I Aint GAve Up On You Yet...

"Sometimes my own people make me very upset, but still I aint gave up on you yet," are the words of poet, Propaganda, in one of his always reverting pieces if work.

I feel the same way about this one lady I know. Sometimes I wish I could block her all out and forget about her. Sometimes I wish I could completely not care. But I cannot. I do care. I do pray for her many times.

Day after day it seems I have to read something new and terrible that her husband has implemented, said or insinuated to her. Some of her children think that other children are just being divisive and not wanting to help bring peace to the family. But truth is, apart from what preferences they all have, they are all motivated by this one big dream of seeing their home become prosperous, productive and to see their mother smile once again in her own house. Her life has been hard.

Yet sometimes I feel like the husband who should be there to lead her does not seem to share the same dream that she and her children have. Sometimes I feel, and so do many others, that the dream of seeing the vast amounts of wealth that the family owns would be used for the betterment of her children and their children's children, and their children's children's children. This lady is so wealthy. In her closets are vast amounts of items of diamond, gold, coal, iron ore, chromium ore, vanadium, asbestos, nickel, copper, lithium, tin, and platinum group metals. Yet the impact of the brokenness and the abuse in the family has greatly affected the advancement of their family.

This woman has a great family and this includes even her extended family. If all her kids who have gone off to work in other villages were to come back home they will be very significant blows suffered by those villages they have been contributing to over the years. This woman did a great job at educating her kids.

Her parenting skills have seen her raise kids who are labourers, graduates, researchers, educators and students that are the envy of the world, and known for their marquee "hard work". Her husband is so abusive, intolerant and violent that all her kids left the family house so they could have peace. And that is sad. Of course there are still great skills within the family home as it is, and their home schools continue to produce excellent human beings, but where is their dad to develop them and make them useful?

Sometimes I long for a day when these kids will not suffer violence at the hands of those that have the responsibility to protect them. The father, in so many ways has molested his own children, physically abused them and asked them to shut up or face the consequences, as if the abuse itself isn't consequential. This man's hands are bloody and he refuses to take responsibility. The kids suffer badly with mental health. If you ever peep into the family's WhatsApp group-chats, or Twitter feeds, you will see a family that has been divided and sub-divided in so many ways. The kids suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. They are a broken bunch. Their mother weeps every night before she goes to bed.

After a long time, the lady's husband died. And she thought she had a new lease of life. But this new man she has is said to be a good man by some, but some say he is bad news like her first husband. Who knows? All I know is that her children continue to suffer. They all walk with a limp daily as they stand in lines at the family home to receive rationed meals.

I sometime regret the day I met this lady. But on most days, I do not. Because I love and care for her so much. Sometimes I wonder why the Supreme Being introduced me to her in the first place, but on most days I see it as a blessing to be able to know her. Sometimes I want to give up on her, pack my mental bags and pretend she doesn't even exist.

Though her man invites criminals and thieves into the family home, and allows the scum of society to meddle with the family business, I will not give up on her. Look, sometimes I do wanna give up. But I cannot do that. I pray for her. I think of her. I hope for her. I dream for her. I fight for her.

Dear Lord, bless this lady

Bless the works of her hands

Destroy the works of those who exploit her

Prosper the hands of those who build her up

Destroy the works of her enemies

Prosper the works of her children


In fact, my confession is this: I am a part of this woman, and she is a part of me. I am not giving up on her yet because I cannot give up on myself.

Her name is Dzimbadzamabwe*.

*The name “Zimbabwe” is a Shona term for Great Zimbabwe, an ancient ruined city in the country’s south-east whose remains are now a protected site, in the modern-day province of Masvingo. There are two theories on the origin of the word. The first theory holds that the word is derived from dzimba–dza–mabwe, translated from the Karanga dialect of Shona as “large houses of stone” (dzimba = plural of imba, “house“; mabwe = plural of bwe, “stone“).  The second theory claims that “Zimbabwe” is a contracted form of dzimba-hwe which means “venerated houses” in the Zezuru dialect of Shona, and is usually applied to chiefs’ houses or graves.

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