I was eight when independence happened. I remember my mum and dad

"I was eight when independence happened. I remember my mum and dad getting dressed up to go to the independence concert to go listen to Bob Marley. Independence was such a wonderful time; we had so many expectations of the kind of country we would become. The vision of the government then was a wonderful vision." – Petina Gappah

Hear these words, O children of Africa and all who yearn for freedom, for within them lies both the sweetness of hope and the ache of remembrance. When Petina Gappah, daughter of Zimbabwe, spoke of her nation’s independence, she did not merely recall an event, but a sacred dawn — the awakening of a people after long years of bondage. Her memory is painted with joy: the music of Bob Marley, the laughter of her parents clothed in celebration, and the air thick with expectation. It was a time when the heart of a nation beat with one rhythm, when dreams soared higher than the flags raised in victory.

Yet beneath her nostalgia lies a deeper meditation on the fragile nature of freedom. For independence is not merely the end of oppression, but the beginning of responsibility. It is easy to win liberty through struggle; it is harder to preserve it through wisdom. When Gappah remembers that “we had so many expectations,” she speaks not only of Zimbabwe, but of every nation and every soul that has emerged from darkness. The vision of the government then — pure, radiant, and full of promise — reminds us that every birth of a nation carries with it both light and burden, both triumph and test.

Let us look to the story of Ghana, the first sub-Saharan African nation to win its freedom from colonial rule. When Kwame Nkrumah proclaimed, “Ghana, your beloved country, is free forever,” the crowds rejoiced as if the heavens had opened. Like Zimbabwe years later, Ghana’s people dreamed of unity, prosperity, and dignity. Yet in time, corruption, division, and disillusionment followed, and the golden vision dimmed. But from that fading light came wisdom — the realization that freedom is not a single act, but a continuous labor of heart and hand. In every generation, the dream must be rebuilt anew.

Gappah’s words, though tender, carry the weight of understanding that independence is both miracle and trial. She does not speak as one who has forgotten the joy of liberation, but as one who knows the long road that follows it. The concert of Bob Marley, that prophet of unity and freedom, symbolized more than celebration — it was a call to perseverance. His song “Zimbabwe”, performed at that very concert, declared, “Every man got a right to decide his own destiny.” It was a hymn not just for one night of triumph, but for the eternal struggle to keep destiny alive when the euphoria has faded.

In her reflection lies a lesson for all peoples and all times: do not let the fire of your beginning die. The wonderful vision of independence must not remain a memory of what once was, but a standard to which each generation must rise. Nations fall not because their enemies are strong, but because their children forget the dreams of their parents. Freedom, like a garden, must be tended daily — with honesty, justice, and compassion — lest weeds of greed and indifference overtake it.

And so, let this teaching be carried forward: remember your independence not as a story of the past, but as a responsibility of the present. Celebrate your beginnings, yes, but also labor to fulfill the promises made in that first dawn. Be as Gappah’s parents were — dressed in hope, ready to build, ready to sing. For a nation’s true independence is not won on the day it casts off its chains, but on the day it keeps its vision alive through generations. And when you speak of freedom, let it not be as nostalgia, but as a living vow — to make the wonderful vision real once more.