WE were waiting to board Air Zimbabwe from Johannesburg, South Africa, to Harare. 

Most of the passengers waiting with me were young Zimbabwe males in their late 20s or early 30s. 

They were, apparently, of a class that has ‘made it’; clad in suedes, leathers and corduroys with expensive brief cases and laptop bags — you could say the executive type, up and coming.

What made me note their apparel was their insistence that there was something irrevocably wrong with Zimbabwe. The name Zimbabwe, from what they were saying and doing, was synonymous with total failure.

I was surprised, to say the least. 

I have also been abroad where Zimbabweans thought I was absolutely crazy to come back home after my studies because there was nothing to come back to, they argued. 

I was still surprised though on this night; I had hoped over the years people had come to appreciate that we have a great country which is second to none.

Our Air Zimbabwe flight had been delayed, like many other flights at OR International Airport that night, but these young Zimbabweans kept harassing the attendants at the Air Zimbabwe Check in Desk until I too was upset and embarrassed. 

Every few minutes they would taunt the attendants with a barrage of denigrating questions purporting that Air Zimbabwe, as usual, would not make it.

Is the delay not going to be extended (until mid-night perhaps they chuckled to themselves)?

Is it ever coming at all?

Is it really Air Zimbabwe or it’s a hired one?

Is it still the original Air Zimbabwe or the ‘new’ one, bought secondhand at an auction in Singapore?

Among themselves they would laugh derisively at the futility of Zimbabwe running an airline.

The attendants held on to their patience. 

Finally, the flight was posted as boarding

Some of these affluent looking young Zimbabwean males still approached the Check in Desk and asked if the plane was really there or they were just buying time?

One of the attendants, a lady, really got upset this time. She told them to go outside and check if it really was there.

This far! 

I could not believe my countrymen would go this far! 

These were Zimbabweans who have ‘made’ it, from the looks of things. 

What was their problem?

This incident raised so many questions in my mind. 

More than 80 years back, Zimbabweans their age or younger saw Zimbabwe in trouble and the decision they took was to abandon everything and wage a war; sacrificing their lives to free Zimbabwe from the jaws of British colonialism.

They did not mock their ancestors for ever having fallen prey to British armed robbery of their land and wealth. 

They honoured the efforts of their ancestors to drive out the British invaders and took on the mantle to fight and liberate their country. 

They knew that joining the liberation struggle meant sure death but this was the sacrifice they made.  During the struggle they would sing:

“Baba namai,

sarai zvakanaka

tiende kuhondo

yokusungura Zimbabwe

Ropa rangu 

Muchazoriona 

Pasi pemureza….”

They did not sing; “We shall meet at the end of the struggle…,” it was a permanent goodbye. This was a sacrifice they knowingly and willingly made.

This is the mettle we know, the mettle of Mbuya Nehanda, the mettle which liberated this great country of ours. 

Young people their age did not condemn and abandon Zimbabwe, they chose to redeem it by paying the highest price.

Little boys and girls abandoned the comfort of home, of mother and father, to free their country. Young boys and girls left secondary schools to join the armed struggle; with burning hearts they chose not to study towards a career but to go and die for their country.

“Mwoyo wangu watsidza kufira Zimbabwe

Mumakomo, nemunzizi ndichararamo

Dakara pfumo rangu ramutsa Zimbabwe….”

This is the song we sang as we buried fallen comrades (whenever burial was possible); fist raised high, facing due west, in the direction of Zimbabwe.

Others left university studies, teaching jobs at university, still others left lucrative jobs, jobs paying handsomely; all left everything to defend Zimbabwe.

It was not poverty which drove people to die for their country, but love of their country, love of their countrymen. 

A love burning so bright and strong that neither pain nor death could deter them from their duty towards their motherland.

Mothers and fathers, grandfathers and mothers worked hand-in-hand with the freedom fighters, risking their lives day and night.  Their homes were burnt, their livestock looted, they were incarcerated, they were tortured and hanged. 

This is the price they paid for Zimbabwe; and they still love their country.

Those who paid the ultimate price for Zimbabwe; those who defended it with their very lives; those who buried fellow combatants with breaking hearts but still fought on; those who suffered for Zimbabwe, enduring hunger and disease; those who were maimed for it do not look at Zimbabwe and laugh with glee when she faces problems. 

They still pray for Zimbabwe, they still engage in whatever they can to ensure that she fulfils her mission of taking care of the family of Zimbabwe. 

They do not condemn and abandon their motherland.

Those who have made it today, who can still fly in and out of the country, those whose material needs are more than provided for, need to remember this is possible because others gave up everything so they (this lost generation) could live abundantly.

The privileged should not use their privileged status to castigate this great land of ours. 

There is work to be done and Zimbabwe’s heirs should take on the mantle of the liberation forces and work for its transformation for the benefit of every Zimbabwean. 

We all should be grateful that we have a land we call our own; we have no other place.