An ominous, hairy spider crawling inside my wardrobe door! It’s dark and menacing body is in stark contrast to the white of the wardrobe, disturbing my reason for opening the door. I better kill it before it kills me.

I quickly bend down to take my shoe, all the while not letting the creepy-crawly out of my determined sight. Raising my arm and aiming, ready to slap it dead; but it looks like no spider I have ever seen; my hand and mind pause. It has a fat ass and lanky hairy legs. Spiders are supposed to be flat-assed, right? You know the flattened body that would be easy to slap and kill without splattering it’s possibly equally dark, slimy and gooey insides on the unblemished wardrobe door. Or worse still on me!

OMG! Imagine its poisonous insides splattering on me, causing god-knows-what on my skin! Will my skin erupt into life-threatening, un-bearably painful and ugly-looking blisters that have no cure?! Worse still, what if the splatter lands in my eyes and renders me permanently blind?! It will be a while and many items later before my not-so-developed sense of touch gropes and feels for that shape that remotely resembles my phone, so I can alert somebody, anyone that I had been blinded by a spider’s insides. That’s if I find it in time before the battery runs out. Obviously, I can’t make my way to the charger, let alone get the charger plugged into the charging slot.

In a sign of defeat and nerve-numbing fear I drop the now offensive shoe and as quickly gently push the wardrobe door closed, taking care not to dis-lodge the spider and risk it falling onto the floor. For now, I want the spider to stay in-doors and not creep over to my bed while I am sleeping.
Somewhat satisfied that there’s no way it will crawl out and make its way to my bed to do un-imaginable harm to defenceless me, I take my shaking self to bed and self-assuredly recite a million, sleep-inducing reasons why the spider cannot possibly sneak to where I am- including that its thin, long and spindly legs cannot make it down the wardrobe door, onto the carpeted floor, over the hill of rumpled clothing and climb the mountain that is my bed.

It’s the spider again!

It crawled up and bit me! My wide-eyed stare shifts between the angry bite on my ample breast – the softest part of my body and undoubtedly the most gullible – and the spider, I see a gloating in its eyes and it says to me, “You hurt me and now I hurt you more, you asked for it.”

“But I just closed the wardrobe door, I didn’t hurt you. I saved you!” I respond, with a fear-induced stammer.

“You had the intention to hurt me and kill my off-spring into extinction. A deadly intention is as good as a deadly deed. I was only doing what every mother will do to protect her young.” Ms Spider flatly retorts.

As an after-thought, “Even those she hasn’t seen yet.” she adds with a smirk knowing that it is only a matter of time before I succumb to its venomous sting, trailing its way into my blood stream and to my heart, which is closest.

“I would never have killed you; I can’t even hurt a defenceless and miniature ant!” I say.

“Not to mention not yet laid spider eggs!” I reiterate.

So it was a pregnant spider and not big-assed one. I almost apologise for thinking it had a fat ass.

My thoughts are foggy and my tongue seems to have ballooned in my mouth, I can’t scream or let out any sound. I am paralysed by the fear and all that seems close to the active being I was moments ago are my thoughts. My brain is still working and like film reel, whirls around my mind forcing me to watch but not to react.

The film shot takes me to the part that reminds me that I am all alone in the house; my neighbours are just that, never have been friends and a feeling of regret and melancholy pours over the film frame, shadowing the thoughts and vividly portraying the regret of my not having been so friendly. I should have smiled more, and talked more maybe now I would have help on hand.

The calming regret is quickly replaced by a bright scene, bathed in an awful stench of rot. My body has begun its decay process and I am still all alone; only now may someone come because the smell will be unbearable and people at the office will wonder why I ran AWOL. My friends and stalkers will begin to question my absence from social networks. They will wonder why my phone has been off without any word from me. It dawns on me that it has been weeks before anyone finds my badly decomposed body.

Will they wonder what killed me? Will they do a post-mortem and find spider venom that dis-integrates my dried blood? Or will they just bury me and continue to wonder?

In its decomposed state, will they take my body back to be buried or cremated in my home country? Or will they decide it’s not worth the cost and just bury me in Cape Town somewhere in a deep grave, perhaps at the Maitland Cemetery? Is there a cemetery near Parklands that they might perhaps decide on?

Will it be an ornately designed and crafted casket or splinters of wood hastly nailed together, or will they decide on black refuse bags? Will they put white orchids, trimmed with pink and yellow on the mound of dirt that covers my remains? Will anyone remember that I adored orchids even though I never had any?

With a start and a stifled scream, I wake up bathed in a film of sticky sweat. My eye reflexes dash to my breast, examining its rhythmic rise and fall at the shallow breaths I take; it is comfortingly whole and plump without any spider bite or suspicious mark. A sigh of relief washes over me, I feel the urge to pee.

I reassuringly massage the soft mound of flesh that is so much a part of me but has not always been. It was all a dream, albeit a vivid one. I am shaking all over again in fear at this dream. Do dreams come true? Or are fat-assed spiders poisonous?

The confessions of an infertile (aka coming to terms with infertility) opened a sea of women telling tales of their experiences with infertility at various levels. To date I’m extremely touched that I am not alone on this long, winding and uncomfortable road; I am doubly touched by the courage of these women and their endurance. In the least, I am filled with awe and inspiration by what they have been through. I feel a connectedness with people I have never met but have had touching and deep conversations with. They have struck a chord in me that even my closest friends or family have never managed to. I value your stories and your courage but most of all, I value and respect your need for privacy.

These are stories of women I have encountered through my story and I aptly titled this post My Silence. My Scream. Our stories maybe similar but they are very individualistic and make the scream and silence of infertility largely individual. We all suffer in the silence of our homes, our bedrooms, alcohol or the comfort of our hearts because we think we are alone, but inside we are screaming in frustration at unclear diagnosis; screaming at the seemingly unfairness of it all and at all other things that always amplify our infertility, sometimes; most times, unintentionally. These are our silent screams.

My interaction with these women makes feel like I belong to a highly exclusive club, one which helps me to live my pain through our anonymous interactions. Most of all, it inspires me to never lose hope and know that he makes all things beautiful; all in good time. Thank you ladies, you are my inspiration and repository of invaluable information, my circle of refuge within which the silence becomes a scream; screams at different lows and highs creating a tempo that can only be soothing to my troubled soul.

To those that empathise with me and others like me, thank you too, for your efforts to understand – but until you have walked a mile in our shoes, you can never really understand the pinch we endure.

I am happy I shared my story.

I probably make up one of the 60% women that suffer from infertility and I have never really seen it that way until today. Today I realised I am statistic. I’m one of those numbers that are graphically emphasised in graphs. I don’t feel good about this revelation, in fact I have avoided putting myself in this category until today.

The definition of infertility is the inability to conceive for a year with active effort to do so. Going by this definition I must be a secondary infertile, I mean I have been actively trying to get pregnant for the past 4 years with no results to show for it!

It started out with me saying, “oh well it didn’t happen this time, it will definitely happen the next, no pressure” and sure there was no pressure. Six months down the line, my worry wrinkles begin to develop, a small, distant but persistent voice tells me there could be something wrong and I need to have a check up. I also say to the voice, “not just me, my hubby too” – we are in this together after all and I really have no reason to think I have a problem and he hasn’t fathered a child elsewhere that I know of so realistically speaking the odds are against him. The small voice doesn’t respond, in fact if it had a face I am sure it was looking at me with pity – even before I knew what the problem was, I was already on the denial path.

I believe that we know about situations even before they happen, our human faculties alert us always but most of the times we ignore them. I seriously ‘see’ some things before they happen and I always have a feeling on how an event or issue will pan out. I don’t believe I am a psychic but I believe that we all have this ability, we just ignore it and therefore it is weaker in others and stronger in some.

It took me two years after that small voice to seek medical attention and get to the root of why others didn’t even need to try and they were already pregnant with babies they didn’t even want and me who was ready emotionally and financially couldn’t get pregnant. Thoughts flew in my mind, could it have been the contraceptives I had once used, or maybe I had a genetic defect somewhere – you see, it took my mother 4 years before she conceived me and even then I was born premature, stayed in a hospital incubator for almost a month before I could be taken home – so could those lights have played havoc on my reproductive system? Could my moms difficulties in conceiving also be manifesting in me? After I was born, it took my mom 10years to conceive again and even then after medical intervention. Unfortunately my little brother died when he was only a day old – he had a respiratory problem that doctors didn’t pick up at the time of his birth.

Even at ten, I remember that we all looked forward with excitement at the birth of the baby, my mom especially. When he died, I remember my mom cried for months. She didn’t conceive again after that. Thus I have an idea of what it means to want a child, to finally get it only for it to die.

I have asked this question several times – mostly in my private thoughts – which one is better, not to conceive at all or to conceive, give birth only for the baby to die? I have never had an answer to this, all seem like equal evils. But maybe they are not. I have only experienced one and have nothing to compare with.

I digressed a bit, but I am an Aquarius and we love to give lots of background. So I went and sought medical advice and succumbed to the medical procedure of poking and prodding. I was mighty uncomfortable and what probably took 5 minutes, seemed like hours. My Gynecologist is male and I trust him completely but the idea of touching me down there, poking instruments just didn’t go down well. With time though, I have become used, I am even a champion for pap smears where as before it took me six months after my due date to go for one.

So doctor did his thing, poked and prodded, all the while keeping his eyes on the tiny screen. This was my first ever ultrasound. When he was done and I breathed a sigh of immense relief, he said to me he didn’t see anything wrong with me through the ultrasound so he recommended I do a laparascopy which is a small, non invasive operation to check out my insides properly. It would cost money, lots of it and not all of it would be paid by my medical insurance.  Still on the path of denial, it took me another year to finally say, ok, maybe i do need to do the laparascopy thing afterall. I made an appointment and was scheduled for hospitalisation 2 days before my 31st birthday.

The operation went well, save from the side effects I got from the anesthesia, I was so nauseated and was vomiting all over the place like  a pregnant woman in the 1st trimester.

Doctor found that I had fibroids that might have been preventing me from conceiving. Thanks to modern technology, he removed them through laser. he also found that my left tube was blocked but my right one was perfect so that didn’t explain my lack of going the baby route when all things seemed equal. Hubby’s sperms were tested countless times and they were brilliant swimmers.

This was last year. Doctor was confident after he had done his thing with chasing the fibbys, I would soon be pregnant. I just needed to stop thinking about it and it would happen, from outta the blue. I waited. I went for my check-up to see if the Fibbys were not growing back and they were not. I waited still and got stress from the office, I forgot about getting pregnant but secretly, I was always looking forward to missing my dreaded periods and even when they were late for even just a day, I would skip a beat hoping that finally it had happened. But that killer-joy small voice would always warn me that no baby would be growing inside of me, atleast not this month, maybe the next one.

Its been a year and some days, I am still waiting. I have started a new job, enrolled to study and taken up more modules than usual and have been contributing articles to various online publications – so in a sense I haven’t thought about getting pregnant in sometime. This is the time it is meant to happen, but hubby and I have been apart for a month now so apart from hoping for immaculate conception, a pregnancy is really unrealistic.

As I wait for that day when a pregnancy test will read positive, I have kept these experiences of my infertility mainly to family and close friends. I look back at my selective disclosure and realise that I, too have been a victim of our culture, where a woman’s infertility even when unconfirmed is something to be ashamed of. It is something that somehow says a lot about how one is not woman enough – the insensitive remarks, comments and sometimes obvious questions often isolate infertile women. They mostly live a life being ridiculed and constantly feeling that they are not up to scratch, they do not deserve to identify with womanhood. Man infertility is just never discussed.

I have always thought of myself as a liberated woman, a woman who knows what she wants, who won’t be pulled down by stereotypes. So when it hit home that I was in fact a victim, an active one for that, of this type of labeling, I was dismayed.

I have hid my infertility and only spoke about it in very little words (I am one for many words!) and only to those that mattered to me. In the night I would ask questions of why me and why not and didn’t get answers. There have been times when I have cried myself to sleep; times when I visualised a baby growing in me hoping that this positive thinking would enforce that which I desired; times when I dreaded pregnant women because they fill me with heart-piercing envy; times I religiously took the concoction my grandmother gave me every evening until the last grain of powder and still nothing happened; there have even been times when I felt someone had bewitched me for whatever reason; times when I felt I had failed my husband, my marriage; and yes, most times I felt I wasn’t woman enough especially when all the women at gatherings where going into their third and fourth babies.

During this time my emotions see-sawed from one extreme to the other, my weight and moods were no exception. The only constant has always been my husband, he has been very supportive and I thank him, even though realistically speaking I don’t really expect anything less from him.

Today after reading that snippet, I realised that I have been too quiet about this and that there could be many others in the same boat as me but because I am enclosed in my shell, I can’t see them. Today I decided to challenge stereotypes and acknowledge that my infertility is nothing to be ashamed of, it is medical condition which at worst is inexplicable but nonetheless that affects people.

So as I wait for that day, with my French Champagne in tow, I will publicly talk about this hidden but existing problem. Statistics show that infertility has increased by 15% in the last few years and is becoming a common problem in developing nations. This alone indicates to the magnitude of the problem and the need for dialogue to mitigate it where possible. Follow me on my journey to reverse infertility – I do not yet have insight of what the outcome will be but I am hoping for the best. I don’t have much to wait, I am not getting any younger.

The life of an infertile woman, is a lonely, stressful and emotionally taxing one and only when you one, can you even begin to understand.

My year ahead is waiting unfurl like a rose bud

The gusty wind that blew me over to exciting and terrifying new territories last year left me feeling all bowled over by the blessings that God has bestowed on me. The terrifying moments were, at best, nerve wracking and desolate but my God always showed me that with faith and patience, good things  happen to those that love the lord. The exciting moments were at best, very exciting, heart poundingly exciting that the only way in is to jump and go right ahead with the wind. I did just that!

Like every other year, month, week, day – I took risks, some of which had I shared, would have been frowned upon and out-rightly ridiculed. I am glad I took those risks, including the ones that proved more of a challenge than a mere risk. I enjoyed my life, remembering always that I am mere mortal and might take that trip to the thereafter unplanned and certainly unpredicted.

Ten days into my new year, I have hopes and desires. I look forward to everyday, it is like opening a present everyday and always amazed by what is in the wrapper. I look forward to more regular,  inspiring, humorous and enjoyable posts on my blog. A promise I have made often but which I am not making now because the winds of change are howling and may just blow me into other foreign seas that consider blog posts obsolete.

I look forward, too, to the comments that make my heart go all warm and fuzzy that someone took precious time to read and comment on my posts. I hope you find them enjoyable and worth your while. Have a memorable year ahead.

How boring life would be if we could see into the future – what would be our reason for existence?

During a recent flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg, the in-flight magazine featured an article on Livingstone and the Victoria Falls. The article alluded to the discovery of the Victoria Falls by Dr David Livingstone. This has been a bone of contention for me in many articles about the Victoria Falls, implying that Dr Livingstone, during his many wanders in Africa, pointed out the Falls to my forefathers who were otherwise too stupid to see it for themselves. I since wrote a letter to the editor of the magazine pointing out this anomaly and was at the same time inspired to write the article below.

Downtown Livingstone

Capitalise on the fact that the town has no local name.  Start your article by giving a geographical location in GPS coordinates. Mention that Livingstone Town is named after Dr David Livingstone. To add flavour, you can say here that it is named after him because he discovered the falls. The details of the discovery can come later.

You can’t talk about Livingstone and not talk about the Victoria Falls. Make sure that the two are always synonymous, two sides of the same coin. Livingstone being the town where the Victoria Falls are. Forget people, carry on with the prose on how magnificent the Victoria Falls are, use phrases like ‘a curtain of falling water’ and mention that they are one of the seven wonders of the world. Equate them to the Niagara falls but mention how the Niagara falls have been tainted by commercialisation.

Mention in passing that it is also known by a local name, Mosi-oa-tunya. Emphasise this by a phrase that points to the fact that no one actually calls it that, not even the locals. To add substance, mention here that the locals actually call it Vic Falls, short for Victoria Falls.

Elaborate that Dr David Livingstone, the Scottish Missionary and Explorer is responsible for the rest of the world knowing about the Falls. In fact, put it bluntly that he discovered it – yes, all the way from Europe, he explored South and Central Africa and discovered falls and lakes in this virgin jungle. Forget the natives that he found here who had obviously seen the Falls. They are insignificant at this point. They remain insignificant for the rest of the article.

To build momentum and draw your reader into some history of this natural wonder, mention how awed Dr Livingstone was at seeing – you can also use discover here – the mighty falls, he named it after the queen Victoria of England. At this point, capture the imagination of your reader by likening the beauty of the falls to that of the queen, using imaginative words that compare the icy politeness of the queen to the never ending sun shining on the falls, creating a permanent vivid rainbow. The rainbow can be likened to the very rare, barely there smile of the queen.

Because it is in Africa – don’t mention the country/countries. Africa is one big space – you can’t have Africa and not mention the sprawling untamed and unspoiled bushes, and do not, by any means, forget the big five. Mention the dry heat and scorching sun during the day and the balmy, star studded sky by night. Create a sense of nostalgia for those that have been there and for those that haven’t, create an illusion of the wild, inhabited by animals and untainted by humans. Remember to mention the ‘greeness’ of the place; the words ‘ecological paradise’ and ‘unspoiled’ must be used. Use eco-friendly liberally and frequently. Mention how the place has largely remained the same since its discovery by Dr Livingstone in 1855. Mention the proximity of the Falls to this jungle. Mention the Falls by name as much as possible, not the local name, it might confuse your readers.

To put your readers at ease, begin to mention civilised activities such bungee jumping on the bridge that runs across the river, white water rafting at the foot of the falls, hiking in the rugged highlands that characterise the area, and swimming where the water runs downstream from the Falls to enter the Zambezi gorge.

You can mention here the existence of a small town – emphasise small to warn them against over expectations of things ranging from a magnum hazel nut ice cream to a Thai massage parlour. You can mention here too, that an airport exists with daily 2-hour flights from Johannesburg. Your association to Johannesburg at this point must make it seem like the falls are in a province in South Africa, never mind the 1000-odd kms and two countries later that separate the country to the Falls. Remember South Africa is developed and by association you are painting a bright picture of the otherwise primitive town to your readers.

Mention the two 5 and 3 star hotels that are a walking distance from the falls. Mention that these luxury hotels offer in such primitive setting, services such as spas, dinners while watching the receding sunlight and many other such services unique to this ‘unspoiled’ place. Also mention the B&Bs that offer bush living literally, giving examples of elephants that give wakeup calls in the morning by tapping chalet windows. Punch in phrases like ‘the real Africa’ and ‘the hyena’s howl and the lion’s groan is the music that takes you through the dark night’.

Towards the end, you can mention fleetingly the local cultural dance groups and artefacts. Let the artefacts dominate here so as to point the reader to the possibility of owning a memento in the form of a wooden carved giraffe, elephant or hippo. Mention here that the carvers, who painstakingly create the artefacts by hand are able to exchange them for t-shirts, batteries, shoes or anything hard to come by in Zambia. Insert a note of desperation.

In a pitiful tone, but not in so many words, talk about how the natives live in squalor and poverty, yet are always smiling and friendly despite their grim circumstances. Mention the abundance of prostitutes and qualify the statement by giving statistics on the HIV prevalence in the region (region being the entire Southern Africa, to give depth and alarm to your statement). For continuity, mention that the Falls are in a poverty stricken country called Zambia in southern Africa that is ravaged by AIDS and hunger, with most of its people living below $1 a day. Zambia could be a town in Zimbabwe – you can never tell the difference anyway.

Finally end the article on light but longing note by talking about the beautiful sunsets, wide open spaces, wildlife and rugged terrain that is uniquely African and by default Livingstone and the Victoria Falls; reiterating how, anytime, you could make this wilderness your home. Note the use of the names for both the town and the Falls.

United we can overcome AIDS

It’s mid afternoon, 30 November 2010. My cell and desk phones have been ringing off the hook. It, therefore, doesn’t come as a suprise that the call on my colleague’s desk is mine. I roll my eyes and get ready for another media comment request and I hope this will be dealing with the Pope’s comment on condom use rather than the use of Anti Retroviral Drugs as an ingredient in abused substances. I can comment easily on the latter but the former is yet to be substantiated.

Trying to be friendly, I answer and give my name and ask how I can help. I expect the caller to tell me the news agency he/she is representing and his/her name. I get none of this instead the man (as far as I could tell from the voice) goes straight to the point. To give credence, I will give a narration of how the conversation went: [Note - I have used AC to denote Anonymous Caller]

AC: M’aam what does it mean to have HIV?

Me: What do you mean? It means a lot of things but what exactly are you asking for?

AC: I went to get Life Insurance and one of the conditions was that I test for HIV and the test came back positive. What are the symptoms of HIV?

Me: Symptoms vary in different individuals but they can range from persistent diarrhoea, unexplained weight loss, rashes, and persistent coughs to general fatigue.

AC: So if I don’t have any of those symptoms, is there a chance that the diagnosis was wrong?

Me: There is a small chance that diagnosis was flawed and you can check that by having another test. However, not displaying any of the symptoms mentioned doesn’t mean that you are HIV negative. Some people take years after they are infected to display any symptoms.

AC: So how long will it take for me to start getting sick and die?

Me: You don’t need to wait and start ‘getting sick’ as you put it. I would suggest you go and do another test and if the result comes out positive then do other tests to determine your CD4 count and your viral load. These tests will assess whether you are eligible to start Anti Retroviral Therapy or not. The earlier you start ART the better your chances of drug compliance and effectiveness. With the advancement in research, treatment is available to help you manage HIV, it is no longer a death sentence. It can be managed like any other condition like diabetes. There are people that have lived for over 20years with the virus and lead completely normal and healthy lives. It can be argued that the life span of an HIV positive person and that of negative one is roughly the same provided the HIV positive person adheres to treatment and leads a healthy lifestyle.

Me: HIV counselling, Testing and treatment is provided free of charge at government health facilities and most medical aids will cover medication and healthcare at no additional cost to you.

AC: I have used my cellphone and running out of airtime – where can I find these services?

Me: Please – the line cuts – [I was about to ask for his number so I could give him more information on where to seek counselling and other services].

This conversation left me feeling very inadequate. I am not a counsellor and was constantly wondering whether I was giving the right information to someone who had tested positive and clearly had had no counselling.  Could the information I gave lead to denial or even suicidal thoughts? Should I have instead given the toll free Lifeline number rather than attempt to answer his questions?

While I mulled over AC’s predicament, the communication specialist in me kicked in. I have been of the view that AIDS has been thrown into our faces, it is everywhere – there is possibly no way anyone would not know about it. Most of the information I gave above was through what I had learnt from the media and other areas of my work. The more specific ones such as viral load, CD4 count testing and drug regimens I learned more in-depth after joining the Treatment Action Campaign.

In a country with just under six million people living with HIV (the highest prevalence rate in the world), communication has been one of the strategies used to empower people towards prevention methods and treatment. Considerable resources have been allocated and used for this sole purpose. As a member of the general public, I have been privy to many discussions and facts about HIV. So how could seemingly educated AC have missed all this?

So what has this anonymous and probably isolated call got to do with me as a communicator? Well it just pointed to me that all the resources that have been put into communicating messages on HIV prevention and literacy have been going down the drain. You might argue that one person is hardly down the drain. Look at it this way; this is a person that has roots in a community, a family and possibly a work environment. All these social structures are target audiences for these messages and usually are the places were discussions or debates on issues take place. If the message is so in-our-faces, in every conceivable media then why are they not sparking debate amongst this person’s family, community or even workplace? Has there been too much of the same message that it now falls on deaf ears? Is the message just not getting there? Is it the packaging of the message, perhaps?

These questions have been running through my mind since that call and I have racked my brain to try and find plausible answers or solutions to this because clearly the message is not going out to its intended audience, who is everyone.

So on this day that the World takes note of the pandemic, my bit to help end the scourge will not end at me working for the Treatment Action Campaign but will go further to explore effective communication strategies that empower people to take responsibility of their lives and the lives of others; to realise that it is not the end of the world if you are given a positive result; to understand the science of HIV and together work towards an HIV free world.

On this day, too, I remember my sister who died of AIDS, not because there wasn’t treatment available but because she did not have enough information not to lapse into fear, denial and confusion. My work on HIV is dedicated to you, my sister and everyone else that died because of lack of information, and the anonymous caller who has alerted me that we need to start thinking of different ways of communicating to get the message across to its intended audience. An informed individual is an empowered one.

To the Editor – Aboutime In-flight Magazine

17 November 2010

Dr David Livingstone did not discover the Victoria Falls

On 12 October 2010, I was privileged to be on the 15.40 1time flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg. It was during my perusal through the in-flight magazine that I came across an article on the Victoria Falls, the Mosi-oa-tunya more specifically. Being Zambian and an avid reader, I was drawn to the article because the Victoria Falls are shared by my country, Zambia, and Zimbabwe and of late I have been proud to see the extensive marketing of our natural resources in various tourist travel specials.

However, I was disappointed to note that this article, like many others has one very important fact wrong which is the discovery of the falls. I refuse to believe or to be fed otherwise obvious information that says Dr Livingstone discovered the Mosi-oa-tunya. The statement as it appears in your October 2010 publication, About Time, on page 56 and under the headline ‘Lodge Hopping in Zimbabwe’ states and I quote in part, ‘…visitors to Victoria Falls can still enjoy a pristine eco-experience little has changed since it was discovered by David Livingstone in 1855.’

My concern with that statement is that it is a misrepresentation of obvious facts which with the continuous repetition in various publications such as yours have been construed to be the existing facts.

It is a grave disregard for my ancestors and indeed the people of Zambia and Zimbabwe, whom Dr Livingstone found when he happened upon the falls during his wanders in South and Central Africa. This to me, or anyone else for that matter, implies that my ancestors did not have the intelligence or sight to see this magnificent natural wonder until Dr Livingstone pointed it out to them. It seriously makes us look like stupid nonentities who could not see something that was right in front of us until some European missionary, because of his intelligence, came and pointed it out to us. The statement by implication and reasoning can be translated to mean just that.

Our history records that the people who lived around the Mosi-oa-tunya were awed by the magnificence of the falls, they revered it as a religious shrine, a place of worship and as such a sacred place. Therefore to say Dr Livingstone is the one that discovered the Victoria Falls is an insult to my people, taking into consideration that the word ‘discover’ according to the dictionary means ‘to be the first person to find or learn something previously not known’. My ancestors knew about and had seen the Mosi-oa-tunya, it is the people from Dr Livingstone’s country or region that didn’t know and that only makes him the first among his people but not the first in the world and certainly not among my people.

I have seen this anomaly in many other publications and I have taken it upon myself to correct it and ensure that history is written the way it was, without any misrepresentation or glossing over of facts. I suggest if publications write about the Mosi-o-tunya, they use the Wikipedia reference which states, ‘Dr David Livingstone, the Scottish missionary and explorer, is believed to have been the first European recorded to view the Victoria Falls…’ This reference leaves out any ambiguity which distorts or disregards the fact that people who lived around the falls had obviously seen it before any European had.

For a long time, African history has been re-written and re-told by the west and now it is time we told our story, the way it is not in some way that glorifies the explorers of the west and makes the indigenous people look stupid. After all has been said and done, no one can tell our story better or more accurately than ourselves.

It is your duty, as an editor, to give out accurate information in the best interest of your readers and this letter serves to assist you in doing just that.

Sincerely,

Caroline Nenguke

Yesterday very unexpectedly and in unlikely surroundings, I got a sms informing me of the death of my friend, confidant and sister, Mwango Mwenya. I read the one-line, four-word sms several times and all that kept going through my mind was ‘no, it can’t be’; at some point I realised I was actually saying this aloud and repeatedly. I couldn’t believe it and still trying to come to terms with it. How can a healthy 31-year-old succumb to death like that? She still had a life-time ahead of her and the joys of witnessing the growth of her daughter. It especially hurts to think that the her baby will grow up without her mother, granted she will be provided for and taken care of but not all that would compare to the love that her mother would have bestowed.

I still have moments when I think life would be better if my mother was alive, that things would make much more sense and that my days would be filled with bright sunlight instead of grey gloom. I lost my mother when I was 24 so I was basically an adult, already in formal employment and fending for myself. I cringe to imagine that this baby, who is only a year and a half, will not know what I was blessed to know for 24 years of my life…that she will grow up having the best that all of us can possibly provide but always knowing that her mother would have done better had she been alive.

Maybe I went through these motions because I had become attached to this ever-present woman in my life. Maybe she will become attached to someone else and see that someone as her mother and not miss or lack anything.  But still it is not fair and shouldn’t have been. Mwango, with you, the phrase ‘untimely death’ has real meaning.

During my last visit to Zambia, I made it a point to come and visit you and see your baby girl in person even though you had previously emailed me some pictures. I have visited Zambia several times since moving to SA but on all these occasions somehow I never got the time or chance to come and see you; sometimes we met by accident and most times we just spoke on the phone. This time was special, I made an effort and came to your home.

I remember that day vividly, Harriet and I finally driving into your yard and seeing you beaming and rushing to come and give me a hug. I was also beaming, happy to see you after ages and as usual I asked for food. You prepared the food and in the kitchen we got on straight to catching up on each other’s lives.

I remember scolding you for not keeping in touch and making you promise to at least send me an email once a week. I also remember looking at you, horrified that you were not on Facebook. But I forgave you because you were a new mother and a fairly new wife, you had responsibilities and Facebook wasn’t priority or important except that it was my way of touching base and keeping in the loop on the goings on in my friends lives. We had a nice time, albeit short and we bade our farewells, not knowing that it would be the last I would see you. I remember promising that if we happened to come to Zambia by road, we would definitely stop-over in Kafue at your place for the night. It won’t happen anymore.

You were more than a friend to me, you were like my own sister. During your university days, you were a regular in our home and everyone considered you family. Even to date when I visit grandma, one of the first things she asks me is how you are, where you are and what you are upto. Once in a while you would meet some of my relatives and they always commended you on your ever-present smile and loving attitude. Aunt asked me once, ‘Does Mwango ever get upset?’ and I replied, ‘I have known her for so long and can’t recall a moment when she was upset.’ Upset moments were rare moments for Mwango.

I have never known anyone so patient, loving, caring and selfless – you were the beacon in our lives, the non-judgemental friend who was always there. Always laughing and always ready to offer a hand or an olive branch.

Towards the end, you seemed isolated. You moved to Kafue. Was that your way of detaching from us, preparing us for your eventual demise? You were good with communication but a time came when even that seemed too much for you. I didn’t see you often and maybe even a year passed without being in each other’s faces but I always knew you were there. There in Kafue where I could drop by if chance and opportunity allowed. Just like you knew I was here, where you could come anytime for a holiday.

I can’t help but think: did I take our friendship for granted? Should I have made every effort to visit when I was there? Should I have hounded you on your promise to email me once a week? Should I have forced you to get on Facebook? Should I have called you more regularly just to find out how you were and catch up? Would any of this had made a difference now that you are gone? These questions will haunt me for a long time, I doubt I will get any answers.

I somehow think this is all a bad dream and I will wake up from it. That I will come through to Kafue and you will be there; that I will ask for meal and you will be more than ready to offer it while we catch up; that I will pick up the phone, dial your number and speak to you; that you will finally take that holiday and come to Cape Town and we can have a great time; that every time I visit Zambia I will always make time to come and see you; that at exactly a month before your 31^st birthday, you can’t possibly die…the list is endless, reality keeps hitting me, reminding me that I have yet another regret – I won’t pay my last respects to you and I dearly wish I could, in the least, attend your funeral. I will always love you. I don’t know how souls rest but if the other alternative is un-peaceful, then by all means may yours rest in eternal peace.

My current job is a reflection of where I was at the time I took it on.

I look back to my first day and remember how excited I was to be working at a job that perfectly reflected where I was then.

Now I have grown and my life has now expanded beyond this job.

I find myself standing on the other side of it and pulling it along behind me.

No matter what I do it is never going to appear in front of me again. I have moved past it.

It is okay for me to want to advance to the next position.

It is safe for me to do this without guilt or criticism.

I do not have to make this job, these employers or this company wrong or bad in order to have an excuse to leave.

I can just leave because I want to.

I thank this job for all it has given me.

I trust that I will secure the perfect new position for me.

I now release this job to the next person who will be as excited as I was on my first day.

And I open myself to a new position that perfectly matches where I am now.

Today wasn’t any different and everything went on smoothly with my conviction that I have found my one true passion and my life purpose – for now this is how I feel and I feel very strongly about it. I say for now because I don’t trust the likes of me, they change at the drop of a hat. Maybe it has something to do with hormones, where I am at now, estranged relationships or encouraging ones – but whatever it is I am really feeling this vocation of being a writer. I am too excited to dream further and imagine myself a celebrated one but I want to be in the least a published one. To be published means that you do have some potential, that your work is at least good enough, right? Anyway so this is me now, a writer by aspiration and in the making if you like.

As I type this, I wonder what it means to be a writer, is it just someone who writes? What if you write and no one ever gets to read what you write, are you still a writer? I guess so, it is about writing after all, right? Just like an artist practices art, a writer writes, whether anyone gets to read their musings is besides the point. This point too, I think, is besides the point.

My day ends, I walk from the stations revolving doors to the platform to get on my train as part of the routine of getting home after a day of putting in a day’s work that in its smallest and insignificant ways is part of the weave that is the universe. I observe the hawkers standing with their wares at the platform and think nothing much about them. I look at the people around me, just observing and I see the woman right in front – she is walking elegantly for someone her size and that captures my attention. She is donning a cotton-lycra fashionable t-shirt and leggings. Both hug her figure at every contour, emphasising them in all their rise and fall, their nooks and crannies.

The most significant, given the body hugging outfit are the hips. They are well endowed like most African women in these parts of the world. Their wideness creating a pleasing rhythm with each step, as she delicately yet resolutely puts one foot forward after the other. The pulsating ripple of her buttocks too are in tune. I imagine there must be song playing to elicit such a provocative and sensual dance.

The fashion is unforgiving to her ample form but the elegance with which she carries herself is amazing, drawing the eye and the imagination from the size of her parts to the size of her elegance and dignity. She is oozing an air that says ‘I am proud to be just the way I am because my size is perfect just like everything else about me is too’. And I think, maybe we should be celebrating form rather than size.

I catch myself in this reverie as I get to the train door, but glad that I had that moment to appreciate what is often looked down upon and I feel one with her, my head lifts and there’s a noticeable spring in my step…I am happy to be me. It is amazing what draws our attention and reminds us of our worth, that flaws and all, this is as perfect as we come. If you can’t change something about you, then maybe you need to change how you think about it.

I settle in the chair, fumble in my bag and take out my book to read and before I know it I am at my station and for the umpteenth time, I marvel at the annoyance that wrinkles my otherwise relaxed features because the train has arrived sooner, I could do with a couple, maybe three or even four more stations. I also marvel that in the same circumstances, when I don’t have anything to read, the journey seems to take so long I actually feel like I am suffocating, the seat feels hot and uncomfortable and suddenly there’s so many not-so-pleasant scents in the train…but every time, all the time with or without the book it is a 23 minute journey.