Average Joe's Blog

Prologue What exactly do you want me to do? I have been up all night waiting for you to say something - anything - so I can drift into my usually fitful sleep in peace. Why do you do give me the silent treatment? Why the double-edged signals? What have I done to you? I think you are one of those people who play with people's heart with sweet nothings and a load of sweet meaningless words. Its unGodly; please do not do this to me. I have suffered enough. You have ruined everything and right now I'm in the shitiest mood I had ever had. I’m not having clear thoughts right now, but you are a very smart girl, and you will figure things out if they don’t appear to make sense at first. So here goes. Yea. Here. Goes. Things always have a funny way of coming to me when I least expect it. All things. Good things. Bad things. Physical things. Thoughts. Once I was watching a soccer match and I wondered why the ball was getting bigger – then it hit me… Right now it has come ...

It was a reservoir that was supposed to bring agricultural life to the drought stricken lands of Chivi South and Muchakata area in Masvingo Province. As the largest inland dam in the country, Tokwe-Mukosi would be well geared to provide an irrigation venture that would keep the people of Chivi well clear of the threat of perennial famine for a very long time to come. Maybe forever. Add to that the provision of drinking water as well as a hydro-electricity project, and the importance of building the dam would literally be priceless. And yes, with the accelerated construction rate after the dam project was injected with cash two years ago, the fruits of the labour of pooling the waters of Tugwi and Mukosi Rivers are becoming more and more real by the day. But just a few weeks ago, Tokwe-Mukosi had people chewing their hearts right in their mouths when it threatened to wipe away the very lives of those long-suffering residents of Masvingo South, for which it was ironically built ...

Football is a very passionate sport. It is so passionate that more often than not, it beats the throws of romance. Because romance between two people can die; it is not always happily ever after in love world. But when a person loves his football club, then that is a relationship that goes beyond death. They have talked about The Arsenal going eight, nine years without winning a troph y. Yet in the nine years that the gunners have had their drought, I doubt their support base dwindled. If anything, more people found reasons to be attached to a club that plays the most attractive football in England. Liverpool have gone twenty years and counting without lifting the league; but their fans still find more reasons to love them every day. Of course, different rules apply for for Man United fans who thought they owned all the footballs and the referees in this world - they deserve whatever comes to them. But one still has to admire their willingness to stand by their team in these day...

Heard it being said that the best writers are the most reclusive and angriest lot on this earth. Simply because happy people don't write gripping tales. Happy people are - happy. and when they are happy, a pen is the last thing they think of. They think of booze and drugs and sex; there is simply no place for a prayer.  But it is when a person is angry or is missing someone or something that badly that he suddenly sees things so clearly he turns into a philosopher and feels the urg e to share his newly acquired pain - under the guise of it being knowledge or a brilliant work of fiction. Nobody knows they are that good at praying until they come face to face with Godzilla on their doorstep. And closer to home, most of us might have known of  Hon. Tendai Biti 's exploits at Honey and Blackenburg, but we only got to know his mastery of the English language when he lost an election to the Zanu Pf juggernaut of Robert Mugabe and Co.  But Biti is a lawyer; I was talk...

And another year grows tired and nears death. it has fought its good fight for some, while many of us might simply cannot wait to see the the arse of 2013 as she stumbles along her last days. I know most of us have been screwed; screwed by life. Screwed by people we thought were different. Screwed by the people we suspected or knew were only there to screw us. Screwed by government. But then government has always been screwing people since the idea of government was created. That is why there is The Arsenal, and Brandy, and and beer and sex. That is because a person needs somewhere to bury his anger after being screwed. Some people want to bury their rage in a lot of liquids that scald their lips as they cascade down their throats. Others bury their anger in a lot of pussy. It happens. Shit happens. But it is easy for people to remember the bad days from the 365 days of bliss that we have been granted yet again by the Creator. It is easy because it does not take much for a...

They called me a rovha, a vernacular bastardisation for loafer. They did not mean it literally, of course, but they were not particularly affectionate when using it either. It was a term labelled on anybody who was neither going to school nor formally enslaved (I mean employed, but what is the fucking difference) those days – even one who, like me, had just finished writing his O Levels and would be waiting for the results so he could decide what to do with his life after. I guess it was one of those colonial relics we could not shake off our body politic.  Loafer. I was a bloody loafer.   So, during those blissful three months between November and January when I was waiting for those results 15 years ago, I might as well have been a useless village hobo who was good for naught except being a nuisance at beer parties. Except I didn't drink. I didn‟t mind either; it was a perfect time for me to catch up with Shimmer and Tsodzo and Mungoshi and a whole lot of my Wordsworthia...