The story of Joseph Dzumbunu aka Cde Peter Chatambudza
BY 1979 at the tail-end of our war of liberation, I was a battle-hardened guerrilla.
At that stage of the war I had gotten out of hair-raising battles and survived ambushes in which no man was expected to walk out of.
We had made a vow never to run but engage, for running would have seen us always on the run, but all my acquired skills and experience would not save me from one arrow. Then there was an arrow of love released from the bow of a ravishingly beautiful young lady.
From 1976 when I received training in Mozambique at Tembwe Military Camp right up to 1979, war was uppermost in my mind.
Among the most important messages instilled into us during training was to respect the masses and kusaita choupombwe among other rules.
The law to respect women, kusaita choupombwe, was critically important.
Many of us believed that engaging in sexual relations, especially where one abused their power to get into a relationship made death a certainty, zvaiunza hondo yaiti tsikirira.
And so from 1976 when I was deployed in Manica Province in the Musikavanhu Sector, I concentrated on the business of liberating the country from the yoke of colonialism.
I operated in Chipinge, Bikita, Zaka and Buhera.
Our survival in these areas was not just due to our prowess with the gun. War collaborators the mujibhas and chimbwidos played a critical role in our success.
We depended on them for food, clothing and information.
I met many chimbwidos that fed us and nursed our wounds restoring us back to health.
In all these areas were beautiful girls, but our plates were full as it were, war was a nasty business, but the year 1979 saw me operating in Gutu, in the farming areas of Nyahunda.
At this stage we were winning the war, victory was certain.
We had liberated many zones and for the first time we could think of life after the struggle.
And in that moment when we had long ceased to be the hunted and had become the hunter of Rhodesians, with not much pressure, other thoughts began to creep in. I was not just a guerilla, I was a young man in my prime and the victory in sight saw me making plans for the future.
That is when I became conscious of Sheilla, not just as the chimbwido serving us, but the woman I would be happy to have for a wife capable of taking care and restoring this guerilla to humanity.
My gun could have been impressive, but it was ineffective, it did not make me the all-conquering hero and this was not the first time she was seeing a gun.
My title as Section Commander could also have been impressive, but again I was not the first she had met, the masses interacted with many high ranking officers.
My exploits in battles could be described as fascinating, but known to her were escapades of other comrades like James Bond whose stories were stuff of legends.
Thus in front of Sheilla I just found myself a boy in front of a girl asking her to love him.
It was one of my most difficult ‘battles’.
Walking through a battalion of Rhodesian forces armed to the teeth with aerial support, I believe, would have been easier than the process to convince Sheilla that I was a gentleman with noble intentions.
It was war, but it did not do away or suspend procedures that governed us as Africans.
Thus Sheilla duly interrogated me, like a typical African girl, anobva kuvanhu.
“Ndiwe ani (who are you), mutupo wako chii (what is your totem), unobvepi (where are you from), mudunhu raani (who is your chief), mune misha here imi (do you have homes),” she pressed with sarcasm that camouflaged a desperation to know if I could be trusted.
I loved the girl, dearly, but the questions I could not answer.
I was a guerilla; I was simply Peter Chatambudza Mukadota. I could not divulge my real name and where I came from. I loved the girl, my mind had been made up, she was the one for me.
Soon we were leaving for Assembly Points.
I took her details, the most important one being her home address.
“Uchandiona ndadzoka (I am coming back for you),” I promised her. I left for Mutandawe Golf Camp, the Assembly Point in Chiredzi.
My ‘assault’ did not stop, as during this period I bombarded the girl of my dreams with letters that would make her a believer in me.
I then left for Bulawayo in 1980 where I was integrated into the Zimbabwe National Army.
The letters to Gutu did not subside, the onslaught increased, I sent her photos.
To eradicate the cobwebs of doubt I gave her the address of my sister who resided in Harare, in Glen Norah.
And in what I took as a sign of willingness to have me in her life, she visited my sister.
She established I was a genuine fellow, with noble intentions and had not left a wife behind when I joined the war.
When I got my first vacation, like a swift arrow after meat I ‘flew’ to Gutu, to get my girl.
When I got to her place she was not home, she had visited her aunt.
For two days I awaited her return. I can never find words to describe the joy I experienced when I laid my eyes on my chimbwido.
And the joy in her eyes cannot be described, my presence in her home doused whatever fear or doubt she might have had.
I the comrade, the boy had come back for my girl.
Arrangements and dates for marriage, which took place in 1981, were made.
And more than three decades later, I am still with my girl, happily married.
Compiled by Evans Mushawevato