memoirsfromzimbawee

For three months Govenda had lived with his niece some four hundred kilometres away from his home and family. This was a time of high political tension and he dared not risk his life. Political activists were the most sought after. From the news and information coming to him, he knew that a number of his colleagues had been caught, some never to be seen again. He was thus careful with his every move. After his time in hiding he decided to go back to his family. Now that he was back the situation seemed okay. From the comfort of his home he was able to get all the updates, but not on that fateful day. As he sat with his family enjoying supper, suddenly there was a knock on the door. Innocently, one of his daughters opened it and three men in suits and dark glasses walked in. Without a word, they blindfolded him as he tried to resist. “Shhhhhhh, quiet and easy!!!”, was all one of the men said, pointing a shotgun at his belly. They held him firmly and bundled him towards the waiting car. Four strong men pulled him in and tied his legs and arms. His family watched the fading tail lights in shock as his abductors drove him away into the dark night.

Zex was a short bulky man with a cheerful smile. A popular man among the residents of Chiredzo town, he would ensure that the electricity was soon restored whenever there was a blackout. He was also a political activist and was well liked for his straightforward approach to business and justice. Such popularity was dangerous, as it implied a serious risk to his safety. For a month, three dangerous men had been tailing him and they were almost licking their lips with pleasure at the prospect of catching up with him. That Friday evening after work, he had filled his car’s tank and, as he drove towards his farm, he was stopped by a group of men standing in the road. “Come out, you sellout!” barked a tall muscular man dressed in a black suit and dark shades. It was getting dark. “What shall we do to him?” asked another man. “Blindfold him!!” shouted the first man. Two other men emerged from the bush carrying huge stones. They tied these to his legs. Driving quietly, they headed towards Dorking Dam. After putting on their black gloves, they hauled him out and threw him into the reservoir, and with a splash his body went down to the bottom. The following day, news of his disappearance was the talk of the small town, which was quiet and tense. For two days they searched, without any luck. On the third day the fate of Zex was there for all to see. His drowned body was pulled out with the huge stones still tied to his legs, his lips marked with tiny wounds where the fish had begun to nibble them. Yes, as they say in African culture, you can kill unseen but the soul of the dead will always rise up.

Bedford was a ruthless man. He was known in political circles for imposing his own ideology wherever opportunities arose. He had no political or academic credentials of note, yet he was greatly feared. But others quietly talked about the long hand, a hand of powerful force, that shielded him and used him to perform deadly acts. Bedford was a powerful political weapon that caused mayhem and discord as well as instilling fear. He seemed to enjoy it, and knew well that he was fully protected, not fearing arrest nor any other form of danger. But the bitterness among the people was growing. Others were close to taking the law into their own hands. Fear of the unknown hovered above their heads. However, they say that everything must come to an end, and so it proved. That day, as Bedford drove his car, he met his fate at an intersection. A T3 track hit his car with such a heavy impact that it was forced on to its roof. In no time, a crowd gathered. “Pull him out, he’s still alive”, shouted one man. “He looks dead”, said another from the crowd. Bedford was pulled on to the tarmac bleeding heavily. Out came a faint voice, “Hold me gently, comrades, my back is finished”. A sharp piece of metal had pierced his backbone breaking his spinal cord and rendering him partially paralysed. Luckily for him, it was a close shave with death, for this cruel man would never walk again

Jacko was just ruthless. He had run a campaign of terror recently and he knew his job very well. Tall, dark, with red lips and he had a hard heart that would never confess. A born killer, he had seen wars, and there was smell of blood once he felt threatened, and he knew how to respond to threats. Developments in the political circles were irritating him. He scoffed at the idea of unity of parties that had recently contested the elections. He had not fought for unity of parties, but for total liberation from imperialism. So he would died holding on to the soil for that is what he had fought for, never mind his education and other credentials not related to his military capabilities. As he drove to his rural home, he licked his lips as he imagined the taste of milk from his big cows with fat breasts. A full glass of milk would clear all thin dust still hanging to his throat. Suddenly, he had an explosion. Bringing his huge jungle track to a stop, he checked his wheels. Another bullet hit inside his right hand. “Shit, that was close, damn”, he cursed and crawled back his wide eyes open with fear. Yes he was under attack, and he now feared death like all other human beings. Somewhere in the forest they were aiming to clear him, but were cautious for possibly he was also armed. He drove his track at a fast speed and behind him bullets riddled his rare windscreen. A kilometre away he felt safe. He  then ripped apart his t-shirt then raped his bleeding arm. There was a huge wound, he felt his body sweating. Momentarily, he imagined death but drove on to the safety of his home having now realized that he was now safe from danger.

Franco, Davies and Zenzo had been training to be soldiers for six months now and they were about to graduate. It had been a long wait, so far yet so near. That day filled them with premature happiness, and with images of their smiling brothers, sisters and parents ululating, they beamed with smiles each time they talked about it. In the barracks the youthful boys were laughing, “I will put on my navy blue suit that day”, remarked Zenzo as he drank the last gulp of Mazoe drink that he had diluted. This was one of those Saturdays when they were supposed to have a break and go home, but the trio chose to stay in the barracks. It looked a long week towards graduation , but soon they would be fully fledged soldiers. When it seemed a long time, that day soon arrived. Early the following morning they woke up and parked in front of their barracks was a huge Puma track, with the National flag. They were going to graduate at Battlefields Army Base, a distance of 100 kilometers away. Soon they were on their way dressed in full military fatigue. The early morning sun was rising and despite wearing caps, beads of sweat flowed down their foreheads. Meanwhile, the driver with sweaty palms drove cautiously and at one moment shielding his eyes against the sparkling sun. With ten kilometers of the journey left, the driver lost control, and the heavy Puma began to skid on the hot tarmac. Momentarily, he thought to himself, had he checked the brakes?  Suddenly as he attempted to turn he lost total control. Twenty trainee soldiers were thrown into the air as the huge track veered off towards the opposite side. Ten died on the spot, five had broken limps and the remaining five were bruised. This brought an end to the journey, the trio failed to graduate on that fateful day.

The moment were entered the dust road, I held my breath. Soon we were in the narrow road leading into the thick forest. We negotiated through a bumpy road with protruding stones and rock outcrops. Our pickup track jaked from side to side, and the irritating impact of tyres crashing on small rough stones seemed endless. My uncle held on to his steering wheel with measured concentration, his face serious as beads of sweat flowing freely down his face right through the nose. His t-shirt was soaked and I could feel the smell of his sweat in the hot African sun. He labored on with every ounce of his energy. “These roads are treacherous, and the District Development Fund are not doing anything to maintain these feeder roads” he complained, cursing inwardly. “But do not worry, we will reach the farm today”, he reassured me, though with a hint of resignation. We were on our way to his farm, and he was determined to ensure that I would admire his new farm. The remainder of the journey was very long and we did not talk. It was round mid-day that I suddenly realized as I observed the sudden change in vegetation that we were now closer to arriving at our destination. As a turned my head at him, I saw beams of smile and that was enough to tell me that were now a matter of few kilometers away.

All day long workers at the Midlands Steel Company waited for their allowances anxiously. It had been a long day, and none dared to leave. Today was the proposed day and date. “Any signs from the Cashier’s Offices?” enquired Zuze the Grounds Foreman. “Looks like there is no activity, I just noticed the Salaries Clerk holding papers” chirped in Derek the Grounds Supervisor. In small groups the workers sat on the lawn engaged in discussions, and running around in childish frolic. They had not worked all day long, and what they wanted was their money. Though it was close to five o’clock they stayed on. Suddenly everybody started gathering in the Company Hall. In front of them stood Zex the Workers Committee Chairman. “ I have good and bad news for you” he continued “Today you are going to be paid in US Dollars, would you believe it, but the promised amount has been cut drastically to accommodate us all, at least we have won the struggle”, he looked at them with a broad smile. They all held their breath. “Now listen carefully, as soon as you leave this place go straight to the Cashier’s Offices and you will see your respective grades written on different windows, then you will collect your payout.” he concluded.Out trickled out the workers as they headed to receive their long awaited payout

Their heads were so close together. These were heads of four tough men whose lives seemed doomed. Somewhere in the corridors of power it had been secretly revealed that  they were no longer wanted by the people, and they have been voted out overwhelmingly. That was not what they were prepared to listen to. Their ears were deaf. With wrinkled foreheads and narrow eyes on their visage, they quietly plotted their next move. Above all force was what they understood, they had done it before and why not go for the jagular, silencing them for good. Among these four men, one school of thought advocated use of power of the weapon, the fierce weapon. Another school of thought was a more cautious and thinly disguised one, the use of food to starve them to submission. Those who refused their way would surely and regrettably succumb to hunger. Those heads, grey heads, bold and stiff heads held no solution for the people, they had been stretched to the limit and they no longer held noble facts and ideas . They were going for the final solution in their ideology, the ruthless plot.

Each time we passed through the old bus stop, I heard the same remarks: “There lies Mbongoro, right in the middle of the road”. Cars, buses and lorries would sound their horns, but not until Mbongoro retreated to the side of the road could they manage to pass. That day, I was on my usual marathon training session along the Chitungwiza-Mbare road. A heavy twelve-wheeled lorry skidded, with the driver applying the emergency brakes, but it was too late. There was a putrid smell of smoking tyres grinding through the tarmac, followed by the heavy impact of the crash of metal against bone. As I turned in the direction of the impact, I could see a grey body in the road, and one hundred metres ahead the bloody large intestines of Mbongoro the Stubborn Donkey. A half grin touched my face, as I stared at Mbongoro’s big brown teeth in his wide extending jaws, which would never close again. Yes these were the jaws that had made such a great noise during his braying days

We arrived at the rural bus terminus late on a hot Saturday afternoon. The crowd of people, a mixture of young and old and the daily vendors selling their wares, exchanged greetings, laughed and hugged each other. We waited for what seemed ages, but still there was no sign of the bus. My mother looked restless, and stared us almost dejected. Up in the sky, thick black clouds gathered menacingly. Before long, big drops of rain were falling. In the confusion, we looked for shelter, but hardly had we taken cover when the bus rolled in. It was a scramble to get in. I slipped on a banana skin and landed on my back and a few metres from me a heavily built woman fell awkwardly, exposing her panties, but no one noticed. With my siblings we struggled through the adults, finding our way into the bus. Inside we laughed and jeered in childish behavior at the human mass of adults pushing and shoving each other. The bus pulled out with its headlights now on, heading towards our rural home on this gloomy Christmas Eve, soaked to the skin but now happy that we were on our way at long last