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Chasing Obaachans: My Unexpected Lesson in Longevity

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Chasing Obaachans: My Unexpected Lesson in Longevity Living in Tokyo has been the most humbling fitness program of my life. Not because I joined a gym. Not because I suddenly became disciplined. But because Japanese grandmothers refuse to walk slowly. The first time it happened, I thought it was coincidence. A tiny obaachan overtook me at the train station stairs, grocery bags swinging confidently in both hands, posture straight, pace steady, no sign of breathlessness. I adjusted my bag and tried to catch up. She turned a corner. I never saw her again. That day, as I stood pretending to check my phone while catching my breath, I asked myself a very serious question: What are these people eating? Because back home in Zimbabwe, longevity wasn’t something we discussed in detail. We prayed for long life, yes. But here in Japan, long life seems almost engineered into the rhythm of daily living. And since people kept asking me, “What’s the secret to Japanese longevity?” I decided I could no ...
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I Miss Church.

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I Miss Church. There is something I never thought I would say out loud, but here it is; I miss church. Not casually. Not nostalgically. I miss it deeply. I was born and raised in the Seventh-day Adventist Church. My childhood, my moral compass, my understanding of right and wrong, my concept of grace, all of it was shaped under Adventist and Christian teachings. Church was never just a building. It was rhythm. It was identity. It was home. But if I am honest, there was a season in Zimbabwe when that home felt far away… even though it was only five minutes down the road. I was in a dark space. Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind. The kind where hope slowly leaks out of you and you don’t even notice it’s gone. I stopped going to church consistently. I convinced myself that watching Hope Channel and other Christian programs was enough. I told myself, God is everywhere. I can worship from home. And yes, that is true, but partial truth can sometimes become a comfortable lie. The things I...
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Where Light Meets Legacy: Celebrating Zimbabwe’s Creative Lens (Part One)

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Where Light Meets Legacy: Celebrating Zimbabwe’s Creative Lens (Part One) There is something about Zimbabwean creatives that feels deeply spiritual. Maybe it’s the way we hold stories in our bones. Maybe it’s how we grew up watching light fall on red soil at sunset. Or maybe it’s because when Zimbabweans create, we do it with our whole hearts. This week on Wander and Weave, I want to shine a light, intentionally and lovingly, on four Zimbabwean photographers whose work has moved me, inspired me, and reminded me why visual storytelling matters so much. And this is only Part One, because trust me, the talent back home is endless. Let me start with someone I have had the pleasure of working with personally, Tino Chimuka Photography. There are photographers who take pictures, and then there are photographers who converse with light. Tino belongs to the second category. His motto, “Born to capture, driven to create, forever in love with the light,” is not just a catchy line, it is evident...
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Mondays, My Unpaid Enemy

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Mondays, My Unpaid Enemy If there is a day that personally offends me, a day that wakes up and chooses violence, it is Monday. Monday does not knock. It kicks the door open. It drags me; from soft Sunday hymns and late breakfasts, from FaceTime calls to Zimbabwe where someone is frying maputi in the background, from laughter that sounds like “ahhh shamwari yangu!” to; “Repeat after me.” “Rii-pii-to aaf-ta mee.” Just like that. From “How was your weekend?” to paperwork stacked like Mount Fuji. From chilled vibes to structured schedules and neat handwriting on the board. Monday, ndinokuvenga zvangu. Not hate-hate… but the kind of hate where we coexist because rent must be paid. Sunday in diaspora feels like a borrowed blanket. I am African again. Fully. Loudly. Softly. I cook sadza. I over-salt the stew because I’m distracted by memories. I speak Shona with my whole chest: “Ko iwe wakadii?” “Ahh tiri bhoo zvavo.” Then Monday arrives with her first-world efficiency. Train on time. Emails ...
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From Money Bouquets to Honmei Choco: A Tale of Two Valentines

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From Money Bouquets to Honmei Choco: A Tale of Two Valentines In a few days, it will be Valentine’s Day. You can already feel it creeping in. The memes are warming up. The subtle threats are circulating. The “if he doesn’t…” posts are making their rounds. The pressure is pressure-ing. Every year I watch it unfold like a reality show. Who got flowers. Who got nothing. Who posted. Who stayed silent. Who is suddenly single on the 15th. Valentine’s Day has a way of turning love into a performance review. And I’ve always had mixed feelings about it. I don’t hate it. I’m not anti-romance. But I do think it’s fascinating how one date on the calendar can determine people’s emotional stability. Relationships break on this day. Some feel unloved. Some overspend. Some compete. Some perform Olympic-level romance for Instagram. Sometimes I sit back and think… have we made one day too powerful? This year is my second Valentine’s in Japan, and living here has completely shifted how I see this whole t...
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While He Was Editing, I Fell in Love Again

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While He Was Editing, I Fell in Love Again This morning, love didn’t announce itself. It didn’t knock. It didn’t shout. It simply sat with me. I was quiet, intentionally so; watching him from the corner of the room. Ebe had his headphones on, the big ones that mean do not disturb, I’m inside my head. His shoulders slightly hunched, eyes narrowed, fingers moving slowly but decisively. He was editing photos the way a surgeon works, zooming in, pulling back, adjusting a shade by a breath, a texture by instinct. He wasn’t just fixing images. He was listening to them. And I thought to myself, this is it… this is love showing up again. We are celebrating our anniversary today, yet nothing about this moment felt like a celebration in the loud, balloon-filled sense. It felt real. Ordinary. Sacred. The kind of moment people never post, but the kind that actually holds a relationship together. People say we are picture perfect. That always makes me laugh a little. Because Ebe and I are not neat....
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Borrowed Time and Borrowed Breath

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Borrowed Time and Borrowed Breath The past few days haven’t been kind to me. I was taken down by a stubborn cold and flu, the kind that drags time until night feels endless. Nights soaked in sweat, a cough that refuses to be ignored, a nose so blocked it feels like breathing becomes a negotiation. Sleep came in fragments, and when it did, it carried me somewhere strange. I don’t know if it was a lucid dream or something else entirely. I felt awake, aware, but trapped inside my own sleep. My body wouldn’t move. My mind, however, was loud. Too loud. That’s when the thoughts came. Death. And no, it’s not the kind of topic you want knocking on your mind when your body is already weak. It doesn’t help — not even a little. The dream stretched on, heavy and dark, layered with sleep paralysis and theories my exhausted mind kept building without permission. If I die now, what happens to me? What becomes of my family? I am in a foreign land, what happens to my body? Who makes those decisions? Y...
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