Putting Away the Old Self: A Journey Through Books, Memory, and Change

Putting away the old self sounds easy until you really walk that line. I remember the day I decided I wanted to write a review of a book gifted to me by someone dear to my heart. As I recently held it in my hands, the weight of the moment settled in. Another first for me—a brand-new book.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve read a book or two in my time. But growing up, books weren’t something you just bought. In school, we had libraries and textbooks provided for us. Outside of that, if you wanted a novel or any reading material, you swapped with friends or found them in second-hand piles.

I remember the bookshop in the city centre, a small, bustling place that ran on exchanges. If there was a book you wanted, a promise to return it when done, and suddenly, it was in your hands. Sometimes there was a small price, sometimes just the unspoken rule of sharing. That was how stories moved between us.

All this was at a time when my country, Zimbabwe, was just becoming. I grew up in the mid-1980s and early 1990s, a time when Zimbabwe still held its breath with cautious optimism. On the surface, things were good. The infrastructure was solid, hospitals functioned, transportation ran smoothly, and the education system was strong. The new government had inherited something that worked, life flowed as it should. But beneath that surface, darkness stirred.

No one paid much attention to what the politicians were doing back then. Robert Mugabe, then President of Zimbabwe, was busy charming the British government, so much so that the Queen of England even knighted him, he was awarded the honorary knighthood, Grand Cross of the Order of the British Empire (GCMB), in 1982 by Queen Elizabeth II. 

Meanwhile, back home, his hands were still stained with the blood of the Ndebele people from the Gukurahundi massacres. Tens of thousands were slaughtered, their stories buried under political silence.

Dare I Speak of Zimbabwean Politics

Today, in this century, I refuse to engage in Zimbabwean politics. The wounds run too deep, the fear still lingers. Some of those who remember don’t feel safe speaking, even now.

And yet, today, here I am, holding a brand-new book for the first time in my life. Steven Furtick’s "Do the New You."

Thank you again, again, and again Akin, for this gift.

The Irony of a New Book in a Life of Hand-Me-Downs

There was something poetic about it. My relationship with books had been built on exchanges, borrowed time, and second-hand treasures. And now, here was something fresh, unmarked, not because I traded for it, but because someone gave it to me, and it was given freely.

This book is more than just pages and ink. It is a symbol of change, of grace, of the possibility that even after a lifetime of hand-me-downs, there will always be a first time for everything waiting for us.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the new me begins.