Wander and Weave

Boiling Herbs & Butter-Chicken Love: The Dual Magic of Beatrice Natasha Manoah They say every queen has her crown. For Beatrice Natasha Manoah, hers is a steaming pot of womb tea in one hand and a peanut-butter-glazed road runner in the other. And trust me, she wears it well. If you’ve ever scrolled past a post on House of Yoni and caught yourself wondering what “yoni steaming” is—or found yourself drooling over a perfectly plated African dish on She’s Home—then you’ve already met the magic that is Beatrice. But today, we’re pulling back the curtain and serving it all hot and herbal. Let’s wander into her world, shall we? The story of House of Yoni doesn’t start with a brand strategy or market research. No. It began where many of us have found ourselves—curled up in pain, clutching a hot water bottle, and praying for the end of Aunt Flo’s cruel reign. For Beatrice, this struggle with menstrual pain was more than a monthly inconvenience. It became a calling. A memory of her late gra...

The Unraveling of Rose – Part One: “Whispers of the Forgotten” A story of loss, identity, betrayal, and grace There are mornings you never forget. Not because the sky was particularly beautiful, or the birds sang louder than usual, but because something inside you shifts — and nothing ever feels the same again. Rose remembers that morning well. The sun had barely touched the curtains. Harare was still half-asleep. But in that quiet, something stirred in her soul. A whisper. A feeling. A heaviness. It told her, “Everything you knew was a lie.” She blinked hard, as if she could rub it away like sleep crust in her eyes. But this wasn’t a dream. This was the beginning of everything falling apart. Rose had grown up in the hands of her grandparents — two pillars who tried their best to make life feel whole, even though the cracks showed more as she got older. Her mother?Gone before Rose could even memorize her face. Her father? A ghost no one ever mentioned. Instead, Rose was raised by a cir...

 “Dear Black Zimbabwean Woman” —for every sister who’s ever been called too much and not enough all at once. They say, "Be strong." But never ask how much you've had to carry before breakfast. They say, "Musadaro, you're a woman!" As if your voice is a sin and silence a badge of honour. You are told to respect, even when you’re served disrespect on a silver tray, smile through clenched teeth and call it grace. They teach you to belittle yourself— don't shine too bright, don't laugh too loud, don’t dare look too happy when you’re single at 30. “Munhu anenge arikuda varume here?” No, sis just bought herself a ring. 💅🏾 You’re raised for marriage like cattle groomed for auction, while your dreams sit in the corner in a dusty file marked “Later.” When you finally say no to abuse, when you gather the courage to walk away, you’re given names that taste like vinegar: “akadzingwa," "akarambana," "anoda zvinhu.” But no one talks about the...

THE STYLE ALCHEMIST – MEET LEEROY aka AFRICAN HIPPIE There’s fashion, and then there’s Leeroy. Or as the streets know him — African Hippie. Not just a name, but a whole creative revolution wrapped in thrifted jackets, shredded denim, and soul. Born in Zimbabwe and forged in the fire of resourcefulness, Leeroy’s story isn’t about luxury—it’s about turning limitations into language. In a world obsessed with the latest trends and designer labels, he was busy remixing scarcity into style. “Growing up, we didn’t have much,” he says, “so I got into fashion because I couldn’t afford the ‘in’ stuff.” What started as a budget survival tactic became his artistic north star. But don’t get it twisted—this isn't your average "rags to runway" tale. Leeroy’s work dives deep. His short film Paradiso is a hauntingly poetic exploration of religion, fear, and inner demons. It’s fashion meets film meets therapy. He and his team lean into the insecurities society tells us to hide, creating so...

Summer Staples You Didn’t Know You Needed (Until Now) Hey wander babes! Okay, okay—I know some of you are bundled up in fuzzy socks and hoodies, sipping hot chocolate somewhere in Southern Africa thinking, “Summer? Girl, it’s 9°C.” But hear me out! Whether you're in sunny Japan like me, or prepping for warmer days ahead in Zimbabwe or South Africa, this blog post is here to give you a little head start. You know what they say—a stylish girl is always three seasons ahead (don’t quote me though 😅). Now let me be clear: I’m not out here claiming to be some Vogue-certified fashion guru. But if there's one thing I know how to do? Put together a good outfit that makes you look like you’ve got your life together—even when you’re just on your way to buy eggs. Because listen, in this economy? We refuse to look like our problems. Also, real talk. I know the girlies are trying to be more sustainable and move away from fast fashion—and I salute that. But I also know that designer price ta...

The Silent Collapse of Community in First World Nations I saw a short video the other day—just a reel, maybe thirty seconds long—but it hit me like a ton of bricks. Trevor Noah simply said: “Community doesn’t exist in first world countries.” And in that moment, I paused and whispered to myself, “Exactly.” You see, I’m not a sociologist or an expert with statistics and research papers, but I know what I’ve seen. I know what I’ve felt. And more importantly, I know what I miss. I grew up in Zimbabwe, in a home where the line between your family and the neighbor’s family was often blurred. Where “auntie” and “uncle” didn’t always mean blood relation, but rather a respected adult who helped raise you. Where a child never lacked love, even if their parents were at work or away—because the village truly raised the child. Moms, gogos (grandmothers), teenage cousins, neighbors… everyone pitched in, and not a single dollar exchanged hands. We didn’t schedule catchups weeks in advance. People pop...

Totems, Threads & Timelines — Inside the Creative World of Beth Jotham There are some people who wear clothes, and then there are people who become the look. Enter Beth Jotham — a Zimbabwean fashion creative, tote bag designer, and all-around visionary whose wardrobe reads like a journal of expression, evolution, and eco-conscious cool. Beth isn’t just another stylish girl on your feed — she’s a storyteller. Her sense of style isn’t bound by trends or hashtags; it’s shaped by her mood, her memories, her destination, and most of all, her ever-growing love for art and expression. “I would like to believe I'm an expressive person,” she reflects. “Life experiences, comfort, mood — it all contributes and is summed up in what I wear.” Over the years, her fashion sense has shifted, as tastes do. From oversized, baggy fits that drowned her in layers (on purpose!) to more refined silhouettes, she’s now gravitating towards the idea of a signature look — and figuring out what that even me...

My Complicated Love Story with Japanese School Lunch (Kyūshoku) Let’s be honest—when I first came to Japan and heard about kyūshoku (給食), aka Japanese school lunch, I was not about that life. I mean, imagine your taste buds doing a full 180. For someone who grew up with a completely different cuisine, I was skeptical, to say the least. Add in the fact that I have a lot of allergies? I wasn’t taking any chances. So when I got the form asking if I’d be joining the school lunch program, my answer was a big, fat nope. Luckily, my friend said yes. So she became my unofficial food scout—reporting back with reviews that were... well, mixed. Some dishes slapped. Others? Not so much. But overall, her experience wasn’t terrible. That gave me a bit of hope, and I found myself digging into some research. Turns out, Japanese school lunch isn’t just food—it’s a whole vibe. 🍚 It’s called kyūshoku, and it’s super structured, nutritious, and yes, very Japanese. Meals usually include rice or bread, a m...

Detachment Is Your Superpower How Letting Go Leads to Free.dom, Peace, and Growth There was a time when I believed that holding on was a sign of strength. That the more tightly I gripped something—or someone—the more it proved how deeply I cared. I thought loyalty meant staying, even when everything inside me whispered that it was time to let go. I thought love meant endurance, even when that love was hurting me. But somewhere between heartbreak, healing, and the quiet nights when I cried alone, I learned something I wish someone had told me earlier: detachment is not weakness. Detachment is a superpower. Not because it makes you cold or distant, but because it teaches you how to preserve your peace. It helps you see things and people for what they truly are, without getting lost in the idea of what you wanted them to be. It allows you to focus on the journey rather than obsessing over the destination. And above all, it frees you from the prison of expectations. I’ve always been someon...