So the Independence celebrations start today. Many are keen to get in on the party, more are scathing and sarcastic, but some are predicting a descent into bloodshed. I’m referring only to the white folks, of course. I guess the black population is just super-excited.
Chipo is. She was beside herself that day all the bunting appeared – miles and miles of it, lining the arterial roads. And those vertically striped panels on all the facades of all the government buildings in red, green, black and yellow, like the new flag. And Robert Mugabe’s round, bespectacled face, watching us from every streetlighting pole and any other convenient fixture to hand. The printing business has done well.
Chipo was hoping there would be dancing through the streets. Now I’m all for dancing, but I think we’re more likely to get marches of military strength. I told her this. I said, “Perhaps we’ll get a fly-past of all six biplanes from our Air Force.”
“Biplanes?” she squeaked. “Come on, Tessa, you’re so funny! You know we’ve got more modern aircraft than biplanes!”
Of course I know, but you must admit those Canberras and Vampires are pretty vintage in the world now.
Prince Charles and Indira Gandhi will be at the celebrations and the latest scoop is that Bob Marley will be performing, paying his own way. That makes the scathing and sarcastic doubters even more annoyed.
Me, I’m just thinking I shouldn’t be looking forward to it as much as I am.
The hushed atmosphere in the house when I got home from work two hours ago was like a damp blanket. Dad is flatly refusing to have anything to do with any celebrations so my plans for watching them live on TV later have crashed. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him look so sour and Mum’s hiding in the kitchen. Thankfully Rosie’s back now so things have livened up a bit.
“Ja, Bob Marley!” she shrieks. “He arrived yesterday! God, how amazing is that? We’ll get to watch him!”
She flaps the newspaper at me, I catch it from her and I can feel Dad bristling in the corner.
“Who?”
We both stare at him. She looks as incredulous as I feel.
“Bob Marley, Dad? You know? Don’t you?”
“No. And we’re not having the television on tonight and that’s that. You can read or listen to your LPs or something.”
There’s this saying about someone getting your hackles up. Well it’s true. Odd feeling.
“Why can’t we watch it? Some of us are interested, you know.”
“Well. I. Am. Not. You won’t watch it on this television.”
He stabs a forefinger at the offending appliance and I wouldn’t be surprised if it were to start cowering. Rosie’s staring at the ceiling with one of her blank faces on, arms tightly folded.
For one or two heartbeats I feel myself psyching up for the argument, but what the hell. It really doesn’t matter. There are options. I shrug, stand up, chuck the paper onto the settee.
“I’ll watch it at Gill’s then. You can come too, Rose. If you want to.”
Thinking about it, it’s no good calling on Jess – her folks will probably be the same and anyway, I don’t think it’s her thing. Mum startles me at the hallway door. How long has she been lurking there?
“Ooh, I don’t want to hear any of that awful Riggy music,” she says. Her giggly tone is deliberate, designed of course to be diffusing, but believe me, her mispronunciation is not. “Is that that hideous pop group from some obscure country?”
Rosie’s eyes are still clamped on the ceiling. There’s a flattie spider up there and he’s staying still as he can.
“Good Lord. REGGAE. Please try to get it right, Mum. And they’re not a pop group and how dare you call them hideous? From Jamaica. REGGAE, Mother, REGGAE. It’s like, chilled and laid back and feel good. Think sun, beaches, coconuts…”
“I thought it was all about anarchy,” Dad interrupts. “It’s banned isn’t it?”
Rosie sighs and clamps her hands over her eyes. The spider bolts across to the coving.
“That’s Punk, Dad.”
Mum’s looking at me as if I’m going to back her up. No such luck. Sorry.
“You are hopeless, Mum. And actually Rosie, not all Reggae is soft and gentle. Tonight will be all about political messages I’m sure.”
Rosie nods without removing her hands.
“Well there you go then.” Dad singles out the TV again with his finger. “We don’t like it and you’re not watching it here.”
I squeeze past Mum and Rosie is right behind me. “Hang on! I’m coming! Did you say Gill’s brother is going to Rufaro Stadium tonight?”
Charles did say Nathan wants to go, yes, but I can’t believe he will.
“It was probably just bravado. Him and Paul Loftus, the Contracts Manager, and Dave Hanly apparently told Gill they were going, but Gill says Charles wasn’t too happy about it. Paul was joking and saying his life policy was paid up to date but I really don’t think they’ll go. Whites won’t be welcome. It’s a shame, but…”
In an ideal world maybe we could’ve all gone together. And Chipo too. But it’s not an ideal world.