OUT OF AFRICA, OUT OF ZIMBABWE Part 2

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OUT OF AFRICA, OUT OF ZIMBABWE
Part two A Sad Farewell

BY MIKE ROOK

The morning of March 18 was cold, with a thick grey cloud cover overhead. A chilly wind blew in through the airport terminal entrances and exits. Father and teenage son had arrived at Gatwick United Kingdom from Harare Zimbabwe.

We had, like millions of other Zimbabweans, been forced out of our beloved country to get a life and rediscover a future. We had left behind worthless money, almost zero employment opportunities, scarce and unaffordable commodities and services, and a shattered economy in free fall.

We had also left behind a citizenry in despair. Many felt betrayed, not only by their leaders and by Britain and the European Union, but also by their brothers and sisters in the African Union.

The previous day our Air Zimbabwe evening flight from Harare had left very late as the authorities searched the highways and byways for enough aviation fuel to fly to London.
Harare airport had seemed strangely quiet and subdued, almost in a state of mourning, reflecting perhaps the general feeling pervading the nation.

We had struggled to lift our cases on to the baggage scales and they were most definitely overweight. Not surprisingly, as my son and I were endeavouring to take with us as much clothing as we could pack.

Even though we carried some millions of dollars to pay for excess baggage it was not enough. The asking price was tens of millions for those extra kilos, and there was no option except to dig into our suitcases and shed some of our much-needed clothes and footwear. A dreadful setback.

Zimbabwe’s Reserve Bank had no foreign currency to issue: therefore we were given no choice but to arrive destitute into the United Kingdom. Lack of finance would make the items left behind impossible to replace in the foreseeable future.

We passed through immigration and customs control without incident. I had always tried to play by the rules in a country that by its very nature made criminals of everyone. Now as I was saying goodbye was not the time to falter.

After clearing immigration and customs we wandered through the duty fee shop. We were almost alone except for one or two fellow travellers grabbing bottles of liquor that hadn’t been seen on the local supermarket or bottle store shelves for years.

We had paper worth a few hundred thousand left over and sensibly decided to buy chocolate. This was because after partaking of dinner and breakfast on the flight we had no idea when we might eat again.

My son did treat himself to a lucky charm bracelet reminding him of home. Walking onwards to the airport’s inner sanctum we sat patiently waiting to be called on board.
I wondered how many others booked on to the flight were also saying a final goodbye to their motherland.

If not leaving for good, it’s a safe bet to say that many were certainly visiting loved ones already exiled and settled on the far side of the planet.

Juice to feed the planes engines had finally been located and we were on our way. I am not ashamed to say that as the big jet lifted off Zimbabwean soil and started its climb over the outskirts of Harare, there were tears rolling down my cheeks.

My son’s tears had come much earlier, just before leaving the public area of the airport. Unlike me he had been born in Zimbabwe, and had never before left his native Africa.

The National Airline epitomises the friendliness and the hospitality of the average Zimbabwean. Upgraded to Business Class we left in style. Our arrival was to be a traumatic contrast.

As we descended into Gatwick Airport I peered out the cabin window only to see thick clouds scudding by. The plane has almost landed before visual contact was made with the runway. After taxiing to the terminal and being connected to another tube we were soon alighting from our cosy and comfortable transportation, but not before my son and I had exchanged handshakes and smiles with the cabin crew.

I remember a definite foreboding as I realised that the umbilical cord connecting us to home had been finally severed. I stared in awe as, standing on a moving walkway overlooking the airport apron, I saw dozens of parked aircraft from airlines I never knew existed.

Trolley at the ready we collected our worldly belongings and once again passed through immigration and customs with truly nothing to declare. Suddenly we were in the public domain and alone in the maddening crowd.

The information desk had seen it all before. Victims of civil wars and misrule from Africa, from Asia, from Eastern Europe, and from all corners of the earth. All were familiar visitors at United Kingdom airports.

I knew we were in for a rough ride ahead, but for my son it all seemed an amazing adventure. I salute his courage, tenacity, optimism, and most of all his invaluable support.
With him by my side failure was not an option.

We are now housed, my son is attending an excellent college, and I have a small but regular income At age 65 later this year, time is not on my side, but for my son the world is his oyster. That for me makes it all worthwhile.