Zimbabwe was important to the Africans, though, so much so that when Rhodesia gained its legal independence in 1980, and Robert Mugabe became its first Prime Minister, and subsequently changed the Constitution in 1987 so that he could be President, the African government adopted the name Zimbabwe for its new country and included the Zimbabwe bird on its flag. To this day, the bird is a symbol of the country.
Although we didn’t get to see the Zimbabwe Ruins again, I still have a small green soapstone carving, about four inches tall, of a Zimbabwe bird. I use it as a paperweight on my desk. It is the only souvenir I have from the country where I spent my formative years. Despite my many moves over the past decades, for some unknown reason, I have never been able to give up my bird. It sits on my desk. I can’t understand why, having undergone so many trials and tribulations during my years in Africa, I still want to keep this stone bird, but keep it I do.
Although none of us knew this at that time, when we said goodbye to John at the airport, after our time together, he would never step foot in Africa again. From that moment onwards, his life would be in England. None of us realized, either, that a few years later, all five of us would have left Africa and be living in England, too. I know that, since that time, my parents have been back to Rhodesia, by then called Zimbabwe, at least once, if not twice, for a lengthy visit. They endorse the saying that, once experienced, “Africa gets in your blood” and is hard to forget. I am not sure how many times my brother Peter has gone back, for various visits. Although he has long since resided permanently in the UK, Peter often says that he still considers Zimbabwe as his home. He loves the country dearly and misses it when he isn’t there. John and I, when we finally left, have never been back. Neither of us has ever had any inclination to go back, not even to see where we lived and to recall what we did.
