How much must a woman suffer before the law listens?

A recent conversation left me with a question I have not been able to shake off.

How much must happen to a woman before we listen to her? How much pain must she experience before we believe her? How visible must the damage be before she deserves protection, care or the freedom to make a decision about her own body?

September is a fitting month to sit with these questions. World Sexual Health Day was observed on September 4.

Later this month, on September 28, the world will mark International Safe Abortion Day. These commemorations encourage us to speak about sexual health, dignity, rights and access to care. But they should also push us beyond slogans and campaigns. They should make us examine the conditions under which women are allowed to exercise those rights.

In Zimbabwe, abortion is permitted under very limited circumstances. The Termination of Pregnancy Act allows it where the pregnancy threatens the woman’s life or risks permanently impairing her physical health. It is also permitted where there is a serious risk of severe foetal impairment, or where the pregnancy resulted from unlawful intercourse, including rape or incest.

These exceptions recognise that there are circumstances in which continuing a pregnancy may cause serious harm. That recognition matters. But it also presents us with an uncomfortable truth.

The law does not begin with a woman’s decision. In my opinion, it begins by asking whether she has suffered enough to qualify for an exception. In cases of rape or incest, a woman’s ability to access a service is tied to a violation that has already happened to her.

She must first be harmed before the law considers that she may have a reason not to continue the pregnancy. Even then, permission on paper does not always mean access in practice. A survivor may have to report what happened. She may have to repeat her story to the police, healthcare workers and other officials. She may have to navigate legal and medical processes while dealing with trauma and an unwanted pregnancy. She may also face questions from her family and community.

Was it really rape? Why was she there? Why did she not report immediately? Why did she not fight back? Why did she wait? The violence happens once, but she may be required to relive it many times before she receives help.

We see similar patterns in the way society responds to other forms of gender-based violence. Zimbabwe’s Domestic Violence Act recognises that abuse is not only physical. Domestic violence can include emotional, psychological and economic abuse, intimidation and harassment. Yet, when a woman says she is being abused, one of the first questions from society is often whether he has hit her. Are there bruises? Was she admitted to hospital? Did she make a police report?

Emotional abuse can be dismissed as a difficult relationship. Economic control may be treated as a private family matter. Threats are sometimes ignored because “nothing has happened yet.” We tell women to seek help. But when they seek help before the violence becomes physical, we may tell them that the situation is not serious enough. When they stay and the violence escalates, we ask why they did not leave earlier.

At what point, then, are women supposed to be believed?

The same thinking follows survivors of sexual violence. Society has created an image of what a “real” survivor should look like. She should report immediately. She should remember every detail. She should have resisted. She should have been sober. She should be visibly distressed. She should have no relationship with the person who violated her. If her response does not match these expectations, doubt begins to replace compassion.

We focus on whether she performed trauma in a way that convinces us. Her word is not enough. Her fear is not enough. Her discomfort is not enough. We wait for injuries, witnesses or other evidence that makes her suffering undeniable. Young girls face this burden too. Sometimes, sexual abuse or exploitation only receives serious attention when a pregnancy makes it visible. The pregnancy becomes evidence that something happened. Yet there may have been signs before it. The girl may have spoken. Someone may have noticed changes in her behaviour. People may have known that an older man was involved with her.

Why must her body carry the evidence before adults act?

This pattern also appears in workplaces and learning institutions. A woman may raise concerns about inappropriate comments, unwanted messages or persistent advances. She may be told that the person was joking, being friendly or paying her a compliment. She is encouraged not to overreact. Often, action is only taken when the behaviour escalates, more women come forward or the matter becomes public. Once again, the early “no” is not treated as enough. Something worse must happen first.
Across these experiences, we appear more comfortable recognising women as victims than recognising them as decision-makers. We know how to sympathise with the woman who has been raped, beaten or placed in mortal danger. We struggle to trust the woman who speaks before there are bruises.

We struggle to accept the decision of the woman whose circumstances do not fit neatly into the narrow categories we have created. This produces a hierarchy of deserving women.
The woman whose pregnancy resulted from rape may be considered deserving. The woman whose life is in danger may be deserving. The woman with visible injuries may be deserving.

The girl whose abuse has resulted in pregnancy may finally be deserving of intervention. But what about the woman who simply says: “I cannot continue with this pregnancy”? What about the woman whose health is affected, but perhaps not permanently enough to meet the legal threshold? What about the woman whose education, livelihood or future will be fundamentally changed? What about the woman who knows that she does not have the emotional, social or financial capacity to continue a pregnancy?

Are her reasons not enough because they are not tragic enough? Abortion remains a difficult subject in Zimbabwe. It sits at the intersection of law, religion, culture, medicine and personal values. People will not agree on every aspect of it. But we do not have to agree on everything to ask whether our current system responds to women with dignity and compassion.

We should be able to ask whether a law enacted in 1977 still reflects the realities women and girls face today. We should ask whether the legal exceptions can be accessed in time and without causing further trauma. We should ask what happens to those who fall outside the exceptions. They do not simply disappear.

Some continue pregnancies they are not prepared for. Some leave school. Some face rejection from their families. Some seek unsafe services in secrecy. Some suffer serious health complications. Some die.

Restricting a service does not always remove the need for it. It can simply determine who accesses it safely and who is forced to take a risk. As we move towards International Safe Abortion Day on September 28, perhaps the conversation should not only be about whether abortion is right or wrong. We should also ask what it means for healthcare to become available only after violence, danger or catastrophe. We should ask why a woman’s pain is sometimes easier to recognise than her autonomy.

We should ask why her body must present evidence before her voice is taken seriously. Most importantly, we should ask whether women must continue proving that they have suffered enough before the law listens to them.

Originally published in the Zimbabwe Independent, September 25–October 1, 2026, in the New Horizon column

No One is Above the Program

“No one is above the program.”

I have been seeing this phrase a lot lately. Everywhere, actually. And every time I see it, I laugh because… what program? Who enrolled us? When was orientation? And why does this program seem to have so many rules? 😂

Then I came across a post asking exactly that:

Imbori program yeiko yatinenge tichingonzi hatisi above zuva nezuva?

Basically, what program is this that we are constantly being reminded no one is above?

I shared it on my WhatsApp status with one contribution of my own: Co-ask. 😂

Then a friend responded:

“Patriarchy zve.”

Sigh.

Damn.

That triggered so many thoughts.

Because maybe that really is the program.

She went further. She said something along the lines of: as long as a woman wants to partner with a man, to some extent, she cannot completely evade the patriarchal system.

Then she added:

“Obviously you can get a better version… but the patriarchy always puts up a fight.”

Ha!

Now that sat with me.

Because what exactly is the better version?

And what does it cost a woman to get it?

Some of us have spent a good part of our adult lives learning, unlearning and questioning what it means to be a woman.

We have read about patriarchy. Some of us have studied it. Written assignments about it. Sat in workshops discussing it. We know about gender norms and power structures and all the other big words.

We know the language.

But knowing the language doesn’t necessarily mean you have escaped the program.

Because then you fall in love.

😂

And suddenly some of the things you have discussed in theory are sitting across the dinner table from you.

Not necessarily dramatically, either.

There may not be a man banging the table declaring, “I am the man of this house!”

Those situations might actually be easier to recognise.

It’s the subtle things that interest me.

Don’t make him feel like you don’t need him.

Let him lead.

You can be successful, but remember he is the man.

Don’t correct him in front of people.

Men need to feel needed.

You earn more than him? Just make sure it doesn’t become a problem.

You are very educated. Some men can find that intimidating.

And my personal favourite:

“You know how men are.”

No I don’t! Please explain. 😂

Why do I need an orientation program on how to carefully exist around somebody else’s masculinity?

You can do all this work to become comfortable with yourself as a woman. Comfortable with your ambition. Your independence. Your education. Your voice. Your opinions. Your money. Your choices.

And then somewhere along the way, you can find yourself being told that all those things are wonderful…

but.

There always seems to be a but.

Be successful, but don’t make him feel less successful.

Be independent, but make sure he still feels needed.

Have a voice, but know when to be quiet.

Be ambitious, but don’t let your ambition interfere with his.

Be strong, but allow him to lead.

Be everything you have worked so hard to become…

but don’t be above.

Ah.

There is the program again.

And it isn’t just men

Before the men start catching strays 😂, there is something else worth saying.

Patriarchy is not simply men.

Yes, it is a system that has historically privileged men and male authority. But some of the strictest gatekeepers of the program can be women.

Sometimes it is another woman reminding you that a woman must know her place.

Sometimes it is the aunt who tells you that no matter what position you hold at work, when you get home you must remember you are somebody’s wife. ‘leave your executive job title at the door when you get home!’

Sometimes it is the mother who teaches her daughter to serve her brothers without ever teaching her sons to serve their sisters.

Sometimes it is women asking another woman why she isn’t married yet. Why she hasn’t had children yet. Why her husband is the one cooking. Why she travels without him. Why she kept her surname. Why she earns more. Why she is so opinionated. Why she doesn’t seem sufficiently submissive.

Sometimes the people policing the syllabus are women.

And maybe that’s part of the reason the program has survived for so long.

It doesn’t always need men to enforce it.

Sometimes we gatekeep it for each other.

We inherit the rules. We memorise them. We pass them down. Sometimes we even defend them without stopping to ask:

Who wrote this syllabus anyway?

But relationships require compromise, right?

This is where things become less straightforward for me.

Because relationships do require compromise.

Surely they do.

You cannot build a life with another human being and insist that everything must always happen exactly as you want it.

Sometimes you make room for another person’s needs.

Sometimes you choose us instead of me.

Sometimes you put your ego aside.

Sometimes love requires adjustment.

And not every compromise a woman makes in a relationship is patriarchy.

That would be far too easy.

So the question I keep coming back to is:

Where is the line?

When am I compromising because I love someone, and when am I shrinking because I am a woman?

When am I making space for my partner, and when am I being asked to take up less space myself?

When am I respecting someone, and when has respect quietly become obedience?

When does “let him lead” become “you must follow”?

When does keeping the peace mean silencing yourself?

And why does society seem to spend so much time teaching women how not to threaten men, rather than teaching men how to love women who don’t need to become smaller for them?

Maybe that’s what my friend’s better version looks like.

Not finding some mythical man who has somehow lived his entire life untouched by patriarchy.

Perhaps it is finding someone willing to question the program with you.

Someone who can stop and ask:

Wait. Why do we believe this? Is this actually what we want, or is it simply what we were taught? Does he have to do this because he is the man? Does she have to do that because she is the woman? Who wrote this rule?

And perhaps most importantly:

Does this rule actually serve us?

So, is no one really above the program?

This is where I disagree with the saying.

Because the more I have thought about it, the less comfortable I am with accepting that no one is above the program.

If the program is patriarchy, I don’t want to strengthen it by treating it like some all-powerful institution that none of us can escape.

Systems survive because people keep participating in them.

And systems can change because people challenge them.

We may have inherited the program, but we don’t have to follow the entire syllabus.

We can unlearn.

We can question.

We can refuse to pass certain lessons on.

We can raise boys differently.

We can raise girls differently.

We can choose partners differently.

We can have different conversations in our homes.

We can stop telling women to shrink.

We can stop treating fragile masculinity as something women are responsible for managing.

We can catch ourselves when we become the gatekeepers.

And maybe being above the program doesn’t mean pretending patriarchy doesn’t exist.

Maybe it means recognising it when it shows up and consciously deciding that it does not get to dictate how you live.

Maybe that is the hierarchy I want.

God.

Me.

Then somewhere underneath that line can sit the program, society’s expectations, people’s opinions, the rules I inherited and everything else telling me who a woman is supposed to be.

Not because other people don’t matter.

Not because relationships don’t require compromise.

Not because I have nothing left to learn.

But because I refuse to build my life around a program simply because somebody told me nobody is above it.

So perhaps my friend was right about one thing.

Patriarchy will put up a fight.

Fine.

Let it.

Because maybe the challenge isn’t to find a better version of the program.

Maybe the challenge is to stop treating the program as inevitable.

To question the syllabus.

To cross out the parts that no longer serve us.

To refuse to teach some of its lessons to the next generation.

And perhaps even to write something completely different.

So the next time somebody says:

“No one is above the program.”

I think my answer might simply be:

Speak for yourself. 😂

Beyond the Violence: The Questions Society Refuses to Ask

In July, two cases involving Zimbabwean families forced us to confront difficult questions about
violence, masculinity and the value placed on women and children. In the United Kingdom, a British citizen of Zimbabwean heritage is alleged to have murdered his wife and their daughters. Days later, Zimbabweans learnt of another case in Eastview, Harare, where a man allegedly attacked his wife and caused a fire in which their two young children died.

Both cases remain before the law and must be discussed without prejudging the accused. But neither should be hidden behind descriptions such as “domestic dispute”, “family tragedy” or “crime of passion”. Such phrases can make violence sound like a private disagreement that simply went too far.

These cases sit within a wider crisis of violence against women and children. They expose beliefs that a man’s anger deserves explanation, a woman’s conduct must be investigated, and betrayal or rejection can somehow reduce responsibility.

This article does not seek to determine what happened inside these homes. That responsibility lies with investigators and the courts. It asks why society explains violence by examining women’s behaviour.

When love is confused with ownership

The Bedfordshire murders are not the first case in which a Zimbabwean woman living abroad has been killed by a male partner. Previous reports from the United Kingdom record other such deaths. Each case has its own facts, but together they should make us examine cultural beliefs that travel across borders.

Migration does not automatically remove ideas about male authority and women’s submission.
Women have long been taught that a successful marriage depends on their ability to submit, endure and preserve the home. A “good wife” is expected to manage her husband’s emotions, avoid embarrassing him and remain even at enormous personal cost.

Men may be taught that heading a family gives them authority over everyone within it. A wife’s
independence becomes disrespect, her refusal becomes disobedience and her decision to leave becomes humiliation. Lobola, which should unite families, can also be misrepresented as a transaction giving a husband ownership of his wife. Once a woman is treated as property, her freedom becomes conditional on a man’s approval.

These beliefs do not make every man violent. But they create an environment in which control is
mistaken for love, jealousy for protection and obedience for respect. Children may also be treated as possessions or instruments through which one partner hurts the other, instead of people with rights and futures of their own.

We keep asking the wrong questions

Before courts established the facts of the Bedfordshire and Eastview cases, some social-media users began manufacturing explanations. Perhaps, they suggested, the children were not biologically related
to their father. Perhaps the wife had been unfaithful. Perhaps he had discovered something so painful that it pushed him beyond his limits.

These claims lacked evidence. More importantly, even if infidelity or disputed paternity were involved, when did either become a licence to take another person’s life?

If every betrayed wife killed her husband or children, would society explain her actions as heartbreak? Would people search for evidence that her husband had provoked her, or immediately demand accountability?

The search for something the woman might have done shows how deeply victim blaming is embedded in society. The alleged perpetrator’s actions become secondary while the woman’s
character and choices are placed on trial.
This is how violence is softened. It becomes a “reaction”. Control becomes love. The alleged perpetrator is repositioned as a victim of betrayal or rejection while the woman faces public judgment.

We see the same transfer of responsibility whenever an abused woman is asked:

Why did she stay?

Why did she return?

Why did she ignore the red flags?

These questions imply that if she had recognised the danger or left quickly enough, she could have
prevented the abuse. But the more important question is:

Why did he harm her?
Why did he consider intimidation acceptable? Why did he interpret independence as a threat? Why did others ignore controlling behaviour?Why are boys and men not consistently taught to handle rejection, separation and betrayal without violence?

The same pattern appears after sexual violence: society questions a woman’s clothing and choices
instead of asking why someone violated her.
Asking why women stay also ignores abusive relationships’ realities. A woman may remain because of fear, financial dependence, concern for her children, isolation, threats or pressure from family, community or church. She may know that leaving could place her in greater danger. Regardless of why she stays, responsibility rests with the person who harms her.

Mental health cannot become an excuse

Another explanation regularly introduced after men harm their families is mental health.
Men’s mental health matters. Men should be able to acknowledge distress and seek help without being told to “man up”. Zimbabwe needs accessible services and healthier ways for men to process pressure, anger, grief and rejection. But mental health cannot become a blanket explanation for male violence.

Women also experience depression, trauma, financial pressure, infidelity and rejection. They do not receive the same permission to turn those experiences into violence.

Mental-health difficulties may be relevant to an individual case, but they do not erase accountability. We should not stigmatise people with mental-health conditions by implying that mental illness naturally leads to violence.

Support for men’s mental health and accountability for male violence are not competing ideas. We need both.

Peace must exist inside the home

Violence against women is a global human-rights and public-health emergency. The World Health
Organisation estimates that almost one in three women—approximately 840 million globally—has experienced physical or sexual violence by an intimate partner or sexual violence by someone else.

In one recent 12-month period, approximately 316 million women aged 15 and older experienced physical or sexual intimate-partner violence. At its most extreme, violence rooted in gender inequality and control can culminate in femicide—the gender-related killing of a woman or girl. UN Women estimates that approximately 50 000 women and girls were killed by intimate partners or family members in 2024—about 137 every day.

This wider context does not determine the legal classification or motive in the cases prompting this discussion. Zimbabwe is not removed from this crisis. UN Women data indicates that approximately 19% of partnered Zimbabwean women aged 15 to 49 experienced physical or sexual intimate-partner violence within a 12-month period.

This crisis also relates to the Women, Peace and Security agenda. United Nations Security Council
Resolution 1325 is commonly associated with armed conflict and peacebuilding, but its principles of prevention and protection should challenge us to consider what security means for women. Zimbabwe’s 2023–2027 National Action Plan addresses security nationally and within communities. Peace cannot mean only the absence of war when many women remain unsafe at home.

The Maputo Protocol affirms women’s rights to life, dignity, integrity and security. It requires states to address violence in public and private and transform beliefs founded on male superiority. Prevention requires confronting beliefs that make violence imaginable. Men must challenge friends who speak of wives as property, reject jokes normalising abuse and stop treating jealousy and control as love.

Families and churches must stop pressuring women to remain in dangerous relationships to preserve the appearance of marriage. Police, courts, health services and communities must take threats and controlling behaviour seriously.
No allegation of infidelity, disputed paternity, rejection, financial pressure or mental distress gives anyone the right to play God.

A woman does not surrender ownership of her body or life when she enters a relationship. Children are not possessions or instruments of revenge.

Let us stop asking why women stay long enough to be harmed. Let us ask why men harm women—and what each of us is doing to stop them.

~as published in The Zimbabwe Independent (July 31-August 6)

We Can’t Get Darker

I met someone, the other day, who hates being dark.

Not the kind of hate that is spoken out loud as, “I hate my dark complexion.”

No.

It is the quieter kind. The kind that is so deeply rooted that it probably does not even feel like hate anymore. It just slips out in random comments.

We were basking in the winter sun when she said, “We need to stand in the shade. We can’t get darker.”

A little later, after taking what I thought were some beautiful sun-kissed pictures, she looked through them and said, “Hiii, hona kusviba kwatabuda takaita.”

I rolled my eyes. (my face struggles to hide my thoughts, #laughs)

Then she saw a dark-skinned woman speaking and said, “Did you see that dark girl? She is so pretty. She made me realise that just maybe, black is beautiful.”

Just maybe?

Almost wanted to slap her lips and ask her to please stop talking. 😂

But then I had to check myself.

Because while it is easy to become irritated by the things she was saying, she did not wake up one morning and decide that dark skin is something she should fear. That thinking came from somewhere.

The number of women bleaching their skin in Harare is probably a reflection of what the greater part of society thinks and feels about dark skin.

I was joking with someone that if a woman in Harare wants to get married quick quick, she just needs to bleach her skin. The sad but funny part is that we immediately had two examples of women who got married soon after they started bleaching.

Coincidence? Probably.

But also, why did that joke make sense to both of us?

Why is lighter skin still treated as more desirable? Why does a dark-skinned woman being beautiful sometimes come as a surprise? And why do people say, “You are pretty for a dark girl,” as though the pretty is unexpected because of the dark?

I wrote about this almost nine years ago in a blog titled Pretty for a dark girl. At the time, I reflected on growing up dark-skinned, being called “Black Beauty” and watching my lighter-skinned friends get noticed first whenever we entered a room.

Nine years later, here we are.

Still talking about dark skin as if it exists in opposition to beauty.

I know this conversation very well because I am dark-skinned. I have heard enough comments about how dark I am—sometimes from people who are not even light-skinned themselves. 😂 And every time, I have wondered why people mention it as though they are pointing out something unfortunate that I may have missed when looking in the mirror.

Don’t worry, I know I am dark.

I own a mirror.

But then again, thank goodness for free will, right?

People can do whatever they want with their skin. If a woman wants to bleach, who am I to stop her? Her skin. Her money. Her decision.

Simple.

Or is it?

Can we call something a completely free choice without questioning what influenced that choice?

If a woman has spent years being told that lighter is prettier, softer and more desirable, is choosing to become lighter simply about personal preference?

If men openly praise “yellow bones” and society treats light-skinned women as the beauty standard, are women making these decisions in a vacuum?

If a woman believes she might be noticed more, treated better or even married quicker if she becomes lighter, can we discuss her free will without discussing the society in which she is exercising it?

Maybe the issue is not that women are bleaching.

Maybe the bigger issue is that women continue to receive the message that there is something about their natural skin, or hair that needs to be corrected. (let’s not start on the hair as well).

It is in the jokes.

It is in the compliments.

It is in the filters.

It is in avoiding the sun because “we can’t get darker.”

It is in seeing a beautiful dark-skinned woman and suddenly realising that maybe—just maybe—black is beautiful.

Yes, people have free will. They can change their skin if they want to.

But perhaps we also need to ask ourselves why so many people want to.

Because sometimes “I don’t want to get darker” is not just an innocent comment.

Sometimes it is a whole history of colourism speaking.

After the Milk

“I hate boobs that have been suckled. Even my wife knows. I haven’t touched them since she gave birth.”

The sentence was said casually. Almost proudly. Like a harmless preference. Like ordering tea without sugar.

And I have not stopped thinking about it since.

There was something in the word hate that lingered.

Not discomfort. Not adjustment. Not “it’s different now.”
Hate.

Breasts are fascinating in the way society relates to them right?

They are adored in music videos.
Celebrated in private.

A very common part of a boys chat.
Centrefolds of fantasy.

But the minute they do what they were biologically designed to do (like feed a child) something shifts.

Suddenly they are “used.”
Altered. Hanzi ma fallen heroes
No longer desirable.

We romanticise motherhood in public language. We call it sacred. We post glowing tributes about women’s strength and sacrifice. We applaud the miracle of life.

But we rarely sit with what that miracle costs a woman’s body.

Skin stretches. Nipples darken. Milk leaks. Shape changes. Gravity settles differently.

And in the middle of that transformation – the transformation that kept a tiny human alive – someone is quietly withdrawing affection.

Not because the woman changed.
But because the fantasy did.

There is something deeply unsettling about loving a body only when it performs for you.

Desiring it when it is sexual.
Rejecting it when it is maternal.

As though breasts must remain frozen in pre-motherhood perfection to qualify for touch.

As though nurturing contaminates desire.

I wonder how many women absorb this silently.

How many notice the shift in how they are looked at.
How many internalise the idea that their bodies have depreciated in value.
How many apologise (without words) for having done the most natural thing in the world.

Motherhood changes bodies. That is not tragedy. It is biology.

But perhaps the deeper discomfort is not about shape or firmness or “preference.”

Perhaps it is about control.

A body that feeds a child is no longer just an object of desire. It is evidence of autonomy. Of capacity. Of function beyond pleasure.

And maybe that unsettles something.

I left that conversation thinking about how quickly women’s bodies move from adored to assessed.

From wanted to reviewed.

From intimate to inspected.

Breasts are not museum pieces. They are not frozen in time for lifelong consumption.

They are part of living, breathing, evolving bodies.

Bodies that grow.
Bodies that carry.
Bodies that feed.
Bodies that change.

And change is not decay.

It is life.

Rant over. Okay, bye.

Harare CBD: 1… Me: 0

I got clamped the other day in town — for stopping and almost parking in a taxi-only zone. A place I’ve parked at before, more than once, though maybe a couple of months ago. Still, there are no visible signs that say you can’t park there. In Harare CBD, you need either psychic abilities or a full-time routine inside town to keep up with these changes.

Here’s how it happened. And no, I’m not here to defend myself — ignorance isn’t a defence in the eyes of the law, right? But honestly, ndezvekupenga izvo. #laughs

My first red flag?
There was available parking in that area.
I should have known. My gut whispered, “Girl, don’t do it.” I ignored it, as one does.

So I drive in, start reversing — eyes on the camera — when a man suddenly jumps in front of the car, wildly signalling for me to drive away and stop trying to park. I’m trying to decode his hand choreography and stay within the parallel parking lines when, out of nowhere, a council officer in plain clothes throws a clamp onto my wheel.
All in one second.
The car was still in reverse.
I hadn’t even finished parking.

My first reaction was… laughter.
Laughing at myself for not listening to my instincts. Laughing because this is EXACTLY why I hate the CBD with a passion. It’s the chaos of hunting for parking, yes — but mostly it’s the feeling that, the moment you enter town, you’re automatically guilty. You’re already running from someone: council police or ZRP. One of them will find fault. It’s only a matter of time.

But let me not digress (too late).

As I’m still processing what just happened, the same gentleman who was signalling me earlier comes back — and immediately starts shouting at the officers who’ve now “arrested” me. I hadn’t said a single word yet. He took the issue personally, loudly arguing that the officers’ job should be to guide motorists when there’s no signage, not ambush people.
He was angry-angry.
At some point, he even threatened to beat them up.

The officers kept asking if I knew him.
I didn’t.
He just showed up for me, unprovoked, uninvited — on principle.

People began gathering, and suddenly the officers realised the optics weren’t giving what they wanted. They quickly hopped into my car and told me to drive to the station to pay the fine.

And as chaotic as the whole thing was, my mind kept going back to something I once wrote about wig thefts in Harare CBD — how people just watch. How we mind our own business even when something clearly wrong is happening.
In another piece, about the young girl sexually assaulted at a taxi rank, I asked the same thing:
How does violence happen in broad daylight, in a busy city, surrounded by people who saw something… and did nothing?

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Why This Matters: The Power of Bystanders and Male Allies

That stranger wasn’t just defending me.
He was modelling something our society desperately needs.

We talk about violence against women, harassment, extortion, and the dangers of public spaces — but what often goes unspoken is the role of bystanders. Especially male bystanders.

A lot of the everyday violence women face happens in public, in front of others, yet silence becomes the norm. People look away. Some are afraid. Some are indifferent. Some are simply used to the dysfunction.

But when men speak up — when they challenge abusive behaviour, call out injustice, or simply refuse to let wrong things slide — it disrupts the script. It shifts the power dynamic. It signals that we are not fighting alone.

Sometimes allyship isn’t a campaign.
It’s not a workshop.
It’s not hashtags.
Sometimes it’s a stranger on the street who sees something unfair and decides, “Not today.”

His intervention didn’t change the fine I eventually paid.
But it changed the experience — because I didn’t walk through it alone. And that matters.

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I didn’t get his name.
I didn’t get a chance to thank him properly.
But I won’t forget that moment.

Sometimes the city surprises you.
Sometimes it claps you.
And sometimes, it gives you a reminder that there are still people who choose to show up — loudly, boldly, and without being asked.

The Weight of What We Keep Wearing

I have two of my favourite bras that now have wires sticking out — and yes, I still wear them anyway (don’t judge me, they’re my favourites). So, at least twice a week, I’m that girl constantly pushing a wire back into place, or just choosing to tolerate that slightly uncomfortable prick against my skin.

A few months ago, I went on a three-night camp and—without thinking—packed one of my two favourites. After those few days of wearing it, I noticed a small dark patch on my skin, almost like a bruise. That stubborn wire had been digging in for far too long.

Funny thing is, even when I’m not wearing those particular bras, I sometimes find myself adjusting an imaginary wire—pushing it back into position on a bra that doesn’t even have one. It’s like my body has learned to anticipate discomfort, even when it isn’t there.

Anyway, this isn’t really about bras (though, truth be told, you might want to let that loyal bra rest once in a while. Yes, I’m talking to you. #laughs)

Last week marked 18 years since my dad passed away. Eighteen. It sounds like a long time when you count it in years—and it feels even longer when you measure it in the quiet ache that still shows up sometimes without warning. Grief, I’ve realised, feels a lot like that bra with the protruding wire. I wear it on many days of the week. It hurts, it irritates, but somehow, it’s still one of my favourites—because it holds memories that shaped me. And even on the days I take it off, the feeling lingers; I still catch myself adjusting what’s no longer there.

Eighteen years later, I often find myself wondering what life would look like if he were still here. Not just for me or my family—but for him too. Who would he have become? What stories would he have told? What would we be laughing about today?

And maybe that’s the thing—this isn’t just about bras or grief. Many of us walk through life holding onto things, people, or memories that once fit perfectly but now dig into our skin. We keep them close because they were once our favourites. We tell ourselves we can manage the sting, that the comfort of familiarity is worth the pain.

But maybe sometimes, loving something deeply also means learning when to let it rest.
Not everything is meant to be carried forever. The old bra, the strained friendship, the love that now bruises more than it supports — some things need to rest.

Grief, though, is different. It never truly rests. You learn to carry it — quietly, invisibly, like a wire you’ve stopped trying to fix but have somehow made peace with. It becomes part of the fabric of who you are.

Why Society Still Fears Women Having Fun

I’m sure by now you’ve seen the hype around women-only events in Zimbabwe. The numbers keep growing – not just in Harare anymore, but spreading to other cities and towns too.

I’ll be honest, I low-key always look forward to the day after. Why? Because that’s when the videos start flooding social media, and the girls always look like they had the best time. I stay saying I love it for women — they’re such a vibe.

Now, we’ve often heard that “women don’t get along,” but the numbers at these events tell a very different story. And here’s the plot twist: many of these events are actually organised by men. Imagine that.

But these gatherings aren’t just “ladies’ day out.” They’ve become a movement, a whole vibe, a safe space where women can just… breathe – IMO.

So, what’s really behind the hype?

1. The joy of being unfiltered
At women-only events, there’s no need to shrink yourself. No need to explain why you want to dance to amapiano at 2pm in the afternoon, or jump of a chair to follow your beret (that goes down as my best videos from the events). No one is giving you the side-eye when you pour a second (or fifth) glass of wine or belt out some off-key karaoke. It’s freedom, with a dash of glitter.

2. Breaking cultural ‘rules’ (with style)
Traditionally, women have been “guided” (read: restricted) from certain spaces — the bar, the nightclub, the loud party scene. It wasn’t considered “proper.” But events like Doek and Slay flip that script. Suddenly, women are not only part of the party — they are the party. Loud music? Yes please. Wine, gin nema beers? Don’t mind if I do. And all this, in a space that still feels safe — pasina munhu arikubata muwaist mako every time you start whining.

3. Do women drink more now, or were they always this fun?
This is where the debate gets loud. Are women drinking more now because they’re “empowered”? Or is it that they always wanted to, but culture and society never allowed it openly? Maybe women-only events are less about new habits and more about finally doing what they enjoy — without judgmental stares. I even saw a comment that said, “Women now drink like their fathers.” Whew.

4. Why the haters?
Of course, not everyone is clapping hands for these events. Some men see them as suspicious — “What are women really up to when we’re not there?” – is it because they fear that women are doing/behaving the same way they do when in their spaces? On the flip side, some women don’t like them either. They might see them as too “wild,” too “ghetto,” or even as breaking down values they hold dear (hoyoooo ma Patriarchy gate keepers). In other words: women-only events are shaking tables across the gender line.

5. The interesting role of men
Here’s where it gets juicy. Many men seem surprisingly comfortable when their partners say, “Babe, I’m going to a women-only event.” Could it be because they know it’s “just women”? Is that a subtle permission slip they wouldn’t give if it were a mixed crowd? Or are they secretly relieved someone else is keeping their queens entertained for the day? 👀

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So here’s the question:
Do women-only events exist because they’re empowering in themselves, or because they’re the only way women can party freely without “needing permission”? And what’s your take — are they a celebration of progress, or are they simply “too much” for society to handle (not that the latter really matters) let’s be honest)?

Bleeding out LOUD!

I started my period in Grade 6. Just woke up one morning and boom-blood on my undies. Luckily, a period product company had visited our school before for “the talk,” so I kinda knew what was going on. But here’s what no one prepared me for: the awkward walk to my parents’ bedroom to ask for pads.

Both my parents were in bed.

No matter how much I had tried to whisper it to my mum, my dad would hear it too-and I don’t know why, but that made me die inside. It felt like a walk of shame. But now? I wish I had known it was okay. Natural. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely nothing.

Then came Grade 7 and the next level of period girl training: independence! I ran out of pads at home (to this day, I’m convinced my parents hid them on purpose so I could “learn responsibility,” lol). We drove out to a convenience shop at the fuel station corner of Harare Drive and Lorraine Drive-I even remember the location because it was so embarrassing. I naturally assumed, like the baby princess I was, that Mum would go in and buy them. Nope. I was handed cash and told to go in by myself. No chaperone, no backup, just me and my period.

And as luck would have it, only male shop assistants were on duty that day. Bury me, someone! I picked the pads I thought were right. Basically, anything with wings because that’s all I really knew to look for. I was also too embarrassed to keep standing in that section. I remember wishing I had a bag to put them in, because once again, it felt like a walk of shame. I honestly believed everyone was staring at me like, “Oh look, she’s buying pads, she must be bleeding.” As if that matters! But at the time? Mortifying.

I also remember a girl in my primary school who would miss school every month like clockwork. We all knew it was her period (I don’t know how we figured that out), and that she had bad pain. Back then, we didn’t have the language to talk about things like endometriosis, but looking back now, I wonder if that’s what she was going through. She probably needed support, not whispers behind her back. How many girls still suffer like that, in silence?

And let’s talk about the horror of spoiling your school uniform! That was peak embarrassment. You’d be walking around with a blazer or jersey tied tightly around your waist, praying no one noticed. Imagine if schools just kept spare uniforms, even second-hand ones from lost and found? That could have saved so many tears.

Fast forward to adulthood: I’m on a first meet-up with a guy I really liked. We’re sitting at a table with a dozen people. I stand up—and I’ve spoiled the chair. Surprise! My period had arrived early. No cramps, no mood swings, no signs. But you know what? This time, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I wasn’t apologetic. Because honestly—I don’t control the period goddess! It’s my body, doing what it’s meant to do.

Then there was that one sleepover. My period decided to show up while we were sleeping. I woke up and realized I had spoiled my partner’s sheets. 😳 The relationship was still very new. (For the record, this was the same sleepover where I had a running tummy-and there was no water at his place. But that’s a story for another day!) I rushed to clean up, already bracing for the awkwardness. But when I came back, he had already changed the bedding and was asking for my clothes so he could soak and wash them. That moment? That was #PeriodFriendlyWorld in real life. No drama. No judgment. Just care.

Photo credit: The Washington Post

So this Menstrual Hygiene Day, I’m thinking of younger me—the girl who whispered her way through shame, who feared being seen, who thought carrying pads in public was a scandal. And I’m celebrating today’s me-the woman who can bleed, stain, cry, laugh, and still show up fully.

I’m dreaming of a world where periods are normal conversations. Where girls don’t miss school because of pain or lack of products. Where boys and men support, not snicker. Where no one feels shame for being human.

How can we build that #PeriodFriendlyWorld.
One honest story at a time maybe?

Unenge Uchiti Uri Understanding

“Unenge uchiti uri understanding apa iwe wakatopusa.”

I posted that as a meme on my WhatsApp status the other day, and whew — the conversations it sparked? Not exactly shocking, but still… I wasn’t ready.

If you’re on social media, you’ve probably come across that “the bar is so low” trend — yeah, these chats had that kind of energy.

What really stood out was just how many women struggle with setting boundaries. And even when we do set them, sticking to them? Whole other story. Whether it’s with lovers, friends, family, or work — it’s tough. But the hardest one for most? Setting and keeping boundaries with oneself.

Let’s break it down a bit. Boundaries aren’t just about romantic relationships — they show up everywhere.

Family – aka the Black Tax headquarters
The diaspora peeps were top on this one. Everyone says they love their families. Deeply. But yo — the pressure? The expectations? It’s called Black Tax and it’s real. But where’s the line? When does support turn into sacrifice? It’s okay to help, but it’s also okay to say, “I’m not in a position to assist right now,” without guilt eating you alive. Can you love your people and still set boundaries?

Bae – when love tests your limits
I’ve heard this one so many times: “The first time he cheats, or lays a hand on you, or crosses a major line — that’s your cue to leave.” Because the way you respond the first time sets the tone. If you forgive something huge without accountability or change, it silently says, “You can do that again.” And most times? They do. Boundaries in romantic relationships aren’t just about protecting your peace — they’re about preserving your sense of self. Easier said than done right?

Friends – your chosen people
What are your friendship boundaries? Like, really? Do you have any? Do your friends know what’s okay and what’s not? Can they call you at midnight to vent about their man? Are you always expected to pay when you go out because “you’re the one who’s working”? Are you the “therapist friend”? The one who gives, gives, gives? Sis, we need friendship boundaries too. It’s okay to say “not today,” “I can’t talk right now,” or “this dynamic isn’t healthy for me anymore.”

Work – where boundaries go to die
Ah, the workplace. Where you say, “I’m logging off at 5,” and next thing it’s 9pm and you’re replying “just one last email.” We glorify overworking like it’s a badge of honour. But burnout doesn’t look cute on anyone. Boundaries here could mean not answering work calls during dinner, or not saying yes to every new project when your plate is already overflowing. Your job is important, but so is your mental health. Another easier said that done right?

Turns out, the line between being compassionate and being a doormat is very very thin. Kunyanya kunzwisisa kunongopedzisira kwava kupusiswa — and half the time, you won’t even see it coming.

And let’s talk about the hardest one of them all — boundaries with yourself.

Whew.

It’s one thing to say “I’m not doing that anymore,” but it’s a whole other mission to actually mean it and stick to it. Like, You’ll promise yourself that you’re going to rest on Sunday. No work. No guilt. Just vibes. But next thing you know, you’re deep-cleaning the kitchen, doing some laundry, answering emails, and/or helping someone else with their life.

Or worse — you say you won’t reply to that one person who only pops up when they need something (you know the one), but the moment they hit me with “hey stranger,” you’re like: “Heeey you! It’s been a while 🤭”

There are days I literally feel like I’m breaking a boundary with myself before I’ve even had breakfast. Like I’ll tell myself, “No scrolling in bed today.” And then boom — 45 minutes deep in reels, watching someone’s cat do backflips.

Keeping promises to ourselves is hard. Especially as women who are constantly expected to give, show up, fix, soothe, stretch, and make a plan. But here’s the thing: if we keep abandoning ourselves, who’s going to keep us grounded?

So now I’m curious — what’s one boundary you’ve set for yourself… and broken before lunch? 😅 Let’s be honest. No judgement zone. Promise!