Under the right wing of the plane is his own lost paradise; the family tobacco farm, gone in a morning. It had been the lifetimes’ work of generations, ended by a rabble calling themselves “war veterans”, puppets of a tyrannical state. Giles Raynor and his family were ordered out of their home there and then. He can’t even say he was sent packing because they weren’t allowed to take their belongings. Their past and their future, all gone by lunchtime.
The valuable tobacco crop, he says, was left to rot. Some of his land is now being used for subsistence farming. Looking down, you can see, here and there, a few patches of maize, the odd cow. But most is returning to bush. …
