This is a hard truth most people never face until it’s too late. In Zimbabwe, funerals are a big deal. People travel from Harare, Bulawayo, Zvishavane, Gweru—there’s singing, cooking, and late-night stories around the fire. For a moment, it feels like the whole country stands still in your honor. But after a day or two, the mourners pack their blankets, the hired kombi disappears, and your homestead grows quiet again. Life marches forward, because life always must. The world is quick to return to its daily rhythm, no matter how much it paused for you.
Your employer will fill your position. Your children will clock back in at work, their days of compassionate leave already spent. The laughter you thought would never return will echo in your home once again. Your spouse, who wept at your graveside, will find themselves smiling at a silly joke on TV, and maybe they’ll feel a pang of guilt for moving on. But they must move on. Everyone must. The pace at which people forget is, honestly, shocking. Even your closest people will have to find their own ways to keep living—not because they want to forget you, but because life doesn’t wait for anyone.
“You spent your whole life worrying about what people will think about you, and the sad truth is, they don’t.” We grow up in Zimbabwe caring so much about other people’s opinions. You bought that car you couldn’t afford because the guys in your WhatsApp group would notice. You picked your career, your partner, your very style, because someone’s voice echoed in your mind: “What will people say?” But the people you’re worrying about? They’re living for themselves, just like you should be. When you’re gone, your biggest critics will find someone else to talk about. The world forgets. You’re free sooner than you think.
If you’ve ever sat under the mango trees at a rural funeral, you’ll see it. On day one, everyone is wearing black, heads bowed, hearts heavy. By the third day, you hear laughter by the water drum, cousins catching up on lost time, uncles remembering old stories. The pain softens, and life calls everyone back. Even in the heart of the city, in high-density suburbs like Mkoba or Budiriro, you’ll find that after the tears have dried, neighbors are discussing next month’s rates, or the price of mealie meal. It’s never disrespect—it’s just how life is. The world cannot stop.
There’s something uniquely Zimbabwean about the way we live for each other. Ubuntu—togetherness—runs deep in our blood. Our parents and elders teach us to put the community first, to worry about the family name, to sacrifice for the group. It’s a beautiful thing, but it can also be a trap. Too often, we sacrifice our happiness and dreams for an audience that barely remembers the performance. No one else can live your life for you. The world expects you to make the most of your time, and then to quietly step aside for the next in line.
Sometimes you can spend your whole life playing a part, wearing a mask just to fit in, only to discover that when your scene ends, the play keeps going—without you. Ask yourself: if you left tomorrow, what dreams would die with you, still unspoken and unlived? Whose expectations are holding you back from your real calling? What risks are you not taking because you’re worried, “people will talk”? If you’re honest, the answers will surprise you.
Some people spend their entire existence accumulating things—cars, status, positions—never stopping to ask if any of it matters to them, or if it was all for show. We measure our success by how much others approve, but approval is the most fleeting thing of all. After your funeral, those who praised or envied you will barely remember why.
The boldest thing you can do is to live your life for yourself. Not selfishly, but courageously. Start that business, even if people call you crazy. Write that book, even if no one buys it. Say “no” when you need to. Laugh loudly, love boldly, make mistakes, and start again. “Life is too short to be lived for others’ approval. Embrace your true self and make your own happiness a priority.” If you wait for everyone to clap for you, you’ll be waiting at your own funeral.
In my own journey—building brands like LogoCert, Kilomarket, or writing “Hello Mr. Chairman”—I’ve learned that your legacy is not what people say at your funeral. It’s what you did while you were alive. It’s in the young designer who launches her business because you mentored her. Legacy is in the family who drinks clean water because you didn’t give up on your vision. It’s in your child’s laughter when you chose to be present, even when you were tired.
Sometimes, your biggest contribution will be invisible—an encouraging word, a lesson you taught, a risk you took that made someone else believe in their own journey. These are the echoes that remain long after your name has faded from the register. True fulfillment doesn’t come from applause, but from living honestly, with purpose, and with courage to be yourself.
When your time comes, the world will keep spinning. But the seeds you planted, the lives you touched, the risks you took, the love you gave—those will echo far longer than any eulogy. You can’t control what they say after you’re gone, but you can control what you build while you’re here. Don’t wait until you’re gone to realize that people’s opinions were never yours to manage. You have one life, and it’s happening now.
“You will be forgotten at an astonishing pace. If people will forget you so easily, then who are you living your life for?” Today, choose you. Live boldly, love deeply, and let your life be a celebration of your true self. The world will forget you, but your purpose will not. And that is more than enough.
