P.O.V: Tafadzwa Samuel Mwala
I woke up to a gentle tap on my shoulder.
"Sweetheart, we've landed," the air hostess said with that same kind smile—the kind that makes you forget you just drooled on yourself mid-sleep.
I blinked. First thing I noticed? Cold. The kind that slaps you in the face like, "Welcome, my friend. You're not in Harare anymore!"
"Maiweeeeee (Oh my gosh!)" ," I gasped, shivering like a wet chicken.
My faded jersey from Mbare didn't stand a chance in this Japan breeze. Even the air here smelled different—less like diesel and roasted maize, more like fresh soap and futuristic buildings.
I clutched my little old satchel (one zip broken, but it was loyal) and joined the queue of passengers heading out.
The airport was so shiny it looked like someone had personally polished the floors with angel tears. My shoes squeaked with every step, betraying me.
And then I was out.
Standing. Alone. In Japan.
I walked to the shade, trying to look confident—like I belonged—but deep down I felt like a confused cockroach who accidentally walked into a science lab.
Then suddenly—screech!
A sleek black car pulled up across from me. Not just any car. This thing looked like it belonged in a spy movie.
Windows tinted, body sparkling, and tires cleaner than my entire school uniform had ever been.
Out stepped a woman.
Light-skinned. Wearing black heels that clacked like gunshots on the pavement. Her long black dress flowed behind her like she was on a runway.
Her makeup was flawless, her nails long and red like danger, and her eyebrows? Arched like she knew secrets the government didn't.
She spotted me. Her expression softened.
"Tafadzwa?" she called out.
I nodded cautiously, still holding my satchel like it was my security blanket.
She crossed the pavement with grace I didn't even know was legal
. When she got close, she smiled. "I'm Aunt Féé. You've grown so much! Last time I saw you, you were still peeing on the mat!"
I blinked. "Ah, ma'am... we don't talk about those days."
She burst out laughing and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like perfume, wealth, and Japanese cherry blossoms.
My Mbare sweater instantly felt like it belonged in the museum of poverty.
She led me to the car like I was some VIP.
I climbed in and almost gasped—leather seats, a digital screen, air freshener that smelled like fresh pine... this car had more buttons than our broken TV remote at home.
As we zoomed off into the streets of Tokyo, I pressed my face to the window like a village boy in a sci-fi movie.
Woooow.
The streets were spotless.
Neon signs glowed in pinks, blues, and purples.
People walked around dressed like anime characters, vending machines stood proudly every few steps, and bicycles glided past like it was a dream.
And the cars—eish!( dang!)Even the taxis looked like they had PhDs.
I turned to Aunt Féé. "So this is where rich people come to retire?"
She laughed again. "Tafadzwa, this is just the beginning."
As the sun dipped behind Tokyo's skyline, painting the sky in orange and pink, I stared wide-eyed out the window.
Somewhere between my satchel, my craving for matowe fruit, and my homesickness... I smiled.
From chasing tires in Mbare to chasing dreams in Tokyo.
Glossary :
Matowe- A small, sweet wild fruit found in Zimbabwe. Kids often snack on it while playing or herding animals, so it's got that nostalgic "childhood treat" vibe.