This story occurred in 1977 during the time of Ian Smith and UDL. Those with whom this location is familiar will recognize the references.
I was thirty four, in Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, living at the Ambassador hotel in the capital city of Salisbury, now Harare. At that time, Harare was the name of the settlement that had grown up on the southern edge of Salisbury and occupied by all the Africans who worked in the city.
Do not equate this area to those slums which invariably grow around the larger prosperous cities. They had water, sanitation, schools and clinics staffed by both government and volunteers. The construction of the dwellings was limited to concrete block and metal roof as indeed were those for the stores and European houses. No cardboard and paper shacks!! The population was healthy and well fed and the debilitating onset of AIDS was still in the future. Sounds ideal? It was, and had the political and economic future been assured I would be there yet, in what I considered to be the most desirable place to live.
However, the increasing incursions of terrorist activities from the contiguous rapacious areas, aided by an inept British Socialist Party, rendered this future uncertain. So here I was, on contract to supervise, design and install an extension to the existing steel making plant. I had worked previously in Ghana, and was asked to take on this task because of this earlier experience. I have never ceased to give thanks for this enduring love affair with Africa, and my personal memories of this last remnant of colonial Africa, this magical land whose grip can never be loosed, whose enchantment cannot be escaped.
Little did the people who employed me realize that I would have paid them to send me back to Africa; I settled into my duties, just contented to be there. I was based in the Salisbury office, traveling to the site as required, organizing the materials and the necessary labor for a large project. Being alone I preferred to be in a hotel, and with a pleasant group of friends and colleagues I was content.
One evening, I had enjoyed an early supper at the Sandawana Hotel with a local contractor, and was walking back to take a late drink in my hotel bar. The nights in Africa are soft and warm, the air is full of the scents of tropical flowers and is made bright by the numberless stars of the Southern Cross.
I paused at one of the store windows to admire the latest Nikon cameras and was about to resume my leisurely stroll when I saw this girl walking past me in the same direction. As I turned I almost collided with her. It was only then, in the additional light of the store window, that I was able to see her properly. Tall, slim, wearing a light summer dress and so pretty that I stammered when I apologized for my clumsiness. She smiled and said it was fine and continued on her way. She was very aware of the effect of her smile on any male with enough strength to breathe, and I was no exception. All white men are captivated by the young black girls, and this particular girl was singularly attractive.
I was at a loss as what to do. I did not want her to go, but I was so bemused that in desperation I could only repeat my apology and ask if I could make amends by buying her a drink. I walked towards her as she turned, apologized once again, both for bumping into her and for speaking to her in this seeming impertinent manner.
" Please wait," I said, " the opportunity to speak to such a pretty girl is rare and if you are in no special hurry, I would very much like the pleasure of your company. I am not a drinking man, but I do enjoy a late glass of wine and watch the world go by. I would enjoy it so much more if I shared it with you."
In South Africa, our neighbors to the south, miscegenation was a crime, simple fraternization was discouraged, and apartheid was strictly enforced. Not here. Hotels, restaurants, stores, etc were interracial, with housing only, being segregated, and even this was changing. Mixing of the races, including a large Asian content, whilst not condoned, was tolerated even to the point of some mixed marriages. So, my taking a black girl for a drink would provoke no more than a nod, a wink and a feeling of envy.
She inspected me speculatively. Nothing special. Average height, weight, build; brown hair, thinning slightly but with a soft, melodious, rich voice, which I cultivated religiously, with the ability to express myself clearly and poetically when required.
Hesitantly. " You did not hurt me; it was obviously accidental so there is nothing to make up for, but, since I am going home and must wait for a bus, and if you feel that you must do something, I will be happy to take a glass of wine with you, provided that we go to Meikles, in the lounge bar."
I happily agreed. It was near my hotel, was an excellent hotel with a very comfortable popular lounge, discreet lighting, olde worlde ambiance replete with soft music. We walked there. Five minutes! Salisbury is very small by world standards and completely safe to be alone at night. We introduced ourselves and were there before we knew it. I took a table by the window, ordered a flagon of the local white wine and we sat opposite in the very comfortable, high back chairs.
The conversation was a little difficult at first, but the combination of the wine, the music and the total lack of any curiosity from the other numerous patrons, black, white and mixed, allowed her to relax and to talk about herself.
Her anglicized name was Rose, twenty years old, single, worked in a ladies clothes store where she would be an obvious asset since all the customers would hope to look as she did. A further advantage was that the owner allowed her to keep any returns or damaged goods, so that with a little judicious alteration, she had a large selection of modern clothes.
Her parents had a small farm in the interior where they lived with her sister. She stayed in Harare with her aunt and uncle, and from the change in her voice it became obvious that she was not happy there. I did not pursue this facet of her life, being content to just sit there and enjoy looking at her, and when she queried my own silence, I told her just that. Looking the way she did I knew she would be accustomed to flattery, and was surprised and pleased to see that she was happy with my attentions.
Not wishing to jeopardize a first meeting, I reminded her of the time and the bus she was to take. I wanted to pay for a taxi but she declined the offer. I wanted to walk her to the bus, but again she preferred me not to do so, but agreed to meet me the next evening at the Sandawana for supper at six thirty.
When I returned to my hotel I could not sleep, and was eager to see her again. I chided myself for being foolish, and reasoned that no one could be so attractive as to cause this much turmoil in a mature man's life and feebly promised myself I would not go. I was there at six fifteen!!! Such was the strength of my resolve! I knew that I wanted this girl more than I had wanted anyone, and the fact that she had agreed to meet me again indicated that she was not averse to me. She was a healthy intelligent young woman and knew I wanted her. What normal man wouldn't.
The Africans, like the Asians, have a natural uninhibited attitude to sex. As with the other basic needs, food and drink, it was to be enjoyed, used and traded. The age old practice of " Bride Price " is still universal where the father is paid for the daughter. It is only in post Catholic Europe that we are taught about sin and shame in this most natural and essential act. I had been fortunate enough to know three other girls in Ghana and Kenya, and found them to be open and undemanding in these relationships, requiring only honesty, a comfortable life, a little money for clothes and other items to maintain their attraction, with no commitment either way. In return they were attentive, loving and responsive to a man's needs.
Rose arrived dead on time, looking delectable in a simple skirt and blouse and sat down to eat. She made no attempt to order the most expensive items, suggesting I order my preference and she would be happy to follow provided it was light and simple. We chatted easily through the meal, and I told her about myself. Married, now separated awaiting an amicable divorce. The fault was mine in that she, not unreasonably, wanted a home, children and a husband there to share it with her.
She was a great wife, attractive and loving, but the idea of a nine to five job in the long English winters horrified me. We remained good friends and occasional lovers, and we agreed to part and follow our own inclinations.
We then went into the lounge for coffee, and I chose a private corner table to carry on our conversation. I told her I was there for the next two years, that I did not drink, smoke, gamble or do drugs, and that my only real weakness was a girl as pretty she. I confessed that I was a rather dull fellow. I did not like parties, going out to restaurants or dances, and that I preferred my privacy and that my main interests were music, opera, literature and poetry and that my hobbies were cars and building or renovating houses.
At the mention of literature her eyes sparkled and she began to question me about the books I had read and the authors I admired. She excitedly explained that she desperately wanted to improve her education but that the books to which she had access were limited, and that her family did not consider it proper for a young girl to be reading all western books.
My experience had demonstrated that the places where I would live did not have the reading matter I needed, so, when going to a new contract I would visit my local library and buy all the popular used paperbacks that were being replaced. I invariably came armed with twenty to thirty recent novels. No mysteries. They were all adventure and travel, set in those strange sounding places with strange sounding names that, someday, I intended to visit.
She was enthralled by my descriptions and wanted me to continue to talk about my interests, but I needed to discuss my immediate plans and how I hoped they would include her.
