Freedom songs

I met Colin at Speakers’ Corner, in London. He was in his late 60’s and had the weather worn, leather brown skin of a white man who had spent his life in the sun. He was easily recognised as being from Southern Africa because of his bush hat and veld shoes.

Once we had established our shared accent was Zimbabwean, talking had an easy familiarity. In many respects the topics were all pre-set; when did you leave? How do you find living here (especially the weather)? What do you miss, and do you go back?

‘I stayed on after the elections’ he said, ‘worked on a tobacco farm and then in 2008 our land was occupied by war veterans, and we knew our time there had ended. So, we came here,’ he paused, and with some irony stated, ‘it is the motherland after all, isn’t it?’

‘What do you regret?’

‘That I didn’t use more suntan cream.’ There was a pause, he was more serious, ‘I wish I had known the war we were told to fight in was unjust.’

He looked at the trees behind me.

‘The year before the elections, our patrol was ordered to guard a village, near the eastern highlands. We had been told guerrilla fighters from Mozambique were trying to infiltrate the local community to recruit them for the ZANU militia. That night we formed a circle round the group of huts. They were singing freedom songs, Frelimo wasn’t the enemy, we were.’