Whispers of Hope…On men’s mental health month

“Not all who wander are lost…” ~ J. R. R Tolkein

I have been struggling to write, hence the zero blogs over such a period of time. Also, the Zimbabwean political scene is…let’s not talk about that. I feel sick, literally. I have also been anxious, a lot – about the political future of Zimbabwe, about my own future, about the sheer senselessness of this humongous thing we call life! Nonetheless, here’s a blog…It’s going to be heavy and teary, raw and emotional, or even enlightening, hopefully. It will be slightly confessional, longish, and undulating, please read and reflect.

Today, Saturday June 27th 2026, I attended an “inkonzo yesikhumbuzo” for a late member of our church – this is when, after a month or two, since the passing of a person, family, friends and brethren gather to remember them in prayer. There were tears, of pain, of loss, of the kind of desperation that can only be caused by the silence of death. Just next to our group, at the graveyard was another family, singing melodiously, also crying. The shrieking of widows, orphans and the parents who have lost children is haunting, disturbing and unforgettable.

Later on, I accompanied the priest to another mass, a joyous one. A daughter was getting married and the family had requested a mass to be said for her farewell and wellbeing in a new life that she is going to be starting. It was beautiful beyond words, but at the same time very teary – there was a lot of crying. I was confused, and I thought to myself, shouldn't people be happy at the blooming of a new young union? At the same time I remembered that beginning of new chapters are also filled with tears: my mother cried at my farewell mass when I was going to be leaving the country to go study for the first time, my brother cried when his first born child was born, all babies cry when they are born, I also wept, bitterly, when I got my IGCSE Results (they were very good symbols). Tears, this blog reflects on tears, their importance, their value and their never drying significance. At one point or another, regardless of gender, one gets overwhelmed by a feeling that is no better summed up than by the word, “drapetomania.” That is, (not the fabricated mental illness), but an intense desire to run away, to disappear. It could be the desire to literally run away. I usually do not fare well in social gatherings like parties, weddings and many types of social gatherings. If I do not find myself in a group of three or four friends, I never stop checking my watch. Sometimes it is the desire to withdraw, to go into a state of hermitage deep within the self, to cut people off and avoid chatter, to close up and build walls of separation between oneself and the world.  It is the desire to fight battles alone, with the self, or with the world, or thoughts which always gnaw at our brains screaming to be heard and seen. It is not unusual or strange or weird, who better to understand you than you? Who better to know the deepest and most wounded parts of yourself than you? Who better to travel to the most intricate and hidden core of the self to seek and find, than the self? Who better to lick the wounds than your own tongue? Who better to confront, as a warrior, the interior's most dreadful thoughts and fears than yourself? I have been sad, I have been hurt, I have been depressed, I have been so low I wished the sun wouldn’t rise. I have been so annoyed at the crack of dawn, preferring to stay trapped in the world of dreams where things were happier and normal. I have cried, for a very long time, away from the eyes of the world, in the toilet, in my room, in my house and many times I have thought the pain of a death that occurred nearly ten years ago (2017) should have abandoned me by now. But, just in September 2024, I found myself bawling my eyes out in the library, in 2024 – the pain was back again. 

Last year as a Form one History teacher at St Augustine’s, I had a striking realization; form ones really are little kids, very small children. And it was at that tender age, when I was that little, that my father died. For a very long time, I carried so much pain. From 2017 until 2020, I think, I would write everything down, from the last day I last saw him alive, and the day he died and the day he was buried, repeating the same details over and over again… Not to taunt myself, but to hold on to the pain for as long as possible, to express love and emotions. 

I mourned and still mourn my dad’s death because it robbed both myself and him, the latter parts of my life which he would have been so proud of. He missed my O and A levels,my debate successes, my time leading the junior council, my first time moving out of the country for university, just to name a few. I mourn, because time is merciless and ruthless. Sometimes I forget his voice, his touch, his presence, and all I have are old photos and memories that tend to fade too. He will miss my graduation, my first job, my marriage and many other parts of my life. 

In December 2025, I lost a close childhood friend of mine. The day he died, I had to complete my final essay for a course on colonialism, and still had 4 more essays to go. I was struggling, I was not sleeping, I could not focus, I could not be happy, I could not eat, I was in pain - I was suffering. I suffered so much that on the day of his requiem mass (which I watched live with my partner), when all was done and I decided to pray, I wept uncontrollably within her embrace. That was probably the first time she saw me cry (she had always asked why I never expressed my emotions in that way and to that extent.)

Even now, when I think about him, his passion for music, the visits we used to make to each other’s houses,  the jokes and moments we shared, I feel defeated. I feel that death, once again, won. I feel helpless, I writhe in pain and suffering. Sometimes I feel like I am losing my mind, I dream that he is alive and the sharp pain returns when I wake up.  

Why am I being so vulnerable to the entire world? This is not a blog about grief, or surviving the loss of people you care about. This is a blog about mental health, particularly for boys, for men. This blog is for all those, because of so many reasons, feel their world collapsing, whose very existence is a struggle for survival, those who cannot afford to crash because so much depends on them. This blog is for all those fighting silent battles and wars, those who doubt that they can win, those at the point of surrender. If the weight of your anxiety is overwhelming you – if you feel lost, forgotten, abandoned, alone and suffocated, I dedicate this blog to you :) If you have suicidal thoughts, If the night’s silence causes your thoughts to gnaw mercilessly at your brain, if your life feels meaningless and if hope seems pointless, I write for you. As I write, in my mind I have those who fear losing their “being a real man” once they become vulnerable. Those who have been told to be real men have to agonise in solitude and silence. Who for crying,  for being emotional, for sharing their fears and hurt have been called, “weak” and “pathetic.” Those who, by people who neither know nor understand them, have been called names, “lazy” , “unserious” , “loser” , “ubhare” , “useless” , “rombe”, you name it. Those who have internalised these words and all you see when you face the mirror is “not-a-man-enough.” You no longer have faith in yourself, you doubt your capabilities and your confidence is waning. Or perhaps you compensate by doing too much, you work so hard all the time, your sleep schedule is wrecked if it exists at all. You are just existing, just surviving, life is just happening to you. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. What therefore, does this blog summon men to do? To break cycles of brutality and pain. Those ancient men of the past, who were made of stone, who were real men, who never cried, who never suffered or struggled, were either gods or fiction – an escapism to silence the call to pay more attention to men’s mental health. The measure of real men is not those who exile themselves when they are overwhelmed, nor those who sit with suicidal thoughts in the confines of their rooms or gym locker rooms, nor those who become irritable and lash out at the smallest of inconvenience. The real men are not those who drown their sorrows in beer after beer, nor those who surround themselves with music, friends, parties and very vibrant lives to mask the emptiness they feel on the inside. If you must cry, cry. If you must share all your miseries over a beer, get that friend and empty everything out. Call that cousin, call that old friend, write in that journal, blast that music – if tears come, brother, weep. I think that is what tears are for, an important outlet for emotion, for all internalised hurt and resentment, but also an expression of joy, happiness, shock, fear, doubt. If you do feel like crying, do not fight it, embrace it, tears eventually dry, your eyes will not be red forever. Crying is not a sign of weakness!