August is the time of recent beginnings in Zimbabwe, when temperatures are rising, leaves are falling and the Msasa pods are cracking and spitting out seeds. The night time skies are filled with orange from a million fires burning the land, as everybody claims a patch of floor to develop a few traces of maize.
After 22 years of writing about life and present affairs in Zimbabwe, August always has a story of magnificence to inform, however usually there are such a lot of recollections of utmost trauma in August which can perpetually be etched in our minds. Stories whose victims stay unacknowledged and uncompensated and whose perpetrators proceed to stroll free amongst us, unpunished and unaccountable.
These are a number of the August tales which were captured in my books over the previous 20 years.
August 2000
“I called all the farm employees together and we stood under the Muhacha tree in the farmyard. They all stood looking at me, the fear was in their eyes, they knew what was coming.” For seven months invaders of our farm had claimed all of the grazing, the water, the land and the infrastructure. An worker had been tortured, everybody was being threatened and intimidated, we couldn’t feed the animals, pay the wages or any of the payments anymore.
“I had by no means cried in entrance of those males earlier than. When the large ram hit me so onerous behind the knees that I fell flat on the bottom and put two discs in my neck out of line I hadn’t cried. When cow quantity eight charged me and knocked me down on a concrete path and butted me across the dairy I hadn’t cried. When an electrical energy line collapsed and began a enormous hearth and I received caught within the blaze and misplaced all of the hairs on my arms, legs and face I hadn’t cried. So many instances I had discovered the energy, however now it had all gone and I cried. The huge, loud, burly night time guard put his hand out and touched my arm. ‘Don’t cry,’ he mentioned quietly, ‘we know this is the right thing, we understand.’ (African Tears)
August 2001
“Richie and I set out to climb the big granite kopje behind my mother’s home in Murehwa. Richie bounded up the smooth granite slope. “Come on Mum, we’re nearly there. You can do it,” his little face smiling at me. As I walked within the heat of a wonderful spring morning my arms have been coated with goosebumps.” Abduction, torture, terror and homicide had occurred right here.
“I slipped my shoes off and walked barefoot on the granite. I wanted to feel the stone underfoot to see how it must have felt for the barefoot men who were force marched up these granite hills. It was quiet all around and yet I could hear so much: shouts, groans, moans, screams. The place was filled with ghosts. This whole town knew what had happened here. There were too many voices and too many secrets in the wind.” (Beyond Tears)
3 August 2002
“The eyes of all the people around my kitchen table were filled with tears as the farmer and his wife paid off their last workers. They had shared so much and I could hardly bear to watch the last handshakes or listen to their final goodbyes. Their farm had been seized by a man called Wind and the farmer and his wife were leaving the country.” (Can you Hear the Drums)
6 August 2011
“The young man strode up to greet me, his eyes shining and face beaming in smiles. His huge hand shook mine, my fingers dwarfed in his. His mother watched, her face glowing with pride, just as it had when she first showed me her baby 19 years ago. The young man and I laughed and chatted and the pride of his parents was palpable. We parted on such happy terms, smiling and waving, a picture that will stay in mind always. Five months later a call came on my cell phone and the tears ran down my face as I listened to the tragic news of the violent end that had come to the young man at the hands of the police, shot at point blank range, his blood in the sand all that remained.” (When Winners are Losers)
19 August 2016
“An unarmed protestor lying on the ground, his hands up in surrender ringed by men in police uniform beating him with truncheons. Activist Patson Dzamara, a Zimbabwe flag around his neck, holding the hand of a protestor whose head and shirt are covered in blood, leading him to safety and medical help.” (Finding our Voices)
1 August 2018 (Ten months after the exit of Robert Mugabe)
“The sight of soldiers shooting unarmed people in the centre of Harare in broad daylight, including a woman shot in the back, are fresh on everyone’s minds. The image of people desperately running away trying to hide from the bullets and of one soldier kneeling on the tarmac, taking aim and deliberately firing on a civilian can never be forgotten.” (Letters From Zimbabwe) Six folks died that day and 60 others have been brutally assaulted.
As the solar sinks into the horizon on these attractive August evenings in 2022, we permit the painful recollections to subside and let the actual coronary heart of Zimbabwe fill our senses. The heat and welcome of odd folks, the fantastic thing about our wild and tranquil locations, the resilience and braveness of so many; our shared experiences making us actually Zimbabwean.
We’ve been via a lot. I would love to thank the 1000’s of people that have informed me their tales for the previous 22 years.
These are our tales and to make them extra accessible I’ve now revealed all these books on Kindle.
Copyright © Cathy Buckle.
