I arrived in Zimbabwe ready to be charmed, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps neighbouring Mozambique, where I worked, had spoiled me: there it was noise, colour, and constant human theatre. Here, everything felt subdued. People seemed physically heavy, as if moving through a thicker kind of air, and their spirits matched the pace. Men and women wore dark clothing; the young women dressed with a modesty that was almost formal. Gone were the elaborate braids, the daring show-off way of dressing, the colours like flags I was used to – in Beira, Mozambique. Maybe religious conservatism was at work.
I missed the sudden laughter, the cheeky glances. In Beira, girls wear bright pinks, blues, greens, often with a bandana setting it off like a final brushstroke. Here, the palette was grey and brown.
The streets were spotless compared to Beira. No litter clinging to the gutters, no crumbling pavements. Yet, given the choice, I would take my crumbling sidewalks, dry taps, and blocked toilets. In Beira, the people’s warmth filled the gaps left by infrastructure.
So, I decided to take the bus to Gaborone in Botswana – a twelve-hour trip. Across the aisle, a boy of about twelve sat between two women — one I assumed was his mother, the other perhaps an aunt. He spoke to his mother with the earnestness of a young philosopher, probably testing his ideas about the world. She listened, leaning slightly towards him, replying with measured thoughtfulness. The aunt interjected here and there, adding small sparks to the rhythm of their talk. I couldn’t understand a word, but I was captivated by the relationship that seemed to exist between child and adult. From the beginning of my stay in Africa, I found the relationships between the generations very different than in Europe but more about that another time.
It occurred to me then: in all my days in Zimbabwe, I had hardly noticed the children.
Later, an eight-year-old girl found her way onto my lap, handed to me by her uncle, who was sitting beside me, while he slept. She gazed at me for a long, serious moment, then curled up and slept the rest of the journey. I can only imagine that I was a distinctly curious species of being for the little girl.
Milena, the bus conductress, was a woman built for farm work and laughter — solid, ruddy, self-assured. As the bus pulled into its final stop, she handed me, the only white passenger, a crumpled scrap of paper and said, “Give me a call,” with a grin that didn’t need translation. After the cool reserve I’d felt in Zimbabwe, her warmth struck me like warmth in the cold. I recognised it: open, unembarrassed friendliness.
I felt my ego stretch a little, like a cat in the sun.