It was a country which, (although found on maps), according to the world did not exist at the time; and doesn't exist now. Well, it does, but under another name: Zimbabwe.

Michael and his wife knew it as Rhodesia. (They lived and worked in both it and South Africa). They regarded the views of politicians and the news media that Rhodesia was a despotically ruled, racialist, miniature version of South Africa, as, at best, silly, and at worst, unconscionable. There was little comparison possible between their respective ambiences.

They had found South Africa hard to take, but Rhodesia, a delight. The ones who resented the ‘White-skinned’ control of this little nation were neither, say, factory-owners nor supermarket managers nor houseboys. What they had in common, however, was what they’d heard on the B.B.C. World Service.

The couple’s children’s nanny, (aptly named ‘Beauty’ they agreed), invited them to dinner at their small house about forty minutes drive from Salisbury, the capital. During the evening, the conversation inevitably drifted towards ‘things political’. Beauty and her husband, Thomas, had nicknames for the country’s main candidates preparing for ‘changeover’. This was expected to take place some time in the 1970s under pressure from those U.N. members most terrified of their neighbours’ opinions. The potential leaders were referred to as The Fox, The Duck, The Rhino, and The Anaconda.

“And will things be better or worse when the Blacks are lording it over the Whites?” Michael asked lightly. As if on a conductor’s downbeat, their hosts intoned: “WORSE!”

There was much laughter; but it wasn’t funny: it was going to happen. Rhodesia was in for a lynching, and the world, cheerfully unified and blissfully indoctrinated, would, in a blink, kick away the stool.
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