Tag Archives: immigrant

Life

Evolution of Online Communication

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In what ways do you communicate online?

As an immigrant a part of our lives is figuring out the best way to communicate with family members back home and across the globe. I remember the transition from landlines to cell phones and the numerous phone cards that were used to maintain family ties. I also recall each person being convinced that one phone card gave more minutes that the other or it no longer gave as many minutes as it used to.

Eventually everyone got smartish phones and we moved from Skype to Viber and firmly settled on Whatsup as a community. It has become almost synonymous with phone to most of the immigrants I know. So that is my primary and favourite method of online communication.

I love and have always FaceTime but the problem was that everyone didn’t have an iPhone so it didn’t have the impact that Whatsup had so it has failed to be my primary method of communication.

I also adore email. You never know what you are going to get. It varies from scams, legitimate money transfers, updates from your bank, hospital or the government. Back in the day we didn’t have cloud storage so we sent emails of photos to be shared amongst family members through email. I also use email not just to communicate with others but with myself. During my undergrad I often sent myself drafts of my work, reminders of things to do, copies of PDF books and resumes. I was brought up when letter writing was still a thing and I think email still gives me that little jolt of receiving or posting a letter.

Finally I shouldn’t forget these little blog posts that I also use to communicate online with all of you.

Black Politics, Short Stories

Silent Border Crossing

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A short story on women, poverty and migration

“Where is my baby? Mwanawangu aripi? Where is my baby? Where is my baby” Chipo asked frantically.

Tiny little Mudiwa gone and she didn’t know what to do. What would her husband say?

“Ndiani wamapa mwana wangu? Who did you give my child?” her eyes were full of tears as she yelled

The driver looked away and told her “Sister ma1. Everyone get back on the bus we have to go in 10 mins”

“But my baby where is my baby?” she yelled again but the bus drove away.

“But my baby where is my baby?” she yelled again but the bus drove away

Chipo grew up in Budiriro 3 in Harare. She didn’t know that she was poor, because everyone around her was poor. Of course there were “those neighbours” that had relativesb with big big cars that would bring their relatives groceries all the time. She wondered why they didn’t take their family members to wherever it is that they got these big cars and endless bags of groceries. She asked her mother once and her mother told her “Chipo unotaurisa.” She was often told that she talked too much but if she had a question she had to ask. This is what made her the top student at Budiriri 3 Primary School and later on at Budiriro High school.

Chipo was not only a good student but she was what the elderly aunties called a nice girl. They would often tell her mother “endemunemwana akanaka.” This comment wasn’t about her beauty but her character as she was agreeable, helpful and she attended church enough to make her mother proud.

Chipo met Tawanda when she was 17. She had passed all her 0-levels but her parents could not afford to pay for her to finish her A levels. She was informed by her mother that she would have to find something to do or get married soon. Her mother laughed as she said it but Chipo felt as though it was not a joke.

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