“Dear Black Zimbabwean Woman”

 “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 nights you cried in silence,

praying for the love you poured to be poured back.

Black Tax knocks like a debt collector,

not out of love, but duty,

because you made it out,

so you must never complain.

Even if you’re eating indomie noodles on foreign land

just to send groceries back home.

You are labelled strong

but rarely hugged.

Resilient

but rarely rested.

Expected to cook, clean, birth, serve,

while still attending church on Sunday

in a doek and heels

like the Proverbs 31 poster child.

You dared to be independent, 

so now they whisper “hure”,

not because of what you’ve done,

but because you had the audacity

to live without asking permission.

They ask:

"Ko murume wako aripi?"

Because your worth is still

measured in rings and ruin.

But oh, my sister—

You carry galaxies in your bones.

Your laugh echoes like mbira songs across the savanna.

Your tears? Holy water.

You are the aunties in floral dresses,

the cousins in ripped jeans,

the mothers who hustle,

the daughters who dream.

The warriors who wear lipstick and trauma in equal measure.

And still,

You show up.

With love. With fire. With flaws.

You dance at weddings you weren't invited to

and make sadza that heals souls.

So today, I say:

Rest.

Cry.

Cuss if you must.

Love loudly.

Leave if you have to.

Buy yourself roses,

and never apologize for growing

where no one watered you.

Because you,

Black Zimbabwean Woman,

are not too much.

You are everything.

And you deserve joy, 

not as a reward for endurance,

but as your birthright.

Jez (wander and weave)