The ManicaPost
Freedom Mutanda and Sifelani Tonje Post correspondents
We continue to receive useful feedback from our valued readers that pertains to the unsung hero series that transcends tribal and racial lines. One reader, Fisani Mhlanga said, “I love it when you refer to everyone who does an important activity in the community as a hero.
“Truly, Muchaiana helped comrades and community members alike during the rainy season and the 2000 floods offered a window an opportunity for him to show his prowess to the outside world and he did that admirably. Such heroic stories must remain in the folklore of a people for generations to come.’’
Payani Makwenyenye remarked that the unsung stories remind him of his stay at Chipangayi Estate in Middle Sabi during the war just before the era of “keeps.”
“These stories dzinodzura nekudzora ndangariro. This reminds me of an incident around 1977 before keeps when I was staying at an estate in Chipangayi area near Onner Farm. There was a contact close to the compound where the comrades fought a heavy battle against the Rhodesian forces. A comrade and a Matongo boy were hit and died on the spot. The following morning, a helicopter came and the soldiers tied a rope around the comrade’s neck. Cde Teurairopa Mabhunu suffered even in death. Akamveyeswa at a low height ari mu helicopter yacho. Imagine, they were cruel to him even when he was long gone,’’ Payani said.
Chikore is a rugged, forested and mountainous area that falls under Region One and it is in this area that our heroine of the week, Charity Dhlakama aka Sheila Muthando, was born on 27 July 1953 and went on to make a name for herself as the liberation struggle ensued. She was a courier and a collaborator par excellence who braved the stinging bullets of the enemy on her way to independence.
Chikore Mission is the second UCCZ establishment in Chipinge. The mission farm comprised a large area that allowed the indigenous people to settle and they were given title deeds that were called “Big Letters” by the mission authorities. Locals corrupted those words to “Bidhleta.”
Here is her story.
We woke up to the persistent knocking. We remained quiet for the night was pitch black; we had heard that the “boys” were coming in to talk to the traditional leadership in an attempt to kick start the liberation struggle. We weren’t sure the knock came from the boys’ knuckles. As the knock went on unabated, father plucked enough courage to utter a timid, “who is there?’’
“We are the boys,’’ a shrill voice said.
After what seemed like eternity, our father, Sexon Muthando unlocked the door and five comrades barged in apparently annoyed that he had not responded quickly in the manner they expected.
“One of us has a severe diarrhea necessitating us to leave him at the base. We are told you are a very competent n’anga (traditional healer) and we believe you can help him regain fitness,’’ the shrill voiced guerrilla who appeared to be the leader said.
So began the love affair between my old man and the comrades. He went out after he had checked into his “little hut” where he interacted with his superiors; in there were herbs too that were solutions to various ailments.
I had given birth to Thandiwe Machuwaire, my daughter at that time but I lived at home for one reason or another. As soon as he went to the camp, as a family, we prayed for his safe return. Those were the days, when Rhodesians told us that the terrorists were a danger to us. He returned an hour later and told the family that the comrade was going to be alright as he had used his most powerful herbs to stem the diarrhoea.
Until the end of the war, one of my duties was to identify and search for herbs that would be used to cure illnesses as the war progressed.
Mujeki Makandwa contact
April 28 1975 was like any other ordinary day although the comrades had told us earlier that the day was significant in as far as it was an anniversary of the Chinhoyi Battle that marked the beginning of the liberation struggle in Zimbabwe.
Comrades expected a high ranking commander, Cde Antida, to come and address the “povo.” We were to meet at Mujeki in the Makandwa area of Chikore; it was cloudy and the cold breeze from Nyagadza River caressed those people intent on attending the pungwe. Wintry conditions made those suffering from influenza sneeze incessantly and wipe away the mucous that dribbled carelessly from their noses. Goose pimples were the order of the day as we waited expectantly for his arrival.
It could have been a premonition of what was going to happen later. People from surrounding villages continued to troop to the venue which is close to the tanks and the beacons. Excitement ruled the roost and one could smell it in the air.
The Political Commissar, Cde Birchenough, a brash young man whose voice reverberated far and wide, addressed us. He talked about the need for unity in the prosecution of the war and how everyone has a role to play. We were at the mountain top; about thirty comrades were there to complement the multitudes.
Cdes Birchenough, Hatityinei, Nhongo, Mhofu and Tsuro are some of the cadres I remember who were present at that fateful rally. Liberation songs filled the stillness of the night and the “kongonya” dance thrilled the crowds as both young men and women showed their dancing skills.
Apparently, it was a dance of death. The night had given way to the wee hours of the morning. Surprisingly, no-one dozed as the euphoria reached fever pitch.
Suddenly, two helicopters flew from two sides of the mountain. Paratroopers dropped from the helicopters and comrades shouted “take cover; vatai pasi!’’
There was no room for error in as far as death was concerned; thus, we took cover by hitting the ground face first. These paratroopers advanced towards us. An exchange of gunfire between the comrades and the regime forces added to the confusion amongst the povo. I could not locate my one year old daughter, Thandiwe; she was strapped onto my back but in the melee, I lost her and I grew panic- stricken. Suddenly, the comrades vanished and we were left alone against the advancing forces.
At about 5am, soldiers bundled us into army trucks and went with us to Chipinge. However, in my cries asking about the whereabouts of my baby, one of the soldiers told me the baby was safe. I could not get into the truck without verification about the authenticity of the soldier’s story. Therefore, they went with me to Chikunya’s homestead where she was all right.
At Chipinge, the question was, “where are the murderers and terrorists?’’
Comrades coached us that once we got caught, we should admit that we knew them. Accordingly, most of us told the soldiers including CID (Criminal Investigation Department) officers that we had encountered the comrades in our area; Rhodesians didn’t torture us; however, Old Chikunya maintained that he had never come across the comrades; perhaps, he had never been coached and he suffered for it. He was badly tortured and beaten thoroughly until he cried out loud for help from any passer-by. He did not get that help; the regime tools of oppression were in force and he had to pay the price with broken bones.
Inside a modern day torture camp at Chibonore
From Chipinge, we were taken to Chibonore Farm where the Government had turned its farm into a torture camp. It is just after Umzilizwe River on the road from Mount Selinda to Chipinge.
We could see mounds of freshly made graves and our hearts lurched in terror. We couldn’t fathom any reason for us to come out of Chibonore Farm alive as the officers frog marched us to our cells.
Inside the rooms was darkness; only a slit brought in a sliver of light that brought temporary relief to the inmates. We huddled together and to our horror, there were blood stains on the walls. Apparently, the torture had reached alarming proportions in that place.
All around us, the pervasive smell of death filled the air. The room smelt of mud, dirt, decaying flesh and unsullied stools. We were ten of us in that room, yet the carrying capacity was four at the most. Terror ruled us for we thought our days were numbered. A notorious CID officer by the name John constantly asked us about the whereabouts of the guerrillas and we stuck to our story: if they go kuMakandwa, they will see the comrades.
They fed us on a regular diet of sadza and nyemba which was badly cooked for that matter. We joked about the “pills” found in the sadza because it was badly cooked. Complaints to the authorities fell on deaf ears.
Bathing was a rare luxury. As women, failing to access bathing facilities was mental torture. Already, I was a collaborator but that didn’t mean my Human Rights had to be trampled upon like that. Some of my colleagues were subjected to electric shocks. Personally, I didn’t suffer from torture although I saw first hand the torture that visited my friends.
For three months the Rhodesian authorities kept us at Chibonore Farm as they used us as slave labour in working at the tobacco and maize farm. Finally, they released us but the keep movement gathered momentum.
My parents could not believe my gaunt features were a result of confinement; they cried.
Charity Mutsumbe nee Muthando is that rare breed of cadre who has a photographic memory. Next week, we traverse her war time journey in the so-called “Protected Villages.’’ Be sure not to miss your copy of the family newspaper, The Manica Post.
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