I might have to hurt somebody soon…

Rolling pins - lethalI don’t know which sign I currently have emblazoned on my forehead which gives random people the incredibly misguided impression that I care about their tepidly vapid existences. Because I am not sure how the menacing scowl permanently etched on my face can be translated into a come-hither -and-unburden-thyself look. (p.s. There isn’t even the excuse of alcohol!)

One of my housemates is this perennially obnoxious little Japanese man. If dynamite comes in small packages, he is the dampest of damp squibs. Anyway this dude is information overkill personified. Yesterday he decides to relieve himself by volunteering this gem of information, that he likes to quote unquote ‘eat p**sy’. I am thinking to myself, bra, you are acting out of place, you don’t know me like that. In which warped parallel universe does this count as polite dinner conversation. At which point do you think I care about your dirty extracurricular activities considering that women here do not believing in manicuring. Touch yourself friend (literal translation: zvibate shamwari)

Aside: if I seem measurably angrier than usual, the company I work for is facing bankruptcy, its looking unlikely that salaries will be paid this month, I have no savings and no Plan B.

Update: As of October 14 I am officially unemployed.

Lost: one brain, never used. Answers to the name OJ

O.J. - still innocentI mean seriously, a brotha should know when to lay the shovel aside and just stop digging . How many more periods of this brand of idiocy should the masses have to suffer? Has he not done enough already to get
himself a serious beat down? This would be on par with another kid being found in Michael’s bed. Or yet another middle class white kid disappearing from some villa in Portugal.

Its not wholly improbable to suggest that a fair few Cracker folks out there are readying their effigies and wooden crosses, cheering OJ’s latest instalment of jackass propensity to self destruct, coz theys finally going to gets them summa that thurr juhstice.

OJ’s Self-Destruction for Dummies, Rule 101: Flagging career? Easily remedied. Beat on some po’ white trash to get middle America baying for blood. The prison time followed by the inevitable book deal, originally entitled ‘How I Would Have Kicked His Thieving Lying Ass If I Had Really Done it’. And the movie rights sold shortly after, coincidentally with OJ ‘starring’ as himself. Maybe even a rap career. Or ‘finding God’. Nothing like religion to refill those empty coffers.

And with Johnny Cochrane’s status as worm food, how he gonna claim it wasn’t him this time? To quote the ever eloquent Dubya ‘Fool me once, shame on…shame on you. Fool me – you can’t get fooled again’.

Personals ad, and other stories

Uncle Sam - desperateWanted – trillionaire. Octogenarians with faulty hearts/chronic illnesses/terminal illnesses preferred. Penchant for Viagra a must. Debonair good looks not a requirement. Numerous offspring essential (as this womb is not for hire). Own transportation required, wheelchair or hoist will do, as long as both are motorised.

In return, offered: all manner of conjugal rights, intimate Kama Sutric knowledge including (but not limited to) the ability to ‘make a Sprite can disappear in my mouth’. Acts prohibited under specific statutory law codes in more than one country. Ability to cook up a storm, on any front. Or behind for that matter.

Billionaires need not apply. With the rapidity of the depreciation of the Zim Kwacha, your money aint worth the paper it’s written on.

On a more serious note, I am really tired of this work gig. Took a week off work which has managed to dull my homicidal tendencies, but at the same time made me realise that I really, really hate my job. More than I have ever hated any other job in my entire life. Granted my propensity to hate is legendary, but I have plumbed all new depths of despair.

If it was a product, it would be marketed as ‘new and improved despair, to help you go that much deeper’. Kinda like Viagra, but without the mandatory happiness. Oh to have been born to rich parents who would fund a round-the-world trip to help me ‘find myself’. Although weighing over xxx pounds, it’s kinda hard to lose myself.

So if anyone out there has any bright ideas, preferably inexpensive because I am currently in line for Third World Debt Relief, about how to get myself out of this essentially self-imposed rut, this is officially a plea for help.

p.s. if anyone does chance upon any men fitting the above criterion please speedily despatch an email to me at:


Black vs White

(with apologies to KV)

White folk
Black folk
Ever since she got married, she’s let herself go! She must be stressed out. Kubva paakaroorwa azosimba. Saka arikuchengetwa!
You’ve lost weight, you look great! You’ve lost weight, kasi urikurwara?
They must be doing well, holidaying in Switzerland. They’re doing well, kutenga Pajero. Even ma suits aarikupfeka. Phone yake wambiona here?
You’ve eaten enough honey, remember your cholesterol. Idya ugosimba.
White girlfriend: ‘is my azz fat?’ Best answer: NO! Black girlfriend: ‘is my azz fat?’ Answer: hell yeah!
That’s her husband’s whore, the home wrecker! Ndivo amainini, small house yacho ka.
Phone call: ‘Hello, I hope I didn’t catch you at the wrong time’. Phone call: ‘shaa ndifonere, handina eyatime’.
He is intelligent. Kakangwarisa.
He is an extrovert. Kakavhengeredza.
He is strong. Ibhinya chairo.
He is an introvert. Rakazungaira.
She is sexy. Ipfambi.
They are kind. Vanedzvene.
She is a slow learner. Idofo.
He loves his wife very much. Akadyiswa.
She is a traditional wife. Nderekumaruzevha.

Ten things I wish never to hear again (in no specific order)

    NO NO NO

  1. That will be 35 pounds charged to your account for being overdrawn. Again. (Man, going into overdraft on an overdraft, ain’t that a hit an’ a half for your ass)
  2. I just couldn’t hold it, you taste so sweet. We can try again in a few minutes. (Uh huh, like the other 5 times before that coming to a grand total of 4 and a half minutes.)
  3. You remind me of my dead mother (this said in the throes of passion. The term ‘motherfucker’ taking on a whole new shine)
  4. You are not quite what this company is looking for. (euphemism for if you are not out that door in 5 minutes the bloodhounds from security are going to be so far up your ass you’ll wish you were gay)
  5. A computer error has resulted in salaries not being paid on time. (at this point I have been eating roots for a week coz my overdrawn overdrafted account is all tuckered out )
  6. Iiiii ende wazosimbaaaaa! (read: Jesus Christ, did you eat ALL the Colcom pork pies when the prices were slashed by 50%)
  7. Zimbabwe, that’s near Mexico right? (yeah, the border dispute is definitely between Dubya and Bob)
  8. Oh Zimbabwe, I went to Kenya once. (yes, Africa is one country, so you’ve seen one African, you have seen them all)
  9. So that is MISTER Eleanor Madziva? (Butt ugly I may be, a man I am not, how my mellifluous dulcet tones can be confused with that of a man, I don’t know. Granted though, I saw a man tweezing his eyebrows while waiting at the traffic lights the other day, so it’s not much of a testimony for raw masculinity in Nippon)
  10. ‘Can I touch it?’ Heaven forfend that I ever hear another white girl ask me if she can touch my fro again. Girrrllll? Have you done lost your mind? You’d best check yourself before you hurt yourself.

Geriatry comes a-knockin’

Grannies - licentious

It’s official – I am past my prime. You know you’re well past your sell by date when you intentionally leave the house with a book in your handbag as you head out to a club. The book being the back up plan to staving off boredeom an hour or so into proceedings because either…

a) you don’t know any of the songs everybody is hollering to and, you don’t really care,
b) you find yourself complaining that the music is too loud and you can’t hear yourself think,
c) those shoes you thought were such a good idea when you left the house are giving you a backache, a headache and creating mutant bunions or, in the most unfortunate circumstances,
d) …all of the above!

A friend invited me out Saturday, and I was loath to go, coz nowadays a good book and my substantially pimped out futon (in the manner of Xzibit and his rides), a glass of Diet Pepsi and soulful music wafting out of the computer is my idea of a good night out. Here, annoyingly, you can’t leave the club at 3am coz there is no transport; the first train around 5.30 is your first chance of escape. People jump on that train like a fat chick on chocolate cake after a stint at the Fat Farm (I should know). So armed with the book in my bag, I headed out to the club.

Legend has it that white people can’t dance, I guess that’s because nobody has ever seen the Japanese version of dancing. It’s excruciating; needles-in-your-eyes or burning-coals-being-branded-into-your-skull painful doesn’t do justice to what passes for dance moves here (that they try to emulate from MTV). The Japanese version.

So of course now it’s up to a sister to represent and tear up the dance floor. But it is at this point that my joints decide they have other plans, and tolerating 5 creaking hours of abuse does not constitute part of their mandate. They know they should be at home lying down. So one thumping song later (incidentally Luda’s Move bitch get out the way etc), tail tucked between my legs, I got out the way, slinked into a corner and 4 hours later, left the club having worked my way through a couple of hundred pages.

I guess at some point I should express regret at no longer being able to keep up with my younger compatriots, but to be fair, I did my bit for the cause in my day, because hey, ndakambo representa. On a scale of 0 to 1 for representing, I was a 2. To the extent of being marked on the register at Circus every Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

So shove in the false teeth, bring forth the carpet slippers, the cane, the bifocal glasses, coz I am officially taking my first steps towards geriatry.

Hunched over, shuffling and proud.

So many Christmases…

Cartoons - delusional

Talk of music from back in the day made me realise that my spring chicken status is fast becoming an off layer status (without having laid; being laid doesn’t count). I have eaten many Christmases. This prompted a quick trip down the memory lane of my misspent youth. Don’t regret a minute of it though.

Remember when back in the day, if you were lucky enough to have a walkman, and you would save on batteries by not pressing the fast forward/rewind button, but instead take a ballpoint pen and spin the tape around. And as presents went, it was cool to give other people mix tapes. As long as you made sure to erase the bit where the DJ was announcing the number of the hit on Hitsville.

Then there were afternoon sessions at Archies. Gigging at 3pm and getting home in time before the parents got home from work. And if you were lucky, there might still have been some cartoons on TV that were actually worth watching (Voltron with the 5 lions immediately springs to mind, the Transformers wasn’t bad either). And you read comics like Archie and Jughead and had a whole barter system going on.

What about the days before mobile phones, where the best you could do was leave a message with the maid, and hope to God that the person you were meeting had actually left the house. No being hounded by irate partners demanding ‘Urikupi?’ in that irate demanding partner kind of way.

When it was still cool to wear your clothes backwards. That or those MC Hammer baggies. And you had a boxcut to match, coz you couldn’t get no Jerry Curl.

Being able to actually buy an ice cream for less than a dollar, AND have change.

Riding the bus home because your parents had better things to do with their time than to pick you up from school. After all, they dropped you off the morning. Loving it coz you could meet boys and girls from other schools. When Zupco was actually still reliable and even had a timetable. That they followed.

Your parents had two cars: one each. Your dream was not to be bequeathed the latest Mercedes or BMW, but simply be bestowed with the good fortune of being allowed to drive THE CAR one utopic day.

You didn’t know what powercuts were. Having no electricity was the preserve of the rural communities.

All the white girls wanted to be Shannon Doherty and all the white guys Luke Perry, but the rest of us got nada from the Beverly Hills ninety two ten (a la Zimbabwean) crew. Mr T was about as close to TV role models as most black people got. The guy from Miami Vice didnt really count coz he was just Don Johnson’s side kick. And of course there was only one TV in the house, and one station, so options weren’t many, but we did alright.

Having to go kumusha during the school holidays and hating it coz frankly you were denied all your creature comforts like running water and flushing toilets, no electricity and all its attendant glories. Oh wait, let me think, that’s modern day Zim.

And the joy of being able to go to THE SHOW during the August holidays and Luna Park. Well, it was a big deal in H.

Finally discovering the joys of Circus and clubbing at night. Dancing until your feet hurt and your back gave in, but refusing to get off the dance floor coz you still had to do your thing and practise those moves that you saw on Sounds on Saturday.

Halcyon days.

p.s. Salt n Pepa, let’s NOT talk about sex, we will be having none of that here.

Ndafunga dande

Why I love my countryI want to come home. And I don’t say this lightly. 4-odd years of wandering around in the wilderness (more commonly known as the diaspora) have brought home the reality that really, there is no place like home.

So creature comforts like running water and electricity and collected refuse and food are just slightly harder to come by in the motherland, but home is home.

An unofficial straw poll I took among fellow diasporans revealed that were things to improve in Zimbabwe, 90% of them would drop their diasporan ways and scurry home like maggots to a week old corpse. I am no longer sure I am prepared to wait that long.

The song goes ‘things can only get better’, but really no-one gave a timeframe to these things getting better, so I say fight the power, now.

The face of the 21st century

X-rays - unpredictableSo I am currently in the process of selling my soul to the devil, whose present physical form is the credit card companies. The price of souls is overrated anyway, what with trying to keep mind and body together, souls are just excess baggage. And hey, if the Messianic head is valued at 30 pieces of silver, I could do a lot worse.

Furthermore, one must be seen to be doing one’s bit for the cause: if the capitalist imperialists are not going to extend lines of credit to Zimbabwe, it is my noble duty as an esteemed citizen of said country to sink myself into as much debt as is humanly possible.

Then it comes to the bit where you have to deal with the paperwork, and I am filling out the form, and I get to the box for gender. The options are as follows: Male, Female, Other. I am thinking, what the hell is ‘other’? Other like some confused bisexual male? Other as in a transvestite caught between the latest round of hormones and top up surgery? When on earth did ‘other’ become a viable option?

1,2,3,29 and counting

oh JapanSo, in one of my (rare but) more lucid moments, I got to thinking, how many is too many? Knocking boots partners I mean.

Coz you get to a certain age where you have eaten many Christmases and it’s apparent that you are going to have a ‘history’ so to speak. (p.s. some of us are at the point of no return where you are celebrating fifth annual 25th birthdays instead of for example, your regular old 30th birthday).

At which point do you own up to the fact that not only are you the village bicycle, you are the recycled parts of said village bicycle? Through no fault of your own, of course, there are vast alcohol infused gaps where all the faces just blur into one giant orga…..nic mass.

And furthermore, when you hook up with someone new, does one dare ask what the other’s previous misdemeanours have been? Because that is like walking around blinfolded in some Afghani minefield.

Chances are at best they are going to be economical with the truth, at worst, blow you out of the water by telling you a vicious unpalatable truth that you are not prepared to hear, so eloquently phrased by the inimitable Jack Nicholson… ‘The truth? You can’t handle the truth’.

So my question is, how many IS too many? And when do you stop taking a ‘head’ count?