My mother wouldn’t let me send this to her as I intended to do. Something about needing to be prouder of myself. So here it goes. I’m proud to have worked on four songs on this beautiful @angeliquekidjo album. I’m proud to be a musician who makes music because I believe that art can, will and must make the world a better place. I’m proud to be Zimbabwean. I’m proud to work with kind people around the world who view art as culture and medicine before commerce. I’m proud of my own bravery in deciding to become a musician, and more recently in deciding to shift the course of my career away from making the rich richer even if it meant not knowing where my next paycheck would come from. I’m now proud of every song I get to be a part of. I’m proud to have survived some really tough shit with an optimistic heart and my ancestors by my side. I’m immensely proud of my ancestors. And, most importantly, I’m proud of my mum and dad. If you could see them growing up and raising me, it would all make sense. 🇿🇼
Here’s a song that will come out someday. I love this one so much. It gave me hope and perspective in a hard time. (Like, perhaps heartbreak isn’t about what you’ve lost but rather about what you haven’t found yet. Maybe the pain is derived from a hope, and certainty, that there’s something better out there for you, and a longing for it to get to you soon.) This version of “If you’re out there” was recorded live, entirely on iPhones, in the current and maybe forever love of my life, Rome. 🎥: @carlocorbellini (my best friend and favorite visual collaborator). Guitar: @raazalgul (whom I met via helping his grandparents at an airport). Flute: @what_even.jpg (whom I met in my former life as a journalist). Birds: singing in the trees. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Lyrics: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Here I am In a brand new place With the same old heartbreak Bringing me down I understand All the time it takes All the changes I have to make ’Til you come around ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Love of my life If you’re out there I’m right here Crying over you Don’t wait too long I ain’t that strong All these years Crying over you ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Where are you? With a love you’ll lose? And do you ever catch yourself wishing that they were someone else But you just don’t know who? Here I am Looking at the stars Trying to trust the universe The twists and turns The coldest burns ’Til it shows me where you are ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Love of my life If you’re out there I’m right here Crying over you Don’t wait too long I ain’t that strong All these years Crying over you ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I’m not mad At the past ‘Cause it’s dead and gone Not mad At my ex ‘Cause they ain’t the one We tried ’Til the end But it wasn’t right Guess I’ve always known That I’d spend my life With you babe It’s true babe We’ll find each other soon ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ We’ll dance Every night In the living room We’ll grow On our own But together too We’ll fight But I’ll never be scared of you Fuck it, hey I might even marry you I know it I know that We’ll find each other soon ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Love of my life If you’re out there I’m right here Crying over you Don’t wait too long I ain’t that strong All these years Crying over you
My ex-therapist said I constantly fix my hair ‘cause I’m nervous. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ He also told me to wear more clothing if I want to be respected by men. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ So he got fired and my shirts got smaller. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Fuck that. Fuck him. The end.
My ex-therapist said I constantly fix my hair ‘cause I’m nervous. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ He also told me to wear more clothing if I want to be respected by men. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ So he got fired and my shirts got smaller. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Fuck that. Fuck him. The end.
Repeat with me (if you feel like it): I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I make things, but I am not a thing. I share things, but I am not a thing. I like things, but I am not a thing. I am someone regardless of the outcomes of some things. I am a person, not a product.
Repeat with me (if you feel like it): I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I make things, but I am not a thing. I share things, but I am not a thing. I like things, but I am not a thing. I am someone regardless of the outcomes of some things. I am a person, not a product.
Repeat with me (if you feel like it): I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I make things, but I am not a thing. I share things, but I am not a thing. I like things, but I am not a thing. I am someone regardless of the outcomes of some things. I am a person, not a product.
Repeat with me (if you feel like it): I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I make things, but I am not a thing. I share things, but I am not a thing. I like things, but I am not a thing. I am someone regardless of the outcomes of some things. I am a person, not a product.
Repeat with me (if you feel like it): I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I am a person, not a product. I make things, but I am not a thing. I share things, but I am not a thing. I like things, but I am not a thing. I am someone regardless of the outcomes of some things. I am a person, not a product.
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
Sun on our skin And two handfuls of dirt Eyes meeting eyes Where real life is our worth I will not enmesh In a machine rebirth Let’s meet in the flesh On this robot earth
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
While visiting me, my mother asked for a small cup with a lid so that she wouldn’t spill red wine on my white bed sheets. I told her I wouldn’t mind, but she insisted, so I got out the stepladder and climbed to the top shelf of the cabinet in the kitchen. Up there, tucked out of sight, was the cup that he gave me. One of those cups that keeps things hot so that your morning coffee can still burn you in the afternoon. I got rid of everything else we shared. I kissed some things goodbye and drove them to Goodwill. I threw some things in the trash and dragged them to the curb. I slowly replaced everything we called “ours” with objects with no memories of mine. They say if you can, you should, but this cup, I decided, could stay. I don’t know why, but I kept it. I hid it. I forgot it. One large cupful of hurting to drink down or drain out. Twelve trapped ounces of healing that I didn’t yet know how to do. I baptized the cup with soap and water and handed it to my mother. I remarked about its colors and made some joke about how at least he had good tastes. She laughed and poured herself a bedtime glass of wine. Every night for five nights, my mother drank wine from the cup. Every morning for four mornings, she washed it out and set it to dry. On her last morning here, she left it on the bedside table. Upon discovering it, I instantly knew that something about it was different, but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen and scrubbed it clean that I realized what had changed. Today, looking at it on the drying rack, it is still changed. It is no longer the cup he gave me. It is the cup my mother drinks wine from. I am no longer the woman I was. I am the woman that I am. I got rid of everything else we shared. Maybe I just needed to make new memories with it. Or maybe I did it all right — letting go of the big things but keeping something small so that, someday, my mother would use it to show me that I am all mine again.
