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Technology is forcing us to hurry love to a meaningless place where language and the meaning of romance are lost

It was mid morning on a Sunday back in the village. Shamiso, my pretty niece, the one who gave birth to a boy called Prince a few weeks ago, sat on a mat breastfeedingIt was mid morning on a Sunday afternoon back in the village. Shamiso, my pretty niece, the one who gave birth to a boy called Prince a few weeks ago, sat on a mat breastfeeding.  Then there was a text message sound from Shamiso’s phone. Because the art of breastfeeding requires both hands, Shamiso had her left hand cupping the baby’s head gently and the right hand securing the nipple comfortably inside the baby’s mouth.

With both her hands tied up, Shamiso could not read her text message. So I held the phone in front of her eyes. She said the message was from her beloved husband Philemon. It therefore required an immediate loving response. Shamiso handed me the hungry baby and disappeared behind the granary to text on ‘whatsapp.’

My cousin Piri sat there drinking sweet tea and homemade buns, mafetikuku. She shrugged and said something about the problems of long distance love. She looked into the distance, legs carelessly stretched out on the mat, sipping her hot tea from a metal mug.

Shamiso is my 19-year old niece, the one who married Philemon from Buhera. Philemon came here to collect her and Prince last month so they could live with his grandmother in Buhera. But Shamiso said no, she was not leaving her village. In the end, Philemon went back to Harare where he sells airtime cards, phone chargers, pegs and anything else that he can carry around.

As Shamiso’s aunts, vana tete, Piri and I thought Shamiso and Philemon’s love was over. Why would any husband keep loving and maintaining a woman who refuses to obey tradition and become a full time village wife the way our mothers, grandmothers and those before them had done?

But we were wrong. Refusing to live in her husband’s home did not end the love between Philemon and Shamiso. In fact, judging by the frequency of text messaging, these two seemed to be very much in love. Philemon and Shamiso’s love is being written and expressed on “WhatsApp messages”.

In between breastfeeding, washing, cooking and fetching water, you see Shamiso texting. She sits relaxed on the verandah of the granary, pa hozi, near the chicken house, under the mango tree or even when she is lying in bed, texting furiously, sometimes laughing, frowning or just smiling.

When Shamiso came back to resume breastfeeding, Piri grabbed the phone from her and said, “Let’s see what loving tones you shared with your husband.” I said no, it was not proper to read other people’s private romantic message. Then Piri said we were Shamiso’s aunts, vana tete, and between us and her, there was no secret. Without protest or care, Shamiso casually handed Piri the phone and continued with her breastfeeding.

Piri showed me the words on the phone and reading loudly, she used a soft tone voice for Shamiso’s texts and strong male tones for Philemon’s words.

“Hesi baby Longtym, hw au doing?”
“Hello lovie,” ”

“Hw r yu?”
“Im fin”

“Zviri sei papfanyasi?” meaning how is life in the village?
“Al fn. Prince fn.”

“Wsh to be der w u baby.”
“Mi tu. Gd. Hwz biznes daddy vaPrince?”

“Much beta thz dys. Hwz my Prince?”
“He is gd n growing. Wn r you comin?”

“Soon luv. Don’t fogt to kis baby for mi”
“K”

“K baby lv u. bye.”

I took the phone and re-read the texts. Then I asked if this is what Shamiso called communication between husband and wife. Shamiso nodded her pretty plaited head and smiled, “Yes tete. What else can I say?”

“Why do you assassinate the English language through texts like this?” I asked.
“It’s love. You express it whichever way you want these days,” said Piri laughing.

“We have been along that path of romance too. Ah, those days!” Piri said, scribbling some writing on her bare thigh with a piece of stick. She wrote “love” and tried to draw a heart. Then she shook her head and said she longed for the days when communication between lovers was done through letter writing and not text messages.

We all know that Piri does not like texting anymore since her bad experience with someone’s wife. She had met a nice guy the week before in a kombi from city to Highfield. They had exchanged phone numbers. He called once or twice and sent texts asking to know Piri a bit more.

Piri said she liked the guy. The next step was to text when and where they were going to meet. Then one day, Piri received a bad taste joke from her friend Chingasiyeni. Piri decided to forward it to me deliberately. She does this to embarrass me. I often delete Piri’s jokes immediately as a matter of principle because my phone is used for business too, apart from some social conversations.

Without paying much attention, Piri sent the bad taste joke to the guy she was considering as a potential lover and not to me, as she had intended. The bad joke landed in the guy’s wife’s hands before he could get to his phone. The wife quickly called Piri and gave her a proper scolding telling her that she was an evil woman and must stay away from her husband.

For once, Piri said she felt humiliated and humbled. She tried to apologise, saying it really was a mistake and besides, Piri did not know that the man was married. The wife called Piri a bad name and hung up the phone. Since then, you hardly see Piri texting unless she really wants to communicate something urgent.

“If I was going to fall in love, I will not do it on texts. I will sit down and write a letter,” Piri declared.  “And where will you post it? And how do you know that it will not end in the wrong hands?” Shamiso asked, gently placing Prince on a rug preparing to change his nappy. Piri shrugged and said, “I do not care if anyone reads it. As long as I am writing from the heart about real love to a real person. Sis, am I right?” Piri asked me.

I was just thinking that a real love letter written from the heart has been killed by text messaging. Even an email does not capture the expectation and excitement of a letter addressed to you. When sending an email about love, you make a mistake and you keep deleting it instantly. But a love letter, written in good English, Shona, Ndebele, Spanish, French, Italian, Hindi or whatever language, allows a lover to really sit down and form sound thoughts. It requires you to take a moment, to think about each word, feel the emotion and surely write what you are going to say, how you are going to say it and what it actually means.

Love letters can be very poetic, because there is an intimacy in the act of a handwritten word. Besides, a letter is something you can touch, feel, follow the words with your fingers, read and reread it, hide it inside a brassier or pocket, place it under your pillow, hoping for sweet dreams. Though love between people might disappear with time, love letters will always stay, singing away the poetry of romance on paper.

Gone are the beautiful days of love letters written in good, meaningful, respectful language when the words “I love you”, meant just that. Technology is forcing us to hurry love to a meaningless place where language and the meaning of romance is lost. Today, when people say, “I luv u”, they do not only kill the language, they destroy the real meaning and feel of love as it is meant to be.

So, with our niece Shamiso, we shall teach her to express love by writing about it properly. Or better still, we might take her back to the desk where she will learn how to write a real love letter. And post it.

 Dr Sekai Nzenza is the Chief Executive Officer of RioZim Foundation. She writes in her personal capacity.