The 1 hour 30 minutes that changed my life

“Kuthiwe uyabizwa ngu-Head ewofisini… (You are being called by the head in her office),” the word came by Raphael (Matsotsi)… Ah what, me and the head’s office, it can’t be, why? I am only a few weeks old here after all and I have not done anything. My thoughts ran frantically everywhere, searching for any lead to what could be bringing me at odds with the head so early in the day, because back then, that May 2007 I had just started my Lower Sixth Grade at that school and I was a very quiet and well behaved young man. It was just after break and we had Literature. I had no option but to look for the late J. J. Ncube, our teacher by then to tell him about the developments. He encouraged me to go there and find out.

Now, the issue is, each time you heard that you were being summoned at ebenchini, it was rare for you to return from there smiling…I resignedly went there to hand myself over. I took the shortest route around the Form 4 Block, then to the “bench” as it was notoriously called, but this time around I was not supposed to wait there, but to proceed right away to the head’s office, imagine, and I am just some two or so weeks old there! I carefully placed my feet on the floor which was shinny that day, took the bend to the office corridor and boom, the door exposed itself right before my eyes! Adrenalin took charge of all my systems and I became very weak and nervous. I almost stumbled and fell but somehow, my last drop of courage propelled me forward. Like a timid little girl who has been summoned by a harsh step mother, I motioned myself at the doorstep, tuck in my shirt properly, fixed my tie, and knocked at the door! “Come in,” said a soft voice from inside, much to my relief! I entered. “Oh it’s you young man, please take a seat, welcome to my office,” said the lady, sharp eyes on me, reading glasses almost hanging on her cheeks. I sat down and my eyes momentarily scanned the office for any clue of the sjambok, but it was not there, and the Black Book, it was not on the table too, just a diary and a Bible, that was all. My mind quickly thought, is it a sermon or what? Then I resigned to fate and waited to be slaughtered.

“Young man, word has gotten to my office about your issues, can you please sit down here and tell me everything, am all ears,” the old woman said, sitting down attentively. I was very relieved hearing this and I couldn’t even believe that Mr. V. Matiwaza, the Senior Master had after all relayed to the head everything I had told him about my situation. He had appeared very casual about it when I told him my problem.

“Thank you Ma’m”. I said as I also sat upright on my chair. I started relating to the lady, the then acting head of Dombodema High School, Mrs D. Masuku the whole journey of my education. I related to her how I had finished Grade 7 in 2000 only to be told there was no money to take me to Secondary School, subsequently making me spend the years 2001 and 2002 at home while most of my peers and classmates proceeded to secondary school; I related to her the pain that I felt everyday of those two years especially when peers passed by our home, clad in secondary school uniforms, seemingly mocking me. I related to her how a brother volunteered to send me to school in 2003 but only changed his mind later, almost dumping me in the middle of an ocean and how bitter but determined I became thereafter. I related to her how, before my brother could start sending me money or uniforms from South Africa I decided to lead the way by selling okra (delele) in Botswana to buy books and uniforms for myself till he eventually sent me something in second term of Form 1. I related to her how in the third term of Form 3 I almost dropped out of school because there was no one else to pay fees for me, and how I refused to give up on myself and schoolwork, how in the August holidays of my Form 3 year, foreseeing that situation, I had taken it upon myself to do menial jobs in my community to raise fees for myself: one job was to clear a field in Bhangale, the other was to construct a goat kraal at Bharayithi with a young man called Zamani. I related to her how as from that August Form 3 holidays onwards I resorted to working in Botswana during holidays to raise fees, crossing illegally for I had no passport. I related to her how I was unable, as a result of this to do extra lessons in preparation for my O Level final exams like other students who could afford. I related to her how I almost failed to raise the registration fee for my O Level exams which was ZWL 4,7million by then. I related to her how life was stressful for me as a destitute and how I resorted to studying at night and eventually scored 5As, 2Bs, a C and a D, at O Level, despite the odds. I related to her how after Form 4 there was absolutely no one to pay my A Level fees despite that tantalizing score from a disadvantaged student like me. I related to her how I refused to see my dream of a great future come tumbling down and then went into Botswana in April 2007, (by then it was last month), did menial jobs as usual, raised enough money for fees, books, uniform and other essentials and enrolled myself for A Level, and how I was determined to see myself through A Level. I was done with my long story.

When I finished narrating to her, the lady broke down and cried, I joined in and cried too. It was a long 15 minutes of emotion and tears in that office and for the first time, I realised how tough my life had been. All along, when I was doing it, I never even noticed, I just did it and sailed through. Having shared that story, I felt free. When we finally calmed down, the lady told me to be strong and to go back to class. I had spent a good 1 hour 30 minutes in that office, narrating my story. Little did I know that in that 1 hour 30 minutes I was actually building a strong foundation that will turn my life for good! I went back to class, Literature was over!

Two days later…

“Uyabizwa nguMamfundara (You are being called by the head),” came another messenger and this time it was Matthews Sibanda, a homeboy from Hhingwe. This time around I never panicked. I went straight to that office, knocked and was welcomed in. “I have spent the last two days working on your issue young man. I secured a place for you to stay in one of these homesteads here, but again I am not comfortable with it. I want something better for you. So meanwhile, please take heart we are seriously looking into your issue as a school and we will definitely help. So for now, go and calm down and concentrate. It will be fine. I will get back to you next week,” she said as she closed her diary. There was a new sense of hope as I left her office that day.

To take you back a little. Remember when I resolved to go for A Level, I wanted Dombodema High, it was my dream school but the challenge was accommodation. As a first step, I wanted a place which was at least within 10km of the school and I knew that once there I was then going to manoeuvre my way from there until I found a place close to the school. God was with me, because in Village 26, just 8km Southwest of the school was Matamatisi my uncle who agreed to accommodate me. That did it. Once at school, I approached the late Mr. J. J. Ncube asking him to be my guardian and accommodate me at his cottage. He rather advised me to table my issue with the senior master, Mr V. Matiwaza. I promptly went to him and told him my story. He was very casual with it but promised to tell the then head, Mrs D. Masuku who also doubled up as the School Chaplain. The way Mr Matiwaza appeared during the conversation did not give the hope that he would take up my issue. So when the news that I was being wanted by the head came that is why I never linked the two.

Moving on, it was Monday the following week when the best news came to me. As usual, the head called me after break. This particular Monday was however a different one. “Young man, take a seat,” she said as I got into her office. “Your issue is finally sorted,” she said as she opened a certain book besides her. “Now I want you to listen, and promise me…,” she continued. “I got a place for you at the clinic and your guardian will be Mrs Tsambani, the Sister in Charge there, do you know her?” she asked. “No, I don’t but I am ready to know her,” I answered. “Good,” she continued. “Now, the issue is that following some misunderstanding over a misbehaviour of some boys who stayed at the clinic some years back we as a school had issued a decree that no student of your age should ever stay there. But I found your issue so touching that I ended up walking back on that resolution. Now, young man, as you go to stay there, observe utmost good behaviour. This is your only chance and you must use to your best. The relationship between the school and the clinic now depends on you,” she said as she stared into my eyes. But who was she telling that, me? I was very determined not to let anything ruin the journey that I had fought for so long.

“Ma’m, count on me for all that,” I said as I put my feet together. “In fact, I am going to fix that shattered relationship for you, count on me. I am a relationship builder myself. My moto is: land me there and I will finish up the rest!” I concluded.

“Okay, good. Now, the school is going to take care of some of your issues. We will take you to the clinic to your new mother. The school, through the Chaplaincy, will give you blankets, grocery every month, give you meat each time we slaughter a beast and at some stage, we will invite more well wishers into your case,” she concluded. I was overwhelmed that day. I was overjoyed.

It was 28 May 2007 when I was finally taken to the Clinic where I was to stay throughout my A Level. Favours flew across my face from there: at the D.H, the staff were made aware of me so each time I went there, I was immediately assisted without question. The “Small Gate” was a no go entry point for students, but those keys were surrendered into my hands. They became my keys and I had authority over the gate. At the Clinic, the late Mrs Tsambani gave me a full cottage with a kitchen, a bedroom and a sitting room, what more…with electricity and water! Ngake ngahlala kuhle bantu yoh! Everyone I met was just supportive in one way or the other. Sooner, I had forgotten about my pain. But most importantly, I remained more humble than ever. I fixed the relationship between the school and the clinic.

Today, on this last day of what is undoubtedly one of my brilliant years, I celebrate the legacy of Rev. Mrs D. Masuku (pictured), the one you used to call “Mamfundara”. That lady fought a great battle in my life and today as I stand here on the plains of Europe, it’s all thanks to her for having allowed the Lord to use her to lay a foundation whose fruits would be realised 14 years later. She stood up and looked oppression into its eyes and commanded it to leave my life and it left.

Long live Rev D. Masuku, may your legacy live forever in my life. You are an “unsung” hero of my struggle to mastery. Long Live!!!!

 

Zimbabwean beats world record, turns 165 and becomes world’s oldest living person

Ndolwane born George Tshuma

Until recently, the debates surrounding the world’s oldest man to be alive have dominated the internet, with some believing that the oldest person to ever live was Jeanne Calment of France who died at age 122 in 1997 while some records on the internet claim that Kane Tanaka of Japan at 118 years is currently the world’s oldest person.

Talking of those of the 1800s, the biased internet names Emma Martina Luigia Morano OMRI an Italian alleged to have been born in 1899 and passed on at 117 in 2017. Of course some records identify Zaro Aga who is claimed to have died at age 170 years in 1934. Some records also name Mbah Goto, the Indonesian who is said to have died aged 146 in 2017.

What is interesting, however, is that of the entire so called world’s oldest people, none from Africa have ever been documented. The rhetoric seems to follow the same westernisation of African history where “nothing can ever come from the ‘cursed’ ‘dark’ continent”. 

To believe that something as old as above 120 years can ever come from Africa, more so during corona period seems to be a western taboo. I think history should be forgiven for this ignorance.

Today this blog, brings the shocking news of George Tshuma (pictured), who, born in Plumtree’s Ndolwane area of Matebeleland South Province sometime in 1856 is alive at 165 years!

Except minor issues of now being blind and nearly deaf because of old age, Mr Tshuma is gracefully working for a whopping 166 years which he will soon reach anyway.

Close relatives say that at his enormous age, Mr Tshuma who originally had 15 children now has 8 who are still alive and walking this earth and one can only wonder how old they are.

Mr Tshuma became a widower in 2012 when his long time sweetheart Kuku Thenjiwe Khupe passed away at age 105, having been born in 1907. 

Both were/are Kalanga.

Mr Tshuma who has defied even the novel coronavirus has seen his great grandchildren of the sixth generation.

It is even more interesting to learn that apart from his great grandchildren who take good care of him, one of his sons-in-law who himself is actually a 100 years old also takes good care of him where after farming, he sends maize all the way from Lower Gweru where he is currently based.

This son-in-law/father-in-law fabric and the obligations are testimony to some of the Kalanga people’s oldest cultures that have stood the test of both time and history.

The Tshumas were always farmers and close relatives say he is actually very rich!

Who on earth could ever think that anything so wonderful could ever come from Zimbabwe, let alone from Ndolwane kuBuKalanga? Nonetheless, records speak for themselves.

For more information, get in touch with the blogger.

 

Zimbabweans get robbed of their hard earned forex twice in less than ten years

The Zimbabwean Bond note

When in 2014 the then Zimbabwean government under the former President Mugabe introduced the bond coins in the pretext of providing change, little did Zimbabweans realize that it was the beginning of the disappearance of the United States dollar (USD) which people had gotten so accustomed to.

By November 2016 when the 2 Bond note was introduced to be followed by the 5 Bond note a month later, the USD effectively disappeared.

At first, withdrawals were half-bond, half-USD, and thereafter subsequently dwindled until they were all bonds.

Interestingly to note was that Bond and USD withdrawals were done separately.

The Bond withdrawals were done using a withdrawal slip while the USD withdrawal was done using the ATM card. Later on, all this disappeared and everything was collated together into bond notes.

For good measure, the Bond and USD was pegged at 1:1 so that it appeared natural for one to buy using a USD10 and above to be changed using the Bond.

However, under little circumstances could one get a USD change having bought using a Bond note.

This was day light robbery.

Later on, supermarkets were seen hoarding the USD and slowly but surely, the USD disappeared from the market and became a scarce commodity for the general populace but a preserve for Osipatheleni (illegal money changers) and top government officials and those with such mentality.

Over time, the general populace got the shock of their life to realize that all their hard earned forex had turned into Bond notes.

At this juncture I shall remind the readers of this blog that to open those accounts people had used forex and they were therefore foreign currency accounts. But later on the account holders were told that those accounts were no longer forex accounts but had become Bond notes accounts. As to how they had overnight transformed into Bond notes only accounts, it is only Mangudya and the top ZANU-PF officials who know.

People were then told to open fresh accounts of forex called Foreign Currency Accounts (FCA) commonly known as the Nostro Accounts.

What is important however is to note that in each transitional period, the government most likely stole large sums of money from the poor masses. To prove that, one can make reference to the USD10 million dollars that was recovered by the soldiers from Ignatious Chombo’s house or the millions recovered at Kudzanayi Chipang’s house during Operation Restore Legacy in November 2017 but whose fate was never made public.

One may not be far from the truth to conclude that the money that was stolen during that period may actually be the same money that was given to the illegal money changers (Osiphathelani) whom most of the unverified reports claim they are linked to top government officials.

From the above, it becomes substantial to conclude that more than a result of carelessness; the Zimbabwean economic crisis was most likely a deliberate creation by the government so that it legitimizes its ways of stealing from the general populace and I hereby hold it responsible for the long suffering of the Zimbabwean people.

Moving on, and fast-forwarding to the 24 June 2019 banning of the multi-currency regime, it is not any different and the stealing is going to be massive this time around.

According to the Statutory Instrument142 of 2019, the government through the Reserve Bank banned the use of forex as legal tender in Zimbabwe.

In this blog however, I do not detail all the contents of S.I. 142 of 2019.

My main interest however is Section 3 (1) (a) and (b) of the instrument.

It reads: 3 (1) Nothing in section 2 shall affect –

(a) The opening or operation of foreign currency designated accounts, otherwise known as “Nostro FCA accounts”, which shall continue to be designated in the foreign currencies with which they are opened and in which they are operated, nor shall section 2 affect the making of foreign payments from such accounts;

(b) The requirement to pay in any of the foreign currencies referred to in section 2(1) duties of customs in terms of the Customs and Excise Act [Chapter 23:02] that are payable on the importation of goods specified under that Act to be luxury goods, or, in respect of such goods, to pay any import or value added tax in any of the foreign currencies referred to in section 2(1) as required by or under the Value Added Tax Act [Chapter 23:12 ].

Looking at the above, in all legal terms and honest, the act sounds good and promising, giving hope to the Nostro account holders.

But it coming from a government which is not known for keeping promises, it is only a matter of time before the Nostro account holders cry foul.

Again one will not be far from the truth to conclude that just like the introduction of bond notes in 2014, or any other financial/monetary policy before that or thereafter, this is just another way of this government to symphony money that they never worked for and that they do not deserve.

It was going to be better if the stolen money could be used to bring this tottering economy back to its feet but knowing the traits of those in charge, the money will be channeled to self-enrichment and other nonsensical ventures.

My point is that the earlier you withdraw your forex from these unreliable banks the better; and the earlier you caution those who are sending you forex to stop sending it the best. Zimbabwe should have its Zim-dollar than to reap where it did not sow.

In a nutshell, the black market is there to stay until this government completely reforms (if ever they are willing to).

As a parting shot, Osiphatheleni are there to stay as long as things are like this. It needs proper, serious and well-thought reforms, not these piecemeal and haphazard temporary measures that will do nothing than worsening a situation already in decaying stage.

What Zimbabweans are rejecting is not the Zimbabwean dollar but useless money that does not buy anything and useless policies that are meant to enrich a few individuals and leave the masses suffering.

Why Mugabe started Gukurahundi 1

Former President Robert Gabriel Mugabe (Picture: VOA online)

A lot has been said, filmed and published about Gukurahundi, the genocide that claimed at least 20 000 people, mostly Patriotic Front Zimbabwe African People’s Union (PF ZAPU) supporters in Matebeleland and Midlands Provinces of Zimbabwe between 1983 and 1987 soon after independence.

A number of researchers have explored the reasons behind this genocide, most of them concurring that it was because of Mugabe’s aim of trying to eliminate PF ZAPU in his quest to achieve one party state under the overall dictatorship of Zimbabwe African National Union Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF).

In this article however, I do not to go into all that, no. I just want to focus on some of the not-so-published early childhood background of former President Robert Mugabe. It is not that I have always been after Gukurahundi issues myself, no. That is not to say I am not a victim of it either, because in 1985 when my mother was pregnant of me, my father was buried alive by those bastards, the notorious North Korean trained Fifth Brigade. Also, my eldest brother, the late Jairos Dube was tortured into oblivion by those scoundrels. So you see; I have my fair share of abuse too.

It was after a meeting with one of my guests today when we started a conversation. This was special type of guest, one of former President Robert Mugabe’s close colleagues, one of those in whom Mugabe confided. Just out of interest and sheer curiosity, I asked: “so tell me about Mugabe”. Then my guest started:

“I think Mugabe’s family background had a contribution in the starting of Gukurahundi because the man lived a frustrated life,” said my guest.

“You see, Mugabe’s father Gabriel was married to the daughter of a Mozambican woman and a Zimbabwean man. So right from the beginning I want to dispel certain myths that have always been said about Mugabe. Firstly, Mugabe is a Zimbabwean, not Ghanaian, Mozambican or whatever. It is his grandmother, mother to his mother Bona who was from Mozambique, not his father’s relations. So to say he was not Zimbabwean is false. He comes from Zvimba. That is where they lived.

“Secondly, Mugabe was not in any way very intelligent, not by any standards. I can only say he was diligent, not intelligent. I know him personally. For example, he could read until he knelt down just to get to understand a very simple concept. So you see, it was more of determination than intelligence. He was just an average person intellectually. So those who idolize him as intelligent should stand corrected.

“Now, concerning his family, Mugabe’s mother Bona and Mugabe’s father Gabriel got married in church and went on to have Mugabe. But it so happened that one day, when Mugabe was about eight years of age, something amiss happened and that incident went on to change his life forever.

“Someone put poison in a cup that was full of cockroaches in order to kill them. But one of Mugabe’s uncles, a brother to Gabriel, took that cup unknowingly and without washing the cup of the poison he used it to drink water and he died. Thereafter there was a heated argument between Gabriel and Bona his wife, with Gabriel accusing his wife of witchcraft and wanting to kill him but only to kill his brother.

“He (Gabriel) eventually left his wife Bona together with Robert Mugabe their son there in Zvimba and came to live here in Bulawayo. Upon coming to Bulawayo he married a Tshuma woman, the late Albert’s mother and consequently changed his surname to Mugabe. He was originally a Ngwenya, not a Mugabe.

“After some years, Bona took the young Robert Mugabe with her and decided to go in search of her husband Gabriel. Initially, Gabriel was thought to have come to Hope Fountain Mission but apparently he hadn’t. Bona looked for him everywhere, in Makokoba, Nguboyenja, Mzilikazi, Matshobana and all the old locations but could not find him and having given up, she went back home.

“Little did they know that upon getting to Bulawayo, Gabriel had remarried and then was posted to Regina Mundi Mission in Gweru where as a builder he was assisting with roofing.

“Later on Gabriel, now a Mugabe, not Ngwenya went back home together with his new wife MaTshuma. Upon getting there, there was a heated argument between him and his wife Bona over the new woman. The matter could not be settled by the local priest at Kutama Mission in Zvimba and was consequently referred to the Bishop in Salisbury who then pleaded with Bona to accept the new woman, of which she grudgingly did.

“But I can still clearly remember Mugabe’s statements as he narrated the story to me and a few colleagues while we were in the bush. He said ‘tangaka tichitsvaga munhu anondzi Gabriel Ngwenya tisingazivi kuti maNdevere akamuchinjisa surname kudhara. Ndiko kumushaya kwedu (we were looking for a person called Gabriel Ngwenya not knowing that the people of Matebeleland had changed his surname a long time ago. That is how we failed to get him). For that reason I will never forgive the people of Matebeleland’.

“You see, I believe that apart from the other issues to which Gukurahundi has been attributed, the bitterness that he exhibited over this issue may be certainly one of the reasons why he wanted to exterminate the people of this region,” concluded my guest.

For now it is enough. Meet me in my next article.

Yours Kalanga Boy

The images of Africa: As Kalanga Boy “corrects” a “few” misconceptions

Children happily sorting out maize harvest in Jinja, Uganda.

In most cases, global media flashes out pictures of miserable 

children, especially those from Somalia and other drought 

stricken places. That kind of practice and framing distorts

the real image of the African child as other stories remain untold

“The popular images of Africa in the West include the “dark continent” characterized by primeval irrationality, tribal anarchy, civil war, political instability, flagrant corruption, incompetent leadership and managerial ineptitude, hunger, famine and starvation as well as rampant diseases, especially AIDS. Africa is seen as a homogenous entity comprising of uncivilized and heathen peoples who are culturally, intellectually, politically and technically backward or inferior, who are incapable of governing themselves, or at least embracing democratic principles of governance. The African continent is depicted as the “dependent Africa”, “crisis driven Africa and “hopeless” or “pitiable Africa”. Without exception, the images have been negative and then sensationialize the “dark” side of Africa” (James Michira, 2002: 2).

It is not me, the Kalanga Boy, it is Michira and you can only blame me for seeing the same narrativesws.

Owing to such pre-conceived ideas and images of Africa and therefore the African himself or herself, whatever an African says is of no consequence.

Every African argument is never serious anyway.

Young children dance to entertain the visitors at Jinja, Uganda
Instead of resorting to begging like other children elsewhere,
these children are innovative enough to just speak through
their talent

An African is that person who worries over “little things”, spend the rest of their day discussing “petty issues”, “…just like an African!”

Therefore, however valid an African argument maybe, it is inevitably interpreted in relation to the images of Africa already built by global media where it is dismissed as petty.

It is so sad a reality that the negative perception of the African cultivated by global media has trickled down and adopted by Africans themselves when interacting and relating with each other.

Every time Africans interact with each other, they inevitably find themselves wearing that negative media lens to look at each other.

This is evident by statements like “umuntu omnyama kabongi” (a black person never says thank you), “nhu ntema atoboka” (a black person never says thank you).

The “umuntu omnyama kabongi” or “nhu ntema atoboka” is a subconscious introduction of the global media lens to ridicule one another because it is global media that has framed the African as an unthankful person or whatever.

The economic prowess of Africa is usually omitted by

global media. In this file photo is the young but vibrant

Fish Industry in Jinja, Lake Victoria in Uganda

For example, an old woman in the village worried about her one goat, which is all that she has, is immediately labeled as a “petty person” by fellow Africans.

According to them, she should be worried about owning a fleet of vehicles or “something better” because that is how they have been socialized by global media to think about a fellow African.

Again it’s not me, but Michira. The only thing I can be blamed for is seeing things the same way he saw them, 16 years ago. And perhaps you can also only blame me for bringing up the topic 16 years later.

It therefore follows that anyone who sees an African remembers those images and misconceptions they know about “African Time”, “African Mentality”, “African Sun”, “African Attire”, “African this or that….”.

The part of Africa on the receiving end is the East African Great Lakes Region and Central Africa.

I have been here for the past four months and like anyone skeptical, partly because of global media, I expected to hear gunshots, everyday! But I can tell you that I do not know how an East African gunshot sounds like.

Africa is not about animals. It is even home to some of the 

most beautiful beaches in the world, like one behind these 

buildings in Kampala, Uganda

There are problems in this region and the rest of Africa just like there are in America, Australia, China, Canada or Europe.

Perhaps the best way through which I can summarise some of these images about Africa is to use this quote: Until lions develop voices, their stories will always be told by the hunter who has the voice.

In simpler terms, what I am saying here is that African countries suffer because they do not have such powerful and cutting-edge media industries that have an effective global outreach to counter each negative story that the so-called global media run about any African nation.

For the past four months I have been here, I have been watching and analyzing China Global Television Network (CGTN).

Trade in cultural artifacts dominates most African Tourist

Centres. This is a Cultural Kiosk at The Source of the Nile

in Jinja, Uganda 

Like any other flawed media, it also collates Africa into one nation using terms like “African Culture”, “African Language” among others.

Until disaster strikes in any one African country, it never appears on global news.

For example, looking at Liberia, it seems like there is nothing positive that is happening there.

The last time we saw Liberia in global media was during the Ebola era. All of a sudden it is appearing again because of a monkeypox what what that is allegedly breaking out there.

This makes it appear as if Liberia is a doomed country with no future except being a consistent source of incurable diseases.

You can imagine what such stories do to a young American or European who has never been in Liberia.

The mighty Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River in 

Zimbabwe is part of Africa's beautiful scenes. It is 

not only about wildlife, but it is also about the geography,

temperatures and other unlimited resources

Another trend in global media is to make stories about animals more prominent as compared to human suffering.

For example, in 2015, the story about Cecil the Lion in Zimbabwe took precedence to that of the abduction of Itai Dzamara. Last month, the story about the death of the oldest rhino in Kenya was trendy in global media yet there are more human issues that can be discussed in that country.

Also, global media has a habit of zooming in on exotic places around Africa, especially wildlife.

This has made the world see Africa as a continent full of animals and not people. Urban Africa is rarely shown.

What I see as the best solution here is for African people to develop the guts of starting a big media industry that can compete at par with the global media industries like Reuters, AFP, CNN, BBC, Al-jazeera and others.

The tea plantations along Jinja Road in Kampala
form a magnificent view for the passers by. 

Apart from its economic prowess, the images of China in global media are amongst the factors that led it to establish its own CGTN.

Ever since, the negative rhetoric about China in western media has been toned down because it has its own media muscle that can “hit back” though China has proven to be a nation that is not concerned about such petty issues.

During my spare time here, I found myself analyzing the media, just to see how the media has shortchanged the world and how I myself as a journalist can positively contribute especially in the reportage of Africa.