To be honest I’m not sure why Zanu PF spies would want to expose scandalous stories of MDC politicians sexploits. In general Zimbabweans aren’t fazed by them. In fact it seems like the more small houses, Pajeros, shiny suits, shoes and foreign trips a politician goes on, the more Man they are.

I don’t know that the bath is the best place to think up a blog.

I am distracted by my body. Analogies involving words like “undulating” come to mind. And I would like to take a break and go to the beach next month. The two are linked for obvious reasons. Having slumbered through the winter with excessive amounts of sweetened caffeine and comfort food, disguised under shapeless sweaters and layers of warmth, less exfoliated and creamed and cared for, wrapped up in the dark of night, against any hopeful fumbling which might let in the fresh air, and studiously ignored in the nude – my body is much the worse for wear.

I go through this every year and emerge on the other side of winter hairy, dry, white and blinking against the sun. Like a mole. The thought of hitting the beach, even if it is isolated and I can push the kids in front of me like an excuse, is quite daunting. I shall go wobbling and waddling along the sand, bulging unseemingly in my old bikini, which, like my body, has seen better days, and squashing my frame into fatty folds as I bend to build sand castles. On the bright side, at least I can bend. And I have the comfort of being happily married. Or is that happily complacent?

Never mind. I have found a temporary cure to all ills of this nature – skipping. I am sure it uses up more calories than walking! With the added bonus of making me smile. I have been skipping from the office to the loo, some of which is also due to a sense of urgency – I will leave it to the last minute. It makes me smile to imagine what everyone is thinking in their offices as I skip past. By the time I am in my toilet cubicle I am giggling out loud. If other cubicles are occupied, I giggle even harder. It’s therapy for the soul and something my daughter taught me, having made me skip past all the other mothers at school, with considerably less grace than my daughter. It is humbling and enlightening at the same time.

So I shall skip to the beach, encouraging my boobs and bum to defy gravity, juddering and giggling as I go.

After decades of civil war, often based on ethnicity, religion, ideology and oil between the north and south, South Sudan finally gained its freedom and its now a Republic. South Sudan will become the 55th nation in Africa.

Saturday the 9th of July was indeed a day to celebrate in Juba the capital city of South Sudan when the flag of South Sudan was flown with the national anthem playing for the first time to mark its independence. The nation was born out a referendum in which the Southerners voted overwhelmingly to separate from the North. With its vast oil deposits and with a mainly Christian population, South Sudan hopes to start a new beginning after its hard-earned independence.

But despite having one of the biggest oil reserves in Africa, 90 percent of the people of South Sudan were living on less than half a dollar per day. One hopes that the new government of South Sudan will use its oil resources to enhance the living standards of its citizens and promote democracy and respect for human rights. Indeed God led the people of South Sudan to a well-deserved independence after a long struggle; let us all help the South Sudanese in singing their national anthem and celebrate their hard earned freedom.

South Sudan National Anthem

Oh God
We praise and glorify you
For your grace on South Sudan,
Land of great abundance
Uphold us united in peace and harmony.

Oh motherland
We rise raising flag with the guiding star
And sing songs of freedom with joy,
For justice, liberty and prosperity
Shall forever more reign.

Oh great patriots
Let us stand up in silence and respect,
Saluting our martyrs whose blood
Cemented our national foundation,
We vow to protect our nation

Oh God bless South Sudan.

Driving to meet some friends for dinner last night, three things caught my eye:

• An old aged pensioner couple, walking down the road together. Her clutching her TM specials discount circular tightly to her chest. Him in his baggy jersey, pyjama bottoms and slippers.
• A massive triple story wendy house, barreling down the road, strapped precariously to a bakkie, its platform clipping tree branches as the truck swerved to dodge potholes.
• A man gets out of a kombi, and then waves after it with a sigh of frustration when it turned from its normal route, down a side street to look for more customers – the same side street the passenger was now left to walk down.

I’ve seen a headline in today’s Herald, Air Zimbabwe resumes flights.

I’m sceptical; I can’t imagine the structural changes that would be required to make Air Zimbabwe a viable business have taken place. But I’m also relieved. I recently flew from Victoria Falls to Harare via Zambezi Airlines, the Zambian carrier which had been roped in to fly Zimbabwe’s local routes whilst our national airline was out of commission.

The experience was a heart wrenching example of economic decline. The plane left on time, and got us to our destination – exactly what Air Zimbabwe has developed a reputation for not doing. But I was flying within my country. I was going from one of the country’s tourism hot spots to the country’s capital, crossing no international boundaries. But I did so in a plane from Zambia, with Zambian crew. We were served crisps from South Africa, ginger ale from China, and soda water from Malaysia.

Zimbabwe’s manufacturing sector is struggling enough to recover from the economic decline of the previous decade. Can’t we at least have our national airline plying our national routes – and serving drinks and snacks made right here in Zimbabwe?

“July time is hard,” I overheard one woman say to another the other day. They were walking awkwardly, bundled thickly under layers of clothing, blankets wrapped over their skirts, warding off the chill of those long overcast winter days when the sun never makes it through the clouds and no matter what you do you’re cold.

I could resonate. The night before, I’d been invited to a dinner I was relatively certain would be outside. I got home to an all day power cut, so a bath was out. Already freezing before the night even began, I remembered my sister leaving some clothes behind on her last visit. My head lamp on, I rifled frantically through her drawers in the growing darkness, with these two thoughts as my only criteria: let it be warm, and let it fit me.

I flung aside the vests, the skirts, and her partner’s even smaller – but warmer! So much warmer! – tops. And I settled on some baggy long johns and a too-small (but warm!) top to go under everything else, and got dressed – like the women I’d passed on the street, the rest of my outfit now governed by the requirement that my clothes now had to fit over the clothes I was already wearing.