24/06/2025
I was lucky because I am the last born in a family of five siblings. The age gap between me and my brother Blessing was nine years, so I grew up alone with my parents, with all their attention focused on me.
My father was a very thoughtful man, born in 1920. His father, Chin’ono, had three wives, and my grandmother, vaDhiriza, was the third wife. My father was the first and only one among my grandfather’s children to go to school, he was also the last born. He trained at Mt Selinda and became a civil servant.
He always wanted the best for me. Those who grew up in Murewa will remember that when I was in Grade Three, I would sometimes ride his Honda 70 motorcycle to school. These last-born privileges followed me into adulthood.
When I was thirty, after moving back to Zimbabwe, I bought a house in Chisipite. My mother had passed away, so I convinced my father to move in with me, and he eventually agreed.
One Saturday morning, the gardener did something that upset me, and I shouted at him. My father observed quietly and said nothing. That evening, after dinner, he called me to the dining room and we sat at the table.
“Mwanangu,” he said. “Dai mukomana webasa anga akangwara nekudzidza sewe, angadai asiri gardener.”
Translation:
“My son,” he said. “If the boy working here were as clever and educated as you, he wouldn’t be a gardener.”
He went on to remind me how I used to ride a motorcycle to school when I was just ten years old, in Grade Three. There was no real risk of accidents; we lived not far from the school and used what was essentially a private road.
He spoke of what attending top schools like Fletcher did for my development, and then gently reminded me that the gardener never had such privileges. He said his understanding of the world would naturally be different from mine.
In that moment, it hit me. I was not better than the gardener, I was just more fortunate. I had parents who believed in education, who had the means to send me to good schools, and who filled my world with structure and opportunity. He didn’t.
And so I realised that intelligence is everywhere, but opportunity is not.
Life had offered me a different lens, not because I had earned it as a child, but because others had made sacrifices for me. It taught me that before I judge anyone’s actions or capacity, I must ask myself what they were given to start with.
Every day, I miss my father. I miss my mother too, because they shaped my values in ways that contributed to my success.
And more than anything, I thank them for teaching me that kindness must always walk ahead of pride, and that we honour our privilege not by flaunting it, but by understanding those who never had it.
It also reminded me how lucky I was to have a present and thoughtful father, too many children grow up without that anchor, because far too many men abandon the very children they bring into this world.
Too many people we engage with here come from broken homes. Too many have not had the privilege I had, of having a present father who showed me love and was responsible.
Be mindful of how you react to some people here; many are hurting, carrying a lifetime of emotional baggage. Side-step when you are a victim of that misplaced anger.
Some people may have degrees, but they lack empathy—they were never taught how to be responsible adults.
Men, fatherhood is not about paying fees; it is about being present, consistent, and emotionally available.
That love which my father gave me is what helped me transition from the dusty streets of Murewa to Harvard University, and to becoming a two-time African Journalist of the Year. I would never have achieved it without my father being present.
Rest in Peace Dad.
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