Every day in my city, Harare, tragedy unfolds in a subtle but increasing measure. I hear more stories from the high-density lot who have nowhere else to go because their homes have been destroyed. My barber is now putting up with his in-laws in a single room. In an instant, he lost his sense of privacy and whatever little comfort he had known living in a rented cottage that was deemed illegal and is now a rubble of debris demolished by the state police.
Regular news, analysis, features, discussion and up-to-the-minute reports on Zimbabwe are in the weekly newspaper The Zimbabwean; its online version is here
Also in openDemocracy about Zimbabwe:
Andrew Meldrum, Who won Zimbabwes election? (April 2005)
Emily Barroso, A Zimbabwean life (April 2005)
Bev Clarke, Mass evictions in Zimbabwe (June 2005)
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Every day, I see longer queues of commuters lining the streets jostling for transport to get back home after dusk. The queues remain long after the 8 oclock news. There are fewer cars on the road because fuel supplies have all but dried up. Each day, I am realising that something fundamental has changed in my country. The evil of the state has now manifested itself in my everyday life. I have become very afraid, insecure and desperate. Very desperate to get out. Out of this Mugabe-poisoned environment.
Each night, the nightmare recurs and I awake with a start, shivering, my sheets drenched in a cold sweat as I begin to digest the horror of what my life has now become. I now realise that I, along with the thousands who fell in the Gukurahundi massacres of the early 1980s, the farmers who were dispossessed in the land invasions of 2000-2003 and now the hundreds of thousands made destitute in Operation Restore Order, have fallen victim to a tyrannical ruler who will oppose my very will to exist just so that he can stay another day in power.
Robert Mugabe and Zanu-PF. There is bad taste in my inner being when I begin to fathom the effects of the madness which they collectively have unleashed on what was, once upon a time, a vibrant nation with a future amongst the great. I cannot help but think how fitting is the common refrain echoed by the press in every other edition I read: from breadbasket to basket case. But this is not just about food, shelter and clothing. It is about the loss of identity. The loss of a belief in the ideal of nationhood. The loss of faith in a future living here in Zimbabwe.
I came to this country seventeen years ago, to settle in the land of my self-exiled father. My father was a visionary, an adventurous man in his heyday and a risk-taker of note who staked everything on a quest to lay a better foundation for his yet unborn offspring. Uninhibited by the colony he struck out north to realise his destiny. When I was no more than eight, he would regale me with tales of the struggle which was valiantly fought in far-flung territories to secure freedom for the motherland.
Between puffs from his pipe, he enthused about the land that lay to the south of the great river; how beautiful it was and how soon, it would rise from the ashes to regain its former glory. I would sit with him on the porch, totally transfixed and not knowing whether to cry or smile wistfully for the reality of the dreams he would conjure up so vividly within me. Every year I longed for our return. I longed to posses my portion of inheritance in the land of our ancestors.
My father was a man of the struggle. I know this only too well because our house then was home to the luminaries of the liberation war. It was one of the safe houses they would come to in order to disappear from the enemy, recoup their strength, have a decent bath and eat my mothers food. Each time my uncle came, he would leave me trinkets that collectively spoke of my peoples journey to find their place in the sun. I still have badges that proclaim Amandla Awethu (the power is ours) and a suitcase full of pamphlets and pictures of legendary heroes from Nelson Mandela to the vinyl records of Robert Nesta Marley.
After long periods of time, the men of war of would return to our house. They would share our space and in so doing, their relentless pursuit for the ideals of liberty, fraternity and equality. It was then that I came face to face with the highest form of sacrifice, that of a man laying down his life for the freedom of a future generation that would only read of him in history books. Many of the men told me they were going to fall in the battlefield before the fact and sure enough many of them did die.
Once in a while, my father would talk about the Great Illustrious Leader. Not always, just once in a while. He never came to our house, the Great One. I did sense an element of mistrust in my father whenever he spoke about him. He would not gush with his characteristic excitement when he mentioned the Great Ones name. Neither did he ever abuse the Illustrious One, at least not in my presence. Even then, I had a little admiration for the Great One; I always felt a little warmth for the man when I thought of him. He struck me as an intelligent and thoughtful statesman; but that was before I started poring over the history books my father left me when he died.
Yes, that was before I read a copy of a report on the Matabeleland atrocities published by Zimbabwes Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace (CCJP). It was before the referendum in 2000 that disgraced the Great One. It was before he unleashed violence on the farms, rubbished my vote and stole two elections. It was before I ran out of fuel and had to walk everywhere to eke out a living. It was before the police raided my residence searching for any hoarded commodities, before they interrogated me about the source of Forex used to pay my subscriptions for satellite TV, before they hurled insults at me for being a sneering middle-class jerk who pretends to be something he is not because I speak the Queens English with an accent.
It was before they shamed me in front of my beautiful wife and daughter, before the ferocity of the state machinery became a reality in my own living room. It was before Robert Mugabe and Zanu-PF perverted the ideals of liberation which my uncle bravely fought for.
I have heard it said once that evil is the absence of empathy. That is the definition of the nature of Mugabe, the man. A man lacking empathy. A man intoxicated with his own tyranny. Simply put, an intelligent man, now gone mad; all reason subverted to serve his self-preservation at the expense of 12 million people and their unborn children. He will stay the progress and prosperity of a future generation so that he can die in peace. Over the years, his paranoia for his own safety has come to define his character.
When the cops roughed me up last week for not having new vehicle licence-plates, I decided enough is enough. I am making plans to leave. I am only heeding my father's advice: stay clear of politics, my son. It was the impassioned plea of a disillusioned man who knew so much more than he could share with a boy of 11. My daughter is only 3 years old. I would like to spare myself the trouble of confusing her with the experience of knowing the evil that men do to stay in power. And so, we are leaving Harare in twenty-seven days time. Kure kwandinoenda, asi ndichakusvika chete Where we are going is far, but we will eventually get there.
