By Munashe Kaseke
The people on the planes became Blacker and Blacker with each layover. On the North Dakota to Washington DC flight, I was the only Black person, as was usual in most places I frequented in North Dakota. Then from Washington DC to London, there was a handful of us. London to Johannesburg, half the flight was Black and from Johannesburg to Harare, there was one white person. I watched from my window seat as the miniature buildings and cars below us became larger, more life-size as we finally descended into Harare. I smiled at the flight attendant’s Shona announcement of our arrival. I hadn’t heard a word of my tongue in a public space for five years. Finally, I was home, a place I fit in entirely.
After we deplaned, I stood in the line for Zimbabwean citizens that circled around the corner. The foreigners’ line had only one person, who was promptly served. I felt a little annoyed. Anytime I’d traveled to other countries, the foreigners’ line was the one that wound while citizens received the red carpet, hassle-free entry. When I reached the front of the line, the agent asked for my name. She wore an army green uniform and had soft, kind eyes. Her wide lips were smothered in an almost orange lipstick that stained two of her front teeth. M-A-K-A, I began to spell, then remembered, I was no longer in North Dakota. I interrupted myself and smiled. “Makanaka Mutusadonha,” I said instead. She promptly wrote it down, asked where I lived, in my native Shona tongue, then followed up with questions about life in the United States. I eagerly answered, enjoying the way my tongue curled as I spoke, making sounds I had almost forgotten I knew how to make.
She remarked that three weeks was too short a visit for someone who hadn’t been home for half a decade, then scornfully added, “No wonder you have a hard time with Shona.”
I looked at her bewildered. We were chatting in Shona, weren’t we? My responses had been perfect, my grammar sublime. What did she mean I had a hard time with my language?
“Your accent is funny. The way you pronounce some words tells everyone you don’t live here.”
My heart sank to my stomach.
She stamped my green passport, then motioned for the next person in line before I could respond.
As I exited the terminal, I was met with giddy faces. My parents, my older sister, and her husband plus their two children—nephews aged five and three I’d never met. Their embraces cuddled my soul. The exhilaration of seeing family faces for the first time in half a decade overwhelmed. They all looked a lot older, as though I had been gone for fifteen years, not five. Half my mother’s hair was white, my father had a slight wobble when he walked, and their wrinkles shouted for attention. Their weary eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into their skulls. My brother-in-law was clad in a navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and a maroon tie. His leather shoes reflected the glare of the setting sun. A smell like that of freshly plucked chickens filled the air. I inhaled it and smiled.
“Is this how someone coming from America dresses?” my brother-in-law mocked, looking at my sweatpants and hoodie.
I needed to be comfortable for the gruesome journey. Besides, I had left North Dakota thirty-eight hours ago and had not showered since, nor had I gotten any sleep. I tried explaining but to no avail.
“You need to dress better. Are you homeless out there? And your complexion, still as dark ever. Kuita tsito kudai? The snow didn’t change you, huh?” he carried on.
I turned my attention to the kids instead and asked for their names in Shona. They stared blankly at me then looked up to their mother for guidance. I supposed they were shy, I was, after all, a stranger, the aunt they knew only from pictures.
“They don’t understand Shona, speak to them in English,” my sister instructed me.
I laughed, but soon realized she was serious. A cloud of sadness drizzled over me. How could children born and raised in Zimbabwe, who didn’t even have passports fail to speak our mother tongue?
We packed my three suitcases into the trunk of the car, my parents sat in the front, and the rest of us squeezed into the back seat. The five-year-old, Jayden, was instructed by her mother to sit on the middle compartment with his back toward the windshield. The younger one sat on his mother’s lap. My eyes widened. Car seats anyone? If we braked suddenly, Jayden would fly right through that windshield. I decided to start the visit on a good note and remained quiet. I would bring it up later. I reached into my purse and picked out two teddy bears for each of my niece and nephew.
“It’s a bheya!” Jayden said with a smile that showed his almost toothless mouth.
“Say bear,” I responded, pulling the toy back to my chest. My sister eyed me disapprovingly.
“If they’re going to speak only one language, they better speak it well,” I said unapologetically.
As we drove home, the sun retreated entirely, ushering in an eerie darkness. Streetlights lined the road leading from the airport, like well-arranged fireflies. Each light pole had a small solar panel above it. I remarked that I was impressed the city was going green and finding ways to keep the city alight despite the power cuts I had read about.
“We’ll see how long it lasts. They tried that with the robots that direct the traffic, but the solar panels were stolen overnight,” my father said.
I shook my head in disbelief. We hit a pothole as we exited the main highway into the suburbs, and I reached out to steady Jayden. My mother laughed, “You’re going to try to do that the entire way home? He’s fine,” she said.
As we left the highway, the potholes seemed to get worse. In the dim of the night, the road appeared so worn out, it was now a dirt road with a few patches of tar sprinkled unevenly across. I watched the rusted buildings that lined the street. They clearly had not seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. I stared in fascination and depression as we made our way home. It was not just my family that looked like they had aged fifteen years, my whole city looked like it had been an abandoned ghost town for two decades and everyone just moved back in yesterday and were trying to fool me into thinking that they had been here all along.
A young woman with a baby who was no older than a year stood begging in the middle of the street at a traffic light that did not work. On the side of the road was another beggar with outstretched arms, blind with a white cane, tattered clothes, and bare feet. I turned my gaze back to the shivering baby and my heart moved. It was so easy for me to ignore beggars without a flinch of guilt in North Dakota, but these were my people. I reached into my bag to see if I had loose change. My father promptly rolled up the car windows and hissed at the woman and her child not to approach. I looked up in surprise.
“Street kids! They are a bunch of brutes without manners. Be careful to keep your car windows up, they could snatch your purse,” he said.
I felt bad for judging him, after all, that was how I reacted to the homeless in the US. If memory served me right, I used to roll up my windows when beggars and street kids approached me in Harare as well before I left for the US.
When we arrived in Greendale, I gave the three suitcases to my family. They were filled with clothes, chocolate, perfume, Walmart electric toothbrushes, and toys for the kids. They opened each suitcase and divided the spoils among themselves. I reminded them that the chocolate and perfumes made for easy gifts for the extended family who would soon descend upon the house like locusts.
“Is this all you have? Just clothes and shoes? I wanted the new iPhone,” my sister asked.
I laughed. Even I didn’t have one, it cost a thousand dollars!
After distributing the gifts, dinner was served. My father had slaughtered two of his chickens for me. My father’s chickens ran around his yard, without any food ever provided save for water. They dug up worms and chased down termites. I had forgotten how fresh organically fed chicken tasted, bursting with concentrated flavor. In the US I told myself “food is food” because I couldn’t afford to shop in the organic food section. The chickens I was used to buying in North Dakota were twice the size and tasted like their meat had been diluted with three parts water for every gram of meat.
My sister poured at least eight ounces of Fanta for each of the kids to have with their dinner.
“They won’t drink anything but juice,” she said.
I rolled my eyes, that was not juice.
“I have to go through ten liters a week because of that. They have juice in the morning instead of tea, juice at daycare, and juice at dinner,” she said, proud of her children’s uppity taste.
I had noticed the older one, Jayden, was a little plump. Again, I let it go.
My family wanted to stay up and chat about wildfires, earthquakes and mass shootings in North Dakota, things they figured affected my daily life, given the US news. I did not feel up to dissecting fact from fiction after such a long journey. I chuckled at how I would also have to do the same dissection in three weeks, dispel whatever stereotypes of Africa they too watched on TV, and explain that I wasn’t visiting my family in some hut in a village with my pet monkey.
I excused myself and retired to bed, yet the room was so hot that I could not sleep. I missed the air conditioning and cool winter nights of the Dakotas. Curling up in a ball, I felt disappointed in myself. Had I become the proverbial African who goes away for a few years and comes back acting like they’re too good for the place? Was there room to bring a different point of view to my family, to my country, or would doing so mean I was losing my way? Becoming less Zimbabwean?
Exhaling, I promised myself that I would not comment negatively on anything for the remainder of my stay. I would speak to everyone in Shona, prove that stupid lady at the airport wrong, dress modestly, and eat whatever I was offered. A mosquito hovered over my ears right as I was finally slipping off to sleep. I let out a loud and uncharacteristic cuss, before quickly chiding myself. Makanaka, this is home, I reminded myself.
The next morning, hot water was boiled and poured in a bucket for me to dilute with the appropriate measure of cold water to bathe. The taps in Harare no longer produced running water so my parents frequently had large containers of water collected from a nearby borehole, despite the fact we lived in one of Harare’s most upscale suburbs. I saved the soapy water in the bucket to flush the toilet with later. Breakfast was ready when I joined the family. The kids were watching cartoons.
“This is how they know so much English,” my brother-in-law boasted. “We let them watch all day.”
Again, I kept my tongue.
The maid served mashed potatoes, mincemeat, and baked beans. I was a little confused but remembered that before I left, we used to have spaghetti and meatballs for breakfast at eight in the morning. The portion was much too large for me, having been accustomed to eating only an egg or two for breakfast, or a small cup of yogurt and granola, or perhaps avocado toast if I was particularly hungry.
“Is that all you’re going to eat? Even Jayden eats more than that,” my brother-in-law said.
I wanted to say, “Jayden’s great-grandmother died of heart failure, both his grandparents who are eating equally unwarranted portions have high blood pressure and diabetes and don’t exercise, your wife had gestational diabetes and my poor nephew is already well on his way to being overweight.” Instead, I smiled and said, “I’ll eat more later.”
Soon, the first wave of the locusts descended upon the house.
“Why do you keep speaking in Shona? Speak in English so we can hear if you sound American yet,” they chided.
I smiled yet persisted with my Shona. I gave gifts of American chocolate that I’d bought after Halloween clearance at Walmart, perfumes from Burlington Coat Factory, a few items I found on the clearance rack at Ross, and indoor slippers from Dollar Tree. Gleeful aunts, uncles, and cousins broke into songs of gratitude when they received something they loved. I felt guilty for adhering too closely to my budget when shopping. If a few dollars brought this much joy, surely I could’ve spared more.
After their visit, my mother and I drove them home, stopping at the roadside for some traditional fruit sold from the back of a pickup truck. Mazhanje were dark brown on the outside with thick slimy yellow insides. All you can eat, with a large sack on the side for everyone spitting out their seeds. Stuff yourself full, then pick a few to leave with, all at a flat rate. I moaned in satisfaction as the scrumptious slimy flesh filled my mouth, sucking on the seeds until they were fully naked, then savored the skin, thick, dark brown with a burst of flavor at every chew. This was how to vacation at home. Americans could never understand the bliss of wild fruit, harvested from untamed forests that are rife with monkeys. All enjoyed on a roadside, from the back of a pickup truck, conversing with strangers whom I felt should be family because they were Shona, my people. Nearby stood a bald dark-skinned man grilling fresh maize on the roadside. I ran over to him and asked for two freshly grilled cobs. I closed my eyes as my tongue was delighted by tastes that had become a distant memory. For the first time in years, I felt alive again.
My mother’s car was running low on gas, so we stopped at a fuel queue in Mabelreign. We queued for two hours, chatting while moving a few inches forward every five minutes. I’d never had to queue to fill my car up in North Dakota. When we were five cars from the pump, the attendant told us that the fuel had run out and we needed to go elsewhere. Frustrated, we drove to Greencroft, passing multiple empty fuel stations along the way and joining the Zuva petrol station queue at five in the evening. For an hour, we inched closer to the green and white filling station. Right at six o’clock, the attendant came to tell us they were closing, so we would have to return the following day. My mother drove home in silence, dejected, while I lashed out about the gas station attendants, the gas company, the economy, the government. I began feeling queasy as we got closer to Greendale, so joined my mother’s silence and listened to my stomach bubbling instead.
Later that night, after dinner, I had to rush to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet seat. I had a running stomach. Of course, everyone in the US talked about not eating from the roadside when traveling to developing countries, but this was my country. I was not supposed to get sick when I grew up eating this very food. As time passed, my mother knocked on the door worried. I did not want to tell anyone that I had diarrhea. Instead, I asked her for a bucket of water to flush. She brought me one, but I needed more water just five minutes later. I called out for my mother, but she sent my sister instead with another bucket. Damn it, one more person who might get suspicious. Keeping the secret was impossible. By the end of the night and countless buckets of water later, everyone knew. My body was letting me down. I felt like it was telling me that I did not belong in my own country.
By the second week my stomach settled, and I played tag and hide and seek with my nephews. I watched multiple sunsets with them seated on my lap—Zimbabwe’s spectacular skies tinted in hues of pink, purple, and orange. The giant sinking sun always appeared much closer to earth than it did in North Dakota. It was as if nature was trying to make up for the derelict buildings, roads, and water systems. My sister made fun of me for attempting to capture the sunset with my phone camera.
“Have you never seen the sun? Does it not exist in North Dakota?” she teased.
I ate matemba—tiny dried kapenta fish with sadza—when everyone else wanted rice and chicken, scrumptious flavors I’d missed that transported me to a time when I felt fully Zimbabwean. I picked fresh mangoes, avocados, and guavas straight from the trees in my father’s yard. The bumpy pothole-laden drives to Avondale shops became a delight. Foodlovers market had the best pepper steak pies and beef samosas. Pick and Pay had delectable fresh cream donuts, covered in chocolate. Creamy Inn did not disappoint with its vanilla cones, which tasted just as I remembered them from my childhood. I indulged all without a care about the calories they carried, thanks to my family.
I found art for my apartment walls back in North Dakota and met the artists who carved the granite rocks and made the paintings. My favorite sculpture was of the flame-lily, Zimbabwe’s national flower. We spoke in Shona, and I laughed at various headlines displayed in newspapers with strangers at the market. On one of my drives home, I bought a large pizza for a few beggars who sat on the side of the road and we shared it as we conversed about how hard it had become to make a living in our country with the hyper-inflation, no jobs, and crumbling infrastructure. Zimbabwe was using both local currency and US dollars but the black market exchange rate was higher. For the first time, I changed US dollars on the black market at Strathaven shops and felt so gangster afterward. My mother made fun of me for feeling like I had done something so scandalous.
For my last week before returning to the US, I was determined to explore more of the scenic side of Zimbabwe with my family. We took a road trip to Nyanga and I pulled out a playlist of songs that were hits when I still lived here. My family sang along and we taught my niece and nephew songs from a time before they were born. My nephew sat comfortably on the middle compartment, his back to the windshield as he wiggled his body in dance. I giggled at his lack of coordination and marveled at my ease with him seated there compared to that first drive back from the airport.
We spent the first day of our trip at Leopard Rock and took turns feeding zebras and kudus. I laughed at my brother-in-law after one zebra looked like it was charging toward him for more food when he’d run out. I recorded a video of his frantic face as he rushed to jump over the fence and the family threatened to post it on Youtube. He would be the key to riches for the family, we joked. I laughed until my stomach hurt, a welcome hurt this time. We went on a walking safari later in the day, took selfies with ostriches and wildebeests, and left our legs painted in dust. I taught the kids all the animal names in Shona, bribing them with candy should they get the pronunciation just right.
Two days later we hiked Mutarazi Falls, the second highest in Africa, and I convinced everyone except my mother to try ziplining over the gorge with me.
“Iye nyakuzvifunga anga abatwa neyi? They’re asking for death,” she insisted.
We made fun of her for being chembere—too old and set in her ways—as the rest of us got strapped in and screamed and cried like we were dying as we zipped over the gorge then laughed about it for days on end.
Stuck in the car together for a week, we had heart-to-heart conversations about how each of us had changed over the years, about our hopes and dreams, our fears and anxieties. We comforted each other, held hands, shared meals.
On the last day of the trip, I braided cornrows into my mother’s gray and black hair, and when I was done with my immaculate lines, Jayden remarked, “Gogo, you look like a zebra!”
Back in Greendale, I lay almost naked in my childhood bedroom, covering myself with only a sheet. I hadn’t felt this content on any day over the last five years in America. A mosquito sang above my head in the dark, and I let its singing be the soundtrack to my last night at home, covering my body with a sheet to keep it from biting me. Even though my country was falling apart, was returning to work abroad again worth missing the moments and experiences I’d just had? I cried myself to sleep.
Munashe Kaseke is a Zimbabwean woman living in California. Her debut short story collection, Send Her Back and Other Stories is available in July 2022 and is available for pre-order. The collection offers an awfully intimate, fresh telling of the immigrant experience of Black women in the United States.
www.munashekaseke.com