My sister, Bobby (the first beloved dog I ever had) & I as children in '70's Rhodesia. Ours was a carefree childhood - despite the ugly war raging around us at the time. My daughter came to me this morning, as she has been doing each morning since we arrived in Johannesburg, and asked me once again “Mummy, is Daddy coming today ?”. My answer, once again was “No, sweetheart, but he will be here soon. Next week. I promise. Not long to go now !”
My Mum and I decided to make her a “Sally Worm” to help her count down the days until my husband joins us. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with a “Sally Worm” but it is basically a “count down” worm cut out of cardboard and stuck onto a wall with each round segment of the worm’s body representing a day and then each day the child removes a segment of the worm, to count down to the special day. This makes it easier – especially to a 3 year old – to understand the concept of time and phrases like “next week”.
Anyway, making a Sally Worm this morning took me back to my own childhood, when my Mum used to make Sally Worms with my sister and I. The Sally Worms of my childhood were also made to count down special days – the number of days until we went on holiday, or the number of days until our birthdays, or the number of days until my father came home. Or should I say, the number of days until my father came back from fighting in the Rhodesian bush war. Counting down the number of days that he would - pray God - come home alive. Or if he would even come home at all.
Only I was a child, and I never knew exactly what Daddy did when he disappeared for weeks or months on end to “the bush”. It was not in my realm of comprehension as a child, that he may never, ever come back again. My Mum made it out to my sister and I, to be one big adventure, and we were never afraid. In ‘70’s Rhodesia (present day Zimbabwe), everyone’s Daddy was “in the bush” and no one had their father’s present on special days like school functions or birthday parties … because all the women and children were alone at home and all the Daddy’s were off “in the bush”. It was a natural part of life for us as children. As was sleeping in Mummy and Daddy’s big double bed with Mummy when Daddy was away “in the bush”. With me on one side, my sister on the other – and a revolver underneath my mother’s pillow. Which we knew that we must never, ever, touch.
I don’t know why all these memories are being stirred up for me now … a lot of it has to do with the fact that I am back with my parents at the moment, which always brings childhood memories flooding back to me. Even more of it , I suspect, has to do with what is happening in my country right now. The country of my birth, Zimbabwe .. just over the border from South Africa, closer to me than when I am in my adopted country of Tanzania. I look into the eyes of Zimbabweans everyday here. Whereas in Tanzania, I never do. They are on most street corners here in Johannesburg, they are in almost every shop. Zimbabwe seems very, very, close right now. Closer than before. (Goodness, it has even made the international news !)
I think back to the days when my father would return from “the bush” in his army fatigues. Dropped off by an army truck at the bottom of our driveway, carrying a filthy knapsack over his shoulder ….. unshaven, dirty - a stranger to us. But even then, even though I never knew exactly what went on in “the bush” I was proud of him. Very proud. My father, born and bred in England, fighting for this little piece of Africa – not even the Continent of his birth, yet prepared to die for it. As he says now, when seeing the turmoil Zimbabwe is in at the moment “Was it all in vain ? All that bloodshed, all that loss ?”
All I can say, is that I thank God that he spared my father. Just as now, I thank God as each morning when I go to remove another segment of the Sally Worm with my daughter that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that when we remove the last segment, my husband will be here. Which is more than my mother could say to me as a child all those years ago. Which is more than many mothers living in war torn countries around the world can say to their children today. And for that, I am very grateful. Very grateful indeed.
My Mum and I decided to make her a “Sally Worm” to help her count down the days until my husband joins us. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with a “Sally Worm” but it is basically a “count down” worm cut out of cardboard and stuck onto a wall with each round segment of the worm’s body representing a day and then each day the child removes a segment of the worm, to count down to the special day. This makes it easier – especially to a 3 year old – to understand the concept of time and phrases like “next week”.
Anyway, making a Sally Worm this morning took me back to my own childhood, when my Mum used to make Sally Worms with my sister and I. The Sally Worms of my childhood were also made to count down special days – the number of days until we went on holiday, or the number of days until our birthdays, or the number of days until my father came home. Or should I say, the number of days until my father came back from fighting in the Rhodesian bush war. Counting down the number of days that he would - pray God - come home alive. Or if he would even come home at all.
Only I was a child, and I never knew exactly what Daddy did when he disappeared for weeks or months on end to “the bush”. It was not in my realm of comprehension as a child, that he may never, ever come back again. My Mum made it out to my sister and I, to be one big adventure, and we were never afraid. In ‘70’s Rhodesia (present day Zimbabwe), everyone’s Daddy was “in the bush” and no one had their father’s present on special days like school functions or birthday parties … because all the women and children were alone at home and all the Daddy’s were off “in the bush”. It was a natural part of life for us as children. As was sleeping in Mummy and Daddy’s big double bed with Mummy when Daddy was away “in the bush”. With me on one side, my sister on the other – and a revolver underneath my mother’s pillow. Which we knew that we must never, ever, touch.
I don’t know why all these memories are being stirred up for me now … a lot of it has to do with the fact that I am back with my parents at the moment, which always brings childhood memories flooding back to me. Even more of it , I suspect, has to do with what is happening in my country right now. The country of my birth, Zimbabwe .. just over the border from South Africa, closer to me than when I am in my adopted country of Tanzania. I look into the eyes of Zimbabweans everyday here. Whereas in Tanzania, I never do. They are on most street corners here in Johannesburg, they are in almost every shop. Zimbabwe seems very, very, close right now. Closer than before. (Goodness, it has even made the international news !)
I think back to the days when my father would return from “the bush” in his army fatigues. Dropped off by an army truck at the bottom of our driveway, carrying a filthy knapsack over his shoulder ….. unshaven, dirty - a stranger to us. But even then, even though I never knew exactly what went on in “the bush” I was proud of him. Very proud. My father, born and bred in England, fighting for this little piece of Africa – not even the Continent of his birth, yet prepared to die for it. As he says now, when seeing the turmoil Zimbabwe is in at the moment “Was it all in vain ? All that bloodshed, all that loss ?”
All I can say, is that I thank God that he spared my father. Just as now, I thank God as each morning when I go to remove another segment of the Sally Worm with my daughter that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that when we remove the last segment, my husband will be here. Which is more than my mother could say to me as a child all those years ago. Which is more than many mothers living in war torn countries around the world can say to their children today. And for that, I am very grateful. Very grateful indeed.
