My Dad was born a British child,
But in him was a calling for something more wild,
He left his home when we were young,
And took us to live under the African sun.
He’d heard somewhere that Rhodesia was good,
And he knew he was home when in that land he stood.
On the day he chose our farm,
We stood on awe at the Inyanga charm.
Rolling hills so far and wide,
Tree covered valleys at their side.
Mountains to climb, horses to ride,
With a wonderful Dad right by our side.
Open fields in which to run,
Our childhood days were so much fun.
We thank my Dad at each sunrise,
For our childhood paradise.
When the winds of change came sweeping in,
And the scenes of war were truly grim.
He stayed and fought for what he believed in,
He said to leave would be a grave sin.
Elections produced a Black government,
So many worried about what that meant.
When so many others took fright and ran,
He stayed behind and became a Zimbabwean man.
So he gave up his British citizenship,
For he said he wasn’t planning any “homeward” trip.
We waved goodbye and moved away,
But always hoped we could return one day.
He’s worked so hard his whole life through,
To make his African dream come true.
But a dictator says he doesn’t belong
He’s not welcome so sing the African song.
The war vets have taken the farm away,
They say he’s white so he can’t stay.
The farms now idle and in disarray,
But he dreams that he can return one day.
And people starve and children die,
Underneath the Zimbabwean sky.
The world stands quiet, they don’t care,
How the people of Zimbabwe fare.
And as people suffer, both black and white,
Why can’t the world put things right.
I’m sure Dad hangs his head to cry,
As he watches Zimbabwe die.
We sometimes wish he’d come away,
But we understand why he has to stay.
For under these dull skies of grey,
He couldn’t be happy for even one day.
We know he hopes that sometime soon,
There will rise a bright new moon.
And the evil dictator will depart,
And give Zimbabwe a bright new start.
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© Sandy Botha
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