poems. By the time I dressed up to go to school I had written more than 30 poems.
My notebooks became my friends; they listened to me whenever something burned in my heart; they survived from drowning as my tears soaked up their pages, they preserved my cherished dreams and reminded me of the glimpse of hope I encountered throughout the dilemma. I had someone now – a notebook.
16 years later, I still write. Writing is they way I process my thoughts, it’s the way I learn better, and it’s the only moment I can truly become me. Over the years, I have learned good theology is having good thoughts about God and acting on them. And as an African I realized I am a storyteller – I can’t run away from that.
Theology in Africa is me thinking about God and through the guidance of the Holy Spirit putting the good thoughts into my life. It’s Theology in Africa because I can’t run away from the fact that I am an African. So, Theology in Africa is basically musings of an African on the goodness of God.
Here’s the good news:
- I will be writing regularly
- I will be writing like me – an African storyteller
- I will be using a self-hosted website. This blog is moving
But this good news requires God’s grace. I need your prayers and tips on how to become a better writer.