ADRENALIN

CHAPTER ONE: The Adrenalin

 

Monday…

 By 2pm that hot 9^th of September afternoon, on the eve of The Country’s independence, the news of the assassination of the President had finally filtered everywhere else in the country. He had been due to read the Independence Speech and then ignite the Independence Flame afterwards when the untimely tragedy struck. People could be seen milling about around television shops, staring at the now deceased face of the man they had known for so long on the television sets lined along the city roads. “The Honourable President has been shot dead. This is our country’s darkest hour.” Said a reporter on the television screen. The news was coming in sharp and crisp; the president was dead, gunned down by some unknown assailants. He had been shot whilst attending a Parade at The Agricultural Show. Two shots, the direction of their origin which was still being ascertained, had got him, one on the forehead, and the other somewhere on the left side of the chest. Nothing more was said. All four radio stations and the country’s sole TV station were clamoring for the juiciest news to tell the country. It was a clean job, Tri FM radio presenter, forty-year old Bob Mabane said at around half past four in the afternoon, and the perpetrator had studied well before attempting the murder. And in the next hour, he presenter was behind bars for ‘speculating’, so said the policemen who had arrested him. It was ‘defamation of character’, they defended the arrest witht the qoute. Another presenter on a ‘Phone-In’ live TV 3 program talked to a woman who said the country’s security forces had always known that the assassination was coming. They had all the information at their disposal, she went on to say. At forst had been a coup plot, which had been very much publicised, and then the anger at his ideals by the population. It was either they had known, or had been the one behind the whole drama. More people phoned in, and gave her their support. There was corruption in it, they claimed. Someone called in and told the presenter to end the show. He said it was a disgrace the way TV and Radio stations were salvaging from the death of another fellow human being. He claimed he had not supported the president and his policies during his life, but death was a sacred thing and did not call for people to celebrate. And then he asked them how they thought the First Family must be feeling like, hearing all sorts of theories and accusations about the death of someone they had so dearly loved. The president had a family that had also loved him, he said. However lost he had been in his rule, the man had had a soul and people who loved him. “He had people who knew him as a father, an uncle, or a friend and rather than the president of the country that the rest of the country saw him as.” The man said. But when the program ended an hour later, most of the people said they disagreed with the man. They were happy that God had taken the man. “We each have our allocated time, and no one can beat the time we’re given. Longevity is the fate of us all.” A woman said.

 

    The next day, at dawn, all of the country’s flags at all government institutions were to fly at half-mast, by order of the Vice President, who himself expressed shock at the sudden passing of “a devoted Comrade and colleague whom we shared an immense history during the Liberation Struggle in the bush.” He was himself not feeling well at the moment and this statement was made from his hospital bed. The half-mast was the respect accorded to any high ranking national, he said, and the government saw no debate as to whether the President should be honoured with it. His celebrated history spoke for itself, the Vice President went on to say. And he himself had made sure that most people had been interred at the National Shrine. Later that afternoon, an independant newspaper said the Vice President’s utterance was full of irony, and the man had not thought carefully before saying what he had told the whole nation. By evening, the same reporter was allegedly behind bars. Defamation was the card they had used on him. A week of mourning was announced the next day, with the announcement that the Burial would be on the following Saturday. It seemed that whoever had done the job was a person that the government knew. There was talk on everyone’s mouths. The President had been killed by his own guard during sleep, a spreading rumour seemed to confirm. Some said he had been poisoned by his wife, and there was another field of thought that said the Vice President had himself seen to it that the President should die because of political disparities between the two of them. Then the famous one was that the President was already an old man, and no one sane enough would even think of killing him, but nature had just taken its course on him. People refused tobelieve this one. The Senior Assistant Commissioner of The Police, Augusta Churi appeared on the TV 3’s eight o’clock, 30 Minutes Live bulletin, and he dispelled the fueling rumours, brandishing them with a few superlatives. “These are malicious, deragotary, ill manifested views of shoe-lace terrorists and traitors who want to plunder our heavily won Gains of Independence by serving the whims of their Western masters and selling the sovereignity of the country to neo-colonialists.” Then he added on national T.V that the terrorists, “whoever they are”, who had “perpetrated this evil deed of high treason would be dealt with in the most severest of manner once apprehended”. Then next he appealed to the devoted nationals of The Country to help in any way they could. Toll free numbers marqueed on the television screen. “With these numbers, if you have anything that you want to tell us, please do not hesitate. The calls are all strictly confidential.” But then the next two hours later, another radio station alluded the fact that the toll free numbers were rigged by the security agents, and could be traced if made by a mobile phone. The commisioner was back in the station, this time to dispel the ‘unfortunate rumours’ that were being sent by unpatriotic media houses. “They risk they licences being withdrawn.” He warned. He was a burly man, barely forty-nine years old, with a clean-shaven square chin, a full moustache on top of his mouth, and had been a very close friend of the murdered president. “We’re looking at all ends of the stick for the suspects. And at this time in question, I just want to assure the nation; in fact I want to urge all the nation’s citizens that we already have suspects at disposal. Everyone should remain calm. We have everything under control. ” He said on the TV 3 newscast, before being whisked away into his Mercedes. Security was clearly the main topic of the day.

 

   For the next few days, there was talk on the people’s mouth. At first, the sudden death had not been a huge blow for most of the citizens. The President had not been a well-liked man. But now a new worry began to grow on their brows and faces. Too many people were being arrested for the crime, and most of those that were being arrested did not seem to return to their homes. And the news kept on flooding, advising people on how to spot a terrorist, and how a terrorist should be dealt with. A program entitled, Behind A Terrorist’s Mind was flighted everyday during Prime Time viewing on the TV 3’s Prime Time Slot.  “We want to educate the masses on how this land was freed from colonialism, and we also want to show the world that the country’s sovereignty is not a thing to be played with.” Tazzen Mushe, the director of the documentary, who was also the Chief Executive Officer of TV 3, said when an avid TV 3 interviewer asked him the reason behind the program. He went on to say that this would go a long way in reminding people that the “Gains of Independence” were not a thing the nation would backslide on. From then onwards, he said, TV 3, and without further notice, was going to take a grim stance on all would-be terrorists and nationals who supported acts of terrorism. “We will suspend all foreign and Western programming from TV 3‘s schedule so as to try and bring the nation closer to its cultural heritage.” He said. TV 3 was also going to start broadcasting a “fine Jingle composed by very our own Sons of the Soil”; he put it, at approximately every thirty minutes of the hour so as to keep the people reminded about their country’s sovereignty. As soon as the documentary had ended, The Jingle began, showing all the country’s resorts and historical sights, and then showing huge planted and unplanted tracks of land, and finished by showing horrendous naked and mutilated photographs of dead women and children during the Liberation Struggle lying in trenches. “Lest we forget”, a ten seconds caption said at the end of The Jingle.

    Meanwhile, as the nation readied itself for the Burial of the President, which was coming in two day’s time, the intrigue still remained on the people’s minds. The perpetrators had not been caught three days after the assassination but then everyday there was someone from the police force reminding the people that “we are still hot on the trail of each of the suspected terrorists.” The News Heralder, which seemed to be one of the numerous state newspapers, on the other hand, had a captivating flashing headline that screamed in bold black: Latest On President’s Assasination – More Suspects Sucked In, Army General On Suspect List. The suspect list was growing every single hour, the people were told. There was to be no other programming on television unless if it was dedicated to the late President, or focused on the discussions on war on terror, and the final preparations for the Burial of the “great man”, it further said.

 

Then on the third day, a newspaper from the one the independent newpapers, Independence News, announced that the country’s Trade Union was planning a huge demostration during the day of the burial. “We are planning to show the world that we were not happily treated by the dead president. We’re not salvaging from his death, but we are just unhappy by the way we have been treated by his government.” It was announced.

    “Is this not bad timing? And why now, if I might ask?” Supa Mandiwa, the reporter grilled. And the President of the Trade Union, Loveness Maduka said that there was no better time than the time which had been presented to them now.

    “We just want the people to come in their thousands. They should not fear. They will be no police brutality.” She went on to say. The people had suffred enough, she said. The time had come for them to stand up to the ideals they believed in. ARISE, an association long known for its anti-government lobbying, voiced its support for Maduka. But this did not go on undetected. The Police sent a representative that told the people that the Riot Police would be out in full force. “And anyone who tries to break the law will be dealt with in the most severest of manners.”Where had the culture of respect gone to?” The representative asked. “The people are apparently so Westernised and have lost their respect for the dead.”

 On the third day again, as the people were being treated to another documentary, there was a sudden Breaking News Announcement on TV 3. “We interrupt normal service for news just received.” A burly chief reporter announced behind a badly arranged teak desk. His name was Rubin Bare and he appeared to have been caught off-guard because he fidgeted with his earpiece for a few seconds, and then cleared a forced cough. “News just received confirm that the police have arrested two men that may have connections that link them to last Mondays’ assassination of the President. Although details are still sketchy at the moment, we will now show you the faces of the two men arrested today at a farm on the outskirts of The City.” Then he looked ahead, whilst the screen flickered for a moment, and then the two faces of young, grim faced individuals flashed silently on the blinking screen. The first one had a clean-shaven face, with huge eyes underneath somewhat tired eyelids. His brow had two distinct lines that traced right across the whole perimeter of the brow. He had drealocks on his head, small and neatly kept. His photograph demurely smiled on the TV screen, as if he was mocking whoever was staring at him. The second man was a bit older, although he appeared on the screen as a man whom everyone would be ready to vie for his innocence. When after a few minutes, the stills had been removed; Rubin coughed again, “We hope that these two senseless terrorists will reveal to us who their paymaster is. These are the kind of men that the honourable President fought against during the course of his glistening career. Unpatriotic men who clamoured for regime change through dubious methods and rather than through the ballot. These are the same calibre of people who, with their Western and British paymasters have, on numerous occasions tried by all means to thwart the President from power. A president who was democratically elected byt he people in free and fair elections. This is a very sad day for democracy.” Then he went on to elaborate that the two young men had been found at a farm on the outskirts of The City and were previously linked to the Opposition Party (OP) and were probably puppets from Westerners. “These men are highly dangerous and have been linked to numerous riotous activities and were once involved in the food strikes that paralysed The Country and brought it to a standstill.” Then he went on to further condone the Opposition Party (OP) for its unrepentant support of terrorism. “These unrepentant, hell-bent men are shoelace terrorists, typical of those we had during The Struggle, and they have shown no absolute remorse when being interrogated about the death of the President. They are the same calibre of people who sold out our nationalist guerillas to The Enemy during the Country’s hard won Liberation Struggle.” Rubin then further expounded on the importance of the solidarity and sovereignty of The Country and that The People had the land on their hands and that it was the only empowerment they needed. “We must never forget the Gains of Independence, and what our President fought for. We have The Vote on our hands, we are a Democratic Country, and we have the land on our hands.” He stressed, the words coming out so clearly out of his huge mouth. “Our land is our prosperity. We will never be a colony again.” He finished, after which The Jingle instantly followed, this time playing a somber and slow song. Again, as it played out, there was the ten seconds caption: Lest We Forget.

 

***

The next morning, most of the people were amazed to find small leaflets of papers thrown everywhere around the country. They had an abrupt message, neatly written in bold Arial letters: Choose Change. It is near. Join the (OP), the Trade Union and demonstrate.

And the people took the pamphlets. Most read them and sighed. Futile attempts had becaome an everyday thing for them. This had been going on for a long time now. The people were confused. Why should they just demonstrate for a cause that they were not sure off? The (OP) had lost its strategy, and so had the Trade Union. They were supposed to put down the cause for the defiance action. The leaflets had none of the sort. Meanwhile, in the news, it was announced that the soldiers and police had been put on high alert. The minister of Defence, Comrade Sidney Seke said. Tanks bulldozed their way, and grim faced soldiers, carrying weaponry disembarked upon most known notorious places and made sure that their presence was noticed. “We will not spare any corrupt elements in our society.” An army General was heard saying. And soon, the beatings in the townships began. And most people were not aware of the fact. They had seen the blazoning army tanks and military police soldiers looming around, and they thought they were there for their protection. But they were very wrong. Or at least most of the soldiers deployed had other ideas about their latest mission. For them to be very effective, the Defence Minister had thought of a strategy, and soon it would prove to be right, and very destructive as well. He swapped his soldiers from city to city. Those that were from the north were deployed at the southern part of The Country. The west ones found their latest mission taking them to the eastern part of The Country, and the west to the east, and so on like that. In this way, the minister had made sure that when the beating began, no one would feel soory for anyone. Besides, there had always been a hint of trifle tribalism between the north and the south. He knew that his tactic would be very succesful. And it was. Well, until the beatings began.

 At first it was a drunk man who said some obcenities about the dead President, and one soldier, who was a staunch anti- (OP) man, took the matter into his own hands, and attacked the man with boots and fists. And when the people realised, war broke out. It started with one man, an uncle to the drunken man who had been beaten. And he went to talk to the soldier, and returned with nothing but a black eye, a swollen face and a limp on one of his legs. Then the people came out. The soldier was attacked beyond explanation. Some say his wounds were fatal. Some say he died on the spot, and some say he begged for forgiveness, and then turned his AK on himself. But the real problem was started by the fellow comrades. They became angry. Too angry actually, and to such an extent that they forgot to follow the laid down protocol. And they decided to take the matter into their own hands too, just like the fellow soldier had done. What they met with was something they had never imagined. “Corporal Makoni has this to say. “Demostrations are very tricky things. There wa this swarm of people, all brandishing one form of weapon or the other. And we were startled. These were supposed to meek people. They were supposed to be afraid of us. They had always been, in most circumstances, but not on that day. So there was this charade, chanting and chanting. It was amazing. At first, you think you can shoot everyone who come your way. But then you remember that all these people are your fellow men, and you cannot shoot more than twice or three times at your own people, and not feel a tingle run down your spine. We were soldiers, yes, but we were soldiers with a conscience, and we were not in a war situation, mind you.”

 War was brimming. It was poetic justice. The people were obviously very angry. Why were they being kept like this? Why were they being guarded like they were little kids? The Curfew, which had been put forward, was too early, and most people still wanted to get around the townships way after the seven pm time slot. Emotion brewed incessantly. Fear grew like a radioactive isotope on the soldiers’ minds. It was tangible and thick in the air, and the soldiers manning the townships grew weary. A lot was on the people’s minds.

   “We thought they were planning something behind our backs. We could almost feel it. Worse was the fact that most of us did not understand the Ndebele language they spoke. It was a real stalemate,” a former private says. And he was right. The people had had enough. They did not like the government and the very empty promises that they had been receiving. Small youth groups convened. Women talked in hush tones between themselves. The (OP) amassed a great following, and its influence was greatest in the region. Soon, someone had come up with a plan. Robert Sibanda, a former member of the Youth League of the (OP) outlines, “Having seen that these people had been put here to be our stumbling blocks, we decided to fight back. Secret meetings were held. Plans were blueprinted. Strategies were outlined. A war was on the verge of outbreak.”

 This meant that the soldiers and the Riot Police were going to be met with a crude, unruly and revolutionary resistance. Indeed war was brimming. And war fire spreads fast. It is a game of hate and confusion. No one is a victor in a war. But the (OP) youth was garnered nevertheless. They were prepared for any outcome.

 A reporter from BBC, Bradley Cole, caught it in a collection of words: “They came in hordes, in thousands, and were carrying all kinds of weaponry. I saw two boys, they must have been in their early teens, and they were carrying bricks and stones. Two days ago, a soldier beat up a pregnant woman in another township, and in other incident, a policeman shot a thirteen year old boy by mistake. I must say this; the people are clearly very angry.”

 

 CHAPTER TWO

   On the tenth of September, Simon Sibanda, the Nkulumane boy who would soon make news, had gone to school that day and had been sent back because of his failure to pay tuition fees. His mother, Abigail, had no money for the school fees. Things were hard for her. She had lived from hand to mouth for the past five years, and things had been extremely against her. Even her family, which had been against her marriage to Steven Sibanda had finally made her into an outcast. She struggled to make ends meet by selling tomatoes along the road, and even that could not solve her problems. Her husband was serving seven years for raping a neice of his, and she had given up on his coming back to the marriage the moment he became released from prison. Simon was their only child, and early that day, she was one of the many who saw the leaflets on the ground. She did not pick any of them up, however. There was no reason for her to do so. The country had failed her. She had severely divorced herself from the meagre system that kept on making sure the rich ones got richer, and poor one sunk even deeper. But Simon picked the leaflets, and he came to her, still in his uniform smiling, and handed it to her. She read the words, and then threw the paper outside through the window. She had no time for this. She had noticed the army tanks that were now everywher in the township. It was like they were living in a garrison, and she could tell that the people were afraid. Fear is a very strong emotion, and can almost be seen in the air. You can taste it if it become too thick. The people of Nkulumane were afraid. It was not about the death of the President, no. It was something else. These soldiers. These helicopters that hovered each second over their heads. The rumble of the tanks on the untarred roads, and the tail of smoke that followed the horrendous machines of war. She could almost tell that the people felt like they were in a war. “The soldiers are there for your protection.” Rubin Bare said on TV 3. “People should not be intimitated by them. The intimidation is meant for the would-be terrorists in our midsts.”

 

Abigail shook her head. She called Simon, and told him to get ready to go back to school. She would be going with him to see the headmaster and ask for a grace period as she salvaged for his school fees in the meanwhile. The little boy was ready in two minutes. School was his favorite topic, and already, in the last two terms, he had already been position one, and his teacher adored the boy’s intelligence. When she herself had finished, they left for the school. Ahead, unbeknown to both of them, one of the soldiers had picked up a fight with a man who was going to work. And she had forgotten that it was the day that the Trade Union and the O.P had called for the mass stayaway.

 When she locked the door of the one-roomed house, the time was exactly seven forty-five.

 

****

 

Twenty-nine year old Bongani Dube, an electrical technician for B.N Industries woke up early on the tenth of September. He had to go and finish off a project that he had been procastinating with for about two months now. It was a demure moment, waking up, alone, since he had just divorced from his wife, and preparing a breakfast that consisted of a stale piece of bread and hot tea. He did not take a bath. He always did that on the night before, and had realised that he could cut out precious time by just washing his face in the morning, and then taking off to work. The Nkulumane taxi rank was deserted when he arrived, and so he had an easy time catching the minibus to the industry side at Donnington. There was the usual hullabaloo inside the minibus, about the death of the President, the precence of the soldiers and police, and the impending strike. One woman remembers Bongani’s words very vividly. “He was a nice and sweet boy, and we usually got into the same bus because he worked adjacent to where I worked. When people were talking about the strike and everything else, he was very quiet, and so I asked him what he was thinking about, and he told me he had to finish this project before ten a.m, otherwise, he would in deep trouble. After that, he said nothing, and that was the last I saw of him in that minibus.”

 At twenty past six, Bongani and the woman, her name being Mrs. Moyo, disembarked and went their separate ways. They had met one or two police roadblocks, and had been searched for illegal home made weapons. Then they had been told not to join the mass action. Says one police officer who stopped the minibus, “I warned everyone in the vehicle that the police and army were armed with live bullets, and would not tolerate anyone breaking the law. Then for security measures, I searched everyone in there. Everyone was clean, and there was a young man, he had these tools, and told he he was a technician and used them at work. So I let everyone go through.”

 The minibus that Bongani and the other passengers had used had not met with any disturbance. But already, there were rumours that in Luveve, and Lobengula townships, two minibuses had been torched by weapon wielding youths who had said that there was a stayaway, and why was the driver transporting people to town. People were ordered out of the vehicle, and then the youths brought a Jerry Can and poured diesel over the vehicle and struck a match. The driverand occupants were thoroughly beaten. Most people heard the rumour but a rumour was always a rumour. No one really imagines it until it start happening to them. So far, the Nkulumane route was still clear of any misdemeanours, and the police force number was large there. “We had no choice,” recalls another police officer. “Nkulumane was the biggest threat. We had immobiled in huge numbers along the Masiyephambili and Plumtree roads.”

 At twenty-five pat six, Bongani entered into the B.N yard, clocked in, and then began to work on his project. It would be an hour or so when every thing would soon turn into a horrendous nightmare.

 

***

    “He was a nice young man, and would do absolutely anything that you asked him to do, if he was capable of doing it. He was a son to me, and also a brother.” The words of Bongani’s mother, Silvia, when she appeared on TV 3’s program, ten years after the incidents. The last born, Bongani Ncube, had been born by mistake, his mother would often joke with him when he had been a small boy. “Your father and me wanted only four children, but I guess you were the blessing in disguise, she told him when he graduated in Electrical Engineering, the first one to do so in the family of outlaws and hot heads. At eighteen, Bongani had not still touched alcohol, and had never been with a girl before. He was the light of the house, and his mother says, “We knew, his father and me, that he was a blessing from the day that he was born. Bongani just wanted to be different from the rest, and not in a bad way or something like that. He just liked to sit alone, and play puzzle games, rather than join his brothers outside. And when his report cards came each ands every term, and he was always in the top five or ten, we knew that this here was a very special boy.”

 At twenty-five, Bongani met a girl by the name of Tracy Mabhena, at Assemblies of God Church. He instantly fell in love with her, and would almost flinch if she was close, because he could not tell her his feelings. Tracy was a simple woman, beatiful though. But her character was complicated and firm. “She was this tall and elegant woman. Very beatiful to look at, and very sharp and witty with her tongue the moment she opened her mouth. And she was very God fearing too.” Silvia recounts, a smile on her lips. ”And poor Bongani was so much in love with her, and yet he did not know how to approach her at the least.” His first problem was not how to tell her that he liked her very much but what her response to his advances, which were all too clear at the moment, would be like. He was now leader of the Sunday school, and she had the same title too. Both people were proud, and had achieved something at early ages. She was a nurse, and had her own house in Nketa, a township that was very cost to Nkulumane. People who knew them could tell that a romance was blooming, but sometimes such things in church cannot be discussed as freely as other things can be. Says a member of the Assemblies of God, “They were in love, and as much as it was a strange thing to notice in church, the whole congregation was happy that the two had found their love inside the church lines. We could see it in their eyes, and they thought they were hiding in from us.”

 When Bongani one day invited her to come to a birthday party for his  cousin brother who was turning twenty-one, Tracy did not disappoint. “I said yes before he had finished his sentence.” Tracy admits.  And it was there that he told her his feelings. “He was very shy about it, and kept asking me what I felt about him, and I joked with him that I liked him as a friend, and that I was sorry that I was already going out with a man in church. He was not hurt, he said he was glad for me. Then I told I was joking, and that I also had the same feelings for him. You should have seen his face. We got married, but sadly, things were not rosy as we had both thought.” she says. Tracy still remains unmarried up to know. Her surname is still Ncube.

 

***

   At Amavene Primary School, Simon’s headmaster allowed him to stay a week more, but not without very stern warnigns that this would be the last time he allowed the boy into the school. He was obviously very intelligent, and that was the only reason why he was being allowed in. Abigail was more than glad. She thanked the headmaster, Mr. Dube very profusely, and promised she would make sure she salvaged as much as she could for the third term’s fees for the boy. Then she left him by the classroom, smiling and waving at her. “To me, that image became etched on my mind. I chose to see him as that small boy, bright and brilliant, smiling at me, thanking me for putting him back in his favourite place – school. I don't want to remember him in the manner that the televisions and newspapers showed him after The Incidents.”

 At quater past ten, Abigail was in her home again. She cleaned up the place, prepared herself an honest breakfast, of tea with sugar and no bread, and then plotted for the whole day. Outside, she could hear the occasional rumblngs of one of the two tanks that had been deployed to their area, but then she chose to ignore them altogether. In the last five or six calls for mass stayaways, very few people had heeded the call. This was going to be smooth. Tommorow, the tanks would be gone, and she would not have to see the grim faced, and ugly gun tottting soldiers on the dusty streets again. Ten minutes later, she picked up her market basket, and then headed to the city centre. She was walking there. Chances of trouble were very minimal, she told herself.

 How wrong she was.

 ***

 

CHAPTER THREE

 The burial of the President was set to start at midday, and everyone who wished to attend was given the chance to do so. There were buses from a government rolled company that would supply transport for anyone who wanted to say their final goodbyes to “a man who had been vigilant and fighting for the common goal of everyone.” Rubin Bare said. “People must throng the National Shrine, and give our champion of Land Reform president for a colourful send off.” And the News Heralder did not spare the details also. It spewed about where the people could board the free buses. Lunch will be provided, it was stated. As to who had killed the president, the nation was still being held at ransom, people were told that the two men whose pictures had been flighted on TV 3 were the one who had been responsible for the assasination. Details on where they were being kept were very sketchy. One newspaper declined the whole story. Its first page screamed with the headline: No Suspect For President Assasination.

    “It was a charade. Here we where, faced with great dilemma. The president had been found dead. We were still looking for the people who were behind the assasination, and all our leads were going quite cold.” One retired security agent for the National Intelligence Organisation (N.I.O), Brian Ncube reveals. “And to top it all, the independent papers were on our asses, exposing every lie that we were telling the nation. The question was how could we bury him, when we still had no suspect? And the other was for how long where we going to going to keep playing that trump card on the people?”

 But the plans were to go on. The president had to be buried, and every dignitary who had been invited had jetted into the country. A neat suprise was the British Prime Minister, who jetted into the country in the wee hours of the morning. Most people had expected that he would not attend, but he turned heads when he arrived with his entourage. BBC was, however, not allowed into the country.

    “Not us. We were not to be allowed, under any circumstances.” Jonathan Beret says. “I sneaked in though, and later filmed the very much controversial docu-drama about the affair that the deceased president’s wife allegedly had with one of the Ministers.”

 At twelve a.m on the dot, the last fly past that the President would be honoured with flew graciously at the National Shrine, executed in fine minute detail, and with the national anthem being sung, and the drapping half masted flag wisping sombrely in the afternoon sky. Rubin Bare, during the live beaming of the funeral was quiet, and as the silver casket was interred into the ground, he said slowly. “And there goes the man we will always be grateful for in our lives. The country has lost one of its most decorated people in its entire history. May his soul rest in eternal peace.”

***

At twelve minutes to twelve, a man, known to belong to the Opposition Party (OP) was arrested for conspiring to kill the President. He was the then secretary of the (OP), to be more precise, and had been caught close to the OP’s headquarters, distributibg some of the leaflests that were calling for a demostration for a better life. “Here was this man, the (OP) secretary, Mr. Nelson Chamira. He had been distributing the Trade Union’s pamphlets when suddenly the police pounced on him, and did not even bother to tell him what he was being arrested for, which was his sole right to know.” Logan Pangirai, the OP’s president says. “And Chamira could simply have been me, he could have been anyone at that time. He could have been anyone but the President’s assasin. But they got him as one for the suspects for the killing, which showed how the warped the system had become.”

 Chamira had been from attending a meeting with Pangirai, when he thought he could distribute the leaflests to a few people around town. That was his greatest folly, because unbeknown to the OP, the notorious National Intelligence Organisation (N.I.O) had already put an APB on all (OP) members. They were each being monitered carefully, and each had been tied to a very long rope to which they were all being recorded their movements. And when Chamira began his leaflet stance, one N.I.O alerted his boss. And the order he received was to call for the police officers, and to do away with the man. And as Chamira was busy plotting for the OP and the Trade Union, he was nabbed right under his building headquarters, and was whisked away from the public eye. TV 3’s one o’clock news bulletin now showed three pictures, and Chamira had been the latest edition to the ‘shoe-lace terrorists who had designed the henious plot to assasinate the people’s President. “These three men have all admitted to having belonged once to a radical right wing group that was against the government policies.” A newsreader announced. The latest man had been arrested with very condemning blueprints of extreme detail on how the assasination had to take place. “Police are however still trying to found more. The nation will be advised as soon as the Police are through with their investigations.” Then there was footage of the burial, with Rubin bareannouncing in his trademark voice, “Thousands once again thronged the National Shrine today, to pay their last respects to the President, who was gunned down this week at the Agricultural Show. We spoke to the people around the country, and this is how they said they feel about this sad state of affairs.” And then the footage changed to people on the streets, all around the country, none of whom said a bad thing about the President. “He was a good man.” Said a woman. Another said the terrorists had to be hanged live on television, to which some old man curled his fists into a ball and reiterated that no matter what happened, the Country was not going back on its land reform programme. “ay you’ve heard it, the majority of The Country’s ppple are not very happy with the killing of the President. They blame the Oppostion Party for the murder, and the downslope of The Country’s economy. The number one enemy is still inflation, and the Vice President, who is now acting as the President for the next three months further said.“ Jack Malaba, who worked as a news editor for TV 3 back then, explains a few things that were taking place during that period. “Naturaly, in any case, it is very rare to have the whole country having a single view of thinking on the state of affairs. Oppostion is very healthy, it helps others to see and maybe correct their mistakes. A scenario like that would have had some people saying they were happy that the President had died, which would have been unethical to broadcast on TV 3, but, but I believe the numbers of glad people who have been slightly many. But those people could not be heard. We had to sensor anyone who said any bad thing about the President. We had no choice. It was either you did that, or you got the boot.” Jack Malaba now owns the booming television station, JET TV. He says TV 3 let most of its talent go to waste in that sad period of The Country.

 Surprisingly, on that same bulletin, the newsreader said that the planned stayaway had failed, and then showed archived clips of the several quiet towns. “It was business as usual.” One reporter said after the other. Malaba explains again. “We got so much footage that day about the strike. It had gone well, too well actually. Shops had been vandalised, people had been shot with live bullets and wounded. Cars and buses had been overturned and set on fire by the unruly masses. But that picture could not be shown to The Country. It would send speculation. More people would join in. The Country then was in a chaotic stance.”

 As so, as the very calm picture was presented on screen, and more footage of the burial was flighted, the people were masked from the real situation that was taking place. It was tactics that had to be used. The moment people got wind of the demostrations, and that they had been a success, things could have actually turned haywire. Former security agent Brian Ncube says spying is a very difficult job. “To work with the N.I.O was a privilegde. I learnt about the way people think. I learnt the perfect art of spying. It’s all about patience. You bait, and then wait. Then you bait again, and then wait again. It can take ten years for your victim to bite the bait. The trick is to put a very long rope around their neck, and let them think that they are in control, when you know you still have the reigns. The situation in The Country was not a good one. Prices were going up everyday. Emotions were boiling. Inflation was soaring like rocket driven monster. People were angry for being gulled and bullied. There was impending hunger, and The Government directive of slashing prices by more than fifty percent had resulted in most shops retaining nothing but empty shelves for their desperate consumers. Consumers who were told things were now cheap, and yet the same cheap things were nowhere to be found on the shelves of almost every shop. And when people were hungry, they were bound to become very angry. We had to put the directive for TV 3 not to flight the scenes of the day’s stayaway. People could think the other way if they saw the footage. And we did not want them to think like that, never outside the box. So we thought we could calm the situation by saying that the stayaway had been a complete failure.” He goes on to say that because most of the stayawaya had not been fruitful, the people were going to be quick to believe what they saw on television.” We decided to concentrate on the burial, and the capture of the third man on our suspect list. That man’s name was Nelson. Nelson Chamira.”

 

***

 

At twenty-three, Nelson Chamira was a very active member of the Student Representantive Union (SRC) at The University of the Country. He had run for the post of the presidency, but his friend had beaten him and won. He got the post of the vice President, and pretended that he was content, to which he was blatantly not. He had applied for the Architectural degree programme, sooner than later, he began to realise that he had not been cut for that profession. It was getting into his nerves. He hated drawing and designing. His dream was to talk to people, and he knew he had the power of words built within him. He had been the President of his high school Debate Club at Gifford High School, and had drawn many friends,and as well as enemies because he could say whatever was on his mind and manage to get away with it. The designing and architecture thing ws mainly his father dream, and he was pursuing what his father wanted for him, and not what he wanted for himself. He decided to drop it off, and swore he would not afford to pretend to like the programme. And after much pleading with the principal, who was not his friend in any case, Chamira managed to convince the man, and he was in the end allowed to enlist for the Political Science programme, which enthused him more than he had ever managed. Almost every topic aroused his interest, and sooner than later, most of the lectures had got wind of his hunger to learn more and more, and his tendency to erect views on almost any topic put forward. Chamira could argue over several believed theses, and he could remain flat to his beliefs, vowing that politics was “a thing for the mind. It was a game that had no rules, but the rules were set by the player, depending on the environment the duel was being bet against. Proffesor Welshman Langa still recalls how the student would rebate most of his theses. “This man, Chamira, soon evolved from the very mcuh liked student who yearns to learn more, to one who was very irritating and contagious to his fellow students. He had the ability to ruin a one-week prepared lecture with a single utterance or act of refusal or introduction of a point that he could drive like a nail to a hammer. And he quickly picketed the habit of drawing most his peers closer to him. That what his gift, and I must say, he was very very good at that.”

 In the next semester that came his way, Chamira garnered populance, and soon, he was finding himself acting as the sole mouthpiece for the SRC, and being under the scrutiny of the university staff and security. Says a security guard who worked at the univeristy back then. “One day I asked Nelson to open his bag so I could search it. He clearly refused, saying I would be met with an ahoy, if I was not careful and did not know who he was. Ahoy was the university’s words for defiance, or violence. If you heard them shout ahoy comrades!, you would have been better off letting them do what they want. With his popularity growing like a hyacinth weed, and in leaps and bounds, Chamira was destining himself for greater things. Norman, on the other hand had had his main reason for wanting the presidential post simpy as a leeway for him to get most of the girls in the university. He got them, and then he shrunk away into obscurity and into his thick law and accounting books. Chamira had pin-pointed his chance, and chanelling all his energies, he called for re-elections. People did not hesitate. Norman stood for nothing. They wanted a voice that could be heard, and Chamira was their man. He was their voice. He could tell the mountain to move, and it would move. “He was our man. I voted for him without thinking twice.” A former student, now a lecturer at a college reveals. “That Malcus had the gift of talk. We called him The Proffesor.”

 At the re-election, Chamira won successfully, without the slightest glitch. From now on, he was the man behind the steering wheel…

  At the helm, the professor began to enjoy the ride. Power was the tool that he wanted. It gave him the nerve he wanted. He could speak, and people would listen. He could convince, and people who be convinced. He could shed tears, and so would the people. He could notice their plights, and the students would clap their hands for doing so. And he could rattle the pulpit of the common hall, where virtually all the S.R.C meetings took place, and the people attending would nod their heads in agreement. But his time was coming. He had to arrange his best feat yet. And it came sooner than he had expected. One time, when the university grant took time to be dispensed to the students, he arraigned them together, and in the football field where he held his first major ‘rally’, he told them about George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

    “There he was, Nelson, relating the glorious book to us. ‘We are all being mistreated by Mr.Jones. We must take over the farm. We should remember Old major’s dream. All animals are equal.’ He said. And students clapped their hands. I could have sworn that I saw one or two lecturers who were standing away from the hullabaloo nodding their heads in unison. That was the man. That was Chamira the politician, doing what he knew best. And he smiled at us all, not through his mouth, but through his eyes. His mouth was set on what he had just said.” Norman says. Norman He remained still being part of the committee member then after the re-election.

 There was hullaballo within the campus. The kind that Chamira had wanted. He knew that he had done his job immaculately. The Animal Farm allusion had worked. Most of the students realised the university was simply there because they came to it everyday. In other words, as Chamira had told them, each student was like a vein, when they joined, they became a system, and the system could become an organ if it worked hard enough. “We make the university alive. They should give us the grant, and it must be increased from the peanuts we got last semester.”

 And most people agreed. Chamira was very aware that very few, if any of the students really used the grant for what it was meant for. Most students, when they got the money would spend the next day out of the campus, either drinking, and providing themselves with the srvices of the prostitutes, who would hiover around the campus whe word went out that the grant had been given out. But that was not Nelson Chamira’s problem. All he wanted was to make sure the grant was handed out. After all, that was the reason why he had been appointed to be the S.R.C President. Soon questions were being raised. Fear was being surmounted. Reasons were being sought for. The whole place was a palatable attracting pole of a magnet. Chamira organised the dates effectively, and then on the morning of the proposed demostration, he emerged from his dorm, wearing a t-shirt he had designed the day. On it, emblazoned across the chest was a lion carrying the Country’s flag.

    “He looked like he knew what he wanted when he came from his dorm. He had told me he had a surprise in store, but I did not think that the S.R.C thing had really enmeshed him.” A friend, who belonged to the S.R.C committee says. “Here was Chamira, the Political Sciences student, dragged in a t-shirt that said; today we will show them what we mean when we say we want our grants. He was a fierce man that day.”

 Another fellow student says, “I had heard about the demonstration in class, but I just thought it was one of Chamira’s pranks. But when I came out of the dorm I stayed in, which was opposite his, I was thunderstruck. He was carrying a hailer, God knows where he had got it from. And he was shouting ‘ahoy comrades!!”

    “He wore this white shirt, and there was something about wanting a grant, written using red paint. On the head was a red bandana. And also on his hand was a placard. I can't remember the words that were splashed on it.” Mary, his girlfriend at that time remembers.

 Another SRC member has this to say, “Well, after the Animal Farm allusion, we carefully planned the demo, as we called it. Chamira had this problem of wanting to plan alone, and not wanting to be corrected or helped. In my own words, he had the idealogy of a dictator. To him, what he thought was righ had to be right. He was well read, though. On the day of the demo, he came out defiant, and for the first time I thought that he was right. He was wearing this t-shirt, written in symbolic red letters, shouting on a hailer that we had borrowed from a sports coach. I joined him, and began stamping on the ground. I guess that was the way all things really started to gain momentum. Him shouting ahoy comrades! And me stamping and stamping...”

 Chamira had planned intricately. A week before, they had gone to look for a hailer, and a sport coach that he had known for years had loaned him one. And then he had ordered his committee to print pamphlets that would be glued to almost every building of the university. The message printed in them was simple and powerful; We Demand The Grant!! No Classes tomorrow!! Join the DEMO tommorow. AHOY!! AHOY!!

    “I had been away for two days, then when I came back I found these papers stuck to almost every wall in the university campus, and l came closer to one, and when I had read the message, I knew that Nelson was beginning to travel his road.” His friend Norman says. “Ahoy was the university’s word for protest. Once you heard it being said, then something had to be brewing. And with Nelson being the president, everyone knew that the pot that was brewing had to be a huge one.”

 At half past six on the day of the demo, Nelson Chamira woke up from a sleep that he had never had. His head had reeled with thoughts for the better part of the night, and finally, he could see the rays of sunlight dicing through the window curtain. He did not bath, but quickly, he removed his pyjamas, and then put on the t-shirt he had been designing the whole week. He had used the colour red for the words because he felt it was a powerful colour of defiance. Then he tied the bandana, red also, onto his head and checked himself on the mirror once. He was content with the grim reflection that stared back at him. Next, he took the placards, on which were written, in title case red ink; ‘We demand Grant now!’ and then he began to chant, “AHOY!!” That surely woke everyone else up. The memorable day had just started.

    “We woke up to this irritating noise of someone chanting ‘ahoy comrades! Today is demo day!’ ” Marko, a third year Graphic Design student recalls, “We had seen the pamphlets, but usually that’s where most of the things ended. Just in pamphlets. I had never seen a demo in past three years of my university life, and I wanted so much to experience it, so I woke up, told my dorm mate excitedly. I said, Today is ahoy day! He got from his bed in a jiffy too.”

 There was excitement within the confines of the university. It had been years since anything like this had occured. The university demo that had once taken place had been a meek one about the quality of the food at the canteen. It had not resulted in any significant damage. Former Principal, Edgar Mathonsi says, “We were not worried, to say at the least. Chamira had strange guts and voice, but he did not worry us. We decided we would wait and watch. Soon they would get tired and get back to their dorms and homes. We would give them the grant in the next coming week anyway. Now when I look back, I realise how very wrong we were about Nelson Chamira.”

***

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Bulawayo, Mzilikazi...

Word of the stayaway spread like wild fire to the people. There was violence everywhere, the word went around. But for people like Bongani, he was busy at work, his only intention for the day being to impress his boss. The project he was working on was running two months late, and he was the sole reason for it being late. That there was chaos outside, Bongani did not care. At five minutes to eight, two of his workmates ariived, and found him busy. They told him about the stayaway, and he said he would not join somehting that would not benefit him in anything. As far as he was concerned, he was an apolitical individual. He did not vote, and did not listen to the people who appeared on TV 3. His collegues told him about the youths who were now in the industrial areas, and flushing anyone who was found to be working, and beating them up. But Bongani had other plans. He had to finish what he was working on, and could not afford to pause because of a few nervous and disgruntled individuals with nothing to do.

    “He clearly chose to ignore us.” A workmate recalls.” I told him to come outside, and to stop working.” Ten minutes later, people began throwing stones at the factory. It was then that Bongani stopped his work, only just to find out what the fuss outside was all about.

 It was a mess. People he worked with were all standing outside, clamoring insults at the woes that the government had put them them to. Some wanted better salaries, and some were talking about the white bosses being the root cause of their problems. In a few minutes later, the company was forced to close down, and everyone inside was also forced to march to the City Centre, where they would apparently go there just to destroy anything they could find. And at ten fifteen, Bongani had joined the hordes of people marching across to the City Centre. Unbeknown to all of them, a few members of the radical group that Chamira had been said to belong to, was in their midst, and if Bongani had simply tried to evade the march, the story might have been a different one today.

   “The march started at around eight a.m, and it started from Mzilikazi, a very well known township within walking distance for the city centre. There, youths were promised beer, and money, if they could make noise, and awaken everyone who was sleeping and let them know that the stayaway was still on.”

 The youths did not disappoint. Within an hour, they had immobilised about two hundred men and women, mostly people who had been on their way to work. These were told to join the protest, because everyone in the land was suffering, and no one was supposed to die for anyone.

    “They told us to stop whatever we were doing, and to join the march, unless if we wanted to face the wrath of the marauding crowd. We had no choice in the first instance. Though later on in the march, we started to feel there was a cause for our march.” Two women who were found selling bread and encaspulated into the demonstration during that morning say.

    “It was like this monster had got through my head, and was telling me to march, and to make noise and chant and rant and rave. For the first time, I could stand in the middle of the road, and in front of an incoming car and tell the driver to stop. The cause in me was very real. I knew why I was marching. I had not been forced to do so. The will was immense in me.” One youth, who was arrested by the riot police during the skirmishes says. “And I was eighteen then, and the hormones of excitement were raging through me. Nothing better could have come at that time.”

 As the group of two hundred or so made their way to the city centre, they began to swell in numbers. Word was spreading like fire, and in the townships, it spread all too easily throught the semi detached houses. People came out, at first to watch the spectacle, and then to join in the chantings and ravings. The road was blocked by the spectacle. Every car which came on the road was ordered to stop, or pelted with stones, until the driver stopped. They were forced outside of the car, and told to join the march. You are the people who should be joining us, the drivers were screamed at. Look at how much fuel is going for? Look at how mush we are paying to commute to work? And it went on like that, and every road was barricaded with huge stones and logs, and fires were lit on the roads. Carnage was on the verge.

 

***

  Meanwhile, back at Mzilikazi Police Station, the first news of the stayaway filtered through. One policeman reveals, “I was drinking my tea, when I heard on the two-way that hell had broken through at Mzilikazi. We were reliably informed that a crowd of rampaging people, numbering more than a thousand were on their way to the City Centre, and were carryign all sorts of homemade weapons. They had apparently been disturbing the peace of the people, and had not applied for such a demonstration. Under the National Order and Security Act (N.O.S.A), they were in clear breech. We had to intervene. ” A meeting was quickly called, and the next plan of action was commisioned. The Riot Police, which was on standby was notified, and within the next ten minutes, we had a plan of action proceeding. The plan was to approach the marauding crowd with care, and from the direction to which they were going. Once that done, the next thing the Riot Police would have to do, was, with their known pychological fear, get rid of the crowd, and everything would be in order. That done, the situation in Mzilikazi would be swiftly brought to a grinding halt.

 

***

 

 Harare, Mbare...

 At exactly five to six a.m, Michael Chidzidzi arrived at his friend’s house. They had a few discussions, talked about life and other things, and then the core of Michael’s visit. Then Michael waited as the twenty-seven year old Eddie Mashonganyika had a very quick cold water bath, and then dressed in the bedroom. They went out, Eddie locked the room, and they strode off to their meeting place. Michael, married and with a child coming in the next three months, was thirty-four, and in the Youth League of the Ruling Party (RP). He had received news that had to be told to everyone in the League a week before this day. The meeting place was not very far away. They hurried. Time could not be on their side if they delayed. Today was a crucial day of showing the (RP) that they were patriotic to it. For the past months, numerous calls had been made, addressing the sad fact that most of the youths in the (RP) were slowly peeling themselves away for the Party’s values. So these two men had a mission to accomplish, and quite a group of people at the top to impress and show their dedication to The Party, as the (RP) was affectionately known to its members. When they got to Stadort Hall, they found a dedicated large number of other youths already attended there. There was an excitement running all around, and Michael and Eddie quickly got infected by the same mood of expectance. Word had been going around, the two could tell. At least that showed that The Party was still garnering a mass following. The crowd of youths, a barge of dread locked, bald-headed, ear-pierced boys and girls all stood up and became silent when the two leaders had entered. There was a stage inside the hall, a sort of podium, and Eddie and Michael quickly went in front, and there they stood, for a few seconds more, before they sat down, much to applause from the crowd. All in all, there must have been around sixty people in the hall, all die hard members of the (RP). Die hard youths who still had to learn most of The Party’s Manifesto.  Edddie was the secretary, and he quickly cleared his throat, and then put the business of the day in order.

   “He had got security orders from the top notch up there,” remembers a youth who was present at the meeting, “and it was about the stayaway which was supposed to be taking place on the same day we had convened.”

 Eddie was quick with his address. They had received orders that the Youth League of the (OP) might try to disrupt the going ons of the day by stopping people from work. “And our job as the youth of The Party, as the order was sent to me, will be to forsee that the day goes smooth for the ordinary citizen of the country. We cannot allow sell-outs, and war-mongers, to disrespect our departed President, and then also to bring disrepute on the day of his burial. The orders we have been given are to try, by any means necessary, to thwart every effort that they will try today. Another piece of information says that the (OP) also has planned to demonstrate during the Honourable’s burial at the National Shrine.”

 Logam Pangirai refutes this claim,”Yes we were not at best interests then, but none of our plans ever went to that extent as far as we are concerned. We are a political party with a culture, and we do respect the dead. That is the same heritage we founded the ideals of the (OP) upon.”

 But Michael adds on. ”The information we got was very vital. As the youth of the (RP), the onus was on us to see that our bosses’ commands were respected. The (OP) was on a trail of destruction, and we had the opportunity to stop then in their tracks. They had already proven that they were a force to reckon with.”

 The (RP) meeting lasted almost twenty minutes, and then adjourned, not without song and dance, and the usual chanting; “Down with the sellout!” The youths were told to assemble at the Mbare Bus Station with any weapon they could get their hands on. Then at approximately twenty-five to seven, the group of youths, which had now grown to about seventy-two met at the bus rank, and there, the purging began.

***

 

Mbare Police Station was a hive of activity that morning. Already two men had been found with serious wounds on their bodies. They had been cycling to work when bricks had been hurled at them, and the next thing, their bodies had been at the mercy of boots and sticks. Where are you going? Are you not hungry like us? Don't you know that there is a stayaway today? These were the numerous questions that the two men could remember. They were taken to the clinic, and then discharged a week later. The station is located conveniently close to the bus rank, and quite a short walking distance from the Stadort Hall. When the news started coming in that there were clashes between the youths of the (OP) and the (RP), the police became concerned. “We were concerned because what they were doing was in public, and innocent people could be injured. But then we got word that the (OP) was very much outnumbered, so we thought we could let that incident go on like that. Besides, orders were for us not to interfere in that skirmish. Things were bound to work themselves in our favour, we were told. And we couldn’t object. Orders are orders.”

 And suprisingly, as that may seem to be, the (OP) youth in Mbare were far outnumbered, and they had known that the (RP) had a plan at hand. And so, the pelting really began. To say it was bloody would be an understatement. The youths forgot who they were, and they began to fight for a cause that they did not even know themselves. And the reports came in. and they came in fast and proficient. Jane Masanga, who still works as a cop up to know says she still remembers that day as vividly as she can. “I was on my way to the station, when out of the blue; I saw a group of youths appear at a corner. The boys (that’s what they were to me) were chanting, and the girls were ululating, and everyone was throwing everything at anything. At first I thought maybe my eyes were fooling. But then they were not, for clearly, these youths here were doing something that they had planned. They rampaged, and when they passed me, I quickly saw the crowing cock, which was the (OP) symbol then. I moved away as fast as I could. I guess by then they had clashed with their enemy.”

 The fighting was growing by the numbers. More (OP) members had heard about it, and Mbare is a notorious Harare township. It is very close to the City Centre. It is very virile, and during the Days of the Liberation Struggle, most of the men who are now enshrined at The National Shrine used to refuge there. The white police would think twice before venturing there. It was the Soweto of South Africa. It has had more cases of robbery, rapings and killings, and was the most fertile place to start a demonstration. And so, the weapons were unleashed. Catapults that had bollt as the bullets, stones, petrol and paraffin bombs. Slings that had huge stones on them. It was like a scene from some Hollywood movie. There was blood on the street; there were overturned cars that were burning incessantly. Licking flames shot from every corner. And there was the occasional scream and shout, or chant. And the Mbare policemen and policewomen just sat and watched. Sat and watched.

    “The orders were for us to stay put. People must understand that the Police force serves the ruling government, and that same government gives out a order for us to remain in our post, then we will do exactly that, not the contrary.” Superitendant Ollie Mandifaka explains. “And it wasn’t about whether we favoured the (RP) or hated the guts of the (OP). It was just a case of sticking to orders. Nothing more, and nothing less. Orders are orders.”

***

 

 CHAPTER FIVE –  “Nearer my God to thee…”

In the City of Kings, the situation would be nearly the same. But it would have to take some time for the people there to really grasp the whole scenario. The people there have been termed ‘timid’, and the whole Country has always wondered what it would take for them to sense a smell of revolt and act accordingly. But Bulawayo is a Royal City. It is the place of kings and queens, and a hierarchical order and way of doing things has always prevailed, even in the midst of a storm. Founded by the King of the Ndebele people in the 1880’s, King Mzilikazi, Bulawayo takes its name for what its sister town in South Africa was known for; killing and butchering wrongdoers and those that had been disrespectful to the bloodthirsty king of the Zulu Empire, Shaka. The Ndebele word bulawayo literally translates to ‘place of killing’. Mzilikazi, who had merely been a chief to Shaka defied him, and he then he fled north, until he found a place to settle, where he later died, and his son Lobhengula, took up the reigns of the throne. He settled in a place that had been given the name Bulawayo, and then was later forced to abandon his city when the white men came in. the last king of the Ndebele people, fled and then disappeared after crossing the Shangane River. Then he was never seen again, and so slowly ended the Ndebele monarchy.

 But to say the people of The City of Kings were meek, or ‘timid’, would be a great misstatement. The people have always fought for what they believed is right, and when the time of the demos came, this would be the ultimate test. And it sooner than later, the test came when they least expected it to come.

 At around six, when the Mzilikai township demos were still on the roll, another insurgence was slowly forming. In the township of Nkulumane, a township named after the son of Mzilikazi, it began in Ward 29. The truth was that the day before, forty-five men and women turned for an emergency meeting that Mrs. Joyce Siziba, herself a secretary of the (OP) had called. The people met in her house, and she stood up, cleared her throat which did not need clearing, and then clearly began to outline her calling for the meeting. When she asked how many were going to attend the demo the next day, and to show by way of hands, she was not least surprised when she got a full house. “It was just unanimous. That’s all I can say. The people knew what they wanted to say. They had their ulterior motives there and then. One member asked when she was supposed to wake up. I smile and told her ‘as early as possible. The day will be extra long for most of us.’”

 That being done, the Ward 29 group had nothing else to do. Nothing else that is, except to wait. And they did not have to wait for that long.

 

***

 Back at in Donnington, the stayaway was quickly revealing its face. Bongani had quickly enmeshed himself into it. At first it had been a forceful thing to do, but now he was beginning to see the cause for it. He quickly moved in front, and then joined the face of the demonstrating charade. A man who was also at the front remembers. “We had carefully planned the whole thing. Those who went in the front had to be the one who had all the guts. They were the head and eyes of the demo. We saw everything through them. They related what was coming at us. They basically told us when to become prepared for a clash. But then suddenly, I saw this man push himself into the front. His eyes were loud, and they spoke volumes about his discontent with The System.” Bongani himself would later reveal to a rally that, “Back then, something which had been in me suddenly snapped at both ends, and I felt pain and anger at the same time. Why was I pretending to be all right with a malformed system? The snap brought me back into may senses. I began to see the trajectory of my road and destiny laid all out in front of my eyes. And all I had to do was to follow that road. And that I did.”

 But then a change from a very Christian principled mind to one that is bloodthirsty, and seeks to address a hidden truth is not an easy journey. And it does come with its setbacks, and numerous disadvantages. During that moment of sudden inspiration, Bongani had felt the tingle that most politicians feel at one time or another. The only difference with him was that the tingle came at a most desirable time. Here he was, in the midst and heat of a debate that he himself was still not sure what its reasons were. But nevertheless, he was amongst a crowd that shared the same sentiment as he did, and that counted for more than anything else now. He jostled at the front, until he got hold of the biggest placard, which he asked from a man was holding it like it was a thing dear tot him. To relinquish it, the man must have felt he was betraying the cause, but for Bongani to grasp it in his hands, and feel it brush against the wind of that morning sky must have been an extolled moment. He felt like a new born instantly. He began to chant a different song, and the masses were carried along.

    “It was the Christian song, Nearer my God to thee, and why people thought it was relevant to the demo did not amaze them. They were being left to die. The song was the helm. It touched emotion. It was rekindling memories of pure and incandescent rage. It took the people back to the era when all things had been ok. When the land was milk and honey. Bongani had done it. These were the first people he had managed to steer around with a simple notion. More would inevitably come. But for now, he was very content. The strikers were on their path to war.” The man from whom the placard was taken from says.

***

 

 From Nkulumane, Abigail took the shortest route that would take her the City Centre, and then once there, she would stride to the market, buy a box of bananas from Sunspan, a packet of bubble gums, and two packets of Arenel sweets from the market in the City Centre. The route was easy. She would proceed to Masiyephambili road, then approach the traffic robots at Nketa 7. Next, she would then cut across a semi- bushy area that was slowly being turned into an industrial site. Once through, she would then get under an NRZ bridge, and then make her way towards Donnington, and then to Sunspan bananas. From there she would make her way to the City Centre, which would be clearly visible to her. There was only thing wrong with her route that day. To her, nothing was wrong. It the usual manner in which she traveled. But passing through Donnington would soon pose a threat to her, and her values of life. Fate is a strange thing. It had planned that day, and she had simply fallen into the plan like a meticulous Swiss clockwork job. “One can never know these things. I was going through Donnington, and I did have the slightest of ideas that something big was brewing in that place. I simply put the cardboard boxes on my elbows, and then sauntered along.” She says.

 An hour later, she was under the bridge, and moving away from the discarded NRZ wagons that littered the whole place.

CHAPTER SIX: The Seven

12^th, Thursday…Third Night…

That night, on the farm, it was so cold I wished I had brought the other jersey she had offered to me. Her words were still ringing on my ears. “They are coming for you Cain. No matter what you think of believe or want to say to Them. They are coming to get you.” I shuddered as I thought about it. When They came for you, they came like they were a pack of hungry wild hyenas, hungry, looking for whatever excuse to get a bite at your skin. I knew that I was in deep trouble. It was written all over my skin, all over my chattering teeth and mouth. I knew that They were looking for me high and low now, and that They would never derail from this cat and mouse game. They were not the police, and neither were they the army. Who They were, was all too apparent, but what they would do with me if They found this hiding place was not the best of thought a man could have at the time. I shuddered again, and felt my molar teeth grinding, one against the other as if they had just lost the efficiency of gripping themselves. My eyes were a deep scarlet, and I could swear that this was going to be the Third Night I was going to spend without any decent sleep. Sleep is an impossiblething when worry is ruling the mind. It simply loses appeal, and then the next moment you find yourself gliding upon the impeccably thin demarcations of sanity and insanity, as if you are being hounded by a pack of wild lions whose insatiable appetite they cannot control and comes through sheer instinct. This was our Third Night, since The Culmination Of The Deed, and we were all huddled together inside a farmhouse, each man drowned deep into his own bitter sweet abyss of sojourn.

    “There goes that Jingle again.” Someone said from the huddled figures. I tried to see who it was, but my eyes were sore and painful. The sockets felt empty, like they could no longer hold still. It could have been any one of the men who still had hope that they were still coming to get us. For me, I knew beforehand what hope could do to a man. It let you slide between betterment and poverty, it let you grovel amidst dusty grounds, scavenging for food, hoping that one day things would come to a change. I knew never to have hope on anything. This was the life we had chosen, and we had not CGHAbeCen forced to live it the way we were doing. I had no space for hope in my life, only a functioning mind and that was just enough to carry me through the Days. The television set blinked in front, as the woman began her gyrating amidst a field of green maize stalks. Some of the men laughed at the woman, but some were quiet, their minds still far from the farmhouse. There was still a lingering hope on the balls of their eyes.

     “Do you think that they are still coming to get us?” one of the men asked. His name was Moses, and I knew that he also came from Vulindlela Township. I looked at him, and made sure I did not take the only last thing he had left in this world.

    “Sure.” I said. “Those people made the promise, didn’t they? They will come.”

 9^th, August…

There were seven of us in that house. And we were all waiting for an absolution. It came a few hours later, with the arrival of one short and stout man. He introduced himself as Nicholas, and then lit his cigarette, and smoked it contentedly. He gave no hint of his surname, his age or what he did in life. “Call me Niko,” he said in a booming voice. We all nodded contemptuously at all of this, and some of the men wrote notes on pieces of paper. “Gentlemen, we all know why this meeting has been called.” He said, and then began telling us all the intricate details of the plan. We were to be called The Seven, he said, wisps of white smoke dancing bizarrely around him, and some trailing over the boundaries of his face. When The Plan was carefully laid out, we all had some tea with biscuits. Everyone of us was very quiet, and we could almost hear ourselves think.

 After the meeting had adjourned, we all got up; said a little prayer, and then we all put our hands into the air. “For the struggle.” We said quietly.

 And then one by one, in the manner they had come, they all left my house.

 20^th, August…

The plans were all going on smoothly. As The Seven, we had managed to get all the information we wanted from various people, and so far, the good thing was that luck was with us all throughout The Operation. No wink of suspicion had been raised by Them. We met at my house again. “Everything is going on fine.” Niko announced at the end of the meeting, his cigarette smoke dancing all over the dimly lit room. “The Boss is pleased, and he says all that is left is to patiently wait for The Day to come.” He said, and rubbed his hands with contentment.

  8^th, September…

The meeting was a brief one for the seven men assembled at the beer hall. They discussed the relevant things, and then Niko told them how the money was going to get into their accounts, and how they were supposed to act afterwards. “The Operation must go smoothly, and everyone must be safe. You are the only people chosen in the Country, and I believe that you can show the whole nation that the longest distance is traveled with the first and insignificant step.”

 The men all looked at me, and I could swear I saw one or two shake their heads as if they were still not quite sure of what the day would bring them tomorrow.

“For the struggle.” I said for the last time, and then we all left the place.

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Adrenalin

 1000hrs…

 On Friday, the Vice President immediately got out of his warm and comfortable bed when he received the news. He re-red the piece of paper, and then called the man inside the room. The clinic room had a heavy smell of Cuban cigars and used bandages. The man who entered did so nervously, until he stood at the centre, where here remained stationed, his hands behind his back. He was wearing an immaculate black suit, matched by a green satin shirt. The V.P checked to see that they were not being heard, and then asked, referring to the contents on the piece of paper. “Are you sure?”

   “Positive, sir.” Replied the short man, his hands rubbing against each other behind his back. It was his strategy of fighting uneasiness. The man he was talking to had a very fiery temper. “I got the report yesterday, sir. But I could let you read it then, seeing that your room was abuzz with the press from TV 3.

 The V.P looked ashen for a few seconds. He coughed slightly, and then stared into the ceiling, one of his fingers locked on his lips. “Seven of them? Listen, are you sure?” He asked the man.

   “All seven, sir. All positively identified by myself, sir. They‘re all being heavily interrogated, as we speak.”

 The V.P paced uneasily around his bed for a few seconds. He stopped. And then paced again. “The Police are aware of this?” He asked, turning to face the man. The man shook his head. He had known that this question was going to come, and so he had taken great considerations on the matter concerning The Police. The V.P would be most glad.

   “There hasn’t been any official briefing for The Police, sir.” Replied the man.

 The V.P said. “Good. That’s why we pay you handsomely. Make sure you keep it that way.”

   “Will do, sir.” Replied the man, his hands rubbing even more vigorously behind his back.

 A few seconds passed without any of the men showing any inclination of saying something. The other, had, with experience, grown to know to wait for the higher-ranking official to speak before he said out his thoughts. Right now, the V.P was quiet, and so all he could do at the moment was to look at the V.P and pretend to be thinking.

 The V.P spoke from the window. “You have anything to say?” he asked. He looked at the frosted window, then at the man who was shaking his head slowly. Then he let out a smile. “Well, thanks for the briefing. Listen, as you got out, Can you get the nurse? I think it’s time for my hourly buttock injection.”

 ***

 

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Seven

 13^th, Friday…0300hrs

 The tall, lean and dark one pushed me first to the other side of the desk. He was a monster to look at, and I wondered whether he could be married at all. His face, which climbed higher than any face I had ever seen, was filled with tiny little specks of pores that almost breathed upon your face when he asked the question. “How many are you in the group?”

 I remained quiet, my lips sworn to a bizarre silence. The ugly policeman repeated the question, and this time it was followed by a threat that if no answer came from my mouth, then I would get what was coming to me. I remained quiet again.

    “So you are the clever one? The leader of the pack, heh?” He asked, his voice rising just a little over normal. His breath smelt of raw garlic, and I felt my stomach enzymes churn rapidly. The other two gloated around me; their baton sticks slapping viciously on their open palms. I could almost taste their hunger to use them on my back. The tall one refrained from his bent position. “Snake, you have a go.” He said to the other man who approached as id he had been waiting for this chance to come to him. “This chap doesn’t know that we have the whole day. They all start like this.”

 Snake was another ugly one. He was better looking, although the scar on his left eye quickly gave me an idea why they called him snake. The scar mark practically wound itself up to the corner of his eye. “You think you’re better than all of us here, heh?” He greeted me with the question, his red eyes penetrating into my skull. He shook me like a rag doll, and I lost my balance on the metal chair and fell down like a sack of potatoes onto the cold floor. When I regained my composure, and had sat on the chair, Snake glared at me. “You will tell me your name,” he said, “and then those of the others in your group.” There was a pure evil in that voice.

 I said nothing. My head was upright. My lips, they remained strangely numb.

    “Your name!” Snake hissed furiously, this time shaking the chair. I realised that had it been a living thing, then its bone framework would have been shattered completely. He, suddenly, without any notice, released the weapon upon my back, and I felt the thing winding itself all over my body and wished I could scream but I could not get my senses down. It was like a hot plate being ironed into my raw skin, and yet I did not burn. It ran all over my nerves like a late morning train, my brain chugging so wildly in pain that for those few seconds that seemed not to want to pass, I could have cut a titanium rope had it been put between my clenched teeth. Seeing this, Snake released the wrath of the baton stick again, his gloating face etched into an evil resolve. And for the second time, the hot plate was on my back again, sizzling itself right across my back muscles. This time I twitched noticeably, choking in unexplainable pain. And the men nodded, winked at each other and then laughed. It was an ugly cackle of laughter that I swore would never forget.

    “And so it begins.” The ugly one said, some strands of sweat chasing each other happily down to his chin. He wiped the liquid, and then without warning, unleashed the evil thing again. I winced quietly, my body as if on the Devil’s fire. Nothing was going to save me now. The Beast of Pain cracked on my back again. I squinted my eyes and said nothing. They looked at me and gloated like some crazy old woman concocting a bizarre potion. They had the whole day, they reminded me, but I shook my head. Then the Beast wound itself and lashed effectively again. And then again, and again and again…

 

For The Seven, we were now utterly Doomed.

***

- END of PART ONE-

(August 2008)

Mbonisi P. Ncube©