My Meeting With Mugabe

Heavy gold tunic, long trousers, long sleeved jacket, green shirts with a blue tie, dress shoes and a regimental leather belt, all crowned with a standard ZRP Police cap – all presented in pristine condition, of course – because none other than Robert Mugabe was gracing us with his presence. I had grown a bok baard – a goatie beard – and now was having to get rid of it again. Mind you, I come from a very hirsute family and knew that it wouldn’t take long to grow another one. (Nowadays, I sport a full beard, and if, for one reason or another, I need to take it off, I know I can grow a full beard in seven days!)

The day arrived. Mugabe was visiting Plumtree to turn on a new microwave link for the local Posts & Telecommunications Corporation – which just means he was turning on fancy new gear to make our telephone system work better.

And he was obviously intent on using it as a political opportunity. Pressure was being applied from all over Matabeleland about the dissidents – and even the newspapers were starting to report the problems.

My job would be crowd control. Mugabe was due to address his ‘loving subjects’ and I had little option but to do my job – in the brilliant Plumtree sun.

Being the only white Police officer in a huge crowd of black people, I must have stuck out like the proverbial dog’s ball.

Mugabe addressed the people, and anyone else that could hear. There were television crews and reporters and dignitaries from all over the place. Most of them looked about as unhappy as I was, looking all pretty in their Sunday best in the Matabele heat – while he turned on the verbal. And Mugabe can talk. And talk. And talk.

I remember thinking to myself that he can say what he wants, however he wants, just as long as he gets it over and done with so I can get something to drink and get out of this heavy uniform…

At last Mugabe sat down to a round of applause – more probably for the fact that he had sat down, than to the content of his speech that I had thankfully blanked out.

A few minutes later the ceremonies were over and people began to disperse, the dignitaries to a sit-down lunch, the povo back to whatever they were doing before Mugabe rudely interrupted them…

I was in the process of bringing my team of constables together to allow them to knock off, when Superintendent Sibanda came up to me…

“You are needed at the luncheon,” he said. He wasn’t very happy at having to call a lowly Patrol Officer to do something, but whoever had sent him obviously carried rank.

“Oh dear,” I thought. “Who’ve I pissed off now?”

Making my way to the area behind the Plumtree Post Office where a large marquee had been erected, I was met by Chembe of the CIO.

“Great. This is all I need.” Now I was a little ticked off, because I wanted to get out of this BLOODY uniform. “A fat bastard with attitude.”

“The chef – boss – wants to see you.” With that he turned and walked towards where Robert Mugabe was sitting. The inner sanctum. Suddenly it all made sense. I had stuck out in the crowd and Mugabe wanted to see me, maybe because he was wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

He stood as I approached and stuck out his right hand. “Thank you for coming!” he gushed. “I don’t see too many white policemen anymore. Please…. Sit.”

Not only was I a little awestruck, but I was a little taken aback at the pretence Mugabe made at friendship of the lonely white policeman. I quickly worked out that I was the odd one out and that Mugabe was trying to pick up some kudos for chatting to the white man. I did notice, however, the speed at which his security moved to wave away a photographer. I was not about to be taken for a ride – I hoped… Mugabe obviously drew the line at being photographed with a lowly copper, be he black or white.

It was almost surreal.

I sat and immediately there was a place set before me. I wasn’t hungry – but I was tired, but a pillow right now would have been the wrong thing to ask for!

And I certainly didn’t want to eat and drink with Robert Mugabe… something about “supping with the Devil” rang loudly in my throbbing head. I politely picked at food and listened while Mugabe gave me a lecture all about how he wanted the blacks and whites, regardless of which side of the Rhodesian war they were on or represented, to be friends. It sounded suspiciously like his “hand of reconciliation’ speech not long after Independence… (yawn).

Much of what he had to say was political rhetoric and made little or no sense to me. I worked out very quickly that if Mugabe asked me if I agree or not, that if he was smiling, I should agree, otherwise, just keep quiet. Exactly what question he asked, didn’t register or just plain didn’t make sense – especially to an apolitical white Zimbabwe Republic Policeman!

The one question I do remember him asking was how I viewed the new Zimbabwe in comparison with the old Rhodesia… What kind of question was that to ask?

I put a pickled onion in my mouth to chew on to give myself a few seconds to think. Do I give him an honest answer and tell him it was crap? Or do I tell him it’s all love and roses?

“It’s not much different, sir.” I said. “The police still get shot at and we still have to put the bad guys away.” I settled on that and was surprised when Mugabe’s face broke into a big smile.

“Well, just remember to do the right thing, young man,” he said, “because I am the one that pays your salary!” All said with a huge, cheery smile, but I sensed that he would have loved to have uttered the same to me behind clenched teeth. I thought I caught a second meaning in his comment, and as the years have gone by, I have become more convinced of it.

He also asked me where I had schooled and told me that he had visited the school, not very many months before! He was excited! I wasn’t.

He asked me about my family which I managed to dodge answering fully, grudgingly offering the small bit of information that my father worked for the government – but was in medicine. He immediately asked if I was going to follow my father in medicine. For a split second I was sorry that I hadn’t – then I would not have been sitting in a marquee with the Prime Minister of Zimbabwe, trying to escape his inane conversation!

This false ‘friendship’, obviously enacted for his followers’ benefit had angered me somewhat… The lies he chose to repeat, whilst I had seen first hand what his Fifth Brigade had been doing to the innocent Ndebele people, were a simple political divide which he chose to play out, in the name of ‘peace’ – I don’t think so!
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I was, however, acutely aware that Mugabe came over as a very well educated, intelligent man.

It was then that I realised, even though I was only 20 years of age, that intelligence does not necessarily bequeath wisdom.

I waited whilst Mugabe delivered what he thought were his pearls of wisdom, but were nothing more than excuses for the war, and his policies, and then finally Mugabe must have realised that I was either going to collapse or be sick or something, because with just a flick of his wrist I was dismissed – thankfully. Whilst he was deep in conversation with one of his advisors, or whatever he was, seated tightly next to his beloved leader, I slipped away and went home to change and rest.

Now I did not only feel hot and bothered, but slightly dirtied by the experience.

It did cross my mind not very many days later, that if I had been armed, I could have saved us all a lot of heartache…

Superintendent Sibanda decided that my being called to the table of the Zimbabwean leader was not something he could hold against me, but rather became impressed that one of his officers had been deigned interesting enough to be summoned.

After my brief interview and conversation with Mugabe, all of my dreams and aspirations, now even further far-fetched than normal – my mind out of kilter, my heart broken – seemed out of this world.

I felt convinced that I had conversed with a madman…

Editor’s note:This is an extract from “Without Honour” a book by Robb Ellis.
It chronicles his experiences in the post independence Zimbabwe Republic Police as a white policeman in the Bulawayo Rural South district of the Matabeleland South province. At the time that he was in service, Mugabe’s Fifth Brigade was unleashed on the Matabele tribe and in just a few years between 20 to 30 thousand people were killed.

“Without Honour” is available as a “Print on Demand” item on Lulu. The book is GBP12.99. Lulu also offers the book as a downloadable pdf for £6. Rob Ellis is a regular Blogger,visit his blog at http://thebeardedman.blogspot.com to read more about his take on Zimbabwe’s current affairs

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Posted by Robb WJ Ellis on October 17, 2008. Filed under Opinion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.