The story of Wonder Dangarembizi

By Fidelis Manyange

IN 1974, we started witnessing the entry of the freedom fighters/vanamukoma into Zimbabwe for the first time. 

Until then, we used to hear the rural folk talking in hushed tones about ‘magandanga’, a derogatory term coined by the Rhodesian security forces. We were made to believe that they were unkempt ruffians, with a penchant for violence. Some, it was alleged, even had tails.

But we soon discovered that all this was propaganda cooked up by the settler regime when the first group of guerillas arrived in Hodzi Village under Chief Chirinda Maramba in Uzumba.

Since they looked tired and hungry, we prepared food for them. Little did we know that a traitor or mutengesi  among us had gone behind our backs to inform the Rhodesian security forces who descended heavily on us. Twelve of us, including the village head, were rounded up, and subjected to blood-chilling torture. 

The constant visits by the guerillas led to the establishment of ‘keeps’ or protected villages which were designed to stop the supply chain of food and clothes from the masses to the guerillas. We were herded into our ‘keep’ in 1975, until it was burnt down by the freedom fighters in 1976 leaving us with no option but to seek shelter in the bush.

Hondo yakange yavakupisa zvino mugore ra1977.

Another function of the ‘keeps’ was to deprive villagers from getting vital information on the movement of vanamukoma. 

Then came the day that changed my life forever — August 11 1977.

On that fateful day, we accompanied the freedom fighters to the Makenikeni hills where they laid a landmine targeted at the Rhodesian security forces. 

While the first vehicle missed the landmine, the second was not so lucky. It was literally blown up to pieces. Several soldiers died on the spot while the injured were subsequently shot dead, including one Corporal Lampard. 

After that bloody encounter, we knew we were going to be under siege from the enemy in retaliation for their colleagues’ deaths. We had no option but to leave the area in a hurry, but the soldiers managed to track us down. 

They found us tiri pamorari (singing and dancing), as we celebrated the slaughter of the enemy by vanamukoma. In the midst of the singing and dancing there was a sudden outburst of gunfire. 

I tried to escape but it was in vain. “Maoko mudenga (Hands up!)”, barked the platoon commander of the Rhodesian forces. 

I quickly capitulated. 

That is the last thing I remember of the events of that day. When I eventually regained consciousness the following day I found myself at Maramba. I had been badly brutalised, and heaven knows with what. 

I was later suspended from an airborne helicopter as a form of punishment and to serve as a warning to my fellow villagers not to have anything to do with ‘magandanga’. Vaitoti tabata gandanga.

I was so severely beaten that I became numb to pain. Ndakarohwa musana wese ukakwatuka. Along with Muzondiwa Chigombe, who was captured after me, I was taken to Mutoko Joko Two military base. 

We were made to sleep among dead bodies. They wanted us to confess that we were guerillas, but we did not budge from our initial statement that we were innocent villagers. 

After continuous brutal beatings, we succumbed to the magandanga accusations and taken to court where we again denied that we were guerillas. The magistrate asked us why we were making a sudden U-turn and we told him we had made the ‘confession’ under duress.

I showed him my badly battered and bruised back on which my shirt was now glued due to congealed blood. The soldiers asked the magistrate if he could hand us back to them, but we pleaded for the court’s protection.

We told the magistrate that tikadzokera nawo vanotiuraya munzira. We were subsequently remanded at Mutoko Prison for a week before we were transferred to Salisbury Prison, now Harare Central Prison. 

Our case was referred to the High Court  where we were sentenced to death.

A top lawyer, Wilson Sandura (who later became Judge President after independence), was assigned to represent us on March 23 1978. But this was mere window dressing — our fate had already been sealed.

We were sentenced to a total of 50 years each, 25 of which were set aside on condition of ‘good behaviour’, a pseudonym for not getting involved in politics.

We would have been sentenced to death, were it not for Mr Sandura who argued strenuously that we were too young for the hangman’s noose. That’s why I am alive today. 

President Emmerson Mnangagwa, aka Cde Trabablas Dzokerai Mabhunu, was also spared the same fate after his lawyers successfully argued that he was under-age. 

I was eventually released on November 21 1979, thanks to the ceasefire amnesty.

Compiled by Fidelis Manyange