adminMorris Mtisi Unsung Hero
STORIES have been written about the Zimbabwean war of liberation, stories relating narratives of triumphs and defeats, celebrations and lamentations history will forever find too vivid to forget or omit. Such a sad chapter is the tragedy of the Nyadzonia massacre.
I was lucky to meet one ex-combatant, war veteran and freedom fighter who witnessed the aftermath of the ruthless cold blooded massacre of innocent civilians at the painfully remembered Nyadzonia massacre.
“Mukoma Mtisi I have carefully followed your writings about Zimbabwean liberation war heroes and heroines. Not one of them escapes my mind to date.
“You write with a passion, a language power and accuracy not easily imitable. For that reason I have chosen you, if you will, to write my story about the massacre at Nyadzonia as I witnessed it,”
Those were the words of Cde Levy Gwarada, war-name Poiter Kaseke, before he narrated his nerve-wrecking story with a freshness that left me dump-founded and painfully intrigued.
What he forgot to say was, “So help me God!” I listened with my eyes, heart and ears, everything. The following is what I wrote word to word into English as it came out of his heart and mouth in Shona.
An inaudible voice on my little mind and brain poured the following story through my pen onto paper and the following is the sadly gripping but true end product of a freedom fighter’s memory about the most harrowing event in the annals of the Zimbabwean war of liberation, The Nyadzonia Massacre.
Narrated Cde Gwarada: Read on.
My name is Levy Gwarada. I joined the war of liberation at age 21. I was trained at Mgagao in Ringa-Tanzania by Chinese military instructors. I quickly rose from an ordinary cadre and combatant to become a member of the General Staff of the Zimbabwe People’s Army (ZIPA) in 1975.
I trained many prominent politicians today active or inactive in Zimbabwean politics. My Chimurenga name was Poiter Kaseke.
I was Director of Security in the ZIPA. I witnessed the aftermath of the Nyadzonia Massacre of 8 August 1976 in Mozambique and buried 744 bodies with these hands; 44 women, 13 children and 687 men.
The horror of this tragic ordeal is permanently fresh on my mind. (For one or two minutes he stops telling the story and looks at me, his eyes turning brick red and soon covered in angry floods of dry tears). The gory cowardly massacre refuses to escape my memory 39 long years down the line.
That summary serves to reveal my war credentials.
And here is my story.
On the morning of 7th August 1976 I drove to the port city of Beira- Mozambique from Chimoio to buy items that were needed at the newly established base camp which I had just opened to have it as our military headquarters.
Chimoio accommodated freedom fighters who had moved from Nyadzonia Refugee Camp after Frelimo and the United Nations High Commission for Refugees warned or advised that it was not ideal for trained personnel to live together with refugees.
I was tasked with the responsibility of establishing this new military base whose central position made it much easier to command military operations throughout the three fronts, namely Tete, Gaza and Manica provinces.
The following day, 8th August was ZANU anniversary day commemorating the formation of ZANU in 1964. As usual all refugees in refugee camps had occasion to celebrate this great day.
Though soldiers in the armed struggle knew about this historic day in the annals of ZANU, obviously in my opinion, it was never wise or prudent to literally or actively celebrate it. The refugees did as I have just said.
But as a member of the general staff and director responsible for security in charge of Chimoio base camp only about 60 kilometres from Nyadzonia, were it not that I had to buy items in Beira, I might have decided to visit the refugee camp and see how the refugees were celebrating the day.
But I had important business to do in Beira the day before the celebrations. So I drove to Beira.
It was on the following morning, the 8th August 1977 that I learnt of the Nyadzonia tragedy.
I remember it was around nine o’clock. We were still in Chimoio the town, when news of the massacre was broken to us.
On arrival at the Chimoio base camp, just outside the little town, Elias Hondo, member of the high command, at once instructed me to prepare and lead a 45 strong platoon to go to Nyadzonia and examine the extent of the massacre.
I selected 45 brave young soldiers. It was an elite contingent freshly graduated from Wampua College.
Armed to the teeth with rocket launchers, RPGs, LMGs and bazookas and ready for anything, we made for Nyadzonia. My deputy on this mission was Cde Salvation Muchingami (Dr Ndaba Dube).
As you can imagine the mission was no less than a suicide operation. We had no idea if we were going to examine the extent of the massacre and help out injured refugees, bury the dead or march into a death trap.
We had no idea if the enemy was still lurking around the refugee camp or had struck terror and left. Even if we found them gone there was a real possibility that they could come back again.
We were ready for anything. I have already said so. Even if it meant to memorize another Golgotha!
I instructed a small reconnaissance to lead the way, to sneak into the camp. They soon came back to report that the enemy had struck real terror and killed many, but had left.
A small Frelimo section camped very near the refugee camp confirmed that the Rhodesian forces had had a witches-breakfast and left.
They (the Frelimo comrades) had watched from a distance perhaps too scared to engage.
Before we left Chimoio around 11pm, a trained colleague who was caught in the massacre but escaped and made it to Chimoio had told us of the horror. He was too scared and traumatized to join us back to Nyadzonia. We understood him.
We marched into the camp, Nyadzonia. What we saw was a story that would remain on our lips and minds for the rest of our lives.
We saw what we had not only never seen, but never imagined we could see in all our days of fighting the war to liberate Zimbabwe.
Bodies dead and half dead. Torsos. Limbs mangled and amputated. Mashed human bone and flesh. Fresh and stale blood escaping cold bodies and living corpses. The air in the camp, strong with the smell of dying and death.
A dead body is more comfortable to see. . .or touch than a dying one. The eyes of a dead body blinking and staring from an open skull silently crying for help.
A mixture of departing despair and quiet pain begging for mercy through an open chest and stomach in which human offal stubbornly continue to function, the heart-beat defying death by useless resilience. As if the body cannot die at once.
Some of the dead bodies know me. A dead man opens his eye and speaks. You cannot run away. No matter how scared you may be.“Mukoma Poiter ndibatsireiwo,” Comrade Poiter please help me, he says through what remains of his mouth. He knows I cannot help him for he is dead already. The pain acutely oppressing me at the moment is knowledge that I can’t help him. Except wait for him to give up and die! And as soon as he pleads for help he dies.
Then you go to the next one. . .and the next and then the next. Every one of them is crying for help. Every one of them is hopeless and yet hopeful. You look at them and don’t say a word. You don’t want to say the last word someone is forever going to hear on their journey to heaven, and that word is the wrong one. That word which will escort him or her to the wrong side of eternity.
We continue to lay bodies according to the degree of hope exhibited by the casualty or the helper. The seriously injured are those showing the best hope, though some of them too die in your hands. But not before we do our best to rush them to the nearest ‘bush’ clinic where they could be attended. The opened bodies, eyes and hearts refusing to die, we allow to die looking straight into our eyes. We heap them on one side. Those surely or certainly dead and cold we pile on another side.
There were 16 000 refugees in Nyadzonia camp; young men and women, children, boys and girls, the elderly and the very old.
We, my 45 combatants and I, took two weeks vetting the dead from the dying. Each passing day we discovered dead bodies and dying ones under thick bushes, in caves, trenches, culverts and between rocks and tree cavities.
We later on learnt that Cde Kaguru, real name Gideon Mahaka, a member of the High Command from the HQ at Chimoio was waylaid by Rhodesian Forces on his way to Villa Katandika, a few miles from Nyadzonia where he was going to announce word about the August 8 ZANU DAY celebrations. Along with his aide and driver, Kaguru was never seen again. Common sense tells us as it told us then that the three were captured and killed. I visited the scene of their attack and saw no trace of the three. They had come to Nyadzonia on August 7, a day before the celebrations accompanied by Cdes Dadirayi and Emerio (Provincial Logistics Officer-Manicaland). Both were members of the General Staff. They were at Nyadzonia when on the early morning of October 8 Gideon Mahaka ( Cde Kaguru) his aide and driver met their fate on the way to Villa Katandika.
Online Reporter