LONDON - I thought I would write a quick follow-up regarding the great Zimbabwean demo, which took place in central London on Saturday April 30. I went along, not expecting great crowds, and I was not disappointed - perhaps a hundred people attended, tops.

But what people!

The woman who keeps the vigil going was there and, I am glad to say, among other helpers were a young couple from Harare who arrived in the UK a few years ago and have put themselves to work - knowing you can emigrate from Zimbabwe but you can never leave.

Washington Ali, the MDC man, was there. I heard him say the MDC has never lost an election and it made me sorry in some ways for all the cynicism and scorn I occasionally heap on that organisation.

Its grassroots supporters in rural Matebeleland and the high density areas of Harare and other cities are freedom fighters as worthy of dignity and praise as the Chinese kids who jumped on tanks in Tianamen Square or the South African children who ran at apartheid's guns on June 16, 1976.

In Zimbabwe, not for the first time, ordinary people are fighting for their freedom and a terrible beauty has been born. At the vigil you will see some of those ordinary extraordinary heroes who have paid a terrible price for their beliefs.

The activist who was forced into exile several years ago was there - as she is always there. In the past I have felt her sadness like a veil. She is still very serious, but this time I noticed that sometimes when she smiled the smile reached her eyes. She said she remembered a song I had taught her. It was quite a rude song, I think, about a certain elderly politician.

The woman who was a witness to some horrible incidents during a high profile farm invasion was also there. She has been treated in the UK for post-traumatic stress disorder.

She is still very anxious and troubled but she is a very brave person and she loves laughing and she loves chatting, and clearly the opportunity to spend time among compatriots is very important to her.

The man who leads the demo and who makes me come and dance my funny white man's version of Ndebele dancing pulled me into the circle of dancers this time again and I tried to stamp and toyi-toyi, whistling and joining in where I could follow the words of a song.

People in the singing, dancing circle remember my exhibitions from the past and they smile. Most speak Shona, although they like to hear me say my few words of SiNdebele.

I copy a move I saw during the anti-apartheid struggle of township youth in South Africa, where you stick out your forefingers, holding your arms rigid from your torso, as if you are carrying a gun. The leader grins and does the same and later he thumps a drum and makes it sound like the crump of light artillery.

The farmer's son from Mashonaland was there, a tall genial man working for a charity that sends thousands of pounds back to Zimbabwe each year in support of grassroots good causes.

He says in five years democracy will be entrenched in Zimbabwe. I tell him, "from your mouth to God's ear". He talks of the long-suffering masses of our people with such respect and compassion.

It's palpably decent and compassionate men like him who make me feel sorry that to so many people a white Zimbabwean farmer is still somehow a mythic figure like Simon Legree. If people like him had to pay a price to be recognized as Zimbabweans then they have paid, full measure, and cup brimming over.

The woman who is heavily involved with campaigning work for refugees was there. We talked of the problems ordinary Zimbabwean people in the UK are facing, sometimes caused by people themselves.

But often their problems are compounded by officialdom in the UK which bullies and lies and treats people as problems and deals with them according to quotas. She mentioned a case of a Zimbabwean man sent to another country in Africa by the UK. They put him on a plane promising his documents were in his luggage.

They lied. She has to fight officialdom in a slow glacial war, inch-by-inch, case by case, and when officialdom wins then she has to field the phone calls from distant places from people in despair and she does it for love, not money.

So many people were there. The Kalanga guy. Wilf Mbanga's look alike. The ZNA soldier. The Bulawayo Jehovah's Witness who knows it is up to each of us to do the right thing, to make a difference.

And a fat, balding man with a hangover stands in the centre of London listening to drums and realising how much he misses his home and feeling lost - but somehow also feeling found.

Another fat, balding fellow, an English man, decides to pick on me and wanders up to tell me how good things used to be in Rhodesia. I told him a lot of people at the vigil were the children of the people who fought to end Rhodesia.

He told me I should have - if you will pardon his language - my arse kicked.

I told him - if you will pardon my language - to f*** off.

I don't want to remember Rhodesia. I am a Zimbabwean.

I joined an organisation and paid ten quid.

I bought a vigil T Shirt for five quid.

I bought some "Free Zimbabwe" buttons for a quid.

I bought some copies of The Zimbabwean for a couple of quid and took away subscription forms and back issues to spread the word. It is an excellent newspaper and the proprietors are people who deserve support from the diaspora.

But the best thing I did was to be there.

I went along for a couple of hours to show support, to show the demonstrators that they are not alone.

But I came away feeling supported, feeling I was the one who was no longer alone.

Until freedom comes the vigil continues. Go.