I never have enough time. And it’s because I have been
terrible at doing my math.
Almost every white local I knew in Zim made their opinions
of my family clear often; I really should be having more “white babies” if I
could at all help it. What a terrible
shame that my son had no siblings. In a
land of large families, something was terribly wrong with my family according
to Zim standards. My response was always
a long and complicated one, but needless to say, it always involved wanting to
be able to provide my best for my existing child, who I didn’t know how to care
for with the same level of competent care if I carried on with more
children.
“Oh, that’s simple,” I was responded to during the last time
I discussed the matter in Zim. “You don’t take anything away from the first.
Your love, your patience, etc, stay the same. It’s just time that you
lose. You just have to share your time
more. Easy.” As if time was not already one of the most
valuable, rare things in my life.
It was, however, an easy thing for a Zimbabwean to say. This
Zimbabwean’s math was influenced by the fact that she sent her children away to
boarding school at five. Oh, and also she had never had any of her five
children without also having three housekeepers on hand to help with nannying. Sharing my
time more, it is clear now that from my Spanish surroundings I have work, a
child at home full time, and no staff, is tougher than ever before. It’s no longer possible to share any more of
my time without losing the quality of my ability to be a mother. Or a human being.
Time is a more precious commodity than I can express. But lately I haven’t been acting like it. And though I’ve said and thought over and over
about how much I value it, the truth is that recently I’ve been adding a lot
and taking away nothing… except quality.
And presence. And energy. It’s time to start doing my math again.
I should clarify that I am desperate to keep this blog. It’s one of my last connections to Zim. And I still have oodles to say. And thousands of pictures to show. I still serves its purpose in sharing the
continent with those who have not experienced it themselves. And it allows a number of Africans to
commiserate on what they love or miss or want to change about their
homeland. It’s been wildly more
successful than I ever imagined and now I feel a certain amount of obligation
to keep it going.
But I need to start doing my math.
Here is what I wish I still had time to write about: the
malaria thing, the recent farm take-overs in the Save Conservancy, Clean Water
vs Harare’s City water, the never ending bloom of Zimbabwean cassia trees, the
spread of the magical acacia tree canopy, and the craziness that is the giant
millipede called the chongololo.
I wish I had time to discuss with you the complexities of a Zimbabwean
white minority that is more economically powerful than the black majority but
has no political power, a fascinating anthropological study in the making.
I wish I had time to discuss our experiences with the 2014
elections, the burning orange flowers of the flame tree, all the different uses of
thatching, the craziness of police stops where window-smashing often occurs,
the rules of the road around the pres. mansion, the fragility of the
Zimbabwean electrical grid, the how-tos of surviving being passed by the pres.
motorcade, the rows of toilets that line the countryside next to rural schools,
the oodles of hospitable places we’ve stayed, how gardeners and laymen often
grow and paint one long fingernail to be used as a tool, and the giant rat (it’s
a real thing, which we actually had in our yard- look it up!).
I wish I had time to tell you about “The Big Five” and “The
Little Five,” the miniature size of parking spaces and how there are only a
handful of car brands that make it into the country, what the Harare Airport is
like and how it used to be before Zimbabwe made itself into a political pariah,
what The Great Dyke is, and how children’s names and ages are often changed in
orphanages to make paper-work easier.
I want you to know about Chiboku (the homemade street beer that often includes fermenting the likes of pieced apart animals, weeds, and car batteries, and is said to age a person five times faster than regular beer).
I want you to know about Chiboku (the homemade street beer that often includes fermenting the likes of pieced apart animals, weeds, and car batteries, and is said to age a person five times faster than regular beer).
I want to tell you about the Rhodesian Ridgeback, the out of
control rumor mill that runs the country when the papers do not report truths, the
loveliness that is The Farmhouse in Chimanimani, the endangered wild dogs of
Zim, the awkward transition of renaming things back to Shona after having
colonial names for a hundred years, the Shona totem (an inherited personal
symbolic animal indicating familial lineage), the endangered rhino, a crazy
assortment of encountered bugs, the taste of an African cucumber, and the
future of a people who cannot seem to let go of the past.
If you want to know more about Zimbabwe beyond this blog,
these are great but tiny places to start.
Stay tuned for one more, last post on some of the things I
have learned from Mother Africa. And in
the meantime, know that I am grateful to those of you who followed our journey
through these last few years as we awkwardly but enthusiastically embraced this
amazing continent we will always consider a piece of home. It's been humbling to have readers follow our thoughts and adventures, and it is truly with sadness that we finish before the story feels entirely told. The late and great Maya Angelou once said, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Have us over for a cup of Rooibos sometime; we'll tell you anything more you want to know.
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| sunset photos by friend Lucy Fisher |
For questions, comments, that cup of tea, or better yet a personal tour around southern Africa, contact us at: cherijohnsondesign@gmail.com
