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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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In Defence of Dungarees & Jumpsuits

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In Defence of Dungarees & Jumpsuits There are people who shop with intention, lists, and self-control. And then there’s me, standing in a store, pretending I don’t already own several versions of the same thing, while reaching for yet another pair of dungarees. Denim or corduroy, preferably. Every time. I don’t fight it anymore. I’ve accepted that dungarees and jumpsuits are not just clothes to me; they’re a lifestyle choice. There is something undeniably joyful about them. They feel youthful without trying too hard, playful without being childish, and chic without demanding effort. They don’t ask too many questions. They simply show up and do the job. Whenever I wear them, I feel like myself, comfortable, a little quirky, and quietly confident, which is honestly the best kind of confidence. What I love most is how these pieces travel with you through the seasons, adapting like old friends. In spring, I reach for lighter denim dungarees layered over a simple white tee or a striped ...
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Existing Without a Footnote

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Existing Without a Footnote There was a time when my identity did not arrive with an asterisk. Growing up on the African continent, I moved through life unlabelled. Not because I lacked awareness, but because awareness did not need to be announced. My skin was not a conversation starter. My presence did not require justification. I was not introduced as an exception, a category, or a statement. I was simply a person, living, learning, becoming. I carried that ease with me for a long time, unaware of how rare it was. It wasn’t until I left that world that I noticed how often my existence needed framing. Suddenly, everything came with a descriptor. Art was no longer just art. Business was no longer just business. Creativity had to be contextualized. There was always a word placed before me, as though my work could not stand on its own without explanation. What unsettles me is not the word itself. I do not reject it. I honor it. I recognize its history, its beauty, its resilience. What tr...
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Noodles, Nostalgia & Giving My Taste Buds Grace

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Noodles, Nostalgia & Giving My Taste Buds Grace When I moved to Japan, I didn’t just leave home, I left my comfort flavours. The spices I understand. The food I don’t need translated. The meals that feel like muscle memory. So yes, I’ve been homesick. Intensely. Missing food from home in a way that feels almost irrational until you realise food is language, and suddenly you’re illiterate. What makes this entire experience ironic is that I am not naturally adventurous with food. If it doesn’t look like something I recognise, my first instinct is to interrogate it. Cautiously. So imagine being an African girl in Japan, where noodles are not a side character but a main event. At some point someone asked me, “Why do you post noodles all the time?” They said ramen. I heard noodles. And that misunderstanding alone tells you how unprepared I was for this journey. Because ramen isn’t “just noodles.” It’s a philosophy. The first thing I noticed is that ramen announces itself through smell b...
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Breathing Stories: The Wearable Art of Panashe Mafoti

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Breathing Stories: The Wearable Art of Panashe Mafoti Some people stumble into creativity. Others trip over it, fight it, negotiate with it. And then there are those who breathe it. Panashe Mafoti doesn’t remember a moment when creativity began for her, because for her, it never arrived with a grand announcement. It simply existed, quietly and constantly, like breath in the lungs. Fashion was never a “cute little hobby,” never something to outgrow. It was instinct. It was language. It was survival. But in 2022, something clicked. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just honestly. She realised that what she truly loves is storytelling. After years of studying stories through history books, absorbing narratives through films, and observing the world with an artist’s patience, Panashe came to a gentle but powerful truth: I am a storyteller, and I want to do this for life. Right now, that storytelling takes the form of fashion, wearable art that speaks, questions, remembers, and reimagines. He...
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Love, Loudly Performed: The Theatre of Modern Zimbabwean Romance

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Love, Loudly Performed: The Theatre of Modern Zimbabwean Romance This is one of those pieces that sat quietly in my drafts, not because it lacked urgency, but because it demanded honesty, and honesty is rarely welcomed when it disrupts tradition, fantasy, and comfort. But some thoughts don’t fade. They insist. And this one has been knocking for a while. Zimbabwean romantic relationships today feel less like lived experiences and more like stage productions. Carefully curated, loudly announced, and meticulously documented. Everyone is playing a role. Few are actually present. It’s not intimacy we are pursuing, it’s visibility. If you want evidence, you don’t have to look far. Start with roora. What was once sacred, symbolic, and deeply communal has increasingly become a spectacle. Negotiations that should happen quietly now trend publicly. Family matters leak into group chats, social media timelines, and whispered commentary. The ceremony becomes less about union and more about display,...
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