On the Road to Antelope Mine

The guilt of a survivor.

Lately, I hear a lot of talk about political enemies, resistance movements, and other threats that I prefer not to hear, especially in this country I love and from people l love. Today I remembered what can happen when we let our passions go unchecked. I need to share that memory.

Sometime during the 1988 Zimbabwean dry season, I was asked to deliver a load of medical supplies and building materials to a rural clinic south of the Bulawayo-Plumtree road and west of Matopos National Park, where Cecil Rhodes was buried in a grave cut from solid granite. The grave was covered by a bronze plaque with the simple epithet, “Here Lie the Remains of Cecil John Rhodes.” He chose the location on a rock formation he called “The View of the World,” from where he could see a vast panorama of the country once named after him.

I drove the heavily loaded Toyota truck through a wide valley below Rhode’s tomb on a dirt road that was bounded by tall, dry elephant grass. As I proceeded south, I met a gray Peugeot pickup driven by the foreman of a local farm. We stopped and chatted for a few minutes as I eyed the Rhodesian Bush War-era Belgian FN rifle leaning on the seat next to him. All the farmers I knew in the area always carried the same weapons whenever they traveled because of the risk of an ambush. It was before the government provided us with armed militia to protect us when we traveled in rural areas.

He told me he heard rumors of anti-government dissidents operating in the area and to be cautious. I thanked him for the information and watched him in the mirror as he disappeared in a cloud of dust. I continued to drive south slowly, because of the weight of the heavily loaded truck and the poor condition of the road. Eventually I saw a column of black smoke about a half mile east of the road, but because of the tall grass, I couldn’t see the source of the fire.

When I finally arrived at the clinic, I was met by a crowd of children, the medical assistant who managed the clinic, and the local primary school headmaster. They quickly organized a group of men to unload the truck and urged me to leave as soon as possible, but to follow the road east to the main highway between Bulawayo and West Nicholson. It was a long distance out of my way and meant I would get home just before dark, which concerned me because of the rumors of dissident activity. When I mentioned my concerns, the headmaster told me a village was attacked along the road I just traveled. The dissidents forced all the men and boys into a large, thatched roof hut, barricaded the door, and set the structure on fire. It was the source of the smoke I saw as I made my way to the clinic. I felt somehow detached from what they told me and what I saw, but I decided to take their advice nonetheless. As I drove toward the highway, my main concern was to get home before dark.

The sun sets quickly in Zimbabwe and I managed to arrive home before last light. It was a long day, I was tired, and I fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, a friend called early to ask about my trip to the clinic. I mentioned what the farm foreman and the headmaster told about dissidents in the area, and I told him about the burning village. He said the Plumtree police followed up on the reports and found the headmaster’s story was true. All the men and boys had died in the fire. Even more chilling because it hit home to me, they also found the farm foreman dead in the gray Peugeot. He was ambushed and murdered shortly after we talked. Why him and not me? I asked myself that question for weeks.

I never came up with an answer. So much in life is simple fate. Five minutes earlier or five minutes later might make the difference between life and death. I’ll never know why I didn’t die that day but I also don’t see a greater purpose because I survived and others didn’t. But I didn’t escape unscathed, because I carried an aching sense of guilt for years until that fire finally burned itself out.

All I know for certain is that the good luck, or grace, or whatever it can be called that I experienced that day left me with an abiding sense of urgency about the value of each day of life. It’s such a fragile thing, and as I’ve heard it said, we never see the bullet that finally gets us. I often forget those lessons about seizing the day and living each one as if it was my last, but when I think about what happened, I do practice gratitude for my simple existence. Today is all I have. I will live it as best as I can and in some small way, give some meaning to the lives lost that day by doing something to better the lives of those around me.

That’s all I can do.