Entry 001: On identity, performance and aesthetics

This is the first entry in an ongoing archive. It introduces the core of my work, the why behind what I do. It explores the roots of my aesthetic language, the tensions I've felt in being fully seen and the quiet rebellion of choosing authenticity over performance. This isn’t just a post. It’s a starting point.

“Gogo, when I was younger, what did I enjoy doing?”

My grandmother looked at me closely in a way that showed me she wasn’t just looking back over 30 years of memory, she was also trying to find the right word for a child who was talkative, who questioned, who excelled, and at some point, who rebelled.

I expected to hear “You enjoyed drawing, colouring, acting,” but she looked me in the eye and said, “You were always a leader. With the children in the neighbourhood, you always knew how to round them up and lead”.

She reminded me of the time when I was 11 and I rounded up the children in our small neighbourhood, in a town just outside Harare, to put on a talent show. We hosted it in our front yard. I took it very seriously. I enjoyed the planning and the execution.

I had almost forgotten, but there were a lot of times in my life, in my childhood, where I did this. Even in my later teenage years, I remember an old boyfriend was discouraging me badly (shoutout Mr DJ) and he said, “Why are you always trying to help? Charity starts at home”. I internalised this and interpreted it as, I have a lot of things that need fixing, so who am I to want to try and help others?

I’ve circled this a lot. Times when I tried coaching and could not get a client, so I’d crash out and say, Who asked me? Why do I bother with others when I could be pouring into myself?

It’s now, with maturity and clarity, I can recognise that this is my soul’s work. Leadership runs in me. It’s how I’ve always naturally been, even when I was a child. I was born with royal frequency. A need to express and create in a way that makes people feel.

And now it makes sense. Life has guided me gently. For example, having a big public platform is not something I went out seeking, but it found me when I expressed myself in my own unique way. People were magnetised to not only watch me but to experience me and be led to feel something within themselves.

And with this knowing, I hold a responsibility which I have come to accept, to be a living curator of ancestral design.

And now, I accept what was always mine. The responsibility to lead, not just people, but ideas, stories, and futures. To stand as a custodian of heritage. A vessel for something bigger than me.

Here’s what triggered today’s reflection:

A few days ago, I shared a reel on Instagram. It was a slow set of images from my vision board. Nothing fancy. Just photos that felt like home to me. African lifestyle, brown skin, quiet softness, plants, bold patterns and colour. I used “My Joy” by Isaiah Katumwa as the audio. The reel felt like peace and return.

I captioned it: I’ve started a gentle rebellion against the idea that luxury must look Western to be worthy.

Someone responded with a message that made me stop and think. They asked if that first line was something I was taught or something I assumed. They said they never thought luxury had to be Western, and they were just curious where I was coming from. They were kind. It was a thoughtful question.

I realised I needed to answer it properly. Not because I owe anyone an explanation, but because it helped me see what I’ve actually been doing.

No one ever sat me down and said luxury has to be Western. But I still picked that up.

I picked it up through what was celebrated. Through what got attention. Through what felt safe and elegant enough to share online.

I didn’t have any clothes that reflected where I’m from unless it was for a wedding. Most people didn’t even know I was Zimbabwean unless they went digging.

So that sentence I wrote? That wasn’t about everyone else. That was about me. That was about what I absorbed. And what I’m unlearning now.

I could have gone through this quietly. Changed my style, archived the old posts, and just moved on. But I decided not to. I decided to let people see the shift. Even if it feels a bit awkward. Even if it contradicts the version of me they’re used to.

For a long time, people mostly saw the version of me that shared pretty pictures. The countryside. Pub outfits. Tennis days. Clay pigeon shooting. The clean, Western, curated version. And at the time, that was real. It was part of me. But it wasn’t the whole story.

What people didn’t see is that behind all of that, I was also spending my evenings researching land grabs. Sitting with the weight of colonialism. Watching lectures on African spirituality and feeling angry at how deeply we’ve been conditioned to hate our own practices. I was quietly aching over the depth of our disconnection from who we are. I never shared that side because I didn’t know how. Or maybe I didn’t think it was something people wanted to see.

But I’ve reached a point where I don’t want to separate those parts anymore. There’s no me without that depth. And now I’m ready to let that out, too.

This whole thing has led me to something bigger.

I’m working on a cultural body of work called Redefining Inheritance. It started as an idea and now it’s turning into something more. A book, yes, but also a personal responsibility.

I’ve spent a lot of time looking outward. Following the aesthetics, the language, the structure. And now I want to look inward. I want to ask better questions. Like what do we carry? What do we forget? What do we build again with our own hands?

This project is about memory. It’s about culture. It’s about asking what we’re allowed to inherit. Not just in blood, but in beauty, in rhythm, in language, and in rest.

It may take a few years to finish. I’m okay with that now. I’d rather do it slowly and honestly than fast and forgettable.

In closing, this could have been private. I could’ve done the whole thing behind closed doors. But I didn’t. I chose to be witnessed. Not to make a point. Not to prove anything. But because I know there are others who are also wondering what it means to return to yourself. There are others who’ve edited themselves to be more acceptable. More visible. More safe. So this is me showing the middle part. Not the before. Not the after. Just the part where the shift is happening in real time.

Thanks for being here. Thanks for watching me figure it out.

With love,

Nothando