Tag Archives: words

Hey Lover

Your smile gives me so much life.

I love the way your lips curve effortlessly as they lift your cheeks until those beautiful little dents of delight appear.


When you smile with your eyes you make me smile with my heart. I feel your happy.

Your laugh is the perfect soundtrack to my happy.

There is something about the way you throttle your laugh when you are tired and these beautiful pockets of joy are released into the space around you.

It’s so adorable. And Infectious.

I love your eyes.Those big beautiful round windows to your soul.I

In your eyes I see the best man I could ever be.In your eyes I see my forever.

Your eyes are everything and more.

I love your spirit. And your energy.

Your essence is overwhelming. It draws me in. All of me.

You’re awesomeness personified.

The embodiment of infinity and a moment.

You’re all that a bag of chips and free salad. You slay just by being.

I love your mind.

You are slowly teaching me to find beauty and inspiration outside of words and I am grateful for that.

If I could, I would burrow deeply into your mind and stay there.

Make it my home.


Crazy as it might sound, I want to know everything that you are thinking.

Where is it exactly that you travel to in your head?

I want to man all of the traffic that gets lost up there and guide it so that it all goes the right way.

I love listening to the sweet serenade that is your voice. So sultry and sassy.

I want to hear all the stories you have to share. Even the ones you are ashamed of.

You see and hear the small details in life and art that most can’t and that is a very beautiful thing.

If there is anything you have to teach me it’s that. I want to be your intern. I want you to teach me to see and hear the world the way you do.

I love your quirkiness and how silly and random you can be. You have such an infectious zest and lust for life.

You stay thirsting after this life thing and I love that.

And then there are the dimples on your back. Venusian dimples. The mark of a goddess.

Just thinking about them drives me absolutely crazy. Shit. Now all I want to do is have my way with you, but I guess for I’ll just have to make do with having my way with words.

Written By Tafadzwa Tichawangana

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Posted by on May 29, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Broken Promises To My He(Art)

OK, so here’s the thing. I am a voracious reader.  I am always coming across new words. In fact I have this particularly visceral relationship with words. I love words that articulate seemingly intangible emotions or ideas perfectly. When I come across words like this, I then want to use them at the next possible opportunity and as nonchalantly as I can.  Today that word is visceral. Though I am not sure how well I succeeded in being nonchalant in the way I used it, but hey I had to get it out of my system. Indulge me if you will. Please.  

I have so much I want to say and write about that I don’t even know where to start. My thoughts are all over the place and focusing them onto the page is proving to be quite the challenge. I will just have to go back to basics and write from the heart. Here goes. Even though I fancy myself quite the eclectic and equal opportunity reader I have always enjoyed flicking through the pages of autobiographies and memoirs more.  I have searched for myself in the words and stories of others. I have lived vicariously through their trials and tribulations. I have been inspired and comforted by their life’s journey’s.

When it comes to my writing I am just a student of the blank page. I write to find myself in my own words. I write to commune with and reach out to my mind’s doppelgangers. I write because I love words. I love playing with words. Words are my colours and when I write I’m just painting my heart. I love giving voice to my thoughts and experiences in well-structured sentences. I have been writing more or less consistently for over a year now. During that time my writing has mostly been introspective and autobiographical in nature. That probably has its foundations in the reading I have always been partial to as well as the narcissistic nature of blogging. You write what you read. Whilst as I reader introspective writing has always resonated more with me I am even more in awe of writing that is insightful. Writing that focuses less on giving the man in the mirror a home on the page and instead offers the space between the margins to the man on the street.

So it was with a desire to grow as a writer and as a person that at the top of the year I challenged myself to not only try and be more insightful in my writing but also to share this more insightful writing on a public platform that wasn’t my personal blog. It’s now past the halfway mark of the year already. I haven’t achieved a lot of the things I set out to do in 2013. Over the last two months I have regressed and lost focus on a lot of my goals. I have been stranded on this boulevard of broken dreams. I am not proud of it. At the same time I am not wallowing in self-pity. I am just cognisant of my reality. I have always have been and will always be my own harshest critic. I am a cynical optimist. Oxymoronic as that might be. I have the highest hopes and expectations of myself and a deep rooted self-determination that whatever I focus my mind on is as good as done. That is the optimist in me. The believer.

The cynic in me is always asking the hard questions and consistently reminds me of my limitations. That self-belief without focus and application is useless. That without perseverance, discipline, dedication and hard work it’s all just pure folly. Believing alone is not enough. You need a plan, and you need to carry it out diligently. Even after the fact there will be roadblocks and potholes along the road. It is inevitable. Something I have discovered in my quest to be more insightful in my writing.

Two months ago I wrote what I considered my most insightful piece of writing to date. I even worked up the courage to submit it to a respected a respected publication. Suffice to say I didn’t get published. I didn’t make the grade. Unfortunately this gave the cynic in me all the ammunition he needed and I subsequently spiraled into self-doubt.  This doubt spread like a cancer into many other areas of my life which brings me to the present day. To this place. The boulevard of broken dreams. I have allowed myself to live here for too long but as I sit here writing this I am having an epiphany.

When it comes to my writing my muse has presented itself to me in different forms. It has been heartbreak. It has been love. It has been personal growth, but as I continue trying to grow in my writing I realise that focus is the perfect muse. Focus will help me continue to write, to work on what’s important, to reflect and to find peace. It is the only muse that truly matters. I haven’t given up on trying achieving the goals I set out for myself. I just have to  continue reminding myself to focus my energies on making sure I achieve them. The introspective writing I have done has helped me to pull myself even closer towards myself. I have gained a better understanding of who I am as a person. I have grown, and it will continue helping me to grow. One day I know, I will be grown enough to be as insightful as I aspire to be. I accept that I am not there yet but I am even more focused now on getting there.


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Posted by on July 24, 2013 in Uncategorized


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The 1st Scroll: Turkish Delight

Hi, my name is Taf and I am a nostalgia junkie. Sometimes when I get high off nostalgia I see hieroglyphs in my minds eye. On even rarer occasions lost in the midst of these hieroglyphs my fingertips start to write. In this dalliance with Thoth the ancient Egyptian God of writing. I am able to navigate around my way around my memory’s museum. On a good nostalgia high the fire of inspiration burns brightly and I can eloquently decipher these hieroglyphics onto the page and in turn share the many different artefacts my memory has curated.

Allow me to be your tour guide. If you don’t enjoy the tour. Oh well drumroll please. Ladies and gentleman. (Plays Afromen. ‘Because I was high’) Sue me.

I remember my very first job ever , which I got at the end of my first semester of my first year of uni. It was a job in a Turkish restaurant. Cafe Istanbul. It was a pretty hands on job. It covered everything from doing the dishes to waiting on tables to grilling the kebab meat. It was a job born out of necessity rather than any innate work ethic. If anything it was fueled by a desire to fund my burgeoning social life. It wasn’t my first choice either.

As it was I had my eye on a gig with the local music store which was part of a grand plan to build my CD collection. Mind you this was before the proliferation of iPods and iTunes and lets just say I considered myself a bit of a lime-wire snob. Fate had other plans though and it conspired to lead me into a friendship with a Turkish student, who in turn put me onto the job at Cafe Istanbul. Again this was before the days of LinkedIn. Sigh.The ‘good old days’. Damn you nostalgia. P.S. Has anyone ever got a real paying job through LinkedIn anyway? I digress.

As the first semester had drawn to a close I had also increasingly started to get more and more nauseated at the mere thought of two-minute noodles. Something that an upgrade from the standard supermarket issue to Nasi Goreng had not alleviated.The glamour of student life. So this job was a welcome reprieve. It was goodbye noodle diet. Hello gourmet Turkish food. Balling. Need I mention the extra cash it freed up to allow to fund my quest to become the ultimate brother to the night.

Little did I know that my my new employer would over the course of time often act as my surrogate Mum. She was a charming, unassuming and nurturing Turkish lady. Kader was her name, which actually means garden in heaven in Turkish.Seeing as my own mother was on another continent over 12000km away her role as my surrogate Mum during this transition into adulthood proved invaluable. Even though I was just an employee she fussed and hovered over me with a maternal sincerity I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. She made me feel part of the family.

Also being a full time student and only being able to work part time meant that I worked mostly nights often finishing late after the buses had stopped running without fail and even though it was out of her way she would always drive me home late at night after work. Then there was the coffee. Not just any coffee but the traditional turkish coffee (Türk kahvesi). She would always sit me down and make us a cup after we had shut shop right before she drove me home.

If you have ever drunk Turkish coffee you will know that its served usually in very tiny cups with no handles so have to handle it with your fingertips. It is very thick and syrupy, very different from your regular cappuccino. Turkish coffee is normally prepared using a narrow-topped small boiling pot called an cevze (basically a tiny ewer), a teaspoon and a heating apparatus. The ingredients are very finely ground coffee, sometimes cardamom, cold water and sugar .

It wasn’t so much the taste but the sentiment this after work coffee ritual facilitated. For during this time she would drop the whole boss act and put on her surrogate Mum hat. Then go on to inquire about how I was doing with uni.How was I coping with the homesickness. Always tempering the incquistions with light hearted jibes about the girls she always claimed came in to just flirt with me to which I would feign ignorance. Which would often result in her actively trying to embarrass me and if she was feeling quite chirpy pimp me out. Fun times.

But my favourite part of the whole thing was the fortune telling part. Every time you drink Turkish coffee, when you are done , because of its syrupy nature there is always some residue which is a thick layer of sludgy grounds at the bottom of the cup. Kader would proceed to make me turn over my cup (with the left over coffee ground) over into the saucer to cool.It is this residue she would proceed to diligently analyse the unique pattern of the coffee grounds that resulted and with it read my fortune.

I know what you are thinking. “Fortune telling. Really Taf?”. I know. “But you are a man of science.” I know. When you done rolling your eyes allow me to explain. Her particular brand of fortune telling never really was about making predictions per se , more like subtle suggestion, gentle nudges of guidance and often practical advice or affirmation of things I was going through all disguised as fortune telling. As a consequence I indulged her. There was a quite comfort in the whole process. For which I am still grateful. In a way now equipped with the power of hindsight I realise that the whole experience was very much a nostalgia hit for her as well. We were both foreigners in a strange land as and she would often reminisce about her younger days back in Turkey.

I later discovered much later on that as well as being an ‘every day’ beverage, Turkish coffee is also a part of the Turkish wedding custom. As a prologue to marriage, the groom’s family must visit the bride’s family to ask permission for and blessings upon the upcoming marriage. During this meeting, the bride must prepare and serve Turkish coffee (Türk kahvesi) to the guests. For the groom’s coffee, the bride uses salt instead of sugar to gauge his character. If the groom drinks his coffee without any sign of displeasure, the bride to be assumes that the groom is good tempered and patient. This just might explain her attempts at ‘pimping me’. Maybe.

Anyway it was with this need for a nostalgia hit that earlier in the week i set set about hunting down a Turkish restaurant in the Mother City. The Culture vulture was on the prowl.

As soon as I walked into Anatoli just about every one of my senses were assaulted. I was enveloped in ts warm and seductive ambiance. The familiar smell of donor kebab meat blended with the aroma of the freshly baked flat breads.The laid out meze trays of assorted hummus, cous cous . eggplant, tabule.The coffee would seal the deal.

No sooner had I settled into my Türk kahvesi, the most angelic voice interrupted me. A voice that perfectly mirrored her striking face. “Is this seat taken?” Mesmerised my voice betrayed me and embarrisngly gestured for her to take the vacant seat. Her eyes gleamed softly with life. She smiled. A beautiful enigmatic smile as wide as fields of jasmine and glover. As she sat, the heavens opened up outside and the rain poured outside. The next thing I know. She said one thing, I said another. My voice allied with me this time. It was the perfect storm. Our conversation meandered and flowed through our different narratives on how we had met Türk kahvesi. Bliss. It felt like we were dancing in the rain. Effortlessly. I didn’t want the rain to stop I wanted to stay soaked in that torrential downpour.

Lost in that rain dance we had lost all sense of time. Minutes had turned into hours and the restaurant was closing up. So rather reluctantly we got ready to make our leave. It was now or never. “Will I see you again?” Before she could answer I stopped her “No don’t answer that.”I said then channeling my inner Love Jones. I continued “Because rather than deal with the fallacy of this dry ass reality I would rather romance and dance with you in a wet dream.”

Well that’s what I wanted to say and should have said. Instead I just helped her with her coat. Then I chuckled to myself. What would Kader make of this little encounter. I could use her fortune telling skills right now.

I grabbed my dogie bag with my Turkish delight and proceeded to walk her out. We get along really well for a couple of virtual strangers I thought.

To be continued

Written by Tafadzwa Tichawangana


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