Shane and I forged a strong friendship in 1990, deep the Mozambican wilderness of the Chimanimani mountains.
I could easily imagine how he would have faced his impending death, with his customary courageous impassiveness, uttering in his distinctive deep voice with his Zimbabwean lilt (which I was always envious of), “Oh fuck!” With sleep eluding me, I found myself wondering about his last moments of life and hoping against hope he didn’t suffer. However, through the years, via conversations and contact with our mutual friends, I have been aware of what he was up to and how he was doing. We never remained in touch and as far as I’m aware, he didn’t use social media. Sadly, it was twenty two years ago when I saw him last, when I visited Chimanimani. I’d always thought of Shane as invincible. I couldn’t believe he was dead and he was no longer alive. It wasn’t until that night of hearing the news, when in bed did the immensity of the grief fall upon me and swamp my thoughts. Shane was renowned for the fast speeds he managed to coax out of his various vehicles. Before the shock and the enormity of the news had settled upon me, I regretfully responded, “Shane must have had died as he lived, fast and furious.” I know that stretch of road well, having myself driven at reckless speed along it, hoping to shave off minutes from the sometimes two hour drive. He had died three weeks earlier while driving a notoriously tight and twisty stretch of road between Chimanimani and Mutare along the Biriwiri River. A few days ago, I received the dreadful news my good friend Shane Kidd of the town of Chimanimani in eastern Zimbabwe had been killed in a car accident.
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