The story of Rosemary Mushonga

THERE was heavy gunfire exchange between the Rhodesians and ZANLA freedom fighters on the Christmas Eve of 1978 in my home village of Muponda, Honde Valley.
Sellouts, as always in such instances, had informed Rhodesian forces of the presence of vana mukoma in our area.
It was 1978 and the guerillas had evolved into an efficient fighting force.
Many liberated zones had been created at this stage of the struggle and the fighters were no longer running but taking the Rhodesians head on.
Tables had turned; the Rhodies were desperate and retreating.
Cde Goldfinger informed us that an attack was imminent and dismissed us from the pungwe (gathering) in Muponda Mountain.
There was a deathly silence on the morrow.
And at eight in the evening we heard gunfire.
We remained indoors.
The fight did not last long. It only lasted two hours.
That night I did not sleep and Christmas morning turned out to be a nightmare.
The 1978 Christmas turned out to be one of the worst I had ever experienced.
It was the day I stopped eating meat, my appetite for it was totally destroyed.
Some innocent villagers had been caught in the crossfire and lost their lives.
The Rhodesians had already collected their dead which they took to their base at Ruda.
Later the Rhodesians returned and began gathering villagers.
We were accused of feeding and supporting the guerillas.
My husband Oliver Buta, my sisters-in-law Norah and Alice, Elias Banda, Febby Chinembiri and Lazarus Buta, my brother-in-law and myself were force-marched to Muponda Mountain.
At the foot of the mountain I got the shock of my life.
We saw dead bodies scattered all over the place.
Among the dead were villagers and war collaborators.
I carried my six-month old son.
I was told to leave my son and pay for the crime of feeding the guerillas.
We carried the corpses from the mountain crossing the Nyamarungu River to Jombe Primary School where the Rhodesians’ trucks were parked.
It was no easy task.
A corpse would fall and tumble down the mountain, we were travelling a distance of about three kilometres, from the mountain to the school.
A single journey carrying a corpse would take about an hour.
When we had carried all the dead, we were also loaded onto the trucks and taken to the Rhodesian camp in Ruda where we were to finish our ‘punishment’ as it were.
We rode with the mangled corpses, deformed from the constant falling on the rocks.
We were all red with blood.
It was a heartrending experience, especially considering that these were people we knew.
For an hour we rode on in silence with our dead to the infamous camp.
But the smell of blood and the condition of the butchered corpses was unbearable,
At the camp we offloaded the corpses into mass graves that were being dug by excavators.
Many lorries came from other parts of Manicaland.
What I realised was that a significant number of casualties were villagers and not guerillas.
The Rhodesians, who were losing the war had embarked on a senseless killing spree.
The Rhodies began torturing us.
We were beaten and electrocuted.
I watched my husband who was brutally beaten and I thought he would die.
I was in the queue waiting for my turn.
I was instructed to lie stomach down and the whipping began.
All the while I was asked to name villagers who supported the guerillas.
I professed ignorance which resulted in me being electrocuted in a bid to force the information out of me.
They began electrocuting my fingers and then my breasts that were dripping milk.
I begged for them to stop but they did not.
I lost consciousness and only came to after six hours.
They let me go and I walked 15 kilometres back home.
My breasts were swollen and I experienced excruciating pain.
There was no way I would breastfeed my son.
The smell of human flesh remained strong and would not go away. That was the day I stopped eating meat.
Ndikangoona nyama ndinobva ndangofunga zvitunha zvandakaona.
Compiled By Emergencey Mwale-Kamtande