Living Outside Zimbabwe – In Diaspora

A large number of Zimbabweans have crossed borders to live elsewhere. This post gives you a glimpse of how some Zimbabweans living outside Zimbabwe are experiencing, in diaspora.

I heard through the grapevine that my former college-mate, Sanders, is now living in America. The entire neighbourhood was awash with this rumour. The beautiful state-of-the-art mansion Sanders built for his parents was on everyone’s lips. There had been a noticeable shift in his parents’ lifestyles, leaving them among the highest echelons of society.

Those with privileged access to Sanders’s information also divulged that he was the actual owner of a popular restaurant at Norton Center. However, Sanders had been smart enough to put the Z-Brothers in the forefront to run the business on his behalf.

Looking back at all the things they said Sanders had achieved, I could see that the whole move of leaving his motherland behind made a lot of sense. Although it was the hardest decision to make, it was the best he had ever made in his life.

If I told people that I was together with Sanders at the University of Zimbabwe studying Psychology, no one could believe me, simply because we were now living worlds apart. Despite being ‘highly educated’, I had nothing tangible to point at . In terms of having my own assets.

All the 15 years I had spent in employment seemed to have gone down the drain. I had never reached that level of feeling satisfied with what I had. For example, I had not been there to gather enough money to buy a decent house. Let alone a car.

In my category of university leavers, no one could dare boast of earning a salary commensurate with their level of education. Access to basic provisions seemed virtually sealed. I guess those who got there did so through crooked or clandestine means.

Now that the US dollar was within Sanders’s easy reach, what possibly could stop him from chasing his dreams? We all know how things work in our societies. He who has the fattest pocket has the platform to influence decisions crucial to people’s lives.

That made me suddenly realise that I had to act swiftly to change my destiny or risk dying a pauper. Instinctively, I went to seek advice from Sanders’s parents. I needed to know where he stayed in America. Getting this information was easier than I had anticipated. His parents had no intentions whatsoever of withholding information from me. I was no stranger to them. I had known them and their son since our old days at college.

Without knowing it, things started to unfold and to progress smoothly. The following week, I contacted Sanders. Time flew quickly, then ultimately the day I had been waiting for arrived. Within a brief space of time, I sorted out all the travel arrangements, including getting a visa as well as the air ticket.

I couldn’t wait to join Sanders in the dreamland, a place I imagined to be flowing with milk and honey. Before my departure, I made one more last thing. I equally distributed my few belongings among my sibling brothers. I had no reason to cling on to any of my possessions since I was not yet married. Strangely enough, I have remained very single up to this day.

I threw a farewell party on the last Saturday where I invited everyone I liked and respected. The venue was a dilapidated old city council hall, which I could afford. Attendance was great. The event was an unforgettable get-together with a fully packed hall.

On landing at Philadelphia International Airport, I found Sanders waiting for me. Before hugging him, I knelt and kissed the ground where I stood. I did this to fulfil a myth I had heard over repeatedly. As the myth goes, kissing the ground symbolised a welcoming and initiation ceremony. It was a moment of introducing the visitor to his new environment and its inhabitants. As such, a gesture like this was an essential to inviting auras of success while living in the unknown land.

Ironically, little did I know that this marked the beginning of a new life. The start of a new type of struggle that I had never imagined. For the first three months, I stayed with Sanders at a flat he was renting in Philadelphia. That helped me to get settled. However, there were certain things I had to work on myself.

On top of the priority list was to find a reliable job. Also, my accommodation since Sanders was sharing the flat with his partner. Honestly speaking, three people in one place make it a crowd. Although in my country of birth I was rated as an eloquent English speaker, the problem I got confronted with in this part of the world was something else. Almost everyone I spoke to struggled to understand what I was saying. They kept saying, “Pardon! Pardon!”. How I hated it!

In other words, they were telling me in no uncertain terms that I was speaking an alien language, probably from another planet. It was not the type of English they all knew.

It meant, therefore, I had to work very hard at moulding my accent. Otherwise, I would make myself a target of all sorts of ridicule. The greatest challenge remained; how was I going to achieve this?

According to a Speech Therapy textbook I once read, it’s highly impossible for people to successfully switch on to different accents after reaching the age of thirteen. No matter how much effort they put in panel- beating the accent, there would always be some traces or hints that would give away the secret. In my case, I wasn’t going to throw in the towel yet; it had to be proven though.

Analysing my life in diaspora, this year is my eleventh year of stay. It has been practically impossible for me to survive in one job. It doesn’t by any means give me an adequate salary compared to the immense demands of my life.

I have bills to foot every month. I need money for rentals, gas bills, car insurance, medical aid, council tax, to pinpoint just a handful. To be honest, the list is endless. From my homeland, I have numerous needs to fulfil. They come flooding in, from all directions. In a family of seven, I shoulder the sole responsibility of looking after our parents, as if I am the only surviving child. Four of my brothers are now married but often appeal to me to pay tuition fees for their kids.

Sometimes I am asked to pay for the maternity bills for their wives. The upkeep of almost every member of the family is my concern. I’ve tried to be strict, but it’s easy for them to capitalise on the chaotic situation prevailing at home. The acute shortages of basic commodities like medicine in hospitals are paramount to someone’s survival. I wouldn’t dare say no to a request that is illness related.

The problem with relatives back home is that they think people living in ‘developed’ countries sit on top of silver and gold. They are ignorant of the fact that they earn this money through strenuous work that immigrants are exposed to. Immigrants can’t exercise much choice in choosing good jobs since labourers have flooded the market.

By helping those at home, it’s like knotting a dependence chain syndrome around oneself. No one can break free from its bondage. Of course, when I came to live in Philadelphia, I thought I had made a tremendous breakthrough to get myself out of the financial crisis I was in. Ever since, I have worked hard night and day, without proper rest. In the process, I compromised my social life. I could hardly spare some few hours off work for a dinner date.

I have tried relationships, but they all gave in to the insurmountable pressures in my life and came crumbling down. On my salaries, from both jobs, still I could not afford the luxuries that go hand-in- hand with lubricating a lasting relationship.

Let’s face it; ladies simply enjoy being spoiled as a sign of affection. They need to be constantly showered with gifts. We all know that flower and cosmetic shops run dry on Valentine’s Day. Gifts and treats here and there constitute the magic. Otherwise, it would not work.

In all these past ten years I’ve been here in the USA, I failed to strike just a single relationship with a decent lady. Will I ever find a suitable girlfriend to settle down with for life? The time I came, I felt so vital and full of life. I don’t think I still have that kind of strength to carry on, unless I risk having a stroke.

On the other hand, my brothers are reported to be doing exceptionally well back home. They now have families, and their children are attending private and expensive schools. They all live in desirable residential areas. It’s all because I sacrificed. They are enjoying the fruits of my labour. Was it worth it, coming here in the first place?

Here abroad, I cannot afford to buy the house I used to dream of except a car. Almost everyone here owns one, because the prices are reasonable. If only I knew. If someone had fully explained to me what life is like living here in a foreign country, I would have made an informed decision. I doubt if I would have gone ahead to migrate. Instead, I would have remained at home.

Eventually, I would have found a suitable lady to marry and start a family with. I would have passed my name on to my children, the rightful heirs of whatever wealth I would have managed to scrounge around in the land of my forefathers.

Now I know that it’s not money alone that counts in life. If pursued in isolation, money can be a source of all troubles and untold melancholy.

Please feel free to leave questions or comments below in relation to this post Living Outside Zimbabwe – In Diaspora. I will be pleased to come back to you as soon as possible.

Cheers,

Let’s meet in Zimbabwe!