Elohim

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My Great great grandparents grave stone at Hope Fountain Mission in Matopos, Bulawayo

I remember being so fed up with my life in Mafikeng back in 2006 that I decided to lie in bed and waste away.  It truly was a powerful feeling – to give up.  I had no money and the job I had to build a client’s website had just fallen through.

But then I decided to give God a chance to test my faith.  I stood up and faced the day and got my five year old daughter, Dakota ready for her nursery school in town.

My car didn’t start.  I walked over to the nearby store and found someone to come over to my plot and jump start it.   But the engine was making a terrible sound as well.

That evening I returned home soaring.

I got a new battery for free.
I was given ZAR2000 so I could fix my engine problem and have spare for groceries and the rest of the week.
My daughter was given a place at the International School.
I received the deposit for a place to rent in town.
My order for Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge arrived in the bookstore.

I lay in the bath that night and read the entire book through to early the next morning.

And two days later my client decided to choose my quote after all for designing her website.

Two years later I left Mafikeng to return to Zimbabwe, wanting to write stories and take photographs for a blog, showing that God is alive in Zimbabwe and give Him glory.  I wanted to be a missionary following in my Great-great grandfather’s footsteps (Back to our roots post).

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

Many years later and Jesus has told me He will get me a care job through Universal Aunts and that I must go to Israel on the 12th December 2018.   It has been six weeks and I only have 25 days left.  Although the agency knows I am available – I still wait.  Perhaps Universal Aunts aren’t being obedient to the God who owns heaven and earth or Jesus is being playful.

Since I did walk out of my care job from them on the 9th September 2017, leaving BBC’s ex, Michael Peacock in Barnes on the loo and had the fire engine and police arrive instead of the paramedics, in April 2018 at my job from Miracle Workers  while looking after Timmy Edward’s (RTT, SA) mother in Cardiff (On the hunt post ) and parked Colin Stevenson’s car in May 2018, a professor specialising in post war PTSD, doing a private job for him in Nether Wallop, which was then stolen (Because I’m worth it post ) – court case pending due to suing his daughter Rachel Townsend  for my outstanding invoice.

So who dares employ me?

After walking out on Michael Peacock I bought a one way ticket back to Zimbabwe on the 8th October 2017, to become a full time missionary in Victoria Falls.   I stayed at Shearwater Lodge in Victoria Falls for two nights and then walked over the border to the Royal Livingstone Hotel in Livingstone Zambia, expecting to have a real encounter with Jesus and my mission would take off from there.  Except presidents stay at this hotel and in faith I used all the money I had for my mission, on US$350 per night accommodation for five days and left my suitcase with my food supplies to a school in Simonga village, where I had shown the Jesus Film in July last year.

I then went back over the border to the Victoria Falls Hotel to find my cell phone, which I left by mistake in the loo the day I went across to Zambia and asked them to charge it for me.  I left my suitcase in the luggage room and went for a swim in their pool, then popped down to the Lookout cafe for a hamburger which I ate it in faith and told them after I would have to find some way to pay.

Walking along the path through the bush back to the hotel, I met some guys selling curios.   Peace showed me his wooden carving of a group of elephants which were beautiful.  He asked me how much I thought he should sell it for and I said US$40.  I told him I can’t buy it though as I had no money.  He then told me how they were all struggling to feed their families – I burst into tears and offered to buy them groceries in faith from the TM grocery store for $40.

We filled the trolley with what he needed and when it came to paying – my bank card was still blank.  No fish and loaves miracle.  So we abandoned the trolley and went to fetch my suitcase and Peace walked with me for an hour to my cousin, Michael Thorne’s holiday home.

He owns numerous veterinary surgeries in the UK plus a helicopter and in July last year, when I visited him in Victoria Falls on my Jesus Film Project mission, he offered me his home as a base for my future mission.

But on arriving I was met by strangers staying there.  And before entering, my phone rang – the Lookout cafe were asking me to pay before they closed up for the day.  I phoned Robert, a pastor I met in July last year who had helped me hire a hall to show the Jesus Film.  He had also taken me to the municipality to put my name down for land I wanted to buy once I had gone back to the UK to do some care work and saved up to build a small rondawel on a plot.  He works at ZB Bank and I asked him if he could loan me $16 to pay the Lookout Cafe – I phoned Pride, my taxi driver and asked him to fetch Robert and collect me.  Peace came with to be dropped off in town and Robert and I went into pay.  He gave me $20 and allowed me to keep the change and he paid Pride for the taxi.

The next morning Michael sent me a frantic whatsapp from the UK asking me where I was – I told him I was lying in his bed and he told me that I couldn’t stay there and to go back to the UK and he would pay my flight.  I told him Heidi Baker bought a one way ticket to Mozambique arriving without hardly any money and I was doing the same.

In July last year I had travelled up in my parent’s car which then broke down in Gweru and again in Zambia, so I bought a new gearbox to be fitted at Levi’s workshop in Victoria Falls – four months later and it still wasn’t repaired – I’m still waiting.

So I had to walk to Elephant Hills carrying my golf clubs and stopped at the Seven Eleven shop for sanitary pads as my periods had started that morning using $2 out of my $4 .   A taxi driver stopped alongside me and offered me a free lift and took me into town – I said I would walk the rest which is 4 kms out of town and he told me I couldn’t because of elephant – by this time being trampled by an elephant was the least of my worries so he took me all the way.

Without the $10 to play golf I left my bag at the clubhouse and walked the course instead.  On reaching the 9th hole I sat under a tall acacia tree and got another whatsapp from Michael moaning how he had to pay my daughter’s term fees for Peterhouse boarding school back in January 2016 when I had cancer – even though he had offered.  It certainly didn’t sound like his tone and I was so fed up by this stage I just wrote – whatever. 

I sat upstairs at the hotel bar overlooking the course sipping my last coke and on leaving was met outside by Surprise,  a taxi driver who had taken me to Langton’s shop in Monde Village in April last year to show the Jesus film.  He offered me a free lift to Michael’s and I burst into tears along the way telling him no-one loves me except Jesus and my kids.

The next morning I took my tent and rucksack plus a bag of mielie meal; bully beef and some candles from Michael’s pantry to stay with Tafadzwa, the receptionist at Zambezi National Park for the night, who cooked me crocodile for supper.  With no money I decided to travel to Troutbeck to sell my car that I had lent to the Hallowes.  The next night Tafadzwa paid for my bus fare to Harare and on the way to the bus rank I went back to my cousin’s house to fetch my suitcase and leave his house keys but Forget, the gardener had locked the gate and gone off.

The next morning I arrived in Harare and stayed at my cousin, Val Martin’s for a few days before travelling with a friend, Natalie Hallowes to Nyanga.  I stayed for a couple of weeks in the house my parent’s once stayed in as caretakers for John Bredenkamp – part of Zimbabwe’s cartel.  I packed up their furniture which had been left for two years after they settled in the UK.

On travelling through to Harare the day after Robert Mugabe’s resignation – to auction my late Granny’s silver – I took a wrong turn and ended up at the State House only to be overtaken by an entourage moving Mugabe out of office to his residence.  Had I been a professional  journalist  – I could have recorded his departure.

Later  I sent my granny’s antique furniture by train from Mutare to Victoria Falls to set up a base for me there only to leave it there and be brought back to the UK by my mother (Arrest Jesus post).

I feel like I have been human trafficked.  What am I doing in the UK and what is it about Victoria Falls that I cannot live there and be a missionary amongst the Ndebele?

I feel like Jonah in the whale’s tummy.

In July I used my last bit of cash to buy feathers from The Feather Shop in the UK to make and sell feather earrings I designed – with the idea of ‘He will cover you with His feathers…Psalm 91’ only to be sold duds and not refunded.

I then took a job at La Sablonnerie Hotel in Sark, Channel Islands before it closed for the season earning pittance but renewing my confidence in the human race, thanks mostly to the Jersey tourists.

And at the moment I am housekeeping for my father in Shaftesbury as my mother is away caring for Universal Aunts.

Now I feel like Jonah sitting under the tree.

God has since asked me to to sell my photographs for my Israel mission trip on my photography shop page.

And if He can provide ZAR2000 in one day – He can surely supply £2000 for Israel in 25 days.

If God could test my faith when I was on baby food – I guess He can test my faith even more now that I am on solid food.

Dear Joseph – I know your pain.
And Job
And Jeremiah
And Elijah
And Paul.

Why couldn’t I be like Ruth or Esther?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Braveheart

tay

When I was at my YWAM DTS (Discipleship Training School) in Kalk Bay, Cape Town in 2008 – we went as a group to a church service when Jesus interrupted the sermon.  The pastor called me to the front and told me he had a prophecy – Jesus wants intimacy with me.  I never forgot that but never knew how.

In 2016 I went through a battle with cancer and steroid induced psychosis (psst article).

After surviving cancer in 2017 I read the Story of With by Allan Arnold and experienced God the Father as my Abba.  I felt like an adored child almost spoilt and for the first time I could rest and be playful knowing that my Abba was fiercely watching over me.  I  didn’t have to be on guard all the time.   I started to become alive and perform as me – knowing He was encouraging it.  And delights in me.

I then stayed two nights at a hotel in Bournemouth, before flying out to Zimbabwe in July 2017, when Jesus started wooing me in a playful way.  I was hooked and became rather girly and could think of no-one else.  I lay in bed watching Beautiful Outlaw by John Eldredge on Youtube to recapture who exactly He is.

I went to Zambia and Victoria Falls on holiday and showed the Jesus Film in a village and township.  I just wanted to have an adventure out in the bush with the Holy Spirit but instead it was me and an audience watching the most beautiful story ever told.  I hadn’t officially invited Him.

When I returned in August to the UK I was reading John Eldredge’s new book Moving Mountains and started praying the daily prayer for freedom from the Ransomed Heart site and Jesus told me the specific spirits to name that have been attacking me.  I was thrilled that Jesus was talking to me.

I wrote in my pink journal all my past encounters with God.  And finally it hit me – He has really been pursuing me.   I felt so shy.  How could I have missed this?  Who am I to be ignorant of His advances?  He actually wants me.

Over the next few days Jesus started to romance me.  He is so romantic and I’m not used to this – I’m getting giddy.  Words like – ‘I kept the sunset for you’ and ‘let me love you’.  Let me say – there is no-one more romantic than Jesus.

Then it happens – ten years after my prophecy – I experience intimacy with Jesus – it’s deep – it’s spiritual and it’s Holy.

I met Him intimately and could sense who He was and He is STRONG.  I’ve never met a strong man.  It is so attractive.  You can only but honour Him.

Immediately after – I met Him as King and He is SOVEREIGN. And I knew I will fall at His feet.  He is that Holy.  And so awesome.

And before I can get to grips with just who I am with – He immediately acknowledges I’ve had a hard life and then I felt His love – He is so KIND.

So He’s a Warrior
He’s the King of kings
Maker of heaven and earth

And He’s in my room.  And I’m under submission.

And then He leads me into repentance.  He is the most brilliant counsellor – He knows my history and is able to open me up about the shame I felt.  He then clarified with me how I was able to go through with the things I’ve done wrong.

Satan hates purity – He chains young hearts.  Jesus rescues you and brings you back to who you are.  John 10: 10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

I wake in the morning feeling a little unsure.   I’ve fallen for His romance but I’ve also exposed my shame and yet I don’t feel condemned.  Then He tells me the truth about a childhood trauma I became aware of during a previous Sozo session (inner healing led by the Holy Spirit).   I have a brief moment to connect to that little girl and cry.  Then He tells me that I’m pure. I tell Him I can accept that He has forgiven me but I can’t see how I could be pure.  And ask Him if it is since I was baptised.  And then the most incredible moment – He laughs the most genuine – gentle, warm, kind masculine laugh and tells me I always have been.   Then He tells me He is ravished.  And I’m swooning.

And then the days of healing start – the Holy Spirit just went straight for my childhood.  He knows everything.  He has been watching over me my whole life.  And He is after my heart and Jesus is interceding on my behalf.  And this is a race and it is war.  Jesus wants my heart the enemy stole and Satan wants to destroy my mind.  The more spontaneous I become – the more unnatural I become to this world.

He told me to lean on Him and as His hand has been on me – I’ve been through the fire for ten months and come out (I wrote some of it in Arrest Jesus blog and Because I’m worth it blog).   And although sometimes it felt like I could go mad – I just couldn’t because Jesus won the battle with my heart.  Christ in you, the hope of glory.  Colossians 1: 27.  I have been set apart and I truly am being prepared for heaven.  I am fearfully and wonderfully made Psalm 139 : 14.

And now He tells me – I want you to want me.  He’s been the Warrior – the Romancer and my Maker – broken the chains off my heart and now He wants me to trust Him to show my love for Him with my whole heart and that it won’t be hurt.  It’s easy to be pursued but to allow your heart to admit genuine love is hard.   You can love your children from birth and not expect to be hurt but Jesus wants the same and more.  He is a jealous God Exodus 20 : 5.

I’ve been able to be vulnerable and open my heart and feel the deep love I have for the Holy Spirit and His love touches me there.  I’ve cried many times during worship when I’ve been in His presence but crying from a broken heart is alive.  It’s passion.  My heart was made for Him and knows Him intimately because it’s where I receive the things of God.

We won’t have these bodies but we will have our hearts.   He told me he will personally tell me my story.   Imagine Jesus Himself telling us our story which is written in the stars – from the beginning – we’ll be young and innocent again in new bodies.  He told me heaven can’t wait for its beauty.  That’s how beautiful our hearts are and that’s the war.  And it’s that serious.

I’m on a mission to go to Israel on the 12th December 2018.  To get the cash I’m selling my photographs.

Because I’m Worth It

 

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Teapot land Photo by Kim                    

I’m lying on my bed at St Ann’s hospital, Poole waiting to make a confession about what I did with my previous client’s car.

In a panic I come up with quite a few cover up versions – I was on my way to say goodbye to my client in hospital and see a royal mail box.  Park his car in the university car park opposite.  Post my daughter’s birthday card and accidentally drop the keys and bank card into the box too.  Which could have been valid except I realise I couldn’t explain my rucksack away.

When Jesus interrupts my panic and tells me, ‘My darling you are more valuable than the entire earth’. 

I burst into tears and realise for the first time – I’m so flipping worthy. 

The truth is I woke up at my live-in housekeeping job in panic mode – after a few nights interrupted sleep due to emotional days spent visiting an abusive old man in hospital and – perimenopause.

I have the flight effect which gives me enough time to pack my rucksack with two swimming costumes – a towel – slops – basic toiletries – a scented candle – my makeup bag with a K on it – speaker – PicoPix projector – bible – my strictly private and confidential envelope of hospital detentions and Becoming the Beloved book.  I write out my invoice and a note to say that I am taking a break and will be back to collect my case and leave the house just after 08h00.

I drive to an open field with a stream and horses grazing on the other side.  I park to plan.  I walk over to the stream and see a beautiful beetle on a reed – shiny green and gold.  I step onto the muddy bank and lean over to grab him and place him in my cigar tin.  I go across the road to buy a bottle of coke from the pub and come back to sit on the bench table and smoke a cigar.

I decide to drop the car at Winchester hospital and say goodbye to my client who was in there after a stroke.  I would give him the car keys and invoice with my note for his daughter and leave.  But instead just before the hospital I can’t cope with seeing him again and park at the university just before and drop the keys with my rolled up invoice and note attached, into the royal mail box across the road.

I have just blown Plan A but at least the car is safe with free parking and the keys would go to the Royal Mail to be collected once I contact the daughter.  I felt empowered.  I catch a bus into Winchester and realise I left my iPhone in the car which hugely effects what should have been a simple recovery process.

Plan B is to go on a break. I had been planning Israel and in the process of getting my visa but I could go to Mauritius instead.   I catch a taxi to Bournemouth Airport and on the way I realise I still have my client’s bank card in my purse as I had put fuel in the car before I left.  I’m in so much trouble already I quickly open the window and slip it out onto the busy intersection in the hope that it would get destroyed and he could just get a new one – it’s just a piece of plastic.

Bournemouth Airport is small with not much happening and I’m lost.  I sit on a grassy bank to catch a breath and study my beetle.  I’m so annoyed – I’ve paid £90 for my taxi – my rucksack is too heavy – I don’t have my phone and I have just lost my new pair of sunglasses.  I stop a guy in a van and ask if he could call a taxi to take me to Heathrow Airport which costs another £160.  I arrive late and exhausted and just want a bed.

I hop in a taxi van and before he closes the door – he asks me if I have money for the taxi.  I huff and stomp off – lately I have zero tolerance for silly questions.  And there are so many.  I catch a bus to the Premier Inn and spend £90 to regroup.  I get to bed too late and sleep too little and wake to re pack my rucksack and discover my new pink travel plan book is missing and my beetle is lost.

I take out my bible and Becoming the Beloved book and leave them on the couch.  By this time I am determined that if Jesus doesn’t pick me as His bride for the Wedding Feast – I’m gate crashing.  I tie my Converse onto my bag – hang my towel over my shoulders and leave.

I’m frustrated trying to get help from staff to book a flight and confronted by two policemen for being emotional and under suspicion booking a flight at the airport.  I tell them I’m trying to get to Mauritius – I’ve lost my phone – I have my passport – US$433 travel money – I just need a ticket to fly away – flip.

There’s a joke – what’s the difference between a terrorist and a woman with PMS – you can negotiate with a terrorist.

I think a woman with menopause is – respect her.  And just maybe she has a story.

If a professional policemen came up to me – acknowledged I was no threat – took me calmly into a quite office and asked me why I was so emotional – I could tell him that that my adrenal gland can’t produce enough stress hormones to help me cope during my menopausal cycle because it was damaged by prednisolone.  And then he’d probably give me a cup of coffee and help me sort out the car story and I could leave with my head held high and get my life back on track.

The handcuffs are as tight as the Premier Inn in Bournemouth (Psst article) and I scream across Terminal 3.  And wait for the ambulance.

I spend the day at the Riverside Centre near Heathrow in a room with nothing but two plastic seats which fit together to make a couch where I’m told to sit and stay by the bed manager.  I can see through the glass in the door to the office and my katunda is on the floor.  I entertain myself with singing songs like Because we’re all Rhodesians and we’ll fight through thick and thin – And my new song – I just love you.  And do the chassé across the floor for exercise.

It’s late evening and I’m taken by ambulance – they never tell me where I am going.  I know how dogs feel when they are taken off the streets and impounded.  It’s the exact same treatment.  I’m locked in the back for hours without anything to drink and sing childhood songs we used to sing in the back of a land rover on the way to YP – Well, be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby.  

The doors open at St Anne’s Hospital and and I’m met by nine staff who lead me into the ward where I’m jabbed and before I fall asleep – I notice my US$433 has been stolen out my purse.

I’m so irritated – Plan B has clearly failed too.  And I have nothing to entertain myself – my camera and laptop are in Stockbridge – my iPhone is in the car.   I have one pair of clothes.  I later discover that £170 has been deducted off my account for a pre booking I made for a hotel in Tel Aviv.

The doctors have confirmed that this is hormonal and my haematologist has requested them to send me for a CT scan to check my brain.  I’m let out on a Tuesday after 17 days of assessing the transformation Jesus is doing in me and booked to stay in the Brooklands Hotel, Bournemouth for a week where the Crisis Team will come and visit me once a day.  I can get another job and make a fresh start.  I watch movies – go to the beach – eat out.

I made plans with my client’s daughter to collect my case on the Saturday.  She has asked me to bring the bank card and car keys.  I tell her I dropped them in the Royal mailbox – and she says come anyway.  I catch the train to Grateley Station and an Alpha taxi to the house and ask him to wait – this will be quick.  I dash from the gate to the house and don’t see the little red car.

I’m met at the door by a tall police officer.  My client’s son and daughter are standing in the kitchen.  My collection of memorabilia (my story) and personal documents are on the table.  He tells me I’m under arrest for car theft and other.   I ask if they found my phone and dash out to let the taxi go.  My case is in the dining room – open.  There is a kitchen knife sharpener in my case which came from Cardiff  (that’s another story) which the daughter accuses me of stealing from her father’s house.  Until she searches in the draws and finds his.

I can understand being accused of car theft – if the car has been stolen.  But petty thief – give me a break – I leave and tell them I dropped the bank card out the taxi window and give her my invoice.

I’m taken to the Basingstoke police station as a potential criminal – no handcuffs. The officer is firm with me since I’m the baddie but he isn’t abusive.  He communicates to me with direct intelligent sentences.  I know where I’m going and I know why I’m going.

I’m also calm after watching Oceans 8 the night before.  In the waiting room – I re pack my case.  Meet the charge officer – photographed – fingerprinted and DNA’d.  Have my property listed and sealed in plastic bags.  I’ve told them to contact the Crisis Team as they will be looking for me.  And led to my cell.  I have to give him my converse – not allowed laces.  I’m given coffee and sammies through the hatch.

As well as the September 2017 issue of woman&home with an article on pg 123 Your feel good guide to the menopause by Maryon Stewart which I earmark when reading it to my criminal solicitor from Taylor-Street.  Mental/emotional symptoms – Anxiety and panic attacks.  Ironically the first time I had this experience was in September 2017.

I’m interviewed by two police officers and told the car was spotted on camera a few days earlier in Wales.  I’m fascinated and want to be on the outside solving the case.  My story is recorded for the court.  And again I wait for hours in the cell singing on my back or lying on my tummy on the hard bench making African drum rhythms with my feet.  Drinking coffee.  Or trying to sleep using my magazine as a pillow.  Until a doctor plus two come and assess me around midnight.  He tells me the car was found that night in Poole and isn’t that where I was in hospital.

I’m so intrigued with this Kirby car that now follows me.  To be honest – I was embarrassed driving the car – it’s small and red – and slow.   Why anyone would want to steal it?  Why not expensive cars parked on the road at night?  And what do people do with stolen cars in the UK – don’t you have to – register the car – get insurance – MOT’s?  How can you with a stolen car?  And how did they steal it without the keys?  Hotwire with CCTV?

Around 01h30 I’m sent back to the hotel by taxi and a Notice of No Further Action Decision paper in my hand.  I land on the steps of my hotel at 03h00 stuck outside as the code of the door has been changed.  The taxi driver from Romania sends me off with – have a nice life.  I’m shy about my big plastic bag with orange sealed police tape.  And let in.

I’m so excited to get my clothes back from Stockbridge but my paper + stitch jeans which I love and my black jacket are missing.  Who’s robbing who?  I lie in bed wandering about the case and what if the person who ‘stole’ the car – wore my clothes as well.  And what if I’ve been framed?

A few days later I have a brandy and coke on the terrace of the Real Greek Restaurant in Bournemouth.  It’s strong but soon becomes delicious and I order another – which never arrives.  I’m slightly annoyed because it was fun until then.  And ask for my bill.  The cheek of it is that I’ve been charged for the very thing I’m annoyed about.  And just say that’s not my bill.  I try to bring up an argument with the manager with black rimmed glasses perched in the middle of his nose.  But he refuses and furiously writes it off.

I don’t sleep that night – covered in chickenpox and itching all night.  And it’s that time of the month again.  But I go out anyway and just happen to pop into the Real Greek to do the correct thing – argue my case.  But before I can open my mouth – the manager has ordered me to leave.  And he chooses my exit to take.   So I sit – and ask for the owner.  He calls the police who handcuff me – and don’t ask my side of the story.  I kick off my slops (which I loved) and stomp barefoot to the police car.

I really do need a bracelet – Do not arrest – respect her and ask her calm intelligent – direct questions.  Like what’s your story?

I’m taken to Haven Ward – the dungeon of St Ann’s Hospital.  Where I sit with my hands cuffed behind my back for hours – the only part of my body I can itch is my forehead on my knees.  Singing comfort songs.  The handcuffs are removed and I sit on the plastic couch with two support workers at a time – who sit and stare.  I kid you not – that’s their job.

I have a fever – I’m covered in chickenpox and itching like mad.  And they sit and stare – Like what is this moody – emotional creature?  If I were in a general hospital – I would be given medical attention – have my temperature taken – and put to bed.

By this time I’m ready to start swearing but I sing.  And don’t sleep the entire night again.  The next evening I’m allowed out into the communal area.  I’m so feverish and ill and physically exhausted from being without sleep for two days.  I want to breakdown and cry.  But I sing again.

At around 01h00 the following morning I’m transported by ambulance to a private hospital in Manchester.  That’s three days – no sleep.

I have a flat laptop and no charger.  A camera but nothing to photograph.  My old iPhone.  One pair of clothes and I’m barefoot.  I’m broke too.  The daughter from my previous job has refused to pay me my outstanding invoice.  I’m rationing my cigars.  My suitcase is at the Brooklands Hotel.  The only entertainment is sitting on the edge of the next door golf course wishing I could play.

My chickenpox lasts ten full days and after 12 days I’m transported back to St Ann’s Hosptial arriving at 03h00 and go back into the dungeon.  Only to be let out that afternoon back to Sea View – where they are waiting to hear from my haematologist if I can have HRT treatment.  I’ve asked for 5-Htp.

And for Jesus to whisk me away into the clouds and further.

Because I’m His – He has paid the price for me.

I just love you
I adore you
I’m reckless for you
I fall down at your feet

And I just love you
I adore you
You are my King
My tears fall upon your feet

And I just love you
I adore you
You’ve stolen my heart
I kiss your feet

And I just love you
I adore you
I’ve ravished your heart
Elohim I’m forever yours

My heart flips upon your gaze
Tra-la-la-la

I’m on a mission to get to Israel by the 12th December 2018.  To get the cash I’m selling my photographs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On The Hunt

Beira                                                   Tippy Toes, Beira Mozambique

I sit on top of a hill overlooking farms and take out the two squashed Berkley cigarettes from my bra to  light one with a match against the cut off flint I got from the match box next to my parent’s fireplace.  I don’t want to smoke but it feels like the most real thing to do at this time.  I fear I have landed in the dullest place on earth – green farms – hedges and no life.

After being arrested in London – Searching for my Beloved in Zambia – and then being arrested in Harare.  I’ve been persuaded away from Victoria Falls by my mother to their home in the UK in pursuit of Olanzapine – the supposed cure for my open heart.

The Shaftesbury doctor has established that I have menopause – through a blood test.  On hearing the result – I feel even more feminine and free to embrace my femininity while men – pause.  I may be wild and strut my stuff – without hiding.  Well I’m learning to.

Besides my eyes are searching high and low for my lover. And I’m on the hunt.  I’m on a mission.  He has stolen my heart – And he is my King.  And when I find Him – I am sure to fall at His feet and drop my tears upon them.  He is the most romantic man alive and there is none that can compare.  I know not One.

I have been arrested in Bournemouth (Psst article), London – Harare (Arrest Jesus article) and now in Cardiff.

In April 2018 in an attempt to rescue the lady I was working for whose chair lift got stuck halfway up the stairs – I dial 999 just before midnight to be told the paramedics would be sent out and not to touch anything.  Four firemen arrive instead and I tell them not to touch anything.  We wait – after making a few more confusing 999/111 calls – I tell them to bring the whole squad.  I have had 17 days of  little sleep due to this old woman and don’t care if I get fired.  I sit shivering on the pavement barefoot waiting for them to never arrive and smoke five cigarettes one after the other.

The police arrive to try and persuade me into their vehicles giving me the option of two which I refuse.

I sit barefoot on the driveway and cry for my dummy – proclaiming that we all need to be walking around with one.  They bring me my Converse as well as the unused box of  ‘to please my mother’ Olanzapine – they have unwarranted-ly searched for in my case.  I am taken to the police van – ready for another adventure but taken to hospital instead.  After my introduction to all the doctors and staff I sing the most beautiful song which sails down the corridor – even I’m impressed then sedated and sent to bed.

It is reported that I had cannabis showing in my blood results.   It is quite common for marijuana to be grown secretly amongst the vegetables by staff so perhaps they do that amongst Zimbabwe’s tobacco as well.

Needless to say I am free to roam again.

I have ravished your heart and I’m reckless for you.

I’m on a mission to get to Israel by the 12th December 2018.  To get the cash I’m selling my photographs.

Psst…

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I was diagnosed in the final stage of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at the beginning of 2015. It felt like the world was getting ready for a party that I wasn’t invited to.  I didn’t want to have chemotherapy although my family and doctors protested.

The disease progressed while I ate raw food for a year.  In February 2016 a doctor put me on steroids to stop the tumour on my spine growing (misdiagnosis) and my mother flew with me from Zimbabwe to the UK for treatment.  I was too weak to fight.  The haematologist said I was too thin to start chemotherapy and put me on nutritional shakes.   I cried hysterically telling her the steroids made me feel out of control, like I was in a dream and I had to remind myself where I was and why I was here – home was a distant memory.  Ten minutes passed seemed like a day ago.  She started to wean me off.   I became stronger and determined again not to have chemotherapy.

Two weeks later on the bus I was attacked with fear.  I panicked and got off at Bournemouth hospital.  It felt like I was being hunted.  I wanted to hide in A and E.  I phoned my GP who told me to stay in a hotel.  I caught a taxi with a driver who didn’t look human. If I was in danger I could throw myself out.  Adrenalin took over and I became brave.  My cousin phoned me to tell me my mother was looking for me and had phoned the police.  I hung the do not disturb sign outside my door and someone slid it back under – I didn’t care and fell asleep.

I woke up on a mission.  My life since a child suddenly made sense – it was part of a bigger story that was so alive and happening all around me.   I felt exposed leaving my room with this awareness but had to get conditioner from the hair salon next door to the hotel.   I became aware that I was not alone and discerned there were journalists incognito on this mission with me.

Four days later I sent my mother a message to bring my makeup bag with a K on it.  Bring my stretcher and duvet. Pack my clothes in a rucksack.  Bring my Voice in the Wind book, bible, passport, and rabbit – and leave it at reception.  I don’t tell her I’m going home to Zimbabwe.

The next day two policemen barge into my room.  I was in the bathroom wrapped in a towel.  They told me the hotel was full and I needed to leave.  I didn’t believe them and push passed.  I opened the curtains and sat on the windowsill – so the journalists could see me.  They asked me if I was taking any pills and went through the contents of my bag. They looked in the bathroom – my jeans and T-shirt were there.   I told them I was writing a story – although I had no pen or paper.   We waited for hours.  I said little as the steroids had made me stutter.   Ambulance men arrived with a stretcher.  I was injected then handcuffed.  They were so tight – I screamed.  In the ambulance I fought to stay conscious in case my towel fell off.

In hospital a psychiatrist came to see me in A and E.  I was heavily sedated and told him about my past week.  I went to a Benny Hinn conference in London and got healed.   I had a Sozo session that revealed a childhood trauma involving witchcraft.  My daughter is in boarding school in Zimbabwe and my mother has arranged for her to live with her father in South Africa.  She thinks I’m dying.  It didn’t help and I was sectioned for three weeks.  I didn’t tell him about the journalists.

I was given a copy of the section but I wasn’t sure why I needed it.  I was transferred to the cancer ward until a bed becomes available at St Anne’s psychiatric hospital.  A man named Leo sat at my door glaring at me.  He was sent from Pulse agency to make sure I didn’t escape.  He didn’t like me and thought I was penga (mad in Shona).  He told me he was a terrorist during the bush war (in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe) and that he knew where Thornhill, Gweru was.  I was born there and wondered how he knew – for a moment I panicked and thought he might be a CIO agent and that I was in trouble with the Zimbabwean government.

It was Easter Friday and I asked Leo which church he went to and I heard Satan’s.  Mid-morning he came into my room and danced like a snake – he told me he was going to have fun this afternoon.  I’m not sure what Satanists do for Easter but my imagination told me he was planning to smuggle me out and sacrifice me.  I had to leave.  I was heavily sedated but had to fight.  None of the nurses would tell me why I was there.   Leo was constantly behind me.  I went behind the reception desk to get away from him and pushed the emergency button.  Four security guards came to my rescue.  Instead they dragged me to my room screaming. They unravelled me on my bed and injected me.  The last face I saw was Leo’s.

I had survived Easter Friday.  Joseph, another Zimbabwean, did the night shift.  He didn’t like me either and forced me to take medication to sedate me.  I tried to hide it under my tongue but I was made to stick my tongue out and he sees it.  It was Easter Sunday and I was anxious that Joseph was part of the plot.   I messaged my friend in South Africa to tell her husband, Pete to pray what he used to pray on the battlefield.  She didn’t understand but maybe Pete would although the motor neuron disease has progressed and he can’t speak.   He was a watchman in the British Army and being the last two to leave the battlefield, would pray Psalm 91 over the soldiers.  I slept with my bible on my chest open at Psalm 91.  I snuck my rabbit into my bed.

The nurses became my friends.  I told them Leo intimidates me and Joseph forces me to take the medication I don’t want.   Leo is moved away from my door and soon after doesn’t return and I calmed down.   The nurses will come to me at night when I call as Joseph is gruff with me when my sheets are wet from night sweats.  He soon left.  The doctors did their rounds and told me I needed to start chemotherapy.

After three weeks James, the psychiatrist lifted the section.  The discharge form stated – steroid induced psychosis.  Helen; my haematologist thought it was my heart break too.

I have just finished chemotherapy and I’m going home – I will be with my daughter for Easter.

Psst….I am a journalist.

I’m on a mission to get to Israel by the 12th December 2018.  To get the cash I’m selling my photographs.

Arrest Jesus

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I was misdiagnosed with a tumour on my spine and overdosed with steroids in February 2016 by Kevin Martin, a doctor in Marondera, Zimbabwe.   I had stage 4 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at the time.  The result was steroid induced psychosis.  I have published the story under Psst.

In September 2017 I had my first panic attack after three nights waking up with night sweats and rushed out of a care job leaving Mr Peacock – the man responsible for starting BBC Panorama – on the loo.  I got lost and arrested the following day reading Luke 9:24 in London.  Granted I was marching down the middle line of a street but you don’t do pavements when you are on a mission with Jesus – calling forth His Kingdom and besides the cars could go around me.

I landed up in hell – Lakeside Mental Hospital, Twickenham being sedated without a bed – left to sleep on the floor in the corridor until I had to ask for a bed the following night.  I also phoned 999 one night because the abusive staff were banging down my door.  I had recently watched undercover footage from BBC Panorama during a care course I did in Wales about the most ghastly abuse in a Mental Hospital in the UK.  I was sectioned for 28 days but transferred to St Annes Hosptial in Poole 10 days later and released just after.

The third time was in December 2017 in the auditorium at the Celebration church in Harare, Zimbabwe, where I had been taken for deliverance by Summer-Rayne Hallowes but refused – you can’t kick the Holy Spirit out of me.  In protest I dived playfully onto a pile of mielie meal bags they were giving away to the poor.  It was the most freeing feeling – in front of crowds and yet with total abandonment.  I highly recommend it.  It was as fun as a two year old would experience it.

I was driven away by the two Hallowes sisters and police and landed up in hell again – Pariyenyatwa Hospital in Harare.  My cousin arrived to check me in and take my bag.  I was handcuffed to a bed with my legs tied down too.  In the evening I was jabbed and heavily sedated when my cousin arrived back.  I asked her for my bag to have my makeup and she screamed at me telling me it won’t make a difference and left.  I sat at mealtimes with the other patients eating sadza with my hands.  I was let out after a few days.

I’m in Victoria Falls now – supposed to be on an assignment for a travel magazine.  My mother is here from the UK since my time in the Harare hospital.  My teenage daughter and son have come from South Africa for Christmas.  Somehow they came to the conclusion that I’m not taking my medication prescribed by the Harare doctors – 5mg Haloperidol and 400mg Valproate.  I faked taking it in the hospital too.  I’ve been too energetic for someone who is supposed to be drugged.   They won’t let me out the room until I do – my daughter blocks the door.  It’s confusing since I was all prepared to go into town and write my story for a travel magazine on my train trip I took a few days prior from Victoria Falls to Bulawayo.

I don’t want to take the medication because I will get the side effects – I always do.  And I don’t want to be a zombie – I want to be FREE and creative.  So we sit for hours in the room I’m renting.  With attempts of forcing my jaw open and stuffing the tablets down.  Eventually I manage to get to the gate – I’m not sure how – maybe I became invisible for a split second – where I was restrained for another hour, by which time my back was aching with my rucksack and my son hung over me with his arms gripped around me.  And I feel like the only sane one out of all four of us.  Naturally, I am anxious by this point although I’m quiet.  But I’m still determined to get out into the open where I will be free.

The doctor in Harare had referred a doctor in Victoria Falls should I need one.  Wisdom is his name – whom my mother phones and I meet for the first time.  He doesn’t look like a doctor.  He returns with his brother to inject me.  I’m pulled down on the driveway and in an attempt to postpone the sedation – I threaten them all to back off while I have a cigar which I have in my rucksack.  I bought them after my release from the Harare hospital and I’m using my fiercest tone and every foul word I can come up with.  Ironically, this is an acceptable request and it works – to smoke.  I’m hoping that they think I no longer need sedation because the nicotine has worked but it doesn’t so I use the butt and light another.

Then I request a Zambezi beer hoping they will conclude that nicotine and alcohol are enough to sedate me.  There is no beer and I’m not allowed to finish my last cigar and am held down and injected with 5ml of murky white liquid called CPZ (according to Wisdom when I enquired about the name of the drug the next day).  I’ve tried to google it.  Perhaps Wikipedia hasn’t discovered it yet.  It smells like dog dip and as I’m lying there I ask if they got it from a vet.  I ask them how long it will take – to die.

I’m carried into the room by my arms and legs to lie on my couch which is my bed – got that idea from seeing Cecil John Rhodes’ in a museum in Nyanga.  On waking I stand up to make tea and a second later I am lying on the floor hitting my head on my drinks cabinet.  Like I’d been tripped by an expert.  It wasn’t fainting – I have no words for it.  I thought I had died – I got myself back onto the couch while my mother sat watching me.

The next day we all sit bored in the room – waiting for me to take my tablets although there is no mention of them.  On finishing my coffee I see pink at the bottom and know that they have put one of them in my coffee.  I spend the day drowsed.

The third day in a desperate attempt to leave the room, I boldly announce that I will take the tablets and demonstrate it openly.  Reading Mark 16:18 before I pop them.  I am allowed out – on my own.  I march off to the Victoria Falls Hotel where I have breakfast.  My family join me miserably as they had thought I was at the Rest Camp.  We agree to spend the day apart and meet up later.  I then book a facial and massage for 4pm and go for a swim.  Lying at the pool the tablets take effect and I am no longer free spirited and spontaneous – I’m desperate and feel I need to be hospitalised.  I’m not sure how to be on my own and feel I can’t function independently.

I’m supposed to be meeting Wisdom, the doctor at 1pm but to stall it – struggling to focus, I manage to message him and ask if there is Olanzapine in Victoria Falls which is a medication my initial psychiatrist at Bournemouth Hospital, England prescribed when I was first admitted for the reaction to steroids.  If they want me to take a pill at least I coped on those but the doctor in Harare said they won’t work.  Wisdom doesn’t reply so I feel justified not to honour my appointment either.  But I still can’t cope.  I force myself to the spa and ask them desperately to shift my massage to right now.  At least I can lie for half an hour without making a fool of myself.

Afterwards I go next door to the Kingdom Hotel where I sit in the heat on a deckchair drinking a coke, on the verge of panic.  Just before my 4pm appointment I change into my costume and have a quick swim.   I have the facial – I’m so desperate now and have little control.  I walk through the grand lounge of the Victoria Falls Hotel onto the I Presume terrace, down the stairs, along the stone pathway toward the view of the bridge, I drop my bag and keep walking – my slops flick off and I keep walking – hitting the grassy slope I collapse under a cactus which hides me from any audience on the terrace.  Some warthog chase each other next to me.  My family are there and march down to demand we leave.  I can’t – I have lost control of my body – my mind.  I am shaking as my body is in shock.  From two tablets.

To stall – once again – I demand cigarettes.  Miraculously that works again.  I’m not a smoker.  I’m bought a packet of Berkley cigarettes and given a squashed box of Lion matches from a waiter’s pocket.  I chain smoke.  Thinking of plan B.   The sun sets and it is a pure beauty.  A staff member arrives to entice me somewhere – telling me there are snakes.  I refuse.  The moon is full – I gaze at the stars in full display – I love the sky during the day with clouds and sunsets but stars remind me that I am part of a much bigger story and I cry.  I do not deny that I would rather be in heaven.  I want to be with Jesus and I seriously joke if He doesn’t come soon to rapture me – I’m gathering Holy angels to arrest Him.  The ambulance team arrive and inject me twice to transport me back to the room.

 I spend three days in the room sitting on the floor during the day – my couch is always occupied by a captor, mostly my mother.  I cannot be bored – it’s impossible.  Even if my mind is being controlled by substances and my body weak and panicked – I am constantly finding ways to stimulate myself and go through my memorabilia for my story.  I drink at least six litres of water to detox and also due to a constant thirst which can’t be quenched.

I have survived missing the Victoria Falls carnival and any other New Year celebrations and my son leaves for the airport early on New Year’s Day 2018.  I wake up to the smell of vomit.  I get up feeling frisky but with an edge of denial that it is temporary and that I will soon be hostage again.  It lasts through spring cleaning the room around my mother and teenage daughter.  I leave it as late as possible to request a possible departure.  It is approved.  Except that I still don’t feel I can cope on my own and have to invite my mother – my daughter is sleeping in as she was out with friends for New Years Eve and thinks her drink was spiked.

I go back to the Victoria Falls Hotel to face my humiliation head on.  It’s not that bad.  I am reminded though by empathetic comments from various staff members as I do my walk of shame through the lounge – over the terrace towards the cactus.  I inspect the damage to the lawn as I was pulling tufts of grass out while puffing my smoke and think it might look as bad as practising golf on a driving range – but it is a tiny patch.  I continue onto the swimming pool.  My mum sits in the Roman themed area and I’m in and out of the pool.  I can’t swim well – my arm is still very swollen from a reaction to the first injection from Wisdom.

My mum wants to take my daughter to the hospital to be seen by a doctor.  She is given a glucose injection and has blood tests which are clear.  I jump in to ask him if I could get a prescription for Olanzapine as my mum wants to take me back to Harare or England to get them and he obliges.

The next day I take the prescription to the pharmacy and Zimbabwe doesn’t stock Olanzapine and I refuse to take any generics because of my history with medication in general.  Fortunately, there is no facility in Victoria Falls to section me.  They could put me in jail which would be more civil than one of those hospitals.

If I was drunk and behaved abandoned – I would be arrested and held overnight until I’m sober or sent home for a cold shower and pampered with cups of black coffee.  If it was because I was high on drugs I would receive counselling and maybe offered a rehabilitation programme.  Not put through hell.  I can understand if I were suicidal or violent but I’m not – I just have pleasurable times which are only allowed to last a day until I’m interrupted and would prefer a bodyguard if my safety is what the state is worrying about – it might be cheaper.

Not punishment – that’s for criminals.

FOUR THINGS I’LL SHARE ABOUT TRAVELLING WITH MY GUY

JESUS IS COMPETITIVE
This isn’t fairyland.  The enemy continually spoils my plans but Jesus is a brilliant chess player and has twenty moves ahead.  Mostly behind the scenes but I always seem to escape the flames.  John Eldredge from Ransomed Hearts, Colorado says ‘we get it all back’.

I played golf on my own the other day and whispered to Jesus that I’m playing against Him and He said – ‘Bring it on!’

He is the Ruler of rulers and armies can’t defeat Him.

JESUS IS BRILLIANT – He is the smartest man who ever lived

I needed to buy my daughter a suitcase on one of my travels.  I found the one I liked but almost didn’t buy it not wanting to carry two cases on the bus – train and then airport.  Jesus told me that they will fit into each other – so I bought it in faith and they did!

JESUS IS COMPLETELY WILD AND PLAYFUL – He makes me brave

I walked across the border to Zambia in search of Him recently all because I made up a story a few years back set in Zambia – being rescued by a strong – kind man.  I was sure Jesus said it was Him!  I searched the internet to find out if anyone had seen Him in real since He ascended to heaven.  PLUS I had written in a journal before that – a vision I had standing on a dusty road in the bush with Jesus and heard Him say ‘I will meet you there’.  Oh well we all do crazy things when we’re love sick….

JESUS IS ROMANTIC

He says things like ‘I kept the sunset for you’ – who else could do such a thing? And ‘Let me love you’.  And uses words like ravished.  And I just love Him.

I’m on a mission to get to Israel by the 12th December 2018.  To get the cash I’m selling my photographs.

 

Who’s afraid of the big bad wovit

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I’m lying face down on the bed at the surgery in Nyanga.  Earlier this morning I was bucked off my horse and have torn my elbow open and cracked a rib.  Dr Chirumba is cleaning my wound without any anaesthetic.  He uses firm wipes with cotton wool soaked in stingy Betatine solution to prepare it for stitches.  I don’t want to cry so I distract myself with conversation.

‘Do you know there are mad war vets in Troutbeck?’ I ask, with my face turned away so he can’t see my scrunched eyes.

‘No I don’t,’ he replies in gentle disbelief.

I don’t care and continue ‘Well there are – you can tell who they are when you pass them on the road.’

Dr Chirumba reaffirms his lack of such knowledge.

My interest in war vets has been stirred by last week’s phone call from Patrick* one evening.  He was the caretaker of a cottage I do holiday bookings for.  His boss, Mr Baldwin*, who is in his early eighties together with his wife and labour lawyer, had driven up that morning from Harare to dismiss him for repeated misconduct and he had turned fierce.

‘How are you madam?’ Patrick asks me loudly with nervous excitement.

‘Fine,’ I say, suspecting some unpleasant words to follow.

Fine? Well you better watch your back because I’m sending war vets with guns to shoot you!’ Patrick shouts viciously.

‘That’s fine,’ I say and cut the call.

I’ve been told three times this year by my haematologist that I’m going to die soon and have learnt to become quite numb when threatened with such a possibility.

‘Patrick is sending war vets to shoot me,’ I tell my family and sit back on the couch.

Susie, my cousin who is visiting from Cape Town has just been reading the book, End of the Spear to our daughters, my mum and me.  After hearing my announcement, she closes the book just as the Inca tribe are about to spear the missionary father on the beach.  This is the last time we hear the story.

Later that night I hear Susie in her bedroom urgently teaching Psalm 91 to her daughter.  I already know it off by heart.

Patrick has also threatened to send Zanu-PF members (the ruling party) to burn Mr Baldwin’s cottage down.  We will go to the police station the next morning to report him.

We arrive mid morning at the police station on the outskirts of Nyanga town.  The empty parking area is covered in white sand but Mr Baldwin chooses to park on the grass under a fir tree.  We walk up the steps into a small dark room with cement floors and beige walls.  There is an old wooden counter dividing the room with a slatted bench for visitors on the one side and a desk for the charge officer on the other.  The walls are covered in reminders of the services and duties of the ZRP (Zimbabwe Republic Police).

The charge officer standing behind the desk looks the age of a school boy and barely greets us.   Mr Baldwin hands him Patrick’s termination agreement, explaining yesterday’s saga.  The charge officer is not responding, then without saying a word, sits down at the desk and starts drawing columns in an exercise book.  We are left standing at the counter watching him.  I am trying to deduce whether this has anything to do with our case.  Then my hope fades and I realise this may be a waste of time – why would they care about war vets killing me? I’m just a tiny speck in Zimbabwe, part of 1% of the population, practically extinct – hence the joke ‘Save the whito’.

Three new charge officers enter the room, one lady and two men.  Perhaps they have all come in from having their teatime.   Mr Baldwin approaches them with the termination agreement and again explains the details of yesterday.    They gather together and study the document, the one in the middle reads it slowly and out loud.  Mr Baldwin is getting restless as we have been waiting for half an hour to find an officer to accompany us to Patrick’s village and bring him in for questioning.

The officer goes off and comes back with the Sergeant on duty.  For the third time the document is being read as Mr Baldwin is explaining yesterday’s events once again in great detail, when I desperately interrupt.

‘ Patrick is sending war vets to shoot me!’

After all, this isn’t about how much Patrick got paid out or that Mr Baldwin’s cottage might be set alight – this is about my life being threatened.  The paper on the wall says a Grade A call is when there is danger to life, violence is being used or threatened, or a crime is likely to be committed.

They all look up, look at each other; some leave the office – some stay.  Something is happening but I’m not sure what.  Mr Baldwin and I are told to sit on the bench.  I can tell Mr Baldwin’s patience is running out so I temporarily distract him.

‘How did you meet your wife?’ I ask quickly.

Mr Baldwin sits back and begins his story with ease, ‘My Annie came out from Cornwall to visit her cousin in Salisbury. I had a young girlfriend at the time whose father wouldn’t allow out to a dance which was going to be held at the clubhouse, so a friend of mine said he knew just the girl for me to take.’

I’m looking at Mr Baldwin, trying to imagine him back in those days.  He is a tall, lanky man with pale blue eyes, tackie wet lips, grey hair and sun spots on his face.

He has become approachable and tells me about the farm he grew up on in Karoi which was passed onto him by his father.  Then after Independence, in the early eighties when farms were cheap as people were leaving the new Zimbabwe, he bought the farm next door.  His four sons and their families farmed with him until both farms were taken by the government during the farm invasions which started in 2000. War vets (actually youth who have never been in war) were used to intimidate the white farmers to leave their farms without being compensated for their land, homes, furniture or farming equipment.  They left the whole lot.

Mr Baldwin returns to reality and realises we are still waiting for the constable to arrive.  He stands up and hangs over the counter to address the charge officer.

He takes off his glasses, ‘You see this eye – I have just had an operation,’ he says, pointing to it.  He puts his glasses back on. ‘I can’t drive at night; I need to get back to Harare before dark.’

‘I understand but we are waiting for him to arrive, he has gone to another job and will be here soon,’ replies the officer.

After two hours of waiting, the constable arrives by foot. Transport amongst the police force is scarce.   He is a slim man dressed in casual clothes, with a quiet authority and seems unmoved by Mr Baldwin’s frantic hurry to get on the road.  A uniformed police officer accompanies us together with the constable and we briefly discuss the highlights of the case as we walk to the car.

They sit in the back seat reading the termination agreement while Mr Baldwin tears up the mountain in his Pajero, calculating the time he will eventually leave for Harare.  Just to make sure the officers have influence if I ever need them, I ask ‘Are war vets above the law?’

‘If you commit a crime, it doesn’t matter who you are – you will be arrested,’ the constable assures me.

For a moment my confidence is briefly restored in the police force as that wasn’t true during the farm invasions.  In most cases the police weren’t prepared to protect the farmers as they said it was political.

I am dropped off at home, as it is suggested that I don’t accompany them to the village.  One of the workers from the property we stay on is standing at the kitchen door talking to my mother.  He has come to inform her that Patrick has been spreading rumours about me at the market place where the locals sell their goods and the drunkards hang out. Patrick has told the people that I have told him to take his Zanu-PF T-shirt off because I am MDC (the opposition party).  He was trying to stir a crowd to come and toyi-toyi (a dance used with chanting to intimidate) outside my home but apparently the war vets regret their past atrocities during the farm invasions and 2008 elections and some have turned mad because of it.

Mr Baldwin phones me the next morning.  They stayed over at the cottage as it was too late to drive back to Harare. Patrick was not at home yesterday so the constable left a message for him to report to the police station.  Mr Baldwin asks if I knew where the termination agreement was.  I told him I put it between the seats in his car once the constable had read it.

‘Well it isn’t there.  I’ve turned the car upside down,’ he insists.

His wife grabs the phone ‘Are you sure it wasn’t left at the police station? John is so forgetful, I told him not to lose it, we don’t have a copy and the lawyer said we must guard it with our lives.  Perhaps the police took it?’

My heart sinks, ‘Why would the police take it?’‘You just can’t trust any of them,’ Mrs Baldwin tells me.

*Names changed