A hammock under the Zimbabwean sky

Do you remember the smell of the African bush after the first rain?

Flying ants and sausage flies all over the kitchen floor, chongololos wriggling and curling up on newly wet earth. Damp clothes hanging on racks near the wood stove. The sound of jackals yipping and yapping at dusk as they prepare to go hunting.

Read: Another round of farm invasions, evictions planned for Zimbabwe Catch and release, Zimbabwe style Stoned to death in Zimbabwe

Do you remember the sound of the cows being milked?

The spray of milk hitting the side of a tin bucket. The sight of buckets full of warm milk, white foamy bubbles on the top.

Do you remember the wild bushfires at night, the bright orange glow lighting up the sky?

Do you remember the taste of scones hot from the wood stove dripping with fresh farm butter and home-made strawberry jam with a spoon of thick cream on the top?

Do you remember the sound of children chasing each other and running up and down the lines of a crop in the field, their laughter hanging in the dusty wind?

Can you see them, playing under the wild fruit trees, sucking on muhachas or mahobohobos or sitting in a wheelbarrow or ox cart going to feed the sheep or cows?

These are the images and memories that need sharing, remembering and reliving to ground us and give us comfort.

This is my 962nd column since March 2000 when lawlessness was unleashed and the title deeds and property rights of farmers were rendered worthless.

These 26 years of writing about Zimbabwe all began with my book ‘African Tears’.

What was that funny, happy ‘African Tears’ origin story with all those wonderful memories, the scares and frights, the giggles and laughing, the amazing neighbours and their sometimes eccentric friends and strange tenants?

Long ago I promised myself that I’d write a book about it one day … and now, 26 years later, I have written that book.

‘A Hammock Under the Zimbabwean Sky: Stories from a time of innocence’ has been a long time in my heart and mind.

It is a story of the happy times, of fun, laughter, learning and sunshine on the farm. A time before mobile phones, email or internet. A time before politics and lawlessness. A time when it was just farming the old-fashioned way with six employees, two oxen, and a little white Land Rover called Stompie.

No You Tube to learn from, no Google to ask, just books, neighbours, experience and an unflagging determination to succeed.

Home alone for nine months of the year with a little boy, learning to be a livestock farmer, bottle feeding calves and lambs, coping with crazy creatures and snapping geese.

Wild fires and pounding rain; pythons and curly chickens; green cream soda and sweet buns at the farm store; collecting tadpoles in a jar, sunburnt faces, smiling dogs.

This is the story of where it all began, the story before ‘African Tears’.

Read: Reaping what Zimbabwe’s government sowed Zimbabwe’s untouchables: A signature, a bribe and a blind eye The mongoose and these cold, dark days

Without you, the readers of my column, I would never have been able to keep telling the stories of life here since March 2000.

My new book is for you, for all of us, for the Zimbabwe that we remember, that taught us, nurtured us and put Africa into our hearts and souls forever.

We know what happened after title deeds and property rights were rendered worthless, but what happened in Zimbabwe before then?