Muhleza wami

Sana lwami

If you are reading these words, oh how much you have grown mntanami. I am tearing up just thinking about it. I wrote this to you in case the Lord calls me home early and you are not able to run to me for guidance. Or a hug. I wrote this to you in case there are things I fail to fully explain in person and you can always find them in these pages. I wrote this to you in case you have children of your own and you want to give them a timeless gift of how gogo saw the world. I hope you will be able to pick this up on days you feel tired. On days you don’t feel good enough. On days you don’t feel beautiful. On days I cross your mind.

I have toyed with the idea of sharing. Some. Pieces of me. With you. I have told myself no. Only because the line between over sharing and being vulnerable is blurred. Both are equally scary. Very scary. I can’t seem to find the easiest way to say this. Sighs. Here goes. Growing up I struggled with my weight. The way I perceived and felt about my body led my self esteem to take a deep dive down. I wish I had someone. Even one. To tell me that it’s okay.

The pain of hearing someone I thought loved me never miss an opportunity to tell me about how they were surrounded by the most beautiful women so I should ‘act right’ haha. When I look back I cannot help but laugh. The kind of things I put myself through. The pain of looking at your reflection in the mirror and seeing how everything is loosely hanging on a frame of bones. The pain of seeing your mother worry about you and constantly give you suggestions on home remedies that help with increasing your appetite. But don’t seem to work on you. The pain of standing behind your classmates on a cold afternoon on campus. Thinking you don’t understand Shona you hear them say “Apasina chinhu apa.” The pain of hearing rumours that you are sick because of reasons I cannot begin to write here. The pain of not having control over how you look at that particular time because you don’t know what is going on with you yourself. The pain of being a spirit having an uncomfortable human experience.

Yabona, uyinzwakazi, wethu! Yabona, uyinzwakazi!

Songs of Solomon 4:1

I wish I had someone. Even one. To tell me that it’s okay. To tell me that the way you prepare your hair does not really make you beautiful. Gold things or beautiful clothes do make you beautiful. To tell me not to just think about my body but what I am really like inside. That I should have a beautiful spirit as it pleases God so much. To tell me that what people say or think doesn’t matter. I wish I had someone. Even one. To tell me that all things were working together for this moment right here where I get to teach you to be kind. Always. Not only to others but to yourself too. To tell you that you have the blood of survivors running in your veins. Women who kept their heads held high despite all the challenges they were going through. Women who go where they are celebrated and not belittled. Women who understand that it’s not about the size you wear but the way you wear your size. Women who understand that your weight will fluctuate but your worth will not. Women who look to God for their approval and guidance. You, my child, are not an ordinary child. Not only are you royalty but are made in the very image of a great and powerful God.

I want to be that someone. That one person to tell you. You are beautiful. Inside out. You are enough!

Needless to say, Owakho okuthandayo njalo oziqhenya ngawe

uMam’uLwandle

P.S We all have hourglass shapes. Our sand simply settles in many ways. Keep these words close to your heart and they will keep you my beautiful flower.