I have been writing about Zimbabwe/Mugabe for almost six years now – and I would hate to know how many hours I have spent in research, or how many words I have written, but many people ask me where do I get the motivation to write day after day?

I have thought about that long and hard, and I have come to the conclusion that I have an anger in my belly about the suffering that Mugabe has visited upon the people. Up until late 1998, I was amongst those people, and since our departure, things have got distinctly worse for the people.

There is a fire inside of me that burns brightly, fed by the atrocities that Mugabe has played out across the country, fed by the audacious manner in which he treats anybody and everybody, fed by the violence that he has seen fit to unleash on the population.

That fire is fed by his pathetic repetitious allegations that the West wants to re-colonise Zimbabwe, fed by the racial hatred that he incites, fed by the political hype that Mugabe stirs up almost daily.

That fire is not always burning brightly - because there are periods when we hope and we pray that the apex has been met and that the country can begin to right itself - but within days Mugabe has seen to it that life once again resumes its ever upward trend - upwards insofar as oppression is concerned, that is.

And when the fire is just glowing, it is overtaken by a passion for Zimbabwe and its inhabitants. Having lived there for 30-odd years, I know the people, the terrain and the way of life, and I weep for my fellow Zimbabwean.

(Mugabe would prefer that I do not label myself a Zimbabwean - because of my British birth and the fact that I am white.)

But that fire within burns all the time - a controlled rage, a targeted anger.

I refuse to be sidetracked by erstwhile threats and attempts to blur the lines. I refuse to be allayed by the promises of Mugabe. I will not stop my efforts until such time as he and ZANU PF are gone from the political landscape of Zimbabwe.

It should be remembered that I was a serving police officer in Zimbabwe from shortly after independence for four years - and that my demise in the force was because of my colour, my creed and my want to serve as a policeman should - to “serve and protect”.

From the “Personal Postscript” in my book, “Without Honour“:

“Many years have passed since I left the Police and much water has passed under the bridge. I no longer hold any grudge for the treatment I received at the hands of Ndanga - indeed, I am aware that he passed away about ten years ago from a heart complaint. Hudugo, the Dispol, also died about fifteen years ago.

And the prosecutor in me is not far behind.”

Perhaps I should say that the “Zimbabwean” in me lives on, with Mugabe feeding the fire within…

Robb WJ Ellis
The Bearded Man