When the war was done, love fell in place

When I was a toddler, I did not only love the army but I breathed, thought and dreamed about being an officer in the forces. I remember my mind wandering in the dreamland of the war zone as a commander of advancing battalion seizing up an enslaved people to liberate them. This love for soldiers stems from my family since my father had been serving in the Kings African Rifles during the Second World War and when he retired, he got a job with the UN in the logistics department. This gave me the inspiration and the opportunity to trek the world whenever and wherever he was posted to serve especially in peacekeeping missions in post colonial African conflicts. In 1976, one year after Angola’s independence my father was posted in the land of diamonds and since I was three years old from university, he opted to move with me hoping I would land a job. Angolans are very beautiful people and out going by nature according to my observation but the political turmoil during that time did not allow me mingle with them. I immediately landed a job as a reporter with the only English weekly since most if not all the rest were in Portuguese. I was both a writer and a photojournalist so I went to the thickest of the war. Costa Harrieta’s family was trapped in the cross fire of antagonistic forces and she had sustained injuries in her abdomen that threatened her life and I did put her plight to the world that came to her rescue when she was flown to Lisbon for treatment. Costa was 17 years old by the time and I never saw her again for all that time I was in Luanda. I worked there for two years until I returned home due to family reasons while my father stayed for close to five years. Finally, he also come back and retired from service all together and in the 1980s shortly before his passing on, the Angolan government through the UN sent him pension forms but at some stage he was required to go back to Luanda as the procedures are. So old he had grown, so he delegated me with irrefutable evidence as his son who had knowledge about Angola and was registered as his son in the public service and immigration departments so I had to pick theretirement package on his behalf. In 1983, I landed in Luanda and it had changed a lot though the war was still on. The following day, I went to the Angolan pension body to do the necessary paper work. Low and behold the person in charge was this gorgeous tall Angolan with a very light complexion typical of Angolans. “Hi, I am Sharp….Sharp Shooter, son of Bugingo who worked in Angola and retired in 1980 and am here to process his pension,” before I went to say that I also worked as a journalist in that country, she was already smiling from ear to ear to my surprise. “Hi, I am Costa, in charge of foreign pensioners,” she said leaving out her second name which could have given me a hint. She was a grown girl full of confidence and elegance who had risen through the ranks of the pension body. She made sure that I get cleared in a day which left me wondering why she had to assist me so much. “Here you are Shooter,” she said handing over the documents which I would use to get the money in my homecountry. She invited me for coffee that evening before “you go back home” which I gladly accepted. That’s when she broke the news to me. I had “saved” her seven years ago and she felt obliged to return the favour. I invited her to my home country and she accepted immediately abandoning her job and as they say, the rest is history. angarambe2@gmail.com