November 2

My day is consumed thinking of identity.  South Africa has won the Rugby World Cup and I am trying to make sense of the response.  I still don't understand why so many white Zimbabweans support SA and I wonder if the same is true of black Zimbabweans. If I had the time, I would write a PhD on White Zimbabwean identity.  We are often seen as one homogenous mass, but in reality there are many divisions between us.  Rhodesian authorities favoured British immigration, especially in the post-War period, but there was also an influx of European immigrants: Greeks, Italians, Poles and Russians.  Those of British descent usually looked down upon these immigrants as well as Afrikaners.  

Whether we have deserved it or not, Zimbabwe's white community has had a rough run of things in the last twenty years.  Our numbers have dropped dramatically and very, very few families, if any at all, have not been split up as various members have moved to other countries.  We are desperately in search of an identity, which is why I suppose we support our next door neighbour when it comes to sport, although if you ask any Zimbabwean what they hate most about travelling to other countries, it's being labelled South African.  We are a bit of an anomaly: people in the West are used to white South Africans, but white Zimbabweans?  That's just a bit too far-fetched.

I could write lots about this.  'It's a game, Bryony, just a game,' one part of my brain screams, while the other says, 'let me just write about this.'

Then there's another aspect of the World Cup outcome that riles me, this idea of rugby healing a nation.  In 1995, when South Africa won their first world cup after being allowed back on the international stage, it was an important moment.  It's now 24 years later and I feel that Rainbow Nation stuff has been done to death.  If any country needs healing, I actually think it's England. I don't think the English know who they are any more.

In the evening, we watch a series called Dickensian.  In it, it's snowing, cold and gloomy.  When I was a child, I used to dream of living in the Victorian age. For some reason, I always wanted to be a maid, cleaning out the grate every morning.  I would do anything to be in the freezing gloom of Dickensian England right now, preferably as an extremely well-off lady in Knightsbridge, but, failing, that I'll take the maid's job.  Anything, anywhere but Zimbabwe 2019.

Everton arrives quite late.  He is such a regular that we just tell him that the gate will be unlocked and the key for the cottage in the door.