Age old wisdom

So I woke a year older today. Besides an aching ear nothing seemed to have changed except that when I gazed at the mirror I realized I look more like my father as I grow older.

I spent the day pondering over my life and I came to realize that some things have changed. I share a few in the hope that they will help inspire some thought somewhere.

  • The energy purpose has changed.
  • In the past I used and expended my energy and passion in a way similar to that military maxim of shoot first and ask questions later. But with age I have learnt to assess my battles and only fight if it is the only option I am left with.
  • The dreams have blossomed
  • In the late nineties I believed that wherever my mind took me to my feet will get me there. I then discovered responsibilities, budgets, priorities and sobriety. Instead of somersaulting into the sky I learnt to build a ladder step by step and then ascend the steps.

Dreams inspired me to fly at thrice the speed of sound but age taught me to lay hay while it is day. Dreams had not limit, they crossed swollen bridges, scaled scary mountains and rode lions horse back style but age urged caution, safety, planning and vision.

The radical is gone

I woke up to a more considerate person. The temper has mellowed over years and I have discovered that where I used anger, road rage and ebullience the results are better with calm introspection and seeing beyond the moment.

The death of the radical has birthed the introspective elder who applies wisdom than militancy, who only brings out the guns to defend integrity and dignity.

Caution has replaced speed

Youth and dreams made me see life like a Formula One race, something to be run and won spectacularly, but age has taught me to focus on the prize like what the preacher Paul says:

“I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”

‭‭Philippians‬ ‭3:14‬ ‭KJV‬‬

Age has brought spring cleaning and detoxes

Young age saw the collection of many things. Broken hearts, broken promises, missed steps, trippings and fallings etc and getting older has taught that the baggage is a drag in the walk and costs emotionally and physically.

Growing of age has made me only to speak when I really have to, to count my losses, cut my losses, know when to call it quits, when to hold on and who to walk with.

An increasing frailty

Where youth premised stud status my age now advocates serene and soft landings. Where I walked with a bump the legs now drag and ego makes it look like a swagger but it’s the tendons admitting a loss of their tension and stretch ability.

Where youth prized passionate fist thumping and long speeches my age now points to the Power Point and is conscious of those dozing in the audience.

Where youth pushed to be the first in the feeding trough my age now calmly allows the ladies and visitors ahead and am happy and satisfied to see everyone well catered for.

I now chew more carefully, the same way I now handle life, for fear of broken or cracked teeth. My relationship with the optician is getting stronger as I need more stronger lenses every two years and I wonder why I am constantly checking my pensionable date and why the internet is occasionally throwing me the funeral policy adverts more frequently than the young fellows !!

I woke up feeling grown….

To be continued

reality check

I happen to have been hearing Kenny Rodgers’ song ‘Coward of the county ’so many times of late such that it rings in my mind even when it’s no longer playing. In the song, Rodgers sings about a man (boy?) called Yellow whose dad died in prison and he (Rodgers) had to take care of the boy (the dad was his brother). He sings of what the dad told the boy before dying:

Promise me son not to do the things I have done

Walk away from trouble if you can

It won’t mean you weak if you turn the other cheek

I hope you old enough to understand

Sometimes you don’t have to fight to prove that you are a man

The boy lived under this adage, labeled a county coward by all, he never sought to dispute this as long as he had the love and heart of a girl called Becky. In her, according to Rodgers, he did not have to prove that he was a man. All was sublime and bliss until the county bullies came. The song says the Gatling boys came to his girl when Tommy (Yellow’s real name) was at work and had a violent go at her and defiled her.

When Tommy came and found his love bruised by the hood bullies, he took his old man’s portrait, remembered his father’s words:

Promise me son not to do the things I have done

Walk away from trouble if you can

It won’t mean you weak if you turn the other cheek

I hope you old enough to understand

Sometimes you don’t have to fight to prove that you are a man

After this he walked into the bar wherein he found the bullies who had just ravished his girl, midway into the bar he was taunted and called yellow, he turned and walked toward the door and the laughter increased, but he did not leave, he locked the door, summoned all the strength (holy anger?) and never stopped until all the members of the famous gang were leveled and he made it clear as he floored the last one that he was doing all this for his Becky. Then he turned his dad’s words and did his own refrain.

I promised you dad not to do the things you’ve done

I’ll walk away from trouble if I can

Now don’t please don’t think I am weak when I didn’t turn the other cheek

And papa I sure hope you’ll understand

Sometimes you have to fight to prove that you are a man.

The words left a dimensional thrust me. It made me understand that we are comfortable with the pain society gives us until it touches a raw nerve. We are content with being misunderstood as long as it does not cause us to be removed from the feeding trough. We are happy to walk with hunched shoulders against a world that thumbs its nose at us and we deign from taking a stand.

Our  failure to take a stand against the libels , wrongs etc. might look uncostly as they happen across the road but the problem is that the more unchallenged the wrongs go, the more braver and louder the bullies become, soon they will snoop and walk into your territory also and defile your perimeter.

Our false comfort in running away from confronting ills under the pretext that they do not directly affect us is actually blatant COWARDICE that would cause pain to our close kin. How many of us have observed a taxi man pick under- age children with his taxi with the lure of sweet nothings to sexually abuse them? What has been our response? Have we not shrugged our shoulders and muttered that it is not our concern? Has it ever occurred to us that the pedophile will seek more scalps and might eventually pounce closer home?

The soccer aces say the best method of defence is attack. We cannot sit in the comfort of our perimeters and say as long as the ills are not in our circle we are safe because such safety is but false like a single reed against a swollen river.

Reality check. What did you overlook today? A child mouthing a wrong word and left un-cautioned will be the street gang leader who will take your watch at knife point tomorrow. A misguided adult who believes in their wrong being right might be the one to spread that libelous unfounded story about you. A subordinate who smells beer during working hours who goes unsanctioned might drive that company car carrying your children into oncoming traffic tomorrow.

We can’t afford to be yellow. We can’t afford to only fight when the bullies are at our doorstep because then it will be too late.

As the sun rises tomorrow, take a reality check. Stem the abuse, stop the bad mouthing, and stop the run-away ignorance. Then we will all be safe.

I remember my father (2020 version)

I remember my father…(2020 version)

A man who will not read has no advantage over one that cannot read. – Mark Twain

The last time I saw my dad alive was mid 2005 when I visited home from my then workstation in Chirundu.

On the eve of my departure he gave me his whole library which consisted about 40 books. He indicated his frustration with my siblings who he accused of not being keen book readers.

He insisted that I take the books with me as I would be able to make better use of them. ( Little did he know I had secretly read all of them by the time I had reached O Level but he was none the wiser as this collection consisted of James Hadley Chase novels, Lorenzo Ramas, Robert Early among others.)

Sensing his frustration with my siblings, I took the middle lane and politely indicated that I was going to collect them next time as I had no space in my bag to carry them. I had felt that taking them there and then was going to be passing judgement on my siblings.

I never saw my dad alive after that. He called me two days before his passing on and we had a lengthy and hearty chat. The next phone call I got was to tell me he had departed.

My dad put me on the book trail. His passion kept me on that wagon. His gift of 40 books has seen me buy, collect and read hundreds of books.

Yesterday I re-organised my books and I was taken back to see that I now have a sizeable collection dating as far back as 1999 when I book Mario Puzzo’s The Godfather at the then Five Rand shop in MUSINA.

I am grateful to Dickson Luke Phindela Ncube for that gift. One day I will bequeath the same to my children but in his honour I have dreams of a Phindela Foundation Library. This is a dream I must make real before I walk into the sunset.

I remember my father.

My library as I work on a aluminium and glass shelving project.
My father, Dickson Luke Phindela Ncube





As I grow older I find myself facing a lot of conflict. At times I am conflicted myself and at times find myself at odds with myself. I do not want to attribute it to mid life crisis ( by the way how old am I?) and I am not sure whether I have conflict or I am conflicted.

Growing up, we depended totally on our fathers and took ideology and the foundational philosophy from them. Our fathers were the Constituitional Court ( no appeal) and we made all efforts to ensure that our transgressions were never brought to their jurisdiction for fear of verdicts that were beyond appeal.

Our fathers were the providers, protectors and final arbiters in our lives. From them we learnt what to do and what not to do. My father woud always tell me to never drink nor smoke despite his love for Madison and the occassional beer. He would instil a need to find and worship God with others despite him not setting a foot in church voluntarily and him always vouching that his Church was the then Club 700 which used to air on TV every Sunday morning.

Our fathers could spend hours analysing what was going wrong in the country, posit what needs to be done, agree unanimously and then upon discovering that they had no traction to drive the motion, throw up their hands in despair and wait to start another conversation tomorrow.

I grew up in Matabeleland in the early eighties and it was a difficult time. Political loyalties could spell trouble and there were moments where even traditional weapons like knobkerries had to be hidden for fear of being classified as weapons of war. In all this our fathers braved it and never lost sight of the role of fatherhood they had to play. In the process we learnt unwavering loyalty, passionate fanatisicm ( supoorting anything else besides Highlanders Foootbal Club was treason!).

From our fathers we learnt our identity, got directions on how to live life and inherited a legacy that brought us here.

Fast forward many years later and we are now the fathers and I am conflicted on what we are passing on to our children. The dynamics demand that we be more than our fathers but with less resources at hand and more hurdles to pass. Every day brings a new hype challenge that must be overcome and the odds are stcacked against the fathers.

The media is awash with options that work against parenthood, sexuality is flaunted on screen and on the net, the liberal movement is telling our children of rights against being called to order, new waves of religion are being thrown at our chidren and in their conflict we the fathers find ourselves in turmoil.

Fatherhood has never been this difficult but father hood will never be impossible because the risk of defaulting on fatherhood is to give rise to a self torpedoing generation and that is an expense we can not affrd.

Happy Fathers Day my brothers. Quit ye be men !

Happy Fathers Day my brothers. The battle demands that we forego our conflicted issues and create a legacy that will not afflict our chidren.

Hear, O sons, a father’s instruction, and be attentive, that you may gain insight, for I give you good precepts; do not forsake my teaching.
Proverbs 4:1‭-‬2 ESV



Of Covid19 restrictions and pain : In memory of Stanford ‘Khuya’ Khumalo 1968-2020

Stanford Khumalo, a member of the record breaking legends at Inyanda Secondary School 1989-1992

I don’t want to be remembered for being liked. I want to be remembered for being real. – G Gregg Murray

One of the most painful things Covid19 has brought is the pain of being unable to travel beyond one’s local boundary as efforts to contain the scourge are being enforced. In this stricture has come the pain of not being able to mourn and bid loved ones good bye.

I spent four years of school with Stanford Khumalo and he was outstanding in a number of ways.

He belonged to that generation of persons whose school going tenure had been greatly affected by the liberation struggle of Zimbabwe. He had lost at least seven years of education due to the struggle and most had not bothered to return to school post independence.

Not so with Stanford. He entered Form One at 21 and pulled through to Ordinary level. Amongst those of his age were Peter Ngwenya a towering gangling giant who was to be my deputy Headboy in Form Four and Bernard who went on to be the first to want to drop Technical Drawing as he could not stomach the punishments meted by the late Mr Mehluli Ngwenya.

A day in class with Khuya, as Miss Nyoni, our Ndebele teacher would call him, was full of spills and thrills. He was streetwise thought culturally steeped and respectful. When excited he would get into a frenzied gesture mode and all his narrations ended up with him standing up and re enacting the stories he was telling with impulsive kicks and gestures.

He had stories from eMaguswini (Nkayi), he could narrate the mystery of the late Joshua Mqabuko Nyongolo Nkomo, he had experienced the bitter pain of the Gukurahundi atrocities but still he would be simple enough to ask us to help him with unraveling the mystery of Animal Farm and the simultaneous equations of Mathematics.

I last saw him in 1992 when we finished Olevel and got to speak to him briefly three years ago on the phone when he implored that we should form an Old Boys Association for our school and help put it on the leading pedestal. I committed to find him if I came to Bulawayo and show him my daughter. I deeply regret that I didn’t.

On 08th April 2020 I got a call from him. Out of the blue. He still called me his General from my Headboy stint at school together despite my insisting that he was my leader by age. We spoke at length about about our classmates and he still requested that I should come to see him. I promised him that the first trip I made into Bulawayo post the lockdown i was going to stop and the City Council offices and look for him first before I saw anyone else. We bade each other with brotherly tidings.

On 11th May 2020 Stanford Khuya Khumalo passed on. When the news was broken I was deeply hurt as I had lost an opportunity to reconnect with a senior brother who had gone put of his way twice to look for me and request that we meet.

I was hurt by my assuming that both of us were going to be here post Covid19. I was hurt by the things I took for granted. I was gutted by the fact the he died and his desire for us to reconnect after 28 years later did not materialize. This made me realise that it is important to reach out to loved ones and avoid excuses as anything could happen to us in the interim.

So I saw that there is nothing better for people than to be happy in their work. That is our lot in life. And no one can bring us back to see what happens after we die.
Ecclesiastes 3:22 NLT

I am sad to have lost out on an opportunity to reconnect with my great leader. I lost out on an opportunity to gain insight of what he thought of or country and the world at large. I missed a great opportunity because I took time and chance for granted and lost a brother.

Lala kuhle Khuya



Wena kaMzilikazi kaMatshobane

Sleep well my leader !



PS At the time of writing the Legends group had put up a fund that had raised up to USD 200 and close to ZWL 4000 to support the family of our leader.

Suggestions are being mooted to support his children through school and possibly sponsor an annual Stanford Khumalo Memorial at Inyanda High School. Class and Form mates of that year can get in touch with Nkosilathi Nkiwane on app +263772387283 for more details.

The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example. – Benjamin Disraeli

COVID 19 lessons – Reflections

Everything in excess is opposed to nature – Hippocrates

Before the lockdown I used to swivel my seat from the vantage position at my desk, shift the drapes aside and nod my heard in affirmation.

I would be affirming a sound that I was used to hearing every evening before 1800 hours. It was the sound of the Tombs Scania bus from Kwekwe parking in the exit shed at the Border. This would be followed by sounds of pattering feet as the bus crew pressured the clients to rush into the hallway ahead of the next bus which normally would be Revival bus with its green liverie.

The rivalry banter of opposing bus crews , the belching abnormal trucks laboring under heavy loads would also permate the atmosphere. Everyday, every week the same scenario would occur and we would mark time with certain engine sounds.

Then lockdown happened. The buses went away with their pollution, the crews, the theatrics and drowning sounds.

Today I took a walk down the Border and was met with an eerie quietness. It was not silence, but a quiteness that made me to stop and suddenly hear sounds that I had not heard over a long time at this place.

Birds nestling in at Beitbridge Border Post – video by Nqobile Ncube

I heard birds singing, hundreds of birds swooping to land on trees to settle for the night. For years I realised these birds have always been here but our human activities drowned them out and our occupation blinded us from seeing them.

I recalled that few days ago I had snapped a photo of my totem brother sauntering around a telecomms digital box like an expert and I realise that with the thinned human presence on the ground, wildlife was beginning to boldly make multiple forays into the Border grounds.

The above two scenarios made me wonder if nature was not mocking us by asserting its presence in our time of difficulty. The players in the cited scenes ave always been there but we had no eye and ear for them.

We had been obsessed with our mechanical assets, mechanical sounds and schedules and we forgot the beauty and silence of nature.

As I walked away, I reflected that Covid19 had taught me to listen and pay attention to everything around us, the child crying for attention, a soul reaching out for help, someone needing a shoulder to cry on.

Covid19 has taught me to set aside time for more important things, my spiritual life, my personal relationships and myself.

I have learnt not to major on the excesses and be blind and deaf to reality to avoid a rude awakening. I agree with Hippocrates that everything done in excess is opposed to nature.

What is happening now has happened before, and what will happen in the future has happened before, because God makes the same things happen over and over again.
Ecclesiastes 3:15 NLT



Zimbabwe @ 40 : Washing the paint brushes

Today I woke up to the memory of an incident that took place in 1982 when I was in first Grade. It was at Mafakela Primary School, Luveve, Bulawayo and it must have been a few weeks into the first term.

I do not know what brought the memory back but I remember I caused a huge consternation at the school, albeit innocently.

My teacher, Mrs BE Nyamambi, had assigned me and a group of girls to go and wash the art paint brushes after an art lesson and the girls led the way straight to the wash basins in the girls toilet. Yours truly followed and we started washing the brushes under running water in the was basins.

I remember we were then surrounded by so many girls raising a chant about a boy in the girls toilet and I did not even realise it was about me and my solidarity friends kept nonchalantly passing me the brushes to be rinsed under water and I obliged, not concerned about the growing crowd around us in the toilet. Childhood innocence!!

I think the storm abated when a senior prefect was brought in and after seeing our scenario, she ordered the crowd out and I think she helped us gather the brushes up and escorted us to our class. I don’t recall much after that but what I recall will suffice for today.

It is a painting lesson that got the brushes dirty and the realization that the next painting lesson would not take place under dirty brushes made our teacher to ensure that the brushes were cleaned.

The brushes might have painted masterpieces at that time but there was no value in leaving the paint on the brushes. It added no value but actually diminished the relevance of the brush. There with my story today.

Forty years after Independence my beautiful country has tried to paint a masterpiece. A dream masterpiece that was meant to come to life from the colonial portrait and become a gem where all rivers met and the grass never wilted. A masterpiece that was meant to be a great haven to all and sundry.

Then something like my paint class happened. The paint caked on the brushes and no one washed them. Instead they were used to try and paint mire pictures but because the brushes were caked not distinct art came forth. Blurred lines,smudges and undefined portraits came forth. Some brushes broke, some got lost and the paint diminished to a whitewash point.

All that would have saved this was running the paint brushes under running water regularly. The water would have breathed a new mileage to the brushes, given the bristles a sharp edge and the artists more zeal.

Running the brushes under water would have exposed the wear and tear and shown the need for replacement but one cannot assess wear and tear in a caked brush.

Running the water over the brushes would have taken the excuses away. A good painter will not blame a clean brush! But because the brushes smudged all excuses were there except to blame the painter.

Then many portraits later the picture did not tell our dream story. We had, and still have, an image that the current brushes cannot paint. Our dream picture needs us to return to the washbasins in innocent candor to nonchalantly strip away the caked paint so we can paint a clean clear portrait at our next turn.

We need to defy the remonstrating crowds and focus on the task at hand for we have a portrait to paint. A multicolor portrait that will bring the rainbow back.

We need to catch the rainbow. We need to paint a new picture. Happy Independence Day Zimbabwe. Let us gather your brushes and run them under the running water. In innocence.

Painted in a corner? You’ve but to look at your own hand to see who’s holding the paintbrush.
Laurie Buchanan, PhD


#brokenbutnotafraid revisited

Two years ago around this time I wrote this. I was assailed with fear. I had the choice of continuing being afraid or taking a stand.

I took a stand….

#brokenbutnotafraid 2

One great weakness of the human being is fear of loss.

We are afraid to lose.

We are afraid to lose face in public.

We are afraid to lose in a race.

We are afraid.

That fear turns us into slaves of what we are afraid to lose. We become encapsulated in an embryo that paralyses our dreams, wishes and aspirations.

We are afraid to cross the road because all our lives we have lived only on this side.

I also used to be afraid, but the day I lost my fear I discovered the world is there for my taking….

You can take my fear if you want, I am done with being afraid.



Zimbabwe’s Generation X. Victims of cowardice?

The truth which makes man free is often the truth which most men prefer not to hear – Herbert Agar

My story today begins with a declaration that might not earn me more friends but after agonizing for more than two weeks over this I chose to be like Herbert Agar and pontificate something that we know but that we do not want to admit and or accept.

By definition I belong to Generation X . This, by definition, spans debatably, from 1961 to around 1981. This makes the eldest Generation X to be to be 58 years old and the youngest to be 30.

The bulk of this Generation, including me, were born during the second Chimurenga that was between 1964 and 1979 (David, Martin (1981). The Struggle for Zimbabwe: The Chimurenga War. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing Company) and the and the eldest was around 19 at Independence and the youngest a few months old.

I am deliberately postulating the ages and the milestones because, fast forward to 39 years later, the youngest is around 40 or nearing 40 and the eldest is nearing 60.

I deliberately harp on these points because this is the generation that saw the Independence euphoria, marched alongside demobilized soldiers, saw tracers fly in the sky during post independence disturbances, went to school in an independent Zimbabwe, saw ESAP, Willogate, GMB scandals, idolized Peter Ndlovu, Reinhardt Fabisch, Fay Chung, Kilimanjaro, Japhet Mparutsa, Peugeot 404, the advent of the Nissan Hardboy, the Santana, Hosea Chipanga, Ndux Malax, the demise of Samora Machel, the rise of student activism, the tear gas is not perfume statement etc.

This is the generation that must have been rolling in it all because it grew up on school run Nutresco feeding schemes washed down with 125ml packs of fresh milk. This is the soccer book generation of the Bruce Grobbelaar fame, the Samson Paweni saga,the Cecafa championship triumphs, tennis’ Black brothers, James Chimombe and the Pepe Kale craze.

So, what happened you may ask? I do not want to answer that question but I want to answer the one that says who happened?

In answering this question I need to pose a projection on the societal demographics with a simple disclaimer that I am not a scientist but I just took the age of the youngest MP and the President‘s age as I have my own argument to advance. The youngest MP in Parly currently is Joana Mamombe for Harare West and His Excellency is 77 which means the crude mean in the political leadership sphere is 51,5 years old and that average falls within the Generation X but how many leaders from that generation are in the leadership platform?

Generation X has become the generation that has borne most of the brunt our nation has taken in its political and economic journey. I prayerfully remarked to a colleague when SI 142 was introduced that I was praying very hard that this action makes us and not breaks us. This is because 2008 broke our youthful dreams and wiped off our savings and broke our parents backs and 2019 must not.

We are the most broken generation and by default carry the most stubborn generation genes but we seem to have failed to transform that to a strength. We form the bulk of the labor force and potentially the voting majority but I am yet to be convinced that the demographics reflect as such politically. So who is representing and speaking for us if we are not?

How did Generation X miss the bus or was Generation X left by the bus? Are we a generation of passengers, have we been locked out of the arena, did we abdicate our voices? Have the youths overtaken us?

Is Generation X the group that missed the flight? Are we cowards or we have been cowed? I say so because we are the missing quotient in the succession equation , we are the ones who risk fading into oblivion without relevance.

Is it our doing or we have been locked out of the bull ring? I watched Lewis Matutu address a press conference ( whether right or wrong is a question for another day) and I wondered if the voice of a mid eighties product could stridently sound like that what more could Generation X, with all the callouses of the past 40 years and having their future depending on the specific moment, have done?

Whose cowardice left Generation X in the lurch?

Can Zimbabwe’s Generation X self correct?

Has the generation been betrayed or we slept on the seats and the train took us past the station?

So many questions but I stop here today. When I continue, the following scripture will be the take off point :

“We will starve if we stay here, but with the famine in the city, we will starve if we go back there. So we might as well go out and surrender to the Aramean army. If they let us live, so much the better. But if they kill us, we would have died anyway.”
2 Kings 7:4 NLT




Trust God … and stop the sun

The Promise

“Do not be afraid of them,” the Lord said to Joshua, “for I have given you victory over them. Not a single one of them will be able to stand up to you.”
Joshua 10:8 NLT

Faced with a daunting task of going to rescue a Covenant ally, Israel had to seek assurance from God that He was on their side and that they would overcome.

God came through for them and the commitment of victory was made. Therein starts the story.

The promise had been made that they would be victors but the battle still had to be fought for the promise to come true.

So is life, victory cannot be without a battle. In as much life offers the summit as a prize, the mountain must be climbed !

The story continues,

Israel battles the Amorite allies (5 Kings) under the assurance from God and they slaughter the armies with the assistance of a violent hailstorm that killed more of the enemy than what Israel achieved with the sword.

The victory

On the day the Lord gave the Israelites victory over the Amorites, Joshua prayed to the Lord in front of all the people of Israel. He said, “Let the sun stand still over Gibeon, and the moon over the valley of Aijalon.”
Joshua 10:12 NLT

The battle had to be completed. The enemy had to be routed and darkness was not to be an excuse.

Since God had given the guarantee of a complete rout it was therefore not God who was standing in the way of the 100% rout but the sun that was about to give the enemy allies the advantage of darkness to sleep away and possibly regroup.

The realisation.

It was not God to be called upon to ensure the 100% rout. He had already guaranteed it. It was the sun that was threatening the great victory and Joshua understood it very clear.

It was the impediment that had to shift not the Promise giver.

And he stopped the sun in its tracks, and the moon followed suit and there was a sonar and lunar combo never seen before and the enemy allies had nowhere to hide and they were completely routed !

Life has granted us a template to overcome all odds. But the overcoming is premised on battling on and never giving up on the will to make the difference.

When the sun wants to set on your battle, when it threatens to rain on your parade, do not swear at the promise giver, the promise still stands. STOP THE SUN !!





Age old wisdom 2

So, a few weeks ago I turned older and wrote a few nuggets about what life has taught me and then the pressures took over. At my age I have learnt not to rush as my lessons from rush burns of the past still reflect on my life skin up to today.

As I walk this journey and I continue clocking the mileage I can only try to hand out what I think will help out someone not suffer the burns and stubbed toes I encountered. So, the age old wisdom continues:

Speed is not progress

I learnt this too late. I have learnt that speeding to life’s decisions doesn’t not always lead to the desired destination. In actual effect, I have learnt that unwise speed is a waste of energy.

In my early days as a driver I used to overtake vehicles in robot controlled intersections only to be stopped by a red light and only to have the overtaken vehicles sidle next to me at the stop with the drivers wearing smug smiles. I never learnt the lesson then.

Now that I am old I realize I wasted adrenaline, burnt more fuel , risked accidents and wasted rubber but achieved no advantage. I realize now, that rushed decisions are akin to racing between robot controlled intersections. You leave nobody behind.

Stretching hands rarely cramp

When we were young we found it difficult to share our food portions with visitors who would have arrived unannounced. But my mother would have none of it. Whatever was on the plate was meant to be part taken by all in the house irrespective of the number of the unscheduled guests. It always miffed us but no one could dare challenge our mother.

It is only now that I have grown that I realize that the exercise in selflessness was a drive to a better world. She was teaching us to exorcise selfishness in exchange for selflessness.

I have since learnt in this life that when we help others achieve their dreams we help ourselves because arms that always stretch out rarely cramp.


I have learnt to breath. Where I would have verbally exhaled I now pause and calculate the benefits of what I want to say. Many a times I find myself saying it is ok, do not worry or let it slide.

There are battles that silence wins better than verbally tussling. There are wars that one would rather walk away from to avoid unnecessary emotional harm. Breathing under attack is akin to that time when one surfaces from under water to take in precious oxygen. Life saving.

Stopping to breath has made me realize missed things, it has made me hear unsaid things and made me know things that would have been missed in heated exchanges. Learning to breath in lieu of throwing fists has been educative to me.

Slow processor

I have always joked and pleaded that people bear with me as I have a slow processor. It is a half truth. All I would be trying to do is double processs what would be before me at a sedate pace and this life has taught me that sleeping over decisions and answers tends to yield more reasoned and sober outcomes than emotional knee jerk responses.

“He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, he who rules his [own] spirit than he who takes a city.”

‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭16:32‬ ‭AMPC‬‬

As I walk this journey I learn new things everyday and I pray the lessons help me to walk the remaining mileage with more wisdom, smiles and stretched hands.

To be continued…



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