African Laughter - Doris May Lessing [130]
We ask her to tell us what the new generation is thinking.
She replies smiling, with a relish and pleasure in what she is saying, knowing how it must strike us, and particularly her mother. She is not being unkind, her manner says, but she has been asked to say her piece: clearly all this has been discussed with her friends. She is indeed speaking for her generation.
‘First of all,’ says she, taking sips from her glass–Zimbabwe wine, which she is judging as a student in training–‘we stay at home with our mothers as long as possible, because that means we don’t have to get married and have a husband telling us what to do. We aren’t going to get married until we are independent in our work and can do as we like. Secondly, we aren’t at all grateful for all the sacrifices our parents have made for us–we don’t care about the War of Independence and all the people who have died for our sake, and the people who went without an education because they were fighting–all that. We want to have a good time. We are going to have a good life. We know we are selfish. But that’s how we are. You asked.’
Her eyes are bright with mischief. We have listened to her with, we hope, good grace. Talent is the one who has sacrificed most for Zimbabwe, but tonight she is tired and only smiles. Cathie, I think, is genuinely shocked. Sylvia, the mother, a handsome queenly downright woman, who you might expect to react strongly, is looking humorous. Chris, the same generation as the girl, is regarding her from the point of view of one much less privileged. He has a hard life, for you don’t earn much’ money drawing cartoons for these books.
The girl goes on to tell us how she has planned her life. When she has graduated–very well, this goes without saying–she will make sure she is in a really good hotel in Harare and then she will go to a good hotel in Europe.
When she has gone to bed I point out that her speech could have been made–is being made–word by word, by young people in the Soviet Union: I read about it only a week ago. ‘We don’t care about your war, your sufferings, your sacrifices…we don’t care about you. You’ve made a mess of it, and now we are going to look after ourselves.’
Has it occurred to you–someone said–that it was the generation with all those high ideals and beautiful thoughts that did make such a mess of so much? What makes us think these selfish children will do worse?
Before I go to bed–late, it is nine o’clock–a visiting United Nations official buys me a coffee and supplies me with the international point of view.
There is a new word for certain African governments: they are kleptocracies, he says. But yes, Zimbabwe does have something the others don’t. Let’s hope Mugabe recognizes it. There has never been a country that began with such a fund of goodwill. But he treats his people as if they were enemies.
I say it is because–from what people say–he never meets any of the ordinary people, he lives in an ivory tower surrounded by sycophants.
But, says he, that’s what all these leaders do. They meet no one but each other, at international conferences, and since they are all crooks they think everyone is.
Mugabe, I say, is not a crook. I tell him this story–heard from guess who, an Extension Worker–that morning: ‘Comrade Mugabe? Yes, he has his faults, he is a human being. But look at Tanzania, there they have a saint for a leader and look at the trouble they are in. How about Zambia?–you could say Kenneth Kaunda is a quarter of a saint. Who would want to be in the trouble Zambia is in? No, we don’t want a saint for a leader.’
‘That’s quite sophisticated,’ concedes the United Nations.
‘They are sophisticated.’
‘Village people, you said?’
‘You should try meeting some.’
‘If they’re still telling jokes then they’re lucky. You can’t make jokes in Zambia.