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Dad is turning seventy eight this year. Once upon a time he was my age. Sometimes he drove me to school. I recall sitting next to him as we drove down the shady tree-lined streets of Bulawayo. The pale purple petals of Jacaranda trees painted my world .
My world was a teenage world, inhabited by a hormone driven cretin. Like any teen anywhere in the universe I believed he could not possibly understand me. So we drove in awkward silence, both of us trying to find something to say to cross the gaping gap between us.
What woud we say to each other today, if we were able to drive those same streets? I would say how much he means to me. I would tell him that I never stopped loving him - I merely went into a wierd place called puberty. I would say that he has given me the gift of high moral standards and that he was a wonderful example of ethical behaviour.
We will not drive down that road this Father's Day. Instead I will think of him strugging to find bread and the medicine he needs. I will pray for his survival in the cruel and scary situation that is Zimbabwe today. I will not send him a card. The post is not delivered anymore. I will not call him on the 'phone. The telephones no longer work. I will not send him an email. The powercuts last for days or weeks.
I shall spend Father's Day just loving the thought of him. If there is a power in love, somehow, the ten thousand miles between us will become as nothing...and he will know.
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