right... I'm back... again.

I've convinced myself, once again, that I have to keep this blog up to date. I'm a dreadful twat when it comes to whims like this but I'll really try this time.
It's occurred to me more than once recently that I come by loads of pieces of info or anecdotes that would never make it into a personal diary but really are worth remembering, so this is the place I'll store them. If you want to read them, be my guest.
Let's see how long it lasts this time!
Anyway, today I found myself involved in one of those extraordinary conversations that only Africa can deliver. I thought I'd keep it here for posterity, interpret it as you will.
I'm in Zimbabwe at the moment, working on a story, and found myself in a rural village interviewing one of the victims of last year's political violence.
In short, here's what happened:
Our subject's brother was a councillor for the opposition MDC party, a prime target for President Robert Mugabe's "war veterans" (a militia of young thugs licensed to murder, rape and maim at will). The family all lived together in the same "kraal", or collection of huts. One morning last June, my interviewee was woken by noises outside his home. He opened the door to be confronted by a mob of more than a hundred angry men. They were armed with rocks, clubs and guns and clearly had a taste for blood.
When the first rock hit the door, my man ran back inside and opened his gun cabinet... he woke his brother and the pair shot from the windows to fend off the mob.
They shot over the crowd, hoping to disperse them, but failed and before long they were out of ammo. They were dragged from the hut and, along with their sister and mother, were beaten unconscious.
Elliot, as we'll call him, remembers "coming to" at the feet of the mob's leader. He was dragged to his feet and shot in the leg and then the arm. His brother was shot alongside him. The gang put the family, along with two neighbours in the back of a van and drove them 50kms from their home before dumping them at the roadside. Those still conscious were forced to drink paraquat (weed killer) and the group were left for dead.
Three died, but my friend, his mother and his sister survived, God alone knows how.
Anyway.... he told me this whole, harrowing story on camera, after which I was feeling pretty much how I imagine you're feeling now. Slightly numb, a little nauseous, helpless, angry and inadequate. So I started on the smalltalk to move the conversation on.
I told him about my family. "How many kids do you have?", he asked me.
"Two", I replied.
"Where do you live?", was his next question - genuinely interested, not just out of politeness.
"Johannesburg", I told him.
"Oh, I don't think I'd like to live there", he said "isn't it terribly violent?"

Like I said, only in Africa!