But one was white

I witnessed a very sad, but unfortunately typical and accepted, interaction the other day. It was between two men. They were about the same age, but one was white.

The white man had come into printing shop to get some copies made while I was waiting for my own order which was being worked on by another man (black). The white man had to wait to be served. As he did, the black man came in, greeted the white man waiting and walked to the other side of the counter. The white man responded well and I remember feeling positive (a white man's good response makes me feel positive; it surprises me).

I forget who it was who started it, but one of them commented on the constant rain we had had for the last 8 days, and they started talking farming.

The white man said the rain was good. The black man agreed, it was good because people were out looking after their crops and planting. Something about this comment made the white man tense up. I wondered if he used to own a farm. It would have been a large commercial farm that produced exported wheat or tobacco, not maize to feed his family. These men were from different worlds. The whole atmosphere changed. He said, if they were planting, they were too late. Expert. But the black man was an expert too, and, unfortunately, he did not seem to feel the change in the atmosphere. He said, no, the rains had only started in his home in Mutoko in December and so there was still time.

The white man had shut down. He was focused on his copies.

The black man, however, was warming up. He had been positively received at the beginning of the exchange and he had unexpectedly made a connection with this murungu, not something that happens every day, clearly. He was determined to take advantage of this rare happening and was clearly passionate about farming, like any good Zimbabwean. He continued talking. Eager to share, to connect, to be heard.

Sorghum, which we grow in Mutoko, can be planted now...

But the white man had his copies and enough. He had left the conversation long ago. He repeated "Sorghum?" over his shoulder as he walked out the door, leaving the black man finishing his sentence to the air and me, a silent but suddenly very large, observer.

There was no way to save the situation. I could not pretend to have any knowledge on farming and while I would have been interested to know what it was that made sorghum a crop that could be planted after the rains had started, trying to continue the conversation would have just made what had happened even worse.

The black man's discomfort and surprise at being left, so rudely and unkindly, stranded, in the middle of a sentence, an assumed connection, a presumed equality was hard to see. I wished I had got my printing done elsewhere.

Such a small interaction, hardly lasting five minutes. But how telling, and how sad, that we are still here.

He thought he could have a conversation of equals. But his partner did not see him as a partner at all. They were about the same age, but one was white.