I remember Zimbabwe when I was young, beautiful, spotlessly clean, and on time. We had state buses than ran every route on the hour, every hour, all the time. We had clean public toilets. The street lights all worked. There was no water or power cuts. Our currency was at par with the Pound Sterling, Not the dollar. You would have to give me 2 US Dollars for my single ZimDollar. We named our land Africas Paradise. We also named it the land of milk and honey. We called our Capital City, Sunshine City.
There was fighting and poverty all around us. South Africa was not independent and we housed them. We supported them fight arpatheid. We sang revolutionary songs at Primary School denouncing the boers. We sent troops to Mozambique to fight the RENAMO bandits. The war raged on for about 15 years. Mozambique was a war ravaged country. We took thousands of Mozambican refugees and housed them. We had an interest in Mozambique. Our oil supply pipeline from Beira runs through Mzambique, but I believe when we sent troops we were genuinly supporting our brothers.
Zambia had practically collapsed under Keneth Kaunda. The Zambian Kwacha was worth less than toilet paper. We laughed every night and wondered how on earth a country could decay to such an extent. We had no intention whatsoever of going to Zambia for any reason, howsoever. Malawi had always been colonised for us by the white man. Zimbabwe had always taken cheap labour from Malawi. So Malawians, whilst not outrightly ill treated in Zimbabwe, it was always mutually agreed that they were lesser important than us. They cooked for us, bathed our children, tendered our green gardens, took out the rubbish bins. We were kings.
We also heard stories about Mogadishu, Djibouti etc. We even sent troops to both, to restore peace and stability.
Oh how the mighty have fallen. We now beg for jobs in Mozambique. The South Africans are burning our too many brothers and sisters. Zambia is practically fed up with us. Malawi is laughing. Oh, how the might have fallen.
Cry my beloved Zimbabwe, cry!
Doing 'La-pour' in the City of Accra - When I was a curious, capering child street-sauntering at Achimota School, there was an obliging, octogenarian gardener with no known name. People called h...
1 year ago