The story of Cde Alex Makotore aka
Cde Bruce Taparara

AS the news of the ceasefire filtered through and began to take root, I was taken back to the days when I had joined this necessary struggle.
I recalled how we had crossed the border from Zimbabwe into Mozambique, soaked to the skin after some heavy rains.
Mozambique here we are!
I recall being excited with finally making it into the country where I was to receive military training to topple the Ian Smith regime.
The people were friendly.
It was like walking into one of the rural villages in Zimbabwe.
They had ‘sabhukus’ (village heads), just like back home. We were received by a sabhuku who quickly took away our ‘stupas’ (IDs).
That was the last time I saw my paper ID.
I still miss it. It was a symbol of maturity then.
We were taken to Machipanda Border Post (Forbes) where all formalities were carried out by FRELIMO soldiers who were just coming into power.
That same day, we were taken by a lorry to Manica town and put up there for the night.
Still, there was no news of the other groups we had come with.
We were asked to sing about Zimbabwe the whole night.
There were other Zimbabweans from other parts of the country, some with no shoes.
The Shona language was known in Manica.
The following morning, we were moved to Chimoio further east towards Beira.
Here for the first time, I came closer to the war reality when I met Richard, a former Highfield Community School student, who had come earlier at DAF Base.
DAF Base was an old warehouse for DAF Motor Company, just outside Villa Perry, now Chimoio.
It was used by Zimbabwean refugees as a transit camp.
To my horror, Richard had bullet wounds on his shoulder and arm. He was in Chimoio for treatment. There were many others with worse injuries.
I said to myself: “My God, is this the situation?”
Richard gave me the impression he had been on the war front earlier and had been injured in battle.
I admired his heroism.
At night we would sing until morning.
There were about 100 inmates at that camp.
Those injured were referred to as ‘maduwende’, Portuguese for ‘patients’.
One of my friends, I had met on the way and also from Salisbury (Harare), John was not happy at DAF and contemplated running away.
I discouraged him. I had learnt from the slogans that running away was tantamount to selling out the whole cause.
It was boring at DAF because we would have sadza and bakayawo (dried fish) everyday.
We did not know that things could be really bad diet-wise.
My bharanzi (clothes) were getting worn out then because of the walking.
Pindai’s shoes had worn out.
Everyday we would go for a morning run, military style (toyi toyi) and on our way back bring firewood for the kitchen.
I would always think of Joseph Nyemba, my friend who had gone with the other group.
I still hoped I would meet him.
One morning a lorry drove into DAF camp and we rushed to it thinking it would take us to some training camp as we always anticipated.
The administration was being run by the veterans.
One Cde Lancelot selected me and about nine others to hop into the truck, a three-tonne lorry.
We drove towards Pungwe Bridge and got to the river to find the bridge destroyed. We were stunned except for the driver who was Portuguese.
It was normal for them since they just drove the lorry onto a ramp and pulled the lorry to the other side, an arrangement which had been temporarily put up to cater for traffic.
I wondered what had happened to the bridge. We crossed the river and drove to some old camp which looked disused.
Our mission was to unearth water pipes that were being ferried somewhere. After some hours of labouring, we took a rest under a tree.
Again there was something about the place. There were drums with sadza, half cooked.
Back in Salisbury, we used to admire Rhodesian soldiers with necklaces made from bullet shells. I picked up some from the numerous strewn all over the place.
Cde Lancelot saw me and shouted that a relative of mine could have been shot dead. We were all shocked and threw back the shells. We waited for an explanation.
Cde Lancelot was pushed into the corner by this situation and had to explain to us what had transpired.
Back home, I had heard and seen something in The Rhodesia Herald, stating that a ‘terrorist’ camp had been raided in Mozambique and that many people, including women and children had been killed.
As Cde Lancelot was narrating the story, it started to ring a bell in my mind.
Again I thought of other comrades we had left at DAF.
I thought of Richard.
I thought of Jonathan back home.
Ok, Ok. I thought.
This was the sad story of how one of the ZANLA commanders had sold out his comrades and brought Rhodesian soldiers to massacre them in hundreds.
This was the scene of the Nyadzonia massacre and the comrade who had sold out was Morrison Nyathi who drove the enemy into the camp.
Later on, I learnt that some friends who had left home early in 1976 from Kambuzuma like Kenny Dzimwasha, Kenny Rusike and Ishmael Chanda Badze had survived the massacre.
But Nicholas Munyoro did not survive.
Later after independence, I had a tough time trying to explain to Josh, the brother how Nico had died.
We were moved from Chimoio after two weeks to Doiroi Refugee Camp.