Leaves, Phone Calls, and the Land Grab Comes to Nyabira.

Looks like a bank of cloud bringing rain, but no, it is a heavy sea fog that has come every evening over the past week returning to hot sunny days in the morning

It is Autumn here in Portugal, which means for me, sweeping leaves. Raking leaves with a spring-tined rake is therapeutic in some way, perhaps because it's my old age. During my time at Keil School in Dumbarton, on the banks of the River Clyde, it was either seen as a duty or a punishment. I say so as a duty, as at Keil in the sixties, when I attended, there were no groundsmen other than a gardener. Nor were there cleaning staff indoors; there was a bursar, teaching staff, cooks, and matrons, the latter of whom also ran the small sickbay. After seven and before breakfast at eight, and following breakfast before classes, every morning, we had what was called orderly duties. Everyone would be assigned a task each term, which included everything from cleaning the toilets to washing the dishes, and, yes, in the autumn, raking or brushing the leaves from the grounds and driveways. These were called orderly duties. We then had something called ‘Natural History’, a form of punishment that lay between getting lines for trivial misdeeds and corporal punishment for more serious crimes. Prefects and teachers could impose and carry out all three. I decided to look for a photograph of my old school and found that it featured heavily in an inquiry into abuse in private Scottish schools. I quote from it. It seems that after I had long left the school, it also had some paedophiles. Why was the inquiry report published twenty-five years after the school closed, I wonder? Here is the link to the report for those interested. https://www.childabuseinquiry.scot/sites/default/files/2025-08/Keil%20findings%20July%202025_0.pdf

Keil in its heyday

"I learned at an early age there is a very thin line between bullying and discipline imposition."- Peter McSporran

"Responsibility for the day-to-day running of the boarding houses was left to senior boys with housemasters being distant figures and some boarding house staff considering themselves immune from management.

As a cost saving measure, as well as it being the Keil tradition, responsibility for daily tasks fell to the pupils so senior boys who had been appointed ‘chiefs’, and their deputies, were left to control squads of junior boys with limited supervision, if any.

The attitude of teachers was, largely, that they were there to teach and nothing more than that. 

There was an assumption that children could be relied upon to look after the welfare of other children - and to do so without adequate or proper oversight – but that was a serious mistake, particularly since there was no system to ensure consistency across the boarding houses in the school’s approach to child welfare."- Lady Smith in the Scottish Child Abuse Inquiry Report Publiched in 1925 some twenty five years after my old school closed.

The burnt-out shell of Keil today. I have no fond memories of school, rugby and sailing, yes.

Anyway, the Natural History form of punishment was nearly always in the form of weeding the grounds, cutting the grass, or sweeping up the leaves on the lawns and driveways, covering a large area of nearly thirty acres. How I hated these tasks in those days, with a peeching (beaten by sandshoe), a more favourable option!

“How age can change your perspective on life. As a schoolboy, I loathed the task of sweeping up leaves, whether it was an early morning duty or punishment, and now I find it therapeutic—no wonder the youth look at the aged and shake their heads.” - Peter McSporran

Following my article in the Farmer Magazine at the time, likening the farm invasions to ethnic cleansing, my cell phone took on a life of its own. I was expressing an opinion, but it seemed that some saw it as a challenge against the Government and it appeared to hit home amongst some of the politicos, including the CIO (Central Intelligence Agency). Still, somewhat more surprisingly, I started to receive calls from those who said they were negotiating on our behalf. My coming out and saying what I said was, according to them, detrimental to their efforts—the Commercial Farmers Union (CFU) did not. I recently asked Tim Henwood, the then-President, if he felt I had interfered at the time, and he assured me that I did not. He did mention, however, that he had support from the past president of the Zimbabwe Tobacco Association (ZTA), Peter Richards, but not so the leadership of the then present ZTA who seemed more aligned to Nick Swanepoel. Nick was at pains to tell me I did not see the big picture. Richard Tate and Ian Burgoyne requested a meeting, which we arranged for breakfast at the Jameson Hotel. Why not make what could be a difficult meeting as pleasant as it could be? The breakfasts at the Jameson were renowned. The gist of the conversation was that an effort should be made to convince, given its importance to the economy, employment, and foreign currency earnings, that tobacco growers should receive special dispensation. At that time, still under fifty per cent of farms were on the designation lists, so it was still thought that not all the farms would be taken. As a tobacco farmer and past president of the CFU, representing all farmers, I said I could not support such a proposal. After having some differences with Nick, not unpleasant, just differing views, he suggested I should meet someone with the ear of the ruling party, ZANU(PF).

Tinks Bezuidenhout and the late Joe Whaley. Despite the invasions, we continued to entertain each other locally. People from the city would decline invitations.

I knew he had direct contact with Mnangagwa, having been introduced to him through Wessels Rautenbach, who was also a drinking friend of mine at the Red Lion. I had never discussed politics with him, but I presume Nick made use of him after I left the CFU. There was nothing wrong with that; you have to utilise your contacts. But this time, he wanted me to meet with John Bredenkamp, which I reluctantly agreed to at the CFU offices. None of the CFU leadership was present, and surprisingly, Tim Henwood later stated that he was unaware of the meeting. Why? I should have wondered more back then. Anyway, the gist of the discussion, or rather the lecture, was that we should be willing to give up at least half the farms without argument, as the situation was extremely dangerous and, if not careful, there could be a bloodbath on the farms. I was to learn later that Tim was also receiving this message from this group. There was no doubt that the position was deadly serious, but my question was who would decide which farms would be taken and what would happen to land values if they were not compensated. I listened and said I would give it some thought. There was no chance of presenting a different view in that room; there was only one plan. I did not think giving up half the land would work, and having experienced the efforts in trying to un-designate farms during my term of office, I was certainly not willing to be a party in indiscriminately deciding who could stay and who could go. At that time, there was no funding in place, but Nick was convinced they would find the money to implement such a plan. Perhaps if the money had been found, some of the farmers would not have lost their farms; who knows? But by then, any politically connected person was joining the feeding frenzy in taking land. It would not be long before bankers, senior accountants, and businessmen also thought they should not miss out on the opportunity to acquire free land. Things were running out of control. I remember that shortly after the meeting, Bredenkamp telephoned me on my landline in the farm office, asking why I had not come out in support of Nick as I had agreed at the meeting. I said I had not agreed. He then asked me if I did not know who I was talking to, followed by incoherent expletives and foul language, which Karen Steyn, my administrator at the time, could hear in her office next door. I wonder if she remembers that day. I am sure she does. I certainly do. Nick then followed up with a meeting at Sally Sandeman's house, assuring me they could find the money, and when, once again, that fell on my deaf ears of all people, Patrick Mavros called me late at night and said we had to agree to give up the land or there would be a blood bath. I have learned recently that he also met with Tim Henwood on behalf of Bredenkamp; perhaps Bredenkamp was a good customer of his to get his support. What other interests could he have?

The ‘Warvets’ were now very active in all areas, but as yet, while being on several farms, including Mede, we had not yet lost a farm. Our labourers were being asked to attend ‘Pungwes’, which were all-night meetings aimed at indoctrinating the labourers against the farmers. Later, even white farm managers and owners themselves were forced to attend. Tommy Billar, my Mazowe farm manager, was being especially targeted, although most of my managers would suffer this humiliation at one time or another. I personally never did. Bunny hopping was often insisted on to avoid a beating. Then it came: Grant Burger, who leased the tobacco section on the farm his parents, Earl and Del owned, was told that the Government was taking his farm immediately, and he must leave. Not complying could mean imprisonment.

Land confiscation had come to our area. The Burgers were terribly upset, and, in some way, their shock and anger led them to feel that the district should have done more. There was nothing anybody could do. At a meeting of our local Farmers Association, I shocked the members by suggesting that perhaps he was lucky, as he could move and sell his equipment and market his crop, whereas in the not-too-distant future, this may not be the case. Of course, they were inconsolable and rightly so, with many of us attending his dispersal sale and buying items we knew we would most likely lose in the near future. In the year two thousand, we planted another crop. What else was there to do? We could not move the money offshore by law, although some were doing so illegally at massive discounts. The stock market had collapsed, and with devaluation, if not invested, it would be worth significantly less within a year. All we had to invest in was our farms, so we planted. With heavy hearts, we planted, perhaps with not so much care and attention as in the past, as none of us knew if we would even be allowed to harvest the crop.

Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.