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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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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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