The oracle of the liberation struggle . . . lest we forget

Isdore Guvamombe Saturday Column

The village is on the foot of the mountain near Chimufombo and the liberation struggle is at its peak. Gunfire exchange is now a daily occurrence.

Ian Smith’s Rhodesian forces have been pushed to the edge and his government is in panic mode.

Villagers are fully behind the freedom fighters, but there are a few sell-outs.

Each day that passes, the Rhodesian soldiers are suffering more casualties.

Grass-thatched huts totter with age, their mud-and-pole walls leaning backwards, each with a little door.

Most of the thatch is dark brown with age, weathering and soot from fires forever lit inside.

Here, at dawn as the first shafts of sun colour the fluffy grass heads rippling across the savannah plains in a russet hue, ghostly figures move in single file, guns slung on their shoulders.

They arrive at the female oracle’s home for divine trinkets that oiled the struggle.

Smoke fills the doorway and an old woman sits indifferently inside, wading off spewing smoke with her hands while putting up a vexed frown.

Her face is wrinkled beyond imagination. A combination of old age, a black dress and the smoke makes her look perfectly otherworldly. Her bloodshot eyes look like two evil holes, from where rivulets of fluid run down the flabby cheeks. Smoke forces more tear drops down her cheeks too.

Her feet are cracked, her skin bone-dry and extremely dark. The hair is wiry. She is frail and speaks with a yelp, but authoritative voice.

She insisted on the “boys” (as the liberation fighters were referred to) getting into the hut to appease the spirits. But only two combatants, the leader McDuff Mandebvu and another enter the hut and the rest remain on vigil.

She stirs the firewood, knocking them systematically against each other to light up the fire. The result is violent pops and sparks that turn the cinders into purple and glowing red.

Soon, the smoke subsides and everyone can see somewhat clearly inside the hut.

Soot hangs all over and lies thick on most objects — pots, plates, cups and all. The soot has tainted even the normally glossy coats of the rats.

On the roof is soot, some of which hangs down in strings, like the dread locks of a Rasta man.

Soon, the old woman is in deep talks with the liberation fighters. She gives them spiritual intervention and some lucky charms and little everything else.

Suddenly there is an exchange of gunfire and things turn nasty. The freedom fighters scamper for cover and disappear.

The soldiers are all over the village. Some guard the oracle for a while and search all over the compound, but they find nothing.

The whole village is under siege. Men are beaten indiscriminately. The soldiers had all the information on who fed the freedom fighters which day and where.

Someone had sold out.

The oracle was captured and taken to the police station at Guruve. Her crime was aiding guerillas. What happened to her next when in custody is a story for another day.

Several men are arrested and detained without trial.

At night, the freedom fighters were back to take stock of what had happened. They explained that they could not retaliate to avoid combat in the village.

A night vigil rally was conducted.

Luckily no one had died, but more than 10 men had been captured by the Rhodesian forces.

More strategies were discussed that night amid song and dance. There was political education too.

As the night slept away, there was another gun battle. The Rhodesians had returned. There was stampede. There was death.

The battle shifted under the moonlight to the maize fields and since it was just after harvest, the fields were open. The freedom fighters withdrew a bit to the foot of the mountain and there the battle heightened.

The exchange of gunfire became more pronounced.  There was total combat. Combat. Contact. There was light gunfire, which ran tot, tot, tot and tot. Then there was a loud bang. It must have been a bazooka. Then there was dead silence. Silence, silence, silence! Cemetery silence. Silence!

Another tot, tot, tot and then a huge bang. The sky lit with shrapnel.

We hid on the verge of the village. Then there was another big bang and silence. Deathly silence.

Many villagers crept inside their houses, their heartbeats pounding. The night smelt of death until morning.

The following morning, Rhodesian Air Force helicopters hovered above the village and beyond. Then, like vultures they circulated in one particular area and landed briefly.

We were later told that they were picking up dead bodies of soldiers. The Rhodesians had suffered huge losses.

From that day Chimufombo became a liberated zone — a no-go area for Rhodesian soldiers. The freedom fighters stayed in the area during the day and attacked other areas at night, returning to safety.

The oracle returned to the village after a month. The soldiers decided to release her after intense interrogation. Villagers streaked to see her and hear her story.

After a few days, the oracle disappeared, never to be seen again.

A sombre atmosphere engulfed the village. No one knew what happened to her.

Today, 40 years after independence and she has not yet been located, neither have her remains been found.

She was the oracle. The oracle of the struggle.

– HERALD