The 6th of December is always a humble occassion for me each year, as it marks the date in 1996 that I left Zimbabwe to move to South Africa.
That day is still vivid in my memory. Only 13 years old, me and my mother waved my grandfather and uncle goodbye as our train pulled out of Bulawayo Train Station on its 30 hour journey to Johannesburg. I was too young and naive to realise the full implication of what was happening, in fact I remember being quite excited about the prospect. I had visited South Africa often in my childhood and the idea of living in Johannesburg was enticing, especially after things had become more trying for us in Zimbabwe.
I remember the first few weeks as being very exciting. It was nearing Christmas and all the shopping centres were buzzing, our cats and dogs had arrived from Zimbabwe too, and we were staying in a huge rented house in Weltevreden Park. But within a couple of months I would be in school and it would be a tough year. I was a year ahead of my age group and the work I was doing was quite difficult. I became distinctly aware of being different to the other students, although I made friends with a couple of other Zimbabweans who had recently moved down too. I would eventually settle in and make friends, all whilst my Zimbabwean identity became stronger.
When I left in 1996, things were not really that bad. There had been small price increases, and the Bulawayo Chronicle had lost some of its independent voice by then, but there were no signs of things to come. I witnessed all of Zimbabwe’s major events from outside Zimbabwe, such as the opening and closing of the Daily News, the 2000 referendum, the first farm invasions, and the subsequent collapse of the economy. Even being quite young when this was happening I couldn’t avoid a feeling of abandonment, that I should be there doing something.
I visited Bulawayo frequently between 1996 and 2001 as I still had family there. Everytime we drove up Esigodini Road I was thrilled to be home, although each time the city looked a little worse for wear. One of my favourite trips up was in 2000, when me and my best friend drove up for an end of year road trip to Victoria Falls to celebrate finishing school. Although I can claim the last time I set foot in Zimbabwe was in August 2009, when I was in Zambia and crossed the halfway point on the Victoria Falls bridge!
So after 13 years, where to now? Sometimes I have felt like I will never get to go back home, but developments over the past 18 months have filled me with hope. It is tragic that so many white Zimbabweans who left the country have completely abandoned it, but for me there would be no greater pleasure than to return and help rebuild my country. I will always take flak for being absent from the country during its most trying time, but so was a quarter of the population. My greatest dream would be to return to Bulawayo and to get into some form of local government, perhaps do some teaching or open some schools in the bush, I would work in a bar if I had to. Because even after 13 years I have never stopped dreaming about Zimbabwe at night and have never stopped calling it my home.
