It is a hot, dusty day in early November. Splashes of red, orange and pink bougainvillea line the road, like fireworks frozen against the vast blue sky. Lady Stanley cemetery sprawls itself out as far as the eye can see: order has given way to expediency and every available space is taken. Wreaths of fake flowers in garish colours spell out names; shiny foil ribbons flicker in the sunlight or wave limply in a stray wind. A minibus emblazoned with the words ‘Exodus Funeral Services’ bounces manically down a narrow road separating the Muslim part of the cemetery from the rest and, in the distance, a blue and white striped gazebo marks a current internment. The war graves are relatively easy to find, being enclosed by a low wall and demarcated by neat white lines of headstones, standing straight and tall. The heat beats down on me as I read the inscriptions: Labourer, Cepha...
In a hot, airless little room in Bulawayo, an elderly man rummages through disintegrating brown envelopes and rusty files. Faint labels carry captions such as: ‘Railway Staff 1932-33’ and ‘Wages March 1952’. There are dusty black and white photographs on the wall of men in dark suits and hats. Unsmiling, they all look alarmingly similar with their handle-bar moustaches and their arms crossed resolutely across their chests. ‘No. I thought I might have something, but no.’ He reluctantly admits defeat, so convinced was he that he might be able to help me in my search. I am in the archives of the Railway Museum in Bulawayo. The buildings themselves are run down and we are surrounded by the great hulks of rusting train carcasses. The museum, now a separate entity from the National Railways of Zimbabwe, is run by a couple of train enthusiasts, who are extremely kn...
Today would have been my mother’s 77 th birthday. It is nearly three years since she died and these occasions do not get any easier to deal with in terms of the loss felt, but I have to come to a point where I see them as days to celebrate her life, rather than mourn her passing. My mum was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1998. After undergoing chemotherapy and radiotherapy, she was given the all clear in 2000. However, in 2012, the cancer returned, this time spreading into bone cancer. After nearly a year of treatment, my mum was told she could, with healthy food and a positive attitude, live five good years. It was a diagnosis that, looking back, we did not pay enough attention to. Somehow, not only she, but all of us, felt that it was something she could overcome, for, after all, she had done it before. We forgot she was younger when she fought the first battle against cancer, and her circumstances were different. My dad was working and th...
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