The story of Margaret Mahachi Nee Mukotekwa aka Cde Ivhu Nderedu

WHEN comrades announced their arrival in Munyoro Village, in December 1976, we were elated.
We were overjoyed by the prospect of meeting vanamukoma in the flesh; they were mythical figures to some of us.
But what we did not foresee was the horror that would follow this pleasant encounter with the sons of the soil who had come home to topple the Ian Smith regime and liberate us.
Thus our happy encounter was followed by an unforgettable experience that would forever remain in the psyche of everyone present at that time.
I was born Margret Mukotekwa in 1962 in a family of nine children.
I happened to be the first born and attended Matanda Primary School up to Grade Six. Schooling stopped when war broke out in 1976 in our area.
During the course of the liberation struggle, I got the nom de guerre Cde Ivhu Nderedu, as was the norm.
I recall working alongside comrades Tambaoga, Chop Chop, Tsuro and Nyamayire.
But I will never forget my first encounter with freedom fighters.
We mixed and mingled with guerillas at Domboguru where they had made their base.
The women prepared and brought them food.
For three days, they enchanted us with the Maoist ideology and objectives of their mission.
They left our village to conscientise more people but three days later they returned.
Unbeknown to us, among us was a sell-out. The informer had gotten in touch with the Rhodesians, and once on their payroll became their eyes and ears on the ground such that when the guerillas returned, the informer quickly relayed the message to the Rhodies.
The only notable tell-tale sign of danger, when we gathered at the base, was the bateleur eagle (chapungu) that took one fell-swoop across the base.
As we began to decipher what the action of the bird meant and to determine what danger we could be in, it was already too late. Soon after the bird had ‘delivered’ its warning, we spotted the spy plane that we commonly referred to as ‘kadidiya’.
In no time, it was followed by a Dakota formation that began to spew out armed soldiers encircling and trapping us at the centre. The infantry followed in trucks.
In what appeared to be a split second all hell broke loose.
Confusion gripped us; we stood marooned on what had instantly become an island of death.
Firsthand, we witnessed the capabilities of freedom fighters.
They did not panic or abandon us, but began to bark instructions.
But we were hopelessly outnumbered, the enemy force was huge.
We, the greenhorns, scampered and scattered as napalm bombs rained on us.
That is when I first noticed the burly and hairy mercenaries from South Africa.
They wore rings, studs and had tattoos all over their bodies.
They used bayonets to disembowel anyone who tried to get out of the killing bag.
It was a horrific three-hours and 24 people perished, including Violet Bendedzi and Martha Mukotekwa.
Old men enjoying their drinks were rounded up at the business centre and frog-marched to the base where they were ordered to load the dead onto trucks.
Together with the corpses, we were ferried to the enemy’s base at Grand Reef for identification purposes.
Naomi Chiradza, Juliet Mudede and I were taken in for interrogations. We lied that we were caught in the crossfire on our way from a wedding ceremony and were fortunate enough to escape the grilling without torture.
Following the identification parade, the corpses were tagged with names, shoved into plastic bags and driven back to the village for burial. I spent close to a month vomiting; the gory site I had been exposed to would not leave me.
Thereafter guerillas taught us basic military drills such as wriggling on our bellies and how to scurry for cover in case of enemy fire.
They even demonstrated to us how to plant land mines. Subsequently, the paranoid enemy imposed a 12pm to 6am curfew as a way to deter us from participating in the liberation struggle.
But we still found ways to assist vanamukoma.
Mean-looking Rhodesian soldiers on horseback were also deployed in our area and were always searching for the ‘unseen’ that they ended up burning our homes. Up to now the trauma of the war is still with me.
It took some time for me to appreciate that my home in Chitungwiza is located underneath the air traffic ways.
The din of a plane disturbs me as it reminds me of the horrors of war.
It sends chills down my spine.
Compiled by Richard Khosa