By Diana Stone @ London Review of Books, March print issue, free online now
As a child growing up in Harare, I believed there was a Whitney Houston song that went: ‘Oh! I wanna dance in Zimbabwe, wanna feel the heat in Zimbabwe.’ It seemed entirely reasonable: Zimbabwe was, and remains, more beautiful, more richly green and blue and growing, than any other country I know [....] I was back in Harare, visiting my grandmother, when the riots began.
[....] This diary is not an account from the heart of the action: it’s an account of how possible it is to be sure of nothing but rumours, as brutality goes on only miles away; of how life goes on, against the backdrop of a dictatorship.
I arrive in early January. Frustration has been building up in Zimbabwe since the brief burst of anticipation that followed Emmerson Mnangagwa’s assumption of the presidency in November. As the months went on and no obvious changes took place, as unemployment failed to fall and the currency swung wildly, the urban areas in particular grew increasingly angry. My father, who works for an international organisation in Harare, said riots were predicted before the end of the rainy season. The rainy season ends in April. The city didn’t even make it close.
Zimbabwe’s currency is a fairground ride: but the kind of unhinged fairground ride that kills people. In 2008, inflation reached 79.6 billion per cent. I still have a few trillion dollars in a drawer somewhere. For several years, the country operated on US dollars; then, in 2016, the government started introducing bond notes into the marketplace [....]