Kurauone Mwanangu (Grow up and see for yourself)

Kurauone Mwanangu

(Grow up and see for yourself)

“Kurauone mwanangu,” they said,

voice calm, eyes wise,

hands busy shelling groundnuts,

as if they were not dropping a lifetime prophecy.

And me , young, wild,

barefoot and full of dreams:

I laughed and said, “Ini handityi life, I’m ready!”

Ah, youth, so brave, so clueless.

Now here I am, grown and groaning,

with back pain that started at 21 for no reason,

with Wi-Fi bills that come faster than miracles,

and dreams that need visas and prayer points.

Kurauone, yes, I’ve seen it!

I’ve seen the Monday blues in living colour,

the kind that even coffee can’t baptize away.

I’ve seen salaries vanish like dew at sunrise,

and friendships ghost faster than 3G in the rural areas.

I’ve attended weddings and funerals in the same month;

both requiring outfits and money I don’t have.

Kurauone mwanangu indeed.

They didn’t tell us about the fatigue;

the kind that’s not in your body but your soul,

the silent kind that makes you stare at the wall

and ask, “Ko life iyi ichapera riinhi?”

They didn’t tell us adulthood is just

trying to remember passwords and purpose at the same time.

I’ve seen the black tax,

that holy offering you send to your mother every month

even when your fridge looks like a fasting camp.

I’ve seen the unspoken competition;

who’s married first, who bought land,

who’s “still renting” as if it’s a sin.

Kurauone;

when success becomes a performance

and peace is something you schedule.

And yet…

There’s laughter in the madness.

The kind that fills kitchen corners

when cousins gather to drink Mazoe from old peanut butter jars.

There’s music in the struggle,

Oliver Mtukudzi’s voice reminding us

“Bvuma wasakara” accept, you’ve grown.

And we laugh, not because it’s funny,

but because we must.

Kurauone mwanangu,

when love starts looking like teamwork,

and “date night” means budgeting for two sadza plates.

When faith becomes your only currency,

and your prayers sound like voice notes to heaven.

When your dreams meet reality,

and both sit down for a very awkward dinner.

You learn that sometimes,

God’s silence is not punishment, it’s pruning.

That peace doesn’t come in abundance,

it sneaks in between chaos and courage.

You learn that growth is messy,

like madora on the first try,

or learning to love yourself when the world won’t clap.

Kurauone...

when you’ve left home,

crossed oceans with your accent and your hustle,

and Japan’s quiet nights remind you

how loud Harare sunsets used to be.

When you miss your mother’s voice saying

“Zorora mwanangu,”

and suddenly, her warnings make sense.

Still, we rise.

We wear our scars like beads,

we cry in English and pray in Shona,

we love, we lose, we laugh, we begin again.

Because to grow is to see,

and to see is to live.

So, to every tired soul out there,

every hustler, every dreamer, every wanderer 

remember, this was the prophecy:

Kurauone mwanangu.

It’s not a curse, it’s a calling.

And one day, when your child complains about chores,

you’ll smile and say,

“Kurauone mwanangu…”

Because you too have seen it, 

life in all its chaos, humour, heartbreak,

and holy beauty.