Wander and Weave

Book Review: The Beautifully Raw Memoir of My Father’s Daughter by Hannah Azieb Pool. There is something strange about the way stories find us. Sometimes we go looking for them, and sometimes they quietly appear when we least expect it. A few weeks ago, I found myself doing what many of us are guilty of doing late at night, doom scrolling on the internet. I was searching for symptoms, cures, explanations for things happening in my body, jumping from one article to the next, when I stumbled upon the story of Waris Dirie, also known as Desert Flower. Her story was powerful and haunting, and as I continued scrolling through articles and recommendations, the algorithm did what it does best. It led me to another name I had never heard before: Hannah Azieb Pool. Curiosity has always been one of my greatest weaknesses when it comes to books. I read a little about her story, and before I knew it, I was searching for her memoir My Fathers’ Daughter. Something about it pulled me in immediately....

The Pain We Were Told to Endure: Breaking the Silence on Endometriosis. March arrives draped in yellow. Across the world, people wear yellow ribbons, post yellow hearts, and light up buildings in the same hopeful color. It is the color chosen for Endometriosis Awareness Month, a quiet but powerful reminder that millions of women carry a kind of pain that the world is only beginning to understand. Pain that was once dismissed. Pain that was once normalized. Pain that many were told to simply endure. For years, the story of endometriosis has lived in whispers between women, in bedrooms, in clinic waiting rooms, in late night conversations with friends who finally say, “I thought it was just me.” It often begins when a girl is still young. Her period arrives, and with it comes a pain that feels deeper than the cramps people warned her about. A pain that folds her body in half. A pain that makes classrooms, offices, and daily routines suddenly feel impossible. She misses school sometimes. ...

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 ...

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...

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...

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 ...