The story of Winfrider Ncube

WHEN I saw Faston, our local mujibha, and other boys approaching my homestead in Mhonda Village, Mwenezi, one mid-morning in September 1978, I was excited.
Whenever we saw these boys, we knew vanamukoma (freedom fighters) were around and a pungwe would be held that very night.
Pungwes were exciting because we would be taught politics by the freedom fighters.
During the meetings, the commissar would usually give us progress reports on the war and the direction it was taking.
It was so refreshing to hear about ZANLA’s successful attacks on the enemy and this motivated us to continue supporting the liberation struggle.
Pungwes were characterised by jovial singing and dancing.
That September 1978 morning, my assumption was correct, a pungwe was imminent.
The comrades were around and anamujibha were collecting food and blankets for the comrades’ newly established base.
It was not normal for blankets and food to be collected at this time of day, but I never really burdened my mind with that because whenever we saw the boys with Feston, we were confident about the comrades who had sent them.
They were taught how to vet true ZANLA cadres.
I gave Feston two blankets, a cock and six pairs of SuperPro tennis shoes which I had brought from Bulawayo where my husband was working at the time.
I was so excited I couldn’t wait for the pungwe because I missed singing and dancing.
For several months, we had not had a pungwe.
I was discouraged from attending one pungwe earlier when my first pregnancy was at six months.
God eventually blessed me with my first born son, Wellington.
He was a healthy boy and ever smiling.
My son was now four months old and I was going to take him to the pungwe this time around.
I was hoping the spirits of the land were going to bless my son to become a fighter in this protracted struggle as we were taught.
I was just too excited to the extent my mother-in-law, Nesta Maphosa, cautioned me.
She said in her superstitious world, such excitement usually led to disappointment.
I, however, dismissed her sentiments as just an old woman’s superstition.
The night finally came and I joined fellow villagers from Chirongo Village in Mwenezi, pungwe-bound.
We were told the base was permanently established at Murawi Dam.
The singing had already begun.
A stout comrade with a hoarse voice was the lead singer.
But there was sudden silence when he somehow discredited leaders of the struggle as he sang.
He apologised instantly.
It was a genuine mistake, so he said.
At that moment, we were all instructed to sit down in order to be addressed by the commissar.
For some reason, the mood at the pungwe was unusual.
I thought about my superstitious mother-in-law’s sentiments as I held my son Wellington.
She was sitting by my side.
I also realised there were other weird comrades who were not mingling with people at the pungwe.
Surprisingly, their faces were painted black, but somehow, it didn’t click that these could be Selous Scouts.
I put my son between me and my mother-in-law.
There was no need to worry about our safety because Rhodesians rarely attacked during the night.
Suddenly, two gunshots were fired at the pungwe.
This was a surprise attack.
We were all ordered to lie down, but it was too late as people were already scurrying for cover.
In the midst of the confusion, my only thought was for my son because I couldn’t locate him.
Hope lay in my mother-in-law.
She must have picked him up, I hoped.
Like other villagers, I ran towards Zhanje Mountain where we spent the night.
I couldn’t sleep thinking about my son and the following morning I headed home to my mother-in-law.
I kept praying she had Wellington.
I was relieved when I saw people gathered at our homestead.
Indeed she was holding Wellington and I quickly ran towards her because I couldn’t wait to hold and feed him as my breasts were heavy with milk.
But, alas, Wellington was dead.
Apparently the stampede at the pungwe the previous night claimed my son.
I fainted.
Painful as it is, I learnt to live without Wellington because this was war and war is ugly.
I later learnt that the ‘comrades’ who had addressed us during that fateful night were in fact Selous Scouts.
These were the Selous Scouts who had captured the guerillas who came witth the local mujibha that morning.
Compiled By Emergencey Mwale-Kamtande