STOP CALLING IT FAILURE—CALL IT TRUTH

Parked Dreams

She wasn’t just parked—she was exposed. Tilted awkwardly in the hospital car park,

her rusted chassis sagged into the cracked asphalt like a confession whispered under

the harsh midday sun. The gearbox had shattered, grinding to a halt with a metallic

groan that still echoed in Mr. Mavhunga’s nightmares. The battery had flatlined, its

cables brittle and coated in dust. The license had expired, a faded sticker curling at the

edges like a dying leaf. And the insurance? A distant memory, buried under the weight

of school fees, grocery bills, and the relentless chokehold of credit repayments in

Zimbabwe’s unforgiving economy.

He passed her every day, the scent of hospital antiseptic mingling with the car’s stale oil

and sun-baked leather. Nurses saw her, their footsteps crunching on gravel as they

hurried past. Patients saw her, their murmurs blending with the hum of distant

generators. Colleagues saw her, their sidelong glances sharp as the glint off her

cracked windshield. And he let them. Because hiding would take more energy than he

had left in a world where every dollar stretched thin until it snapped like a brittle twig.

He was a civil servant. A teacher. A counselor. A man who had once driven through

pelting storms, wipers slapping frantically against sheets of rain, to reach students in

crisis—the car bought on credit in a fleeting burst of optimism, its engine purring with

promise. Now he walked, the soles of his worn shoes slapping the dusty pavement, not

out of choice but necessity. His salary couldn’t stretch. His dignity couldn’t bend any

further under the weight of a nation that demanded more than it gave.

One afternoon, as he approached the car, a junior doctor leaned against the bonnet, the

metal creaking under his weight, radiating heat like a fevered skin.

“Still parked here, Mavhunga?” he said, sipping from a chipped hospital mug.

“She’s not parked,” Mavhunga replied, voice dry. “She’s paused.”

The doctor snorted. “Paused? Looks like failure to me.”

Mavhunga didn’t argue. He traced the cracked windshield with his eyes, its jagged lines

catching the sun like a spiderweb of broken dreams. The peeling paint flaked off in

brittle curls, the silence inside heavy as the humid air.

“Then let her fail in full view,” he said. “At least she’s honest.”

He stood there a moment longer, hand resting on the bonnet, eyes unfocused. The car

didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. She had already said everything.

They say failure is loud, he thought. But mine is quiet. It parks itself in public view and

waits, baking under the relentless sun, its shadow pooling like spilled oil.

This car is my truth. Bought on credit when hope outran reality, its once-shiny body now

dulled by dust and despair. I couldn’t keep up—not with a broken gearbox that

screamed like a wounded animal, not with school fees that gnawed at my wallet like

termites, not with expired insurance or an economy that chews up dreams and spits out

debt.

The air inside smells of forgotten journeys, of petrol and promises, now sour with time. I

used to think dignity was in showing up—in the squeak of chalk on a blackboard or the

hum of tires on wet roads. But now I know—it’s also in staying visible when you’ve got

nothing left to hide.

So let them see her. The nurses with their starched uniforms. The patients with their

weary coughs. The colleagues with their pitying glances. Let them judge. Because

sometimes, the most powerful thing a man can do is let his failure stand unmasked, its

rusted edges glinting in the open light.

He turned and walked away, the car still askew, still silent, still his.

She wasn’t just parked—she was exposed.

Tilted awkwardly in the hospital car park, her rusted chassis sagged in the rear as

though she was a confession whispered under harsh conditions. The paint had faded,

gridding into a metallic sticker that still echoed in Mr. Mavhunga’s nightmares. A faded

license plate, the last trace of a name, stood firm like a badge of grief. The license had

expired. A faded sticker curling at the edge like a dying leaf. And the car? A restless

monument of school fees, grocery bills, and the displacement of dignity.

He couldn’t keep up with the afternoon sun, its shadow pooling like spilled oil.

This car is my truth. Bought on credit when hope outran reality, its once-shiny body now

culled by dust and the weight of radiated debt.

She parked. Mavhunga parked. A chipped hospital mug.

They didn’t argue. He traced the cracked windshield. And the car still asked, still silent,

still his.

His dignity wasn’t parked in public view and baked under the sun like school fees,

grocery bills, and a restless mound of credit applications.

I reflected on this kind of emotional silence in The Silence is Broken, where I share my

journey through writer’s block.

He stood where a moment longer, hand resting on the bonnet, unfocused. The car didn’t

speak, and he didn’t already say what needed saying. Silence was honest.

Looks like he turned and walked away, and the car still asked, still silent, still his.