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Tererai Matara, Chiredzi (2026)

05/07/2026

Hate Morocco on your own.

30/06/2026

You say the protest is for peace,
But then you steal and fight.
You use hate speech and kill people,
And think that you are right.
You do not want the heavy jobs,
You leave them all behind.
But when a stranger takes that work,
You lose your peaceful mind.
You want to be accountants,
And get a salary so high,
But you don't have the papers,
Or the skills to even try.
You do not care about the law,
You do whatever you want to do.
Even if someone is born there,
They are still a stranger to you.
You go into the schools and classrooms,
And make the small kids cry,
Just because their parents are foreigners—
Can someone tell me why?
You have forgotten history,
When Africa helped you win.
The world can change tomorrow,
And you will need your friends again.
So stop your angry shouting,
And clear your chest of pain.
Stop thinking with your lungs,
And start using your brain.

25/06/2026

The story of South Africa’s Bafana Bafana at the 2026 World Cup is a profound blueprint for anyone standing alone against a hostile world, offering a masterclass in how to turn overwhelming external malice into quiet, unstoppable ex*****on. To walk into the arena knowing that your neighbors (who are even relying on your resources), your peers, and the digital universe are actively orchestrating your downfall is a crushing psychological burden. After a devastating opening defeat to Mexico, Africa gloated, and when they managed only a grueling draw against the Czech Republic, the critics dismissed it as a fluke. Yet, facing a powerhouse like the South Korean side, they didn't just play for a victory; they played completely through the noise, blocking out the fierce social media outcry and political backlash to secure their spot in the Round of 32, forcing the very people who prayed for their demise to watch them advance.

This is the exact reality of the human experience in our day to day living when you find yourself fighting a lonely battle against a society that has already counted you out. Like the aerodynamic paradox of the bumblebe which according to the laws of physics shouldn't be able to fly due to its heavy body and tiny wings, yet flies anyway because it doesn't care about what human think (with their theories). Kubva nhasi you must realize that the opinions of the crowd have no bearing on your capacity to perform. You must adopt the thick skin of the rhinoceros, a creature with famously poor eyesight that cannot see the distant spectators gathering to watch it stumble, but possesses a relentless drive to charge forward with absolute commitment to its path.

When you are going through your own personal ‘Mexico match’ and everything seems to be falling apart, remember that the critics are merely spectators sitting safely in the stands; they aren't sweating, they aren't bleeding, and they have risked nothing. Sometimes, just staying alive in the game and securing a rough ‘draw’ in life is enough to keep your dreams afloat until the tide turns. You do not need to argue, explain your vision, or beg for the validation of a world that is committed to misunderstanding you. The truest, most terrifying form of strength is the individual who can stand in a stadium of thousands booing them, lock eyes on the target, and let the final score do the talking. When you finally secure your prize and conquer the odds, your silence will be the loudest roar, and the scoreboard of your success will force your critics to watch you rise.

22/02/2026

Passion doesn't need a crowd. Even solo, the fire for the game stays the same.

14/02/2026

The Harvest She Never Tasted

She was more than a mother; she was the unshakable pillar of our home, a woman of unflinching dedication and a love so fierce it bordered on the sacred. She was one in a million, a rare gem who shone brightly in our lives. She was the only woman who could fight for me and never wanted me to be in trouble. She was my ultimate advocate, a woman who would descend into the arena to fight for me, shielding me from the world’s sharp edges even when my own actions were the cause of my trouble. She would defend me vehemently, when she knew I was in the wrong side, she refused to concede an inch to my critics unless I first confessed to her in private. To her, motherhood wasn’t just a role but it was a fortress.

She wouldn't tolerate anyone shouting at us; even my father knew that. It would often escalate into a conflict between her and him, as her defense of us was unwavering. She was hopeful, always blessing me and praising me, saying, "My teacher" …. she wanted me to become a teacher. She beamed with pride because I excelled academically. She would retaliate against criticism, especially from those who despised me, saying, "You will like him one day." I recall her saying after i was beaten by my big brother, "I want to buy you a puppy, and you can name it 'Muchandida' (You will like me)." She was a mother defending her child, hopeful that one day the tables would turn in my favor.

She was a mother who constantly worried about our next meal, whether it was supper, breakfast, or lunch. In times of need, she would strive to provide for us, making sure we had something to eat. Around harvest time, starting from December, her crops would be ripe….. small grains like sorghum and millet. She knew the timing, knew when she could conquer hunger. She would dry and grind them, preparing nutritious meals for us. She hated seeing us go to bed hungry, so she'd cook relish with plenty of okra or vegetables, serve it with a small portion of sadza, and encourage us to drink plenty of water. To her, that would fill our stomachs. She'd also prepare porridge from unripe pawpaws or cook them like potatoes, making soup, and we'd have something to eat for the night or day.

Who in our family can forget the Monkey Bread porridge (Masekesa)? She was a maestro at making it, and it saved us from starvation. I remember her traveling to distant places to buy sugarcane to sell, which would enable us to eat meat or pay our school fees.

That woman is deeply missed. My heart aches with the sting of remorse when I remember my childhood selfishness. I recall throwing stones in a fit of desperate tears, demanding school fees she didn't have. She'd take a whip, beat me, and I'd cry even more. Then she'd give me the only dollars she had to pay. A counseling session would follow, "Respect Mama." Oh, my poor Mum!

At one time, I was her trusted confidant; after coming from the local market where she'd be doing business, she'd call me to help her count her money. And yet, in my youth, I betrayed that trust by stealing from her. Imagine😭! I think of her now, ascending mountains to fetch firewood,
to sell to local businesspeople, nurses, or teachers ….. no scotch cart, no wheelbarrow, just her head, and she'd just earn a dollar for that load. She'd save that money until it could cover something – our school fees, household items, etc. But we were her top priority.

She'd toil in other people's fields to provide for her family. Imagine spending a whole day in someone's field and having to tend to her own field as well. There was a time when I was at university, and fortune smiled upon us. She was overjoyed, saying my dream had come true. When I came back from Harare during vacation, I was the only one allowed to take her groundnuts to eat, and the sack would be opened only for me. Yes, it would be closed after two weeks, but I'd savor those moments. She did it for her graduate. She'd dry fruits, sweet reeds, mushrooms, etc., just for her boy. What a blessing I had.

The cruelest irony of my life is that she never saw me walk across that graduation stage. While I celebrated my academic triumph, she was battling the illness that would eventually take her. Imagine all the sacrifices, all the expectations. Then God didn't allow that. She passed away in February 2017, a "bitter pill" that I am still trying to swallow. It feels like a stolen victory. She sowed the seeds in tears but was taken before she could taste the harvest……before I could buy her that fine dress, those soft shoes, or build her the home she deserved. Yet, I surrender to the Divine plan.
Nine years have passed, but her legacy is not written in stone; it is written in my very blood.

Till we meet again. I love you, Mama.

Chipo Matara nee Musakari
July 1960 - February 2017

03/02/2026

The electric eel (Electrophorus electricus) is an elongated South American fish that produces a powerful electric shock to stun its prey, usually other fish. Long, cylindrical, scaleless, and usually gray-brown (sometimes with a red underside), the electric eel can grow to 2.75 meters (9 feet) and weigh 22 kg (48.5 pounds). The tail region constitutes about four-fifths of the electric eel’s total length, which is bordered along the underside by an undulating a**l fin that is used to propel the fish. Despite its name, it is not a true eel but is related to the characin fish, which include piranhas and neon tetras. The electric eel is one of the principal aquatic predators of the whitewater flooded forest known as varzea. In one fish survey of a typical varzea, electric eels made up more than 70 percent of the fish biomass. The electric eel is a sluggish creature that prefers slow-moving fresh water, where it surfaces every few minutes to gulp air. The mouth of the electric eel is rich with blood vessels that allow it to use the mouth as a lung. The electric eel’s penchant for shocking its prey may have evolved to protect its sensitive mouth from injury from struggling, often spiny, fish. The shocked prey is stunned long enough to be sucked through the mouth directly to the stomach. Sometimes the electric eel does not bother to stun prey but simply gulps faster than the prey can react. The eel’s electrical discharges may be used to keep prey from escaping or induce a twitching response in hidden prey that causes the prey to reveal its position. The tail region contains the electric organs, which are derived from muscle tissue enervated by spinal nerves, and discharges 300–650 volts—a charge powerful enough to jolt humans. These organs may also be used to help the creature navigate and to communicate with other electric eels.

01/02/2026

A SISTER’S COURAGE, A LIFE SAVED
(Based on a true story)
By Tererai Matara

They say that survival is a matter of luck, but when I look back at the jagged edges of my childhood, I see something more deliberate. I see a Divine hand. There are moments in a person’s life where you stop, hands raised unconsciously toward the heavens, simply because you realize that by all laws of nature, you shouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

Today’s children are now living in a different world. They call it the "digital age" now, where their thumbs dance across glass screens, their minds locked in a vacuum of books and bytes. I look at them with a mixture of pity and wonder. They will never know the weight of the staff or the responsibility of the veld. In our time, we were the young sovereigns of the grassland. We were the "headmen" without titles. We were the guardians of the family wealth—the livestock We didn't have the luxury of separate lives; our education and our labor were a single, braided cord. You would take your schoolbook to the graze lands, balancing the history of the world against the wandering whims of a bull. It was a high-stakes game. One moment of deep reading, one paragraph too long, and you would look up to find your herd belly-deep in a neighbor’s green maize. That was the "Disaster of the Fields"—a double-edged sword of trouble from both the farm owner and a father’s belt. We didn't have a childhood of play; we had a childhood of consequence. Yet, somehow, between the lowing of cattle and the dust of the veld, we studied. We herded. We survived. And eventually, we reached the hallowed halls of the University.

I remember one Saturday with startling clarity. It was a Saturday that felt like any other, yet the atmosphere was charged. The trees stood stark against the horizon, and the air was filled with a frantic cacophony—birds and animals moving in a confused, rhythmic dance as if they sensed the shift in the weather. A fresh breeze blew from the south, bringing a drizzle that made the world feel perfectly, dangerously alive. We had planned an expedition to the Manjirenji area…a place of legend among us herders because of the massive dam that held 285 million cubic metres of life-giving water. Our friends, Netsai and Florah, spoke of it like a promised land. My sister, Nevitor, agreed to go, and where she went, I followed. At ten years old, the lure of the "new" was an intoxicant. We weren't chasing ice cream or store-bought sweets like children of today; we were after the real treasures of the bush: the velvet skin of masakaume, the sweetness of nyiiii, and the crunch of tyondyondyo.

When we arrived, the scale of the water was breathtaking. We saw hippos breaking the surface like smooth grey stones and watched local boys—braver or perhaps more reckless than I—navigating the depths in makeshift canoes. I kept my distance. The dam had a reputation for swallowing the unwary. I even didn't know then that the dam was already calling my name.

By midday, the sun and the salt of the wild fruit had left me very thirsty. We had no containers, no bottles—only the dam. She guided me towards a narrow inlet where the water pushed into earth. I wanted but with no strategy. I looked at the water, then at my sister, Nevitor.

"How, Nev?" I asked.

"Like this," she said. She knelt. She was like the soldiers of Gideon in the Holy Bible—those chosen few who were deemed brave and alert because of how they drank. In the scriptures, Gideon watched ten thousand men at the river; those who flopped on their bellies were sent home, but those who lapped water while keeping their eyes up were chosen for battle.

It was my turn. I was wearing a threadbare, tight-fitting sweater—a "jersey" held together by a single, stubborn button. I knelt on the slick, muddy bank. I leaned down, my lips touching the water, As I leaned down, the earth betrayed me. My knees slipped. In a heartbeat, the cacophony of birds was replaced by the muffled, terrifying roar of the water. I was inside Manjirenji dam. I was swallowed. It was the end of my world. I was a stone in the water. I couldn't swim; I could only feel the weight of the depths pulling at my limbs. But then, a hand—fierce and desperate—clutched the wool of my jersey.

This is the part that haunts me most . This is the "rhetoric" of my survival.

Nevitor, my sister, only thirteen years old, didn't panic. She didn't run for help. She reached into the water and grabbed the only thing she could see: the fabric of my jersey. Think about the physics of that moment. I was ten years old, heavy with the water I had swallowed, being pulled down by the current. She was grabbing a thin, ragged sweater held by one single button. What if that button had been loose? What if the wool had been too old and simply shredded in her fist? What if she had grabbed my arm but missed because of the slick mud?

I don’t know.

Yes, Nevitor was my anchor to the living world. But anchors can be dragged into the depths too. There is a terrifying clarity in realising that by reaching for me, she was stepping toward the same grave. Had she failed to hold me—had that single button snapped or had she lost her footing—the Manjirenji would not have been satisfied with one child. It would have swallowed us both, leaving our mother to wait for two children who would never come home.

Nevitor then stood over me, trembling, her voice a ragged sob: "My brother, are you alive?"

I couldn't speak. I could only roll my eyes, coughing up the taste of the dam, watching her cry. We didn't wait for the cattle. We didn't wait for our friends. We left the cattle. We left the fruit. We walked home in a trance, a brother and sister who had just looked into the mouth of a grave and seen it close. I was alive, not because I was a swimmer, but because a thirteen-year-old girl was given the strength of a giant for five seconds.

Today, I look at my life as a stolen gift. I see myself as a miracle because the math of my survival doesn't add up. A single button should not be enough to save a life. A teenage girl should not be able to pull a drowning boy from a dam. But God has His ways of writing stories. He wanted me to be here, typing this, clapping my hands in the middle of the day just to say Thank You.

29/01/2026

The architecture of an Unconquerable Soul

Part 2

The Architecture of Unshod Hopes

There is a deceptive weight to poverty that suggests you are born to stay exactly where you are. But life has a way of hiding its greatest treasures in the most battered chests. From the "banana feet" strategy to the second-hand shoes of High School, every struggle was a lesson in the architecture of a soul.

In the heat of our youth, the world tries to distract us with "minors"—status, the approval of peers, and the games of romance. When the girls vowed never to date you, it is a divine filter. This isolation is a sanctuary, saving you from wasting energy on things that do not matter so you could focus on the "major": your education and your character. Rejection is your shield.

The Philosophy of the Mockery

Never take mockery personally. A person who laughs at your rags is revealing their own blindness; they cannot see the giant growing inside the child. Use their laughter as fuel. Let their doubt be the wind at your back, pushing you toward a destination they cannot even imagine.

The "God-Sends" in Harsh Masks

In your journey, you encountered people who made you work hard… as for my case: the owners of the fields I weeded and the tasks that bruised my hands. I never blamed them. I only labelled them as God-Sends. They were the trainers in my gymnasium of life, pushing me to discover a strength I didn’t know I possessed. Every hard task was a brick in the foundation of my future.

The Beauty of a Life Hardly Lived

There is a unique sweetness in a victory earned through struggle. A life hardly lived….one where you fought for every inch of progress is something you will cherish forever. l always look back at the "Have-Not" version of myself not with shame, but with the deepest respect, because I know exactly what it cost to become who I am today.

The Mandate: Be the Bridge and Teach the Seed

Dear reader, this is the most sacred tenet of life. You did not reach the top solely by your own breath; you reached it because there were those who were "called by God" to see the future in you when you were still covered in dust. Because you were once "of it," you have a blood-bound duty to pay that grace forward.
1.Lift as You Climb

If you are of the same bracket with me, l am sure you know the smell of the plastic lunch bag and the sting of the barefoot road. So my friend, do not walk past the child who is where you once were. Reach down. Be the one who understands. Whether it is a pair of shoes, a book, or a word of belief, you must assist those in need. You were helped so that you could become a helper.

2.Instruct Your Children

Do not hide your scars from your children. Let them know that their comfort was bought with "piece jobs" and "banana feet." Teach them that their greatest inheritance isn't money, but the heart to see the dignity in a poor child. Ensure they grow up knowing that they have a responsibility to educate the many and to never let a struggling soul feel they are alone in the dirt.

3.The Chain of Grace: Turn your negatives into positives.

The hunger made you hungry for success; now use that success to feed the hunger of others.

The Final Revelation

In life I learnt that poverty is a circumstance, but excellence is a soul-print. What is inside a person cannot be taken away by a lack of welfare. You are a living testament that God does not start with what is in your hand; He starts with what He put in your soul.
The rest is no longer just your story—it is the hope you give to the world.

27/01/2026

Peace be unto you. Do not overthink, and do not let worry consume you; remember that you are not the first to face these trials, nor will you be the last to overcome them. Your journey is shared by many who have found strength in the same shadows. Take heart, for this too shall pass.

Tererai Matara

05/07/2026

30/06/2026

25/06/2026

22/02/2026

14/02/2026

03/02/2026

01/02/2026

29/01/2026

27/01/2026

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