The story of Morris Zikhali, aka Cde Black Jesus

IT was a normal day for ZIPRA guerillas at Nampundu Camp in Zambia. 

It was in August 1978; the war was at its peak.

The Rhodesians were feeling the heat of the war.

The Rhodies were desperate and had begun conscripting boys barely out of secondary school into their army.

They were no longer in charge of many territories in the country.

Most parts of the then Rhodesia were now liberated zones.

I was an instructor at Nampundu Camp.

On this particular day in August, I went about my daily duties as expected of me.

The guerillas I was helping train were causing Rhodies sleepless nights.

Our guerillas were no longer a rag-tag army but a formidable force which sent shivers down the spines of the enemy. 

Nampundu Camp was home to more than 

20 000 guerillas in training and trained cadres.

Rhodies, at this stage of the war, began employing desperate measures that included genocide to discourage blacks from participating in the war.

Bombings that saw the killing of helpless women and children by Rhodies were intensified.

It was during lunch time when calamity visited Nampundu Camp.

We were queuing for lunch on the fateful day when suddenly five jet fighters and many helicopters appeared from nowhere. 

The bombardiers wasted no time doing what they knew best.

The planes began vomiting bombs and all sorts of explosives on the comrades queueing for lunch.

The comrades were caught by surprise. There was no place to take cover and, anyway, hiding could not save lives as the powerful bombs were destroying everything.

Most people had not even eaten their lunch when the bombings started.

On the ground appeared armoured cars and soldiers who were tasked to finish off those who had survived the bomb attack.

For more than 30 minutes, the planes unleashed terror, killing unarmed women and children.

These are the sort of attacks that should see perpetrators being brought before the International Court of Justice (ICJ).

Human body parts and lifeless bodies were scattered all over the camp.

I did not cry, I couldn’t.

The bombing had an opposite effect on us.

We were not broken.

Instead, our resolve was strengthened.

Eventually I found myself stashed among dead bodies socked in human blood.

I scratched and pinched myself just to find out if I was really alive.

The realisation that I was alive did not make me any happier, I had lost many brothers and sisters.

But our fighting spirit was not extinguished.

The way the bombing unfolded showed it was a well calculated move to kill and destroy all sons and daughters of the soil in the camp.

They had planned the attacks, with maps and diagrams of the camp, as they constantly looked at charts after the attack which, I concluded, were maps and they were verifying their success.

However, their celebrations were premature for they had just ‘won’ a battle not the war; rather they were celebrating a genocide.

But we would rise from the ashes to win the war.

Compiled by Tobias Manyuchi