Chapter One
Kumusika is a place of great sacrifice. It is the field of the fragile labors of sweating women with hungry children bound to their broken backs. It is the open arena of the poor where brilliant minds succumb to the harsh reality of a life without education and without God. It is the sun-burdened, rain-disillusioned wound of the underprivileged, infested with law enforcement on bicycles waiting to apprehend the desperate for the crimes of the government. It is a vegetable galaxy where grown men and women fight poverty with their tongues.
> >"Matomatisi! Matomatisi! Matomatisi!"
> >Women’s untiring voices chant to seduce the weary traveler to their wares.
> >"Mutare! Mutare! Mutare!"
> >The bus conductor’s voice chants to seduce the impatient traveler to his destination.
> >The afternoon heat is the enemy, reducing once swollen ripe tomatoes to wrinkled impostors. A dust road-tainted bus pulls into its terminal and its wrinkled travelers
> > disembark. With the agility of city monkeys, two young men scramble to the roof of the bus and begin unloading the precariously-tied luggage and dropping it on the waiting passengers. In the next terminal a high-pitched voice announces the departure of the green and yellow bus for Gweru. An army of boiled egg-selling vendors assault the moving bus. Greedy brown hands grasp at questionably hygienic foods through half-closed, dirty windows. A woman sits down on the brown bags of sugar and mealie-meal that she has purchased in the bustling city to take to some obscure village. A round cheeked youngster is bounced on her knee impatiently; sweat swimming down her young face. Without hesitation a mother shoves her child to her and to greedy, waiting lips.
> >"Stop thief! Stop thief! Mbavha! Mbavha!"
> >A dirty bolt of crime tears across a crowded pavement and another handbag
> > disappears into the relentless Harare day.
> >"Are you certain that you will be safe?" the man of God without a white collar asks me.
> >"Oh, I will be perfectly safe! Thank-you so much! Someday I’ll repay you. I promise!"
> >The oath is made with the innocent fervor of youth but lacks sincerity. Pastor Bell’s response is a forgiving smile. I stand at the Musika, hands at my side, conspicuously without luggage and my growing secret concealed by belly and flesh. Tears plague my eyes with things I must not say and with truths that I am not yet ready to tell.
> >"Thank-you."
> >Pastor Bell places a single hand on my defiant shoulder. I am defying life and I am defying pain. I am defying God.
> >"There is only one way that you may truly thank me…get accepted to that college in the States and become a writer."
> >I know that his next words will be encouraging.
> >"Be of good faith. Be of good courage."
> >And then he breaks my already broken
> > heart.
> >"I believe in you."
> >Solitude is standing in a crowded bus terminal watching your faith and courage walk away. "Godspeed!"
> >I raise both my hands and frantically wave. It is until the light blue car is vanished from sight that my hands finally surrender to the inevitable and reluctantly return to my side. This is the last time that I would think of a man as Godly.
> >"Muri kueyenda Kupi Sisi?"
> >The curious man asks the now abandoned black girl who had stood moments before with the white Pastor.
> >"KuBulawayo."
> >Solitude is sitting in a hectic city bus with chickens tied to its roof and old women chewing on things they never swallow.
#saddleback #YearofFaith #FaithAmbassador#WorldVisionInternationalFundRaiserAdvocate #Zimbabweshallbesaved#faiththatmovesmountains #Faithautobiography #chiedzamavangira#Alifewithoutborders #custommadeforgod #bornwithoutborders
> >
> AutoBiography Born Without Borders By Beauty & Faith Ambassador Chiedza Mavangira.
CUSTOM MADE FOR GOD
Cont.
Kumusika is a place of great sacrifice. It is the field of the fragile labors of sweating women with hungry children bound to their broken backs. It is the open arena of the poor where brilliant minds succumb to the harsh reality of a life without education and without God. It is the sun-burdened, rain-disillusioned wound of the underprivileged, infested with law enforcement on bicycles waiting to apprehend the desperate for the crimes of the government. It is a vegetable galaxy where grown men and women fight poverty with their tongues.
> >"Matomatisi! Matomatisi! Matomatisi!"
> >Women’s untiring voices chant to seduce the weary traveler to their wares.
> >"Mutare! Mutare! Mutare!"
> >The bus conductor’s voice chants to seduce the impatient traveler to his destination.
> >The afternoon heat is the enemy, reducing once swollen ripe tomatoes to wrinkled impostors. A dust road-tainted bus pulls into its terminal and its wrinkled travelers
> > disembark. With the agility of city monkeys, two young men scramble to the roof of the bus and begin unloading the precariously-tied luggage and dropping it on the waiting passengers. In the next terminal a high-pitched voice announces the departure of the green and yellow bus for Gweru. An army of boiled egg-selling vendors assault the moving bus. Greedy brown hands grasp at questionably hygienic foods through half-closed, dirty windows. A woman sits down on the brown bags of sugar and mealie-meal that she has purchased in the bustling city to take to some obscure village. A round cheeked youngster is bounced on her knee impatiently; sweat swimming down her young face. Without hesitation a mother shoves her child to her and to greedy, waiting lips.
> >"Stop thief! Stop thief! Mbavha! Mbavha!"
> >A dirty bolt of crime tears across a crowded pavement and another handbag
> > disappears into the relentless Harare day.
> >"Are you certain that you will be safe?" the man of God without a white collar asks me.
> >"Oh, I will be perfectly safe! Thank-you so much! Someday I’ll repay you. I promise!"
> >The oath is made with the innocent fervor of youth but lacks sincerity. Pastor Bell’s response is a forgiving smile. I stand at the Musika, hands at my side, conspicuously without luggage and my growing secret concealed by belly and flesh. Tears plague my eyes with things I must not say and with truths that I am not yet ready to tell.
> >"Thank-you."
> >Pastor Bell places a single hand on my defiant shoulder. I am defying life and I am defying pain. I am defying God.
> >"There is only one way that you may truly thank me…get accepted to that college in the States and become a writer."
> >I know that his next words will be encouraging.
> >"Be of good faith. Be of good courage."
> >And then he breaks my already broken
> > heart.
> >"I believe in you."
> >Solitude is standing in a crowded bus terminal watching your faith and courage walk away. "Godspeed!"
> >I raise both my hands and frantically wave. It is until the light blue car is vanished from sight that my hands finally surrender to the inevitable and reluctantly return to my side. This is the last time that I would think of a man as Godly.
> >"Muri kueyenda Kupi Sisi?"
> >The curious man asks the now abandoned black girl who had stood moments before with the white Pastor.
> >"KuBulawayo."
> >Solitude is sitting in a hectic city bus with chickens tied to its roof and old women chewing on things they never swallow.
#saddleback #YearofFaith #FaithAmbassador#WorldVisionInternationalFundRaiserAdvocate #Zimbabweshallbesaved#faiththatmovesmountains #Faithautobiography #chiedzamavangira#Alifewithoutborders #custommadeforgod #bornwithoutborders
> >
> AutoBiography Born Without Borders By Beauty & Faith Ambassador Chiedza Mavangira.
CUSTOM MADE FOR GOD
Cont.
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