Rhodesians Never Die, and other lies

We’re like mushrooms, I remember hearing my parents and their friends saying to each other, sipping sundowners and swatting mozzies by the pool, crunching peri-peri cashews from Beira. Mushrooms, us Rhodesians hey – kept in the dark and fed on bullshit. Another gin anyone? Castle?

The clink of bottles, the tinkle of ice.

Then the grown-ups’ conversation, previously so carefree, loud and laughter-filled, became a cobweb of whispers; did you hear about them, and they’re leaving for somewhere and he got caught doing that and foreign currency and passports and Jesus bloody Christ Steven haven’t you got homework to do instead of sitting here gormlessly eavesdropping?

Dusk wasn’t as relaxed anymore; helicopters whump-whumping overhead disturbed the evening birdsong. The news in black and white on the RBC a collage of grim and grimmer updates from out in the sticks and certain countries to the north of us. At PEfukkenS, the flag flew at half-mast more regularly.

So many lies. From Uncle Ian’s nasal assertion to his fellow Rhodesians of ‘a thousand years of white rule’, to all the people who said they’d be switching off the lights at the airport, before secretively flitting off into a never to be seen again except on Facebook 20 years later future. Liars, the lot of us.

So many lies we’ve told ourselves since: we’re alright, we’ve moved on, I think of myself as South African/ English/ American/ Australian/ Israeli now. So glad we left, got out at the right time, so sorry for the ones who stayed. So long, farewell, aufweidersein, adieu. The sound of moving.

But chickens, as June always told me, come home to roost. Do you know what that means my boy? Hey, do you fully understand? Understand chickens ma? Not really. It means that life catches up with you my boy. That’s what it means, not literally bloody chickens. Go do your homework. Ja ma, sorry ma.

And the biggest, darkest, loudest chicken of them all has come home to roost, flapping its wings, comb red as blood. Because contrary to anything Clem Tholet would’ve had us believe, we didn’t keep them north of the Zambezi and Rhodesians do die, and we have reached that time of our lives, and theirs, when they’re dying a lot.

Of course, a lot of Rhodesians of all colours have died already, from the many things that always killed us: malaria, bilharzia, flatdogs, nyokas, elephant, buffalo, rhino, landmines, bullets (sometimes self-inflicted), grenades, drunk drivers, tobacco, booze, drowning, stupidity, cancer and all the other slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

But as time passes, I get more and more news like hey do you remember this oke, he died last night. A family announcing sadly that a beloved parent has gone peacefully and will be much missed. The guy who all these years later lost his war against his memories of the hondo and took matters into his own hands.

And every time one of us dies, no matter where they have passed on – Down South, or in America, Australia, Israel, England, wherever – who gathers round the bereaved but other Rhodesians. Messages of comfort, of love, of respect and remembrance from home; because as we get fewer in number, we need each other more and more. Because home just might be where one grew up, and not where one lives now.

Khona-manje the last of us, “The Last Rhodesian” who ever that may be, will die too. Before they do, could they please switch off the light at the airport?