I watched him come outside again and walk to his car. I didn’t think about how he might not be able to cope with driving home safely that day. I was distraught, and could not stop crying, so much so that my parents eventually called a doctor to get some form of medication to calm me down. I was a wreck.
I don’t regret my decision, but it was not easy to accept my behaviour, either. I had caused untold pain to someone I cared for and to myself, too, but I had done the right thing as far as my life was concerned.
In December 1971, I left Marandellas, and packed up what few possessions I had, knowing that I was not returning in January. I went home, but not for long. I applied for permission to take $150 out of Rhodesia on the grounds that I was going on holiday to England. If I had said that I was going for good, I would have been allowed only $100. I bought a small metal trunk, which I still have to this day. My mother painted yellow spots on it, to distinguish it from all other similar black trunks. She added my name and the name of the ship on which I was to travel to Southampton, “SS Oranje”, which was leaving from Cape Town in early January. I already had my rail ticket for the three-day trip from Salisbury, Rhodesia, to Cape Town, South Africa. I had taken this trip several times before, but always with my family. This time was different. I was on my own.
Once in Cape Town, I stayed for a couple of days in the local youth hostel, taking in the sights and sounds of Africa for what I considered to be the last time. I boarded the ship and watched all the streamers being thrown as the ship left the port. No-one was waving me goodbye, but I didn’t care. I had said farewell to all the anxiety of living in a country where the political future was uncertain, and where the African majority was gearing up for a war against the White minority. I had had enough of all the political shenanigans, of the censored newspapers and the opened mail, and the fear of being discovered by the government not to be supportive of its agenda. Even though my departure meant saying goodbye to my parents and to my brother Peter, not knowing when I would next see them, I still wanted to go.
