Yesterday was April 18, the day Zimbabweans commemorate Independence. It’s an emotive issue, the changeover from white (minority) rule to Black rule, self rule, majority rule. The symbol of the new way, the raised fist, the symbol people all around the world saw on April 18, 1980, stirred many hearts. It was the dawn of a new day, the beginning of hope and a future for the people who were once strangers in their own land.

So yesterday should have swelled the hearts of many Zimbabweans. Yesterday should have reminded us of national pride. It should, really. The truth is that Zimbabwe has not always been a thing of shame. I know many Zimbabweans who now cringe when they must state their nationality, many who feel ashamed of that green passport that is now rejected by so many. Even I have been considering lately how I could shake off my citizenship- not because I am not patriotic, but because I am young, and I want a future for myself and my family, a future that Zimbabwe, limping along, cannot hope to provide.

Self-rule brings challenges. For a while we slip and slide along on sheer euphoria, we only eat hope and the promise of a brand new life. Freedom is like a drug, and Zimbabweans loved the thrill of it. And it lasted a long time; we felt invincible, we felt like our nation was born under a lucky star, on that day in 1980.

Today, we have a new struggle. What people from without cannot understand is why Zimbabweans do not resolve the economic issues. Why the economy is in tatters, with inflation predicted to hit 2 000 % by year end (and that’s a conservative estimate). What people simply don’t get is why people have gone to the polls and voted the same person in for over twenty years.

How can one ever explain? The simplest answer is that Robert Mugabe still represents the fondest hopes and dreams of many Zimbabweans. He is the symbol of our release from oppression, a hero of the time when we were less than people, mere dogs who could be kicked to the kerb. I have been told the story of a man who went to the shops with his father, pre-independence, when he was still a boy. His father walked boldly in through the front door. The shop owner cursed at him, kicked him, called him names, told him to come to the little window where the “kaffirs” (a derogatory term) were served.

I bring this up not to stir up hatred or violent emotion. Just to gently remind the world that the generation that witnessed these things is still alive. Just to remind people that Zimbabweans are not fools, as you might expect; because we all know how easily confrontations in Africa degenerate into civil war. And we have that legendary African patience, that waits for change and never gives up hope. After all, we have a Shona saying: chisingaperi chinoshura. Roughly translated, that means that which does not come to an end is an abnormal thing, it portends disaster, it refuses to fit into the scheme of things.

I am reading a book right now that reminds me of the trouble with the euphoria of self-rule: Half of a Yellow Sun, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I am only halfway through, but I am already moved because of man’s inhumanity to man, because of how easily something good can turn to something bad. It’s not that long ago that Zimbabwe was a symbol of all that could be right with Africa. It’s not that long ago that we were called the “bread basket of Africa”, and the jewel of Africa. And now we are in the news for the wrong reasons…

So, young Zimbabweans, well-educated and able to, will continue to flee the country, rather than start things that may worsen the situation even further. Zimbabweans are known for their ready laugh; and it won’t be long until we can laugh again. Africa has survived so many things; it is an ancient continent that has been ravaged over and over. Zimbabwe has the African spirit; Zimbabwe will live to see another day.