Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

At the heart of Alexandra Fuller’s memoir lies an exploration of how colonialism and war have a lasting influence on individual lives. From the outset, Fuller emphasizes the harsh reality of her upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, where violence and uncertainty were pervasive.

The narrative opens with a depiction of the Fullers living under constant threat, sleeping with guns by their sides. Such an immediate plunge into the harsh realities of their existence establishes the war’s pervasive influence and the fear and instability that characterized the era. Powerful symbolism aids in depicting a nation teetering on the brink of chaos. While traditionally a place of safety and refuge, their home in Rhodesia is depicted as a fortress, equipped with weaponry to ward off potential attacks. Described as isolated and unforgiving, Burma Valley’s perilous nature further reinforces a sense of hidden dangers. Decades later, this traumatic upbringing still manifests itself in Alexandra’s life, as she speaks of a lingering hypersensitive state and often wakes up startled, “the quick, gasping, suddenly alert way of all people who have lived in a war (and for which there is no cure, ever, not even now)“ (135). The echoes of violence continue to reverberate within her, highlighting the war’s enduring impact.

Innocence becomes another casualty of war, affecting both white settlers’ children and African children in profound ways. Daily life becomes a macabre dance with danger, where landmines and gunfire drills are normalized, weaving violence into the very fabric of childhood. Witnessing the horrifying aftermath of a bombed bus shatters any lingering sense of security, replacing it with a brutal awareness of war’s true cost. Conversely, African children bear both the brunt of the war’s brutality and colonial oppression. The Rhodesian government’s forced relocation of locals into guarded compounds exposes the war’s ability to dismantle innocence with ruthless efficiency: “Children of fighting age are kept at gunpoint” (106). Treated as potential threats, African children are displaced and robbed of their childhood, a policy reflecting the war’s deeply entrenched racism which later perpetuates cycles of violence and trauma. As innocence is stripped away, replaced by fear and uncertainty, the true cost of war leaves lasting scars on white and Black children alike.

Despite exposing and opposing her family’s overt racism and prejudices, Fuller falls short in critically engaging with the legacy of white settler colonialism. While acknowledging the poverty and corruption in the nations they settle in after leaving Rhodesia, the author overlooks how colonialism contributed to the broader systemic inequalities she witnesses. Her mother’s remarks about poverty, stating, “It was there before you noticed it [...] And it will be there after you leave” (239), reflect a reluctance to acknowledge involvement or responsibility. Such a mindset upholds a colonial narrative that characterizes Africa as inherently destitute and implies that European settlers’ involvement has been solely beneficial for the region.

Similarly, the author’s description of Malawi’s oppressive regime’s handling of foreigners and Malawians’ unjustified sense of racial superiority highlights a selective focus on immediate injustices toward white Europeans. Even in the context of a memoir—which inherently offers a limited, biased perspective—the narrative obscures liability, downplaying colonialism’s ramifications. Fuller hesitates to directly recognize the underlying legacy of colonialism and its lasting impacts on African societies and individuals, leaving her critiques ultimately lacking depth.