Finding Mugabe in New York

I was headed to the subway and home to Brooklyn when, on a whim, I popped into the 52nd St Duane Reade, a New York City drug store chain that peddles everything from cereal to toilet paper. I was browsing the aisles when I noticed this well-dressed, straight-backed man standing at attention and eyeing me strangely.

Another official-looking man walked up to him, nervously holding out a list in his hand, muttering something about such and such not being here. The whole scene seemed out of place. Thats when I turned and looked down the aisle.

There, standing in the cosmetics section, hunched over a display of lipsticks and blush, was none other than Robert Mugabe. He was shorter than I expected, but it was definitely him: Zimbabwes very own president for life standing a few feet away from me in this tacky New York drug store.

My parents grew up in Zimbabwe, and from a young age Id heard all about Uncle Bob. I can still vividly remember watching his regal motorcade drive slowly by during a childhood trip to Harare. The pomp and importance of it all left a lasting impression. Of course, Uncle Bob was still a hero then (including to my white parents) and Zimbabwe was still a success story.

Sad and pathetic

But that was before it all went terribly wrong. Now, here, in front of me, was this ordinary old man in a crisp gray suit.

The same man who stood at the helm during Zimbabwes spectacular fall from grace. Whod transformed an entire country from breadbasket to basket case. Under the fluorescent lights overhead, Mugabe seemed small, brittle even. I felt this peculiar mix of rage and righteousness bubble up inside me.

President Mugabe, President Mugabe I calmly said to him. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was going to say. Mugabe, bespectacled as always, turned and looked me in the eye.

President Mugabe, I managed. Give the power back to the people. Leave office gracefully. Do it for Zimbabwe. I dont know who was more shocked, he or I. He lowered his gaze, turned, and started for the checkout area. I took a picture with my phone as he walked away from me.

Suddenly, the store was swarming with tall, dark-suited men, who I realised mustve been Mugabes secret service detail, paid for, I should remind you, by me and the U.S. taxpayer.

After all, Mugabe was only allowed to be in New York because of the UN General Assembly now in full swing down the road. Otherwise, U.S. sanctions wouldve kept him from browsing the aisles at Duane Reade and spending his looted money in America?something to remember when Mugabe and his cronies argue against sanctions.

I stood there stunned, having faced down this larger than life figure of a man. A man Id cursed so many times on the television. Yet hed simply walked away from me, sad and pathetic.

Help your country

Too many people have suffered because of you. I was angrier now and shouting so the words tipped out. Too many people have died because of you. Too many people have been tortured because of you. I have Zimbabwean family and they have suffered because of you. Leave power President Mugabe. Help your country. Do the right thing.

The dark suits formed a wall between myself and Mugabe, now standing in the queue with some aids.

My thoughts went to the millions of Zimbabweans whove suffered because of this mans hubris, then to the before and after satellite photos of Operation Murambatsvina, I recalled studying the Matabele massacres in a class I took with Peter Godwin.

And I thought about my own extended family in Zimbabwe, who has also felt the brunt of this mans brutish rule (and by whom Ive been requested to write this anonymously for fear of reprisal). I realised I was losing my cool.

I walked down the escalator to wait outside the only exit to the store. So did several suits and a bodyguard. An NYPD (New York Police Department) policeman approached me, and told me politely to back up and say what I wanted from further down the street.

Trapped?

Refusing, I said that unlike Zimbabwe, this was a free country, and I had a right to speak truth to power. We compromised and I moved a few feet back. Ten minutes went by. Was Mugabe waiting for me to leave? Had I really trapped this once invincible old man in a New York drugstore?

Perhaps unable to find another exit, he finally walked out. This time with my video camera on, I told him one last time to give up power and to give it back to the people. Aware I was being watched and more nervous now, and in the hope that hed actually listen to me, I told him to leave office gracefully and honorably. He scurried into the car, not looking very presidential as he went.

I imagine that these days President Mugabe lives in a hard bubble, day in and out, and that he shields himself from the everyday outrages of his people and their daily struggles for food and jobs. If someone in Zimbabwe had tried to get as close to Mugabe as I had been, and gave him a piece of their mind, theyd probably end up in prison or worse.

Im told by Zimbabweans that the countrys current transition from Mugabe to something better is slow going and painful, but that its happening. I hope so.

For decades, Zimbabwean men, women, and children have fought to see their countrys return to grace. For a few minutes the other night, I tried to stand in solidarity with these people against a seemingly impervious tyrant. That night at least, President Robert Mugabe was just another old man with a shopping list.

Jonathan Griffin, a pseudonym, works for a human rights organisation in New York City and is proud of his Zimbabwean heritage.