A Place called Placed - Memories of my home

Arcadia, Zimbabwe - A Placid and tranquil place. Humble, picturesque and fulfilling

Arcadia gave rise to great men and women.

                        To the ordinary and the professional from all walks of life and at all levels. From drunkards, drug addicts to politicians, sportspersons, pilots, doctors, lawyers and comedians. A modest people, just simply......people. Mothers and fathers, each and all content within their own space.

                        Ironically and humorously, it only measures 3 square kilometers.  

                        A spirit of Humility and brotherhood drenched the avenues. The streets were paved with the warmth and awesome charisma that usually form the recipe for small towns. Everyone knew everybody; the circus of women chatting over fences graced every street, the means to forwarding household information. It needed no networks. With fencing few and far between and backgardens infiltrated by all. People freely crossed from one space to another without fear of antagonism. Instead such spaces were journeyed commonly and purely to facilitate chatter and as a stepping stone to the next fence. Typically, to borrow sugar, tea, tomatoes, bread or whatever else was needed.

                        

                        The children lived in freedom and the friendships that were formed in this limited arena, continued into adulthood and gave rise to other community families being borne into associations that are still prevalent today. The shortened pathways provided more than just the avenue to information. It bore an opportunity for fresh relationships. Arcadia provided and proved the principle of longevity.

                        The sports fields became bonding places, resembling the warmth of a homely kitchen. Always thriving with laughter and jolly times. The odd fight now and then added variety to the calm, jovial majority. People lived for weekends when they could enjoy the social life, embrace the sports fields, support and play soccer, basketball, tennis and volleyball. The social “Club” was built by and for the community. Arcadia's very own “White House” that provided “jit and jive” rendered by the community band.

                        The young grew up and the very first independent step was filled with a sense of destiny, grounded by a humble childhood and the foundation of being raised in simplicity.

                       There remains a memory of visitations to the health clinic and going off to creche. We were greeted by beautiful women who have never ever been forgotten. Aunty Liza, Aunty Lucy; woman who, if one didn't know better, mirrored the same love and attention one got within your own confined space called home. Confined indeed. The size of the family mattered nothing. The space remained confined. There was one Primary, one High School and a private school. For most, options were not debatable, neither negotiable. It formed the path everyone needed to travel. Though some did not. There were the few who were privileged enough to attend the private school, but they paid the price for deserting the “commoners”. Sheepishly, they found it difficult to live in.

                        Our teachers became the corner stone of a model that was wise and strong. They provided discipline and wisdom; they made understanding education easier. They were friends and builders of Arcadia and each brick they shaped was being laid to a foundation that was much larger than even they could have envisaged.

                        They were Icons. Hall, Bower, Handscombe, Van Zyl, Howarth, Chetty, Pullen; different moulds that provided the fundamental aspects of character. Life was arduous, joyous and whole.

                        Everyone jostled for space. Space to be a part of this classic culture that became the foundation of the very people it created. The big; small; short and the tall; And as adulthood pressed on; so did the core fundamentals of this humble vicinity. Like a sleek shadow following your every move.

                        Arcadia remains. It was not a figment of imagination but bears concrete evidence in its buildings , roadways and people. Just being a part of Arcadia life was awesome. An unforgettable memory that never fades with time. I am the offspring and child of Arcadia. I am the fruit of her loins. I carry the spirit of her people within me.

                        A Placid and tranquil place. Humble, picturesque and fulfilling.

                        I loved Arcadia then, I love it still.

Author: Patrick Terry Galloway

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