It is indeed a paradox, an anachronistic piece of art that really got me thinking. Make no mistakes, the painting itself is beautiful. With precise oil paint brushstrokes, the piece, entitled “A Landmark in History” depicts the opening of the first session of the first parliament of Southern Rhodesia in 1924, with the pomp and ceremony (and even the Union Jack) that the motherland, England, would surely have been proud of.

And of course, not a single black face is seen amid the sea of attentive faces. White women, yes – but not a glimpse of a ‘native’. Probably, the only black people allowed into parliament back then were the tea boys and others tasked with menial chores.

All the same, the painting is beautiful and I am sure, an accurate depiction of events.

But, I also mentioned that it is paradoxical.

I didn’t happen upon this painting hanging in some historical museum or art gallery. In fact, the portrait has its place on one of the walls in the hallways of present day Zimbabwe’s parliament – a parliament made up of many politicians who would, if they could, wipe out any trace of European history within Zimbabwe.

I am sure that I need not bore you with the details of how Zimbabwe’s President Robert Mugabe detests the west and argues that it is imposing illegal sanctions on us.  But I will remind you of a grating statement he once made addressing British interest in Zimbabwe’s political issues. “So, [Tony] Blair keep your England, and let me keep my Zimbabwe,” he said in his oration at the 2002 Earth Summit in Johannesburg.

A loaded statement which we could ponder all day long.

But ultimately a statement which spells out Mugabe’s desire to rid the nation of all artefacts and persons that hark back to the time of colonialism. The white farmers have gone and for a time, it seemed so would the English names of public institutions (such as high schools called Townsend and Milton) which to the then government, seemed a way of idolising an imperfect past.

But somehow, those names survived – just like that painting hanging in parliament building today.

Ironic, isn’t it?

There’s something that makes many people who don’t know me think that I am not a Zimbo upon first meeting me.

No, it’s not the Bohemian dressing and my propensity to mix colours that should otherwise never be assembled together within one outfit (although some say that that is why they think I am Jamaican/ Kenyan/ Brazilian etc.).

It is actually more about my jelly belly and all those other spongy bits on my body.

“Hawu sisi, but you can’t be a Zimbabwean,” a South African woman once argued as we rummaged through clothes in a boutique in Polokwane together. A few minutes before, she had tried to engage me in a conversation in Xhosa and I had politely informed her that I didn’t understand what she was saying.

And so she asked, “Are you Kenyan?”

“No,” I said.

“Mozambican, Malawian, American, Jamaican?”

“Zimbabwean,” I finally said to stop her from reciting all the nations on the global map.

But she didn’t believe me.

With a look at me from my head through my middle and then straight down to my toes, she concluded, “You are too healthy to be Zimbabwean.”

This was at the peak of the cholera epidemic when it seemed that the whole Zimbabwean population would be wiped out by the scourge.

And what she meant was that I was too fleshy, too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be coming from a collapsing country.

She is not the only one who has said this to me.

It seems everywhere I go, people have a perception that Zimbabwe is just a sorry pit in the ground infested with starvation and disease.

And why wouldn’t they? Any international news about us is all doom and gloom, horrifying statistics and depressing facts – no images of smiling healthy people.

So when you are the only Zimbabwean a person has had the opportunity to meet, the shock that yes, you do wear clean clothes, look well-fed and articulate – is all too much for them to bear. You should actually be half-way to dead and completely dejected.

Now that CNN, BBC and all the other foreign media stations have been allowed back into Zimbabwe, I truly hope that they will begin to beam messages of hope and happiness about this dear nation once more. One of my favourite sayings states that in the world, there is great suffering; but also great overcoming of it. That saying could have been written for the plight of Zimbabwe and its people.

Now, I am sure that I was not the only Schumie fan who was disappointed when the retired seven-time Formula One champion had to call off his return to the sport. Oh, how I had stolen moments just to daydream about seeing the great man weave his way around those hairpin bends and chicanes with imperious ease once more.

But alas, ’twas not to be.

Michael Schumacher’s dodgy neck has well and truly put paid to his time as king of the Formula One track.

And so to console myself, I began my desperate search to find a new hero to fill his scarlet Ferrari boots – someone with equally supreme calmness and mastery of the art of driving.

Sure there are some good Formula One drivers out there, but I couldn’t quite find one to dull the pain and dejection that I was feeling at my wasted daydreams.

And then it hit me like a bolt out of the blue (or the Ferrari red) – I knew who my new hero of the road was!

With no world championships to show for it, and in fact no grand prix starts to even mention, this hero is no member of the jet-set elite of driving, but definitely knows how to handle the road.

My new hero is drum-roll …the Zimbabwean driver!

Not only must this most skilled of artists deal with normal traffic situations BUT also perilous potholes, unpredictable kombi drivers and yes even the non-functioning robots at intersections which demand quick thinking on who should have right of way.

God bless our drivers!

And I do mean that. These are the long-suffering men and women who would put a racing driver to shame with the ease with which they negotiate the catastrophe that is Zimbabwe’s road network system. And all the time, conducting conversations with their passengers or paying attention to the radio as if it were all normal!

So now, I challenge Michael Schumacher. If he’s still miffed about skipping the Formula One scene, I extend him a warm welcome to the uncertain terrain of Harare city driving.

Oh, Schumie, I know you would just love to test your skills on our very special stretch of decrepit tarmac. And if the city council does nothing to repair the roads before the rainy season begins, well the potholes will be so much bigger for you to swerve past! And yes, the kombi driver behind you will still somehow try to overtake you as you negotiate your way around.

Who needs twists and straights when you can have craters and kombi drivers?

The first sign I got that I was back home was the torturous customs queue at Harare International Airport.

“Queuing already and we haven’t even gotten out of the airport,” remarked the frustrated man in front of me.

I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Unlike other countries where returning nationals form their own separate line at customs, returning Zimbabweans tend to be lumped along with everyone else, although there is a separate counter which is meant specifically for us. None of the airport staff, however, usually bother to tend it.

Having been away for two months, I had sincerely hoped that things were slowly beginning to change for the better in Zimbabwe.

But the dejection of the customs officials – enough even for them to not bother with a warm hello before putting the obligatory stamp into our passports – was evidence enough for me that my fellow countrymen were still as oppressed and depressed as I had left them.

It was during my time away that Prime Minister Tsvangirai had toured Europe and the United States seeking to breathe some warm air over frosty relations between Zimbabwe and the West. Though he returned to Zimbabwe with a very small purse of funds, the signs of integration of our pariah nation into international politics had sparked hope within me.

But it was also during my time away that the constitutional reform process – the hallmark of the new government of national unity – had collapsed. And it was again during this time that I learnt that civil servants’ salaries had been raised, but only to a paltry range of between USD 150 and 200 per month.

Soon, I realised that only my physical presence within Zimbabwe would give me a real feel of whether anything had changed.

And the drive from the airport deepened my appreciation of the situation.

The kaleidoscope colours of garbage strewn all over caught my eyes as I watched snaking queues of people standing street-side hoping desperately for transport.

My heart began to tumble down my chest in despair.

“Let’s hope there’s electricity when we get home,” my mother interjected, pausing my heart’s descent, only to make it fall even faster.

That was another thing to start worrying about again; so far removed from the comparatively ‘breezy’ life I had enjoyed in Berlin, Germany, where I never had to give care to the most basic of necessities.

But the worst was still yet to come.

As we continued to drive, the potholes in the roads, some the size of basins, were causing vehicles to swerve precariously into neighbouring lanes and onto the curb in a bid to avoid becoming stuck in the craters, or damaging shock absorbers.

What kind of a country pays no attention to the maintenance and repair of roads, of rights, of what is right for its citizens?

“Those potholes are a reflection of the holes in our own hearts,” rued my friend as we swerved past yet another one.

If things continue like this, I wonder if we will still have hearts, or maybe just gaping holes in our souls.

For now, what is left of mine continues to bleed for my country.

I have finally met someone who does not know of the nation called Zimbabwe!

Now, to be sure, before our economic and political meltdown hardly anyone cared about Zim – except of course those who were curious to get a peak at the Victoria Falls (which has always looked better from Zimbabwe than Zambia, anyway!) or those who did some form of trade with us.

But hang on, even the Queen of England and Lady Di once graced our once prosperous little land. So perhaps we were never that insignificant (to the outside world) anyway.

So I just couldn’t figure out where to begin with explaining to this poor woman about Zimbabwe. Should I tell her about our record monetary inflation, our political power struggles, or maybe even start with colonialism and then make my way into the Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) and then independence as a precursor to the present situation.

And then I thought, “Ugh, man, she is kidding! No one doesn’t know Zimbabwe!”

But her brown eyes fixed intently on my face showed me that her question was genuine. This was no joke – this woman needed an education!

And I only had five minutes in which to give it to her.

What should I start with? Maybe a happy story, maybe something about where I live and work, my friends…

“Zimbabwe is in Africa,” I said. “Close to South Africa.”

Her eyes lit up and I could tell we had finally chartered mutual territory.

But I must admit that from thereon, I didn’t say much else that was good about Zim. I couldn’t help but get into the politics, epidemics and pandemics of our land.

“Oh,” she said looking at me with sadness and shock, “that’s not good.”

It was only then that I realised that I had been given sole responsibility to paint the entire world view of my country for someone.

And I had painted it black.

Isn’t it funny how we often berate the international media for making Zimbabwe out to be a place of doom and gloom, and yet often do the same ourselves?

For many people Zimbabwe is a mediated catastrophe, a place they would never want to be in. And we do nothing to challenge this idea when we keep re-enforcing the idea to everyone we meet.

Yes, I know that things are really bad and we live under unjust rule. But try to find something hilarious or beautiful in this.

If I could go back and restart my conversation with this woman, I would have told her a story that goes like this:

Once a few years ago, I was walking down a street in Harare and all of a sudden, my slipper snapped. I couldn’t walk any further, unless I would do so on bare feet. And I was at least a kilometre from a shoe repair shop!

“What to do,” I pondered quietly.

And behind me came a voice with an answer.

“Take my shoes,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

She repeated the offer, explaining that she worked at the end of the block. Walking barefoot to the office door would not be so much of a hassle for her.

“Take them and go and get yours fixed.”

I couldn’t believe it – a complete stranger placing complete faith in me.

When I returned an hour later to return her shoes, I asked her why she has trusted me so much.

“I knew you needed my help,” she said. “In a country like ours, everyone struggles sometimes and it’s only when we help each other that we all survive.”

I walked away with a deeper appreciation of what community meant.

This is the story of Zimbabwe – the story of people who still pride themselves in compassion when the same has not been shown to them by their own leaders.

This is the story that I should have recounted, amid all the statistics and gory details about struggle.

Some people argue that no one really uses them ‘in the heat of the moment’. Others say they just don’t like the artificialness that they bring to what should be a ‘natural’ experience – sex. “It’s like eating a sweet with its wrapper still on, or an unpeeled banana,” so they say.

But like them or hate them, use them or avoid them, the possibility of not having condoms at all as an HIV prevention option is a very serious issue with very real implications for those who do choose to make use of them.

And if recent reports from South Africa of condom stock-outs in the Free State province’s public hospitals are anything to go by, the likelihood of such an occurrence is more real than one might want to imagine.

In an article carried by the PlusNews HIV analysis service, it was revealed that some South African clinics are reporting complete condom stock-outs owing to what a Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) representative described as a severe shortage of human resources, as well as weak distribution networks and budget shortages.

These stock-outs obviously violate a basic human right – the right to health, and its various options. For, much as their use and comfort may be debated, condoms constitute an impotent component towards realising the sexual and reproductive health rights of all people. Not having access to them limits one’s health options in a similar way that not having access to ARVs (if one is HIV positive and in need of them) does.

Yet with condoms costing much less to produce than ARVs, it is simply much more affordable – for governments, donors, non-profit and commercial sectors – to prevent, rather than treat HIV.

For this reason, and the ones to follow, stock-outs are completely unacceptable.

The next reason to bear in mind is that condoms play a dual prevention role in that they can be used to both prevent pregnancies, as well as to prevent  transmission of HIV and STIs. According to the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), of an estimated 10.4 billion male condoms used worldwide in 2005, around 4.4 billion were used for family planning and 6 billion for HIV prevention.

But their efficacy is premised upon correct and CONSISTENT use, which is why stock-outs in the public health care sector present such a major challenge to sexual and reproductive health efforts. It is indeed a tragedy that many of the countries with the highest global HIV prevalence rates harbour some of the world’s poorest communities who cannot afford to purchase condoms and therefore rely solely on those that are freely provided, or sold to them at subsidised prices. For these people, stock-outs spell danger because while condoms may still be available to them via the private sector (such as supermarkets and pharmacies), the commercial brands sold there would be far too expensive, and therefore beyond their financial reach.

What stock-outs essentially mean is that people could become infected not through a lack of knowledge, but perhaps largely through a lack of financial resources to purchase prevention tools.

Nobody equipped with information about HIV and AIDS today should become infected, or re-infected. Nobody should have to seek out means of prevention and fail to find them, especially at a time when the theme around prevention is becoming evermore-dominant in global discourse around the HIV pandemic.

Stock-outs of condoms should never happen. It is too blatant a theft of one’s rights to sexual and reproductive autonomy.

Effective planning and budgetary allocation of funds towards procurement of sufficient quantities of condoms should be carried out by all governments and key stakeholders to prevent any shortfalls in supply. This should be bolstered by regular monitoring and evaluation of trends in sexual behaviour and activity of populations. This is crucial  for as people begin to engage in sexual activity at an ever-earlier age, as well as learn about the dual efficacy of condoms (as discussed earlier), and also disregard previously held misconceptions about them, it follows that demand for condoms will rise. Supplies based on the sexual habits of a population five or ten years ago will not suffice.

And nor will moralistic debates pitting abstinence as ‘good’ against pre-marital sex as its ‘evil’ opponent.

Governments must also put in place policing measures to ensure against corruption in the supply and distribution chain of condoms to public health facilities. While it is well acknowledged that theft and other forms of corruption take place in the supply and distribution of the more lucrative essential medicines (such as ARVs and painkillers), it is important to investigate if the same underhand dealings are also taking place with condoms.

Ultimately, the argument presented here is not about what people do – or should do – with condoms. It is simply about equipping them with the option to choose.