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Cry, the Beloved Country

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As we approach March 29, l find myself in the grip of something that is fluttering in my belly, like hope. That maybe, just maybe our time has come. But just when l start thinking of the possibility of change in Zimbabwe, l am gripped by a relentless sense of apprehension. I dare not hope, because that hope has been dashed so many times before. But a part of me refuses to simply subside with a whimper into hopeless resignation. In thinking about this uncharacteristic ambivalence, l recall this passage from Alan Paton’s book;

Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley for fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.

One comment to “Cry, the Beloved Country”

  1. Comment by Tererai:


    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth

    Then took the other as just as fair
    And having perhaps the better claim
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear
    Though as for that, the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
    I doubted if I should ever come back

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence
    Two roads diverged in a wood
    And I took the one less traveled by
    And that has made all the difference

    Robert Frost