munyaradzi manenji

The Little Boy in the Photograph. 1970. The little boy sitting behind that school desk had no idea where life would eventually take him. He couldn't possibly have imagined that one day he would leave Zimbabwe and build a life in Britain. He had no idea he would become a journeyman sparky, spend decades working in the power industry, travel to different parts of the world, sit behind a radio microphone every weekend or one day write these memoirs. On that day, none of that mattered. He was simply an Infants 2 pupil trying his best to make sense of this new adventure called school. Looking at this photograph decades later always makes me smile. The edges have become worn, the black-and-white image has faded and the creases tell their own story. Yet every time I hold it in my hands, I am instantly transported back to 1970, to a classroom at Ardbennie Primary School in Salisbury, Rhodesia. This was where my educational journey began a year earlier Infants 2 Red. My teacher was Mrs Weale. At the time this photograph was taken, my family had recently moved from Rusape and we were living with my grandfather in Highfield. Those remain some of the happiest memories of my childhood. Every weekday morning we would leave home and walk to Machipisa Bus Terminus to catch a Salisbury United Omnibus Company bus . We'd get off near Stoddard Hall in Mbare,then known as Harari,and walk the rest of the way to Ardbennie Primary School. To a little boy, it was simply the journey to school. Looking back today, I realise it was much more than that. The first thing that struck me about Ardbennie Primary was its atmosphere. It was calm without being silent, disciplined without feeling intimidating and there was an unmistakable sense of belonging. The lawns were always neatly mown. The flower beds were beautifully maintained. Everything seemed organised. Even as a child, you could sense that people cared deeply about the school, and that pride rubbed off on every one of us. I loved going to school. Ardbennie wasn't only a place where lessons were taught. It was a community. Whenever the school needed a new bus or a borehole, parents, teachers and pupils all played their part. We took part in sponsored walks, donated tins of food for the annual school fête and did whatever we could to raise funds. Nobody questioned it. We understood, even as children, that we were helping to build a better school for ourselves and for those who would come after us. Every year we observed Tree Planting Day. Each pupil planted a tree. Remarkably, I can still remember exactly which one was mine. I often wonder whether it's still standing there today. Fifty-six years later it must be towering over the school grounds. The next time I'm home in Zimbabwe, one of my first stops will be Ardbennie Primary. I want to find that tree and see how much it has grown. Perhaps, in a way, it has been growing alongside me all these years. There was plenty of hard work in the classroom, but there was also time for fun. Sports Day was one of the highlights of the school calendar. We cheered on our classmates with all the enthusiasm young children could muster, but if we're being honest, the event everyone secretly waited for was the teachers' race. Watching the very teachers we feared in the classroom trying to sprint 100 metres was comedy of the highest order. Some charged down the track. Others looked as though they were running through thick mud. The pot-bellied teachers gave it everything they had, and we laughed until our sides ached. For one glorious afternoon, our strict teachers became ordinary human beings. Those are memories that have stayed with me for more than half a century. Looking at this photograph today, I don't simply see a little boy in a classroom. I see the beginning of a journey. A journey that would take me far beyond anything that an Infants 2 boy could ever have imagined. Little did I know that my family's stay in Highfield was about to come to an