The story of Mbuya Chirango

PERSECUTION and brutality by the Rhodesian forces became common in the Domboshava community during the liberation struggle, in the late 1970s.
Small as it is, the Domboshava community was exposed to the lethal and dreadful force of the Rhodesian Government under Ian Smith against civilians.
Between 1977 and 1979, guerillas became highly active in Domboshava, Chinamhora.
The freedom fighters fought with a ferocity that stunned the Rhodies.
And realising they were losing the war and were no match against the guerillas, they began to take out their anger and frustration on civilians.
Guerillas who hit the fuel depot in the then Salisbury (Harare) had been accommodated in Domboshava before getting into the capital to execute their mission.
In the late 1970s vanamukoma had become a lethal force taking the war right into the backyards of the Rhodies.
And areas such as Domboshava became vital launch pads of attacks that tore apart the economic fabric of Rhodesia.
Despite Roy Bennett being infamous for his brutality in our area, villagers continued to work closely with the freedom fighters.
We knew who our enemy was, the white Rhodesians and the sellouts.
They called our sons terrorists and all sorts of names but we did not buy it.
One July evening I experienced my darkest moment of the liberation struggle.
Rhodesian soldiers brutally tortured me.
Anyone who was suspected to have helped the freedom fighters was severely tortured.
And it was always worse for those who had a relative who joined the struggle.
My husband had joined the struggle.
And somehow, obviously through a sell-out, they learnt about this.
I refused to disclose information on the whereabouts of my husband who was a freedom fighter.
In fact, I did not know.
We all anxiously waited for the return of our loved ones who had joined the liberation struggle, never knowing whether they were alive or had been killed in action.
The death of a comrade pained us; it reminded us that our relatives who had left could also be killed.
The Rhodesians visited me in the dead of the night.
Suddenly my little hut was bright.
Was I dreaming?
I realised l was not.
I was wide awake and drowning in light.
Instantly l was filled with fear.
We had no electricity in the village.
The light filling my room meant only one thing, the Rhodesians had come for me.
And when they came for you in the dead of the night, they meant business, brutal business.
My time to meet my Maker had come, I thought.
The hut was surrounded.
There was no escaping.
The light came from torches and vehicle lights.
The Rhodesians kicked down my door, not waiting for me to open it.
I felt a mixture of boots and the butts of guns all over my body.
Surely I was going to die, no one could survive this thumping.
I was already deemed guilty, all they needed from me was a confession and intelligence.
“Vakandirova negaro repfuti kumusana nemabvi,vachiti tirikuda Edson, Where is Edson.”
Edson was my husband.
But I honestly did not know where he was operating.
Deep down they knew I did not have any information, they were just sadists venting their frustrations out on innocent villagers.
We dared them to fight the guerillas and let us be and this infuriated them more.
There was nowhere to escape to in the tiny hut.
Thus l was assaulted with nowhere to run.
I accepted my fate, l was going to die.
I was beaten to a pulp.
However, I was not deterred from supporting the struggle but my resolve to keep helping vanamukoma was strengthened.
Fortunately I survived.
And the guerillas operating in our area paid me a visit, they had no obligation to do so; there was nothing unusual about my predicament, many of us were tortured on a daily basis.
“Magandanga akauya kwakuti mhai, tisu vana venyu tinopika mubhunu akauya zve muno munharaunda ticharidzirana chete.”
Such gestures inspired us to continue aiding the guerillas, we all needed each other.
No amount of brutality or torture was going to stop us, the guerillas were wounded in battles and we also suffered different kinds of wounds but eventually we attained independence.
War is ugly and people, especially the younger generations who did not experience it, must respect the nation and its ideals. It did not come on a silver platter.
Compiled by Farai Mufambisi