Things I Miss About Home

I’m eating two mangoes – they’re yellow, sweet and not stringy, but very small, and I realised that one of the things I miss about home is the mangoes. It’s mango season now and our mangoes are big and red and succulent. I used to eat one for lunch most days, and I distinctly remember eating them on the afternoons of Christmas Days, carefully cutting the sides into slippery cubes and then sucking on the pip. I probably won’t be home for Christmas Day this year.

Another thing I miss, something that will be happening soon, is the thunderstorms. We’ve had storms here, but the most exciting thing about them has been a tree falling on my neighbour’s car - and that’s not a fun bit of excitement at all.

On the farm, when there’s a storm looming and you’re out in the fields and you take the time to stop and watch, it’s one of those sights that makes you realise how small you are on this tremendous planet. You might feel some fear at being caught out in the lightning that can kill a group of cows sheltering under a tree; at the powerful raindrops that sting your face and muddy the roads to an unrecognisable mess; and at the thunder that will crack at almost the same instant as the lightning flashes across the earth and make the dogs cower under the cars or the table.

But, you’d be of a very strange disposition if you didn’t feel privileged to be there at that moment to see the deep purple-grey sky end abruptly at the emerald-green ryegrass that consequently terminates at the end of the field and the beginning of the road made of rich red earth. Purple-green-red. Standing starkly against each other as the first deep rumbles emanate in the distance, and then, as you accelerate the quad bike, the strips of colour blurring together at the edges in the corner of your eye.

I miss the people – some of the most oppressed and under-privileged in the world, but always finding something to smile about and eager to wave and chat to you about almost anything that crosses your mind or theirs.

I miss the sunsets over Kariba and the clever metal sculptures next to the road and the smell of maize over an open fire and flying ants exploding out of their mounds after the rain and falling onto the tennis court. I miss the warm winters and road trips and the dogs craning their necks over the side of the car with their tongues hanging out of their mouth, jumping out as soon as we reach our picnic spot next to the natural spring where my grandfather’s name is carved into a rock. I miss braais with cold Savannahs and fresh steak with sadza and tomato relish.

I miss playing tennis in the evenings with family and friends, I miss driving around town listening to loud music with my sister with no worries about being told off for making too much noise. I miss the traditional stop at the baobab tree, shouting at monkeys for stealing food off the breakfast table, rubbing worm guts off my fingers and screaming when the fishing line sprints from the strength of a tiger fish.

There’s no end to the list. Zimbabwe, I have a good life here, but I miss you.

miss you.