Life in Gwelo

When I was between 5 to 13 years of age we lived in Gwelo. My Dad found a job in Local Government in the administration of the township - a large settlement designated for black people. I am not an apologist for racist policies but people don't realise that there was a admittedly paternalistic but gentle side to the division of society. My dad spoke fluent Shona and Ndebele, was well versed in custom and tribal law and was highly respected. He was actually a frustrated social worker because he worked tirelessly in upgrading amenities. He planted trees all over, built a soccer stadium and olympic-sized pool. He hated the tedious nature of his job at times and used to rather go out an talk to the people. His office in Gwelo was right in the township and every Friday night he used to personally show movies at the local town hall. He never used to worry about security and our house was just on the outskirts of the township.

In 1960 the ANC from South Africa stirred up political rioting in Rhodesia. I was 9 and our house was burned down. We had friends over to supper and to this day I remember the sudden alarm when we heard the roar of an approaching crowd. Roar is too loud a word - it was like a deep humming murmer. The police phoned and told us to wait for them. We all stood in the passageway my dad and his friend armed with a pistol and shotgun. My brother was two years old - my mother holding him tightly. We didn't pack or take anything when the police arrived - they escorted us out behind an armoured car. My dad drove his car - a Humber Hawk and we went to stay the night at the friend's house. In the morning my mother woke me gently and said, "Peter, our house has been burned down." All I could say was, "Do you think I will find my marbles?"
I have added the picture of the house above. We went back to the house the next day. It was still smoking hot - just the walls standing. All the glass had melted out the windows into beautiful shapes. We sifted through the embers. A few things like the bowl from my mother's mixer and a few ornaments did survive. My mother spent hours looking for her diamond ring. I never did find my marbles.
At school I was sent out by the teacher to get some water and she must have spoken to the class because the following day there were big parcels of clothes for me. I was excrutiatingly shy so all of the exposure was much worse than the fire.