My friend Michael was from Rhodesia. He cared about it. He brought old maps to show me where he had lived all his life. His parents had owned their fruit farm and life was happy until a plague of locusts ended it. He had attended school and then university in what had been Salisbury, now Harare. He loved it.
He spoke of the place of his birth with love and occasional tears.
He managed a huge fruit farm as an adult and when he and his wife and children saw the future as less than safe , they moved to what they had always thought of as home.
Here in England they settled in Devon where his wife died and he started a new life alone.
He and I met on a cruise. We holidayed together and he came here several times as I visited him in Devon.
He talked about the land of his birth with great love...photographs of the country side showed a beautiful green place.
Living here he still followed its story...hope alternated with sadness...a sudden shaking of the head betrayed his disquiet at times.
I have followed all the turns and twists of the current situation still inspired by Michaels story.
There was great hope for the future as things looked as though they were changing.
Now with violence in the air I am still talking to my dead friend...and sometimes I pray.
That this beautiful country somehow finds its way to a new democracy....one where every vote counts and violence is a thing of the past...
Lord hear my prayer.
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