The story of Cde Kenneth Mariridza

DURING the liberation war to oust the colonialists, my grandfather left the country to work in South Africa.
Under the horrible conditions, the brutality and oppression by the Ian Smith regime, ours was a ‘well-off’ family compared to others in Chitevere Village under Chief Nyamombe in Makoni District.
Because of our status, the Rhodesians suspected that my grandfather was supporting the guerillas through provision of food, money and clothing.
They were not wrong.
My grandfather had made it clear that we were to support vanamukoma in any way we could.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the day Rhodesian soldiers raided our home.
On this particular day, we were hosting four comrades.
A sellout within the village must have spotted the guerillas at our homestead.
All the precautions had been taken to ensure their presence at our homestead was unknown.
Around 4am, a group of Rhodesian soldiers, armed to the teeth, including police officers, raided our homestead.
We had four guerillas in the house.
Nobody had imagined a raid at that hour.
I still remember the name of two of the comrades.
They were Cdes Smart and Mabhunu.
Ours was a big house for that time, it had 11 rooms.
We were asleep as the elders deliberated in another room.
Suddenly we were awoken by shouts outside.
We were informed that the house had been surrounded and any shooting from the house would result in a massacre.
We were all ordered to get out of the house, with our hands up in the air.
Guns were pointed at us by white soldiers who were painted black.
I was just a boy at that time but the experience was so traumatic that up to today the events of that day are still vivid.
There were soldiers on horseback, which made the whole situation scarier.
There was no escaping these goons, I thought they could hear my heart thudding.
Young as I was, I knew the consequences of harbouring ‘terrorists’.
There was no way the freedom fighters could escape.
All the exit points were manned.
Because our house was huge, it housed a lot of people.
So women began to troop out first.
It was when people where getting out that a situation that sounds more like fiction happened.
As the people were coming out, a huge thick fog enveloped our homestead.
The fog was so thick a person could not see his/her outstretched arm.
Vanamukoma were no strangers to such happenings and they knew how to fully utilise them.
In the thick of the fog, they disappeared.
So did the other mujibhas and chimbwidos who were in ‘conference’ with the freedom fighters.
Unfortunately, one of the comrades and my amaiguru were shot dead.
We realised this when the fog cleared.
Hapana akachema kana kuvhunduka, takangotarisa; there were dire consequences to weeping.
The elders took care of the corpse of amaiguru.
But what they did with the corpse of the guerilla was pure evil.
Even in death, the inanimate body of the freedom fighter was subjected to inexplicable indignity.
The funeral of amaiguru was a hushed affair with people afraid to attend it for fear of vicitimisation by the Rhodesians.
Some family members did not attend for they had been detained.
But I digress.
The funeral of amaiguru is not what left a huge scar on my psyche, it was the treatment of the shot guerilla.
Because we had a guerilla among us, we all waited for the next victim.
We knew we were not regarded as people; they would not waste their time taking us to trial.
They would simply gun us all down.
I imagined this was the end of our whole family.
Some of the Rhodie soldiers were sent to wake the neighbouring villagers.
They were all brought to our homestead.
So there would be spectators to witness the death of the people who supported guerillas.
The villagers were instructed to get into our ‘opulent’ house and pile up the furniture in selected rooms.
The furniture included sofas, wardrobes, beds and other household goods.
The villagers complied.
What could they do!
Refusal to follow the whiteman’s instructions had dire consequences.
One of the villagers was tasked to sprinkle petrol all over the furniture and the house in general.
Another was instructed to torch the house.
And flames engulfed our house; not a thing besides the clothes on our skin was saved.
Everything that was in the house was reduced to ashes.
Only the corrugated iron roof survived.
The house was left an inhabitable shell.
Around 6am, the fallen guerilla was tied to a horse and dragged through the village.
Several meetings were held by the Rhodies who told the villagers that the fate that had befallen us would also befall anyone who helped the ‘terrorists’.
This was a brutal and cruel blow but it did not dampen our spirits.
It just served to strengthen our resolve to fight and unseat the colonialists.
We did not stop helping vanamukoma.
Because of our massive loss, I became one of the most trusted mujibhas.
War was brutal.
Compiled by Tobias Manyuchi