I need to get a car.

Be it a jaunty jalopy or sleek fuel-efficient machine; whatever it is, I really don’t mind at this point in time. All I need is a dependable specimen that will save me from the continuous wear and tear that I experience daily from my use of public transport, particularly the dreaded ‘kombi’.

If you have ever hailed one of these rickety vans to stop and give you a ride, you will have noted how eager and enthusiastic the driver and tout always are when they notice you standing at the road side, desperately waving your hand to get their attention. The driver honks his horn profusely while the tout leans half his body out threw a windowless pane, frantically calling out, “Town! Town! Town!”

You feel an instant relief at this because you are running late and town is exactly where you are headed. And though you are well-dressed and beautifully preened, none of the nice men and women in their neat sedans and SUVs are stopping to offer you a lift.

But the joyous mood immediately fades the moment you get your kitten-heeled shoe onto the first step of the van. For before you have even had time to find your footing, the driver is impatiently revving up his engine, making ready to get back onto the main road and slice scandalously through the morning traffic. Hunched over into the low space of the kombi – and trying desperately to find a vacant seat – as well as fight the forward force of the vehicle which is in direct opposition to the course you must follow to find a place in the back, the moment begins the domino effect of bad events intended to ruin your day.

Firstly, in your efforts to reach your seat, you are very likely to either ladder your brand new pair of stockings, or acquire a weeping wound to the knee or lower-leg area. This is because these third-hand write offs they like to call vehicles usually have anorexic seats with bits of steel jutting out from everywhere like unclothed bone. Or even worse, just as you have managed to get to a vacant place without too much drama, you plonk your behind into a scruffed up seat which begins to fray the hem of your skirt or prick uncomfortably into your rump. And already you are counting down from ten, just to keep your cool.

A kombi drive is nothing close to a ride in a luxury vehicle. So don’t be too surprised if you find yourself face to face with the beady eyes of a chicken confined to a plastic bag and nestled in the lap of the man or woman sitting next to you.  Also, if the kombi driver insists on giving his ‘cousin-brother’ or girlfriend a free lift, do not be too perturbed to find your hip bone buried in the side of your neighbour as you each manoeuvre yourselves to force a fifth person onto a row of seats that accommodate a maximum of four people.

And never expect the tout to be any kind of gentleman. All he wants is to get your money. Having achieved this aim, he might proceed to torment you about not providing him with changed money, and how he has none to offer you. Right then, you might start to feel your blood boil with rage – “Nine, eight, seven,” the silent countdown continues.

Mind you, all of the touts raving might be going on with his armpit over your row of seats, exuding a potent olfactory experience that could certainly kill small rodents and other creatures. And if you are really unlucky, you might find yourself in the front seat with him, your head buried somewhere between his armpit and shoulder, and his mid-section nestling over your knee. Your might try to contort yourself away from his anatomy, but alas, the 20 kg bag of sugar the woman next to you has at her feet, has clogged all thoughts of attaining some leg space.

Don’t expect any sort of ambience or mood music in there. In the claustrophobic chaos of hoarded goods and wares, rickety seats and dangerous swerves and turns, expect the poorest bleeding sound systems that were ever invented to burst the ear drums of cash-strapped third worlders. If you can wrestle both your hands free and hold them shut against your ears, this will help lessen the harm. But if you can’t, mouth along to sungura or rhumba beats.

Just like with aeroplane travel, always try to get a window seat! In our kombis, the first two seats, towards the window, are usually immovable. But the last two can be folded up so that folk can walk up and down the aisle to get in and out. Now, let me tell you, there is no fun in being stationed on one of those fold up seats and having to get up, fold it up and make space for someone further in the back to make their way out of the kombi, at each and every stop. Beside being annoying, it also adds to your chances of laddering or grazing something!

Finally, the merciless vehicle won’t even leave you at your direct destination. You will still have to face the harsh elements (blazing morning sunshine, or dreary summer drizzles) and foot your way through the city streets, probably to get another gruesome kombi ride to some other place. And unlike a trusty friend who promises to pick you up at a certain time, kombis have their own time tables, as they only get going from one point to the next when the vehicle is positively sagging with human and non-human loads. So always expect to be running either too late, or too early, but never quite on time.

Need I say more?

I just need a car.

The great power that the media possesses to influence society has been noted many times before. But what more of a stark reminder of this in Zimbabwe than the recent news that seven local journalists have been added to the European Union (EU) list of sanctioned individuals and companies from our faltering nation.

Rubbing shoulders with prominent personalities such as staunchly pro-government commentators, ministers and their prosperous families, are veteran Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation (ZBC) broadcasters such as chief correspondent, Reuben Barwe, and diplomatic correspondent, Judith Makwanya. From the pro-government print media, names such as Pikirayi Deketeke and Caesar Zvayi (editor and senior assistant editor of The Herald, respectively) also appear on the list of black-listed Zimbabweans.

The journalists have been reportedly added to the ever-growing list for their contribution to the suppression of free expression and political will in volatile and politically polarised Zimbabwe.  Even Jongwe Printers, the ZANU-PF-owned printing company that produces the ruling party’s publication, The Voice, has been added to the sanctions list.

Now if that does not illustrate the seriousness with which some parts of the world are taking the suppression of democratic processes in Zimbabwe, then little else will. For these acts of retracted hospitality emphasise the important role that the media have in promoting diversity and respect for all views and opinions within a healthy functioning society. Failing to fulfil these, practitioners within the profession must expect to be treated like the criminals they are for robbing the masses of correct, complete and unbiased information.

There really is nothing more infuriating than knowing that those who ought to highly esteem the public they exist to serve, in fact, see them as a dumb mass whose minds are pliable and gullible enough to accept the vilest and most shameless propaganda. Did we not all feel that way, at some time, especially at the height of the land reform programme when those monotonous jingles with over-zealous ‘farmers’ kept informing us that our land was our prosperity? Somehow I never quite felt so prosperous, what with empty shop shelves, horrendous food shortages and currency nose-dives plunging me into early depression. Who actually believed any of that when the reality of suffering was all around us to see?

Everywhere, perhaps more so in Africa, journalists strive for recognition as professionals whose choices are informed by sound codes of conduct and ethics grounded in humaneness and morality. Therefore, those media practitioners who choose to continue to play to the tune of the piper (that is, the political leader), even when the refrain has become cacophonous and a strain to the listeners’ ears, deserve some retribution for the gross misuse of the power they possess. For what difference is there in the venomous ink of a pen and the speech of a once-trusted leader now filled with lies and deceit?

I’m trying to imagine the following conversation actually taking place between a pair of passion-struck lovebirds: “Honey, guess what I got you for Valentine’s Day?” the man says with a dreamy gaze into his lover’s eyes. “What?” she gasps in excitement. “Tell me!” “The best present ever,” he continues. “I got you …more quality time!” At this point, the young woman is probably imagining that her man is going to whip out a velvet box containing a Swiss, diamond-crusted gold watch, coupled with the biggest bunch of red roses ever seen.

Ha! Dream on, sister. This man actually does mean more time – as in, his gift to you for the year is more time spent together in loving bliss. More time, and less money, spent.

When a friend of mine suggested this as the most romantic gift he could offer his girlfriend, I almost fell off my seat laughing at the thought of the repercussions.

“That’s the stuff of instant break-ups,” I warned him.

But somewhere in his questionable logic, my friend actually believes that he can successfully pull off his plan and get away with showing up doe-eyed and empty-handed on the one day of the year specifically set aside for love and romance.

Now, I know that women generally have a bad name as petty, opportunistic parasites that often thrive on the financial infirmities of males. Put simply, women are often perceived as being gold-diggers, mining the wealth out of men for their own gain. But I think even those among us, who don’t consider ourselves as such, would draw the line at a man’s attempt to pass off an abstract construct like time as a gift on an important day.

To me, that reeks of cheapness and laziness. Yes, this is Zimbabwe. And yes, times are rough (though I am always startled by how many of my fellow citizens move around clutching serious wads of American dollars in their wallets and purses). But even Cupid – the hopeless little romantic that he is – would wing his way all the way here just to angle and shoot one of his arrows into the behind of such a man.

Shame on him, I say for thinking that his suggestion even constitutes a feasible gift idea. A gift for a special day needs to be something that can perceived through the senses, something she can shake about in its wrapped box, trying to guess its contents; something she can excitedly catch a whiff of, like perfume or a well-cooked meal; something palpable.

Besides, we Zimbabweans live in curious times. We suffer much and sacrifice even more -dreams, memories and even hopes. If there is any group of people whom I expect out on the streets, painting the town red with passionate and compassionate love this February 14, it is us. For when all else has ravaged us – political intimidation, economic deflation, scourges of violence and disease and condemnation – all that has remained to console us is love.

And whether you are a traditionalist who believes that V-Day is a commercial gimmick, or a fervent but cash-strapped romantic, I say to you, “Make the effort, this year!”

Pluck a simple flower from an overgrown bush, be patriotic and buy a packet of Zimbabwe-manufactured toffee sweets, or make a simple card with a meaningful message. Whatever it may be, make sure you do something special for someone you love. Our recent history has taught us to value what we have now because we have learned in a cruel way that the future is often not for us to control.

And like I told my friend, I endorse once more, “Time is a precious gift which your loved ones will greatly appreciate. Give it to them throughout the year, but on this special day, give them something more. Give them something they can move around showing off with pride at your love for them. A cheap gold-plated chain that will rust in a few weeks time will do, if that is really all you can afford. It is the moment, the day, the joy of being celebrated that matters.”