I have always had a passion for creative writing and was fortunate enough to
be a member of a writing group, run by Jane Fox.
Born on a farm on the Mazoe Citrus Estate, outside Harare, Zimbabwe, my
childhood was happy and uncomplicated. Filled with an assortment of different
animals, we grew up with different ideas to the town children we came into
contact with. When we did meet up, we found them boring and they thought
we were wild hooligans. We didn’t care at all. It wasn’t our problem that they
were afraid of the chickens and couldn’t or wouldn’t, climb up the old
jacaranda to get to the tree house.
When my older brother was at school, my best friends and playmates were a
white turkey called Walter and a fat brown donkey called French. We spoke
fluently to each other and understood every word the other one said. You can
tell I was a big fan of the author Hugh Loft and Doctor Dolittle. I couldn’t read
but was very skilled at making it up as I went along. Both fans, one with
feathers, the other with long ears were very impressed. Our happy world
stretched from the horizon and up to the heavens.
When I was eleven, we left our beloved farm, friends and precious animals.
Our family lived in Harare before moving up to Kitwe, in Zambia. A small step
towards preparing for what was to come, life in the city.
After a year we moved again, this time to South Africa. I was appalled at the
sheer volume of people and the continual, brain invading noise.
What made those years easier to come to terms with, a handsome chestnut
gelding, by the name of Hiawatha, came into my life. With a snow-white blaze
and two white socks on his back legs.
He was the dream horse for a child who was homesick, unhappy and finding
life very hard. With joy he’d steal my lunch, usually a couple of boiled eggs and
a bread roll. The egg yolk gave him a yellow moustache and his breath was
very sulphury. His loud farts were also badly affected.
When Hiawatha retired due to an old leg injury, McGuire arrived. Bought on an
insane whim, I was terrified of him, but too proud and embarrassed to admit it.
When the horse box arrived at the stables, bringing him to his new home, he
charged down the ramp. Half rearing and snorting with excitement, dragging
two of the grooms with him. As black as midnight, mane flowing, eyes rolling
and nostrils flared. The only white markings he had was a white snip on his
nose and the hint of one white sock. The sight of him made my blood run cold.
Oh my God. What have I done?
I went and hid. And cried.
When the sensation of the new horse, people dispersed, but I heard all the
comments such as, “She’ll never be able to control that.” and “This is going to
be fun to witness.”, as well as the inevitable “I wouldn’t like to have to ride
that monster.”
Swallowing hard, I cautiously held out my pathetic offering of sliced carrot.
Immediately he turned his back to me. I stayed, actually frozen to the spot.
Slowly he turned and stepped towards me. He sniffed my trembling hand with
utter disdain. Then very gently took a slice of carrot, and ate it, eyes never
leaving me. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a disaster after all? I stretched
my hand out tentatively and he allowed me to stroke his neck for a few
moments. Before turning his back on me once more. I was dismissed.
It is hard to remember those days. To remember my fear. That he ever
frightened me. He came to be my guardian, confident and friend, helping to
staunch the blood from my aching heart.
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