This is story #16 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
16. Life in Darwendale and Mother Depressed
Even now, in my mind’s eye, I can see my mother lying listlessly on the sofa in our living room, where she is besides herself with the heat, and, if truth be told, with the burden of living in Africa miles from anywhere. I see a single gecko run across the wall opposite her, and yet my mother doesn’t leap up immediately to be as far away as possible from it. Instead, too tired to care, she lies there, aged 32, dressed in a white bra and a short apron, covering her white panties. She has one arm raised above her head, the other arm resting near her side. I know that she is exhausted, hot, so very hot, and distressed, but there is nothing I can do about it.
Our family of five has all had to adapt hugely to our new life in this village in the Southern Rhodesian bush. I somehow know that the only one of us who hasn’t found it difficult to adjust, is my father. This is, no doubt, because he had spent so many years during WWII living in the heat of India and Burma, an experience which he had found both life-threatening and yet exhilarating. He had loved the colours, the flowers, the local people there, so maybe being in such exotic places had paved the way for his, and our, being here, in Africa.
