The story of Hoyini Bhila alias Obey Dzingai

AFTER receiving intensive military training at Tembwe ZANLA Military Training Camp, Mozambique, I was deployed to Manica Province.
The Manica Province was made up of three main sectors; Monomutapa, Tangwena and Musikavanhu and infiltration routes were from Nhagomia, Chicamba, Mavimba, Dombe and Espungabera.
By 1977 we had evolved into a fine war machine.
History shows that while we had become an efficient force at this stage, the Rhodesians were still scrambling trying to find an answer to the guerilla onslaught.
A Ministry of Combined Operations was created the same year and Rhodesia’s highly regarded army commander, Lieutenant General Peter Walls, who was about to retire, was retained through creation of the post of Commander of Combined Operations.
But his perceived brilliance would not save Rhodesia.
I operated in Chitepo-Guru Sector alongside guerillas who included comrades Guru, Joboringo Jiros and Pasi.
We were under sectorial commander Cde Ndumeya.
It was while operating in the area that I stared death in the face and lived to talk about it.
While the mujibhas and chimbwidos did a brilliant job helping us, there was always that sell-out, who, motivated by greed and pettiness, put our lives in danger.
The Rhodesians surprised us in Nyakatsari Village in Tanda, Rusape.
I will never forget the battle that ensued when the Rhodesians surprised us in the village; they came in full force, geared for a massacre.
The battle left me disabled and with metal fragments that I still carry today.
It was some day in April 1977 when we got into the village.
Prior to that attack, we arrived in Nyakatsari Village in the middle of the night.
We randomly chose a homestead where we knocked intending to enquire about Rhodesian soldiers’ activities in the area.
This was the norm whenever we arrived in a new area.
But we got a shocker that sent us scurrying for cover.
When the door was opened, after we had knocked, the person inside, on seeing us, blew a whistle.
In seconds we removed ourselves from the door and took cover, eyes darting all over the place scanning, looking for the enemy.
We all instinctively concluded that that was the reason the whistle had been blown, to summon the Rhodesians.
After a while we realised that there were no Rhodesians nearby.
We summoned the whole village which gathered at the headman’s homestead.
Headman Nyakatsari was advanced in age.
He explained that the blower of the whistle was just a wayward villager who did not really mean any harm.
We learnt that at one time the man had sprayed a svikiro, spirit-medium, with perfume at a traditional ceremony.
We nevertheless disciplined this naughty fellow, war was not a time for pranks — seemingly mundane acts could lead to death.
After addressing the villagers we dismissed them and went to set up a base.
The atmosphere remained tense; the whistle-blowing incident was still with us.
Matters were not helped by the behaviour of the chimbwidos who delivered breakfast in the morning.
Usually the women and girls delivering the food would ensure that we all had received something to eat and that the food was enough before they left, sometimes they would eat the food first just to reassure us that it had not been poisoned.
There were cases in which chimbwidos under duress were forced by Rhodesians to poison the food they brought us.
These chimbwidos on this particular day were eager to leave us.
That was unusual.
And ours was the business of detecting the unusual.
The village was not safe, we concluded.
But our mission was to collect some clothes that were being brought from Salisbury (Harare) by a bus that came into the village.
And so we remained in the village.
As we were having breakfast, Cde Pasi saw snakes mating.
This was a bad omen.
Those among us who believed in the spiritual dimension of the war knew in that moment that a battle was imminent.
The terrain put us at a disadvantage.
There was no vegetation for cover.
We would be prey on open ground, an advantage for Rhodesians who had helicopters.
We tried to make ourselves inconspicuous as we waited for the clothes.
At around mid-day two Dakotas flew past our base.
Trouble had begun.
The Dakotas dropped paratroopers.
We now knew for a fact that we had been sold out.
Paratroopers were dropped close to the mountain on which we were based.
There was no cover, we were easy targets.
In no time four helicopters flew in our direction, at a lower altitude.
I fired my RPG 7 bazooka on one of the helicopters and managed to cause damage to it.
But the bazooka, our biggest weapon, jammed.
As we tried to fix it, a bomb was dropped on us.
I was severely injured.
I felt excruciating pain in every part of my body.
We exchanged fire for 15 minutes.
We were outnumbered and lost some comrades.
Looking around I only saw dead comrades and I thought I too was dying.
I clenched my fist and shouted the slogan uttered by a dying guerilla: Pamberi nehondo makomuredzi.
I had accepted my fate.
After about 10 minutes, I realised that I was not dying.
I painfully crawled to the village, resting after every few metres.
I rested under a muhacha tree and spent the rest of the day and night there.
The following morning I continued with my painful journey to headman Nyakatsari’s homestead.
At the homestead I found Cde Tiger.
Headman Nyakatsari contacted other comrades who gave us medical attention and later carried us to Mozambique where we received proper medical attention.
This is one of the many horrible episodes of the struggle I will never forget.
Compiled by Emergencey Mwale-Kamtande