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.