P.O.V: Tafadzwa Samuel Mwala
I was born in the year 2000 in Zimbabwe, right in the heart of Harare—Mbare, to be exact.
Now if you've never been to Mbare, picture this: the streets are always alive, like they drank three energy drinks and decided to never sleep again.
Vendors yelling prices, taxis honking like they're in a musical, and somewhere in the background—always—someone blasting sungura music like the world is about to end and only Alick Macheso can save it.
My mother, Suzan Mwala, was a vendor with lungs of steel and hands that worked harder than a washing machine on overdrive.
My father, Jairos Mwala, was a carpenter in Mbare Market—his hands were always covered in sawdust and his shirts full of holes... but his laugh could fix your worst day.
We lived in a tiny apartment—if you blinked too fast, you'd miss the entire kitchen.
The paint was peeling like it owed someone money, the walls creaked like haunted house auditions, and downstairs, Mr. Gumbo's radio was basically the sixth member of our family.
That man had a relationship with sungura music I've never seen before. I still don't know when he slept.
But the real villains? Cockroaches and rats.
Big Ones.
The kind that made you question if you were living in a house or a wildlife documentary. My brother Tapiwa and I had a plan though.
Operation: Pest Be Gone. Tapiwa crafted a trap using a torn school shoe, leftover rice, and one of dad's missing nails. We didn't catch a single rat, but we did catch our cat trying to eat the trap.
When it came to clothes, it was either "swimming in it" or "can't breathe." If we weren't adjusting buttons, we were pretending it was the latest fashion.
"Oversized is American style," I used to say, strutting like a model with one trouser leg rolled up because the other one was missing.
We helped Mum sell tomatoes, dried fish, cloths—even dad's carved art pieces when he trusted us.
At Mbare Primary School, I usually went with cornbread and water, which honestly tasted like a Michelin star meal when you were hungry enough.
I always did my homework early, because my parents didn't play about school.
"Education is the one thing that won't get stolen," Dad would say, dramatically pointing his wooden ruler at me like a wizard casting a spell of wisdom.
After school, Maka—my best friend—and I would run around with old tires or our handmade wire cars.
We'd race down the dusty roads pretending we were taxi drivers and shout, "Kudenga kusvika ! Last stop is heaven!" even though we had no clue where kudenga (heaven) was.
Life felt perfect. I had no idea how much my parents were sacrificing—how they juggled school fees, food, and rent with nothing but grit and prayer.
Then, when I was 10, everything changed.
Maka and I were sitting by the roadside, watching cars go by and giving them nicknames. "That one looks like a hippo in a rush," Maka laughed.
I was telling him about my grandma's cattle—the mooing choir that kept me up all night during the holiday.
Suddenly, my sister Tariro appeared like a storm cloud with fast feet. "Tafadzwa! Home. Now."
Her face looked like she'd just seen a ghost... or worse, broken Mum's only teapot.
I didn't even argue. When a Mwala sibling talks like that, you run.
At home, Mom looked me dead in the eye and said, "Pack your bag."
I blinked. "For what?"
"No questions. Just pack!"
In record time, I had my clothes—some too tight, some too big—and my toy truck stuffed into a school bag.
Minutes later, we were squeezing ourselves into a cramped kombi, my face pressed against the window and someone's sweaty elbow in my ribs. Classic.
After what felt like an eternity of bumps and gospel music, we arrived at a gate with huge letters: AIRPORT.
My jaw? Dropped. My brain? Lagged.
We walked in, my feet dragging from confusion and excitement. Planes stood proudly on the runway like metallic dinosaurs. My heart was thumping like Mr. Gumbo's speakers.
Mom turned to me, bent down, and kissed my forehead gently.
"You're going to Japan, Tafadzwa."
I froze.
"Wait... WHAT?!"
She smiled through her tears. "For school. For your future."
I looked at the massive plane, then at my little flip-flops, then back at her.
"Do they have sadza in Japan?"
She laughed and hugged me so tightly I almost disappeared.
And just like that, my life turned into a real-life movie. From Mbare's dusty streets to Japan's neon lights.
Glossary :
Sadza - A thick porridge made from ground maize (cornmeal), the staple food in Zimbabwe. Usually eaten with vegetables, meat, or stew.