Everyone has that one food that instantly transports them back to childhood.

Mine is masau🤤

My love affair with them began in the most unexpected place. Not in a village, but on the front porch of my mum’s aunt’s house in Kambuzuma.

I still remember it vividly.

Spread across the porch were hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of tiny brown fruits drying in the sun. They glistened like little treasures. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me. After seeking permission, I picked up a few, popped them into my mouth and that my friends, was that.

I was hooked.

Later, I learned that my aunt’s husband was from Muzarabani, where masau grow in abundance. Every time they visited his rural home, they would return with sacks upon sacks of them, enough for the family and enough to sell around the neighbourhood.

As a child, I made a perfectly logical assumption: masau must grow in every village.

Then came April and our annual trip to Nyamweda. Netara. It trund out our neighbours were a lady witht two daughters, Theo and Hazvi, who became our firm friends for my sister and I, and our partners in adventure. We’d disappear for hours on wild fruit expeditions, returning dusty, sun-kissed and triumphant.

There were tsubvu.

Matohwe.

Matufu.

Matamba.

Nature, it seemed, was showing off. But, I was on a mission.

“Where are the masau?” I’d ask. Surely they were just beyond the next hill?👀

Or the next one.

Every expedition ended the same way. My friends proudly filled their pockets with every fruit they could find while I remained stubbornly hopeful that somewhere, somehow, a masau tree was waiting for me. It never appeared 😞

Only years later did I finally, in exasperation, discover the truth.  Masau don’t grow everywhere.

My childhood had quietly taught me one of life’s earliest lessons: not every place has the same gifts.

It’s funny how children assume their experience is universal. We think every family eats what we eat. Every grandmother tells stories like ours. Every village has the same trees. Then life gently corrects us.

I never did find masau in Nyamweda but I found something else; The excitement of searching. The joy and camaraderie of wandering with friends and believing the next path might hold exactly what you were looking for.

Perhaps that’s why I still smile whenever I see masau today. They’re more than fruit. They’re a reminder that some of our sweetest memories aren’t about finding what we wanted. 

They’re about the people who walked beside us while we looked🤎

When people ask where I’m from, the answer is usually straightforward.

Zimbabwe. And I say this with my full chest.

But if you asked me where my heart learned what home really feels like, I’d probably tell you about a village called Nyamweda in Mhondoro. As a product of a broken home, this meant everything to me 🧡

Every April, without fail, my siblings and I would make the journey to my mother’s village via a ‘chicken bus’ boarded at the infamous Mbare Musika bus terminal. It wasn’t a holiday in the conventional sense. There were no hotels, theme parks or all inclusive itineraries. Yet, to this day, those are some of the richest memories I own.

My maternal grandparents had a way of making ordinary life feel extraordinary.

The mornings arrived slowly, carried by birdsong instead of alarm clocks. My aunt would frequently signal the start of the day by clearing the ashes from the kitchen fire and sweeping the chivanze which is Shona for yard. Time stretched itself out. There was always someone to visit, somewhere to wander, something growing in the fields, livestock to be slaughtered, something cooking over a fire or a story waiting to be told.

My grandmother’s kitchen was never just a place to prepare food. It was where recipes, traditions and family history were passed from one generation to the next. To this day I often dream of her sitting by the fire, looking at me longingly and smiling at me. Every time I have this dream I know everything is going to be just fine ♥️

My grandfather didn’t need grand speeches to teach us. His life was the lesson. Quiet strength. Patience. Generosity. Respect.

Looking back now, I realise they were giving us something far more valuable than memorable holidays.

They were giving us roots.

In a world that increasingly celebrates speed, convenience and individualism, Nyamweda taught me something different. It taught me that belonging is built slowly. That community matters. That wealth isn’t always measured by what you own, but by who gathers around your table.

Years later, after moving countries and building a life far from home, I find myself returning to those Aprils more often than I return to any physical place. Memory has a curious way of becoming a compass.

Perhaps that’s why I called this publication Between Worlds. Because although I now live in one part of the world, pieces of me are still shaped by another. The conversations I have, the work I do, the values I hold… they all carry echoes of a small village that quietly taught me who I was long before I knew I was learning.

This is where those stories will live.

Not because they’re extraordinary.

But because they’re mine.

And perhaps, somewhere between my memories and yours, we’ll discover that home is not always a place.

Sometimes it’s the part of yourself that never really leaves.