Memory Project: The .22 Pistol
During my childhood I saw my mother in tears on many occasions. Her distress stemmed from hardship and homesickness. Separated from her family by 6000 miles, in a foreign country on an outlandish continent she often felt lonely and deprived of both physical and emotional support. It was a struggle bringing up three young children on the meagre income my father could provide, and at times she would become tearful. It was always the same lament containing recrimination aimed at my father, and vitriol for the hostile environment and the horrible people she shared it with. Why had he forced her to leave family and friends and come to South Africa where she knew no one, and then, just as she was settling down, why had he insisted on dragging her and the children off to this godforsaken place?
It took her a good 20 years to shake off her homesickness and chronic nostalgia for London and the English way of life. I used to think my father had made a huge mistake in bringing her to Africa. Right up until after her death I held the notion that she just wasn’t the pioneering type. But in the last decade or so I have come to realise just how strong and adaptable she was. Considering her background and her gentle nature, it must have taken a great deal of bravery to endure some of the demands that were made on her.
One of the ordeals that she had to endure was being left alone with three young children for a week or two at a time while my father was away in the bush. Admittedly there was little crime in Gwelo in those days, but the fact that my father bought her a gun is an indication of how nervous she must have been at night.
The gun was a Beretta .22 pocket pistol. It was so small it looked like a toy, and the cartridges were tiny. When he brought it home, he showed her how it worked, and set up a tin drum against the kaia wall to shoot at. She fired a few shots but was clearly reluctant and apprehensive, and relieved when the exercise was over. She used to sleep with the loaded pistol under her pillow, but I doubt whether she would have been able to use it had there been an intruder.
After my father’s death my brother asked me if I was interested in taking over the gun, which was unregistered and therefore an illegal firearm. Foolishly, I declined and now regret it. It would have been a valuable memento and I know my son would be keen to try firing it. Maybe Alan still has it stashed away somewhere?
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