They call me the root of evil!
I always chuckle at this, humans have a remarkable talent for dodging accountability. Somehow they have made me into the problem.
But look at them!
They are the ones in the factories, working long shifts for bosses that barely remember their names. They are the old ladies dragging themselves to the marketplace for vending as early as 4 am. They are the ones sending their offspring to schools where they spend 14 years chasing the same promise.
Me.
I’ve passed through hands that tremble with need, and others that never seem to have enough.
They exhaust their bodies, bend their morals, and reshape their lives just to get closer to me. Yet somehow, I am the villain.
Some are even more malicious in their attempts to get closer to me: they lurk around in dark alleys at night, rob their kind of their valued possessions. While some sit in polished offices, siphoning fortunes by signing papers that dress up fraud and embezzlement in clean language.
Different methods, same hunger.
All for me.
How quickly principles dissolve when I enter the picture. Laws become flexible. Morals negotiable. Humanity… optional
I was with my friend Kuda. He had me tucked away in his pocket. Kuda is a taxi driver, which he calls indrive for some reason. I love my rides with Kuda. It’s far better than staying locked up in safe boxes under tight security. The silence is so deafening I can barely handle it. I feel trapped! Unlike with Kuda we are out in the city, moving, changing hands, hearing stories.
A passenger told us a story about one of his uncles who runs a very successful transport and logistic business. He resorted to rituals to ensure the success and growth of his business. He sacrificed his three children.
The first one died soon after the ritual. The second one was paralyzed and the third lost her mind. She now wanders the streets of Harare in rags, eating from garbage cans. Kuda says he’s seen her, somewhere near the Fourth Street bus terminal. It is that passenger’s cousin.
Kuda didn’t say much after that.
He just tightened his grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead a little too long.
Curled up in his pocket, I felt something unfamiliar, a chill ran through my spine. Not guilt—no. I don’t make choices. But it felt oddly close to unease.
I hadn’t realized just how far humans are willing to go for me. How desperation mutates into something darker. Something unrecognizable.
The fact is we should stop all this name calling. Bottom line is that you need me! For food. For shelter. For comfort. For status. Doors open when there’s enough of me. Without me, doors don’t even exist.
I know it hurts that I can’t be manipulated. You cannot gaslight me into crawling to your bank accounts. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to have me, rightfully or wrongfully. I didn’t make the rules nor do I choose sides, whisper in ears or demand sacrifice.
I’m a bystander in all this! A measure of exchange, a unit of account to measure value and a store of value. And I wish to keep it that way!
The rest?
That’s all on you!
