Where to Begin

“I am not a prisoner of history. In the world through which I travel, I am endlessly creating myself.” 
― Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks
Monsignor Brown with pupils at Embakwe mission school for Coloured children. Jesuit Archives, Harare, courtesy of Rob Burrett.
View full project here.
The quote by Frantz Fanon speaks powerfully to a central conflict of post-colonial, multi-racial identity: the tension between an individual's agency in defining themselves and the historical or social labels imposed by society.
In Southern Africa, the weight of history remains heavy. One of the most enduring legacies of colonialism are the racial categories that continue to be perpetuated. In Zimbabwe, formerly the British colony of Rhodesia, society was segregated into 'White', 'Coloured', 'Asian', and 'African', straining social relations while reinforcing White superiority.
The term 'Coloured' broadly encompasses individuals of mixed European, Asian, Khoisan and Bantu ancestry, who historically occupied an intermediate position in the racial hierarchy. Zimbabwe is home to the second largest Coloured community in Anglophone Africa, after South Africa. Bulawayo, its second-largest city, is widely regarded as its cultural heartland.
This multimedia project invites senior members of today’s fragmented Coloured community in Bulawayo to share personal reflections that illuminate a collective (hi)story often left untold. We are challenged to confront, understand, and re-imagine: what does it mean to embrace the complexity and fluidity of one's identity—to belong nowhere, yet to multiple worlds at once?
To talk about Coloured people is to confront a multi-facetted reality. The violent dispossession and segregation of the colonial encounter. The anti-miscegenation laws that left mixed-race children in liminal spaces, burdened with shame. The intimate relationships, love letters hidden away by a system unwilling to acknowledge their truths. The intra-community dynamics and tensions.
Can we learn something from the bearers of memory—our elders—acknowledge our complex past, and perhaps, as Fanon advocates, reclaim our stories and ourselves?
I used to ask my aunt as a teenager, what does my mother look like? She would make me stand in front of the old dressing table. Then she'd say: 'look in the mirror'. Walking in town, I used to look at all the White women and wonder if they were my mother.
I used to ask my aunt as a teenager, what does my mother look like? She would make me stand in front of the old dressing table. Then she'd say: 'look in the mirror'. Walking in town, I used to look at all the White women and wonder if they were my mother.
I am born from Black and White. I know, and admit, that I’ve got Black blood in me. My great grandmother was Mzondwazi Khumalo, younger sister to King Lobengula. I grew up with the Africans in Old Bulawayo, until I was sent to Embakwe mission school for Coloureds. I was blessed, though I was a plastic bag, that blew from one thorn tree to another.
I am born from Black and White. I know, and admit, that I’ve got Black blood in me. My great grandmother was Mzondwazi Khumalo, younger sister to King Lobengula. I grew up with the Africans in Old Bulawayo, until I was sent to Embakwe mission school for Coloureds. I was blessed, though I was a plastic bag, that blew from one thorn tree to another.
Maud (*1933)​​​​​​​
I was born in Brickfields, Bulawayo, as the fourth eldest out of thirteen children–the naughty one! We spoke Afrikaans at home, as my parents and grandparents traveled from down South [South Africa] by ox wagon in the early 1900s, looking for greener pastures. Until now, I don’t know who my great-grandparents were.
I was born in Brickfields, Bulawayo, as the fourth eldest out of thirteen children–the naughty one! We spoke Afrikaans at home, as my parents and grandparents traveled from down South [South Africa] by ox wagon in the early 1900s, looking for greener pastures. Until now, I don’t know who my great-grandparents were.
Where Coloureds and Whites were involved, it was always a problem, you know. At some of the shops we had to go buy outside at the window. We weren’t allowed to stand at the counter. They served the Whites first. Coloured people needed a permit to buy beer. We only had one ‘scope house [cinema] to go to, whereas the Honkeys [Whites] had three! But the Blacks can also insult you, and call you a 'Bushman', ja.
Where Coloureds and Whites were involved, it was always a problem, you know. At some of the shops we had to go buy outside at the window. We weren’t allowed to stand at the counter. They served the Whites first. Coloured people needed a permit to buy beer. We only had one ‘scope house [cinema] to go to, whereas the Honkeys [Whites] had three! But the Blacks can also insult you, and call you a 'Bushman', ja.
You see, we are not White enough. We are not Black enough. Coloureds are just in between–like a sandwich.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 
You see, we are not White enough. We are not Black enough. Coloureds are just in between–like a sandwich.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ 
Petey (*1935) ​​​​​​​
My father came from Scotland to help control the Matabele uprising in the late 1800s. A local Shona chief gave him three wives. The funny thing about my dad – he would tell us to never marry a Black person, yet he himself had African wives. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​We were about thirty-two children in total. Wherever my father made kids, he collected them. Because in those days if Coloureds were left in the reserves, the Catholic church or army would take them, and send them to missions. They didn’t want us to live in the rural areas.  
My father came from Scotland to help control the Matabele uprising in the late 1800s. A local Shona chief gave him three wives. The funny thing about my dad – he would tell us to never marry a Black person, yet he himself had African wives. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​We were about thirty-two children in total. Wherever my father made kids, he collected them. Because in those days if Coloureds were left in the reserves, the Catholic church or army would take them, and send them to missions. They didn’t want us to live in the rural areas.  
We felt unwanted by the Africans, and unwanted by the Whites, who were ashamed of us. We were called maKharadi, Ninety-nines, maBushmani. I feel God was unfair. He made me a Coloured that nobody wanted. 
We felt unwanted by the Africans, and unwanted by the Whites, who were ashamed of us. We were called maKharadi, Ninety-nines, maBushmani. I feel God was unfair. He made me a Coloured that nobody wanted. 
Diana (*1944)​​​​​​​
My mother was a Ndebele woman. My father died and we were taken to Sacred Heart–a boarding school run by German nuns. A lot of the children there were of Black and White unions. Perhaps the nuns felt responsible for us, I don’t know. They took in most of these kids because at the time, Whites weren’t allowed to mix with Blacks, and their offspring were frowned upon. Growing up was difficult as I had no clue who I was, and where I came from. The connection between myself and society was quite difficult. It can make you quite withdrawn from society, from people.
My mother was a Ndebele woman. My father died and we were taken to Sacred Heart–a boarding school run by German nuns. A lot of the children there were of Black and White unions. Perhaps the nuns felt responsible for us, I don’t know. They took in most of these kids because at the time, Whites weren’t allowed to mix with Blacks, and their offspring were frowned upon. Growing up was difficult as I had no clue who I was, and where I came from. The connection between myself and society was quite difficult. It can make you quite withdrawn from society, from people.
In many ways I’m still a child as I have so many more things to learn. I've tried to expand my way of thinking. I admire art, and read books that you wouldn’t normally read. There’s something in a man that's meant to grow and change.
In many ways I’m still a child as I have so many more things to learn. I've tried to expand my way of thinking. I admire art, and read books that you wouldn’t normally read. There’s something in a man that's meant to grow and change.
Patrick (*1960)
I was the eldest of eight siblings. We grew up in the bush, and since my father was a plate layer, we moved with the railway line. At the age of seven I had to go to boarding school in Bulawayo, at the only Coloured school at the time with a hostel.
I was the eldest of eight siblings. We grew up in the bush, and since my father was a plate layer, we moved with the railway line. At the age of seven I had to go to boarding school in Bulawayo, at the only Coloured school at the time with a hostel.
After completing primary school, as girls we had two choices–to become a teacher or a nurse. The government needed Coloured teachers and nurses, because Whites wouldn’t want to work in a Black school or hospital. So when we finished primary school, if we wanted to pursue a secondary education, they sent us to South Africa. I was thirteen years old when I left for Cape Town in 1946, to train to become a primary school teacher, since there was no high school for Coloureds yet back home in Rhodesia. 
After completing primary school, as girls we had two choices–to become a teacher or a nurse. The government needed Coloured teachers and nurses, because Whites wouldn’t want to work in a Black school or hospital. So when we finished primary school, if we wanted to pursue a secondary education, they sent us to South Africa. I was thirteen years old when I left for Cape Town in 1946, to train to become a primary school teacher, since there was no high school for Coloureds yet back home in Rhodesia. 
Cynthia (*1932)​​​​​​​
I can still remember the day I left home; I was thirteen years old. It was cold, so I made two fires and slept in the bush. By age sixteen, I was working on the railways, and after that I joined the Rhodesian army. Today, I run my own detective agency. I don’t know of any other Coloured men in the country who are private investigators. I was a fighter, always rebellious, and very strong. I was known as 'King Rat'. Until today, I can’t shake it off. The name gives me the work, because people know King Rat can get the job done.
I can still remember the day I left home; I was thirteen years old. It was cold, so I made two fires and slept in the bush. By age sixteen, I was working on the railways, and after that I joined the Rhodesian army. Today, I run my own detective agency. I don’t know of any other Coloured men in the country who are private investigators. I was a fighter, always rebellious, and very strong. I was known as 'King Rat'. Until today, I can’t shake it off. The name gives me the work, because people know King Rat can get the job done.
James (*1949)​​​​​​​
On our mother’s side we had a Ndebele Gogo [Granny]. What a wonderful person Gogo was. For an uneducated woman, she taught her children, washed and ironed and everything. She also learned how to sew, so our grandfather bought her a sewing machine. 
On our mother’s side we had a Ndebele Gogo [Granny]. What a wonderful person Gogo was. For an uneducated woman, she taught her children, washed and ironed and everything. She also learned how to sew, so our grandfather bought her a sewing machine. 
Our mother was a classical singer. She would sing at weddings and parties. Our mother got a powerful singing voice from her [Ndebele] mother. They would sing while washing clothes down by Khami river. Mother saw to it that we learned to play piano and dance ballet. 
Our mother was a classical singer. She would sing at weddings and parties. Our mother got a powerful singing voice from her [Ndebele] mother. They would sing while washing clothes down by Khami river. Mother saw to it that we learned to play piano and dance ballet. 
Gogo [Granny] told our mother that when the White people came into the country, the Ndebele were driven into the swampy Matopos Hills. As they fled, they sang: “the white man is running after us, I am going to die! But he must know that this will be my country". One of the lines of the song is so sad you know. As a man is being sucked down into the swamp, he sings: “I will follow the dust of the zebra as they run off into the sunset”. Gogo used to sing this song. That’s gone with the generations now.
Gogo [Granny] told our mother that when the White people came into the country, the Ndebele were driven into the swampy Matopos Hills. As they fled, they sang: “the white man is running after us, I am going to die! But he must know that this will be my country". One of the lines of the song is so sad you know. As a man is being sucked down into the swamp, he sings: “I will follow the dust of the zebra as they run off into the sunset”. Gogo used to sing this song. That’s gone with the generations now.
Our grandfather was one of the few White men who stayed with his Coloured children to the end. He would often say there is going to come a time when the whole world will be mixed–everyone will be 'half-breeds'.
Our grandfather was one of the few White men who stayed with his Coloured children to the end. He would often say there is going to come a time when the whole world will be mixed–everyone will be 'half-breeds'.
Ethne (*1951) & Edna (*1932)​​​​​​​
In loving memory.
In loving memory.
Audrey (*1942 †2023)​​​​​​​
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