Look (Tarisai), and hear me out

Are you down and out? Have you hit the “why me” rock bottom of bottoms where you feel like you’ve been sentenced to an eternity of bad luck and you’re doomed to die alone (to the point that if this article was being written from the perspective of a Caucasian woman I’d have made sure to say ... “doomed to die alone in my one-bedroom apartment that I share with my seven cats and their nine lives”) But this, my dear beloveds is Africa, where felines are synonymously symbolic with witchcraft that the mere sighting of one particularly black cat with its cat-like eyes will not only send a shiver down your spine but have you beckoning your village people. Better yet everyone knows that most single women in our Zimbabwean society don’t get to live freely and lavishly in one-bedroom apartments because a) one-room homes are just as popular and common (if not more) as one-bedroom apartments b) what family is going to let one independent person let alone a lady, stay alone with zero dependents in this crippling economy?

Forgive me I get carried away. At the crux of my intro is, have you had enough? Do you need change? Have you tried everything but these descendants of Adam and Eve are just stubbornly un-into you? Sis, do you just wish you could build yourself a man at this point with Legos? My dude, do you wish all these other gorgeous Beckys walking this earth didn’t have vaginas so you wouldn’t be tempted and winding up with Beckys blowing up your phone “paying back” monies you never borrowed, to begin with, all the while betraying your Beyonce, or do you just want to silently wish upon a star that one of these women in a sea of gorge Beckys will just fall heads over heels for you? Well, look no further. Because this one right here (me) has consciously, willingly, and knowingly chosen to fall in love again. At this point, I'm not sure whether that's inspiring bravery or naivety embedded in stupidity but all I know is it's one hell of a choice. But hear me out and I’ll walk you through it.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, and it keeps no record of wrongs."

What’s love? And no I don’t want the Ashanti version, what is it to you?

Love to me is a feeling, I think it's something you feel for yourself first, and then for others. An unconditionally rich, hazelnut brown, smooth, and warm fuzzy high feeling that either makes you never want to leave Wonka and the chocolate factory again or the exact opposite. That is what I think love is. Do I know what it is though? Because to be able to give it you need to have been known and acquainted with it first, because how does one love if they've never been loved before? In such a case, it makes it an even harder quest to love oneself. And that projects itself all throughout one's life in many ways, if only you pay attention. But, I've considered the risks, I've weighed my options and I see it going no other way. I'm ready to love again and I’ve chosen to go back to an ex-lover of mine I’ve been in and out of a relationship with for what feels like my whole life. So guess who it is? The one and only ME.

Why me? Am I that much of a solipsistic narcissist that I want to be the beholder of my beauty? Not quite, maybe just a little bit, but I’m choosing me because you can only want what you know, that said it escapes and surpasses all logic and rationale for one to crave after that which they don't know, because then, what are you craving for? What are you fiending for? You want him to be loving and caring but you want something that you do not practice for your benefit, so how do you know enough to want it from other people? You want her to be respectful and loyal but how do you expect to receive something you don't know what it looks like? Because you can easily mistake pink for green if you don't know what pink is right? The same goes for the former, you can falsely and relentlessly pray and cry for love when what your soul actually yearns for is attention.

I've taken some time to think about it, and that's my starting point. I'm loving me. I'm taking care of me. So I know what that feels like, what that is, to be able to give to my loved ones, my friends, my community at large, and all due time my brown-skinned Mr. Big. Oh, I can already see him, his beautiful manly frame firm enough to hold me where he wants me and squeeze me, never to tease me or leave me, always practicing a little tenderness.

I'm playing y’all, I don't see Mr. Big. I don't even know what he looks like, or what I want him to look like, but what I do know is, I'll figure it out, and this blurry outline poor excuse of a picture will become crystal clear. Ultimately and overall, it's an adventure, and we'll get there when we get there, but for now, we're loving on ourselves. And boy can we not wait for our way overdue timely treat. On top of the piles and piles of books, amongst other literature that has consumed my brain space of late since my last untimely and rather unfortunate break-up is one big black book written ‘SELF-LOVE’ on the top. This big black imaginary book absorbs all non-imaginary publications on self-love that you can probably think of. Why? Because it’s an accumulation of all the paragraphs on self-love I’ve read from different and myriad publications. And, in a nutshell, what this big black book is saying is charity begins at home because ultimately you can only know how to give love because you have it for yourself and most importantly you can only receive love if you know how to give it, and the giving part needs to start within the home inside you.

Until next time beloveds.