The Diary of a Weeping Widow

The shit thing about falling in love is the fact that you cannot use logic to determine emotional decisions. The heart is verbatim of mental nearsightedness. The vision of a heart approximates seeing through Venetian blinds. The second the heart pilot’s judgment and resolutions, you are fucked. Why must we lose all senses in the pursuit of the heart’s desire? The synchronization of logic and emotional turbulence is damn near impossible. A MYTH.  As I ramble about the antagonism between the heart and mind: I stare at his angelic face with soft edges and velvety caramel skin. Musecho, the pinnacle of my stupidity.

He came to Kuita & Associates as an intern for the digital department but as the CEO of the agency, I spent most of the time cooped in my office. The first time I saw him, my loins ignited an inferno and I never believed in love at first sight. (I call it an obtuse ideology to defend the unbridled desire for whoredom) That morning, I stood in the digital studio completely dumbfounded by an overwhelming emotion that deterred any sense of clear judgment. I have always believed it was an idiom of expressionism to say, ‘the knees buckle’ until those knees buckled as if they could no longer carry my weight. This giddy moment was puzzling to say the very least because this boy was 21 years old and well, I am 48 years old (actually 51 years old, but who is counting?). Did I mention that I am regrettably married? I associate marriage with negative undertones since it took me 15 years to realize that it is a patriarchal agenda that only benefits men (A discussion for later). You see I am a highly esteemed and accomplished woman with a privileged upbringing. The Chairperson of ZIMAB (Zimbabwe Media and Arts Board), Cum Laud BA English Letters and Linguistics, First Class Degree in Journalism and Media Studies, Masters in Theatre Arts & TV Production, WAA (Women in Arts Awards) as the best scriptwriter in the SADC region for 23 screenplays consecutively since 2014. Here I was ogling at a boy younger than my youngest son.

My marriage is a disarray of broken pieces that are too bent to glue them back together. I can ascertain this with my dry and parched vagina; we have come at place beyond repair. We sleep in different beds and hardly talk to each other except when the kids are around. After the flustering-loin-igniting moment, I suspected my reaction was a hormonal imbalance and at my age menopause is steadfast approaching. Composure is my neurotic obsession, the reason for the famous assumption that I am happily married. In a bid to regain composure I locked my office door and fetched ‘Mufasa’ from my purse and chuckled as I loaded new batteries. I needed the maximum performance of raves per minute for this particular session. The oxytocin and endorphin release of post nut clarity.  Mufasa is long, thick and the vibrations increase in intensity because of high tech sensors that can predict an oncoming orgasm. I bought him at the Bahamas for $12k and that was money well spent. The best toy from my cosmic collection. Exploding and squirting all over my leather recliner for 23 seconds was not enough to summon any sort of composure. Instead, my imagination drove me insane, lost in labyrinths of wild ecstatic images of sexual fantasy. Okay, this didn’t work out as I thought; maybe yoga- the phone rang violently interrupting my thoughts.


I mumbled something into the phone and slowly put it down. It all felt surreal, my oldest daughter Achisundei’s voice thick with grief,

‘’Mum, its dad (sobs) he is gone, mum! He is dead! (Uncontrolled sobs coupled with hiccups)”

Taurai my husband of 22 years was dead, found in his mistress’ house and culminated a heart attack from a viagra overdose. So typical of Taurai to die in such an outlandish manner. I was fond of him, I mean we had 3 lovely kids and that as far as it would stretch. Fondness. That is all I can say, the man physically and mentally abused me for 15years, a cheating, manipulative drunkard and bum. I could have left him but I was raised and deeply indoctrinated by patriarchy to have the audacity to leave. In a life-changing epiphany, I cut him off entirely and threatened to have him arrested. That day he noticed the daring aura that resonated with my words and he left me alone. He could not bully me anymore and I was intellectually empowered but not enough to unlearn a deeply rooted system that ran through my veins. I sat in my office wet from my own juices and laughed so hard I began to cry.  I took out some wet wipes, wiped my face, Mufasa, my recliner and myself. It was a new clean slate and it was about time. The secretly happy widow, now I had to feign grief and that was too easy. I have been acting like a happily married woman for 20 years, of-course I can shed a tear or two for this bastard and wear black for a month.


To be continued…

To read Part Two, click here

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