A Thankless Job
My grandfather fought in the Second World War (WWII). Well to be more accurate he participated in it. There are rival versions concerning the nature of his participation, and he is chiefly responsible for this.
One version has it that he was actually a soldier and even fired his gun killing a number of enemy soldiers whos number ranged between 14 and 50; depending on his level of drunkeness when telling the story. Normally the higher the level of intoxication, the higher the number of enemy soldiers he would estimate he had killed. Strangely in his sober moments, he was almost sheepish about his time in the military, normally relegating his role to that of a cook. "I was a nobody. Just a cook" he would say, his drunken swagger having deserted him, looking genuinely irritated.
Come evening once he had taken a fair amount of alcohol, he would be singing and chanting war songs, marching throughout the yard and we would be the eager spectators. Mimicking his steps while giggling childishly.
However, his shenanigans soon receded into routine and they with time failed to generate the same level of excitement. It also appeared that even he had had enough of playing the post-war hero and with time forgot about his past life. It was not long before he ''dedicated'' his life to the Lord and became a deacon in the local congregation of the Seventh Day Adventist church.
Years later he came home singing and it wasn't a hymn; which was greatly disturbing. News had gotten to him that the Britsih had decided to honour those that participated in the first and second world wars, fighting for the British Empire. He spent the following few days planning what he was going to do with the money, for he had heard that it was a sizeable payoff. He borrowed some money and travelled to Lusaka promising to come back a rich man.
He came back, broken man. Never was there a more depressing sight than watching my grandfather wilt right in front of my eyes when it became apparent his Bristish bankrolled dream was nothing but a fallacy. Before long he returned to finding solace in beer and died a few years later having long given up on life.
These thoughts coursed through my mind as I posed for a photo near the First World War memorial in Livingstone. Even as I ran through the names of those in whose memory it was erected, I felt a certain bitterness as no ''natives'' were among them, that purpose served by a postscript at the end which read ''also 102 Askaris whose names are recorded ....''.
Livingstone normally does this to me. It conjures up conflicting emotions in me. I love the town, it is beautiful and considerably clean these days, although it is slowly regressing towards what it was before the UNWTO conference. But there are always these sore reminders of just how much the black Africans bent way backwards for the Whites, in particular the British.
In memory
From the name of the city itself, to the name of its World famous tourist attraction, to the Court of Arms at the city council featuring a fully dressed white man and a blackman wearing nothing but a skirt and what looks like a hat with feathers (no prizes for guessing who the save is). I can't help but feel that the representation is not accurate if not disparaging.
I had often asked my grandfather what it was he was fighting for during the great war. He would sadly shake his head, give me a blank look and after much thought say ''Gelemani'' to mean Germany.
Rummaging through history, it is now clear that Africans fought in wars that had nothing to do with them. They died and sacrificed for other people's causes and still do to this day. I have no idea whether my grandfather ever went to view the world war memorial in Livingstone. If he had, I am sure sadness would have welled up inside him. He didn't fight in the first world war, he fought in the second, but regardless there ought to be a better memory afforded to one than a mere postscript in a story. He gave much of his youth to the British Empire.
It would appear the Empire has not forgotten his valour and hence the war memorial in Livingstone. Some memorial that is!
One version has it that he was actually a soldier and even fired his gun killing a number of enemy soldiers whos number ranged between 14 and 50; depending on his level of drunkeness when telling the story. Normally the higher the level of intoxication, the higher the number of enemy soldiers he would estimate he had killed. Strangely in his sober moments, he was almost sheepish about his time in the military, normally relegating his role to that of a cook. "I was a nobody. Just a cook" he would say, his drunken swagger having deserted him, looking genuinely irritated.
Come evening once he had taken a fair amount of alcohol, he would be singing and chanting war songs, marching throughout the yard and we would be the eager spectators. Mimicking his steps while giggling childishly.
However, his shenanigans soon receded into routine and they with time failed to generate the same level of excitement. It also appeared that even he had had enough of playing the post-war hero and with time forgot about his past life. It was not long before he ''dedicated'' his life to the Lord and became a deacon in the local congregation of the Seventh Day Adventist church.
Years later he came home singing and it wasn't a hymn; which was greatly disturbing. News had gotten to him that the Britsih had decided to honour those that participated in the first and second world wars, fighting for the British Empire. He spent the following few days planning what he was going to do with the money, for he had heard that it was a sizeable payoff. He borrowed some money and travelled to Lusaka promising to come back a rich man.
He came back, broken man. Never was there a more depressing sight than watching my grandfather wilt right in front of my eyes when it became apparent his Bristish bankrolled dream was nothing but a fallacy. Before long he returned to finding solace in beer and died a few years later having long given up on life.
These thoughts coursed through my mind as I posed for a photo near the First World War memorial in Livingstone. Even as I ran through the names of those in whose memory it was erected, I felt a certain bitterness as no ''natives'' were among them, that purpose served by a postscript at the end which read ''also 102 Askaris whose names are recorded ....''.
Livingstone normally does this to me. It conjures up conflicting emotions in me. I love the town, it is beautiful and considerably clean these days, although it is slowly regressing towards what it was before the UNWTO conference. But there are always these sore reminders of just how much the black Africans bent way backwards for the Whites, in particular the British.
In memory
From the name of the city itself, to the name of its World famous tourist attraction, to the Court of Arms at the city council featuring a fully dressed white man and a blackman wearing nothing but a skirt and what looks like a hat with feathers (no prizes for guessing who the save is). I can't help but feel that the representation is not accurate if not disparaging.
I had often asked my grandfather what it was he was fighting for during the great war. He would sadly shake his head, give me a blank look and after much thought say ''Gelemani'' to mean Germany.
Rummaging through history, it is now clear that Africans fought in wars that had nothing to do with them. They died and sacrificed for other people's causes and still do to this day. I have no idea whether my grandfather ever went to view the world war memorial in Livingstone. If he had, I am sure sadness would have welled up inside him. He didn't fight in the first world war, he fought in the second, but regardless there ought to be a better memory afforded to one than a mere postscript in a story. He gave much of his youth to the British Empire.
It would appear the Empire has not forgotten his valour and hence the war memorial in Livingstone. Some memorial that is!
When I read this I felt a lot of sadness and yes to a large degree a lot of bitterness. A lot of Africans fought for a cause that they did not believe in and they died broken, poor and sad men. Decades later it is perhaps up to us to now call for a form of compensation or reward for these gallant men.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing, your grandfather sounds like he was a very interesting gentleman.