Songs My Country Taught Me
By John Eppel
Published by Weaver Press (2005)
ISBN: 177922 038 3

PART of folklore singer Clem Tholet’s song ‘Rhodesians Never Die’ goes, “We’re all Rhodesians and we’ll fight through thick and thin.
We will keep our land a free land, stop the enemy coming in.
We will keep them north of the Zambezi till that river’s running dry, and this mighty land will prosper for Rhodesians never die.”
Tholet’s lyrics are a true representation of sentiments of Rhodesians.
They had conquered locals.
Or so they thought!
Rhodesia was theirs to enjoy, plunder and protect.
Their paradise would not fall.
They thought they would rule forever.
But in 1980 the Rhodesian dream was shattered.
Thier hopes and dreams crumbled.
Zimbabwe was born.
This year indigenes will celebrate 37 years of self-rule.
For the Rhodies, it is 37 years of mourning a dream that never was.
It is a pity they still hold on to the dream that one day Rhodesia will rise from the grave.
Years later, through literature, Rhodies continue to reminisce on the good old days in Rhodesia.
One such book is Songs My Country Taught Me by John Eppel.
The book is a collection of poems inspired by his stay in pre and post-independent Zimbabwe.
The poems include those titled ‘The Visitation’, ‘Spoils of War’, ‘Emigrant’s Dream’, ‘Winter in Matabeleland 1987’ and ‘My Dustbin’.
Part of the synopsis by Stephen Watson in the Mail and Guardian reads:
“His (Eppel) poems have nothing to do with white nostalgia for the colonial period.
On the contrary, they circle round an attempt both to embrace a past (after all he has no other source of identity) and also to wean himself from it.”
However, reading through the poems, one can tell Eppel misses Rhodesia.
The poet heaps praises on Rhodesians, equating them to a ‘rare and special breed’.
Part of the poem, ‘Rhodesian Lullaby’, reveals the deep-rooted attachment to Rhodesia: “Yes, we’re Rhodesians. Does it matter?
Even our children have learned not to cry for their puppies’ graves.
The women weep no more for their gardens.
And the men sleep less fitfully on their way to Smithland or Salisbury-by-the-sea.
A boozy band of rebels, we fought the world and lost.
Why should it matter?
Rhodesians never die.”
Eppel betrays efforts by Watson to mislead the reader.
He sells himself out.
Together with his kin they still dream Rhodesia will come back to life.
Before fooling themselves, they should ask: Are locals willing to let go of their hard won independence?
As described by Eppel those days: “Our (Rhodesians) wallets were fat, our bellies fatter.”
Back then, blacks were treated as third-class citizens.
Whites ruled.
Privileges were skewed in their favour.
Whites plundered resources.
Blacks suffered.
Rhodies cared less.
They were building their paradise, but forgot they were living on borrowed time.
Eppel writes about how memories of the liberation struggle were not easy to deal with for whites.
It was through the liberation struggle locals regained control of their country.
He writes: “Stories of war spread like phosphorous to our eyes.
In a trickling of pus and blood down cheeks, we shout our lullaby ‘Rhodesians never die’.”
Other poems in which Eppel relives Rhodesia’s memories include, ‘The Midnight Blooming’ and ‘Remembering Granny Trot’s Mulberry Jam’.
In the poem ‘Thin White Line’, Eppel heaps praise on his forefathers for conquering Africa.
Part of the poem reads: “You, Great-Grandfather:
Colonial volunteer;
Ladysmith, Waggon Hill, Spion Kop; (killed in action)
You came home a hero.”
Interestingly the writer celebrates his forefathers for displacing blacks from their land.
To him and fellow whites, it was a huge achievement.
Ironically, it is the same whiteman who forbids young blacks from celebrating their forefathers who took up arms to reclaim their land.
To them, these sons and daughters who sacrificed their lives were villains.
This just goes to show how arrogant whites are.
Only achievements by whites should be celebrated and apparently blacks do not deserve recognition.
The warped thinking of whites that they are the solution to blacks’ problems is shown in the poem ‘My Dustbin’ which reads in part: “Polite, they (children) wait until the vagabond, less messy than the fussy carrion departs with an empty plastic bottle and a mouldy tomato.
These children have acquired the patience of queuing; children of the neighbourhood; suburban; queuing at my bin for a lucky dip.”
The writer reckons due to extreme poverty locals relied on food scraps from the whiteman’s dustbin for survival.
But one wonders, is the whiteman not responsible for the blackman’s woes?
Was the whiteman not taking advantage of blacks by enjoying their heritage at their expense?
Be that as it may, Eppel and company should know Rhodesia is long gone and Zimbabweans will not give up their hard-won independence.
Definitely not in this lifetime.