Looking back
Taurai, my groovy dread-locked work mate, just asked me what I was doing 27 years ago.
It’s hard to remember all the details (I’m 42 now) but I remember that I was living with my mother and brother in a flat in a complex called Hatley House on what was then North Avenue. We’d moved into Hatley House because it was sort of like a hotel which provided meals and with my mother recovering from a heart attack it made her life easier. It was close to Girls High School (GHS) where I was enrolled and also close to State House where Ian Smith had been riding out the last of his days in power.
Being white on the eve of Independence meant being fearful. At least this was true for me, a scared and unsure fifteen year old. Whilst many whites had already “taken the gap” as the saying went, and still goes, we had stayed put. It was a case of “let’s wait and see”.
When the clock struck 12 we looked out into the street. I’m not sure what we expected to see: hordes of revenge bent black Zimbabweans, military vehicles, crowds of revelers? Perhaps we breathed a sigh of relief because the Avenues were largely quiet that night except for the sound of random hoots from the horns of a few cruising cars.
The next day Mugabe’s Independence speech promised a better future, provided solace and encouraged reconciliation. Out on the street the mood was joyous. Everything seemed the same as before even while a momentous change had taken place.
I could tumble down that worn out path of saying “look how awful its become” but I don’t want to do that. I think that it’s important sometimes to just try and remember that time when everything seemed so possible.