The Remote Wars: A Hospital Cottage Story

The Remote Wars: A Dispatch from the Hospital Cottage

​We should have known the peace wouldn't last.

​When Garry came home for the holidays to our hospital cottage, he didn't just bring his laundry; he brought a challenge to the throne. Our home is usually a quiet haven—or as quiet as it can be with my nurse’s stethoscope and my husband’s chalk-dusted schoolbooks cluttering the table. But the moment the "boarding school smugness" walked through the door, the atmosphere shifted.

​It started at 1700 hours. The "Remote Wars" had begun.

​Phase One: The High-Stakes Grab

Garry, acting like the holiday overlord, snatched the remote before his bags were even unpacked. “Ehe, today we’re watching something cool,” he declared, flipping channels with the confidence of someone who doesn't pay the electricity bill.

​Our six-year-old, the reigning "TV King" of the cottage, wasn't having it. He stood his ground, a half-eaten sadza ball in his hand, eyes flashing. “No, Garry! It’s my turn—I watch every day!”

​Phase Two: The Toddler Coup

Just as the big boys were settling into a deep hierarchy war, the wildcard entered. Our two-year-old—the "Cocomelon Tyrant"—waddled in. He didn't argue. He didn't plead. He simply seized the remote from the sofa while the others were shouting.

​One press of a sticky button. Cocomelon blared.

​The silence that followed was deafening. The six-year-old dropped his sadza in horror. Garry’s "throne" didn't just tip; it vanished. The toddler plopped down, remote clutched to his chest like a royal scepter, ruling the lounge with a biscuit-crunching grin.

​My husband and I just exchanged that look. Is it wine o'clock yet? Nursing shifts and teaching secondary school don't prepare you for a two-year-old dictator.

​Phase Three: The Truce

By bedtime, the pouts had faded. I walked into the lounge to find them slumped together, superheroes flickering on the screen, the "Remote War" forgotten for the night. The six-year-old, who had been ready for battle an hour ago, was now glued to Garry’s side, whispering, “I miss you when you're at school.”

​The toddler was fast asleep, the remote still gripped in his sticky fingers, dreaming of his next conquest.

​Tomorrow, the wars resume. And honestly? We wouldn't change a single thing about this beautiful, chaotic house.

​Are you a "Garry" or a "Cocomelon Tyrant" in your house? Every Zimbabwean family has that one person who thinks they own the TV. Tag them in the comments!

​Lawson Chiwara writes from the heart of Masvingo. Follow his stories of family, grit, and survival at https://lawchiwara0.blogspot.com.

Contact: lawchiwara0@gmail.com