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After the bullet passed through his mouth and neck, Cesar Kimbirima lay in the tall grass, thought of his family and waited to die.
He had been shot before, of course. Three times in fact – leg, leg and arm. But it was the worst.
And so, as the sky began to turn and his consciousness faded to black, he thought it was over. His life would end in the tall grass, while his blood would spill into the dry Angolan soil.
Over 20 years later, the dying soldier pours pints into the pub he runs in south London. As he chats with the punters and waves to the babies in strollers, there is no trace of Cesar Kimbirima’s former life.
No clue, unless you take a close look at his neck. Because there, just above his neck, is the scar: a reminder of the bullet, the coma and the leak.
Cesar Kimbirima was born in Angola, in southwestern Africa, and grew up among 11 siblings. Her mother was a schoolteacher; her father was a nurse and electrician.
His family lived in Huambo, the third largest city, and elsewhere in the country. And, despite the long civil war, he loved school and was a happy child. But in 1990, when Caesar was 17, his childhood ended.
“The army put me on the streets,” he said. “It was like that before. If you were tall, tall, they just grabbed you and made you join. Without your father’s consent, without anything.
He was not allowed to pack. He was not allowed to say goodbye to his family – whom he then did not see for three years. But none of this was a surprise.
“As a kid back then, we always used to say ‘If they got me, that’s it’. Because we knew it was happening. So when you get caught, you have no choice.
Could he run? “If you try, you could get killed. So you better stay there, sit on the floor and wait for the truck.
The Angolan army did not – or could not – take care of its soldiers. During six months of training, the conscripts received one meal a day. After training, when they were sent on a mission, they could receive two packets of cookies, a can of condensed milk, and a tank of water.
These rations were to last 30 days.
“We have learned to survive,” recalls Caesar. “If you get a plastic bag, wrap it around the leaves and seal the end, the tree will sweat. And when it starts to flow, it’s water.
He was shot for the first time at the age of 18. “In the leg,” he says. “We used to camp [to protect villages in the civil war]. The left forces came down and attacked us. We were children, we had no experience.
Cesar was shot twice more, in separate incidents, before the attack that nearly killed him.
“Normally they [the opposition forces] came in the middle of the night, ”he says. “This time they arrived around 8 pm. We heard a noise. One of my coworkers started running, so they started shooting. So we fought back. And then I got really cold.
Although he didn’t realize it at first, he had been shot in the mouth. He gave up his weapon – knowing he would be killed if the enemy found him with it – and continued to run. After 15 or 20 meters, he lies down on the grass and feels the blood running down his back.
“I thought about my family – that I couldn’t say goodbye,” he says. “I thought, that’s it – my life is over. That’s it, another youngster has left. It was my reflection. This is the last thing I remember.
Caesar woke up in the hospital – “I didn’t believe I was alive” – and was treated for two or three days. But then he fell into a coma, where he stayed for five months. When he woke up, the doctor told him he would not walk anymore.
There was good news. After nine years in the military, he was demobilized – they didn’t want a soldier who couldn’t walk. But there was also bad news. He was 26, had no money and didn’t know how to find his family – which now included the mother of his child and their three-year-old daughter. He left the hospital with nothing but a pair of wooden crutches.
“It was a survival situation,” he says. “I was begging for food and money, and a place to stay.”
Eventually he encountered United Nations soldiers. “I think they were American – they spoke English,” he says. “They all knew young children in this situation. They knew I was hurt. They questioned me, found out what had happened.
The Americans found him accommodation in a center for wounded soldiers: “A hundred people, seriously wounded, people without legs. After reuniting with his family, he told them he was planning to leave Angola.
“Mentally, I couldn’t stay,” he said. “Whatever you say against them [the government], they’ll get you.
And that’s when the Americans saved him again. “They said, you know what, we’re going to help you get out of the country,” he said. “They organized everything – I didn’t spend any money.
He doesn’t know the details – or if this was an official plan. He didn’t even know where he was going – Africa, Europe or elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. Six months after his release from hospital, he left Angola and its civil war. Even now, Caesar remembers the words of the American who helped him.
“Now I understand what he was saying,” Cesar says. “He said ‘Young lives can’t be wasted like this.'”
It turned out that Cesar, his partner and his young daughter received flights to the UK, via Lubango in Angola and Kenya. They were safe. But as they began their journey to England, three major problems remained.
They had no money. They didn’t speak English. And they didn’t know a living soul.
After arriving in the UK, the young family – now refugees – were taken to the asylum processing center in Croydon, south London. They were sent to hotels and hostels before Croydon Council found a place to live.
Cesar still didn’t speak English – “I used to have a little dictionary in my pocket,” he says – and that’s how he started a basic English course at the Ambassador. House in Thornton Heath. From there he took another English course at Croydon College, before starting catering qualifications.
He wanted a job – “I can’t depend on the government, I don’t work that way” – and, through the employment agency, learned that there were vacancies at the Richmal Crompton pub, which is part of the Wetherspoons chain, near Bromley. But it’s fair to say that he was unfamiliar with the chain’s cheap and cheerful dining style.
“I had taken my chef’s set in a briefcase – knives, etc. Says Cesar. “The woman who interviewed me said, ‘What is this?’ I told her it was my boss’s service and she started to laugh. I did not understand why.
“She took me into the kitchen and said, ‘Look, this is our kitchen’. It was a microwave, a deep fryer. At first I was shocked! But then I thought – I’m fine, I’m going to do it.
He was not a permanent resident of the UK and therefore needed a Home Office waiver. But in January 2004 he started working in the kitchen at Wetherspoons – his set of knives stayed at home. “I felt really welcome,” he says. “Good pub, great atmosphere, great company.”
Three years later he moved to the front of the house, rose through the ranks and, in January 2014, became manager of the Brockley Barge Wetherspoons. Her 17-year-old son Joe also works in the pub (when he’s not in college), as does her 23-year-old daughter, Duanie. She has just graduated in politics from Aberystwyth University.
At the end of 2020, Wetherspoons boss Tim Martin visited the pub and was so impressed with Cesar’s story that he asked the company’s in-pub magazine to feature it. For the first time, Barge customers have captured the life story of the man behind the bar. Some people even came from other pubs to pay their respects.
“I’ve had people who’ve never been like this,” he says. “They saw the magazine, they just wanted to say congratulations, knowing where I was from.”
Since arriving in the UK, Cesar has returned once to Angola in 2014 to obtain documents. “It was one of the scariest things I have experienced,” he says. “The flight went well, but the airport was scary – soldiers everywhere, guns everywhere. When I got on the plane to come back, I was so relieved.
So his future is in the UK – and he intends to continue working hard at Wetherspoons for his family and four children, the youngest of whom is four.
“When you’re a kid, if you have a really good life, you probably don’t feel it,” he says. “But if you didn’t have a good life – or if something happened, like when I was forced to join the military – you know. I don’t want to see my kids face the same issues. I want to do something better for them.
And with that, the manager of the Brockley Barge leaves his office, walks down the stairs and returns to the pub: chatting with the punters; greet babies; the scar on his neck barely visible.
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