Excerpt from In the Shadow of the Tokolosh
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On the afternoon of the 11th November 2008, outside the Rotunda building at Johannesburg Station, a grey haired, old white man stepped off the bus from Zimbabwe. He looked down on his luck and bummed twenty Rand from a stranger to buy a meal. In return he offered a brown envelope. `Thank you my friend,' he said. `I want you to have this for your kindness. It's been my only comfort, but the words have become too much for me. Perhaps you'll find the strength to finish it.' His eyes had the look of elsewhere and he left the building without another word.
The envelope held a few tattered floppy discs containing word files and a couple of photos. Also included was a small crumpled piece of textbook writing paper, on which was written a note:
I am a soldier. I am not a writer. I don't know how to put the correct spin on every thought, in order to retain a universally shortening span of attention. But, even the dull and ignorant have their story to tell, this is mine. All I could hope, is for someone to mould my fumbling
words and ensure that everyone gets a chance to read it. I want to paint a picture of an extinct place, so that those who never had the pleasure of seeing it, might enjoy a little of how it was, and those that were there will always remember...
...To the forgotten men of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR), Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI), British South Africa Police (BSAP) and Territorial battalions. We stood together, black man and white man, united against an evil foe.
We knew what we were getting into, and that politics has little to do with truth and logic; the world didn't want us to survive.
We were eventually forced to back down in a ****** little war, but never allowed ourselves to be victims, only proud, strong, young men, prepared to give it a go.
The Selous Scouts and the Special Air Service (SAS) fought for the honour and the glory of it all. They won their battles and that alone was their reward.
But we fought for our country, our families, our homes and our jobs. These are all lost, yet please tell me, friend and foe alike, who did benefit?
Thirty years later, in the hopeless landscape of a land that was so full of possibilities, there is no prosperity or dignity. There is no pride. We bore the brunt of the fighting and the cost of that humiliating end.
The Military High Command made no provision for those who gave their loyalty and lives. In the end they just closed the doors and walked away.
Now, as I see my ageing buddies, who couldn't make it back from the sharp-end on their own, forced to beg on the streets of Harare and Bulawayo, I am filled with rage and I weep for them.
If this story can bring you all a little comfort, some good memories or pleasure, if only for a day, I have finally won.
Efforts were made to find the author, but no one knew him and no one wanted to know.
This then, is the story written by the unknown soldier... Conrad K
On the afternoon of the 11th November 2008, outside the Rotunda building at Johannesburg Station, a grey haired, old white man stepped off the bus from Zimbabwe. He looked down on his luck and bummed twenty Rand from a stranger to buy a meal. In return he offered a brown envelope. `Thank you my friend,' he said. `I want you to have this for your kindness. It's been my only comfort, but the words have become too much for me. Perhaps you'll find the strength to finish it.' His eyes had the look of elsewhere and he left the building without another word.
The envelope held a few tattered floppy discs containing word files and a couple of photos. Also included was a small crumpled piece of textbook writing paper, on which was written a note:
I am a soldier. I am not a writer. I don't know how to put the correct spin on every thought, in order to retain a universally shortening span of attention. But, even the dull and ignorant have their story to tell, this is mine. All I could hope, is for someone to mould my fumbling
words and ensure that everyone gets a chance to read it. I want to paint a picture of an extinct place, so that those who never had the pleasure of seeing it, might enjoy a little of how it was, and those that were there will always remember...
...To the forgotten men of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR), Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI), British South Africa Police (BSAP) and Territorial battalions. We stood together, black man and white man, united against an evil foe.
We knew what we were getting into, and that politics has little to do with truth and logic; the world didn't want us to survive.
We were eventually forced to back down in a ****** little war, but never allowed ourselves to be victims, only proud, strong, young men, prepared to give it a go.
The Selous Scouts and the Special Air Service (SAS) fought for the honour and the glory of it all. They won their battles and that alone was their reward.
But we fought for our country, our families, our homes and our jobs. These are all lost, yet please tell me, friend and foe alike, who did benefit?
Thirty years later, in the hopeless landscape of a land that was so full of possibilities, there is no prosperity or dignity. There is no pride. We bore the brunt of the fighting and the cost of that humiliating end.
The Military High Command made no provision for those who gave their loyalty and lives. In the end they just closed the doors and walked away.
Now, as I see my ageing buddies, who couldn't make it back from the sharp-end on their own, forced to beg on the streets of Harare and Bulawayo, I am filled with rage and I weep for them.
If this story can bring you all a little comfort, some good memories or pleasure, if only for a day, I have finally won.
Efforts were made to find the author, but no one knew him and no one wanted to know.
This then, is the story written by the unknown soldier... Conrad K
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