Confessions of a libra

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10.05.25

Let me tell you about my home. The soil that bore witness to my entry into this world. The winds that whistled hailing my return. Zimbabwe is a precious spirit. Wounded yet strong. When asked, spirit told me that they believe Zimbabwe to be the altar. This was something I had to decode myself but once it came, it all made sense. Spirit confirmed to me that when we say our land is spiritual, it is not a subjective experience. The land upon which Zimbabwe stands is ancient and living, a welcoming site for spirit. It is why there is an auspiciousness in the air, in the decadent sunsets and in the folklore. Our lands are green and lush, blessed by the gods themselves.

Having the benefits of oversight from having left the country, when I return the clouds appear to be closer to us as though to envelope us. The land hums approval when you come open hearted, and treat it with respect and it swallows you up when you do not. The land responds to the sound of song, ritual and sacred rage. There is also a stillness in Zimbabwe. A sense that time has slowed nearly to a stop. A place where feeling present feels more natural, readily available. The vibrations so easily accessible you feel your hairs stand on end in warning of the divine.

One of my favourite facts about Zimbabwe is their beliefs in the “mythical”. Zimbabwe is known as one of the last countries to truly hold onto their beliefs in mermaids. I can feel a Zimbabwean shrinking as I write this, wary of the direction I am going. Yet if you too were to take a trip and visit this land, you would also to start dreaming of possibilities. Possibilities of magic in the mundane. Once upon a time there was more magic in the world. But as we evolved and made conscious decisions to value logic over intuition, the magic vanished. Zimbabwe is one of the last places where the magic feels alive but never suffocating. Only reverent, demanding respect. If you know anything about the Zimbabwean struggle for liberation, you will know that at the very core of it was black people remembering their spirituality. The very thing the colonialists had so expertly worked to exorcise from us.

Without that belief in our own magic, or our own customs to defer to chosen elders with mediumship abilities, we may not have won a victory against our oppressors. This is not unique to us, with parallels to other black liberation struggles, for example in Haiti. When black people remembered who they were – through the fog of; oral-history degradation, systematic oppression, systematic rape and systematic displacement of land – it relit that spiritual ember. The link between black people and their ancestors. That is one of the driving forces of our success, of our heart. We were sold lies that before colonisation our tribal differences mattered more than our similarity. Our structures of logical thought became misaligned, evolving as we survived brutality. But our spirit is strong, and the land always whispered back to us. Waiting, watching, hoping. Ready for the day we said no more.

Never judge the spirit of a country of people who raised hell and told their colonisers where they can shove it. Zimbabweans not only won with brute force but with strategy. All the while the skills we learnt from cohabitation with our colonisers, are the very survival skills we utilise now in our daily lives, even in the diaspora. Zimbabweans have always been eloquent with language that produces visceral reactions. But when we had to learn their language to survive, we did it and we did it well. We learned the game. We learnt to be adaptable. Something I have heard other Africans tease us for.

Know this, Zimbabweans do not learn to assimilate as a type of weakness. Zimbabweans learn to assimilate because our spirit is ancient but is open for growth. We are adaptable because we recognise the importance of the past and the future in equal measure. A heavy burden but one that requires deep maturity to execute. We have also learnt skills surrounding secrecy. These skills haven’t always served us, but what I will say is this. We never lose the feeling in our bones. The feeling in our soul that calls for home. Sometimes we just learn to control. We learn to compartmentalise and we learn to worship in secret.

For all who have ever met me and felt that I stood apart from the rest, know that I do not. I am a descendant of Ndebele ancestors on my mother’s side, Shona ancestors on my father’s wide with intermingling going back generations. I have the large bold heart of a Shona and the warrior spirit of a Ndebele. I can speak in the dulcet tones of a Ndebele woman and laugh hearty in the way only a Shona woman can express her radiant joy. We eat, we laugh, we love and we enjoy our senses. Our music is spiritual, our hips are loose and ready for the shaking. Our manner is a mixture of maternal softness and ancient goddess strength.

My purpose is in this life is to help Zimbabweans remember themselves. Return to themselves first in spirit. We have worn our wounds too long. We have felt shame that was not ours to carry. We have feed hungry children in community behind closed doors. We have wept for what was and grappled with what will no longer be. But we will rise again. With humility and humanity. With the strength of our Traditional Healers, and the ancestors behind them. We will remember ourselves and when that day comes, prepare to be intimidated, by the glow of the Zimbabwean frequency.