Chapter 7: The Minion & The Baker

Every weekday morning, I wake up, and drink my servant juice (also known as coffee) that powers me up for the double life I lead. You see, by day, I’m a corporate minion, timidly navigating spreadsheets, emails, and the mysterious world of office guff. And by night, weekends, holidays, and whenever someone dares to say the word “cake” around me, I transform into the baker.

I didn’t exactly dream of this life when I was a kid. In the 90s, if you were not a teacher, doctor, engineer or nurse, you had failed the whole clan. Even your ancestors would have questioned why they fought for liberation. It gets weirder, if you ran a small business in the CBD as we liked to call it, you were considered a crook. Buying and selling was an occupation reserved for those who had given up on their college education, or possibly left school before they had a goatee. Exceptions were made for the overly generous eccentric uncle who ran a beer and grocery store at the growth point (village centre). Our mothers would “shop” while our fathers got drunk on his hard graft, none of them paying a dime because “he was rich” and soon he will be penniless. His poor self would soon become a cautionary tale at weddings and funerals, “Do you see that uncle, he used to be rich and lost it all, don’t be like him”. Even our concept of rich was questionable, but we listen and don’t judge. Thinking about it, those uncles would have been very sad memes in today’s social media world. Sheesh, Zimbabwe is not for the faint hearted.

So, back then, my ambitions were much simpler. My mother always told me, “Go to school, get good grades and find a job.” Except I had always loved creative arts. When I was a teenager, I was really good at sewing, and I used to help my mum with her customer orders during school holidays. Let’s not call it child labour, it was character building. These were life skills! Then my aunt (mum’s sister) came to visit, and she hinted that I might do very well in the fashion industry. My mother, bless her, she panicked and shouted at me for what my aunt had said, the woman went as far as telling me that hence forth I was to read books and not sew. She had suspected that my aunt was simply parroting what I had told her. It was a case of scare her enough that she does not entertain that thought ever again. It is hilarious now that I can do what I want with my time, but on that day, I was really hurt, except I didn’t know who was at fault, was it my aunt for not reading the room, or my mum howling at me for something I wasn’t even thinking about. Well, before millennials start with calling my mother all sorts of weird names, let’s put things in context, it was 90s Zimbabwe, minion existence was the blueprint for success, and she wanted the same for me.

But to be fair, the whole idea of going into the corporate world had little to do with my drive. I recall the most awkward interview I had with a tutor at the university I attended. He asked why I had picked the course and I replied, because that is what I would like to study. Poor guy, he probed for a more sensible response, but alas nothing. Dear kids, this is where you are supposed to talk smart. He gave up asking and basically said he was going to give me the benefit of doubt, and there it was, benefit of doubt was all I needed to fulfil my mother’s dreams. Frankly, I had simply picked a course that would pay me a decent salary because it was too late to try and be an engineer. My real inspiration for getting a job, though, came from my father, possibly for the wrong reasons. When I was about 10, he made a thousand Zimbabwean dollars, which in my childish eyes was the epitome of wealth. The man picked the bottle almost every day, (oops) but one thing about him back then, we never spent a Christmas without brand new clothes. He strutted as if he owned the room, my father had swag, and that was rich-man behaviour to me! So, for many years, my dream wasn’t about passion, purpose, or career fulfilment, I just wanted to make a thousand dollars and live la vida loca like he did. I could say I fulfilled my parent’s dreams by simply learning and going work, so that my boss hands me a thousand dollars.  

Fast forward to adulthood. I got my job, and while I wasn’t exactly rolling in thousand-dollar bills, I was making enough. I have always valued my day job, and I give it my all because I am an adult with bills to pay. But here’s the thing: creative arts never left my veins, yet baking wasn’t something I planned to do for a living, it was just a fun little side quest. I baked for Christmas, Easter, and for anyone who trusted me not to give them a tummy ache. Then one day, VeeNessTreats was birthed, my love for culinary arts merging with the magic of food art. I vividly remember the summer of 2019, I was walking with my friend Kudzai, both of us buzzing with excitement because I was finally starting my own business. I initially called the company Makeke, meaning cakes in Shona language, it had a fleeting vibe to it, but then I have always been VeeNess. I had no customers, no business plan, and honestly, no idea what I was doing, it just sounded like a cool idea to finally own something.

But then reality soon kicked in. Of course, passion alone doesn’t make one succeed in business as I would find out. I spent most of my vacation days booking time off just to make profitless cupcakes. In history class they told me who Midas was, and I definitely didn’t have his touch. It was a warihek kinda hard, trying to juggle The Baker & The Minion. Crazy enough I would soon land a “nepo” wedding cake gig, I have a blogged about it so go check it out. But, let’s be real, it makes sense why our parents pushed for us to go to school and get a job. I remember telling my friend how tired I was, and he said, “Vee, if this was easy everybody would do it”. He is Zimbabwean and yep, even the Zimbabwean friends are not for the faint hearted. If you are wondering why our love is forever tough, just visit the teapot republic and you will understand.

The Juggle: Corporate by Day, Baker by Night

Now, I’m a fully-fledged business owner, still juggling my corporate minion life with my baking empire. People always ask me, “How do you do it?” I’m pretty sure my colleagues are watching me closely, waiting to catch me “stealing company time.” (Pun intended.) Well, guess what? I don’t. I’ve mastered the art of time management. And before you whip out your credit card to join my Masterclass on Balancing Life & Business, let me tell you: it’s not that complicated.

Pray-Work-Kickback

When I’m not working or baking, I’m resting. Yes, you read that right. Resting.

Wise words.  “If you don’t know what to do anymore, go to sleep, because no sleeping man has ever done anything wrong.” Turns out, the secret to running a business and working a 9-to-5 without losing your sanity is prioritising rest.

So, how do I keep this whole thing running? Simple:

1. I don’t overbook myself – I still want my thousand dollars, but not at the cost of my sanity.

2. I genuinely love what I do – I cannot think of doing anything else with my time.

3. My husband is my kitchen porter – I am lucky enough to have my own unpaid minion.

The best part? I feel like I’m always playing a game of escapism. You know when you’ve had such a bad day at work that you end up stress-shopping or binge-watching a random tv show from 1999? Well, I don’t have that problem, I just channel all that energy into baking cakes. Give me some flour and frustration, and I’ll be fine. And if customers are scarce or stressing me out, there’s always the small consolation: “At least I have a day job.”

Somehow, I’ve learned to keep my two worlds separate, yet seamlessly connected. One fuels the other. I crunch numbers by day and whip batter by night, I answer emails weekdays and frost cakes weekends. And in between, I make sure to sleep, laugh, and, most importantly, enjoy the ride.

So, here’s to all the corporate minions with side hustles, the dreamers who reject the idea of choosing one path.

Perhaps one day we will be successful enough to hand our own minions a thousand dollars.