KIDJANA

By Thandiwe Machila

A Rhodesian countryside teenager discovered herself in the middle of the liberation struggle. At the same time she had to learn about life and deal with the confusion of her own transition to womanhood. There had to be some form of survival through nature as the rural community was suddenly cut off from the city. How could all aspects of life continue with all those barriers imposed by war?
Kidjana learned more and was greatly inspired by the overwhelming experiences which further shaped her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244379919

Book preview

KIDJANA

For my loving husband, my daughters Michelle and Nozipho.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To my beautiful brave people of Zimbabwe and our heroes, the Freedom Fighters. The unsung heroes: the rural communities who made it happen for Zimbabwe to be liberated. The youth who courageously risked their lives to facilitate the liberation struggle.

THE PROLOGUE

The transition from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe

A story about a countryside teenage girl who experienced the unrelenting struggle for freedom. The unforgettable journey to Zimbabwe. So much happened… There were mind-blowing discoveries about life, growing up, war and romance in the Rhodesian jungle. All civilization had ceased… The rural folks had to survive with all they had.

That was war of its own accord, bloodshed, anguish and DEATH…

A storm brewed in a teapot country. There was no place to hide…

Who was the lucky one to see freedom? All yearned for this eternal paradise. Freedom mania had infected young and old… Took over fear and uncertainty.

There was no time for farewells, only pain and grief. Time became non-existent and yet all moved on. The events were so intriguing to Kidjana who was not only young but also vulnerable and naïve as to what nature had in store….Tangled in the pandemonium, she had her own transitions to contend with. What did the future hold for Kidjana…?

ALUTA CONTINUA!

WE WILL LIBERATE OUR ZIMBABWE THROUGH THE BARREL OF A GUN

CHAPTER 1-THE VILLAGE

My patience with Grade One pupils was on the wane. They continued their protests of unwillingness to attend school up to the fourth day. We had exhausted all attempts to pacify the endlessly sobbing youngsters. We had bribed them with sweets and berries but none seemed to work. Our journey to school was taking longer than usual as we continued to baby-sit them. I hated my responsibility as a dependable mature Grade Seven pupil. These young pupils were oblivious of a major event that was bothering us. The leaflets still hung on the trees, and littered the ground… a stark reminder of how they were distributed by the low flying helicopter. The fearsome rumble which almost wiped the entire village. We had scurried for safety under the trees, logs or anything that could have covered our heads. Banda, one of our elders was paralysed with fear that he easily conformed himself under a two legged wooden bench and transformed it into a suitable hiding place.

The print on the leaflets was very clear black ink on white paper, easily readable graphic details of how the abducted Manama Secondary School students were being ill-treated by their commanders in the Zambian terrorist camps…That was just few days ago. Small as the leaflets were but the story was of enormous turmoil of what happened to those who got carried away to join the ‘terrorists.’

The youngsters were cartooned as a bad comedy of miserably skinny and malnourished soldiers carrying AK-47 rifles which measured up to their heights. The main picture was of the obese commanders who sat around the table full of food, munching to their fill. They had large waists which had huge belts around them. The belts also secured pistols which were shoved into the minimal space on their plump sides. Some of the starving youths were under the table scrambling and fighting like jackals to eat what fell from the table. On the other corner of the cartoon were painfully thin youths carrying the AK-47’s.

They resembled scarecrows. Their trousers looked old and dirty, ill-fitting like the gear of clowns. Their thin arms stuck out of the sleeves like human bones. Some of the youths carried sticks carved as guns. Most simply carried sticks as their weapons. Their faces portrayed very sad looks. The clothing told a very sad story about the youth soldiers. For all of them their trousers were reinforced by draw-strings to compensate for their non-existent waists. Reading the cartoons brought tears and great fear to all. Some of the youths cowered in fear as the big guards rained hard lashes on their thin bodies.

They had awkward postures which inclined towards the arm that carried the guns. Most were bare-footed and that was an enhancement to the three-quarter length military trousers which were decorated with patch-work all over. Those who were fortunate to have footwear, the toes stuck out as the boots could not accommodate their big feet. They resembled clothed skeletons. It was a very traumatic message which made our parents very angry with the terrorists and their leaders.

‘‘Why can’t these terrorists breed their own children and leave our children alone?’’ One of the men fumed as he read and understood what the pictured message informed them. The elders had strictly warned us not to entertain these corrupt minded criminals who were going to ruin our lives. They confirmed that the government was trying to help the ignorant population who did not know what life was like across the borders of Rhodesia. Who would have left a country that was abounded with nourishment and choose to be enslaved and impoverished by the terrorists? These criminals preyed on the vulnerable and immature scholars who had no idea about life at all, the elders had realised.

My mind was pre-occupied with the abduction of the unfortunate Manama students just few kilometres from Gwanda town, they did not spare the younger ones who were of my age. It was evident that the terrorist were moving at fast pace. But how could they abduct the whole school and travel all the way to cross the border undetected? These criminals must have been of alien origin, maybe zombies. There was no explanation to this, the security office was baffled too.  I had a strong feeling we were next. We had adopted safety in numbers and moved in large groups. Playing on the way to and from school had since stopped.

The small path from Mtshazo village to Mtshabezi Primary school was through the grassy plains. It meandered clear of the Nkume hill, went under the large marula trees. The aroma of the marula fruits lingered in the air and seriously tempted us. We were strictly forbidden to eat the succulent ripe marula fruits due to the sinister danger of the large slippery stone which always had success in obstructing one’s airway. However there was an alternative of sweet berries at the foot of Nkume hill but that was not feasible either, we dared not think about it altogether. Nkume hill was strictly out of bounds and none of us dared go near it. As we approached the dreaded hill, my heart was pounding. That was the time when all the noise stopped and our ears were inclined towards the hill so as to pick up any sounds that emanated from it. The Grade One youngsters did not seem to get the whole concept of looming danger.

They continued to protest and threw tantrums crying for their mums, sore feet, tummy aches and other ailments which could have assisted them with an excuse to go back home and not attend school. I was at the end of my tether. Trying to keep them quiet became a more volatile situation as they cried even louder. My thoughts were thrown into disarray when Zee suddenly stopped leading the group.

‘’Did you hear that? It’s coming from the bushes near the hill.’’ Zee said looking in all directions. My heart missed a beat. ‘‘It must be Binya coming.’’ He said lowering his voice.

‘‘Who’s Binya?’’ One of the young girls asked wiping off her tears so as to visualise more clearly.

‘‘Don’t mention that name!’’ Anele hissed.

‘‘Didn’t your mother tell you about him…? He’s a huge man who lives somewhere in the caves deep down in that huge hill, he chases women and children… if he catches you, I don’t know, maybe make tasty biltong out of you!’’ Zee heeded Anele’s reproach and lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘‘He does not like his name mentioned, he’s got sharp ears to hear even the slightest sound. He does not comb or cut his hair which is tangled up, full of grass bits, leaves and tiny insects. He’s got big red eyes like this.’’ Zee popped out his eyes as he continued. ‘‘He carries a very big sharp knife.’’ The children gasped in fear and huddled towards me and Anele. They increased their pace. Dudu my younger sister joined them.

‘‘Zee will you shut up!’’ I yelled at him. I also did not want to be told about Binya especially near his surroundings. Zee could not be silenced.

‘‘You wanted these silly Grade Ones to continue with their crying and cause trouble for us, I better start running just in case Binya has woken up.’’ Zee broke into a sprint and the Grade Ones followed in flight for their survival. I also joined them as I was worried about falling prey to Binya or being abducted by terrorists and frogmarched to a strange world only to be treated like those unfortunate Manama students. Unbeknown to us that the events of the decade were slowly unfolding. We approached the school gates panting short of breath. Despite being on time something was not right at our school. The bell did not ring to mark the start of our day…

The days that preluded this particular one were still fresh in my mind. I remember the shock in my mother’s eyes when she heard from the evening news that a state of emergency had been declared. That had come with a fatal sting of a six to six curfew. The following day the headman called all the villagers and told them of the new changes which were going to happen at our peaceful habitat. The list was very long but we were given the major rules which were more relevant to us. Anybody above eighteen years of age was to carry a national identification card which had a name, number, address, the name of their headman and chief on it. The men had protested violently, but more was yet to come. They were given a week to obtain those ID’s from the offices in Gwanda, after that if the police came checking for ID’s and if one was not in possession, they were liable to a huge fine, imprisonment or worse, being shot and killed. I felt as if we were placed under a microscope. This was not good news as most of the men in the village had had an opportunity to visit the prison as punishment for crimes such as allowing their animals to wander into the white man’s farm or failure to address a white man or his little son as ‘Baas’. Prison was loathed by all who had first-hand experience and those who simply heard the horrifying stories. They had no other choices but to conform to the laws.

The headman continued with the shocking list of new laws. All visitors in the area had to be reported to him. The curfew was understandably sunset to sunrise and those who chose not to comply risked being shot and killed on sight. That was a strategy to crush the terrorists who favoured moving during the night. The new laws also directly affected us the young ones as we had to report any person whom we thought did not belong to the area. Freedom became a thing of the past, we were being imprisoned in our own homes for the crimes we did not commit. School had to continue from eight till midday, all pupils had to leave the premises by then. There were increased police patrols in the area and most of the times they disrupted lessons with their endless questionings about our surroundings. Frustration became evident on the teachers and many left to teach in the city where these unreasonable laws did not exist.

In desolation the villagers became united in anger and despair. They fumed within themselves about these changes, wondering what type of government ruled them. The curfew was the most unwelcome of all the laws imposed on the community as they were not given any time to prepare for the calls of nature during the nights. The curfew only allowed fifty metres from one’s home for such purposes which meant that there was no privacy. The elders said that we had to learn how to live like the animals who were surrounded by their own excrement in the kraals. Dignity was shamefully compromised. The elders had no answers as to why we were being punished this way.

The villagers were still shaken about what was happening around us though life had continued more or less normal. The helicopter incident made it more apparent that we were on the verge of war in Rhodesia. The news from the radio stations reported that the terrorists’ hiding places were found in Mozambique and Zambia. The Rhodesian forces bombed the camps and they reported success in crushing the terrorists. The elders spoke openly though in low voices which had that kind of fear. The government reported that the terrorists who lived in the bush were killed on a daily basis.

There was anger and bitterness as our lives changed for the worst. The beer parties were also banned… It was a crime for three or more people to be seen together at any particular time and some had been shot and killed for not observing the laws. What made our situation even more unfortunate was that this war was mainly to be experienced by the rural population. I felt that the rural population was the least of the government’s problems because the city people lived a more developed life and there were no limitations to their lives.

The cities were very secure and protected as most of the whites lived there, they made them strongholds for their assets. There was an exodus of the rural population to the towns as a result. For most of the villagers, the rural home was their backbone and they opted to stay and hoped for survival through this war. The fact was that for most villagers there was no place for them in the city as they had no means of income. Life in the city was very complicated and intimidating to the rural people. There was so much overcrowding in the crime ridden high density suburbs which were strictly for black people. They hated the idea of living like circus animals. Those who remained in the rural area vowed to fight like their ancestors.

As fragmented bits of information filtered through, I realised that this war was the worst ever in our lifetime. I feared for my life and my family. The only news on the radio was about the conflict between the government forces and the terrorists. This war was some form of a rebellion against our Rhodesian government by the black people of Rhodesia who claimed that the country belonged to them and so the whites must hand it back. I was very confused because our history books clearly stated that the previous occupants of the country had been defeated by the whites and that King Lobengula himself had signed papers which allowed these white people to stay as they brought civilisation. Why then this change of mind?

I was very negative about going back to those dark ages I had read about. The days when women were classified as children, and had no voice to say what pertained to them. No choice or preference. Being married to an old man at a very young age just because he had many cows… To be the hundredth wife and be a human breeding machine! To toil in the fields from dawn till dusk and to be beaten up by your husband on a daily basis… What will happen to my education? How was I going to sit still and pretend all was right in this rotten outdated system? Why were our men treating women like trash? The women were also classified as children and had no voice. The women carried heavy loads with babies on their backs and all the men carried were sticks. Being the man of the family meant that one had best food and did no work at all. The whites treated their women well and never beat them up, neither did they humiliate them in public or degrade them.

The white women never shared their husbands either. They did what they liked and they were happy and educated too…That was civilisation. I felt the whites were trying to liberate us by way of knowledge. Funnily the boys did not like school and they were not very intelligent like the girls. The boys were clumsy and wrote badly too!