Don't forget your roots

There are only two words to describe today, wet and grey. After writing about Nyo yesterday, I had a horrid dream that she was dying, so I was relieved to hear her shrieking this morning. Just got an e mail from my cousin, she is going to live in Australia as life in Zimbabwe has become too much, she and her husband have two small children so I can't blame them really. They are leaving quite soon as well, I won't see them there before I go again. So out of our whole entire family the only ones left are the older generation, my mum and her two sisters. It's sad that things had to turn out this way. It's strange because even though I have lived in England for a long time now, I don't really feel English, then when I go back to Zimbabwe I don't feel Zimbabwean anymore either, so I don't really know what I am or where I belong. My Dad was English, he was 25 years older than my Mum and was 54 when I was born. When he was young he got a job on board a merchant ship and sailed to South Africa. When he landed there, he fell in love with the place and settled there, eventually moving up north to what was then Rhodesia. He never set foot in England again until many,many years later. By the time he died though, he had become disenchanted with the way things were going and he was telling us all to get out of Zimbabwe, I suppose I am quite glad that I listened to him now.