5 minute read
Pauline Letter
Patrick Neate (1984-89) writes from Zimbabwe
Before our daughter was born in 2010, my Zimbabwean partner declared her intention to move home. She had never much liked London, loathing the weather, cult of the sandwich, and embedded sarcasm. “Brilliant” I said.
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I didn’t take her announcement too seriously. I considered it a manifesto promise, a half-baked idea that could later be kicked into the long grass; like, say, a referendum on UK membership of the EU. It was a surprise, therefore, when I found myself house hunting in Harare within six months. I have come and gone ever since, living the fabled jet set lifestyle of the moderately successful novelist. Initially, I was mostly coming, latterly mostly going. For the last year, I have been gone, thanks to the coronavirus.
You may have heard of Zimbabwe. Greatest hits include Robert Mugabe, land reform (retitled “the land grab” in some territories), a three-decade HIV epidemic, deep-seated institutional corruption, hyperinflation, and “the coup that wasn’t a coup” (but was definitely a coup); to say nothing of two England cricket coaches, Makosi from Big Brother Six, and Waitrose mangetout (check the label).
I won’t comment in detail on the thornier issues above; partly because I imagine the powers that be are avid readers of Atrium and prone to touchiness, and partly because everything you already think you know about Zimbabwe is probably both completely true and utterly wrong at the same time. It is a “both/and” kind of place – the more contradictory the better. Land reform, for example, is both an overdue attempt to rectify the structural inequities of a racist, colonial history, and a free-for-all for greedy kleptocrats. Likewise, Robert Mugabe was both an erudite, progressive, hero of African liberation, and a tin pot dictator who would sacrifice almost anything (and anyone) to retain power. Perhaps more pertinently (and contrary to the prevailing, western narrative), he was always both those things. He was both when knighted by HM the Queen in 1994 and remained so when stripped of that knighthood after refusing to accept election defeat in 2008. Mugabe didn’t change, we did.
The place that Zimbabwe occupies in the western imagination has always fascinated me; likewise the place that the west occupies vice-versa.
Although never quite achieving membership of George W. Bush’s “axis of evil”, Zimbabwe did make it onto the second tier “outposts of tyranny” in 2005, alongside North Korea. Heady stuff. Believe it or not, American diplomats are granted extra leave for the hardship of their posting. I have laughed about this while drinking gin and tonics prepared by local staff in the lush gardens of said diplomats’ opulent mansions.
When I return to the UK and tell people I have a house in Zimbabwe, they look at me like I must be quite mad:
“It sounds so awful.” Sometimes, I wonder what they’re picturing. Sometimes, unforgivably, I indulge their imaginations with stories of awfulness, which make my life
sound edgy and interesting. Zimbabwe can of course be awful but tends to be much less awful, less often, for a relatively wealthy white man. Who’d have thought?
The Zimbabwean view of the west is little less puzzling; particularly the idea that we are profoundly interested in Zimbabwean affairs. Fuelled no doubt by a state media that bangs on about ongoing sanctions (only targeted at the elite) and neo-colonial ambition (indisputably a problem but one that’s largely Chinese these days), this belief is as entrenched as it is misplaced. Zimbabweans often think that their economy was first broken by the IMF’s brutal Structural Adjustment Programme in the 1990s and they are broadly (but not completely) right. However, I believe they are broadly (but not completely) wrong to consider this some fiendish plot to undermine national sovereignty. In fact, it speaks not to care and planning but the very opposite.
A friend has suggested that the UK regards Zimbabwe as its “prodigal son”. But, to me, Zimbabwe is more like a girl we once snogged who subsequently made questionable life choices and has lately taken to contacting us on Facebook. Sure, we reply sporadically from a mixture of guilt, nostalgia and schadenfreude, but we’re mostly preoccupied with the conflagrating consequences of our own mistakes. And at this moment more than ever. After all, if the UK doesn’t have bigger fish to fry right now, it certainly has a surplus of smaller fish – herring, mackerel and the like …
I have noticed attitudes towards the west begin to change over the last few years. And, what began with shock at Brexit, Trump and such, has only accelerated with the galloping pandemic.
Here, the government has responded to the challenges much as elsewhere. Like the rest of the world, we have been in some form of lockdown for a year. But, in this environment, the balance of risk and reward is an even knottier conundrum. If you resent being furloughed in a two bedroom flat in Hammersmith, try being locked down, six to a room, with no running water or state support (honestly, I have no intention of trying either). This, in a place where there is no public health service worth speaking of to protect. This, in a nation with less than 2,000 (official) Coronavirus deaths, which 20 years ago was losing that number to HIV/AIDS every week. The rules are arbitrary and incomprehensible – you can fly 700km to stay in a five star hotel in Victoria Falls but not drive seven to visit your parents. One might even suspect an unconscionable opportunism as those at the top break their own regulations and grant PPE contracts to their cronies. Imagine.
And yet, somehow (and always touching wood), Zimbabwe has thus far managed to avoid the worst ravages of the pandemic and watches the UK in horror. Under-reporting? No doubt. Demographics? Probably. After all, life expectancy here is just 61 – most people are dead before the virus could kill them. And the weather’s nice and people spend a lot of time outdoors and aren’t generally obese. But perhaps Zimbabweans have also achieved a certain spiritual immunity, built up over years burying their dead beneath a tyranny of self-serving, mendacious, incompetent crooks; both local and international. Pity those poor Brits with their quaint, outdated faith in accountable government and the rule of law …
Lately, when I told someone I hoped to return to the UK as soon as possible, he looked at me like I was quite mad. “It sounds so awful,” he said. Perhaps I’ll stay put for a bit.
