We thought flight was easy -
A simple flapping of our fragile wings
Against the waves of air whirling us to freedom;
Then, we thought we were gods and goddesses,
Hallowed creatures haloed in light,
circling the skies – our own domain of royalty
where neither graveness nor gravity could ensnare us.

Then, we thought flight was
effortless and flawless;
And we didn’t realise that wings can be crushed and broken,
That winds can be brutal,
And that the kindly skies can sear too with rage and fury.

Then, we thought we were admired and revered,
Immortal and invincible:
Creatures of majesty sent to conquer the world
With our youthfulness and beauty,
But that was before we had fallen,
Before we had felt the pain of broken flight,
Thudding to the pitiless earth with wounds gaping with our own blood and bones;
That was before we had known that the elements are not always in our favour,
And that this flight and this life are a continual fight against fierce forces
That do not care for our raw dreams and determination.

Will the new South African president, Zuma, break into spontaneous dance whenever he delivers a speech to the international community?

So far ( as far as I know), he has managed to keep his rousing rendition of the now out-of-context Umkhonto we Sizwe war cry ‘Mshini Wami’ confined to national fora such as political rallies and other platforms he has been provided to defend his innocence against the many charges levelled against him in the recent past.

The reason I ask is simple. Beyond his amazing agility and moves to rival Michael Jackson in the prime of his musical career, Zuma doesn’t seem to offer much else.

Now, to be sure, I have serious problems in looking beyond the misgivings of a man who claims that taking a shower after unprotected sex with an HIV-positive person can prevent transmission of the virus. That statement will forever stick in my mind whenever Zuma’s name is mentioned to me.

But after all his run-ins, and let-offs by the rule of law, I thought it only decent of me to give him an ear at the last ANC rally held last weekend in Johannesburg.

I will admit that I haven’t listened to many of his speeches, but called the Siyanqoba (We shall conquer) rally, and the last that the ANC held prior to elections that Wednesday,  I expected Zuma to give the  most rousing speech of his political career.

But oh, so drawl and monotonous was he that I dozed off a few times, as I watched. Was that un-emotive expressionless list of promises to make South Africa a better nation really what the people wanted to hear?

And when he promised to fight corruption, I couldn’t help the smirk that instantly appeared on my face. More transparent tendering processes and less misappropriation of public resources?!

That sounded like a page out of a Grimm’s fairytale.

While functional, apart from clever little statements like stating that South Africans ought to “put sport back into our national psyche” in the build-up to the 2010 World Cup, I found his speech drab and quite banal. Nothing in it would give anyone a shiver down their spine, which is what good speeches tend to do.

While he will never be an Obama in terms of his oratory, Zuma needs to start sounding a bit more convincing that he is a changed man and not some reluctant school kid forced to stand up and read his short story to the rest of the class.

His political persona already doesn’t look so good – what with a trail of corruption cases behind him – and other near-miss charges he has managed to worm his way out of.

Speech has power to convince. You only need look at the immortal place that Martin Luther King Jnr holds in history because of his ‘I have a dream’ speech.

And though more sinister, no one can deny the power of Adolf Hitler’s oration in convincing the German masses of the ‘goodness’ of Nazism.

For me, there’s nothing to savour about Msholozi’s political character yet – until, of course, he breaks into that ubiquitous theme song and jumps across the podium belting out “Mshini Wami, Mshini Wami.”

Have you ever noticed how the South African media focuses so intently on this aspect of Zuma in its coverage of him? With dance moves that crisp, he could put many a young man less than half his age to shame. Yes, that forms part of his ‘everyman’ appeal. But that should not become the hallmark of his persona.

Zuma has to appeal to a larger audience than just South Africans who have recently become disgruntled with the ANC and thus see him as the agent of necessary reform.

He has to appeal to regional and global audiences, to represent South Africa, and Africa as a respectable statesman in the mould of his predecessors who include Nelson Mandela.

And sadly for him, he will have to do all of that without the dancing.

For me, my greatest hope for Zuma’s reign is that he can combat the HIV epidemic that is currently wreaking havoc in South Africa and sending shock waves throughout southern Africa. For one who himself peddled gross misinformation about ways to prevent HIV transmission, this would represent the greatest victory in overcoming the very ignorance that continues to kill so many.

I sincerely hope that come May 9, at the presidential inauguration of Zuma, I will become more convinced by this man who holds the hopes and destiny of not only his nation, but the whole region.

Life’s too short to not investigate all of your potential. This is why I have boldly taken to wearing colour of late. Orange, pink, yellow, purple, tie-dye; you name it, I wear it!

And it’s the most liberating thing that I have done for myself recently.

Why?

Because, I suppose I grew up at a time when wearing bright colours was either considered crude, or a sign of low class and taste – at least if you were any age above 16. Yes, even today, anyone who dares wear vivid colours will elicit one or two taunts for their braveness.

But I just don’t care what people say anymore, which is why it is so liberating to dress as I please. In my opinion, far too many women spend their lives being overly modest with themselves. They won’t try different things to help redefine their image and thereby get stuck in a hole they aren’t so happy to be in.

Now, I am not saying that constant change is for us all. But if you, like me, are the restless type who gets bored with having just one look, then all I can say to you is, “Do something about it!”

As one of my university lecturers used to warn us, “Time is moving and frankly, none of us is getting any younger!”

Too true – none of us is getting any younger. So, the way I see it, go for it! If you’ve always wondered what green and purple look like together, buy clothes in those colours and find out! If you’ve always wanted to get extravagantly coloured hair extensions, get them!

There’s nothing like a woman developing a safety zone and choosing to always wear ‘safe’ colours – like white and black, and brown – to avoid ever standing out in a crowd.

The world is not an entirely safe place, so why should your wardrobe be any different?! That is unless ‘safe’ colours are the only ones that you have a particular leaning towards. If not, I would suggest that you learn to live a little more on the fun side.

And what’s the worst thing that could happen?

A few people might voice their disapproval, but the one thing I have learnt in my relatively short trek on planet earth, thus far, is that OTHER PEOPLE DON’T MATTER!

It is often ‘other people’ who try to bring you down, or make you not go for the things that you really want in life. They naysay about everything and anything, just to make you feel uncomfortable about having an opinion and an individual identity.

And these kinds of people will always be around us. The only real solution to overcoming their negativity is to nurture a true sense of yourself and go for what you want, regardless of what anyone might say about you. Liberate yourself from the group mentality.

Oh, I could go on and on about the fun side of colour. There’s no greater joy than discovering that your six year-old blue scarf, the purple earrings you bought yourself recently, your pink jersey and black skirt all come together to make a uniquely beautiful combination and celebration of colour.

It’s so much fun, too, to watch the passing crowds around you stop and stare and wonder where you are from because of your unique colour coordination.

For myself, my enjoyment has nothing at all to do with vanity, but rather a deep sense of appreciation that the wonderful kaleidoscope of colours I present to the external world represents the same world of living rainbows swirling inside of me.

There is always one easy way to spot a Zimbabwean at a dinner table. He or she will be the first one to reach for the salt shaker, thereafter proceeding to generously scatter grains of the white stuff onto his or her food.

Soups, gravies, meats, veggies – you name it. Extra salt is always a necessity.

The culture is so deeply ingrained (excuse the pun!) in many of us that we don’t even wait to first taste our food – thus gauging its levels of flavour. We just go ahead and shake, shower and rattle more sodium chloride onto it.

And when that precious condiment is found missing at a table, before very long, someone will point out, with frustration, to the host that the munyu is nowhere to be seen.

An unhealthy habit, right?

Absolutely. But try talking cholesterol to any salt fiend and you’ll probably get this answer, “But I can’t taste anything if I don’t add more salt!”

Sure, I’ve heard that people who regularly consume alcohol experience a deadening of their taste buds, hence their desire for more salt in their food. And older people, too, experience a dulling of their senses due to age. So what’s the excuse for the rest of us?

I suppose we are just socialised into the use of lots of salt from an early age. But as for me, I can’t stand it!

My mum and I have had to come to an amicable agreement on the seasoning of our food. After enough winces (initiated by me, of course!) at the saltiness of her cooking, she has decided that whenever she cooks something, she will let me first put the salt that’s adequate for my taste buds. After I have taken my share, she will proceed to add more of it to suit her own preference. The same is true when I cook.

It’s called compromise!

I remember once going for a dinner hosted by an American family here in Zimbabwe. As I recall, the meal was beautiful beef stroganoff served on a plate of fluffy white rice.

“Here, you’ll probably need this,” said the hostess as she passed the salt cellar to me. I took one forkful of food and, after swallowing, replied that the salt was just fine. “No extra salt for me, thanks,” I said. “Gosh,” she said in amazement. “You’re the first Zimbabwean I’ve met who doesn’t add extra salt to my food!”

Ah well, different salts for different folks!

After years of constant worry, it’s good to finally know the truth. There is absolutely NO CURE for cellulite! Well, that’s unless the medical doctor I watched on the Oprah Winfrey show was only trying to sabotage sales of all the creams and potions produced by those oh-so-cutting edge cosmetic companies who promise a reduction in the ‘orange-peel effect’ of cellulite within 28 days – or your money back.

Mmmm. Now, I have never personally tried those creams, figuring that I would probably just be donating my hard-earned money to companies who realise that far too many women are suckers for products that don’t do much else than raise false hopes of a new body. But still, something in the pit of my gut tells me that these miracle potions aren’t what they seem to be.

And so while Oprah’s guest might have been the source of much disappointment and cursing from women from all quarters, for me he delivered the most liberating news I have heard all year.

Why?

Because, in effect, he told me to stop fretting and fussing about a few bumps and lumps on my body and focus on the real humps and bumps on the road called life. It’s petty and time-sapping to worry about things that I have no control over, and things that will have no consequence in the future.

I hardly imagine that anyone is eulogised with the following words, “She was a great person with a kind heart and a bit of cellulite on her thighs.”

It sounds ridiculous, and yet it is these very trivial things that keep so many women imprisoned. We figure we aren’t good enough because we have been made to believe that there is an existing template of ‘the ideal woman’ that we are all meant to fill out. If we don’t quite fit into it, we think we don’t have the same value as every other woman.

Well, I am tired of that. And I am writing this piece to declare it! For a long time, I wouldn’t wear sleeveless tops for one simple reason. I thought that the stretch marks on the back of my arms would cause offence to people and make them think less of me for having such horrible marks. It was an entrapping, all-consuming feeling that told me I had to protect society from my ugliness.

But you know what? I met a young woman who challenged my ideas about myself and made me rethink my attitude. She was a very beautiful girl, completely at ease with herself and dressed in a string top in all the glory of her stretch marks, both on the back and front of her arms. Now, it wasn’t the marks that I noticed first, but her sunny personality and confidence; her radiance. She didn’t care what anyone would say about her because she was too absorbed in full contentment and joy at being herself.

How many more of us would be happier if we acted just like this young woman? And how many more of us would be happier if people in this often cruel world would just let us be?

I know another young Zimbabwean woman with a birthmark down one half of her face who has to apply layers and layers of foundation every day to hide the mark because people cringe at it or tell her she looks disgusting. And I know women who go through the same make-up routine daily because they think that their beauty can only be fully manifested in coats and coats of propylene glycol and sodium dehydroacetate (just two ingredients from a foundation I have in my own makeup bag). Does beauty lie in ingredients most of can barely pronounce?!

Don’t get me wrong – makeup, exercise, healthy living and preening are not bad. They can definitely enhance natural beauty and make a person feel more confident. But they are not the cause of beauty. Beauty is inherent and ambiguous. It is not about how you look, but more about how you feel – not only about yourself, but also how you feel about those around you.

I have seen beauty in all the places where we think that there is none. Yes, even in the dimples of my thighs when I try to remember which piece of cake or plate of food I enjoyed too much of to get my little cellulite badge of honour. And when I feel bad about cellulite, I just say, “Thank you God that I even have these thighs!”

So I can’t do anything about my cellulite. No big deal. There are more important things that I can change, that we can all change by focusing more on what is within us.

“It’s finally happening,” the small voice in the pit of my belly whispered, eerily, into my ear.

I first heard it speak to me the week one of my good Zimbabwean friends told me that she had met a man who said he wanted to marry her. I instantly burst into uncontrollable laughter because – with all due respect to my friend – she is hardly marriage material. Like myself, she is not quite the most domesticated sort of young woman and prefers to roll out of bed in the late hours of weekend mornings and then distract herself from all household chores by watching re-runs of soaps or heading off to town to get away from it all. These actions have gotten her into trouble with her parents on several occasions, but still she declares that she’s far too lazy to give a care.

And so for me to imagine her being someone’s wife, waking up early to prepare her husband’s breakfast, doing double the amount of laundry she does now ( with a great deal of reluctance, at that) or picking out ties to match her husband’s suits ( he sounds like the type who would like that), is nigh on impossible. Yet somehow, this man sees the potential in my friend to love and nurture him for the rest of his life. And somehow my fun-loving, carefree friend can see herself fitting into this role.

“But I can actually see myself as his wife,” she stated with a tone that sounded genuine and willing to give it a try. That was when I stopped laughing and teasing her, realising that she had found someone she loved deeply enough to consider spending the rest of her life with. And that was also precisely the first time I heard that voice rise through me, adding its tone to the chorus of noises making their cacophonous music through me.

It is finally happening.

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