A Man Must Die Trying.
Balancing gratitude and ambition in a land of Opportunities.
Between Gwabalanda and my village; Hyde Park Methodist is a long, ripe and hard footpath that one must traverse to get to either side. On average, it takes about twenty minutes to get to Gwabalanda bus stop where kombi’s, taxis to town rank and head back to the CBD. Sadly, this path through the bushes is robber infested. Many have suffered stabbing injuries and death after gruesome attacks whilst heading home. However, being one of the few pathways to get to the City, villagers of Hyde Park have not abandoned it. They’ve instead found creative ways to travel like walking in large groups and not walking at night.
It is for this reason that my grandfather, Khulu, always carried a stone and advised me to do the same when walking alone especially if I was carrying groceries or had a lot of money on me as I used to sometimes after collecting what mom would have sent by Western Union there. You know; the diaspora remittances.
The odds were almost always against him, especially at his mature age, as they were against many of the women and children who dared to walk alone. Uncle Sali carried a small pocket axe that he confesses once saved his life as he came back from work one night. I doubt some of his stories though. He comes off as a main character cast out of an action movie who survives an attack of four robbers against one. Needless to say, being armed with some form of weapon down that path is common amongst travelers, and maybe a necessity too.
Khulu’s rationale behind carrying a stone, in his own simple words, was: “Indoda ifa izamile, a man must die trying.”
Regardless of whatever threat was facing him, despite the odds, if he fought back and stood his ground, to him, it was commendable. That was his simple advice, which the current state of my life is excavating from the archives of my memory.
No matter the odds, if it is worth fighting for, I should fight!
See, the problem is that the Khulu who taught me this was a one time occurrence of the younger and very energetic version of my grandfather. The one I knew and learnt from more, was a rather stoic and graceful old man who cared not about the trivialities of life. If we slept with food in our stomachs, irrespective of what it was, the day was a success.
This latter version of him was, beyond old age conventional wisdom, a response to the harsh economic conditions that had worsened as he grew older. Having grown up in colonial Zimbabwe, sometimes he’d brag about having a job, a steady salary, a bonus at the end of the year, quality stores to buy his suites and how the food quality today had deteriorated from the olden days. He concurred that British rule was unjust however, all his reminiscent stories lamented how post-independence, before the white’s who were unwilling to share land were kicked out of Zimbabwe, the economy was thriving; cheese and Coca-Cola were at highest quality.
He had hoped all his life but that hope faded with age.
In the fullness of my youth, I became him: greatly content and grateful with the little I had, so much to a point that the desire for more ceased to exist. And that is the vexation of my soul. In corporate America, or living in America, where opportunities are forever dangling before me, this modus operandi doesn’t serve me anymore.
After graduating college and getting my first ever paycheck, enough to pay bills and keep me afloat, my gratitude overshadowed any desires I had. Because I knew not having much, affording became more than enough. In utter obliviousness I refrained from knowledge about salary negotiations, saving and investing. As long as I had a steady paycheck from a solid 9 to 5, all was well. Sure, all could be well, and gratitude for this status quo was called for, but that gratitude becomes a danger when it turns to comfort.
“We tell people to follow their dreams,” echoes Trevor Noah in his memoir, Born A Crime, “ but you can only dream of what you can imagine, and, depending on where you come from, your imagination can be quite limited.”
I employ this sentiment to excuse my unwillingness and reluctance to fight my way up the echelons of the corporate ladder and wealth. Because, it was unheard of. I never recall as a young kid dreaming about driving fancy cars or living in mansions or vacationing in the Bahamas on a Yacht. I recall my visions were always in the confines of what I believed we could afford or seemed possible. Maybe I did envision fast cars from watching Hollywood movies, but I was conscious about the feasibility of those visions.
A different world, marred with a plethora of opportunities and possibilities is today presented to me. Akin to a table laid before me, full of every type of food you can think of, and all it takes is a desire to walk to the table. It's not about the obstacles in the way, those are constants in life, but just the desire to take more chances.
My rage against oppressive systems increases everyday. The fire to fight against what my grandfather hoped would be better but still isn’t is blazing. In the same wavelength, I believe, now more than ever, is time that the young Khulu in me surfaces to fight for the liberation of the self. Emancipation from mental slavery, opening my eyes, my efforts and strengths to the possibilities that lie in the distant horizon. Not to shun gratitude for what is, for what I already possess, which is a blessing and honor, but to summon the fight for what could be. It is an angry ambition to live at the highest possible potential juxtaposed with the world around me.
If not the trajectory of steady growth, upward mobility and the extension of ability that gives meaning to this life, then what does?
When all is said and done, whether faced with death, the question that will be asked of us is if we tried or not?
Because, as Khulu would always say, indoda ifa izamile.
I want to cheer for Khulu, the one you knew and the one inside you. Let me know what you are reading, I may have a book or two that can add fuel and stoke that fire for more while gaining more and more of Khulu contentment.