The Last of the Boys

Chimurenga, that’s what the war was called: the struggle. And in our little village of Chinguni, struggle was all we knew. For thirteen years, Rhodesia had been at war with itself, and our once-isolated village had known no peace. Nestled in the Eastern Highlands, at the bottom of one of the shorter mountains, our village became an outpost for the guerrillas. Young men would stop here for supplies and directions as they crossed the border into Mozambique, then return a few months later as fighters demanding assistance as they returned to Rhodesia to fight. The Rhodesian government called the guerrillas terrorists. The guerrillas called themselves liberators. We just called them Vakomana, the boys. Let the victors of the war decide what they were when the war was done.

From time to time, a group of Vakomana would set up base in our mountain. They would come for months at a time, groups of eight to ten young men in their late teens and early twenties. While they were there, our nights were not our own. Several times a week, Vakomana would shepherd us to the top of the mountain. They would make us sing and dance. Then they would lecture us about the necessity of war and why we needed to support them.

“We are fighting for Zimbabwe,” they would say, “for a country led by Black men.” And as the sun rose, they would send us back down the mountain.

During the days, us mothers of the village would take turns preparing food for Vakomana. Once a day, we would send our daughters up the hill with pots of sadza and vegetables, praying that the only thing the young men would taste would be the food. And as much as we resented the presence of Vakomana, we dreaded their departure because it was always accompanied by the disappearance of our sons.

Our tale of the war was a tale of missing sons. Every time our sons walked away, we did not know if they would come home. When they wandered away to herd the cows, we wondered if any of those boys would return at the end of the day. We waved goodbye as they climbed onto the bus back to their mission schools, only for word to eventually reach us that they had disembarked and crossed the border instead. Too many of our sons didn’t return, little chicks who suddenly thought themselves man enough to fight for a nation. And this is why, by the time 1979 arrived, there was only one teenage boy left in Chinguni. His name was Gari.

Hiding Gari was not intentional, at least not at first. We always knew that Gari would never go to war. He was soft, far too soft for these days of war that asked boys to be men long before their time. And one late afternoon in 1977, after the cows had come home, eight Vakomana came into the village, three of them holding rifles. They gathered all of us in the middle of the village, then asked every boy who was fifteen and over to step forward. At that point, we had already lost many of our sons. Only four boys stepped forward. Vakomana marched them out of the village.

An hour later, Gari wandered back into the village, oblivious to how narrowly he had missed forced conscription. With no need to consult each other, we knew that this was one son we wouldn’t lose to the war. Every time a group of Vakomana called us to the night vigils on the hill, we hid Gari, protecting him from being forced into service.

Now, this should be the part where we tell you why this boy Gari was deserving of our protection, about his loyalty, bravery, or such. But that would be a lie. There was nothing special about Gari. He was simply the last one.

*

In June of 1979, a new group of Vakomana took up residence in the mountains. They announced their arrival by banging on our doors in the middle of the night, screaming death to the Rhodesians. Six slender bodies in camo trousers and faded T-shirts in various states of disrepair.

“Get up!” they shouted, clutching rifles.

As they hounded us up the mountain, they chanted slogans and shouted at stragglers. The way they swaggered, pushing out their puny chests, the way they barked out orders, it all suggested that they were new to this. At the top, they separated us according to gender in two semicircles in the clearing. They made us dance around the fire, singing songs about those they said would free us from the yoke of the British. We sang and we sang and Vakomana smoked their mbanje.

Then the leader of Vakomana, a tall boy whose head was completely bald and gleamed in the firelight, walked to the center of the circle. He wore animal skin around his left wrist the way Shaka Zulu’s warriors did in the past. In his right hand, he carried a spear.

“Pamberi neChimurenga!” he said, stabbing at the sky with his spear. Forward with the struggle.

“Pamberi!” we all said, raising our right fists.

“Down with the sellout. Pasi nemutengesi!”

“Pasi naye!” Down with him.

He introduced himself as Comrade Hondo. He told his tale of great warriors in the Kingdom of Rozwi and how they built Great Zimbabwe. He called himself Rozwi’s direct descendant and said he would build the nation of Zimbabwe. Then he made us dance and sing again. When we sang his favourite song, he tried to dance but stumbled along, mind fogged by the mbanje. But oh, how loudly he sang!

*

In the morning, tempers ran short. It was wash day, and we washed the clothes in the river silently, furiously working out the stains as we ground the clothes against the abrasive rocks. The only smile to be found was on Gari’s round face. Naturally, he had not been up on the mountain with the rest of us. So he greeted us cheerily as he approached. Around his neck, he was carrying his instant camera, as always.

“Good morning, mothers,” he said. “Did you sleep well? Am I still taking your photograph this afternoon?” None of us were in the mood, but in his eyes was a boyish eagerness that made us think of our own sons. So we told him yes. And he walked away whistling.

That camera was another symbol of the charmed life Gari led. It was an old Kodak camera given to his father by Baas van der Merwe when the old farmer let all his workers go, fearing they would let the “terrorists” in to slit his throat in the middle of the night. Gari took the camera with him everywhere, but he seldom took photographs. He said he didn’t want to waste it, and he would say no if anyone asked him to take a photograph of them. But no one can say no to their mothers, not even Gari, which was how our afternoon mini–photo shoot had been planned.

Perhaps we should have decided against the photograph that day. Who needs a photograph of some village women anyway? But if the war had taught us anything, it was that life goes on. We would not allow the arrival of Vakomana to disrupt our lives.

So, after we laid out the clothes to dry, we bathed in the river, carefully scraping our feet. We put on the lotion we reserved for trips to the big city, wore our finest clothes, and, just this once, took off our headwraps and combed out our Afros as big as they would go. Picture it. A dozen or so women ranging from thirty to sixty, a rainbow of lace and rayon, all of us crowding together to make sure we fit in the frame. Gari took the photograph and we clamored around him as it developed.

At first, we asked excitedly, “Is that really me?” But then the photo seemed to change before our eyes. Why did our clothes look so garish? Were we really that dark? And why were none of us smiling? We silently passed the photo from one mother to the next. None of us asked to take the photograph home.

That’s the problem with photographs, isn’t it? They remind you who is missing.

*

June slipped into July and the weather turned bitterly cold. The old men complained that they felt the chill in their bones, that it had never been this cold in their entire lives. Each morning, the grass was white with frost. Our winter crops froze in the ground. Our food supplies were dwindling, and we wondered what we would feed our babies. Yet we kept sending food up the mountain to Vakomana. And Gari continued to strut around the village with that camera of his. For him there was no worry. For his mother, there were no tears.

Every week, Vakomana herded us up the mountain. And every week, Comrade Hondo began with the same monologue. Down with the sellout. At first, Vakomana only spoke of traitors who would betray their country to the Rhodesian government. But then they started to produce these so-called traitors. VaMoyo, whose daughter in the city had just bought him a new cow, was accused of telling the Selous Scouts that Vakomana had arrived in the area. Baba Joe was labeled traitor soon after he rethatched his roof. They beat his feet with a rubber hose until he could not walk.

Why did our clothes look so garish? Were we really that dark? And why were none of us smiling?

We knew what was happening. Jealous villagers were turning informants. Did Vakomana realize that was what was happening? Either way, Vakomana kept producing sellouts. This group of Vakomana was so different from the rest. There wasn’t a cool head among them, no one to say this far and no further. The oldest was nineteen at most, certainly not old enough to be leading anyone into war.

And maybe that’s why Vakomana went all the way when Baba Moreblessing, back home from Salisbury for Rhodes Day, was accused of peddling guerrilla secrets in the big city.

They dragged Baba Moreblessing into the center of the circle, hands tied, bare-chested, eyes bulging out of his head in fear. He trembled in the biting cold.

“It’s not true!” Baba Moreblessing said. “I know nothing about the war. I’m just a tea boy.”

“We have no sympathy for sellouts,” said Comrade Hondo.

They forced him onto his knees. He pleaded with us all. None of us said anything. He tried to catch our eyes. We all looked away, huddling closer, trapped between the fire and the overwhelming darkness of night.

“Please don’t let them hurt me,” Baba Moreblessing said.

Vakomana all backed away except for one.

Gun raised. Cocked. Pulled.

A small gasp, a stunned look.

He dropped.

Gurgling.

Silence.

It was almost too much to bear. But didn’t our own mothers used to tell us “musha mukadzi”? The woman is the home, they would say. As long as we stood strong, our homes would endure. How could we break when words like this were knitted into our bones as we grew? And so, even though it felt like the world was breaking, we locked away our pain in our hearts. We could not cry. This was war.

*

The elders say that troubles flock together. The morning after Baba Moreblessing’s funeral, we were woken again by banging on our doors.

“Everybody out. Everybody out now!” a male voice said in English. And then another, “Mukai! Anyone not out here in two minutes will be shot!”

We rushed out of our blankets, placing our wrappers around our waists before exiting into the yard. We clustered together, our small children clutching to us. Three Black men sat in the back of an open Land Rover, all holding AK-47s. A short Black man stood next to the car. It was Matthew, the deacon’s son. He had left for Salisbury three years before and had not been heard from since. Beside Matthew was a tall freckled white man who had a toothpick in his mouth. He glared at us, but none of us made eye contact. Our eyes were glued to the badge on his brown beret. It was a silver osprey, wings aloft, carrying in its claws a banner with the dreaded words: Selous Scouts. This was the group of men handpicked to eliminate all guerrillas by any means possible. We all knew that wherever the Selous Scouts were, death was not far behind.

“My brothers and sisters,” Matthew said, “we are not here to hurt you. We just want answers. Does anyone know who killed Phineas Musoni, also known as Baba Moreblessing?”

None of us responded. Baba Moreblessing had been buried in Mission Cemetery. That had meant getting a death certificate, and that had meant notifying the officials he died of a gunshot to the chest.

“Speak up now. It is better to work with us than not.”

Silence.

“Okay. Let’s try a simple yes-or-no question. Have the terrorists been here?” A few brave souls shook their heads.

Matthew turned back to his captain. “It’s just like I said. These people are simple. The rebels wouldn’t trust them with anything.”

The white man glared at each one of us before marching toward the closest village man to him and grabbing him by the collar. He pulled his gun out of his holster and put it by the man’s head. “Tell me where they are. Where are the rebels?” A wet patch appeared on the village man’s trousers.

The Afrikaner shook him roughly before tossing him aside; then he marched right up to us. “Now you listen here, you people. If I hear that any of you, any of you, have been helping the rebels, I will round you all up and send you to prison. And I promise you, not all of you will get there alive! Understand?”

We nodded vigorously, nervously. The two men jumped into the car. It roared away.

*

No work was done that day. No sweeping. No washing. No shining. Instead we sat under the mango tree watching our younger children play. At least they still knew how to laugh. Among ourselves, we wondered what to do. What could we do? Should we go to church to pray for relief? Should we consult a n’anga to find out how to appease those in the wind? Or should we accept what our own mothers had taught us was a woman’s plight, to survive whatever came our way in silence?

And as we discussed, the game the children were playing slowly came into focus. There were eight of them between the ages of six and seven. One little boy in torn red shorts was holding a long stick like it was a rifle. The other seven had their arms in the air. They were singing Vakomana’s anthem: “Moyo wangu watsidza kufira Zimbabwe, my heart has vowed to die for Zimbabwe.”

They sang in perfect unison, their shrill little voices carrying on the wind. The little soldier aimed his gun at the child closest to him, his head tilted to the side, staring down the barrel.

“Down with sellouts,” he screamed. “You will die for your country.” The other children began to scream, running around in circles. “Doof. Doof. Doof,” he said as he took a shot at each of them. “Doof. Doof. Doof.”

The little bodies fell to the ground one by one, each landing in slow motion in a cloud of dust, then lying motionless. And for a moment, everything was perfectly still. No screams. No cheers. No wind. Just seven little bodies lying in the sand.

Then whistling cut across the silence as Gari walked by. The children all jumped to their feet, begging him to take a photograph of them.

We watched our babies crowding around the last of the boys. We watched and knew we would not let this war take our babies too.

And Amai Farai said those fateful words: “Vakomana always leave when they have new recruits.”

No one replied.

“A new recruit would make them feel like they’ve achieved something. At the very least, they would have to accompany him to the training camps.”

There would always be another group of Vakomana, but at least this one would be gone.

*

When night fell and Vakomana banged on our doors, none of us were asleep. We made our way up the hill and formed our familiar crescents. Two boys from the village began to build a fire and soon it raged, orange flames jumping up as if to touch the sky. It was a clear night and the moon was shining so brightly that we could see the road snaking all the way to Baas van der Merwe’s farm.

Comrade Hondo circled around the fire. 

Should we accept what our own mothers had taught us was a woman’s plight, to survive whatever came our way in silence?

“Tonight, you will sing!” He glared at us. “Tonight, you will sing so loud that Rhodes himself in the Matopos hills will hear that we are ready to get rid of the name he gave our land. He will know that we are ready to claim our Zimbabwe!”   

The lead drum began to beat, at first slowly but soon quickening as two other drums replied. Soon we took up the call. Hands clapping, waists wriggling, feet kicking up a cloud of dust, we sang, pretending not to see the gaping human-size hole next to the fire. We sang for hours, and they would not let us sit.

Suddenly, a hornbill let out its booming call, announcing dawn as being an hour away. The noise startled us, and we fell silent.   

“Pamberi neChimurenga!” Comrade Hondo said. Forward with the struggle.

“Pamberi!” we all said, raising our right fists.   

“Pasi nemutengesi!” Down with the sellout.

“Pasi naye!”  

“Tonight, you are gathered to see a mutengesi,” Comrade Hondo said. “Do you know what a mutengesi is?”

We were silent.

“Mutengesi is one who sells out his brother to the white man. He would rather kneel before Smith than stand as a man and fight.” He paced around the fire glaring at us. He stopped and faced the men. “Tonight, there is a mutengesi among us.” 

Only the crackling of the fire could be heard now.

“Do you think he is courageous enough to come forward?” Comrade Hondo said. “Is it you, old man?”

“Me? N-n-not me, young sir,” said Old Jairos, stamping his walking stick on the ground. 

“Don’t worry. You’re fine. There are no lessons to be taught from beating old men.” Comrade Hondo looked at all the men. Finally, he said, “Bring me the traitor, Comrade Fearless.”  

Two of Vakomana emerged from the trees dragging one of our sons. Gari stared out stubbornly as they brought him to the center of the circle, his face still swollen from his beating.  Our hearts clenched. They thought Gari was a sellout?

“This man,” said Comrade Hondo, “has been taking photographs of our operations in this area and sending them to the Selous Scouts. He betrays his brothers for a chance to get to Salisbury.”

Comrade Hondo strutted around the fire, thrusting his spear in Gari’s direction for emphasis. “How many times have you been on this hill singing our way to freedom? And how many times have you seen this dog among us? Never.” He spat in Gari’s direction.

“Tonight, we will show those white men what we do with sellouts. I want you to sing. To sing the words that Mbuya Nehanda told us before they strung her body up in that mopani tree.”  

The drums began, but no one took up the call. We stood in stunned silence. This wasn’t the plan.  

“Am I surrounded by sellouts?” Comrade Hondo said. “Why are you silent?” A few voices began on a faltering note. “Do you want to join him? I said sing.” More voices joined in as the clapping began. “Sing!”   

Smith usaone vana vamai vedu

Kugara musango

Vanogarira nyika yedu

Vanogarira nyika yedu 

Kugara musango

Vanogarira nyika yedu

We sang a song for our children in the bush. A song for our babies living in the bush. For the stubborn who chose to fight. For the reluctant forced to join. For all of them waiting in the bush for freedom. They are fighting for our country.

Vakomana led Gari to the grave, guns trained on him. Our voices cracked, but we sang. They made him lie down in the hole and then tied his hands and feet. We sang. They placed a metal roofing sheet on top of him. We sang. When the first hot coal hit the metal sheet above him, he started to scream as he tried to get up. We sang.   

“Please! No! Don’t do it!” Gari said.

They are fighting for our country.

We danced as he screamed and as they dragged more burning logs on top.

They are fighting for our country.

We danced, our feet landing on the pulsing beat. 

“Why have you killed me?”  

We danced, raising our voices to drown out the screams.  

“What have you killed me for?”   

They are fighting for our country!

He fell silent, but still we danced.   

Suddenly, there was a loud explosion. In stunned silence, we stared at the fire blazing where Gari had been. What had we done?

“Why have you stopped singing?” Comrade Hondo asked. “Rhodes must hear us. Sing!”

*

In three months’ time, ceasefire will be declared. Vakomana will retreat to the waiting camps in Mozambique awaiting the official declaration of an independent Zimbabwe. Over the next two years, the young men of Chinguni will stream back to the village. We will not ask them what they did during the war. And they will not ask us. We will all pretend our sons never left.

But for now, we sing. We sing until our voices become shrill, until all the small children have fallen asleep, until the fire has been reduced to orange embers. We sing until a blood red band appears on the horizon.   

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