The story of Michael Kutyauripo alias Cde Organiser Chauraya Mabhunu

AT around 7am of November 27 1977 I was positioned in a mountain almost a kilometre away from Tembwe Base One in Mozambique.
It was at that time I heard the sound of a spotter jet and intuitively knew an attack was imminent.
I had an RPK machine gun and Cde Peugeot was manning the anti-air.
As soon as the spotter plane disappeared, I heard explosions at the camp, the base was being bombed.
More than 3 000 people including, recruits, women and children were massacred in the genocide by the Rhodesian Forces.
I had gone to Mozambique assisting two comrades who had been injured in an attack in the Dande Valley.
I was at Tembwe waiting for transportation to Tete Hospital, where the injured comrades I was accompanying were to receive proper medical care.
All serious injuries were attended to in Mozambique as it was difficult to receive proper care in Rhodesia.
In fact, there was no proper healing that could take place in Rhodesia.
Injured comrades caught by Rhodies never received medical care, but were tortured and many lost their lives due to lack of attention.
Injuries of captured guerillas would be left to become gangrenous.
We had no vehicles, but carried our injured comrades to Mozambique.
The journeys were arduous and dangerous.
We would travel during the night as the Rhodesians were more active during the day.
Carrying a comrade with all his arms for more than 100km was no easy task, but we would do it, for we never left one of us behind.
This is how I found myself at Tembwe on that fateful day.
So when we heard ominous explosions that told of a horrific tale, we decided to cross a nearby river and take positions in another nearby mountain.
A python got into the water from the other end of the river.
This was a bad omen, or was it?
We ended up not crossing the river and changed direction.
The change of direction saved us as Rhodesians were coming from the direction the python had come from.
Instead of crossing, we walked along the river bank taking cover in the reeds.
All we could see from the camp was a huge cloud of smoke that enveloped it.
After about two hours of intense bombing the Airforce left the camp and the ground force was deployed for a mop-up exercise, to finish off any survivors.
We could hear screams of the dying and injured who were calling for help, but there was nothing we could do.
War was plain horrible.
With every shot we heard, we knew it was the death of a comrade.
At around seven in the evening, we came out of hiding and went back to the camp.
The sight that greeted us was a piece straight out of a horror movie.
The camp had been reduced to ashes.
Dead bodies made a carpet that covered the whole ground.
Many had become charred, burnt beyond recognition.
A few survivors pitifully cried for help.
But in the cries was defiance: “Huyai mutipedzise tiri pano!” cried a girl who had survived the bombing, but was badly injured.
“Huyai pamberi nehondo!
“Mapfupa aNehanda achamuka.”
The girl had been shot in the left leg and had a huge gaping wound through which her life was escaping.
Her friend had been shot in both legs and in the stomach.
Cde Peugeot tore his shirt and we used it as a bandage to stop the bleeding, that was the best we could do.
I also tore my shirt, we had lost many comrades, but were determined to preserve some life amidst the sad loss.
My efforts at preserving life were futile.
The girl was already gone, only her stubborn and proud spirit animated her body.
She clenched her fist bidding us farewell, a gesture that pained us for we had already bade farewell to many. We could not stand losing any more, but this was war, events unfolded caring not what we desired.
She would not preserve her energy to save herself, but used it to encourage and inspire us to carry on with the struggle.
And with the last ounce of her energy, she shouted: “Pamberi nehondo makomuredhi.”
These were her last words.
They rang loud.
And they were with us as we met other survivors in the nearby village where they were hiding.
A bulldozer was required to bury the dead at Tembwe.
We buried our fallen comrades in mass graves as it was the only way we could lay them to rest.
This was war and war is nasty.
Compiled by Emergencey Mwale-Kamtande