IT was Sunday, July 9 1978 and I was just coming from my evening bath at the river when I started feeling shocks in my legs as I approached the camp.
The closer I got to the camp, the stronger the shocks became, almost preventing me from walking.
When I got to the camp, I saw lorries parked in the centre of the camp and some comrades standing by the lorries with their kitbags.
“Comrades what is happening?” I asked.
“Ropa, what are you still doing?” said one comrade.
“Go and get your kitbag, we are leaving.”
I did not ask for where?
It was not a normal question for mauto.
You went where you were told to go.
Actually it did not bother me.
In my almost two months in the struggle I had learned that for security reasons, many things could not be explained in advance.
There were those in command, fully trusted, they knew what they were doing and as juniors we obeyed the commands.
When I came back from my posto, people were already boarding the lorries.
It was already getting dark when we left Gondola.
To my greatest delight, our destination was Pasichigare, my first post when I got to Mozambique, where I had spent my first month in the struggle.
It is from here that I was posted to Gondola.
Pasichigare was a dream camp.
I had fallen in love with its woody mood.
The forest had not been disturbed, the postos and barracks nestled among the trees, the grass thatch merging with the terrain — a perfect camouflage.
Pasichigare embraced you, shielded you; it was perfect cover. Small undulating hills spanned more than half its perimeter, forming a natural shield.
Ian Smith would have a hard time finding us beneath the canopy of those leafy, woody trees.
Here you could read, teach, write and be at peace.
This was in sharp contrast to Gondola which was all-white buildings.
The terrain was characterised by a border of pine trees, an orchard of orange trees which were not so leafy thus providing hardly any cover other than that it was just tall grass all around the camp.
There was nowhere to hide at Gondola.
However, at Pasichigare, the children could be at peace.
Many of them were survivors of the Nyadzonia and Chimoio massacres.
The Chimoio Massacre had taken place only eight months before.
The memories of its horror were still raw and the children needed to be at peace.
It began to dawn on us why we had been moved to Pasichigare. At Gondola we were just too vulnerable.
Pasichigare had been the headquarters of the defence and security arm of ZANLA — Cde Josiah Tongogara and Cde Emmerson Mnangagwa’s headquarters.
They had vacated it for the children so that they could be safer.
The children the racists had failed to annihilate at Nyadzonia and Chimoio gave the Rhodesians sleepless nights.
Rhodesians knew these children were the ‘chindunduma’, the assurance that the struggle would sustain until final victory.
For this reason, they could not let these children be — would not give them respite.
They traced them from Chimoio and found them at Gondola, a perfect target.
They knew this time around, none of them would survive.
So they wished, so they planned!
But our security was way ahead of them.
Just when they (Rhodies) were ready to strike we were moved to Pasichigare, the last place the Rhodesians expected to find the children, certainly not the headquarters of ZANU’s defence and security.
This was a place that sent shivers down their spine because they knew it would be fortified to the last.
When on July 9 1978, ZANU moved us to Pasichigare, the enemy plans to annihilate the children were already done and dusted.
They were ready to strike.
So the enemy rested, waiting for the day they would strike, assured that their nightmare was over — ‘chindunduma’ would be no more.
At Pasichigare, we were busy settling down, carrying on with our duties, oblivious to the fact Rhodesians had ‘already’ sealed our fate.
They already were celebrating another Nyadzonia, another Chimoio.
On Saturday, July 15 1978, I was taking a walk with some of my friends.
We stopped by one of the security posts and joined the comrades at their fire. We warmed ourselves as we chatted with them.
Just then a reconnaissance plane flew over us and flashed a red light three times.
As we all looked up at the star-lit sky, the security comrades commented: “Tinoritamba bhora pano mangwana.”
We all knew we could be attacked at any time, but I did not know what they knew.
We continued with our walk and later retired for the night.
The following morning, July 16, at the 8am parade, there were very few comrades, less than 40.
I wondered where the thousands of children and commanders had gone.
After the parade, I asked a comrade why there were so few of us at parade.
A comrade who had attended the 4am parade responded: “At the 4am parade, we were told everyone had to go for cover.”
“Ndizvo zvakanaka tife tiri vashoma,” I commented.
I did not know how true that was.
As a newcomer, I was still undergoing orientation classes.
The commissar and I were beneath a tree.
I was seated while comrade Morris, the camp commissar was standing, explaining to me that ours was not a war for the sake of war, it was not a war of revenge, nor a racial one when I heard the sound of a fighter plane and bombing while the anti-aircraft guns on the hilltop a few metres behind us answered with fire.
I was totally undisturbed.
In my mind, a plane had attacked and it had been shot down.
But in those few seconds I had stood up, perhaps some reflex but I was still at peace, until I looked around and saw that no-one was around anymore.
It was as if the camp had been deserted the night before.
There was utter silence.
Something triggered my adrenalin, something was not correct anymore, I realised.
In a split second, my mind reviewed everything I had been taught about what to do in an attack.
Not to go towards the kitchen, the parade ground or the commando where the senior commanders reside or the river because all these were target areas, but then I was practically surrounded by these specific areas.
To my left was the kitchen and beyond it, the Mudzingadzi River.
Directly in front of me, just a few metres ahead was the parade ground and to my right was the commando, where the senior commanders resided.
And in that split second, everything had changed.
There was the zing of fighter planes in the sky, the sound of exploding bombs.