The story of Stanley Kusha Mupfeki
THE Principal, Austin, officially announced to us the death of the two men during a frightful breakfast time.
Girls were petrified, but boys braved the situation while the likes of my friends and I were not moved by the deaths.
The late boarding master was a common enemy, while the Chaplin had a habit of regarding himself as our ‘father’ and bored us with his incessant scripture sermons.
I remember Enoch whispering to me: “Those two deserved nothing short of death.
“They were notorious sell-outs.”
We learnt it was the Principal and Georgia who collected the corpses during the night and took them to the school clinic mortuary.
Later, a chopper took the remains and their families to Mt Darwin.
A local war collaborator who joined the comrades after the killings had coded the duo’s sell-out activities to the comrades.
The boarding master had a habit of stealing school maize, selling it to needy locals and pocketing the money, yet on numerous occasions, he took messengers from the District Commissioner (DC)’s office to the school dining hall, giving them free food.
According to information we gathered, vanamukoma (freedom fighters) cut all the communication lines to the school when they arrived and visited the principal Austin to appraise him on their mission – ‘dealing’ with two named sell-outs within the school community.
The comrades assured Austin that all missionaries and teachers at the Mission, their families and students were safe because they were innocent.
No matter how much the principal so liked the targeted men for their ‘good’ services, he could not utter a word in their defence as that could have jeopardised his safety and also the safety of all the whites at the Mission.
The leader of the comrades told the principal that Georgia, an American and veteran of the Vietnam War, would accompany them to their targets’ residence.
That was what took place Thursday evening, preceding Good Friday.
The Rhodesian forces spent the better part of Good Friday morning at the school interrogating people, particularly boys and workers, to establish who had sold out who to the ‘terrorists’ (as freedom fighters were referred by whites), and those who had gone with them.
The Good Friday was not so good at Mavuradonha Mission that year in 1974.
The school was awash with uniformed forces and army trucks. We assembled in the dining hall and a soldier addressed us in a ‘no-nonsense military style’:
“From here, go and pack up and be ready to leave this school in 30 minutes.
“Lorries will drop you in Mt Darwin where you will catch buses home.
“This Mission is closed for security reasons.”
The Principal assured us that his office, operating from Harare, would help us get places at other operational secondary schools in the country.
He told us to collect our textbooks from the classrooms as quickly as possible.
A beautiful, flashy and vibrant Form One ghetto girl, Silvia Fifteen, was so shocked she looked hopeless as she walked among others to the classrooms.
Our stout playmate, Barnwell, wobbled behind the rest of us on the same assignment.
We were petrified when we got to our classroom.
Two white soldiers were discussing my drawing of Jesus’ crucifixion on the chalkboard.
One of them, with a ginger-coloured beard and mustache, as if he knew, directed his question at me.
“Hey you f**** bloody fool, who drew this?” he pointed his gun at the chalkboard, then at me.
“I…..,I……, did it,” I stammered, body and soul drowned in fear.
“You drew Jesus on the cross and wrote: “Everyone is judged by his deeds.”
“Explain these words!” the soldier barked.
My saviour was an army command code that sounded from somewhere and the soldiers leaped out through windows and quickly disappeared.
“That was a close shave,” Antony said while Enoch quickly rubbed the board.
We trooped down to the dormitories to pack our belongings.
Around 10am, a fleet of lorries drove into the schoolyard.
We loaded our luggage onto one lorry under the command of army officers and we got onto the other three.
The school administration had to give money to a dozen students who had not yet received their bus fares, as it was ‘each-man-for- himself’ affair once in Mt Darwin.
The black teachers’ families and their luggage got on one lorry. The missionaries and their families were flown away in helicopters.
We waved goodbye to no one in particular, but the premises.
Our convoy arrived in Mt Darwin around mid-day.
We offloaded our luggage at the DC’s office amid noisy jostling. Some uniformed men, who we suspected to be detectives, instructed us to sit on a lawn in the heat of the sun.
Our teachers were allowed to seat in the shade of some trees nearby.
The DC, Mr Lantham was introduced to us.
The irate whiteman, who had an umbrella held over his big head by an African District Assistant, did not mind or worry about the rivulets of sweat on our faces.
“Hey, listen carefully!’’ he barked.
“You are young and have a future.
“Don’t sympathise with the mad people who stay in the bush. “They are crazy.
“Never join their activities because the security forces won’t spare you.
“The properly trained soldiers will shoot you to death.”
Takuranashe, a Form Two boy from Fort Victoria (now Masvingo) region, burst out laughing and the DC called him up. What followed was unbelievable.
The DC punched him hard on the chest and barked: “Do you want to go Dande and have your head chopped off by gandangas?” Takuranashe staggered backwards, but did not fall.
The DC was about to hit him again when the he ran into our crowd for cover.
“Bassop!” said the DC.
Just then three buses stopped by the road outside the DC’s office fence.
Two were for those proceeding to Harare, Bindura, Glendale, Mazowe, Shamva, Musana and Madziva.
The third one was for those going to Chesa, Rushinga, Rusambo and Marymount Mission.
Stanley Mupfeki was a Form Two student at Mavuradonha Mission in 1974 when the incident happened.
Currently he is Head, Mudzinge Primary School, Shamva.
He can be contacted on 0776 549 268.