The Gokwe Kid – Prologue or Pre-madness?

Early 2012. Storms are lashing the west coast of North Wales. The Gokwe Kid, now in his early fifties, sighs dramatically as he puffs on a cheeky cigarette and blows the smoke out off the partially open balcony door. No smoking allowed in the tiny flat he habituates. Like some fool on a hill, high as a kite and drunk as a lord, he is none of these  - for they are appalling metaphors. He is worse and stuck half way up the side of a mountain.

He sups on beer, thinking, pondering - his mind confused but yet…almost visionary of the imminent fame and accolade he has desired ever since he once woke up inspired one morning and we realised one of us was a schizophrenic. It wasn’t that hard to create a Shilo, the imaginary friend of Neil Diamond fame. The Gokwe Kid called his cerebral best china, PO Greenberg. He was a policeman, a so called Patrol Officer in some part of deepest, blackest, bad-ass Africa and was rather useless. He was always in trouble. But in his own way he was funny bugger, stuck in the late 1970s, totally ignorant of the rest of the world outside his immediate senses.

           

The greatest detective ever to stride the continent famed for famine, handouts, food aid, AIDS and Kalashnikovs, wandered into the kitchen and solved yet another mystery in seconds. The fridge lacked beer. The Kid sighed. It meant he would have to persuade the stupid ex policeman to go down the hill and stock up a bit. He hated this confrontation. PO Greenberg was rather lazy sometimes and moaned terribly when sent out in raging storms to keep the Kid happy and fit to finish writing his memoir. Still, for all the drama queen antics, he went anyway.

The Dick of Bushveld was at a turning point. His book is almost, almost complete. His editor seems to be on strike, his promised cartoonist can’t be bothered and he might have managed to hack off loads of people with strange Emails and Facebook postings. Otherwise he is rather pleased with the progress. One little, teeny, weeny problem is how to do a prologue. In other words - sort of get a background as to what made us mad. Not us-us, but white people going to Africa, especially a place that was called for a minuscule of time - RHODESIA.

Tripping over another pile of memoirs relating from a time long gone and memory fainted reproduced spluttering of THAT short period; when the myth of the invincible crusaders of Livingstone’s three Cs – Cunning, Conquest and Capitalism fought with the reality  of the true African  version – Conning, Cruelty and Capitalising, the Gokwe Kid struggled to think of a new approach.

            We mean, like, there is plenty out there in cyber space. Rhodesia is more connected than they ever were in ‘the good old days’. Old enemies are now friends, ignorant bigots get tut-tutted on Facebook by those that are smart enough to know a bit more. And they write, oh how they write. Lament, lament a time that the ignorant world can PC correct pick and poke at - but one thing no one can deny the white Rhodesians – we had the best steak, egg and chips. Steak when we had it all, Egg on our faces as it went tits up, and we got our chips. But, in a way, we had the last laugh.

            And yet we do not laugh. We cry for the beloved country and so we write and write and hope people will understand and if not…fuck ‘em, it was a hella of a ride!

Then the Kid remembered a book. A special and very rare book. It was signed by one of the co-authors. There, in there - was the prologue, the beginning he needed…

(To be maybe continued…)