Welcome to Zimbabwe
The first sign I got that I was back home was the torturous customs queue at Harare International Airport.
“Queuing already and we haven’t even gotten out of the airport,” remarked the frustrated man in front of me.
I couldn’t have agreed with him more.
Unlike other countries where returning nationals form their own separate line at customs, returning Zimbabweans tend to be lumped along with everyone else, although there is a separate counter which is meant specifically for us. None of the airport staff, however, usually bother to tend it.
Having been away for two months, I had sincerely hoped that things were slowly beginning to change for the better in Zimbabwe.
But the dejection of the customs officials – enough even for them to not bother with a warm hello before putting the obligatory stamp into our passports – was evidence enough for me that my fellow countrymen were still as oppressed and depressed as I had left them.
It was during my time away that Prime Minister Tsvangirai had toured Europe and the United States seeking to breathe some warm air over frosty relations between Zimbabwe and the West. Though he returned to Zimbabwe with a very small purse of funds, the signs of integration of our pariah nation into international politics had sparked hope within me.
But it was also during my time away that the constitutional reform process – the hallmark of the new government of national unity – had collapsed. And it was again during this time that I learnt that civil servants’ salaries had been raised, but only to a paltry range of between USD 150 and 200 per month.
Soon, I realised that only my physical presence within Zimbabwe would give me a real feel of whether anything had changed.
And the drive from the airport deepened my appreciation of the situation.
The kaleidoscope colours of garbage strewn all over caught my eyes as I watched snaking queues of people standing street-side hoping desperately for transport.
My heart began to tumble down my chest in despair.
“Let’s hope there’s electricity when we get home,” my mother interjected, pausing my heart’s descent, only to make it fall even faster.
That was another thing to start worrying about again; so far removed from the comparatively ‘breezy’ life I had enjoyed in Berlin, Germany, where I never had to give care to the most basic of necessities.
But the worst was still yet to come.
As we continued to drive, the potholes in the roads, some the size of basins, were causing vehicles to swerve precariously into neighbouring lanes and onto the curb in a bid to avoid becoming stuck in the craters, or damaging shock absorbers.
What kind of a country pays no attention to the maintenance and repair of roads, of rights, of what is right for its citizens?
“Those potholes are a reflection of the holes in our own hearts,” rued my friend as we swerved past yet another one.
If things continue like this, I wonder if we will still have hearts, or maybe just gaping holes in our souls.
For now, what is left of mine continues to bleed for my country.