As I walk away, I can hear her breathing heavy. She is fighting the gigantic urge to scream after me to ask me to stay. I have left a half drunk steamy cup of rooibos tea on her mahogany coffee table that she kindly made before she knew that I was going to drop a bomb on her pride and prejudice. It is a bitterly cold winter morning and tears are stinging my nose and eyes and I can feel that my life from this moment will never be the same again. I am 23 years old and have been feeling pretty sorry for myself and thinking that I will never amount to anything, or at least most of my high school years and early work years I have been reminded so. On this freezing Zimbabwean winter morning my icicle fingertips have found the courage to tell my brain that they are itching to punch a keyboard and free my caged heart so it can explore new, incredible horizons. This will not happen in Bulawayo. Not while I am still ashamed to tell Nomalanga that I kiss boys. Or that Taurai pinched my butt while whispering in my ear that I am the only man he will ever love. Isn’t it funny how easily programmable our minds and emotions can be? But not today… On this here day I own this piece of ground I am standing on. I am chief of my own destiny and no emotion bully will tackle my ego. So I push my cassette into my Walkman and listen to the sounds of Bhundu Boys as they sing about Simbimbino. This bitch can wait. I choose to walk away and let her know I would rather walk than talk to her. I am done talking.
Frank Malaba © 2015