One who has traveled far from home, has faded. I think about this tsumo as my Uber turns into M.L.K. Jr Blvd, making our way towards Logan Airport. Ice still covers the sidewalks and I watch a young man fall flat on his ass. I can’t even laugh because my cheeks hurt from the cold. I rub my hands together in the backseat, waiting for the heat to turn up. This is one of the many things I won’t miss about Boston. The horrid winters. The snow. God, the seasonal depression. 

We stop at a red light, and I watch the young man attempt to get up. He reminds me of the time I slipped on black ice years ago when I was an undergrad in Iowa. It was my first time seeing snow and everything was covered in this white fluffy powder; it was as if the clouds had dropped from the sky and taken temporary shelter on the ground. The snow was soft to walk on at first, and I thought it’d remain like that until winter ended. Then one morning, I slipped on ice. It happened so quickly I barely registered that I’d fallen until I was gazing up at the sky, watching the sun rise from the horizon. I’m pulled from the memory when cars honk behind us, despite the traffic light still being red. This is another thing I won’t miss about Boston. The Massholes. I resist the urge to roll my eyes because today is a good day. Every Zimbabwean across the diaspora has been waiting for today.

“Flying with Emirates,” my driver says once we get on the highway. “You’re escaping the cold?”

“I am.” I say, thankful it’s gotten warmer in the car. “I’ve had enough of it.”

“You going to Dubai? Abu Dhabi?”

“I’m going to Zim. Zimbabwe,” I say, looking out the window, admiring the views of Boston’s skyline one last time. “I’m going home.”

“Ah, I saw on the news. You must be happy to return.” He smiles through the rear view mirror. “About time.”

No one comes to America expecting to leave. Especially people from my country. When we finally get the chance to escape, we roll our languages and store them under our tongues; we pack our bags and head to the airports, the bus ranks, the borders. At the airports, the bus ranks, the borders, we look at each other, somber expressions on our faces, as our green passports get stamped for the last time, knowing we’ll never come back to this graveyard of a country. We cry because we are leaving home, because we know that whoever travels far from home fades.

“We’ve been waiting a long, long time for this.” I say, mostly to myself.

“Just in time for the holidays too. Lots to celebrate. I have two little ones back in Nigeria.” He pulls out a photo frame from his compartment box. “I can’t see them this year. You know how it is.”

My driver continues talking about his two kids and wife back in Abuja. Normally, I’d be annoyed at all of this oversharing, but I know there is something comforting about telling strangers things about oneself, especially if that stranger is a fellow immigrant. In the same breath, my driver reveals to me he has another set of kids here in Boston. I don’t have time to react to this information because we reach Terminal E, and my driver is already out of the car unloading my suitcases. He smiles at me.

“So, when can I expect to pick you up again?”

I ignore his sorry attempt at flirting and reach for my suitcases. “I’m not coming back.” I say before heading into the airport.

When we heard the news that the ruling party had been disbanded, we didn’t believe it. We had heard this song many times before. For years after we left, we heard whispers about democracy, free and fair elections, new leadership. We heard these whispers every year, but they never turned into shouts; the embers never turned into flames. Zimbabweans in Australia, in England, in America, in Canada, in China, in Russia, all of us heard the whispers and the stubborn part inside us, that miniscule part we couldn’t kill, hoped for a chance to return. 

Despite having a graveyard for a home, life was hard in the new country. The air wasn’t the same, the food wasn’t the same, the music wasn’t the same, the people weren’t the same. And because we left who we were, who we would become, we became ghosts in the new country. We came to the new country with dreams the size of mountains, but soon realized it was expensive to dream. In the midst of surviving, we buried our dreams and transferred from our colleges to ESL schools where tuition was cheap, so we could maintain our student status. We broke the law and worked every job under the sun. We worked in unsafe factories, we worked in care homes, we washed plates, we worked in kitchens, we built bridges. We helped our families back home build big houses while we struggled to keep roofs over our heads. We couldn’t tell them what life was like in the new country. It was shameful to tell people back home that we’d come to America to clean toilets when we had dreams of becoming doctors and scientists and lawyers and engineers.

So, when we heard the news that the ruling party had been disbanded, we didn’t believe it. Not until we saw the State House on fire. For the first time in decades, the gates were open, the seat was empty. Members of the ruling party had been arrested by international courts and were tried for crimes against humanity. For the first time in decades, we would have new leaders, leaders that cared. They worked hard to restore the country and today marked the Day of Return. We are all going back home to vote in our first free and fair election.

Immediately upon entering the airport, I make my way towards the check-in line and my ears are attacked with languages I haven’t heard in a very long time. Shona, Ndebele, Chewa, Xhosa, Kalanga, Venda, all dialects of my people fill the airport, and I am overwhelmed. The woman standing in front of me smiles and asks which part of Zimbabwe I’m from. She asks me in English and when I tell her I’m from Harare, she switches to Shona, and I do my best to unpack the Shona I secreted beneath my tongue. I wipe the dust off my language and pray I don’t cough out cobwebs. The woman doesn’t judge. Her Shona is rusty as well. Even though we are all speaking our languages, it’s not lost on us that we have accents now.

I look around the airport. There is a mass influx of Zimbabweans heading home. These are not the people I left with all those years ago. Their backs are straighter and their chests jut out with pride. They are all smiling, green passports in hand, blue passports tucked away in a folder. I imagine Zimbabweans elsewhere look as we do now, happy. The airport clerk scans my green passport and prints out my boarding passes and wishes me a safe flight. I smile and walk over to security, other Zimbabweans behind me. When I get past TSA, the roots that tether me to America fracture and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders, I feel my lungs open up more.

Almost two days later, our languages have become the official language of the plane. The flight attendant announces our final destination, and we all clap and cheer as we fasten our seatbelts and stow away our tray tables. I stare out the window, watching the plane fly over squares of green and brown and blue. I am almost home. We all are. The closer we get to landing, I can’t help but eavesdrop on others talking about what they’ll do after they vote, where they’ll go, whom they’ll see. When I get off the plane and enter the airport, a gust of cold air blows in my face and I am surprised. When we left back then, the airport smelled like sweat. Now, air-cons blast air from every corner and we even have free Wi-Fi. The other Zimbabweans marvel with me as we make our way towards immigration and passport control. When no one asks me for a bribe upon entering immigration, I know we have truly changed. They ask me if I’m a citizen, I say yes and hand over my green passport. All of us in line look at each other, joyous expressions on our faces as our green passports get stamped for the first time after what feels like a long drought. We have returned and tomorrow, we vote.

It’s at this moment I begin to feel nervous. Everyone is speaking Shona, but it sounds different than the version I heard on the plane. It sounds natural, more authentic. Unlike me and the other Zimbabweans I flew with, no one has an accent here. They spit the words out of their mouths like poets. They speak with a precision, a confidence I lack. I also realize I don’t know where I am and how to get to my new home. I mean, I know I’m at the airport, but I don’t know my way out of it. I haven’t arrived at this airport in decades, and I have no one in the city to pick me up. All I have is the address of the home I bought. Back in Boston, I know I’ll get my bags from baggage claim, make my way up the escalator to exit the airport so I can catch the Silver Line to South Station. There, I’ll get on the Red Line and transfer to the Green at Park Street. But here, I don’t know how to get out and it dawns on me that I am a tourist in my own country.

When I step out of the airport, a taxi driver runs up to me and speaks to me in broken English. He informs me he knows all the best tourist sites and for me, he’ll offer a discount. When I tell him I’m Zimbabwean, he looks at me and laughs, says I don’t sound like one, says I sound like an American. He only believes me when I show him the color of my passport.

As my taxi drives out of the airport, I am amazed at how bright Zimbabwe is, despite it being nine in the evening. There are lit street lights at every corner, the roads are pristine and smooth, no potholes. I think of my grandparents, my parents and my younger self, this was a Zimbabwe that only existed in our wildest imaginations. I remember using my mother’s phone flashlight while crossing the road because it was so dark outside. We had few streetlights back then and because of ZESA, they served as mere decorations. Now, the roads are bright as stars. I stare out the window in awe, hearing the sounds of Zimbabwe, the sound of a promising future. 

My taxi stops at a petrol station. As the driver fuels up, I rush into OK. I almost cry at the stocked shelves. Rows and rows of food, fresh fruits, supplies. I think back to the years when we would wait in long lines with wheelbarrows full of useless money. We waited long hours knowing half the store would be empty by the time we got in. What I’m feeling isn’t culture shock, but it is something I can’t name. I feel tears pool in my eyes as I walk around. I throw three packs of pork pies, two cans of cherry plum soda, four packs of Willards Thingz chips and two loaves of Lobel’s in my basket and walk towards the counters. I overhear people in line talk about the election tomorrow, how they’re excited to wear their party’s colors without fear of being harassed, beaten up or worse. They talk about how long they have been waiting for this day, how they had to drop out of school because of all the strikes, how they had to sleep hungry when food was scarce, how they had to walk for hours to get to work, how they worked like dogs for peanuts. As they talk, I realize these are the people that never left. These are the people that remained when Zimbabwe fell into ruin.

Today is the first time I’ll be voting in my own country. It’s a lot of people’s first time. For those that voted before, today’s their first free and fair election. There’s no news of polling stations being destroyed, no news of voters in certain districts disappearing, no news of gangs waiting to jump people. As I get ready to head to the polling station, I send a prayer of thanks to God. I’m not religious but something as miraculous as this deserves a little faith. I wish my grandparents and parents were alive to see this day. Mama always talked about liberation; she taught Political Science before she stopped working to become a mother. I remember her talking about democracy as she walked me to school. She always wanted more for Zimbabwe. She refused to leave with me when I left, saying that if everyone left, who would remain behind to move the country forward. If everyone left, who’d remember our country?

When I lock my gate, I join the other Zimbabweans walking towards the station. Apparently, it rained in the morning, but I was fast asleep, exhausted from my travels. The only evidence of the rain is the rainbow. Harare is nicknamed Sunshine City and today, it lives up to its namesake, despite the earlier rain. The sun beams over the city, spreading its rays so much that people can literally touch the sunlight as it permeates the air. Even the sun knows today is going to be a good day. I can’t help but stare at the beautiful rainbow. It looks like we’re walking towards it; the place of the rainbow. Its colors are bright against the sky’s backdrop. As we march towards the polling station, hope in our hearts, agency in our steps, we think about the horrible, tumultuous storm Zimbabwe was caught in. 

When we reach the polling station, we look at each other, hopeful expressions on our faces, as we pull out our green passports and identification cards. We form a line, waiting to eagerly cast our votes, waiting to finally witness the beauty after the storm.

About the Author:

Rutendo Chidzodzo is a Zimbabwean Afrosurrealist writer with roots all over. She is the recipient of the 2020 Ladies’ Literary Club Award, the Paul Engle Memorial Prize for Creative Writing, Ocean Vuong’s Rose Fellowship, among other awards. She is a recent alum of Clarion West Workshop, Tin House Workshop, and UMass Amherst’s MFA in Fiction. Rutendo’s work has been nominated for the 2024 AKO Caine Prize, and won the 2023 Fiction Best of a Shallow Award. She is currently working on a fabulist short story collection that explores the lives of Zimbabwean immigrants across the diaspora.

*Feature image by Rojan Maharjan on Unsplash