Online Reporter
Elliot Ziwira
At the Bookstore
As Zimbabwe marks 46 years of Independence on April 18, it is imperative to reflect on the origins of the long contest over land, heritage and identity, a struggle that predates 1980 by nearly a century.
In the timeless novel, “The Chimurenga Protocol”, Nyaradzo Mtizira traces this contest to September 12, 1890, when the Pioneer Column hoisted the union Jack on Harare Hill and, in the name of Queen Victoria, claimed Mashonaland and “all other unpossessed land” deemed desirable for the Empire.
The assertion that land inhabited by people could be declared “unpossessed” reveals the moral contradictions at the heart of colonial conquest.
Such claims were anchored in a worldview that ranked human worth along racial lines. Within this framework, Africans were cast as inferior, their occupation of land rendered invisible or invalid. This distortion of humanity is central to both the colonial project and the lingering tensions in postcolonial Zimbabwe.
Heritage, as Mtizira suggests, is both tangible and intangible. The tangible relates to land, resources and economic inheritance, while the intangible encompasses spirituality, identity and psychological wellbeing.
The violent severing of Africans from their land disrupted not only livelihoods, but also their moral and spiritual universe; a rupture whose echoes persist.
Colonial attitudes toward Africa were shaped by dismissive philosophies. Thinkers like Hegel described the continent as ahistorical, a place removed from the light of civilisation. Literary depictions reinforced this notion.
Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” paints Africa as an “accursed inheritance,” a wilderness awaiting European domination. Similarly, Kingsley Fairbridge’s reflections on an apparently empty land in “The Autobiography of Kingsley Fairbridge” (1927), betray a wilful blindness to indigenous presence.
Fairbridge writes: “I felt dreamy and far-away; my body seemed light, but I breathed heavily as we breasted the slopes. Suddenly the thought came to me, ‘Why are there no farms? Why are there no people?’ It came to me again and again, ‘Why are there no farms here?’”.
Such narratives justified dispossession by erasing African humanity. As Ngugi wa Thiong’o observes in “Wrestling with the Devil” (2018), Africans were not merely dehumanised but they were seen as threats precisely because they declared their humanity.
Ngugi writes, “The African is an animal . . . But I err in saying the African was considered an animal . . . Africans were worse than animals, because they asserted their humanity in the very threats they posed to settlerdom.”
In “The Chimurenga Protocol”, this assertion is embodied in a young freedom fighter who, even in the face of death, demands the return of ancestral land. Calling colonial agents “settlers,” he reclaims the language of belonging and resistance. His defiance highlights a fundamental truth that land is not just territory, but identity.
Mtizira uses the voices of characters like Cummins to articulate the African perspective. He acknowledges that Shona society is deeply rooted in agriculture, and that land is inseparable from livelihood. This understanding explains why earlier interactions with the Portuguese were relatively peaceful since they recognised the indigenous people’s connection to their land.
However, colonial settlers sought permanence. Characters like Mason reflect on securing land for their descendants, aware that their occupation was precarious. Yet, even as they planned generational inheritance, they systematically excluded the rightful owners, creating enduring inequalities.
Mason wants to “secure this stolen land permanently for (his) kith and kin”, aware that “the settlers had a short window of opportunity to enrich themselves before the indigenous people reclaimed their noble heritage”.
He knows that he should pass on the land to his descendants and white progeny as heritage. Yet, he is determined to impoverish indigenous beneficiaries of the same heritage.
These disparities gave rise to psychological and emotional tensions. Deprivation became internalised, sometimes attributed to fate or ancestral displeasure. The result was a fractured sense of legacy, where those dispossessed grappled with both material loss and spiritual dislocation.
Therefore, the land question becomes more than economic but existential as well. As depicted in the novel, forced evictions stripped people of dignity, severing their connection to both the past and future. Demands for compensation, often dismissed as contentious, emerge from this deep sense of injustice.
For Africans, land transcends geography. It is a source of wealth, identity, pride and spiritual continuity. Scholars like Rino Zhuwarara emphasise its centrality to cultural existence. This multifaceted significance explains why land remains at the heart of Zimbabwe’s national discourse.
Spiritually, land is sacred. It is regarded as “mother”; not to be owned, bought or sold, but revered and protected. It is also the dwelling place of ancestors, linking the living to the dead. Loss of land, therefore, is tantamount to loss of dignity and being.
Mtizira illustrates this through the spiritual consciousness of his characters. Cummins, despite being a colonial figure, recognises that land is the “spiritual nexus” of indigenous life. The deliberate destruction of this connection by colonial forces was not accidental. It was a calculated strategy to weaken resistance.
Language itself reflects this bond. Shona expressions such as mwana wevhu (child of the soil), mupambevhu (land grabber) and ivhu rinorwa nenguva yaro (the land fights in its own time) encode a worldview where land is alive, responsive and sacred. These phrases, echoed in the liberation struggle, became rallying calls for reclaiming identity and sovereignty.
During the Second Chimurenga, slogans like “mwana wevhu” galvanised national consciousness. The soil was not just a battlefield. It was a symbol of belonging. Even expressions like rukuvhute (umbilical cord) evoke an intimate, life-giving connection to the land.
Spiritual authority played a crucial role in this struggle. Figures such as Mbuya Nehanda and Sekuru Kaguvi inspired resistance, embodying the unity of land, spirit and people. Their execution by colonial authorities was an attempt to dismantle this spiritual backbone.
Historians such as Aeneas Chigwedere note that the Chimurenga was orchestrated through a network of spiritual leaders, with chiefs acting as custodians of both land and culture. Colonial authorities, recognising this, targeted traditional religion, declaring war on spirit mediums and sacred institutions.
This assault extended to cultural beliefs. African spirituality was vilified as primitive or evil, while Christianity was imposed as a civilising force. In this process, colonisers positioned themselves as arbiters of truth and morality, further entrenching psychological domination.
The legacy of this disruption is evident in postcolonial Zimbabwe. As Mtizira portrays, the struggle for land is intertwined with a struggle for identity and healing. Independence in 1980 marked a political victory, but the deeper quest for restoring heritage continues.
The post-2000 Fast Track Land Reform Programme must be understood within this historical context. It is a bold move to address centuries of dispossession. The debates surrounding it reflect unresolved tensions between justice, legality and reconciliation.
At 46 years of Independence, Zimbabwe stands at a crossroads. The challenge is to reconcile its past with its aspirations, to build a future that honours both tangible and intangible heritage.
This requires a deeper understanding of the land as more than an economic asset, but as a repository of memory, identity and spirituality. It also demands a reimagining of nationhood, one that acknowledges historical injustices while fostering unity and progress.
Literature, as exemplified by “The Chimurenga Protocol”, plays a vital role in this process. It provides a space to interrogate history, challenge narratives and reclaim voices that were silenced.
The story of Zimbabwe is one of resilience. From the hoisting of a foreign flag in 1890 to the raising of a national flag in 1980, the journey has been marked by sacrifice and determination.
As the nation celebrates its 46th anniversary, a persistent question remains: How do we honour this legacy?
The answer lies in recognising that independence is not a destination, but a continuous process involving reclaiming not just the land, but dignity, identity and soul of the nation, too.
In hoisting our own flag, we must ensure that it no longer symbolises dispossession, but restoration, testifying to a people who, despite history’s injustices, continue to define their destiny.
- For an immersive reading experience, visit the Typocrafters (DigiHub) retail shop at Herald House, corner George Silundika Avenue and Sam Nujoma Street in Harare.
