It's SteeTime!

The Gloriously Particular Life of Sithabiso - A living inventory, for the ones who come after me

2026-10-07T13:22:34.595-07:00

My dear grandchildren,

By the time you read this, you may know me in a completely different way.

Perhaps you will know the older version of me. The woman who asks whether you have eaten. The woman who prays for you. The woman whose stories you have heard so many times that you can finish them yourselves.

You may know me simply as Gogo.

But before I was your grandmother, I had already been many people.

And I want you to know her too.

Not because every part of my life was extraordinary. Some of it was painful. Some was ridiculous. Some was unfinished. Some was beautiful. Some made absolutely no sense at the time.

But it was mine.

And when I look back across it all, I find myself increasingly saying:

God, what an interesting life You gave me.

I was the girl among the boys

I was born Sithabiso Alice Dube, a Zimbabwean girl who grew up as the only girl with four brothers.

Five children.

Four boys.

And me.

That fact alone probably explains a few things, although I have promised myself that not everything in this inventory needs to become a psychological insight.

Sometimes a girl simply has four brothers.

I went to school. I got a bursary in a particularly fancy primary school.

And somewhere in those early years, something else was already happening.

I told stories.

At boarding school, after lights out, when we were supposed to be sleeping, I would tell the other girls stories in the darkness.

I was known for it.

Imagine that for a moment. Before the microphone, before the training rooms, before social media, before counselling, before Brave Work...

...there was a little Zimbabwean girl lying in a boarding-school bed, surrounded by other little girls, making worlds with words after lights out.

By high school, apparently telling the stories was no longer enough.

So I began writing them.

I would write chapters and bring them to school for my classmates to read.

And at fourteen, I wrote a book.

Its magnificent title was:

The Kids Krunch Kornflakes Competition.

With Ks.

Naturally.

One day I would write a book about wholeness, God, psychology, suffering and coming home to yourself.

But first...

Kornflakes.

God believes in beginnings.

Then there was the world

I was Zimbabwean, but Zimbabwe would not be the only country to form me.

I lived in Tanzania.

Uganda.

Kenya.

Zimbabwe remained home, but East Africa became part of me too.

I picked up some Kiswahili. I encountered different African cultures. I learned what it was to be at home and away from home, African everywhere and yet foreign somewhere.

And my path through university was not exactly a straight line.

I did first year three times.

At different universities.

Three.

First.

Years.

This is particularly satisfying information to place beside the fact that I eventually became Dr Sithabiso Dube.

There is a version of success stories that cleans up the beginning so the ending looks inevitable.

Mine does not require such editing.

I started university three times.

And in 2010, I graduated from Mbarara University of Science and Technology in Uganda with my Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery.

But medical school, naturally, was not enough activity for me.

The medical student who decided to make a movie

While at Mbarara University, I became involved in an HIV-prevention peer project.

Then, as a fourth-year medical student, I led and produced an audiovisual project called Kina MUST, about a medical student who had a needle stick injury on the ward and goes through HIV awareness and stigma experiences.

We made a movie.

We had a premiere.

An actual movie premiere.

During medical school.

Because apparently learning medicine needed a side quest.

I also served as Minister of Social Affairs and organised university events.

Some people went to medical school and studied medicine.

I went to medical school and studied medicine, produced movies, organised events and generally behaved as though there were considerably more than twenty-four hours in a day.

Somewhere around that era, I also shot a documentary about Zimbabweans living in the diaspora.

The question at its heart was simple:

Are you coming home?

It never made it to screen.

That belongs in my story too.

Not everything I made succeeded.

Not everything I started survived.

Not everything I imagined became what I thought it would become.

But I made it.

And then, in 2011, I nearly invented TikTok

While living in Kenya, I started a company called Thumb Generation.

The year was 2011.

The idea involved short-form content designed for the generation increasingly living through their mobile phones.

TikTok did not exist yet.

Thumb Generation did not become TikTok.

We shall all need to make peace with this.

😂

But I want this fact preserved for the family archives so that when one of you has an idea that sounds slightly mad, somebody can say:

"Well, Gogo did once try to invent TikTok."

I became a doctor

And underneath all these creative adventures, I was actually practising medicine.

I worked clinically in Uganda, Kenya and Zimbabwe. My medical career took me through places including Mbagathi District Hospital and Nazareth Mission Hospital in Kenya, then Parirenyatwa and Harare Central Hospital in Zimbabwe. I worked in surgery, medicine, paediatrics, gynaecology, children's HIV care and obstetric emergencies. At Nazareth, I even developed a play-therapy strategy within a malnutrition programme.

Eventually my questions became bigger than the patient in front of me.

I became interested in populations.

Systems.

Disease patterns.

Why some interventions worked and others did not.

I moved into public health.

I completed a Diploma in Adolescent and Child Health through the University of Sydney in 2016 and a Master of Public Health at the University of Zimbabwe in 2017. Years later, because apparently I remain constitutionally incapable of declaring myself finished with school, I began an MBA.

I became a researcher

At Zimbabwe's National AIDS Council, I worked as a public-health researcher.

I analysed a decade of HIV-testing data.

I evaluated Sista2Sista, asking whether mentorship was actually changing outcomes for adolescent girls and young women.

I investigated a hospital-acquired neonatal-sepsis outbreak.

That research was selected for international presentation and received the Jeffrey P. Koplan Award for Excellence in Scientific Poster Presentation.

There was the storyteller again.

Except now the stories were being told through epidemiological data.

I spent years fighting HIV and tuberculosis

HIV and TB became a substantial part of my professional life.

I worked with the National Tuberculosis Programme.

I worked on childhood TB.

TB and diabetes.

TB and HIV.

Preventive treatment.

Drug-resistant TB.

Community screening.

Mobile X-ray and laboratory services.

Mental health and TB.

I helped train health workers and develop national guidance. I contributed to the Childhood TB Desk Guide, TB/diabetes guidance and Zimbabwe's TB and Leprosy Management Guidelines.

I moved through technical leadership roles at The Union, Zimbabwe Health Interventions and eventually Union Zimbabwe Trust.

At Zimbabwe Health Interventions, I helped lead HIV care and treatment work across nine districts, supervising multidisciplinary teams and supporting services from the national level right down to health facilities and communities.

Eventually I became Technical Director of Union Zimbabwe Trust.

I led teams.

I supervised research.

I worked with government.

I helped design programmes.

I worked with donors.

I helped lead technical efforts that secured tens of millions of US dollars for health programmes, including US$29 million for SUPPORT TB and multimillion-dollar funding for other projects.

Little boarding-school storyteller Stee somehow ended up helping shape national health programmes.

Life is funny like that.

And while I was building a career, I was building a life

I fell in love.

I married.

And I had two weddings.

Same man.

Again, an important detail for the archival record. 😂

I became a mother.

And motherhood changed the story.

Not only because I loved my children.

But because bringing life into the world nearly cost me mine.

I experienced severe childbirth complications.

I was hospitalised.

I eventually underwent a hysterectomy.

There was a point at which death was not an abstraction.

I had come frighteningly close to it.

And somewhere in that terrible landscape came an encounter with Jesus that I would carry with me:

"Sithabiso, you are healed."

Yet survival did not mean everything immediately became well.

There was postnatal depression.

Anxiety.

Burnout.

There was the strange experience of being a doctor who was unwell.

A public-health professional who knew the terminology and still had to live inside the suffering.

A high-functioning woman who could continue appearing capable while things inside her were fragmented.

I knew how to help manage illness.

I had to learn how to heal.

So the doctor became the patient, and the expert became the seeker

I went to therapy.

I received Christian counselling.

I found community.

I prayed.

I read.

I questioned.

I searched.

And, being me, I collected frameworks. Quite a few frameworks. 😂

The Enneagram.

Internal Family Systems.

Sacred Pathways.

Stages of faith.

Mental-health science.

Contemplative spirituality.

Spiritual direction.

Ignatian spirituality.

I became fascinated not only with what makes people sick, but with what makes human beings whole.

Not only bodies.

People.

Not only populations.

Souls.

Not only interventions.

Stories.

And strangely, the different versions of my life began meeting each other.

The doctor and the storyteller.

The scientist and the contemplative.

The public-health specialist and the woman who had suffered.

The African woman and the student of psychological frameworks largely developed elsewhere.

The Christian and the relentlessly curious questioner.

The achiever and the woman learning to rest.

Women began gathering again

In 2019, I started AfroFemme from my own lived experience.

It grew into an online peer-support community of women, eventually numbering in the thousands.

This was not entirely new behaviour.

I had been gathering girls since boarding school.

Only now nobody needed to wait until lights out.

Then came Afriwellness.

I founded it as a space for mental wellness, counselling, workplace programmes, training and the work of helping people become whole. It eventually served individuals and organisations and built a network of counsellors and therapists.

I counselled.

I facilitated.

I spoke.

I taught.

I made content.

I returned to writing.

I built communities.

I developed programmes.

I stood in corporate rooms talking about mental health.

I sat with individual people in pain.

I became a TikTok creator after failing to invent TikTok in 2011, which feels like a particularly unnecessary plot twist.

And eventually, all the fragments started becoming Brave Work

I began writing a book.

Brave Work.

It became part memoir, part psychology, part spiritual formation, part evidence, part story and part invitation.

Of course it did.

Because apparently I was never going to write a normal book.

I developed the Brave Work framework, bringing together self-awareness, mental-health literacy, Internal Family Systems, spiritual pathways and the movement toward courageous wholeness. It was eventually piloted in cohorts and incorporated into Afriwellness's work.

Then I discovered another kind of work

I became increasingly contemplative.

Less interested in simply knowing things about God.

More interested in knowing God.

I discovered Ignatian spirituality.

Imaginative prayer.

Discernment.

Consolation and desolation.

The loving gaze of God.

And eventually I found myself accompanying other women through the Ignatian Journey.

Sitting with them.

Listening.

Asking questions.

Watching for movements of God.

Not fixing.

Not diagnosing.

Not presenting a PowerPoint.

Just accompanying.

And something in me came alive.

After one set of accompaniment sessions, I was physically exhausted and internally certain:

I could do this forever.

Perhaps that is one of the strangest contrasts in my life.

I have helped lead projects worth millions of dollars.

And I have discovered profound satisfaction sitting quietly with one woman while she notices what is happening between herself and God.

Both are part of my life.

I have always lived in unlikely combinations

I am Zimbabwean, formed partly by East Africa.

A doctor who became fascinated by the soul.

A scientist who loves metaphor.

A public-health specialist who loves one-to-one accompaniment.

A strategist who loves contemplation.

An Enneagram Three learning that she does not have to earn her existence.

A woman who can discuss TB epidemiology and imaginative prayer without finding the transition particularly strange.

A Christian who asks many questions.

An African woman interested in ancient Christian spiritual practices and modern psychology.

A writer who became a doctor who became a public-health leader who became a mental-wellness entrepreneur who returned to writing.

A woman who loves evidence...

and mystery.

Achievement...

and rest.

Stages...

and silence.

Frameworks...

perhaps too much.

I have been a blogger, YouTuber and TikToker.

A researcher and storyteller.

A counsellor and technical director.

A wife and mother.

A speaker and listener.

A leader and learner.

A woman who has survived things.

A woman who has started things.

A woman who has abandoned things.

A woman whose ideas sometimes worked spectacularly and sometimes never made it to screen.

And perhaps that is why I am writing this down

Not so that you will think your grandmother was impressive.

Please don't reduce my life to that.

Achievement was one of the great languages of my life, but I eventually learned that it could not tell me who I was.

I am writing this because a human life is astonishingly particular.

We forget.

We remember ourselves according to our current season and lose all the previous versions.

I had almost forgotten the girl telling stories after lights out.

The teenager passing handwritten chapters around school.

The fourteen-year-old author of the world's magnificently titled Kids Krunch Kornflakes Competition.

The university student doing first year for the third time.

The medical student producing a movie.

The Minister of Social Affairs throwing events.

The young African woman moving between countries.

The would-be tech founder.

The documentary maker whose documentary nobody saw.

The doctor on hospital wards.

The researcher standing beside her scientific poster.

The mother in a hospital bed.

The woman who nearly died.

The woman who lived.

The woman who struggled afterward.

The woman who found help.

The woman who gathered other women.

The woman who built things.

The woman who kept asking questions.

The woman who eventually discovered that perhaps she did not need to become someone else at all.

She needed to come home.

And there is something I hope you will learn much earlier than I did.

Do not despise the strange combination of things God puts inside you.

You may not understand how they belong together.

I certainly didn't.

I could not have explained how storytelling after lights out, medicine in Uganda, a failed Kenyan media startup, HIV research, motherhood, near-death, depression, TB programmes, therapy, the Enneagram, African womanhood and TikTok belonged in one life.

Perhaps they don't need to.

A life is not a CV.

It does not need every line to support the same job application.

Some things become vocation.

Some become wisdom.

Some become scars.

Some become stories.

Some become expertise.

Some become inside jokes.

Some are simply evidence that you were here.

You tried things.

You went places.

You loved people.

You made things.

You got things wrong.

You began again.

You survived.

You changed.

You became.

And underneath all those changing versions of yourself was a life held by God.

So when you think of me one day, don't only remember whatever I eventually became known for.

Remember that I contained multitudes.

Remember the contradictions.

Remember the unfinished projects.

Remember the ridiculous ideas.

Remember Thumb Generation.

Please, somebody remember Thumb Generation.

Remember the doctor and the storyteller.

Remember the ambition and the surrender.

Remember the woman who almost died and then became deeply interested in what it meant to be fully alive.

Remember that long before I had language like wholeness, I was already collecting pieces of a life that would one day teach me what the word meant.

And if you inherit anything from me, I hope you inherit this permission:

Live your own gloriously particular life.

Do not spend all of it trying to make the pieces look sensible.

Follow God.

Pay attention.

Stay curious.

Tell good stories.

Make things.

Love people.

Come home when you lose yourself.

And every once in a while, stop long enough to look at the strange, beautiful inventory of your own existence and say:

"Father... You really had fun making me."

I think He did.

And I am very glad He did.

Maybe It Was Never Meant to Be Water

2026-09-24T00:32:20.133-07:00

At the end of this month, I lose my job.

There. That's the sentence.

I have known it was coming for a while. The American humanitarian and health assistance that has sustained so much of the work I have been part of is wrapping up, and so, apparently, is this particular chapter of my career.

I would love to tell you that I have responded like a deeply surrendered Christian woman. Prayerful. Serene. Hands open. “Jehovah Jireh.”

Lol.

Instead, my brain has been doing spreadsheets.

What about school? What about the kids? What about the projects we have invested in as a family? What if those don't work? What if I don't find another stable job? What if the ministry doesn't become financially sustainable? What if this book I keep talking about never really becomes anything?

Underneath all those very sensible adult questions is a simpler one: Will we be okay?

And, if I am really honest, another one: Will I be okay?

Because my job has not just been a job. It has been evidence. Evidence that I am safe, employable, respectable. Evidence that even while I wander into these strange callings involving mental health, ministry, writing and helping women become whole, there is still something solid holding the whole operation together. A salary. A contract. A proper job. Something my nervous system can understand.

Then this week I was reading John 4, the woman at the well, and Jesus says, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again.”

I have read that passage many times, but this time I heard something different: Stee, you keep asking things to be water.

Ouch.

Let me feel secure because I have a stable job. Let me feel worthy because my children are in a good private school. Let me feel significant because I publish a book. Let me know I am actually called because the ministry succeeds. Let me know the future is safe because our family projects work out.

None of these things are bad. I am not about to withdraw my children from school, abandon financial planning and announce that budgets are idolatry. Please. I am African. We will budget. 😂

The problem is not the thing. It is what I quietly ask the thing to give me.

Security. Worth. Significance. Safety.

That is a lot of work for a job description.

That reflection took me to Jeremiah 2:13, where God says His people have forsaken “the spring of living water” and dug for themselves “broken cisterns that cannot hold water.”

I realised that although I had heard the phrase broken cisterns many times, I had never really thought about what a cistern was. So obviously, I Googled it.

A cistern is a man-made structure for collecting and storing water, often hidden underground. Sometimes all you see above ground is a lid, while underneath sits this large concrete chamber holding the water you have gathered.

And I thought...oh.

That is exactly what I do.

Somewhere underneath the visible architecture of my life, I build hidden storage systems for the things I thirst for. Enough money to feel safe. Enough career stability to relax. Enough achievement to feel significant. Enough success in my children to reassure me that I am a good mother. Enough fruit in ministry to prove that God really called me.

And the difficult thing is that cisterns can work.

The salary really did make me feel secure. Achievement really can make me feel significant. Savings can calm my anxiety. A good school can reassure me about my children.

There is water there.

The problem is that Jesus says we will thirst again.

The contract ends. The project stalls. The school fees go up. The praise fades. The book doesn't do what I hoped it would do. And before I know it, I am looking around for another cistern.

Maybe the business.

Maybe the book.

Maybe Afriwellness.

Maybe the next job.

Quick. Find another cistern. 😂

And this is the part that has really stayed with me: cisterns require labour.

You build them. Maintain them. Monitor them. Make sure there is enough.

If success makes me significant, I have to keep succeeding. If my career makes me safe, I have to keep the career. If ministry success proves that God called me, every quiet season becomes a crisis. The very thing I built to give me rest starts demanding more work from me.

And then there is Jesus, offering living water.

The contrast is so simple I almost missed it.

A cistern is built.

Living water is received.

That word has been sitting with me because I am very good at building. I can work, plan, strategise, produce, make another plan and, if necessary, colour-code it. 😂

Receiving is harder.

Receiving means I cannot manufacture certainty. I cannot store up enough security that I will never need God again. I cannot demand that He give me today's bread plus the business plan for the bakery for the next ten years.

I have to come back and drink.

Maybe that is the invitation of this season. Not to stop caring about school fees, our projects, the book or ministry. Not to stop planning wisely. But to let those things become things again.

Let the job be a job. Let school be school. Let the book be a book. Let ministry be service. Let money be provision.

And stop asking good things to do God's job.

The job is still ending. I still don't know exactly what comes next. I still worry about my children and our finances, and I still have moments when I wonder whether I am remotely good enough for the ministry I find myself in.

But maybe the future is not mine to grasp onto.

I have living water today.

Not water I have stored up somewhere in case God runs out tomorrow. 😂 Living water. Free-flowing. A spring that Jesus says wells up within me and produces life.

That is an infinite source of peace. I can get my security there.

What a cheat code!

I don't have to build enough, earn enough, save enough or achieve enough to finally feel safe. I can receive what is here today as gift. The work. The provision. The opportunities. The children. The book. The ministry. Even this strange uncertain season.

All gift. None of it Source.

Perhaps that is what freedom looks like for me now. Open hands instead of clenched ones. Receiving instead of storing. Trusting the fountain instead of anxiously checking the cistern.

The future is not mine to store up.

There is living water today.

And I receive it.

The Greater Pearl - Reviving My Storytelling from When I was 16

2026-09-21T15:52:45.480-07:00

Mandla found something oddly unsettling about her indifference.

Not in a troubling way. It was not coldness, and it was not punishment. Chichi had tried both of those before. This was something else. It was the kind of peace which meant she didn’t need him.

He had been married to Chichi for four years and she had never not needed his approval.

She needed him to notice her hair. To tell her the dress looked good. To laugh at the story she had already told twice because the first time he had been scrolling through his phone. She needed him to say the food was good, that she was beautiful, that he was happy, that they were okay.

Even when they were not okay, she needed him to say they were.

Especially then.

There had always been something almost desperate in the way she watched him. He had not noticed it at first. Or perhaps he had noticed it and liked it.

That possibility made him uncomfortable.

There was power in being needed.

He had never said that aloud, of course. He was not some villain from one of those Korean films she watched on Sunday afternoons. He loved his wife.

He did.

But he had become accustomed to being the weather in their home.

If Mandla was happy, Chichi relaxed. If Mandla was irritated, she became careful. If he was distant, she found a reason to cross the room and touch him. If he withdrew, she followed.

Until now.

Now, sometimes, he withdrew and Chichi simply... let him go.

The first time it happened, he had been almost offended.

They had argued about something so insignificant he could no longer remember what it was. He had done what he always did when he was tired of talking. He had picked up his keys.

"I'm going out."

Usually, that sentence changed her face.

Where?

With who?

When are you coming back?

And then the argument beneath the argument.

Are you choosing them over me again?

But that night she had only looked at him.

"Okay."

Okay?

He had stood by the door longer than necessary.

She had already returned to her book.

"You don't want to know where I'm going?"

She looked up, mildly surprised.

"You said you're going out."

"Yes."

"So... go out."

There had been no sarcasm in it. That was the worst part.

He went.

Of course he went.

He found Panda and the others at their usual spot, and for a few hours he tried very hard to remember why this had once felt like freedom.

The music was loud. The whisky was generous. One of them had made a big deal with some Chinese investors. He ordered another bottle no one needed. Panda was telling the same story about the girl from Bulawayo, embellishing it more each time, and Mandla laughed because everyone else laughed.

At eleven thirty he was warm.

At midnight he was brilliant.

By one, everybody loved everybody.

By two, they were shouting over music about politics and money and women and football and which one of them had changed since getting married.

It was familiar.

There had been a time when Mandla could disappear into nights like this.

Drink until the sharp edges softened. Laugh until nothing mattered. Come home smelling of smoke and expensive whisky and questionable decisions. Crawl into bed beside Chichi, who would be angry but relieved he had returned.

Then wake up thirsty and vaguely ashamed and do it again the following weekend.

Abandon.

That was what he missed.

Not even the alcohol, if he was truthful.

The permission to abandon himself.

To be nobody's husband. Nobody's son. Nobody's employee. Nobody's disappointment.

Just Mandla.

Or whatever version of Mandla emerged after the fourth drink.

He missed him sometimes.

But lately even that man was becoming difficult to find.

Because somewhere between the second and third whisky, he would think of Chichi at home.

Not waiting.

That was the strange thing.

He did not imagine her pacing.

He imagined her asleep.

Or reading.

Or sitting in that ridiculous corner she had made by the bedroom window with the cream chair, the candle and the Bible with so many notes stuffed into it that it could barely close.

Sometimes he woke early and found her there.

Barefoot. Wrapped in her old purple gown. No makeup. In that bonnet that needed to be retired.

Doing nothing.

That was what confused him most.

Sometimes she wasn't even reading the Bible.

She was just sitting there.

"What do you do there?" he had asked once.

"With God?"

"Yes."

She had thought about it.

"Nothing."

He laughed. "Very productive."

She smiled.

"I think that's the point."

He had rolled his eyes and gone to shower.

But the answer followed him.

Nothing.

Mandla did not know how to do nothing.

Nothing was where the thoughts lived.

Nothing was where questions waited.

Nothing was where you might discover that the life you had built so carefully was not actually a life you wanted.

Better to keep moving.

Work.

Hustle.

Friends.

Football.

Whisky.

Sex.

Noise.

There were many respectable ways for a man to avoid his own soul.

And Mandla had mastered most of them.

But Chichi was becoming quiet.

Not silent.

Quiet.

There was a difference.

Silence had always been one of her weapons. Quiet was something she seemed to inhabit now.

She laughed more easily. Apologised less unnecessarily. She had stopped explaining herself to death.

Even her prayers had changed.

He remembered how she used to pray over him in bed when she thought he was asleep.

Lord, change Mandla.

Lord, help Mandla.

Lord, make Mandla understand.

Lord, bring Mandla closer to You.

He used to lie there irritated, feeling like a project God and his wife had secretly agreed to work on together.

She didn't pray like that anymore.

At least not where he could hear.

And strangely, he missed it.

He missed being pursued.

More than that, he hated that some part of him had expected her faith to make her smaller.

More submissive, perhaps. Softer. Easier.

Instead it had made her free.

That was inconvenient.

Because Mandla understood how to deal with an unhappy wife.

You bought Nandos. Or KFC.

You went on date night.

You apologised without fully admitting wrongdoing.

You made love.

You behaved well for two weeks.

You reset the clock.

But what did you do with a woman who had found something you could not buy her?

Something you could not threaten to take away?

Something that seemed to make her more herself rather than less?

He watched her sometimes and felt an emotion he did not have a name for.

It was not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Hunger, perhaps.

That irritated him even more.

Because Mandla had questions.

Too many.

He had watched Christians lie.

Watched pastors get rich while women sold tomatoes outside their churches.

Watched people pray for healing and die anyway.

He had buried a Sekuru whose faith could have powered the whole of Harare, and no amount of fasting had kept cancer from eating through him.

He had seen Chichi herself nearly break.

Where had God been then?

And now she spoke about Him as if He had been there all along.

That was the part Mandla could not accept.

Or perhaps could not yet understand.

One night he found her in the kitchen drinking tea.

It was after midnight.

He had come home sober.

That had been happening more often lately, although he had told no one.

Chichi looked up.

"Hey Babe."

"Yo."

There was no interrogation. No inspection of his eyes. No attempt to smell his breath disguised as a kiss.

She moved her mug aside and continued reading.

Mandla opened the fridge.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

There was nothing he wanted.

"Are you happy?"

Chichi looked up.

The question seemed to surprise both of them.

"What?"

"Are you happy?"

She considered it seriously.

Not the way people did when they wanted to reassure you.

"I think I'm becoming whole."

He leaned against the counter.

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed once. "Helpful."

She smiled.

Then she looked at him in that new way of hers.

Not through him.

Not up at him.

At him.

"I think I spent a long time trying to make you give me things you were never supposed to give me."

His jaw tightened.

"Like what?"

"Identity. Safety. Worth."

He looked away.

"Sounds like I've been the worst husband."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Mandla."

There it was.

His name without accusation.

He hated how quickly his defences rose around tenderness.

She reached across the table, then stopped before touching him.

That small restraint nearly undid him.

"I love you," she said. "But I think I made you too important."

He stared at her.

Any other woman saying those words might have sounded cruel.

From Chichi, they sounded like confession.

"I wanted you to be God for me," she continued quietly. "And you were never going to survive that."

Something in his chest shifted.

He looked down at the floor.

"And now?"

"Now I want you to be Mandla."

He swallowed.

"And that's enough?"

Her eyes softened.

"Yes."

He wanted to believe her.

God, he wanted to believe her.

Because there was a strange mercy in the possibility that he did not have to be everything.

But there was terror in it too.

If Chichi no longer needed him to hold her together, then she was free to see him clearly.

And if she saw him clearly...

Would she still choose him?

He pulled out the chair opposite her.

She said nothing.

That was another thing she had learned.

She no longer filled every silence.

For a while, Mandla watched the steam rise from her tea.

Then, quietly, almost resentfully, he said, "I think I want what you have."

Chichi did not smile.

He was grateful for that.

She did not turn it into a moment.

Did not say, I knew it.

Did not reach for her Bible.

She only waited.

"But I don't think I can become..." He gestured vaguely toward her. "This."

"This?"

"You know. Christian."

That made her laugh.

"You've been calling yourself Christian since I met you."

"You know what I mean."

She did.

He could see it.

"I still like drinking."

"Okay."

"I still like going out."

"Okay."

"I don't want to become one of those men who starts every sentence with 'the Lord told me.'"

She laughed harder now.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"And I have questions."

"Good."

"No, Chi. Real questions."

"I know."

"Questions people in church don't like."

Her laughter disappeared.

"Then don't ask people who are afraid of questions."

He looked at her.

She lifted her mug.

"Mandla, God is not frightened of you."

The sentence landed somewhere deeper than he wanted it to.

He looked away.

Outside, a dog barked somewhere beyond the wall. A car moved along the road and disappeared into the night.

"What if I can't change?"

There.

Finally.

The question beneath all the questions.

Chichi was quiet for so long he almost regretted asking.

Then she said, "What if that's not where you start?"

He frowned.

"Where do I start?"

She looked at him.

"With wanting Him."

Mandla stared at the table.

Wanting Him.

Was that enough?

Because Mandla did not want holiness.

Not yet.

He did not want discipline or early morning Bible studies or accountability groups with men called Brother Something.

He wanted whisky sometimes.

He wanted loud music.

He wanted the old recklessness.

He wanted nights where nobody asked anything of him.

He wanted Jesus too.

And perhaps that was the most uncomfortable truth of all.

He wanted both.

The old abandon and whatever Chichi had found.

But somewhere inside him, beneath the arguments and cynicism and habits he had defended as personality, Mandla already knew they were not equal things.

One was escape.

The other was freedom.

One emptied him.

The other, somehow, had filled his wife without making her full of herself.

He looked at Chichi again.

There was no hunger in her face for his answer.

No desperation.

She was not trying to win his soul.

She was simply sitting there, loved.

Mandla thought suddenly of the scripture his grandmother used to quote when he was a boy. Something about a merchant who found a pearl so valuable that everything else became cheap beside it.

Matthew 13: 45-46

He had always thought that sounded excessive.

Sell everything for one pearl?

Terrible business.

But looking at his wife now, Mandla understood it differently.

The man had not been foolish.

He had simply recognised value.

That was the trouble.

Mandla was beginning to recognise it too.

And once a man knew which treasure was greater, it became much harder to pretend the lesser one was enough.

TO BE CONTINUED

Is American Support Really Leaving Zimbabwe?

2026-08-26T07:04:44.360-07:00

I am sitting in a meeting planning for the close-out of US Government-supported programmes in Zimbabwe.

Even writing that sentence feels strange.

For more than two decades, American funding has been woven into Zimbabwe's development and health response. HIV. TB. Malaria. Maternal and child health. Food security. Orphans and vulnerable children. Adolescents. Reproductive health. Humanitarian assistance. Education.

An entire generation of development workers has grown up inside this ecosystem.

And now, we are sitting in meetings discussing how to close parts of it down.

I am not a political analyst.

I cannot give you the sophisticated geopolitical analysis of how we arrived here. I cannot tell you who should have conceded what, or give you a technical model predicting exactly how many lives will be affected.

But I am a witness.

I have sat in the meetings.

I have watched programmes move from PowerPoint presentations into communities.

I have seen healthcare workers trained, medicines delivered, systems strengthened and people who would otherwise have fallen through the cracks receive care.

I have seen communities grateful for programmes most Americans will probably never know their taxes helped fund.

I have seen lives saved.

And so I cannot quite believe that this is where we are.

Behind the Acronyms Are People

Development work has a language of its own.

We say sustainability.

We say domestic resource mobilisation.

We say transition.

We say country ownership.

We say localisation.

Important words. Necessary words.

But sometimes they roll off our tongues far more easily than the actions required to make them real.

Because somewhere beneath every budget line is a person.

There is a little girl living with HIV who needs her lifesaving treatment.

There is a miner who developed TB after years of working underground and needs diagnosis, treatment and follow-up.

There is a pregnant woman whose nearest health facility has benefited from years of investment in maternal health.

There is an adolescent who needs somewhere safe to ask questions about their health.

There is a family whose survival through a drought depends on humanitarian assistance.

And eventually somebody has to explain what "transition" means to them.

That is the part that keeps bothering me.

And Then There Are the People Who Did the Work

There is another group we do not talk about enough.

The workforce.

Thousands of Zimbabweans have given some of the best years of their professional lives to development work.

Doctors who could have gone into private practice.

Nurses.

Public health specialists.

Researchers.

Monitoring and evaluation experts.

Finance teams.

Drivers.

Counsellors.

Community health workers.

Programme managers.

Data scientists.

Pharmacists.

People who became extraordinarily good at solving difficult problems with limited resources.

Many chose service when their skills could have earned them considerably more elsewhere.

What happens to all that human capital?

Some will change careers.

Some will build businesses.

Some will move into private practice.

Some will leave Zimbabwe.

And perhaps, quietly, we will lose some of our brightest minds precisely when we need them most.

How Did We Get Here?

The global development world is changing.

That much is undeniable.

The era in which wealthy countries indefinitely financed large portions of health and development systems in poorer countries was probably always going to change.

Perhaps it needed to.

Zimbabwe must ultimately build systems capable of caring for Zimbabweans.

We need greater domestic financing. Stronger institutions. Better accountability. More local philanthropy. A private sector that sees investment in health as nation-building. Governments willing to put meaningful resources behind the word sustainability.

Perhaps this moment will force us to build differently.

But transitions matter.

You cannot remove a pillar from a house and simply announce that the house must now become sustainable.

Someone has to hold up the roof.

And Right Now, I Am Grieving

Maybe that is what this is.

Grief.

Grief for programmes ending.

Grief for colleagues whose futures suddenly feel uncertain.

Grief for communities who may never understand the diplomatic decisions being made thousands of kilometres away from them.

Grief because somewhere between governments, policies, negotiations and disagreements are ordinary Zimbabweans who simply need healthcare.

And I keep wondering:

Will Zimbabwe rise to meet the gap that is being left behind?

I desperately hope so.

I hope this becomes the moment we finally take domestic financing seriously.

I hope our private sector steps forward.

I hope Zimbabwean philanthropy grows.

I hope our diaspora sees nation-building differently.

I hope the extraordinary professionals trained through decades of development investment take everything they have learned and build something new here.

But I also hope it is not too late for another conversation.

So I Am Asking You to Pray

I don't know what will happen next.

But I believe in prayer.

So if you are reading this, please pray for Zimbabwe.

Pray for wisdom for those sitting around negotiating tables.

Pray that pride, politics and power do not become more important than people.

Pray that hearts soften.

Pray that another conversation becomes possible.

Pray for the people currently closing programmes they have spent years building.

Pray for the healthcare workers wondering what comes next.

Pray for the patients who do not know that somewhere, in some boardroom, decisions are being made that may eventually reach the clinic where they collect their medicine.

And pray for our country.

Because perhaps this is also a moment of reckoning for us.

For decades, others have helped carry part of the load.

If they leave, what will we build in their place?

Maybe something will still change.

I pray that it does.

Because after witnessing what more than two decades of American health and development assistance has meant on the ground, I shudder to think about what happens if it simply disappears.

And somewhere beneath all the politics, agreements, acronyms and dollar figures is a much simpler question:

Who will take care of the people?

May God give us an answer.

A Home for Nozi

2026-08-08T23:58:46.120-07:00

I went into healthcare and mental health because I wanted to help people live fuller lives. I just never imagined that one day, some of that work would involve bricks, concrete and floor plans.

My husband and I build houses. Cluster homes, to be specific.

We are slightly obsessed with utilising minimum space in a maximum and beautiful way. People in this country urgently need accommodation, and as our cities grow, we have had to rethink what home can look like. Sometimes that means smaller spaces, shared developments and making much better use of the land we already have.

The more we build, though, the more I realise that construction is not really just a construction business. It is a people business.

It is about the relationships you have with service providers, approvers, partners and clients. It is about bringing all those individual pieces together to make something possible. We do not have the kind of capital the big construction companies enjoy, so for us, relationships, creativity and resourcefulness matter.

Our first build was the home we live in.

It was sketched on a napkin in a restaurant.

Yes, that kind of dream.

And then somehow we watched God's miraculous hand bring the resources together. Through people. Through banks. Through selling cars we had built. Through one provision after another.

Eventually, an L-shaped culmination of our imagination stood where there had once just been an idea on a napkin.

But alongside our home, we built two small, self-contained townhouses, each with its own wall and gate. The idea was simple. We could have tenants or use them as Airbnbs and create another stream of income.

As it turns out, the greatest use of one of those townhouses had nothing to do with Airbnb.

Almost a year ago, we agreed to offer one of them to Washy's sister, Nozi.

Nozi was born blind.

Living with a disability can be challenging anywhere, but particularly in a country and culture where disability can still mean being hidden, unexplained, overprotected and made vulnerable. The idea of a blind person living independently is still unusual enough to make people nervous.

But that is exactly what this home means to Nozi.

Independence.

It is a compact two-bedroom flat with a small garden, kitchen and lounge, adapted so that she can navigate it comfortably. And what has been incredible to watch is just how completely she has made the space her own.

She cooks.

She hosts.

She works.

One bedroom doubles as her study, gym and spare bedroom. The other is simply her bedroom, her own private place to sleep and rest.

These things may sound ordinary.

That is precisely the point.

This townhouse is not just a home. It is a small change in the narrative that says people with disabilities have no hope of a full, independent life.

And perhaps it has changed another narrative too.

The one about a tete and a muroora.

Nozi and I have been given the opportunity to live close to each other, not through obligation or hierarchy, but through mutual respect and friendship. The three of us have developed a unique kind of togetherness that somehow just feels right.

Someone once said that love is a person who makes you more of who you are.

I love that.

Because perhaps that is what this home has given Nozi. Not a place for us to look after her, but a place for her to be more fully herself.

She is caring. Nurturing. Hospitable. Independent. Capable.

Having her own home has given her room to access and express all those parts of herself.

And maybe that is what a good home is supposed to do for all of us.

We are still building.

Still learning.

Still trying to create pieces of independence and spaces where people can make a life.

I think what makes us different is authenticity and building with heart. We know what it is to build without endless capital. We know what it is to imagine something before you have all the resources to make it happen. We know that behind every floor plan is an actual person who will wake up there, cook there, fight there, laugh there, raise children there, host people there and call it home.

And if we can create a space where a blind woman can live independently and flourish, we can think creatively about a space that works for you too.

Through Mokana Construction, we have now completed all sorts of projects... butcheries, pool houses, durawalls, driveways, flats, townhouses, kitchens and bathrooms. Renovations or building from scratch. Your plan or ours.

But increasingly, I don't think of us as simply building structures.

We are providing little pieces of home for the modern Zimbabwean.

And writing this, I have just realised something.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we have the honour of giving is being allowed into that vulnerable space between someone's dream of a home and the day they finally stand inside it.

To be part of someone's journey towards home.

Especially one as special as Nozi's.

And perhaps we can be part of yours too.

If you are looking for a place to call home, Mokana Construction currently has flats coming up in Strathaven. To find out more about the available units, contact us on 0772816526.

Affordable gem at 29 on Suffolk

There Is a Third Way

2026-07-28T01:18:07.123-07:00

For the last little while, one phrase has followed me everywhere.

God keeps His promises.

It came through devotions, the Bible, prayer...the same gentle reassurance over and over again.

God keeps His word.

The strange thing was, I didn't know which promise He was talking about. I've had so many Words in the last few years, I didn't know which one specifically was being referred to. Which breakthrough? Which outcome was being promised? So the words comforted me, but I couldn't quite place them.

Then, slowly, something else began to emerge. Maybe it was not a promise about something happening. But a promise about a way.

We usually think there are only two options.

There is the life we have: It pays the bills. It is sensible. Stable. Responsible. Maybe we've been there for years because we need the money. Maybe because we don't yet have the qualifications to leave. Maybe because it is what everyone expected of us. Maybe because it is simply what we know.

It isn't terrible.

But it isn't alive either.

So we endure it.

Then there is the second way: The beautiful alternative. The dream. The purpose we've imagined. The work that seems to fit our gifts. The business we'd build. The book we'd write. The ministry we'd begin. The place where we imagine finally feeling like ourselves.

It is exciting.

It is frightening.

It feels uncertain.

So we go between surviving our current reality and fantasising about another one.

One life frustrates us.

The other seduces us.

I have realised there is another possibility.

There is a third way.

The third way isn't something I invent. It isn't something I strive for. I don't even think I choose it. It finds me. When it arrives, something extraordinary happens. It feels less like discovering something new and more like remembering someone I have always known. It fits with startling familiarity. Like greeting an old friend I have somehow never met. The third way doesn't demand that I become someone else.

It simply reveals who I have always been.

It gathers together gifts that have quietly existed all along.

Things that have always come naturally.

Things I never thought counted because they felt too effortless.

It is almost like dancing. The dance partner lifts me so gently that I forget my own weight. There is movement and work. There is surrender. Yet somehow there is no striving.

Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when He said, "My yoke is easy and my burden is light." Not because there is no work but because I am finally carrying the work I was created to carry.

The hardest part is probably waiting. The third way cannot be forced. Sometimes waiting means saying no to perfectly good opportunities. It could means declining counterfeit versions of the life that fit but are not yours. Not because they are bad. But because they are not yours!

Waiting has become one of the holiest things I know.

Not passive waiting.

Not sitting on the sofa hoping life happens.

But becoming the sort of person who can recognise the invitation when it comes.

So the big question is what does waiting look like?

It looks like practising the rhythms that already make your soul come alive.

Not performing.

Not hustling.

Not escaping.

Simply becoming more yourself in God.

For one person that may be writing before there is a platform to post to or publishing company asking.

For another, creating beautiful spaces even when there is no one to share them with.

For someone else, listening deeply to hurting people long before they ever called it counselling.

It may be walking slowly with God each morning. Without a devotional practice or curated playlist.

Cooking your best meals even when there are no guests.

Teaching children stuff that is not in the school curriculum.

Building businesses that help others even if they need the miracle of investors who believe with you.

Making art for art's sake.

Studying ideas.

Growing gardens.

Praying quietly.

Encouraging strangers.

The point is not the activity. The point is the life that quietly rises inside you while you do it. Not adrenaline or performance or applause.

Joy.

The kind your body recognises before your mind does.

We've become experts at escape.

We think what we need is another holiday.

Another weekend away.

Another glass of wine.

Another shopping trip.

Another episode.

Some more money.

Another distraction.

Sometimes rest is necessary.

But sometimes what we call self-care is simply temporary relief from living outside the life we were made for.

What we actually long for is alignment.

To live from the deepest place where God formed us.

To stop performing versions of ourselves that exhaust us.

To discover the life where our soul finally exhales.

Perhaps this is the promise.

Not that God guarantees every dream we have imagined.

But that He faithfully leads us into the life He imagined first.

His promise is not simply that He gets us somewhere.

It is that He never stops leading.

Perhaps we spend too much of life choosing between frustration and fantasy.

God offers another way.

The third way.

The invitation is not to chase it nor to manufacture it. It cannot be controlled. It can only be received.

So wait.

Practise the effortless rhythms that are already true of you.

Become deeply rooted in the person God is quietly forming.

Trust His covenant more than your timeline.

When the third way comes...and I believe it will...you won't have to force yourself into it. You will recognise it.

Because every fibre of your being will quietly whisper,

"I've been here all along."

What My Aunt's Death Left Behind

2026-07-11T20:18:17.278-07:00

This weekend we buried uNaTatji.

She was one of those women whose presence quietly held a family together. Gentle, yet strong. Cheerful. Curious. Loving.

She felt like home.

She was an anchor.

As we gathered under the bright blue Thekwane sky and stood around her grave, it felt like more than one person was being buried. It was as though we were grieving all our parents... those who have already gone before us, and those who are still here but have reached the age we quietly fear.

Something shifts when the generation above you begins to leave.

You realise that the foundation you have always stood on will not always be there.

You realise that you are becoming the adults.

One of the hardest parts of the weekend was watching the mantle being passed. We, the children, suddenly found ourselves organising, coordinating, making decisions, carrying responsibilities that had always belonged to our parents and aunties and uncles. Thankfully, the older generation was still there, gently guiding us. It wasn't a complete handover. It was a beautiful hybrid, wisdom leading while new hands learned to carry.

That transition was almost as emotional as the funeral itself.

Then there was another grief.

Diaspora.

Five of the six children now live outside Zimbabwe.

Ironically, it was uNaTatji herself who encouraged them to leave, long before Zimbabwe's great migration. Like so many parents, she wanted her children to have opportunities she could only dream of.

She succeeded. They flourished.

But every blessing carries a cost.

This weekend reminded us that sometimes migration doesn't only stretch families across continents. It stretches the moments that matter most - hospital visits, ordinary Sundays, and sometimes even goodbyes.

We are deeply grateful for the lives they have built. And at the same time, we felt the ache of loving each other across oceans.

Then there was the love story.

Watching my aunt and uncle love each other over a lifetime was sacred.

Their love wasn't romantic fiction. It was ordinary faithfulness... day after day, season after season. Choosing each other through the joys and through the impossibly difficult days that cancer brought.

Watching him let her go was heartbreaking.

And yet he stood there and, with remarkable courage, spoke ngamafitshane. He thanked her. He called her "the jewel of my life."

There wasn't a dry eye in that dusty gathering.

Even at the very end, their love did not stand alone. It was held by the next generation. My younger cousin became the primary caregiver to both her parents as illness slowly overtook them. Watching a daughter shoulder her parents with such quiet devotion was another kind of love story. One where love was not only shared between husband and wife, but faithfully passed on to their child.

Love looked like lifting.

Love looked like waiting.

Love looked like staying.

Cancer doesn't only affect the person diagnosed.

It quietly rearranges an entire family.

What has stayed with me most isn't only her death.

It's the life she lived with cancer.

Which leaves me asking a question I can't seem to shake.

What are we doing to save ourselves from cancer?

Our family has doctors, nurses, pharmacists, public health practitioners and other healthcare professionals.

And yet cancer still came into our home.

Knowledge alone is not enough.

Action matters.

Perhaps one small way to honour uNaTatji is to become far more intentional about prevention and early detection.

So this is my gentle nudge... to myself first.

If you are over 40, know what screening is recommended for you.

If you are a woman:

Schedule regular cervical cancer screening from age 25, or earlier if recommended.
Discuss mammograms with your healthcare provider from around age 40, especially if you have a family history of breast cancer.
Know your breasts. Report any new lump, skin changes, nipple discharge or persistent pain promptly.

If you are a man:

From around age 50, or from 45 if you have a higher risk such as a family history, discuss prostate cancer screening with your doctor.
Don't ignore urinary symptoms or unexplained weight loss.

For all of us:

A few simple things can significantly reduce your risk of cancer and other chronic diseases:
- If you smoke, do everything you can to stop. If you're younger, please don't start vaping. It may seem harmless, but nicotine is highly addictive, and we are still learning the full extent of the long-term damage vaping can do to the lungs.
- Limit alcohol. Not every weekend, celebration or stressful day needs a drink. Less really is better.
- Aim for a healthy weight. This is one of the biggest things you can do for your long-term health. If you have access to a healthcare professional who can safely prescribe and monitor medications like Ozempic or similar treatments, I support having that conversation. Obesity increases the risk of several cancers, diabetes and heart disease. Weight loss medications have risks, but for many people, the health risks of untreated obesity are greater.
- Move your body regularly. Ideally, every day. You don't have to become a marathon runner. Walk. Dance. Garden. Swim. Find movement you can sustain for life.
- Eat more foods that come from the ground than from a packet. Fill your plate with fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts and whole grains. Fry a little less. Grill or bake a little more. Choose brown over white when you can... brown rice, wholemeal bread and whole grains instead of refined carbohydrates.
- Protect your skin from excessive sun exposure. Sunscreen, hats and shade are not just fashion - they're prevention.
- Know your family's medical history. It tells an important story about your own health risks.
- Listen to your body. A persistent lump, unexplained weight loss, bleeding, a cough that won't go away, changes in your bowel habits or anything else that feels unusual deserves attention. Most cancers are far more treatable when they are found early.

In Zimbabwe, cancer screening is available through many public hospitals, private hospitals and specialist clinics. Ask your GP where to begin. If cost is a concern, enquire at your nearest government hospital, as screening programmes are sometimes available at reduced cost.

I'm also thinking of making a proposal to our family WhatsApp group.

Between us, we have enough medical expertise to answer questions, share reminders and encourage one another to actually book those appointments we keep postponing.

Because what is the point of working in public health if I cannot first serve my own public...

...my family?

I am broken by this loss.

But perhaps brokenness can become resolve.

Perhaps grief can become prevention.

Perhaps honouring her life means taking better care of our own.

I think uNaTatji would have liked that.

My Daddy Issues

2026-06-21T04:13:43.171-07:00

There was a day when suddenly my father became human.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to realize that the man I had quietly placed on a pedestal was, in fact, a man.

He let me down in a way I did not expect. I cannot even remember all the details now. What I do remember is how deeply it hurt.

I spent most of that season pretending I wasn't disappointed.

The rest of the time, I held on to bitterness.

Denial and unforgiveness are a dangerous combination. One refuses to acknowledge the wound. The other refuses to release it. Together, they create a burden that becomes so familiar you forget you're carrying it.

For years, I carried mine.

The first step was simply realizing it was there.

I had to admit that beneath my independence, beneath my competence, beneath my carefully curated "I'm fine," was a little girl who felt let down.

But the deeper truth was this: I had expected my father to be more than human.

I had held him to a standard no person could ever meet.

I expected him to be strong.

I expected him to always be there.

I expected him not to get sick.

And when he landed in ICU, I discovered just how much I had built my sense of security around him.

I was angry.

How could he do this?

How could he almost leave me?

How could he almost abandon me?

Of course, the rational part of me knew he hadn't chosen illness. Yet grief and fear are not rational companions. They reveal the expectations hidden beneath the surface.

My anger exposed mine.

I didn't just want a father.

I wanted a father who was invincible.

And there is no such thing.

Forgiveness came slowly.

Not because my father had to earn it, but because I had to release the fantasy of who I thought he should be.

I had to make peace with the fact that he was a human being carrying his own limitations, fears, weaknesses, and wounds.

Ironically, once I stopped seeing him as perfect, I could finally appreciate him properly.

I could see the gifts he gave me.

His silly sense of humour.

His friendliness.

His ability to stay on top of things.

His comfort with leisure and enjoyment.

The twinkle in his eye that could make almost any situation feel lighter.

I am, through and through, my father's daughter.

So much of who I am came from him.

The good and the not-so-good.

The warmth.

The curiosity.

The tendency to make people feel welcome.

And perhaps also the people-pleasing.

The desire to keep everyone happy.

The instinct to avoid disappointment and conflict.

As I've grown older, I've realized that inheritance is rarely neat. We receive strengths and shadows together. The work of adulthood is not rejecting either, but learning what to keep and what to heal.

Today, when I think of my father, I no longer think about the disappointment first.

I think about grace.

I think about a man who did many things well and some things imperfectly.

A man who loved me as best he could.

A man who was never meant to carry the weight of being my saviour.

Only God was ever meant to do that.

Maybe that is what growing up really is.

Not discovering that our parents are flawed.

But accepting that they always were... and loving them anyway.

My father became human.

And somehow, that made me love him more.

What Five Therapists Couldn't Give Me - Why Mental Health Is Only the Beginning

2026-05-30T22:55:42.324-07:00

I got into mental health work because I was looking for answers.

If I'm completely honest, it started with me wanting to feel better.

Of course, I wanted others to benefit too. But first, I was searching for relief. For understanding. For a way back to myself.

Like many people, I started where everyone tells you to start.

"Get counselling."

So I did.

The first counsellor I saw was at Harare Hospital. I remember walking into the office after a ward round, on my way to a locum shift. I approached the consultation room almost as if I were enquiring about a patient.

Then I had to admit that I was the patient.

She took me through what was essentially a problem-solving intervention. We listed the problems and explored practical solutions. It was helpful in a way. Most people never actually sit down and systematically think through their challenges. It was comforting to be heard. I made one or two changes.

Then I tried a psychologist at a reputable private practice.

She kept calling me "Doctor."

She raised her eyebrows at parts of my story.

At one point she said, "But you know these things, chiremba."

I remember feeling exposed rather than understood.

There was no safety in that room.

Knowledge is not the same thing as healing.

The third professional was a clinical psychologist.

She was aggressively on my team.

It was refreshing.

She listened deeply. She challenged gently. She gave me meaningful work to do between sessions. The only problem was the cost. The support was good, but it wasn't sustainable.

Then came the psychiatrist.

She was also a friend.

The sessions felt more like conversations than therapy. Eventually she prescribed antidepressants. The goal was to stabilise the anxiety while I continued with talk therapy and then slowly wean off the medication.

For a season, the medication helped.

The volume of everything was turned down.

I learnt that finding the right antidepressant can sometimes take trial and error. What works beautifully for one person may not work for another.

Then I met the fifth therapist.

And finally, I struck gold.

She was affordable. She was skilled. She never assumed I already knew the answers simply because I worked in healthcare.

She taught me tools.

She helped me get beneath symptoms and into root causes.

Sometimes she guided me to discoveries. Sometimes I arrived at them myself.

For the first time, I understood why people say that finding the right counsellor matters.

The right therapist doesn't create dependence.

The right therapist teaches you how to become your own safe place.

The right therapist equips you with tools you can carry for life.

For the first time, I felt mentally stronger.

Not because life had changed.

But because I had.

Alongside therapy, I found healing in community.

I started a peer support group for women.

The women shared their stories, and in sharing them, something sacred happened.

We realised we weren't alone.

This was long before AI-generated infographics and automated content. Every graphic was designed one by one. Every post was thought through carefully.

I spent countless hours reading, learning, creating and sharing.

Looking back, I've noticed something interesting.

Many mental health advocates enter this work because they are looking for answers too.

There is usually a story.

A wound.

A struggle.

A season that forced them to ask deeper questions.

You heal while helping others heal.

That's why when someone tells me they are passionate about mental health, I often wonder what their story is.

Because there is almost always a story.

Yet despite all the therapy, all the learning, all the advocacy, something still bothered me.

Much of mental health work seemed focused on pathology.

Finding what is broken.

Identifying what is wrong.

Assigning a diagnosis.

Treating the diagnosis.

While there is enormous value in this approach, it often felt incomplete.

The underlying message seemed to be:

"Look at how damaged you are."

And only once you fully accepted how damaged you were could healing begin.

But I kept wondering...

Surely there must be another way.

Surely the God who created the human mind had more to say about healing than simply cataloguing what was wrong.

Did He really design us to hate ourselves before we could change?

The Apostle Paul writes:

"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."

That word caught my attention.

Renewing.

To renew means to restore.

To refresh.

To bring something back to its original condition.

Back to its original settings.

And that raised a question.

What were the original settings?

Before the criticism.

Before the shame.

Before the rejection.

Before the trauma.

Before the masks.

Who was I originally?

The answer I kept returning to was simple.

Loved.

Created by Love.

Loved by God.

Designed with intention.

Made in His image.

The question was no longer, "What's wrong with me?"

The question became, "Who was I before life taught me to forget who I was?"

That is where the Enneagram became such an important map.

The Enneagram helped me separate my God-given essence from the survival strategies I had developed along the way.

It showed me that much of what I called my personality was actually protection.

Adaptation.

A way of staying safe.

For the first time, I could see the difference between who I truly was and who I had learned to become.

Then I discovered Internal Family Systems (IFS).

Of everything I had encountered in psychology, it made the most sense.

IFS taught me that I was not a problem to be solved.

I was a person carrying wounded parts, protective parts, striving parts, fearful parts and exhausted parts.

And beneath all of those parts was something deeper.

The Self.

Calm.

Curious.

Compassionate.

Connected.

Confident.

Creative.

Courageous.

When I first encountered those qualities, I smiled.

Because they sounded remarkably familiar.

They sounded like the image of God reflected within us.

Not something we manufacture.

Something we return to.

Something we uncover.

Something that was there all along.

This is why mental health is the first module of Brave Work.

Mental health matters.

Therapy matters.

Medication matters.

Community matters.

I would never minimise them.

But they are not the whole story.

The ultimate goal is not symptom reduction.

The ultimate goal is wholeness.

To reconnect with the never-ending spring within.

To rediscover the true self God created.

To learn how to access His presence without striving.

To move beyond surviving and into abiding.

Brave Work became the answer I had been searching for all those years.

Not another self-help programme.

Not another diagnosis.

Not another endless cycle of fixing myself.

Instead, a pathway back home.

Home to God.

Home to self.

Home to peace.

The beautiful thing is that once you learn the tools, they belong to you.

You no longer need to keep outsourcing your healing.

You carry the map with you.

And the One who guides you was there all along.

Private School Parenting Is Becoming a Performance Sport

2026-05-18T07:59:23.851-07:00

Last term, I became burnt out from parenting.

Not from loving my children...that part comes easily.

I was burnt out from the school runs, timetables, WhatsApp groups, requests, competitions, forgotten costumes, sports fixtures, lunchboxes, reading logs, projects, and the invisible pressure to keep up with everybody else’s very full lives.

And whilst I genuinely loved being part of my children’s world, somewhere in all of it...I lost myself.

Not dramatically. Quietly.

In ways that disturbed me.

I noticed how much of my mental energy was being consumed by managing, anticipating, organizing, remembering, rushing, comparing, and performing motherhood instead of actually living it.

So this term, I want to do things differently.

Not perfectly. Just differently.

I want less noise. Less pressure. Less performing.

This year, I will not be swept up by the crowd enrolling children into every possible extra activity simply because everyone else is doing it.

My children will do art because they genuinely love art. They will do science club because they genuinely enjoy science. And honestly...because both are free.

Extra activities are lovely. Supporting children’s gifts matters.

But so does wisdom. So does stewardship. So does intentional spending.

Losing work last year put many things into perspective.

It humbled me deeply.

I realized how quickly we can start believing our own success stories. As though our jobs, titles, salaries, or lifestyles are entirely self-made.

They are not.

It is grace. All of it.

And if grace is the source, then stewardship must follow.

I no longer want to spend money mindlessly trying to manufacture an impressive childhood.

I want to build a grounded family life instead.

I am already incredibly grateful that my children receive such a beautiful, faith-inspired education. That alone is a gift.

The kind teachers. The sweet friendships. The community. The exposure.

That is already enough.

This term, I also want to pay attention to how I respond to competitions and achievement.

Because sometimes, if I’m honest, I wonder: Which part of me is cheering?

Is it the healthy part celebrating my child? Or is it the little girl in me who once felt unseen and now desperately wants to win through her children?

That is uncomfortable to admit. But important.

I want to be careful that my excitement does not accidentally teach my children that they are most valuable when they achieve.

Will I cheer just as loudly when they lose? When they forget lines? When they come last? When they are average? When they simply try?

I hope so.

This term, I want to praise character more than performance.

Kindness. Courage. Consistency. Effort. Honesty. Responsibility.

Honestly, one of the things I may reward the most is not losing school property.

Because wow.

We need systems.

Labels. Organization. Designated spots for shoes and hats. Bags packed the night before.

This is now a family ministry.

And no, I will not be buying anything that resembles Tupperware every other week.

Thank you very much.

The humble Spar lunchbox works perfectly fine.

I am becoming more comfortable with saying: “This is enough.”

Because children who grow up with everything handed to them often struggle to develop resourcefulness, gratitude, resilience, or perspective.

And perspective matters deeply to me.

I want my children to understand that in the real world, compassion and respect will take them further than entitlement ever will.

I want them to interact with people from different backgrounds. To understand both privilege and struggle. To know how to adapt. To know how to repair things. To know how to wait. To know how to make do.

I want them to learn that hard work matters. That money is earned. That convenience is not a human right.

This term, there will also be fewer screens.

Waaaaay fewer. For everyone, including the parents.

Not because I want to become a militant mother, but because I miss my children sometimes even when we are in the same room.

I want conversation back.

I want boredom back. Creativity back. Presence back.

I want to be physically and emotionally available to them...not just available for homework supervision and logistics management.

I want us to chat while doing a project unrelated to school. To laugh more. To pray more naturally. To notice each other again.

And I also want to become softer toward other parents.

Because parenting is exposing.

Some parents are drowning quietly. Some are carrying financial pressure. Some are carrying marital strain. Some are exhausted. Some are lonely. Some are trying very hard not to fail publicly.

I want to become a safe space instead of another source of pressure.

More grace. Less judgment.

And maybe most importantly...

I want to do Brave Work on myself as a mother.

I want to ask: What wounds am I parenting from? What fears drive my over-functioning? Why do I struggle to rest? Why does achievement feel so emotionally loaded? Why do I equate “doing more” with “being good”?

I want to become a more contemplative mother.

Not a perfect one. A present one.

A mother who is anchored instead of constantly reactive. A mother who notices God in ordinary moments. A mother who is not always rushing to the next thing.

Maybe contemplative motherhood looks like praying during school runs. Breathing before reacting. Sitting on the edge of the bed at night instead of scrolling. Lighting a candle before the chaos of the morning begins. Letting silence exist in the car sometimes. Choosing connection over control.

Maybe it means understanding that childhood is not a performance. Neither is motherhood.

And perhaps the deepest lesson I am learning is this:

My children do not need an endlessly efficient mother.

They need a whole one.

All the Ways a Woman Becomes a Mother

2026-05-09T23:16:00.000-07:00

Every Mother’s Day, instead of feeling celebratory and blessed, I often feel something quieter. A kind of sorrow. A tenderness. A deep compassion for women and the complicated terrain of motherhood.

Motherhood was complicated for me long before I ever held a child in my arms.

It began with longing.

With infertility. With years of trying to understand what was wrong with my body, as though womanhood itself had become a puzzle I was failing to solve. That kind of longing is brutal. It rearranges you. I remember feeling wounded by the sight of pregnant women and babies. Irrationally offended by their existence. I thought they were conspiring to humiliate me. Or worse, avoiding me because they could see the failure stamped across my forehead.

There were months of hope... the trembling anticipation of double lines that became single lines. The grief of miscarriages. Plural.

There is a particular loneliness to miscarriage because the grief often has nowhere to go. It is grief without photographs. Grief without arranged meals. Grief without language. Half the time, you cannot even explain what hurts.

There were babies we never met.

And some we met, only to return to Heaven too soon.

There is also another kind of motherhood story people do not speak about enough... the motherhood of yearning. Wanting to be a mother when there is no husband yet. Wanting marriage. Wanting hope. Wanting to meet someone kind and emotionally whole in a world that increasingly feels allergic to tenderness and commitment.

My heart aches for women still walking that road.

And then, even after the baby comes, there is another unfolding entirely.

The exhaustion.

The loss of self.

The strange irony of finally receiving everything you prayed for, only to discover that what you want most is sleep. Deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Then comes the fear. The constant calculation. Trying to keep these tiny humans alive and emotionally intact in a dangerous world. Which school? Which values? Which version of yourself will shape them?

Your choices are no longer just your own.

Travelling for work is no longer simply travelling for work. It becomes a painful weighing of provision versus presence. Ambition versus guilt. Calling versus closeness.

You sit in school parking lots beside other mothers and quietly question every life choice you have ever made.

Motherhood changed how I see women.

Completely.

It made me softer. Less judgmental. More aware that every woman is carrying a story in her body. Some stories are visible. Some are buried deep beneath competence and makeup and carefully curated Instagram captions.

And I think motherhood is bigger than children.

To me, the capacity to mother already lives in many women long before a child arrives. Motherhood journeys are not only about having children. They are about the heart. About longing. About nurturing. About loss. About hope. About becoming.

This Mother’s Day, I want every woman to know that she is seen.

Seen by God. Held by God.

The God who Scripture describes not only as Father, but with the tenderness of a nursing mother... the God who feeds us, comforts us, carries us close. (“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast...?” in Book of Isaiah has always undone me.)

And when I post photos celebrating my mother, or other mothers, it is not performative sentimentality. It is my way of saying: I see you too.

The woman you were.

The woman you are.

The woman you are still becoming.

Past, present, future.

This is why Brave Work exists.

Because I believe there is a gentler way to carry the cross of motherhood. A truer way. A still way.

A way where women do not disappear inside performance and exhaustion, but learn to return to themselves and to God at the same time.

A way where healing is not hustle.

A way where formation matters more than performance.

A way where women can finally show up before God as their real selves... not only as mothers, wives, helpers, or achievers, but as beloved daughters.

Waiting for Healing: The Quiet Crisis at Parirenyatwa Radiotherapy Centre

2026-04-30T00:17:00.000-07:00

Every morning, before Harare has woken up, there is already a line forming.

Not a short or orderly queue that moves with predictable rhythm. No, a long, patient, aching line of people who have nowhere else to go.

I drop off my relative there each weekday at the Radiotherapy Centre at Parirenyatwa Hospital. He is battling a brain tumor. That alone is a heavy sentence to carry. But it is not the only burden he carries.

Because before treatment comes waiting.

And before waiting comes arriving early enough to have a chance.

The Queue That Starts at Midnight

There are two queues.

One for those who can pay or who have been marked as priority. And one for everyone else. Both queues are unpredictable. You can wait for hours on any unsuspecting day.

By midnight, people are already gathering. They sit or lie down holding their place in a tent outside the centre. Names are written down and some have made a business of queueing for others. Many have travelled from outside the capital city. From towns and rural areas where radiotherapy is not available. They come with small bags, quiet determination, and the kind of fatigue that comes from deeper than missing a night's sleep.

They come because this is the only place they can come.

And so they wait.

The Indignity of Illness

Cancer is already a stripping experience.

It takes away certainty. It takes away strength. Forget about control.

But here, it also takes away dignity.

There is something profoundly unsettling about watching people, already facing life-altering diagnoses and now having to sit for hours, sometimes days, in conditions that feel improvised at best.

No one says it out loud, but the question hangs in the air:

Why must the fight for life begin with a fight for a place in a queue?

Caregivers in Suspension

Behind every patient is someone else waiting too.

Caregivers. These can be spouses, siblings, children. They have rearranged their lives around uncertainty. Work is paused. Plans are postponed. Energy is redirected entirely toward survival…not just of the patient, but of the system they must now navigate.

Patience becomes a discipline. Helplessness becomes a daily companion.

And still, they show up.

One Machine, Many Lives

At the centre of it all is a machine.

A single radiotherapy machine… serving an entire nation.

And like many things stretched beyond capacity, it breaks down.

Sometimes it stops working because of something as basic and as fixable as a water-related issue. You hear rumours of it over heating or boiling over. When it stops, everything stops. The queue does not disappear, it deepens. Faces in the queue sigh in frustration.

Hope, in these moments, becomes fragile.

The Human Cost Behind the System

It would be easy to place blame but the truth is more complex. The staff at the centre are not indifferent they are simply overwhelmed.

Every day, they face a crowd that reflects the scale of the problem far larger than the resources available to address it. They work within constraints they did not design, making impossible decisions in real time.

This is not a story of individuals failing.

It is a story of a system stretched thin.

A Public Health Question We Cannot Avoid

As a public health practitioner, I find myself asking questions that feel both urgent and unanswered:

- How are we deciding where funding goes?
- What does prioritization look like when it leaves people waiting overnight for essential care?
- How does a country with knowledge, expertise, and human capital still struggle to provide basic cancer treatment infrastructure?

These are not abstract questions.

They are lived realities visible every morning in that queue.

More Than a Queue

That line outside the Radiotherapy Centre is not just a queue.

It is a reflection of gaps in investment, delayed decisions and a healthcare system carrying more than it was built to hold.

But it is also a reflection of something else…something quieter, but just as powerful.

Resilience.

Because despite everything - the waiting, the uncertainty, the indignity - people still come. They still hope. They still believe that treatment, however delayed, is worth holding on for.

A Call That Cannot Be Ignored

There is no simple fix.

But there are clear starting points.

Dignity should not be a luxury in healthcare.
Access should not depend on endurance.
And cancer care should not hinge on a single machine.

This is not just about infrastructure… it is about values.

Because how a system treats its most vulnerable is not a side issue.

It is the measure.

The Animal Named Burnout

2023-03-15T21:09:00.001-07:00

“I’m just feeling numb, I can’t even respond to this email,” thinks Sekai[1], as she slowly leaves the Microsoft Teams meeting. She had presented a report which raised a lot of discussion. She opens her Outlook inbox to find mail from her supervisor with a new assignment required at close of business. That is in 45 minutes! Sekai (42) is a coordinator of one of the districts in a new HIV project. She has always been high-performing, task oriented and an effective leader. But recently she has noticed that she has been losing energy and motivation. She thinks maybe she is not getting enough sleep, but she can never seem to get renewed after a night’s sleep. She is also starting to feel that nothing she does makes any difference or is appreciated. Could Sekai be experiencing burnout? If so, what steps can she take to manage it and prevent it from happening again? Is a happy, productive work-life possible for the typical worker in the development industry? I can tell you now, that the answer is ABSOLUTELY!

Have you reached the end of your rope? You might be experiencing burn out.
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

It is not a surprise that working in non-governmental organizations is ranked among the most stressful jobs globally. The unique requirements of donors, the dynamic, fast-paced environment and the high demands of meeting programmatic and administrative targets are some of the reasons many workers in the development world may suffer from chronic stress and even burnout. Workplace burnout has been known as a stress syndrome and defined as the feeling of extreme physical and emotional exhaustion. However, the World Health Organization recently updated its definition. It now refers to burnout as “syndrome conceptualized as resulting from chronic workplace stress that has not been successfully managed,” in the organization’s International Classification of Diseases diagnostic manual.

The three questions which you can ask yourself to figure out whether you may be burnt-out are:

Do you have frequent feelings of energy depletion or exhaustion?
Are you experiencing increased mental distance from one’s job or feelings negative towards one’s career?
Have you noticed reduced professional productivity in yourself or not meeting expectations like you used to?

Burnout can impact people’s mental health. The definition of burnout helps us understand that chronic workplace stress is not a cause of burnout...the cause is when it is not successfully managed. This definition may help reduce the stigma surrounding burnout, bring about an increased awareness and allow people to access better treatment. One of the largest problems when it comes to burnout is that many people feel ashamed for needing help, often because their work environments don’t support slowing down. Frequently, people equate it to having a cold. They believe that one day of rest should make everything better.

People with symptoms of burnout may fear that taking time away from work or investing in self-care makes them “weak,” and that burnout is best overcome by working harder. Neither of these is true. Left untreated, burnout can cause employees to become depressed, anxious, and distracted, which can impact not only their work relationships, but their personal interactions, too. When stress reaches an all-time high, it’s harder to regulate emotions like sadness, anger, and guilt, which may result in panic attacks, anger outbursts, and substance use.

How do you regain balance and feel positive and hopeful again?
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

The good news is that we can learn how to regain our balance and feel positive and hopeful again. The following tips for preventing or dealing with burnout can help you cope with symptoms and regain your energy, focus, and sense of well-being.

Turn to other people – Social connection is medicine for stress and talking with a good listener is one of the best ways to calm your nervous system and relieve stress. The person you talk to doesn’t have to be able to “fix” your stressors; they just must be a good listener, someone who’ll listen attentively without becoming distracted or expressing judgment. It is common that some staff are relocated to new towns for field work and so it is important that you can make new friends and connections to provide social support. Be more sociable to coworkers and you can even schedule social events after work. Connect with a cause or a community group that is personally meaningful to you.

Reframe the way you look at work – Try to find some value in your work. Focus on the aspects of the job that you do enjoy. Find balance in your life by focusing on parts of your life which bring you joy. If burnout seems inevitable, try to take a complete break from work. Book your annual leave days and use the time away to recharge your batteries and pursue other methods of recovery.

Reevaluate your priorities - Burnout is an undeniable sign that something important in your life is not working. Take time to think about your hopes, goals, and dreams. Are you neglecting something that is truly important to you? This can be an opportunity to rediscover what really makes you happy and to slow down and give yourself time to rest, reflect, and heal. Set boundaries and learn to say ‘no’ to optional requests on your time. Remember saying ‘no’ allows you to say ‘yes’ to the commitments you want to make. Nourish your creative side, set aside relaxation time, and get enough sleep.

Make exercise and a healthy diet a priority - Even though it may be the last thing you feel like doing when you’re burned out, exercise is a powerful antidote to stress and burnout. It’s also something you can do right now to boost your mood. Aim to exercise for 30 minutes or more per day or break that up into short, 10-minute bursts of activity. Join a wellness group to get encouragement from other colleagues. Minimize sugar, caffeine and refined carbs which affect moods. Drink alcohol in moderation even when you feel it alleviates stress. Too much can make the situation worse and increase anxiety.

The power of giving – Being helpful to others delivers immense pleasure and can help to significantly reduce stress as well as broaden your social circle. While it’s important not to take on too much when you’re facing overwhelming stress, helping others doesn’t have to involve a lot of time or effort. Even small things like a kind word or friendly smile can make you feel better and help lower stress both for you and the other person.

Tips for managers to prevent burnout in their staff:

• Give your staff some locus of control and decision-making rights. Feeling like you have little or no control over your work is a cause of burnout

• Be sure to give recognition or reward for good work.

• Be very clear about job expectations from the beginning and ensure that job expectations are realistic.

• Keep work interesting and challenging. Monotonous tasks are a danger to the growth and motivation of the employee

• Provide relief after a chaotic or high-pressure season. No one can operate in that environment for a long period without running out of fuel.

[1] Not her real name

He Rose By Lifting Others – My Tribute to the Late Dr Christopher Zishiri

2021-08-31T04:54:00.002-07:00

On the evening of 14 August 2021, we received the news that our boss was gone forever. Dr Christopher Zishiri, affectionately known as CZ, had died in his residence after a short week of COVID-19-related complications. What we didn’t know, was that we were not going to go through normal grief. It would be a grief confused with figuring out that work family is actually family. That emails and zoom meetings could continually trigger tears for weeks to come. It would be a grief that left you unmotivated to touch your work because who then would revert with “Well done Chiremba!” It was going to leave us scattered and sober and sad.

My interest in TB work began the day CZ stepped into my master’s in public health lecture room to tell us all about the International Union Against Tuberculosis and Lung Disease. It was a long title but when shortened to ‘The Union’ it became catchy, somewhat elite. I remember asking him a lot of questions in that class and he, as he did, responded positively and pleasantly. I was to meet him again during my interview a few months later. His sunny disposition put me at ease after facing a number of tough questions from the other panelists. How was it possibly that this was the boss? This was the nicest guy here, I thought. Our third meeting was my first day of orientation into the organisation. He spoke with so much pride about everyone else. It seemed he carried his team as his personal badge of pride.

He was good. He had crises for breakfast. Not being flustered by challenges or conflict. His communication style was honest, open and transparent. Sometimes as you cringed, he would call the person you were complaining about and put the call on loud speaker. Minutes later, the issue had a way forward. He talked to the director of USAID the same way he spoke to the company driver, giving all he interacted with respect and time. A psychometric test revealed that he was a rare manager who fell under the considerate and caring type, where most were domineering. He brightened a lot of tough moments with jokes and genuine chuckle.

It had just been a few months into the organisation that I saw him standing by my hospital bed after an emergency life-threatening surgery. He had flown all the way to Bulawayo, representing the organisation to visit me. What outrageousness was this? I later found out that everyone had their own story. He had saved marriages, sorted out home issues, provided parenting solutions and countless compassion visits to his employees. It was these acts of shepherding which made him seem like our dad. A man you could count on every time you rung him or knocked on his ever open door. This united the team especially when the organisation went through more tumultuous times. He kept the entire team together, focused on his vision willing to confidently following him through rocky plains. He kept to his word time and time again, so it was easy to follow him.

It was devastating that the cause he championed, was what took his life. He was the most careful of workers when it came to safety and precautions against COVID-19. In July 2021, the overall numbers of people in Zimbabwe who had died of the coronavirus overtook the numbers of people who had died of TB in the previous year. This pandemic was defeating us and nothing could prepare us for this…not only from the disruptions of services to the TB and HIV patients who we served, but also ripping us away from the front-line workers, and the back-line health workers – the policy makers, the planners, the fundraisers, the researchers, and the people who ran the programmes. The public health workers.

Public health is not just about the guy on news giving us the latest COVID-19 statistics. Public health is the science and the art of preventing disease. Dr Zishiri was both a scientist and an artist. His approaches were well informed, always evidence based and determined in prolonging and improving the quality of the life of Zimbabwean people. He had magnificent leadership in organizing efforts and giving informed choices not just to society, organisations and communities but to all who he mentored, I included. It was always a choice. He gave me a choice to rise and be better that what I was. I will never forget the USAID high-level meeting he sent me to representing the organisation. I was a baby thrown into a swimming pool. It was only a few months later that I realised I had begun to swim. His specialty was building leaders.

We now have no choice. We have to continue where he left off. We need to continue to fight to end TB by 2030. We have to continue to shine in our work. We have to be responsible in communication, respect all people and fear no one. The work has to be done. And done well. The way CZ would have approved and responded by email, “Well done Chiremba!”

The pain and physiology of infertility and miscarriages

2020-04-07T12:41:00.001-07:00

Chenai Hove* (28), mother of one, was just over 26 weeks pregnant when she went into pre-term labour and delivered a premature baby. Doctors struggled to resuscitate the tiny baby who weighed only 1.2kg. Her baby lived for a day before succumbing. This was Chenai’s second premature baby. The previous one had been a year ago and the early labour occurred at the same time in her pregnancy. It was found that Chenai had an incompetent cervix due to injuries that occurred in her very first pregnancy and would need a cervical stitch to be put in place for subsequent pregnancies.

In our society, pregnancy and delivering a baby is the very definition of womanhood. What happens when that seemingly straight-forward process goes wrong? How do you know if your pregnancy is high-risk? Is there anything you can do to prevent complications? What are the top signs women can look out for in their pregnancy? Although the majority of pregnancies are uneventful, sometimes complications do occur.

“I have suffered from a still birth due to umbilical cord and I have also suffered from placenta previa and had an emergency c-section at 32weeks with my daughter,” states Elizabeth katiku*, a 36year old journalist. “There are just so many stories of women I know who have lost babies in pregnancy and this is something I would like you to bring light on because I find there is not enough available information.”

A study done in Guatemala between 1997 and 1998 showed that women who visited health clinics after finding out they were pregnant increased the likelihood of having heard of danger signs in pregnancy as compared to women who did not attend clinics. In 1999, those who had heard radio messages or participated in women's groups were, respectively, 3 times and 5 times more likely to have heard of danger signs in pregnancy. It concluded that safe motherhood programs can effectively increase knowledge of danger signs through clinic- and community-based educational strategies.

Seeing your doctor as soon as you think you may be pregnant is a good way to minimize complications. Dangers in pregnancy can happen before, during and after delivery. The following are a few of the more common pregnancy complications that occur before delivery.

Ectopic Pregnancy

In an ectopic pregnancy, the baby develops outside the uterus like in the uterine tubes, cervix, pelvis or even abdomen. The cause of an ectopic pregnancy is usually scar tissue in the fallopian tube from infection or disease. Ectopic pregnancies occur in about one out of 50 pregnancies and can be very dangerous to the mother.

What to look out for

Bleeding means different things throughout your pregnancy. “If you are bleeding heavily and have severe abdominal pain and menstrual-like cramps or feel like you are going to faint during first trimester, it could be a sign of an ectopic pregnancy,” Peter Bernstein, MD, ob-gyn professor at New York's Albert Einstein College of Medicine and Montefiore Medical Center, says. The longer an ectopic pregnancy continues, the greater the likelihood that a fallopian tube will rupture and this may be life-threatening.

An ultrasound and blood tests may confirm the diagnosis. Treatment of an ectopic pregnancy may include medication or surgical removal of the fetus, resulting in an early termination of the pregnancy.

Miscarriage

A miscarriage is the loss of the fetus before 20 weeks. Miscarriages occur in about 15 to 20 percent of all pregnancies usually by the 12th week of gestation and are usually due to genetic or chromosomal abnormalities.

What to look out for

Miscarriages are usually preceded by bleeding and intense cramping, but having light bleeding does not necessarily mean that a miscarriage is occurring. In fact, 30 percent of normal pregnancies may have vaginal spotting.

To confirm that a miscarriage has occurred, an ultrasound and blood tests may be performed. The fetus and contents of the uterus are often naturally expelled. If this process does not occur, a procedure called a dilation and curettage (D&C) may be necessary. This procedure uses special instruments to remove the abnormal pregnancy.

Fetal loss in the second trimester may occur when the cervix is weak and opens too early. In some of these cases, a physician can help prevent pregnancy loss by suturing the cervix closed until delivery like Chenai’s above.

Amniotic Fluid

Too much or too little amniotic fluid in the membranes surrounding the fetus may indicate a problem with the pregnancy.

Too much fluid can put excessive pressure on the mother's uterus, leading to preterm labor. It can also cause pressure on the mother's diaphragm, leading to breathing difficulties. Fluids tend to build up in cases of uncontrolled diabetes, multiple pregnancy, incompatible blood types, or birth defects. Too little fluid may indicate birth defects, growth retardation, or stillbirth.

What to look out for

If your belly is bigger than expected for date this may be a sign of too much amniotic fluid. The only sure way to confirm this is by ultrasound. This is why clinic visits are important as the doctor will recommend one after physical exam.

Bleeding

“Bleeding is always serious,” women’s health expert Donnica Moore, MD, says. Any bleeding during pregnancy needs immediate attention. Call your doctor or go to the emergency room. Bleeding in late pregnancy may be a sign of placental complications or a vaginal or cervical infection. Women who bleed in late pregnancy may be at greater risk of losing the fetus and hemorrhaging (bleeding excessively).

Hypertensive Disorders in Pregnancy/Pre-eclampisa

Pre-eclampsia is thought to happen when the placenta isn't working properly. It can cause severe disease if not treated. Pre-eclampsia occurs in the second half of pregnancy, most likely develop in the third trimester. The diagnosis is made by tests which confirm high blood pressure and protein in urine during antenatal clinics. These are things a woman may be unaware of therefore the danger signs below are important to note.

What to look out for

headache
burning epigastric(centre below ribs) pain
blurred vision
generalised body swelling (involving the back, abdominal wall, hands and face)
decreased urine output

Early Labour

Contractions could be a sign of preterm labour. “But a lot of first-time moms may confuse true labour and false labour,” Dr Ruddock of Florida Hospital says. False labor contractions are called Braxton-Hicks contractions. They’re unpredictable, non-rhythmic, and do not increase in intensity. “They will subside in an hour or with hydration,” Ruddock says. “But regular contractions are about 10 minutes apart or less and increase in intensity.”

If you're in your third trimester and think you're having contractions, call your doctor right away. If it is too early for the baby to be born, your doctor may be able to stop labour.

Depression is not a black person’s disease - Snap out of it?

2020-01-28T05:23:00.001-08:00

Stay positive! Look up, love, laugh and live! Don’t worry, be happy! Sometimes you smile because you are happy, and sometimes you can become happy because you smiled. Sound familiar? I am sure you have seen these type of status posts with motivational messages on friends’ social media pages. You know those pictures with the inspirational messages. But sometimes it’s just not sinking into your core. You can’t smile. You can’t be positive. All the tricks are not working. You just feel sad. How can we tell when depression is just a natural phase of life or a serious clinical illness which requires more than just a friend’s shoulder?

Feeling sad is natural, especially after a stressful life situation or when your expectations have not been met. Disappointment is a normal part of life, granted. For example, it is normal to feel down after a major disappointment, or to have trouble sleeping or eating after a difficult relationship break-up. Usually, within a few days, perhaps after talking to a friend, we start to feel like ourselves again.

But sometimes this feeling of sadness can go on for a little too long. It starts affecting your eating, work, sleep and even relationships. Unlike normal stress and sadness, the symptoms of clinical depression persist and do not go away no matter how much the individual wants.

Black women are not supposed to get depressed. We are likened to the best hot coffee: black, sweet and strong. Society demands the roles of super-mother, wife, girlfriend, sister and daughter of a black woman be deep rooted in our very fabric and any sign of weakness is not taken very well. How can one help a seemingly invincible character?

Depression is not our culture - a common myth which leaves people isolated and hopeless

The problem is many people do not think clinical depression actually exists. Bobby, a radio show host says, “Depressed people need to deal with reality and accept the fact that some days are good and some are bad. Showing them the sympathy that they seek only makes them more vulnerable. They need to just 'Snap out of it already!" Wallowing in your sorrows doesn't get the problems out of your way, however, getting up and doing something constructive to get your mind off it, does!” She believes in the ‘tough love’ approach that if they truly are your friend you will tell them exactly what you think and kick-start them into getting better on their own.

Wendy, 26, thinks clinical depression is just a disease for the rich who can afford to spend tonnes of money on psychiatrists and endless supplies of anti-depressants. “It’s fashionable to have a shrink!” She believes if you cannot meet the expense of getting depressed then you just have to move along with your life and “stop complaining.”

Clinical depression referred to as Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) by clinicians is real and it can happen to anyone. . It involves a noticeable change in functioning that persists for two weeks or longer. It is known to be caused by imbalances in chemicals in the brain. Some experts have also linked a hereditary nature to depression. Diseases such as Hypothyroidism (low thyroid) can lead to MDD too.

The symptoms that lead to diagnosis include the persistent low mood of which there are no periods of happiness. (It is quite different from Bipolar Affective Disorder where a person goes from one extreme of a mood to another). A person suffering from clinical depression may also present with reduced capacity to feel pleasure. Test any woman with ice-cream, shopping or Oprah. If they say no, raise an eyebrow. Excessive self blame and feelings of worthlessness are also a pointer. Others are sleep disturbances, significant weight loss or gain, loss of concentration and fatigue. If there are any suicidal thoughts, even a mention of it in a jokey manner, be vigilant about what they really mean.

It is dangerous because a person suffering from it may not realize it. There is a complete loss of perspective and when friends and family try to reach out to help, the person may feel irritated and more upset. They do not realize what they are experiencing is abnormal and are too ashamed to ask for help, afraid to appear weak and unable to ‘handle their business’. The sad thing is, by the time anyone is aware of the problem at hand it may be too late. Suicide figures are shockingly high and avoidable with a few tools of realizing the problem.

So how do we grade depression?

Sally, 31, says she sometimes feels a void in her life she cannot explain. Even when everything is going well, job and family are all good but there’s this feeling of misery she can’t shake. Meanwhile Thembi, 25, says she has been suffering from depression on and off since she was a teenager and had occasional thoughts of suicide over the years. What makes Sally’s case less severe than Thembi’s? Well it all comes down to chemical levels. The chemicals dopamine and serotonin are responsible. All people go through depression in varying degrees. The ones who require medical care are the ones who manifest with the symptoms mentioned above.

For most forms of depression, symptoms improve with psychological counseling, antidepressant medications or a combination of the two. Antidepressants can relieve symptoms of depression, while counseling may help you cope with ongoing problems that may trigger or contribute to depression. If you have severe depression, or counseling and medications don't relieve your symptoms, you may benefit from newer methods such as vagus nerve stimulation (VNS) and deep brain stimulation (DBS). Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) — a procedure in which electric currents are passed through the brain is out-dated in some countries. Another new treatment, called transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS), was recently approved by the FDA. It uses strong magnets to stimulate the parts of the brain that affect mood.

There are however non-medical ways of avoiding depression all together. (And they don’t require any type of electricity either.) Depression and diet may be related. Some preliminary research suggests that having a poor diet can make you more vulnerable to depression. Researchers in Britain looked at depression and diet in over 3,000 middle-aged office workers over the course of five years. They found that people who ate a junk food diet — one that was high in processed meat, chocolates, sweet desserts, fried food, refined cereals and high-fat dairy products — were more likely to report symptoms of depression. The people who ate a diet rich in fruits, vegetables and fish were less likely to report being depressed. So not only will you evade weight gain, you will also be happy! It’s a win-win situation.

Yolanda says she has been struggling with a relationship because her boyfriend is suffering from depression. She says he only becomes more cheerful when he is drunk. The depression that follows the next day is unbearable. “It is a cycle which is difficult to break and I don’t know if it is the alcohol causing the depression or the depression making him drink.” Substance abuse has been linked to depression. There are several factors that may trigger or exacerbate an already present depression. Be aware that people who are depressed may use drugs as a way to cope with their symptoms. Caffeine addiction alters sleep pattern and lack of sleep may trigger depression. Any addiction generally may leave a person feeling helpless and unable to control their life and thus the unrelenting feelings of sadness.

Lifestyle changes — such as stress reduction and regular exercise — also can make a difference. Many people benefit most from a combination of treatments. Natural remedies for depression aren't a replacement for medical diagnosis and treatment. But, for some people certain herbs and supplements do seem to work well. Omega-3 fatty acids are being studied as a possible treatment for depression and as a mood stabilizer in people with bipolar disorder. St John’s Wort and SAMe’s are herbs which have been used for centuries to treat depression and still popularly used in Europe. Keep in mind that some herbal and dietary supplements can cause potentially dangerous interactions with other medications.

Seeking an inner truth gives people something to believe in. There are examples of people who were cured of depression after a major life change or figuring out their purpose. Giving to others in charity helps you focus less on your problems and more on helping the needy. Meditation and prayer give you peace of mind. Yoga, gardening, dancing, playing with your new puppy – do them all, at least once in your life. You may be in a rut and just need to shake things up with a change.

If you do have signs and symptoms of depression, don't ignore them. Even mild depression can take a toll on your enjoyment of life, your performance at work or school, and your relationships with other people. And, left untreated, depression can get worse. And how do we help a friend going through depression? Don’t stop listening. Pick up the call every time even if it is to hear the familiar tearful narration that nobody loves them. Explore treatment options with her family and members of her support system. Share this blog and raise awareness! Realizing that there is indeed a health problem is half the battle.

This is the modified version of an article I wrote for The New African Woman in 2011. Still relevant!

Stee's 300things - Deconstructed

2020-01-06T00:50:00.000-08:00

Me again.

I have had a lot of questions regarding the #300things I posted about previously. 300 things is a vision list of 300 things I was inspired to write. This was after being inspired by one of Steve Harvey's motivational talks. It is a powerful tool which transformed the way I dreamed and changed my perspective on goals and vision-boarding. Already some of my 300 things came to be and I just had to share. But maybe I over-simplified it. The most common question I received from people was: is it really possible to want 300 things? What kind of things? What are your things and which ones came true? The trend is most people were failing to get to 300 things. SO I decided to follow up the last post with this deconstruction to clarify and help complete your list:

1. You can include other people

Your list is a list of the future you want. Every little thing. Our loved ones are in our future and their future determines our peace and happiness too. So by all means, you can write things to do with other people. Their health, their friends, their businesses etc etc. Basically if you know what intercessory praying is like - that. There are no hard and fast rules that #300things is just about you. Actually the deeper you get into it the less you focus on yourself. When your purpose in life becomes clear you will realise it really isn't about you. It never really was.

2. More important than money

After you have exhausted all the material things, you will question yourself about the most important things in life. What do you want read on your tombstone? What don't you want to regret? What is the happiest possible version of a life you picture? Name all the things in that picture. From the air, the sounds, the place, the food, the people. Be specific. When you really start dreaming you will realise 300 things is even too few.

3. Easy list items

Some things are easy to list. Do you want joy? What about wisdom? Which countries do you want to visit? Get a globe and start listing. Or specific places in those countries? Any foods you want more of? What number weight do you want to be? Body shape? And kids? What about them? How many, girls, boys? Twins? Dream house? What exactly will it have in it? List these items one by one. What is the name of the foundation or charity you want to start or donate to? This is big picture plans. What have you always wanted to do but are too afraid? List. List. List!

4. Hand it over then let go

Once you have completed the list you need to let it go. There is a threshold. Don't clutch at it too tightly. When you want something so badly you just won't get it. You need to hand it over. To God. Or if you don't believe in God, to the universe. Just let it go. Pray it over. Then enjoy living in the freedom that it is not up to you. Let His will be done. Believing that He wants the best for you. Then start saying YES. Sometimes opportunity is disguised as work or a chore. Say yes anyway.

5. Some of mine which came true in less than a month

The 300things list really is a private thing. If you tell others you may not be as honest to yourself about what you want. But some of mine which came to be without my actually planning them include
-my YouTube channel
-a specific book I wanted
-become a mental health advocate
-peace
-good camera
I was literally surprised and gifted with some of these without asking, others were opportunities presented to me without me seeking them out, even though I have been trying to do some of these things for years. There were others but I will leave it at those for now.

And always remember that:

6. Your success is only limited by the depth of your imagination

That's it. Let that sink in.

#300things

Give it another go. It may take you a few days. But you can do it. Let me know if that helps. Enjoy dreaming!

Of 300 things, gratitude journals and affirmations!

2019-12-29T10:37:00.001-08:00

Hey my beautiful people! What a year, what a year! There is no way I was going to go down without something submitted before the turn of the decade. Dude, can you believe it has been a decade since 2010? (hides birth certificate to not reveal age)

So much has happened since the last post. The sad i-almost-died post. I mean complete and utter transformation! Firstly no more pity parties. Secondly it's the year of yes. Yes to opportunity, yes to me, yes to life! I have seen the hand of God move me, the word of God transform me and the grace of God sustain me!

I have three main tools I want to share with you which might help. I firmly believe in these tools as they really did transform my Outlook and perspective. Just try them and thank me later:

1. 300things

Proudly inspired by Steve Harvey. Very very simply and based on biblical principles. It's like a vision board but a list. And it's 300 things! Yes. 300. Things. You just make a list of every single thing you want, want to do, want to become. The funny thing is the easy stuff comes first then you start with the crazy ones, then you reach a point where you dig deep and just go wild. The writing is the amazing process. That's where the secret is. It's the daring to dare. Then the magic starts. You actually start getting the things you wrote. You start saying no to things not on that list. Your vision is so crystal clear there's no need to fear! And when you leave the list with God, there is nothing that can stop you.

2. Gratitude Journal

Generally most people are too lazy to write. Unless it's work stuff, you generally can't be bothered. I know. Neither can I. But now there are these brilliant things called apps. On your phone. Gratitude is the single most powerful thing that changes attitude, perception and provision. Everyday just note what you are grateful for..but also note why you are grateful for it and what it all means. Your reasons are what remind you what's important. It's all about saying thankful. The funny thing is the more you thank, the more you get to be thankful for. It must be one of the laws of the universe. Totally amazing.

3. Affirmation List

So if you have your 300things on the front of your notebook, the gratitude journal at the back going backwards..please put your affirmations in the middle. Affirmations are truths. Simple. Truths you need to remind yourself of. There are two types. You can have truths which you want to believe etc I am happy, healthy and in exactly the right place at the right time. And then there's God's promises and truths such as God accepts me unconditionally with all my issues. These are anchors for you to hold on to and propel you when you read them over and over.im a sucker for a good promise. And it surely helps when you go through spiritual attacks. Which you shall.

So folks, those are my three tools of 2019. Let me know what you think, if you have tried any. Would love to hear from you.

Till 2020..where big things are def agwaan..it's Stee time out.

Sitting on His Right Hand

2019-05-01T03:04:00.001-07:00

It was 29 October 2018. It had been seven weeks since the birth of my second child, the bouncing baby boy who had joined our little family. What I had anticipated to be a pretty straight forward elective Caesarian Section and recovery, turned out to be quite astonishingly complicated. You know it’s complicated when I, of all people, had no time for social media updates. There was no ‘Hello everyone! Meet Moeketsi Ryan who arrived at 6:34am on 9 September. Mother and Baby doing fine’ – followed by 200 likes and 90 congratulations. Mother was not doing fine. I had spent seven weeks in and out of hospital with endless issues following the delivery. Fever, paralytic ileus, pain, cracked nipples, embarrassing milk supply, sore back, upper respiratory tract infection, sore tummy, sore everything. As an out-patient, doctors passed me on to one another. My gynae said go see the surgeon. The surgeon said go see the radiologist. The radiologist said go back to the surgeon. The surgeon said go see the interventional radiologist. Then he passed me back. I had a pelvic abscess which was treated by ultra-sound guided drainage mainly due to the fact that none of the above specialists thought it was a good idea to open me up again. And back and forth it went on until I left Harare for Bulawayo for “recuperation” when we all thought it was over. Little did I know; the worst was yet to come.

It was 29 October 2018. I had been in Bulawayo for about three weeks. Trying to be brave. I was accusing myself of laziness. Everything was just so difficult. Just picking up my fast-growing son was a battle. At the time I wasn’t aware I was also going through post-partum depression. Nights were long, with breastfeeding and rocking a restless baby. During the day, I faced judgement, mostly my own, to be an able mum, cheerful daughter, pleasant and nice-smelling member of society. I envied able-bodied people, women who had energy to get their hair done, who could walk across the street with a straight back and even managing smiles. All that was alien for me. Still I soldiered on, hoping I would get stronger by the day. Most people wanted to know how the baby was doing. If he was well, then everything must have been alright.

It was 29 October 2018. I woke up with the grand plan of going to the bank that day. Any outing was a grand idea those days. What am I saying, anything that required getting out of bed was pretty much grand. So, my plan was to go the bank. Ubaba was going to be my chauffeur and pal. I was used to pain in general but that morning I had a different kind of pain, the type I could not associate with any organ. The first pang made me fall to the ground. I remember one and a half year-old Anashe coming up to me with a request. With tears in my eyes I asked her to give Mummy a moment. I was determined to still go to the bank. On the way there ubaba kept suggesting we get some help. I used the I’m-the-doctor-here tone to insist I was OK. Then at the bank I was keeled over at the counter, pleading for them to hurry because I might need an ambulance any second. Sounds crazy. It was.

We arrived at Hillside Hospital around 2pm that afternoon and I had already mentally prescribed myself some pethidine, observation and home by the end of the day. I really wasn’t thinking that far in terms of diagnosis. All I knew is I had to get pain relief quick. I feel sorry for the nurse aide who was tasked to take my vitals on arrival. We were alone in the room and after taking my temperature and blood pressure the poor girl then asked to take my weight and height. I growled back, “All I need is pethidine, sister. What on earth do we need my weight and height for? And I know my weight, just write it there”. She blinked very quickly at me not sure whether this animal also bites. Luckily it was the end of her shift and she must have been too tired to argue.

I was comforted to be attended to by a heavily pregnant doctor. I told her my plan for me and she just smiled and said “uh, no.” She chimed that most likely by the end of the day I would be in surgery. I genuinely thought she was joking. She sent me for an ultrasound scan where I went by ambulance to Mater Dei Hospital. The sonographer didn’t have to dig deep into my abdomen to find what she was looking for. There was fluid everywhere. Pus. I was sent back to Hillside Hospital, Preggie Doctor Friend smug with her accuracy, swiftly wrote a referral letter to a gynae for my admission back at Mater Dei. My pelvic abscess was back and with a vengeance. The entire afternoon I had been stable on a dose of pethidine since after I scared that nurse aide. By the time my ambulance came for my trip back to Mater Dei it was about 7pm and the pethidine had worn off…

I will never forget what happened that evening in the casualty of Mater Dei. I was hysterical. I was that last smiley in the pain scale. 10. Only it felt worse. There was a change over of doctors so I had to wait about 20 minutes. It was the longest 20 minutes of my life. I led with I AM A DOCTOR, GIVE ME PETHIDINE! The nurses explained that they were not allowed to prescribe it without doctor’s signature and I would have to wait. I said but the doctor has already admitted me over the phone and previous doctor signed. They just said sorry and went to sit at their desk. I started crying and saying repeatedly please help me, please. Those casualty beds felt really, really thin and made of metal, I don’t know how I writhed and writhed on top of them. I cried. I screamed in pain, because now the pangs were worse and coming fast. I have never felt so vulnerable like that time. I could hear them talking about me. Drama much? I really didn’t care. It felt like the last moments before a person dies. Or I imagined so. This was it. And I was all alone.

The casualty doctor finally came and I dictated his notes word for word because I didn’t want any more delays. He was a good sport and did the things that make the pots to be done.

The next 24hours were a blur because I was on pethidine. I received 4 units of blood because I was too anemic to go into surgery. I had lots of antibiotics started. My husband drove all night and when he arrived at my bedside I was confused by the look on his face. How bad was this situation? I remember my gynae, towering over my bedside, telling me, as if it was like a trip to go buy bread, that we were going in for surgery, that I might lose my uterus, that I must brace for a long recovery, that he was shocked that I was walking around with potential sepsis. I was reassured by his confidence. He sounded like he had seen this many times and knew exactly what to do. I transferred his assurance to my family and we went into surgery.

I woke up in HDU. That thing on TV we see, it’s true. Voices far away. You blink you see someone; you blink again its now someone else. The faces all looked very worried. Trying to get something out of me. I couldn’t speak, but my cousin says I gave him a thumbs up. I don’t even know what I was thumbs upping for. I don’t even remember thumbs upping. There were lots of tubes, plenty injections. Nurses constantly hovering and doing things to me. Those first hours were overwhelming but slowly the realization came that I was alive and had made it through the surgery. The next few days were going to be crucial. I was asking the nurses to turn my monitor towards me so I could check my own heart rate, BP and oxygen saturation. I couldn’t move.

I was tired of crying. Wanting badly for a healthy body. I thought after theatre I would be better, but I wasn’t feeling better. I now had this large incision on my abdomen and a constant fear that the sickness would come back any moment. I kept being moved into wards that had more patients as the days went by. I refused to make friends. Let them wonder what my story was. I on the other hand would eavesdrop my best to hear their stories. I had issues with breathing. Had a scare that I may have pulmonary embolism. One night I had a fever again. I spent that night crying. It didn’t make sense. I remember reading the nurses notes the next day and she wrote “patient crying inconsolably and hysterically. For counselling +++” That basically means patient is cray. One night I woke up asking to have my urine tested immediately. I loved my Mater Dei nurses. Each and every single one of them. I got back rubs, and counselling and just time to chat and feel normal. They put up with a lot from this one. I had some friends and family on speed-dial. One particular friend was going through a similar situation for a different reason but all the way in the UK, we would check up on each other opening the chat with the same thing every day, “How is the pain today?” Congratulating each other for passing stool or walking to the door. That went a long way to give me strength and courage to keep going on. My hospital visitors were so many. So many. I connected with some people I hadn’t given a chance to in the past. I can’t even begin to mention them by name. The support I received was humbling but I struggled to keep up with the numbers. The whole experience reduced me to a daughter, wife, mother. All the things we think are important don’t matter when you are in that hospital bed. Career, accolades, material things. All nonsense. Only love matters.

It was about Day 9 since the surgery and I was still in hospital. Still in pain. High level of self pity. Things still being done to me, different issues coming up. Tests and imaging. Lots of medicine. Different specialists seeing me. Being pricked like a sewing cushion. I just wanted to go home. I would try bath my best and put foundation on my face to trick the doctor into thinking I was better. He was too good to fall for such stunts. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Then I had the dream.

I have always had the same type of dream. Many people type of dreams. Like if my dreams were a movie they would be musicals. Always some sort of event. But that night I had a dream where only two people featured. Me and God. Jesus. He was standing at the door of my hospital ward and there was radiance. When he appeared, desks were knocked over. I don’t know how it happened but I was then seated on his right arm. Imagine God flexing his biceps, I was sitting on that one, with my legs dangling like I was on a swing. And he said “Sithabiso, you are healed.”

I told a few people of the dream. We praised God and were so thankful. However, I didn’t FEEL healed. I was in pain. I was weak. I would spend extra time in the shower looking at myself in the mirror saying Sithabiso you are healed. Regardless of what I feel, I am healed. This is faith. When there is no evidence, but you just believe it. I spent a lot of time in prayer. I made promises to myself that if I got better, I would jog every day and never ever take my health for granted ever again. I made many promises.

View for recuperation in Bulawayo

And I did get better. I was discharged on Day 12. I spent a few more weeks in Bulawayo. I could appreciate the sky and the birds again. I could get up once in a while without pain. And slowly I weaned off the pain medications. The sickness never came back.

It took months to process what had happened. Realizing that I was a survivor of a near-miss maternal death. I didn’t want to talk about it though. I didn’t know how it would help. What was the point of rehashing the trauma? But I realized I had a great testimony on my hands here. God had healed me. Where others may not have been saved, I had been saved. Every day was a bonus. Every cuddle was precious. I had to live. I had to write. Writing was therapeutic too. And hopefully I would be able to help just one person out there who was in a situation where pain was their very reality. Let them know that He does heal. That it does get better. To not fear. This was my testimony. Sitting on his right hand. Loved, protected, healed.

Psalm 116

I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.

Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.

The cords of death entangled me, the anguish of the grave came upon me; I was overcome by trouble and sorrow.

Then I called on the name of the LORD: "O LORD, save me!"

The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion.

The LORD protects the simplehearted; when I was in great need, he saved me.

Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you.

For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling,

that I may walk before the LORD in the land of the living.

I believed; therefore I said, "I am greatly afflicted."

And in my dismay I said, "All men are liars."

How can I repay the LORD for all his goodness to me?

I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD.

I will fulfill my vows to the LORD in the presence of all his people.

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.

O LORD, truly I am your servant; I am your servant, the son of your maidservant; you have freed me from my chains.

I will sacrifice a thank offering to you and call on the name of the LORD.

I will fulfill my vows to the LORD in the presence of all his people,

in the courts of the house of the LORD-- in your midst, O Jerusalem. Praise the LORD.

Saving Mandy

2019-04-15T02:24:00.002-07:00

When you have influence, it is your duty to stand up for others and help others up too

We had so much in common.

We were both born and grew up in the same sleepy hometown of Bulawayo, almost same neighborhood. We attended the same high school, some years apart, but both proud and loud Convent girls. At some point, we must have taken the same Parklands surburb bus from City Hall to home. Our siblings almost same age-groups; our families and friends intertwined all the way back to roots in Dombodema rural home. We both went on to study medicine, she did dentistry, I did MBChB. But eventually we both did a masters in Public Health in the same programme at the University of Zimbabwe. We both got married and set up home in Harare. Bulawayo girls stick together when they arrive in the big bad city. When I had Anashe, she had Siyabonga. We were both pregnant in 2018. Being senior medical professionals we both had access to the “best” medical care. We both had Cesarian Sections and received beautiful babies. And after delivery, things went pear-shaped for the both of us. Surgical complications. Further surgery. Long hospital stays. I went into high-dependency unit, she went to intensive care unit. Then our paths separated. I survived. Mandy didn’t.

The sorrow and disbelief of losing our dear Dr Mandy Sibanda-Dlamini has shaken our community to the core. She was as she put it herself, a nice human being. Operating at an extremely high level of commitment, passion and love. She mothered her kids like she was a full-time stay at home mom even though she had several jobs, private practice and church ministry to name a few. She was one of those people. You know. Just amazing. Kind, positive, sweet, fun. Full of life. Humble. Just the kind of woman I wanted to be. She most definitely probably prayed more than me. Served the church and people more than me. SO why was she taken and not me? The pastor at her service said she had run her race. Maybe this was God’s way of reminding me to stop dilly dallying at the starting blocks and start running.

I owe it to Mandy. I owe it to Venencia. I owe it to the daughter of the elderly lady who sat behind me in church the other day holding a baby. I owe it to all the mums who died doing the one thing that shouldn’t kill them – bringing life into the world. No mother should have to die doing the thing their bodies were made to do. I wrote a blog once about this. It was talking about the disadvantages of women in our community, less privileged, less educated and already set up for poor outcomes after delivery. The women who are also getting affected are probably the most educated in our society, fortunate to have access to networks in the medical fraternity. But still dying.

It hurts. It really hurts. But, after our sorrow will come outrage. How could we let this happen? Again and again and again? Mandy’s case, like all maternal deaths will be audited and corrective measures put in place. The difference this time is this is not an anonymous case. This is Mandy. We knew her, we ate with her, we laughed with her, we worked with her. How many more cases must we audit before we are moved to wake up? We need to do more, we need to do more as a country, we need to do more as the health ministry, we need to do more as healthcare workers, we need to do more as a community, I need to do more as Sithabiso. This has to end. We have to save our mothers.

Let us do justice to Mandy’s memory. That way we save her. Living life in service to people. Honouring God. Loving fiercely. Celebrating life and every milestone. Being strong and leading by example. Using our talents as a gift to others. Being authentically you. Being fearless and focused. So that her death may not be in vain, but her life a beacon that we could all aspire to.

Saving Mandy.

Dr Mandy Sibanda-Dlamini

I thought it would be over by now: Part 4

2018-10-12T23:12:00.001-07:00

After reading those last three blog posts one expects a semblance of a happy ending. Then I got better and we lived happily ever after.

I didn't.

I was home, struggling with everything. At the time I was running fevers daily but I didn't know because checking didn't matter to me. Feeding my new baby was tough because of my tender abdomen and nipples although not cracked were very painful for some reason. Also my milk supply was not the most inspiring. After the uneventful gynae check up I had lost hope. Basically he said you should be better, but I wasn't. I was sick and didnt know why. Didn't care why, I just wanted to get better. It had been 3 weeks and something still wasn't right.

Just to recap, I had had a cesarean section where a very angry appendicitis was found and removed during the same surgery. By a surgeon. This meant I had two doctors to review me. And this is what the gynae did. He sent me off to the general surgeon just to make sure there wasn't anything else missed after 3 weeks post surgery.

We realised how popular this surgeon was when we waited in a queue for half an afternoon. Even with my colleague privileges we had to wait for what seemed like a lifetime. Everytime you called him someone else would pick up the call and let you know he is in theatre somewhere out of town but will be there shortly. What was the point of appointments then, we wondered. Anyway, be grateful he is coming today.

As soon as he saw me he knew something was wrong. My heart was beating too fast and too hard (bounding ) , my abdomen was too tender and I was pale. I had been on all the antibiotics favoured by trigger happy doctors so it didn't make sense why I still had an infection. He ordered ultrasound scan and a Ct scan. I was secretly happy but deep down I felt it was overkill. I was thinking yeah, at least they can find any other things of 'interest'

Fast forward. It took about a week to get all these tests and results done because our glorious Zimbabwean system is so efficient. I wondered what women in the public sector go through. Actually I didn't have to wonder, I knew. The CT scan had a waiting period of 3 working days for a report. But what if it was an emergency? Apparently there was no such thing. When I finally got my results my whole world was shook from inside out. It was worse than I thought. Why would this happen to me? Well, it could be answered medically, but emotionally I was finished.

I had developed a pelvic abscess. In simple terms, the infected appendix that had been removed had infected free fluid in my abdomen and I eventually developed a big pocket of pus in my pelvis. This was what was causing fevers. This was why I wasn't getting better. Memories came flooding back of my internship days of women with pelvic abscesses dying in the ward because they came in when it was too late. I was gripped with fear. The treatment for this needed me to be readmitted to hospital. There was a high chance I needed yet another surgery. What was I going to do with my baby?

Why me? Why me? Why me?!?!

There's something about knowing your diagnosis. You start feeling as sick as it is. What I had been able to soldier through before was now too difficult. I had to take the shameful step of starting my baby on supplementary formula. It was so ironic as I thought back of all the times I reprimanded mums about breast is best for 6 months. All that went out the window. Rather, fed is best.

My surgeon didn't want to reopen me. He suggested we go see an interventional radiologist who could possibly drain the abscess using ultrasound scan as a guide and do the whole procedure laparoscopically. I would still have to be in a hospital set up. It would still involve needles, which by this time I was weary of. I would be on antibiotics and monitored afterwards. This was still a better option than surgery.

Organising the whole thing was a torrid affair. Involving medical aid companies who said everything is impossible, people's secretaries who said their boss is in theatre (forever) , hospitals that wanted their cheques from extensive previous stays. Superman hubby took over and up to now they know him. I'm proud but I'm also scared for the recipients.

I was readmitted to an HDU ward... Not because of my condition but because of limited bed space. My baby was not allowed here. He was was to go home with his gran and dad with some of my expressed milk and visit me twice a day for feeds. The condition of the other patients in that ward made me grateful but sad at the same time. It was then that I realised health is Not A Given. It's all grace. The whole thing. Our lives. Everything.

Fast forward again. They drained about 350mls of terrible looking pus for my pelvis. They left a drain for 24hrs and the stuff was still coming out. I was those people who walk around with a catheter bag, trying to hide its contents. I sympathised with all those prostate patients. Albeit them being elderly men I really understood now.

This time round I did not make friends with anyone in the ward. They eventually moved me to maternity ward with mothers who had just delivered. Congratulations I would say and that's the end of this friendliness. I just wanted to get better and get out of here. I was no longer shy to make my needs very clear to the nurses. I did not care how demanding they thought I was. This was Operation Get Home.

Meanwhile the real world was going on. Apparently as I lay in hospital Zimbabwe was going up in economic flames. I couldn't make sense of most of it. Fuel queues, panic buying. Something about 2%? My world was about getting out of here and getting better. Friends and family did not understand why I wasn't answering some calls. When could they come see the baby? It all didn't make sense to them. It had been four long weeks. And there were big events like my graduation for my masters degree. I was sadly going to miss that.

When I was discharged there were no celebrations. I just didn't know what other curveballs awaited me. Was this journey finally reaching its destination to good health? Surely this was the end right?

Right?

Part 3 of 3.

2018-09-23T03:19:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it's a good idea to write the third instalment of an ongoing ordeal. I was hoping that by now that I would be among the "bounced back" mommas.
Well it has been two solid weeks today. There should be some progress right?
Baby looks like a two month old and eats the share of one too He is quiet and calm unless you are delaying with his good good. He sleeps quite well and is peaceful when awake and full.

Cracked nipples make you anxious everytime it's feeding time. And that's a lot of anxiety. Objectively speaking, no one cares. My cracked nipples were not healing with nipple cream or the ebm trick. Gynae and paed had outlandish suggestions ranging from method of detaching baby to laser treatment. Insert WhatsApp emoji. You know the one.

Review at the doctors gave answers to questions that we had. It turns out according the pathologists histopathology report that I had "an acute suppurative appendicitis with sections showing oedema, hypermedia, and an exuberant necrosuppurative inflammatory exudate". In English I had appendicitis. Only by miracle had this been seen and removed during surgery except at the time all three doctors were not sure what it was. It looked nothing like an appendix. Removing it was the best thing they could have done.

I also developed an upper respiratory tract infection. Tonsillitis. Not so bad yeah? But it turned out it was the reason I was weak and dizzy and hot. Viral meaning no antibiotics would be effective. Just shingirira.

Tummy was a constant one. Sore.

I expected too much from my doctors review. Hoping for a magical potion which would heal all these things But there's was nothing. Just fickle words of reassurance. And being told again how interesting my case was.

I decided to blog. Publish or perish. Therapy was going to be important..everything I went through was a risk factor for post partum depression. It got me thinking about mothers in similar situations. Maybe they were fine but babies were born with problems like prematurity or congenital anomalies. What were those mommas going through? And you didn't really have to go through complications to get depressed. Some were just predisposed. And yet none of my health team enquired on my mental health. And if they did, all it got was a shame, how awful.

I am done with the writing therapy now. Working on healing day by day. Apologising to friends and family for not bouncing back to their expectations. Taking care of my baby with the help of great support structure. Setting daily goals to return to normal function. Taking care of myself by saying no to some things. Eating right. Exercising when I can. One day at a time, is all I need.

Praying in vernacular: Part 2 of 3

2018-09-22T00:23:00.000-07:00

The fever I developed on Day 5 made me pray in vernacular. All politeness with the nurses had gone out the window. Unleash the dragon-lady. I ordered one nurse aide to bring me a personal thermometer. Another to bring me a blanket. It was 32 degrees Celsius. They both looked confused with these requests and neither of those two ever returned. My teeth were chattering and body shaking like a leaf. So this is what they mean by chills and rigors. You would be surprised at some of the concepts a medic never really understands until it happens to them.

Differential diagnosis time. What could I have developed? An infection from the hospital? A urinary tract infection? Peritonitis? Peuperal sepsis? Any other sepsis? Throat infection? Cholera??? My mind would not shut down. These were all possible. Why were the nurses moving so slowly? Had they called the doctor? Where was my blanket? Why was I developing a fever now? I could hear murmurings of concern that the doctor patient in 5b is crying, what do we do?

Most mothers at this stage were at home now, romantically nursing their babies whilst sipping a cold glass of water as Gina Ford had advised. Maybe their bodies were already back to normal. How long are we given to "bounce back" again?

Instructions over the phone were to increase my IV medications. More painful infusions. Battery of investigations done. Meanwhile tummy still like a drum. An angelic 5 day old still wants his juice every 2 hours. And the routine of the hospital unapologetically continued.

My husband became my nurse, doctor and counsellor that day and somehow by the time the real doctor came, I was feeling better. Hubby's tactics included force feeding and demolition of pity parties. Health workers have a lot to learn from real people. A little TLC goes a long way.

I had finally calmed down. Fever had broken. Some movement in the bowels were cause for mini celebration. There was hope again. The doctor said if there's no fever tomorrow morning, I can go home.

Jubilations.

I did not have a fever that night. And was discharged the next day but over the next 2 weeks that fever would rear its ugly head again not less than 5 times.

The day I was discharged, my meds were stopped too early. Administration took hours to process my papers. By the time I arrived home there were razors in my belly and I felt weak and fragile. Not at all how I imagined homecoming. Still it was good to be home with our latest addition. His older sister took to her brother almost immediately. She offered him her favourite blanket. It was in that moment I knew that no matter what, all this was worth it.

Diaries of a momma peth-head: part 1 of 3

2018-09-17T06:37:00.000-07:00

I gave birth at the same time as our mulberry tree. By the time I was discharged from hospital the black and purple berries had carpeted the ground she shaded. Our rottweiler was also pregnant. Once boisterous she was now a lazy frump always sitting in the shade of the car. I knew exactly how she felt.

I'm not going to go into a lecture about how childbearing should not be a punishment and maternal mortality stats yada yada, but dude. My entire medical portfolio is based on the fact that I had children. And I would not trade my yummies for anything in the world. They and my husband are my greatest blessings which I only attained though grace. God's, that is.

My experience with having a baby this time round with my second has been what others term as traumatic, complicated, and some doctors would say 'interesting'. Because with doctors you are usually reduced to a case whose value increases on whether your stories can be shared with other patients or colleagues. So yes I was interesting.

It all started when I was booked for an elective cesarean section scheduled for 8:30am. My husband and I checked in at 7pm the day before, taking advantage of the quiet weekend vibes. I had only just finished packing 'the bag' that afternoon and had been looking forward to some quiet time away from our toddler. She is my angel but at 9 months gestation I was a beached whale with a kid throwing rocks at me. Laughing and running away. So we checked in, I said goodnight to him at about midnight and I fell into a deep sleep.

2:00am. Drama starts. A nurse walks in and switches on the main light of my room. Walks away and does not switch it off. One of my greatest peeves is noise and light. Maybe I'm hypersensitive to them but they often start an argument with me. I ignored it this time contemplating whether this was enough reason to ring the alarm bell. Ha, first days I was so scared to ring that bell. Hilarious. I left light on and proceeded to open my WhatsApp and went online to read all the news bits of whether Serena Williams tantrum was justified. Suddenly I felt the need to go to the loo and as I sat up torrential waters came down. My waters had broken. The doctor was called and said we are 5 hrs away from theatre, let's watch and wait and if she goes into labour we go in early. I phoned hubby apologetically saying you may have to come earlier. He was like better now than later, we will have the whole day free. Ever the optimist.

Labour started about 10 minutes later. The whole point of an elective is to avoid labour. Nope, someone somewhere said hayi she must also feel. Within the hour I was in theatre.

I was under general anaesthesia so to me the surgery lasted 5 seconds. One moment I am politely greeting the theatre staff, amazed at how cheery and energetic they were at this hour. The next moment I am in the hospital corridor and all I see is my husband at my feet. They placed the baby by my tummy and I said "I can't see him". Repeatedly. I wonder why no one listened to me. Later i was told that in fact what I sounded like I had said was "gerjhu bash we rie". This part I don't remember well. Being drugged up.It must have been so embarrassing no one told me what else happened. I just came to later on in the day.

The next two days were a blurry euphoria as I had become a resident peth-head. Now, the most confusing question you can ever ask a post-op patient who happens to be a doctor is 'do you want more pethidine? ' The answer is yes but no but yes but no but yes but maybe later.
You can't leave such a decision to me. I am that doctor who chases away addicts from the 24 hour who come with all sorts of excuses to get pethidine. And you are asking me when I'm high on the stuff, pain-free and all is right with the world. Who knows what I will feel like if you stop it?Will I be judged for asking for it? Will I get addicted? Shouldn't I wean off so that I go home sooner? But what really was the depth of my surgery? What was on the other side of this pain medication? Finally the decision was made by the anesthetist who said 48hrs then we stop. I felt so proud to announce to the nurses that this will be my final dose. I did not take advantage of my position.

It all dawned on me what had happened to me in surgery when my doctor came to review me in the morning. I had had 5 surgical procedures done at once over a period of 3 hours. My Hb had gone down from 13 to 9. The surgeries were all necessary involving my small gut, entire gut, appendix, ovarian tubes and of course the actual cesarean section. Most of this was due to the fact that my abdominal and pelvic organs were glued together by adhesions. This had been caused by my previous cesarean section and previous myomectomy which had made having a baby even possible.

So here I was 5 in 1 weaning off pethidine. At least I still had paracetamol intravenously. Diclo suppositories. This is a story I would rather not tell now involving nurses and my pride.

I developed what they call paralytic ileus where your gut goes on strike because you fiddled with it too much. I was not passing gas or solids. The accumulation was painful. Drum for a tum. I couldn't take laxatives because it would irritate the small gut surgery. Only glycerine suppositories. But these didn't really work coz there was so little solid made to pass.

In all this, congratulations you are a mum! And breastfeed you shall. Visitors you shall entertain. Two hourly interruptions to do this or that. The hospital I was in has people seeing you every 30 minutes. They are relentless. So they basically wasn't much rest. Things like bath time at 5 am. Who does that? My IV line was changed 4 times as it kept tissueing. The final one was going through a tiny vein and with every infusion of drugs I would feel the sting of the drugs. I would. Now know the tactics of each nurse to get the medicine to move.

But all this was the better part of my ordeal, things were about to take a turn.

To be continued

How to not throw up

2018-07-06T12:17:00.000-07:00

I will pretend that it hasn't been a year since I wrote in here. No excuse. Hopefully if you were seriously looking through here looking for something from me, maybe the old posts kept you company. There are some oldies but goodies guys.

I'm currently trying not to throw up. So this is what happened. We had a happy surprise. In Zimbabwe they say just do gagaga. Basically they mean reproduce one after the other as if you have never attended a family planning session. They don't however offer to look after the small babies whilst you have a smaller baby. Nooo, just do gagaga. It's good for you. Apparently you will be grateful when you/they are older. So yes in case you have failed to read between the lines, we are expecting another baby. Very excited and grateful... Just don't try this if you value basic human posture and don't like carrying 20kgs around all the time.

Anashe is at that stage where she wants to be carried or she unleashes an academy winning performance of rolling in anguish on the floor. Then comes a shrill scream which will only stop if I pick her up. Mind you I am honoured to be the only recipient of this show. She is pretty much an angel with everyone else. It's like she knows there's someone about to join us and is maximising on being the baby. But shame, she is a baby. So maybe we will just say I am about to be a mum of twins.. One slightly older. I used to look at parents who dress their kids same same and think come on. A little individuality guys. I now know it's because ain't nobody got time to be going through kids section clothes looking for individuality. Does it fit. Yes. Get two.

Anyway, so yeah just thought I would update you. I have many a funny little story of my daily struggles. If you are my friend on LinkedIn you will know I started a new job. I hope my new employer can see through my waddle and panting up the stairs and believe the stuff I said in the interview. I'm good, I promise. Just give me benefit of the belly. I will be back. Its a great place though. Good people. I've hung my clinical coat and stethoscope and committed rest of my career to health programming and research. You knew it was inevitable. I do miss my patients. Sometimes. Especially the ones who came with colds and flue at my fancy locum and we would just have a good chat about life. I do not miss feeling helpless when there was nothing we could do for a malnourished child with an HB of 3, with mother who fed them sadza and soup for months and is gasping no blood in the blood bank. No vien in site. And this was daily. After having Anashe I couldn't handle paediatrics. It was now too personal. But I have resolved that I can do my part by influencing policy, being an advocate and educating and preventing the problems which would walk in through those casualty doors.

Anyway, writing this on my phone so not sure how long it will be. Good news is I still haven't thrown up. Let us keep it that way. Please.

Next time I will have something more useful for you to read in terms of how to be an excellent mother and home keeper. Not from my experience of course.

Have a lovely day, my people.

It's SteeTime!

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Maybe It Was Never Meant to Be Water

The Greater Pearl - Reviving My Storytelling from When I was 16

Is American Support Really Leaving Zimbabwe?

A Home for Nozi

There Is a Third Way

What My Aunt's Death Left Behind

My Daddy Issues

What Five Therapists Couldn't Give Me - Why Mental Health Is Only the Beginning

Private School Parenting Is Becoming a Performance Sport

All the Ways a Woman Becomes a Mother

Waiting for Healing: The Quiet Crisis at Parirenyatwa Radiotherapy Centre

The Indignity of Illness

Caregivers in Suspension

One Machine, Many Lives

The Human Cost Behind the System

A Public Health Question We Cannot Avoid

More Than a Queue

A Call That Cannot Be Ignored

The Animal Named Burnout

Have you reached the end of your rope? You might be experiencing burn out.Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

How do you regain balance and feel positive and hopeful again? Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

He Rose By Lifting Others – My Tribute to the Late Dr Christopher Zishiri

The pain and physiology of infertility and miscarriages

Depression is not a black person’s disease - Snap out of it?

Stee's 300things - Deconstructed

Of 300 things, gratitude journals and affirmations!

Sitting on His Right Hand

Saving Mandy

I thought it would be over by now: Part 4

Part 3 of 3.

Praying in vernacular: Part 2 of 3

Diaries of a momma peth-head: part 1 of 3

How to not throw up

Have you reached the end of your rope? You might be experiencing burn out.
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

How do you regain balance and feel positive and hopeful again?
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash