There was once a country called Rhodesia. And though its lifespan was short – approximately 90 years – it was a magnificent country. A shining jewel that Western Man would do well to remember. Under the auspices of the British South Africa Company (and a chap named Cecil Rhodes), white settlers began arriving in 1890. They were quality men, skilled and resourceful, and they laid the groundwork for a fledgling nation.
In 1923, Rhodesia was declared a self-governing British colony and recruitment in Britain commenced in earnest. If you like wide open spaces and adventure, make your home in Rhodesia, the ads proclaimed. Land was cheap and the future bright. What an exciting time for European Man, spreading his wings, bringing civilization to the Dark Continent – Kenya, Mozambique, the Belgian Congo, and of course the grandaddy of them all, South Africa. Still, there was something special about Rhodesia.
For decades, Europeans arrived in waves and the nation’s white population swelled to nearly 300k at its peak. During that period, did Blacks flee in terror? Ha, quite the contrary. They rode the wave of white industriousness, thriving in ways they never thought possible as their numbers grew from 1M to 5M. The white settlers were primarily men of England, and they did their best to recreate Old Blighty in the subtropical climate. No one can deny they made a fine go of it. They flexed their Western knowhow and built a legend of a nation. A First World mecca on par with other members of the Commonwealth – Canada, Australia, and indeed South Africa. Rhodesia became the Jewel of Africa, and its Breadbasket to boot.
Salisbury in the 1970s was like many other Western cities. It had skyscrapers and upscale shops, well-stocked supermarkets, first-class restaurants, hotels, and cinemas. Everything clean, orderly, civil. Wide, tree-lined streets connected the business district with sprawling suburbs. The homes were often modest but packed essential creature comforts – electricity, running water, telephones, not to mention gardens, pools, and fancy verandahs framed with bougainvillea creeper.
Rhodesians worked hard and played harder. They attended posh country clubs with tennis courts, lawn bowling, and cheerful Black servants. They played rugby and cricket, and made bets at the track, just like in the old country. If left unchecked, my God the sky was the limit. There’s no telling what astonishing feats the Rhodies would have achieved.
But they were not left unchecked. No sir.
What happened, you ask? Well, Rhodesia fell afoul of some new rules emerging post-war. First, whites were not permitted to control African territory – no ifs, ands, or buts. Also, whites were not to be portrayed as honourable and good. Ever. They were always bad, always the villain. And for God sakes, whites were not permitted to defend themselves.
Unfortunately, Rhodesia broke all the new rules and then some. Even more unfortunate, whoever made the new rules seemed to wield unimaginable power. Soon, Rhodesia was under attack from all sides, literally and figuratively. It was their so-called greatest ally, Britain, who eventually put a gun to their head – One Man, One Vote, or else.
Prime Minister Ian Smith knew that was suicide and on November 11, 1965, his government told Britain to go jump in the lake. Rhodesia declared independence. Smith was a man of honour, and he never thought it’d come to this. After all, Rhodesians fought alongside the Allies in two world wars. He never really got over the betrayal.
One Man One Vote. Majority rule. These platitudes played well in the protected halls of Westminster, but in deep dark Africa, Black Rule meant savagery at your doorstep. Not long prior, whites fled the Congo as fast as they could. The atrocities were unspeakable. Anecdotal tales that don’t bear repeating.
Similar stories were unfolding in Kenya, Angola, and Mozambique. Nonetheless, Rhodesia’s white minority dug in. Prime Minister Ian Smith remained steadfast and resolute, committed to his vision and his people. They would defend the nation they built. From that moment forward, Rhodesia was an outcast. Sanctions came fast and furious, and for a spell, the resourceful Rhodesians still thrived. Then came war. In 1965, the Rhodies surely didn’t comprehend the scope of their enemy. Had they been fending off only Mugabe’s ZANU and Nkomo's ZAPU, they’d have won in a rout. Especially since a good many Blacks in the area were on their side.
But Mugabe’s thugs were the tip of the spear. When it came to squashing pesky Rhodesia, an unholy alliance had somehow formed between the so-called Free World and the Commies. In the end, even South Africa betrayed the poor Rhodies. As the Bush War raged, some whites cut losses and left. But a great many put on a brave face and stuck it out – a few good men (and boys) striving to save civilization. Even against the backdrop of violence, they carried on. They attended cocktail parties and lived First World lives.
They put up a helluva fight, too, but it wasn’t easy watching their sons get KIA. Their charmed way of life was slipping away, and they began to wonder – how much longer can this go on?
Ultimately, Rhodesia had no choice. They were vastly outnumbered, nearing bankruptcy, and under constant terrorist threat from communist-backed savages. The enemy had cut their supply chain, and the country was grinding to a halt. In the spring of ’79, Smith agreed to talks in London. The strategy failed. The Lancaster House Agreement was cloaked in pomp and civility, but everyone knew it was a stepping stone to tyrannical (and incompetent) Black Rule. An ushering in of barbaric brutality.
Certainly, white Rhodesians knew. Even before Mugabe was at the helm, their exodus began. No time to dillydally, as the Brits might say. Not when you’re running for your life. Off they went for greener pastures in South Africa, the UK, Australia, New Zealand. For the few that stayed, the looting and land grabs began immediately. So did the violence. Meanwhile, Salisbury became Harare, inflation became hyper-inflation, and infrastructure began falling apart.
As for the Blacks – those not slaughtered in tribal vengeance – they were left disappointed. They believed supermarkets would stay perpetually stocked and First World fruit would rain down – houses, cars, and leisure. They didn’t grasp that farms and cities don’t magically run themselves. It was all so predictable. I hear people say everything they’ve told us about the 20th Century was a lie. That may be a tad hyperbolic, but there are always alternative narratives, like the one I just described for Rhodesia. In my version, whites were the good guys, spreading light and prosperity. After a spell, they were the victims. However, they were never the villains. It all depends who writes the history.
Looking back at the swashbuckling Rhodies, I ask again – what if they’d been left alone? What levels of greatness would they have achieved? Sadly, we’ll never know.
Author’s Credit: K.M. Breakey is the author of Britain on the Brink, the sequel to which will be set in late-stage Rhodesia. He has also written seven other novels and can be reached at ‘km@kmbreakey.com.’
TA’s note: Britain On The Brink is featured in Our Picks and will be reviewed by FSB shortly. For now, I’ll say it’s a good worthwhile read.