How venturing into the history of my Zimbabwean people helped me accept my fluid identity and truly love myself

With the dawn of an independent Zimbabwe in 1980, a new national identity was born. In an attempt to distance itself from a colonial past, a clear distinction was drawn between relics of Western rule and those which were African. As part of this “new identity,” homosexuality was framed as a remnant of the western world and unaligned with a post-colonial Zimbabwe. However, the oral traditions left behind tell a different story, and rather boast of same-sex rituals which bestowed magical powers of strength and prosperity upon those who performed them.

As a preteen living in independent Zimbabwe, I mused with the question of my own sexuality, though it had already been decided for me by the state and church. Often, I contemplated why mother insisted I wear dresses to church. Why did we have a football team for the boys and only a cheerleading squad for the girls? Why had grandmother decided to teach me how to bake and not brother? Why did the girls at school get upset when it was their turn to play dad? And why did all the girls like Barbie and not Ken, even though he had just as many clothes? My childlike mind could not grasp what I was questioning at the time, but I understand now that I was grappling with the binaries imposed on me because of my gender.

On one occasion, I thought I had found the answer to my questions in one of aunt Sisi Gladys’ many tales. One night, in a dimly lit room, a stale ball of sadza sat in the palm of my hand. Sisi Gladys, who was sitting across from me, began to tell a story. “Paivepo,” she said. “Ddzefunde,” I responded. And she continued. “There was a well in a faraway land, where little boys turned into little girls, and little girls into little boys.” As if she sensed my distraction, she stopped singing, sighed, and said, “Mati if you do not stop fiddling with your food, I will take you to this well.” I picked up the sadza with hesitation, and looked up at Sisi Gladys to say, “I think it would be easier to be a boy.” Thinking back to this moment, I now know that my desire to be a boy was not a rejection of my femininity, but rather a rejection of what society expected a Zimbabwean woman to be.

“My childlike mind could not grasp what I was questioning at the time, but I understand now that I was grappling with the binaries imposed on me because of my gender.”

During pre-colonial times, Shona women in Zimbabwe maintained a level of respect through control of the home, food resources, and fields. But this respect would be lost when the colonial government introduced laws that prohibited the movement of Shona women—demonizing them with labels such as sexually deviant, lazy, and adulterous. These laws prevented women from working in the mining and agricultural sectors outside of the rural area, and forced them to be dependent upon their men for wages. If a Shona woman did manage to get work, it was often as a sex worker, petty trader, or retailer for liquor and food supplies. With their respect in society lost, Shona women were left with no choice but to turn to the Victorian ideals of proper femininity, that were preached by the missionaries. According to Victorian doctrine, a good woman was submissive to her husband, loyal to her family, and most importantly, was a woman of faith. As I sat that night with Sisi Gladys, while she shared folkloric tales, I thought of a life for myself as a woman in Shona society, and it was from within these colonial confines that I wished to escape; I just knew that it would be easier to be a boy. That night, I prayed to the Christian God, and asked him to take me to the well. He did, but only in my dreams.

Menstruation is widely considered a key signifier of womanhood. So, without warning, at the age of twelve, I became a woman—the end of my childhood and the loss of my innocence. At least that is what I was told during the countless calls from the women in my family. I recall my grandmother sitting me down and saying “Iye zvino wave mukadzi, uye semukadzi unofanira kuzvibata” (You are now a woman and as a woman, you must learn to control yourself). It was clear that the colonial imagery that painted Shona women as sexually deviant had penetrated Shona culture.

The Judeo-Christian institution was key in imposing male supremacy in Zimbabwe when it introduced a new deity, the Christian God, who was wholly masculine. But before the advent of colonialism, the Shona deity Mwari (God) was not a deity confined to gender binaries. Instead, the Shona viewed Mwari as both female and male. The terms Dziva Mbuya, meaning grandmother, and Zendere, meaning young woman, were used to describe Mwari as a feminine entity. And titles such as Nyadenga (Lord of the Sky), Musikavanhu (Creator of People), and Wokomusoro (The One from Above) were used to describe Mwari as a male entity. The history of the Shona people shows that Mwari is not gendered, but is, instead, a fluid entity. So, if we are created in the image of Mwari, then surely, we too can be fluid entities, not confined by binaries, right?

This realization set me on a course to discover instances in my cultural history where the queer existence was the norm, and not a sin. In my research, I discovered that traces of queer history were, in fact, left behind in Southern Africa. A rock painting, dating back to 8000 B.C., was found in Guruve, Zimbabwe and depicted men engaging in homosexual activity. In 1606, in the Kingdom of Motapa (modern-day Zimbabwe/South Africa), Christian missionaries encountered cross-dressing men, known as the Chibadi. It was even found that amongst the Shona, women who chose not to marry men, claimed to be possessed by spirit mediums, as the spirit mediums were known to partake in homosexual behavior. More interestingly, women possessed by the njuzu (mermaid) spirit were known to abstain from sex, all together. The above oral and drawn historical depictions serve as a stark reminder that at one point, sexuality was not always viewed as unchanging or rigid for the Southern African people. My people.

“…if we are created in the image of Mwari, then surely, we too can be fluid entities, not confined by binaries, right?”

I grew up in a binary world—you were either Black or white; a man or woman; saint or sinner; straight or gay. And it was only through venturing into the history of my people have I come to accept my fluid identity and truly love myself: Mati, made in the image of Mwari.