adminIgnatius Mabasa Correspondent
Someone once said, “It is well that war is terrible, or we should get too fond of it.” During the liberation war, in the Chesa area of Mt Darwin where I grew up, I hated being relegated to looking after cattle while my cousins were active mujibhas and chimbwidos. I was in awe when my cousins who used all adjectives and superlatives they knew to describe the guerillas, their guns, dressing and even their ability to appear and disappear like the wind.
On some nights, when the radio had batteries, we used to huddle around the small crackling tin, to listen to the mysterious voices of demagogues of war encouraging us to take up arms and fight for our freedom.
It became the dream of a lot of young people to cross the border and join the struggle. In the midst of death and the brutality of war, we got to a point where we were beginning to get fond of war.
It was not just the Radio Mozambique war broadcasts that made us restless and excitable. It was also the pungwes, the formidable guns that vana mukoma slung on their backs, the songs and dances of war, the sounds of gunfire and rocket launchers, the visits by the Rhodesian forces demanding information about the whereabouts of the comrades.
I was in the thick of things of the struggle. I was part of the struggle, but to my disappointment not in a big way like the grown ups. Yet, I loved to listen to the stories about conquest and invincibility of the comrades who were like mythical characters. Even though people were dying, the spirit of the struggle was not doused, instead, it prospered and grew.
That war in which my father and my cousin died, is now a thing of the distant past. Nobody still talks about it in the village, because it ran its course. Yet, it is when we think we are safe and have left the battleground, that new kinds of brutal wars can start.
When I thought everything to do with war has been put to bed in my mind, I had a rude awakening while visiting Manyame Airbase recently. I got to Manyame Airbase in a very talkative mood because I was trying to cheer my son who was going for circumcision. As I drove into the Airbase, I was unexpectedly greeted by a terrible war memory. Right at the entrance of Manyame Airbase, is a warp-lane on display, and the mere sight of that plane literally gutted and disembowelled me.
Although I was driving, I was so shocked that I nearly lost control of the car. The warp-lane on display by the entrance of Manyame Airbase terrorised and traumatised me beyond words during the liberation struggle.
During the war, I was just a herd boy and even though there was a war going on, I still had to take the cows to the grazing pastures that were away from home.
The cows were oblivious of the war — they needed their grass and water, and they needed someone to look after them. And while you were out and alone with your cattle, it was possible to be confronted by Rhodesian soldiers. The Rhodesian soldiers were cruel and unpredictable.
They could promise young people sweets, jam, biscuits and even tinned beef just to extract information from them about the guerrillas. They very well knew that kids are vulnerable and cannot lie consistently. If the sweets and jam did not do the trick, they could even point a gun at you or assault you.
Seeing the war plane at Manyame Airbase reminded me of the name we gave to that war plane. We called it kadidiya. Kadidiya is an apt name for a gossiper who loves and enjoys reporting others so that they get into trouble. The kadidiya was a reconnaissance plane.
It was notorious for making life difficult for the ordinary people. Even when people were gathered for a funeral, the kadidiya would make the gathered people uneasy if it circled the place two or three times before flying away. Usually, after flying away, helicopters and big war planes with soldiers would come demanding explanations as to why people were gathered and they could beat people indiscriminately. So, you can imagine, how I felt, seeing that evil and terror inspiring warp-lane hung high on a metal frame being displayed. I felt so small and bullied!
Besides the Rhodesian soldiers asking questions and beating up people, they were also cruel such that they could even burn down people’s homes, kill and rape. Usually when the Rhodesian soldiers came, some people, especially those who are old enough to be suspected to be mujibha or chimbwido had to flee and hide in the bush.
It is when such things happened that those like myself who will be out herding cattle will be clueless as to what to do. You will be out there cut off from the rest of the village and you are not sure what to do. The white Rhodesian soldiers loved to do the asking, while the black soldiers who could ask questions in good Shona stood back.
“Hipi ro gandanda?” was a favourite question. If you answered, and said I don’t know, you could get that famous boer clap. If again you said I saw them pass through here last week, then the questions would get very difficult and complicated as they would want information on how many they were, how they were dressed, what weapons they were carrying, what they told the villagers etc.
I remember how one herd boy from our village was killed by gunfire from a war plane, because he had been herding cattle while playing a guitar. I am sure the Rhodesian forces from an aerial view thought the guitar was a gun, and they just released a hail of bullets on a hapless herd boy.
Being out with the cows alone was very difficult because it really made you feel isolated and unprotected. I remember how at one time the kadidiya circled several times while I was in grazing pastures with the cattle. It flew so low we could see the white pilots wearing black glasses.
As soon as it flew away, I quickly rounded up all the cows and drove them back home. It was mid-morning when I got home and my grandfather asked why I was back so early with the cattle.
I told him what had happened and how afraid I was. Instead of sympathising, grandfather ordered me to take the cattle back to the pastures. I went back, but I was a dead boy walking.
As a result of terrible war experiences — or let me say of encounters with kadidiyas and the Rhodesian soldiers, the war plane hanging on display at the entrance of Manyame Airbase invoked very bad memories.
There are memories of war that must rest and rot because they are traumatic. War trauma is precisely what Cde Chinx sang about, when he said “Chaiti chauya kuseni-seni chikopokopo kuzoshungurudza mweya wegamba! Chaiti chotenderera chikopo-kopo…” Imagine, if the Rhodesian war helicopter was capable of distressing trained guerillas who are armed to the teeth, how much horror would it cause to an ordinary citizen who was just an ordinary herd boy?
The war of chimurenga was a very bad experience and people did so many embarrassing things out of fear and trauma. Even the so-called sell-outs were also victims of so many war socio-psychological issues. There are certain war experiences that one wants to forget about and move on, because they may have emotionally bruised or maimed your spirit.
You want those unpleasant experiences to rot and their stench to gradually diffuse so that you can exhale and have your life back again.
The kadidiya is one war plane that I just want to forget about, especially now when the guns of war have long gone silent. However, I respect the decision to hang that evil up there because it is a good trigger for war stories to be told and may also be a sign of how the guerillas overcame the well equipped Rhodesians.
I know that great combatants like Air Marshal Perrance Shiri will probably laugh at non-combatants like me because what I feared during the war, they too may have felt, but they managed to overcome fear because they had a sense of duty, and that duty is the essence of victory.
Online Reporter