It would be completely delusional to say that this blog is not about me. Me, my life and I. I’d like my stories to evoke all kinds of images for you, the reader, of my mastery in all aspects of being a human, in particular, a woman. I have a firm and fabulous pair of fallopian tubes, although I am not a mother. I can cook, but my scoring, shearing, slicing and dicing in the kitchen would only ever get me a Michelin tyre. When it comes to fashion, my sense of style might one day award me an article on how many ways a Kikoi can be worn. I am fully equipped to engage in lengthy conversations about travel having been born in Zimbabwe, educated in Ireland, lost in London, and footloose and fancy-free in Cape Town. And so while I would love to write endless goop of goddess gifts of goodness gracious me that’s expensive, I am not about to do that.

This blog is essentially written for my mother. Not entirely in the form of dedication, but rather as a pacifier. She has implored me over the years to put finger to keyboard and start sharing my stories, regardless of the fact that she is at the helm of them. I am not the proverbial masterpiece emerging from her grand achievement of procreation. No, that trophy remains on the shelf belonging to one of my other siblings. But she is my biggest fan, as I am hers.
So in obedience to her incessant pleas, I’ve dunked these pages in gripe water, and started to shed some layers. You asked for it, Madame Ovary.

To any disbelievers of the sentiments of my words, I ask that you not take me too seriously, nor yourselves. I’d just like to hear the African Dove cooing from my keyboard, that sits at this ever so crowded table, in this oh so humble city of Hamburg.

So anyway, enough about me. What do you think of me?