I then registered with a large national employment agency, Job Centre and searched through the countless care jobs available on the automated machine’s database.

I had realised that the majority of Zimbabweans living in England had resorted to care work because the rate of pay was better. One could work longer hours unlike other unskilled and tedious jobs such as cleaning and warehouse work.

In England care-work is regarded as one of the biggest forms of employment for both local Britons and foreigners. Being an emotionally trying job, it demanded an immeasurable level of patience.

The options for care-work included a live-in care-worker, a home care-worker or a day or night care-worker. The job description for each was basically the same.

Generally care workers attend to personal needs of their client/s including housekeeping, running errands such as grocery shopping or paying bills, preparing meals, feeding, bathing, dressing, toileting and other related duties.

Despite being physically helpless, due to their old age, many elderly people were affected by a condition that is known as dementia[1], which often made them hallucinate and visualize imaginary beings and creatures, especially at night when they were unable to sleep peacefully. Some of the elderly people were even obnoxiously difficult and some of their antics included pressing the emergency buzzer for no apparent or logical reason but merely to get the care workers’ attention.

I was overjoyed when I got a job and for me life in London centered on my university studies and job as a care-worker and I found that it was often all work and no play in the fast-paced and hectic life in London. Because I was often overwhelmed with my university assignments and my care job was very exhaustive and I had less time for anything else in between, I craved to have a social life but between juggling my job and my university studies, I could have no social life because in reality I could never get enough time to get complete rest and as a result often became listless and felt many negative effects of lack of deserved rest.  I attended university lectures, which began at ten o’clock in the morning until four o’clock in the afternoon After a short break of four hours, in which I would be either studying or catching up on much-needed sleep and rest, I then worked night-shift at the elderly people’s home from nine o’clock in the evening until the following morning at half-past eight, when I would go home to take a short nap, have a bath, eat breakfast, before proceeding to university. It was four nights a week I worked night shift at the elderly people’s home

I started working at a residential care home that provided care to the elderly and I gained valuable knowledge and a wealth of caring experience. When I first started working as a care worker, I worked with an excellent team who knowing that I had never done this kind of job before, they assisted me in developing my  care skills and continued to support me all the way with lots of training and also gave me the opportunity to develop initiative and good interpersonal skills. It took me about a month to acclimatize myself with the skills of being a care-worker and I gradually gained experience. Working at the elderly people’s care home meant that I became part of a big family of both staff and residents. The staff got on well and they gave mutual support to each other with one goal in mind, which was looking after our residents the best way we can.

The roster was flexible and all the staff’s availability and requirements were always taken into consideration and I found that the working environment was very supportive and staff get on well with each other. We had regular staff support meetings and training to complement our skills We followed a set work plan on every night shift. First the senior care-worker walked around the home to ensure that all doors and windows were securely shut and bolted.  While she did this another care-worker made tea for the residents who were still awake, the third care-worker loaded two trolleys and filled them with bed linen, sanitary pads, towels and flannels, which we would require when we checked the residents, and the fourth care-worker assisted to bed the residents who were ready to retire for the night. When all this was accomplished we gathered together in the senior care-worker’s office and she gave us a hand-over As part of her hand-over she gave us details of how the residents had spent their morning and afternoon, and named any resident/s who had been taken ill or admitted to hospital during the day, resident/s who had contracted an infection or had had an accident such as fall and so forth.

Having two floors with two wings on either floor, two care-workers worked on the first floor while the other two care-workers worked on the ground floor. Among my duties was to undress the elderly , who could no longer do this on their own, give then a bed bath or in the shower and then dress them afterwards. Initially I felt embarrassed to undress the male residents when I helped them to take a bath, but noticing my uneasiness, the senior care worker did this with me for a few days and because most of the male residents were good natured about it, this helped me to get over the embarrassment. For the first round we checked that the residents’ had not wet or soiled their bed linen and if necessary we changed the bed linen and pads if any of the residents had wet or soiled them. We also assisted the residents who wished to relieve their bowels. With the first round completed we loaded all the dirty bed linen and clothing into the washing machines and while these were being washed we then ironed clean laundry and put it in the resident’s wardrobes. Following this it was time to clean the kitchen, the dining room and the residents’ lounges. With this task completed, we had our first break at about 12:30 am.  We were required to check the residents on hourly basis to ensure their safety as well as to check that their bed and pads were dry and after each round we were required to record the status of each.  At five o’clock in the morning we did the final check on the residents and also emptied and washed. their bed pans. Between 6:00 am and 7:00 am we assisted some residents who liked to get up early to take a bath and helped them to dress . It was always a welcome relief to go home at 7:00 am after a hard night’s work.

My personal experiences at the residential care home for the elderly led me to develop a great respect for all the people who worked as care-givers, such as doctors and nurses. Working at the residential care home, also made me see first-hand that old age is a process that creeps up on us all, whether in Africa or in England. It is a natural thing which comes gradually and it comes to everybody. As I observed the elderly men and women I could not help thinking that they could be better cared for by their families where they could have more abundant life instead of sitting around in care home, reminiscing about the past, watching afternoon television or counting the days or weeks until that rare visit from their children or the when death would come knocking.

One night I had no idea what an eventful night-shift I was going to experience when I left my flat for work one particular night. The first part of the night passed uneventfully then when it was time for the 1:00 am round the senior care-worker asked me to check the residents alone since she and the other two care-workers were busy doing some urgent tasks.  Slipping on my gloves I started up the flight of stairs to the first floor. I checked the first wing and to my relief all the residents were comfortably asleep and I did not need to change any pads or bed linen. 

On the second wing I opened the door of one of the female residents whom the senior care-worker had instructed that we should pay special attention to her because  she was very ill. She suffered from cancer and the doctor had said that there was nothing more that could be done for her. All we could do as care-workers was to make her last days as comfortable as possible.  I opened the door slowly and in the dim light from her lamp shade I knew instinctively that all was not well.

I pressed the emergency buzzer by her bedside and in a few moments the senior care-worker was by my side. She looked at the old woman and then looked at me sadly.

“She is gone,” was all she said.

We shut the door and solemnly walked downstairs.

The senior care-worker made a telephone call to the doctor who came as soon as he could and after examining her body he declared that she had had a major concussion to her head having certified her dead he left.

Her next of kin were informed of her death and then before calling the undertakers the senior care-worker asked me to help her prepare the old woman’s body . Seeing my aghast expression she told me that I could leave the room any time if it became unbearable for me.

“It is part of the job,” she told me nonchalantly.

“You will witness many more deaths in your term as a care-worker.”

Reluctantly I followed her back to the dead woman’s room and helped her to lift June’s limp body from the floor to the bed. We then removed the pool of blood and cleaned the wound on her head. To my surprise, I remained composed throughout  what I deemed to be ‘the ordeal’ and I was greatly relieved when we finally finished the job and shut the door behind us, leaving  the rest of the job to the undertakers.

When it was time for the three o’clock round I was alone once more as I checked the residents and to my shock it was I again who discovered another dead resident. This time I did not press the emergency buzzer and left the room quickly to  alert the senior care-worker, who was busy writing the paper-work for the night shift, when I walked into her office. Taking one look at my somber expression she said.

“Another death?”

I nodded my head.

Once more I helped the senior care-worker to prepare the woman’s body and the undertakers were called again.

Later, in the wee hours of the morning, as we sat down to drink a hot cup of tea, the senior care-worker commented.

“In my twenty years of service as a care worker, I have not had to deal with two deaths in a single night.”

“You have been a care worker for twenty-years,” I exclaimed in surprise, that she had had the strength to remain commitment to her job for this number of years, despite the stress that is so often associated with the myriad of duties of a care-worker. It was no wonder that she had been appointed as Senior Support Worker and thus became part of the coordinating and support work team, which was responsible for the overall running of the elderly people’s home.

“I cannot see myself working anywhere else and in fact I see myself working here until my retirement and over the years I have enjoyed providing  services that respect and utilize the unique strengths, capabilities and cultural backgrounds of our elderly clients.

The elderly women and men who we cared for were lonely and disenchanted with the world and I could not shut depressing thoughts out of my mind after each working shift at the old people’s home and I could not stop thinking seriously about the plight of the elderly people, who were often treated with much disdain.

I had noticed that it was only at Christmas and Easter that their spirits were slightly lifted as their sons, daughters and grandchildren came for a very brief visit I felt proud that in the past Zimbabwe, had recognized the need for children to meet the needs and solve the problems of their  aged parents adequately, and  I was upfront and told one of the elderly women that in seemingly having no care for her, her children were behaving in a  neglectful way towards her and with tears streaming down her cheeks she told me in between sobs.

“My own children will have nothing to do with me because I am old and frail and they never come to visit me ever since they brought me to this home. It has been five years since I last my son and his family.  They do not realize that it is very important that they look after me because they will one day be old and will need people to treat them well. The Biblical fifth commandment says that we are to honor our father and mother.[2] Is it honorable to place me in a nursing home because I am too old to care for myself? If my presence in their home puts them under tremendous pressure in their own lifestyle, then their lifestyle needs to change, not God’s command.”

I felt sorry for the old, frail woman, who was always woeful, misty eyed and always had a faraway look in her eyes, whenever I went into her room to respond to a call that she made. Usually all she wanted was to have a chat and I would oblige and talk to her for some time.

When I told her how traditionally, Zimbabwe had always respected the elderly, and the large, extended families had provided guarantees for old age, she was most surprised by this fact.

She was even more surprised when I told her how in Zimbabwe the link between age and wisdom was revealed in many of the traditional words that were used to describe an old man or woman, such as “Vana chipangamazano”, “vakuru wedu vanoyemurika  or “vanhu vabve zera”  and Vanhu Vakuru.

I gave her the example of the world's most visible old person, being Nelson Mandela, who in his age was world renowned and viewed with much respect for the wisdom that he had gained over the years in his political life.

“Zimbabwean elderly people are indeed blessed, to have such honour from the younger generation who even reflect their respect and honour in the names that they call their elderly,” she said.

I however gave her the most recent and true picture of the situation regarding old people in the present day and told their how due to urbanization and difficult economic circumstances in Zimbabwe, many families now found it impossible to look after the elderly, even though they may wish to because extended family structures were breaking down

“Traditional extended family support for old age is simply no longer working for many people in Zimbabwe. And with families unable or unwilling to take on the burden of care, many elderly people are now totally destitute. In Zimbabwe, several old people's homes have been established, although this was an entirely alien concept in Zimbabwean society.

One morning as I was helping a frail seventy eight year old, terminally ill elderly woman, named Monica Jenkins, to dress up for breakfast, I was shocked when she said to me.

“There is something that I have been meaning to ask you, but I have always forgotten, when you come in. You are from Rhodesia, aren’t you?

As I sat down on the couch next to her bed, to listen to what she had to say to me,

I wondered how she knew that I was from Zimbabwe, which she still referred to as Rhodesia. But in my bemusement, I totally forgot to probe her about this. She was very nostalgic about her past and loved to reminisce about different things, but she had never mentioned to me before that she knew that I was from Rhodesia or rather Zimbabwe.

Ever since I had started working at the home, she had taken an instant liking towards me and there was no doubt that she had become very fond of me. In fact, among all the residents, she was my favourite resident and she often told me that she looked forward to  when I was on shift so that we could have a chat.

Her husband had passed on two weeks before and before his death, they had shared the room, but although his bed now lay empty, she often imagined that he was still there lying on his bed, as before, and she held conversations with him, as she used to.

Suddenly she grabbed hold of my hand.

“You have a brown skin colour. That is a nice colour for skin.”

“It is good for the sun,” I told her. “Since you have lived in Rhodesia, you know that we get a lot of sun and the brown skin pigment protects me from the sun’s rays.”

“I remember that there was a lot of sunshine in Rhodesia. I am sure you cannot grow accustomed to the unpredictable and bitingly cold English weather.”

“I do miss Harare, which we call the Sunshine city.”

 “Would you like to hear my story,” she let on, letting go of my hand.

“I can tell you more about my life, if you will not get into trouble with the senior care worker, for staying too long with me, at the expense of other residents.”

“Don’t worry about the senior carer,” I told her .

She is busy doing her loads of paper work and she won’t even notice that I have lingered in your room for longer than I should. Go on, tell me your story. I am interested to know about when you lived in Rhodesia, since as you rightfully noted, I am from there.”

 “I am British and I was born here to missionary parents  and I am the oldest of seven children. All my brothers and sisters have died, bless them. They are all buried in Rhodesia. The youngest was a soldier in the Rhodesian army and he died in the war.

All I knew growing up was church and nothing else and I was ten years old when my parents volunteered to go to Africa for mission work and they were dispatched to Rhodesia. My father joined a mission in Eastern Rhodesia in Umtali where my parents were very much involved in the establishment of one of the mission schools there.”

            “Do you remember the name of the mission?” I asked her

She shook her head.

Could it be Old Umtali Mission, which is now called Hartzell Mission,” I asked her, but by her vague expression, I knew that it was either not the mission or she simply could not remember the name of the mission.

            Although I mentioned in turn, the names of the other mission schools which are situated in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe, such as St. Columbus Mission, At. Augustine’s Mission, Bonda Mission but stills he could not recollect any of the names.

“When I became of marriageable age, I married Robert Morris and we had three children. My husband served for many years as a prison officer at Salisbury Remand Prison and we had a house in Belvedere.

Later Monica Jenkins, listened enthralled as I told her that the country where she had once lived, was no longer called Rhodesia and that it was now known as Zimbabwe. I told her of the many changes that had taken place since the time that she was there.

Although she tried to pronounce the name Zimbabwe, but she could not quite get it right and she asked me to translate the name and I told her that it meant, “houses of stone,” and briefly explained the name’s origin.

 “Later, when I got married, my husband and I lived in Salisbury in a suburb called Belvedere,” she responded.

            “I worked as a probation officer at the Salisbury Remand Prison and my husband was a government employee. My husband and I decided to leave Rhodesia and we came back to England in 1970.”

“What was the reason that you left Rhodesia,” I inquired from her, but she deliberately evaded answering my question and I did not probe her any further.

It was however obvious that she held very fond memories of her time spent in Rhodesia. She then opened one of her drawers and took out several wall placards which depicted several colonial buildings in the then streets of Salisbury.  She also had a 1963 calendar, which denoted various historic and scenic places in Zimbabwe such as the Victoria Falls