Chapter 11

CONCEPTION AND BIRTH OF ZIMBABWE

By dint of good fortune I came to London, a place where an international conference to try and resolve the political impasse between the Patriotic Front and the Rhodesian regime, a proxy of the British, was underway. I was not an official delegate to the conference and nor was my coming to London for the purpose of attending the Lancaster House Conference.

Mr Chenga, one of our cadres undergoing pilot training at Ethiopian Airlines, was afflicted by a strange illness that baffled the medical professionals in Ethiopia. Two weeks had passed since he first became ill and his condition was worsening. Every part of his body seemed to be aching. The doctors could not pinpoint the source or cause of his illness and why it failed to respond to treatment or pain killers. On close cross examination we learned that he had been afflicted by a similar illness about a decade ago when he was living in the UK. After numerous fruitless efforts to treat the disease, at big and prestigious hospitals and clinics, he finally found a solution to his illness at a small private clinic in London.

I obtained authority from our Headquarters in Maputo to take Chenga to the same private clinic in London that had previously successfully treated his strange disease. While in London I linked up with our leadership attending the Lancaster House Conference and attended most of the open sessions of the negotiations during the last two weeks of the historic conference.

The Patriotic Front was in a combative mode, determined to frustrate any outcome that would seem to compromise the gains of the struggle. We were convinced, especially the ZANU component of the Patriotic Front, that we were poised for a military victory. Any talks, such as the ones we were engaged in, were an unwelcome distraction from our focus on achieving victory on the battlefield. We were ready to confront and reject machinations aimed at reversing and sacrificing the gains of our struggle. We had successfully done so at Geneva, at Malta, and this time round at Lancaster would be no exception.

Judging by the frequency with which the conference deliberations stalemated, I was fairly confident that it was only a matter of days before it came to a complete deadlock and it would be, once again, time to go back to the bush. We never trusted the Conservative government, especially the current one led by Margaret Thatcher. If there had been a Labour government in power, we thought, maybe the conference would stand a slight chance of succeeding. That had been the firm belief amongst the guerrilla fighters.

We woke up one day prepared for more of the meaningless and time wasting routine. One could almost accurately predict what posture the Rhodesian regime or the Patriotic Front would adopt at the conference. Even the reaction and frustration of the chairman, the no-nonsense Lord Carrington, could also be predicted. Many among us were beginning to wonder why the chairman could not muster the courage to declare the conference, that was doomed to failure from day one, had ended without agreement.

On this day we were going to have another ordinary working session. I liked to be in the conference hall at least 15 to 20 minutes before the time scheduled to begin the proceedings. Some of our senior commanders, particularly Comrade Tongogara, would arrive about ten minutes ahead of time and mingle with our adversaries. I had on a number of occasions moved closer to Comrade Tongogara when he was having light-hearted conversations with Mr Ian Douglas Smith or other members of his delegation. It was quite evident from the expressions on the faces of our foes that they had a great respect for Comrade Tongogara’s intelligent conversations. His reasoned contributions and timely interjections in any conversations gained him the respect of everyone, friend and foe alike, who had the honour to engage in conversation with him.

As usual I got into the conference hall about 20 minutes ahead of time. The commencement time drew closer, but only a handful of delegates to the conference had arrived. Ten minutes to starting time, and Comrade Tongogara had not turned up. I wondered whether the commencement time for today had been changed. At the commencement time, an announcement on behalf of the chairman was made to the effect that the ordinary session had been cancelled and instead, the heads of the Patriotic Front delegation were going to have a closed session with the leaders of the Frontline States.

Consultations between the Patriotic Front and the Presidents of the Frontline States had, on very few occasions, taken place in order to harmonise negotiating positions. These were normally slotted into the conference programme and participants notified in good time. Alternatively, Frontline leaders would privately and surreptitiously request an impromptu ‘get-together’ with Patriotic Front leaders, without affecting the conference programme and without seeking first the consent of the conference chairperson.

This time round, the consultation was affecting the pre-set conference programme and was convened with the knowledge of the chairperson. In my thinking, reason must finally have prevailed and the chairperson had recognised that the conference had reached a dead end and it was now time to call it quits.

That was the expected outcome from the ZANU wing of the Patriotic Front and every one of us was waiting in anticipation for confirmation of that position.

I took advantage of the interruption in the day’s programme to do a little shopping in London. Expecting that an afternoon session would be convened, I was back at Lancaster House by 12.30 pm. If any announcement of change of programme was going to come, I expected it during the lunch hour.

As I entered the lounge to one of the houses allocated for use by the Patriotic Front, I observed Comrade Tongogara seated alone on a couch, with the left side of his face resting in the palm of his left hand, in a cogitative mood. I quietly took a Polaroid camera I had bought that morning, loaded a cartridge into it and stealthily moved closer to Comrade Tongogara. I was two steps away from him without drawing his attention. I lifted my camera to my face and had him in my sights like a marksman preparing to take out his target.

“Comrade Tongo,” I called out his name. His head disengaged itself from the palm of his hand, jerked upwards and his eyes opened wide. I clicked my camera at that precise moment. I had broken Comrade Tongo’s concentration and focussed his attention on the picture that was developing in my hand. Within a minute it was fully developed. Comrade Tongogara looked at his photograph with great fascination. It was the very best picture of him that I had ever seen.

“Can I keep this picture?” Comrade Tongogara asked. I could not deny my idol his wish. I parted with the picture but if I knew today who has it I would be willing to offer a huge amount of money to buy it back.

“You seemed so far away in your thoughts when I came in, what were you thinking about Comrade Tongo?” My innocent inquiry of genuine concern for someone I admired had an unintended consequence. A dark cloud seemed to sweep across Comrade Tongo’s face and the melancholy that my picture had succeeded in driving off, again settled on his features. This was very uncharacteristic of Comrade Tongogara. The Tongo I knew never buckled when confronted by any adversity, but instead grew in strength and determination. The Tongo I witnessed now looked worn out and defeated.

For a while Comrade Tongogara did not respond to my enquiry. Surely, he must have received news of a bad personal tragedy, I tried to convince myself. When he finally opened his mouth to respond, his words were slow, measured and almost indistinct.

“W-e a-r-e g-o-i-n-g t-o s-e-l-l o-u-r s-t-r-u-g-g-l-e.”

“What?” I asked incredulously, my mind refusing to accept that I had heard correctly.

“I said,” Comrade Tongogara was more composed, “we are being asked to compromise our struggle.”

“Who by, is it the British?” I enquired, unable to comprehend why this should bother our Chief of Defence since we always knew that the British were bent on negating the gains of our struggle.

“No, of course not, I don’t care a hoot about the British” Comrade Tongogara responded dismissively with a wave of the hand. “By the Frontline Presidents.”

This was a new and unanticipated twist in the equation of our relationship with the Frontline States. Up to now the Patriotic Front and the Frontline Leaders had clung hand in glove to each other in their insistence that unless the Patriotic Front demands were met, there would be an intensification of the armed struggle. How could this position have changed? Since the meeting between the Patriotic Front and Frontline leaders was a scheduled meeting with the blessing of the chairperson, what was the hand of the British in all this?

“What exactly was the demand of the Frontline leaders that would make you feel so despondent?” I pressed Comrade Tongogara to reveal more about what had transpired in their meeting with the Frontline leaders.

“They have categorically stated that we must reach an agreement without fail because they no longer have the capacity to provide sanctuary and forward bases to our forces.” My heart sank.

When I joined the struggle in early 1975, ZANLA had just entered a difficult phase in which the Frontline States were withholding assistance and forward bases, as a means of arm-twisting ZANU to engage in negotiations with the Rhodesian regime and also to coerce ZANU and ZAPU to agree to unite their forces and their political parties. We referred to this as the ‘détente exercise’ period. Be that as it may, we were able to get through that difficult phase, thanks especially to the visionary leadership of Presidents Samora Machel and Julius Nyerere. To me, whatever demands were made by the Frontline States, all that was needed was time, tact and patience for us to overcome this unforeseen and latest difficulty in our struggle.

“But surely Comrade Tongogara taking into account the progress we have achieved on the battlefield, President Samora Machel cannot be a party to suggestions that would halt the progress of our struggle at this critical juncture,” this was more a statement of fact than a question.

“To the contrary,” Comrade Tongogara affirmed, “it was President Machel who eloquently and unequivocally stated that we had to reach an agreement at all costs since the burden of supporting the armed struggle had become insupportable for the Frontline States, especially Mozambique and Zambia.” The enormity of what Comrade Tongo had said was hard to stomach and I was left speechless. When I finally regained my composure, the sentiment I expressed closely resembled what Comrade Tongogara had said. “Without a doubt our struggle is being sacrificed at the altar of expediency.”

Later, as I mingled with other members of the Patriotic Front delegation, it was evident that the atmosphere within our camp was gloomy and subdued. Our negotiating team was busy strategising on what could be salvaged under the prevailing circumstances. The main sticking point had been the question of land. The Patriotic Front held the view that its position on the emotive issue of the re-distribution of land be held sacrosanct and that any agreement should categorically state who was to take responsibility for compensating those dispossessed of their land by the white settler minority.

When the conference later convened, the Patriotic Front insisted that it wanted the question of the land to be addressed conclusively. An important breakthrough was achieved when the British government, in conjunction with the American government, in a private consultation hosted by the Commonwealth Secretary-General, agreed to take responsibility for compensation of all land that a future government of Zimbabwe would repossess for purposes of redistribution to the landless.

Not everything went our way. Our adversaries insisted that for ten years from the attainment of independence land could only be acquired on the basis of ‘willing buyer, willing seller.’ During this ten year period, there were not to be constitutional provisions or amendments to affect that position. Reluctantly, we were forced to accept a condition we were strongly opposed to.

Another sticking point was the issue of security forces that would have the responsibility of maintaining law and order during the transitional stage. We wanted the Patriotic Front forces to constitute the legal force during the period of transition. This proposal was vehemently opposed and rejected. In the end we settled for the unfavourable option that our forces be confined to some assembly points.

As the conference wound down and we were preparing to go back, I teased Comrade Tongogara about what we were going to do now that we had signed the seal of ‘betrayal’ of our struggle. The quick witted ZANLA commander exhibited the courage and confidence that was the hall mark of his character.

“If we tell our forces that we are going home in a white plane with a red cross, anyone who shoots at that plane tina yazibopa (we will arrest),” the ZANLA strategist responded.

In reply to Comrade Tongogara’s remark, I quipped, “how can you arrest the culprits when your plane is brought down and you probably don’t survive the crash?” When I reflect in retrospect, Comrade Tongogara had prophesied his death. It was inconceivable for a guerrilla commander to fly back home to implement the provisions of a ceasefire in a plane with Red Cross signs.

As a measure of respect and acceptance of his unique intellectual capabilities, Comrade Tongogara began to be referred to by the highest military title of ‘General’ by friends and foes alike, during the latter part of the Lancaster House Conference.

Before returning to my station in Addis Ababa, I asked General Tongogara for the honour of accompanying him to Rhodesia when the time for his triumphant return came. To my delight, he ordered me to go and pack my things in Addis Ababa and await instructions to fly to Mozambique to join him when the time came.

Before the ink was dry, news of the successful conclusion of the Lancaster House Conference had been splashed all around the world. There were mixed reactions to the news.

The majority of black Zimbabweans were jubilant that success at the Lancaster House Conference would finally signal an end to the brutality they had to endure under the minority regime of Ian Douglas Smith and the expected return of their children from the bush. For some families, jubilation was tempered with anxiety as to whether their children had survived the brutal and arduous struggle.

Most of the minority white community was relieved that they no longer would have to be called up into the army reserves, or for national service, to continue the bush war. There were yet others who feared losing the lavish lifestyles reserved for people of their colour if the ‘communist’ Mugabe should come to power.

There was great relief within the political establishment in Britain. The unimaginable had been achieved. Not only was it achieved, but achieved under the watch of a British Conservative government. Until now, only a Labour government could have been given the slimmest of chances to broker an agreement in which the Patriotic Front of Zimbabwe was a negotiating partner. Their only hope and prayer was that the settlement would not unravel at the implementation stage. No doubt, the successful conclusion of the Lancaster House Conference had elevated the status of the Conservative government under the premiership of the ‘Iron Lady’, Margaret Thatcher, and her appointed ‘no-nonsense’ chairman, Lord Carrington.

There was also much at stake for the Frontline States. They had pulled off a gamble whose ultimate success depended upon a number of unpredictable circumstances. On the one hand was the Patriotic Front with its deep-seated mistrust of both the British and Rhodesian regimes. To compound it all, the Patriotic Front felt betrayed by those in whom they had reposed great trust and confidence – the Frontline States themselves. On the other hand were the British and their extension, the Rhodesian Front. It was against British colonialism that the revolutionary armed struggle was being waged. Through their proxy, the minority white settler regime, their economic plunder of Rhodesia and the continued denial of a political voice to the black majority was maintained and enforced. How could those with a history of colonial subjugation be trusted to be honest brokers, and how could a regime whose leader was sworn not to see a black government in his lifetime or in a thousand years (whichever came last) be trusted to police a process to bring about that he was sworn to oppose. It was not only the British and Rhodesians who could derail the implementation of the Lancaster House Agreement. The Patriotic Front forces could also impede its implementation by simply continuing to intensify the armed struggle. True, the Frontline States could deny the Patriotic Front use of their territories as launching pads for attacks against the Rhodesian regime. However, in the case of ZANLA, they had created liberated zones in large parts of Rhodesia from where they could sustain their war effort independent of Frontline States support and assistance.

Indeed, the credibility of the Frontline States was at stake. So also was the credibility of the Organization of African Unity (OAU) whose policy positions towards Southern Africa and support for the wars of liberation in that region through its Liberation Committee, were shaped by recommendations from the Frontline States.

The news of the Agreement was received with suspicion by ZANLA. News broadcasts were not the accepted mode of communicating decisions amongst our forces. In the past, broadcasts were used to mislead our fighting forces. When Muzorewa, Sithole, and Chirau concluded a sell-out agreement with the Smith regime, they broadcast falsehoods to our forces that the war was over and they should lay down their arms. Learning from these experiences, we began stressing in our orientation that never should our forces receive instructions through radio or television broadcasts, or through print media, or any electronic means. We had our tried and effective means of communicating instructions to our operational forces. Even if through these methods it took a little longer to disseminate instructions, they were the most reliable and only acceptable means at our disposal. Any appeals through unrecognised channels were to be reacted to by intensifying the armed struggle.

The period immediately following the news of an agreement witnessed an unprecedented increase in reinforcements and other combat activities by our forces. To our enemies, these developments were deemed an ominous sign that our forces had disowned the agreement negotiated by their leaders. Nothing could have been further away from the truth.

After returning to Mozambique at the conclusion of the Lancaster House Conference, Comrade Tongogara began making detailed plans of how ZANLA forces would proceed to implement the provisions of the Agreement. These included ceasefire orders and the method of disseminating these to our forces still outside Rhodesia, the majority of them in Mozambique, as well as to those who were at the battlefront in Rhodesia.

Regarding those who were still in Mozambique awaiting deployment, the orders would detail when and how they would travel to Rhodesia. According to the Lancaster Agreement, all our forces were to go to predetermined Assembly Points dotted around various parts of Rhodesia. In the detailed implementation plans Comrade Tongogara was drawing, our forces would not be put in one basket and left to the mercy of the Rhodesian regime. When our forces returned to Rhodesia, significant numbers were to remain outside the Assembly Points in secret locations and armed to the hilt in case we were betrayed and had to resume the fight.

As for the comrades deployed in Rhodesia the priority, according to Comrade Tongo, was to communicate to them the outcome of the just concluded Lancaster House Conference, and how this would impact on the operations of ZANLA at the home front as well as the rear bases. Comrade Tongogara had ordered that commanders from all our operational sectors, or their emissaries, should come to the ZANLA Headquarters in Chimoio to be briefed on the way forward. His strategy was to ensure that all precautionary measures were taken to avoid turning our forces into cannon fodder for the Rhodesian soldiers. With that in mind, all our most experienced fighters were to stay out of the Assembly Points and remain in a state of combat readiness in secret locations. Lest the diminished numbers of our fighters in Assembly Points should raise suspicion, their numbers were to be bolstered by the mujibhas and zvimbidos, especially those who had received some training in guerrilla tactics in the liberated areas.

Like the strategist that he was, Comrade Tongogara had mapped out how ZANLA was to implement the provisions of the Lancaster House Agreement, right down to the minutest detail. All that remained to be done was to explain to, and win the approval of, the Commander-in-Chief of ZANLA and President of ZANU, Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, before the strategy could be implemented.

After leaving London at the conclusion of the Lancaster House Conference, I flew back to Addis Ababa excited at the prospect of joining Comrade Tongogara in the not too distant future, for the triumphant return to Rhodesia. My staff, who had heard the news of the successful conclusion of the Lancaster House Conference over the radio, had expectantly awaited my return in order to get the finer details of the Agreement and how its provisions were to be implemented. They too, were anxious to know when they would be expected to return to Rhodesia.

I felt embarrassed that when I pleaded with Comrade Tongogara to let me accompany him when returning to Rhodesia, I had not thought of making a case for my officers too. The egocentricity that I believed years of struggle and intense politicisation, as well as our daily interactions as comrades, had succeeded in eliminating had merely hibernated and now on the eve of our freedom and independence was rearing its ugly head. I was forced into a nonessential lie, that in fact it was Comrade Tongogara who had initiated the offer to have me accompany him. However, I honestly assured my comrades that I would make an appeal on their behalf to our Headquarters in Maputo to expedite their return to Rhodesia too.

About three weeks after the Lancaster Agreement I was beginning to wonder whether Comrade Tongogara had forgotten his promise to me and had already gone to Rhodesia leaving me behind. I shot down the notion as soon as it got into my head. Comrade Tongogara was not a personality who could return to Rhodesia without attracting a lot of fanfare. If he had returned, the news media would be awash with details of his return and quotes of his every interview. Besides, Comrade Tongogara was a man of his word and I was absolutely confident he would fulfil his promise. It took me less than a week after my return from London to be ready to move at short notice. For now, I simply had to be patient.

Convinced that he had planned even for the worst case scenario, Comrade Tongogara arranged an audience with Comrade President Robert Mugabe to brief him of his plans and to bid him farewell before beginning the practical implementation of the provisions of the Lancaster House Agreement.

Before leaving Maputo, Comrade Tongogara also bade farewell to President Samora Moises Machel and senior members of his government. According to one senior FRELIMO official, as he was leaving President Samora’s office he suddenly paused and said to President Samora,”I want you to know I did not kill Comrade Herbert Chitepo.” Those were his parting words.

Comrade Tongogara’s entourage included Comrade Josiah Tungamirai; a member of Central Committee and National Political Commissar for ZANU, and Comrade Chamu Zvipangei:* who was a private secretary to Comrade Tongogara and who after independence held a number of senior party and government positions.

Driving in two new Land Rovers supplied by the British and donated through Tanzania, they set out on their journey to Chimoio – about 1,100 kilometres from Maputo.

My patience was running thin but my faith remained unshaken. Five years after leaving Rhodesia, I wondered how it would feel to return a hero, rubbing shoulders with an even greater hero and personal idol – General Josiah Magama Tongogara. I could imagine the commotion at the airport as both national and international journalists were sure to jostle to gain a better position from which to capture the image of the man of the moment – the ZANLA strategist and grand enigma, General Tongogara. Every available opportunity to capture Comrade Tongogara’s arrival and later activities on DVD would be grasped; legions of supporters would make an effort to record on tape every interview, every speech and every word emitted from Comrade Tongogara’s mouth. And, the most prized achievement would be to appear in the same photo with Comrade Tongogara. Adept youths would waste no time imitating the mannerisms of their revolutionary hero – the gnashing and swishing of teeth; the halting, emphatic and appealing repetitious style of speaking combining different languages; (Shona, Swahili, Nyanja, English) to express a single theme, for special effects. A typical address by Comrade Tongogara would translate to something like this:

“It is difficult in the history of Zimbabwe to find a leader with the interest of the people at heart like Comrade President Robert Gabriel Mugabe. Also, it is difficult to find a leader committed to supporting the Zimbwean struggle like Comrade President Samora Machel.

“History will have it on record that it was difficult to have a leader committed to the people like Comrade Mugabe and equally difficult to find a leader committed to supporting our struggle like Comrade Samora Machel.” Such an address would be delivered in an emphatic and measured tone, while at the same time the all-encompassing, penetrating gaze would ensure the audience was kept captivated and very attentive. To guarantee attentiveness, Comrade Tongogara would break into singing:

Ndiro gidi vakomana,	It is the gun comrades
Richatonga Zimbabwe,	That shall rule Zimbabwe
Richatonga nyika yedu	It shall rule our country
Nyika yedu yeZimbabwe	Our country Zimbabwe
Tinotenda vaMugabe,	We thank Comrade Mugabe
VaMugabe navaSamora,	Comrade Mugabe and Comrade Samora
Vakatsigira hondo yedu,	They are the anchor of our struggle
Hondo yedu yeZimbabwe.	The struggle for Zimbabwe

At the end of the song Comrade Tongogara would continue with his address to a motivated and captivated audience.

“I have told you, it is difficult to find a leader with the interest of the people at heart like Comrade President Mugabe, and difficult too to find a supporter of our struggle like President Julius Nyerere. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

At the end of the address, everyone would be expressing bewilderment at Comrade Tongogara’s skill at powerfully delivering his message. A repetition of a simple short worded message would leave every one contented and wishing the address had continued a little longer.

During the first two weeks in Zimbabwe the Tongogara spell would grip the whole nation. In the midst of all the grandeur and pomp of this auspicious occasion, marking the beginning of the successful conclusion of our liberation struggle, all the other accompanying heroes would be overshadowed and rendered almost insignificant.

I visualised myself as one of those insignificant heroes when the occasion finally came. That it would come was beyond question for I had absolute faith that my revolutionary hero would neither forget nor betray the commitment he had made to me at Lancaster House.

I cast my idle imagination into the immediate future and saw in my mind’s eye the ecstatic masses in Rhodesia. Having satiated themselves with, and memorised every minute detail of their revolutionary hero, General Tongogara, and having recorded for the umpteenth time his images appearing on Rhodesian Television, and stored safely away cuttings of his numerous appearances in the print media for future generations to see, they might begin to pay a little attention to the lesser heroes who accompanied him.

In my mind’s eye I saw members of my family, especially my parents, casting their attention to those lesser heroes and beginning to discern similarities between one of them and their son, Agrippah. Excited and confused because the pictures highlighted General Tongo’s features well, but were rather fuzzy when it came to pictures of those who accompanied him, I could see my parents seeking confirmation from those comrades they came across as to whether anyone knew someone by the name Agrippah Mutambara. Of course no one would. The personality known as Agrippah Mutambara disappeared the third day after entering a refugee camp for the first time and was superseded by another known as Dragon Patiripakashata. Records of any linkage between the two had been destroyed in one of the attacks by the Rhodesian soldiers. Even if my parents were to positively identify me as their son, none of my comrades could positively affirm that I was the same character known as Agrippah Mutambara before joining the Armed Struggle.

Visualisations of a like nature became my daily companions as I waited impatiently for the command to fly over to Mozambique to join Comrade Tongogara. I wondered if in fact such command would ever come. I pinned my hope on the absolute trust I had for the man who had given his word.

Finally my impatience was laid to rest and in a most dramatic and totally unexpected fashion. It was lunch hour and I was reclining on my bed for a short rest. My radio was tuned in to BBC because it seemed to show a keener interest in reporting news events in Rhodesia on a more regular basis. This was no surprise, for the British had a stake in the unfolding developments in its colony. I expected nothing of interest or significance from the BBC and yet routinely I always tuned to the station. Today I was paying little attention to the news and could well have been half asleep. Even in my sleep-induced stupor, my mind absorbed everything that was said. It was as if I was in a dream where everything happened in real time. I forced myself off the bed to convince myself I was awake and not dreaming. I stared at the radio in disbelief and increased the volume. I did not have to wait long for a repeat of the news. “General Tongogara, the guerrilla commander of the ZANLA forces affiliated to Robert Mugabe, was killed in a road accident in Mozambique.”

I felt numb. Was it possibly true that the hero of our struggle, the grand strategist, the prolific motivator, the commander of rare and unparalleled courage, and the survivor of many trying and seemingly unconquerable situations, had finally been cheated from claiming deserved glory for the successful end to a struggle that he so ably piloted?

In 1977, I recalled, Comrade Tongogara was involved in an accident on his way from Maputo to Chimoio. The car he was driving in, together with other senior members of ZANLA, hit a rhino. The rhino’s horn went through the body of the car just missing Comrade Tongogara by a whisker. The injured frantic rhino in its bid to free itself from the car rolled from side to side, taking the vehicle with it. Having expended all its energy, the rhino finally died with its horn trapped in the car. Two members of Central Committee who accompanied Comrade Tongogara lost their lives in this incident. Miraculously, Comrade Tongogara survived with minor injuries. Following this tragic occurrence, Comrade President Mugabe issued a directive that no members of Central Committee would be allowed to travel the distance between Maputo and Chimoio by road, but only by air. Why then had Comrade Tongogara and his entourage decided to defy this directive?

The timing of the accident was most unfortunate. Coming just a few weeks after the ceasefire agreement was signed, wasn’t this an ominous sign of bad things to come? On hearing news of Comrade Tongo’s death, wouldn’t the comrades in the operational areas be so incensed as to defy any orders to lay down their arms? Was it possible that Comrade Tongogara was a target for assassination? If so, could such assassination be the work of the Rhodesians or something engineered from within our own organisation? I wanted to reserve my judgment until I had the full facts surrounding the fatal accident.

My mind was in turmoil. Nothing seemed real anymore. To me Comrade Tongogara was an immortal being and my brain refused to accept that he was dead. Besides, news over the radio was not the accepted official mode by which adversities, successes or any developments of significance were communicated within ZANLA. Maybe another commander had died and was mistaken for Comrade Tongo. It was possible too that if Comrade Tongogara was involved in an accident he might be seriously injured but not dead.

I cursed myself for speculating over such a serious matter when our headquarters was only a phone call away. I picked up the phone and dialed the numbers for our Head Office in Maputo. After three or four unsuccessful attempts the call finally went through.

As I waited to be connected to the most senior officer at the Head Office I dreaded asking the question that could confirm my worst fears. After what seemed an interminable delay, someone on the other end picked up the phone.

“ZANU PF Headquarters, can I help you?”

“Yes please. I am Comrade Dragon Patiripakashata, Chief Representative to Socialist Ethiopia. I just heard over BBC the shocking news that Comrade Tongogara is dead, can you confirm if this is true?”

“Regrettably Comrade Dragon, it is true…” the telephone receiver slipped from my hand. The person on the other end continued to talk but I neither had the strength to pick up the receiver nor the desire to continue listening to the speaker. A deluge of tears flooded my face and I had no inclination to stop them. I had not bothered to know the identity of the person I had spoken to. The person on the other end finally realising that the person who had called was no longer on the line hung the phone on its cradle.

My officers who were attracted by my noisy wailing wanted to know what had caused me so much pain and anguish. Between sobs and with great difficulty, I was able to mutter the dreadful words, “Co-m-ra-de To-ngo is de-a-d.” They too joined the chorus of mourning.

It took me hours to begin to weigh the significance of the death of my inspirational hero. The immediate concern I had was that the ceasefire agreement could unravel, especially if the comrades suspected foul play in Comrade Tongo’s death. It was only natural for one to suspect foul play considering the incongruous timing of the accident – the very end of the difficult and arduous struggle that would usher in a new era of hope and opportunities, especially for those who had been in the vanguard of the struggle.

The death of Comrade Tongo was a particularly bitter pill for me. Until news of the tragic accident I had expectantly visualised my triumphant return to Rhodesia. With Comrade Tongo, nothing could go wrong, or so I believed.

My thoughts went back to our last days together at Lancaster House. I saw his expression of misgiving that we were being forced to reach an agreement that was not totally acceptable to us. That expression of hopelessness was quickly replaced by the characteristic air of confidence that was the hallmark of Comrade Tongogara’s character when he boldly stated that, “If we tell our forces that we are going home in a white plane with a red cross, anyone who shoots at that plane tina yazibopa (we will arrest).” As I recalled these words, once again it seemed to me that the strategist, who never left anything to chance, had predicted his own death. I had taken his words literally and missed the significance of what he had just said. If indeed he was predicting his death, was there something in his subconscious mind that made him feel he might not make it to independent Zimbabwe alive. There was, of course, the ever present danger that our Rhodesian foes would do everything in their power to eliminate him towards the end of our struggle. They would hope that his vigilance would be slack on the erroneous assumption that since an agreement had been reached the enemy would not seek to jeopardise its successful implementation.

In a discussion in Maputo in 2007 Ms Chamu Zvipangei, a private secretary to Comrade Tongogara and one of those who were in Comrade Tongogara’s convoy on the day he died, revealed that she suspected foul play in Comrade Tongogara’s death. According to her, the convoy consisted of two new Land Rovers that had been donated by the British government through the Tanzanian government. Before the fatal accident, the Land Rover that carried Comrade Tongogara had burst its new tyres on at least three separate occasions. It would be naive to conclude that these were just normal occurrences. Nonetheless, I did not suspect that anyone in ZANLA could have planned to assassinate Comrade Tongogara.

I decided not to focus my mind on unsubstantiated theories. Instead, my mind subconsciously recalled the glorious, humorous moments I shared with comrade Tongo. I saw us seated around a fire. Comrade Tongo and eight other comrades, taking turns to crack jokes. These were memorable moments that lightened the burden of struggle. After we had exhausted our reservoir of jokes ndugu* Boas Mataruse turned to me and remarked “Patiripakashata (where we are is dangerous), what shall we do?” I was caught off guard and did not know how to respond to the context in which my name had been used, and nor did the other comrades. The quick-witted Comrade Tongo quickly came to our rescue with his one word response, “Tongogara” meaning ‘we just have to stay’. Comrade Tongogara is the only person I knew who had an inexhaustible reservoir of jokes and humour.

On 26 December 1979 Comrade Rex Nhongo flew into Salisbury accompanied by other comrades to mark the beginning of the implementation of the Lancaster House Agreement and the cessation of hostilities between the Rhodesian and ZANLA forces. On this very day, 26 December 1979, our Chief of Defence gave his last breath, maybe signifying ‘mission accomplished’. Let us take a long pause and salute our hero of heroes.

Reminiscences did not alter the prevailing circumstance I found myself in – my return to Rhodesia in the company of Comrade Tongogara had been dealt a fatal blow. I remained in Ethiopia when our forces and our leadership moved into Rhodesia.

The ZANLA guerrillas and ZIPRA forces were directed to occupy predetermined but separate Assembly Points. The strategy that comrade Tongogara had drawn up just before his fatal accident was implemented to the letter by the ZANLA forces under the able leadership of the ZANLA Chief of Operations, Comrade Rex Nhongo, and provided a safety valve to continue the struggle in the event the enemy reneged on his promises.

There were numerous attempts to assassinate Comrade President Mugabe during the campaigning phase. His house in Highfields, a high density suburb of Salisbury (now Harare) was attacked, but he was not in, and a landmine exploded just after his car had passed on his way to address a rally in Fort Victoria (now Masvingo). Other attempts were foiled by the ZANLA security and the Lord’s own intervention.

I had hoped that my marching orders to return home would come before the elections were held, but that was not to be. Most of what happened during the period leading up to, and covering the elections, we heard over the radio or from telephone conversations with comrades at our external Party Headquarters in Maputo.

On his way to Lancaster House, Comrade President Mugabe in the company of his Chief of Defence, Comrade Tongogara, had passed through Addis Ababa to appraise the Ethiopian leader, Colonel Mengishtu Haile Mariam, about political/military developments that had given birth to diplomatic initiatives aimed at resolving the political crisis that pitted the Patriotic Front on one hand, against the Rhodesian and British governments on the other. He expressed his view that the Lancaster House Conference, like previous other attempts, would be stillborn. However, to thwart the enemy machinations aimed at derailing the achievements of the revolutionary armed struggle, there was need to intensify that struggle. Comrade President Mugabe appealed to Colonel Mengishtu to make provision for the training of a further 5000 ZANLA cadres as a matter of urgent necessity.

The death of Comrade Tongogara raised the spectre of the collapse of the implementation of the Lancaster House Agreement. With that in mind, Comrade President Mugabe wanted me to vigorously pursue the fulfilment of his earlier request for the training of more ZANLA cadres by Ethiopia. Understandably, that was the reason why I had been ordered to remain in Ethiopia when others made their way to participate in the historic transitional transformation from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe.

After the successful conduct of elections, for the first time run on the basis of universal adult suffrage, and the results of which gave an emphatic victory to ZANU, I became convinced that now there was no reason why I should be asked to remain in Ethiopia.

The arrival of Comrade Enos Nkala, a member of our Central Committee with responsibility for Finance, brought excitement to our office. He had been sent as an emissary of our President to deliver a letter to Chairman Mengishtu. Comrade Nkala also had another letter from our President and Commander-in-Chief of ZANLA addressed specifically to me.

The results of the elections in Rhodesia were now public knowledge. Nevertheless, we were eager to hear a firsthand account from Comrade Nkala of what transpired during the election period. We were held spell bound for at least twenty five minutes as we listened to his narration of events. The most vexing challenge for our Party had been how to provide adequate security to the ZANU leadership, especially President Mugabe. There was no doubt at all that the Rhodesian regime would attempt to assassinate President Mugabe. Be that as it may, they were the only recognised authority, under the overall supervision of a British governor, Lord Soames, to provide security during the period leading to the elections and during the conduct of elections. Limited compromises were made for President Mugabe to be accompanied by a handful of his personal security details.

As mentioned previously, a number of attempts to assassinate comrade Mugabe were made. But these foiled attempts could not douse the revolutionary flame that the struggle had ignited. Instead they fanned it into an unstoppable inferno, burning its way through all the colonial regime’s obstacles to an emphatic victory by ZANU PF.

After the brief from Mr Nkala, I was eager to read the contents of the letter from my President and Commander-in-Chief which I was convinced would finally herald my return to a new Zimbabwe. I sought the seclusion of my bedroom where I could allow my emotions to flow at the anticipated good tidings. I wished there was a camera to capture my joy the moment I opened the letter addressed to me from Comrade President Mugabe.

Filled with great excitement, I lay relaxed on my bed and tore open the envelope containing the long-awaited marching orders from my Commander-in-Chief and President of my Party. I had been longing for this moment to arrive, and now that it finally had, I wanted my body and mind to be totally relaxed as I digested every word from my Commander-in-Chief. The letter was dated 8 March 1980. As I read the first paragraph of the short, one-page letter, my excitement reached fever pitch and I could barely manage to control my emotions of joy (for a copy of this letter, see appendices on page 272).

The second paragraph, even though short by normal standards, was longer than the first. As I laboured through it, it seemed I had descended from the pinnacle of hope and excitement to the depth of despair. My Commander-in-Chief saw dark clouds hovering just above the horizon of a burgeoning independent Zimbabwe. He wanted me to press hard for the commencement of the training programme that I had thought was no longer necessary, just in case the dark clouds developed into a gathering storm. The letter that I had received with excited anticipation a while ago became the restriction order to my freedom to travel to Zimbabwe. Only my absolute faith in the wisdom of my President to make correct decisions gave strength to my dampened spirits. My consolation was that the President had given his assurance that I would be in Zimbabwe for our independence ‘not later than 28th April’.

When the day arrived, it did so in a bizarre fashion. The messenger was a faintly typed telex message placed on top of my paper cluttered table. In anticipation of my departure for Rhodesia I had been ridding my office of all unnecessary papers. On this particular day I had been sorting out all the papers in the office drawers. Those I considered to be of value to the Party I stored in box files and those I regarded as trash I piled on my table with the intention of burning them at the end of the day. The hour to close the office arrived. I cleared the table of the papers I had categorised as unimportant and shoved them into a waste paper basket. As I left the office, I took the waste paper basket with me in order to incinerate the contents at the hearth in our sitting room.

I sat on the sofa enjoying the warmth of the fire whilst awaiting the announcement from Comrade Rodwell that our supper was ready. I had just started incinerating the papers in the waste paper basket when the announcement came.

“Comrade Dragon, food is ready; can you come and join us at the table?”

“Just give me a few minutes,” I answered, “I want to finish burning these papers.”

“No problem, let me know when you are ready,” Rodwell responded. “What was contained in the telex from Maputo?” He enquired as an afterthought.

“What telex?” my attention shifted from the waste paper basket to Comrade Rodwell.

“The one I left on top of your table sometime in the morning.”

“I saw no telex. Are you sure you put it on top of the table?”

“Sure as the sun rising from the east and setting in the west. I placed it right on top of the papers on your table, knowing you would never miss it,” the reply came back.

My heart skipped a beat. The papers he was alluding to were the ones I had categorised as unimportant, the very ones I was in the process of condemning to permanent destruction.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I exclaimed, “Check amongst the papers remaining in the waste paper basket to see if by any chance it might be there.” Rodwell emptied the contents of the basket on the floor and began sifting through the papers. The telex was not there.

“Maybe I have burnt the paper already or you are mistaken about where you put it,” I said, “I hope it was not urgent and very important. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to phone Maputo and ask them to resend the telex or reveal its contents over the phone. Next time you receive a telex or fax, you must immediately draw my attention to it and not just put it away,” I rebuked my comrade.

Just as I decided to burn the remaining papers, I realized I was clutching a few crumpled papers in my hand which I was about to throw into the fire when Rodwell came with the announcement of super. Luck was on my side. The sought after telex was among the papers in my hand. I straightened out the creases of the telexed message to make it readable.

Indeed the message was readable. It was digestible and it was sweet. I massaged it in my mind, swallowed every granule of its syllables, and derived satisfaction from its sweetness. Its delayed arrival did not affect its quality, but like wine that matures with age, improved its taste.

The gist of the message was that the independence date was set for 18^th April 1980 and I was to fly immediately to Salisbury to take part in the celebrations.

Two or three days later I alighted from a British Airlines plane at Salisbury International Airport on 12 April 1980. There were no familiar faces. I could have passed for a tourist from a distant country, except that I had distinct Zimbabwean features and spoke perfectly the local Shona language.

I stood in a queue awaiting my turn to present my passport to the immigration officer. When it came, the officer took my passport and flipped it open. He looked at the picture in the passport and then at me. I believed this was standard procedure to confirm that the picture bore resemblance to the holder of the passport. I passed the test. The immigration officer’s interest shifted from the picture to the name of the passport holder. “Dragon Pa-ti-ri-pa-ka-sha-ta,” the officer read out my names slowly and deliberately highlighting the phonetic sounds of my second name.

“What an interesting name. You are Zimbabwean.” It was not a question; he was merely re-stating what was written in the passport. I saw no need to respond to that statement of fact.

“Where do you come from?” he enquired casually.

“Zimbabwe,” I told him what he already knew.

“I know you are Zimbabwean, but which part of Zimbabwe? This is the first time I hear the surname Patiripakashata.”

“Mozambique.” My response sounded illogical and appeared to evade the question asked.

“Don’t try to be funny with me, you just said you are Zimbabwean and your passport confirms that. Now you say you are Mozambican.”

“I did not say I am Mozambican, I meant I got the name from Mozambique,” I calmly responded.

“Is your father or mother Mozambican?”

“No, they have never been to Mozambique.”

With each answer I gave, the immigration officer became more and more confused and visibly irritated. Other arrived passengers queuing behind me to be served became angry too that I was wasting their time.

“Young man, if you do not cooperate with me you will have to stand aside and you will be served when everyone else has been served.”

“I think there is a misunderstanding Sir,” I responded calmly and respectfully, “Dragon Patiripakashata is a Chimurenga or Revolutionary name that I gave myself when I joined the armed struggle in Mozambique.”

Irritation and confusion were quickly swept aside. The transformation on the immigration officer’s face was genuine and pervasive. Those queuing behind me who had earlier shown frustration that I was wasting their time began to look at me differently.

“You mean you are a comrade?” the immigration officer asked with a face beaming with excitement.

“Yes I am,” I courteously responded.

“For how long have you been out of the country?”

“If you are asking about when I went out to join the struggle, the answer is, in early 1975. However between 1975 and today I have been in and out of the country several times engaging the enemy.”

For the next 30 to 40 minutes I paralysed the operations at the immigration counters as both officials and passengers were captivated by my presence. Many had seen ZANLA guerrillas from a distance or on television screens. To be within touching distance of one of the guerrillas was, for many, a dream come true. I had suddenly acquired celebrity status and one after another the airport officials and passengers took turns to have photos taken standing by my side. To top it all, many donated large sums of money for me to go and enjoy myself. I was under no illusion at all that this overflowing of emotions and unbridled appreciation was not a tribute to me as an individual, but a big THANK YOU for all the comrades who had sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom.

Number 88 Manica Road, Salisbury, was the physical location of the ZANU Headquarters in Rhodesia. I could think of no better place to begin my triumphant return. There was heightened security in and around the ZANU Headquarters. None amongst the youthful comrades guarding our headquarters were familiar to me. Either they were comrades who received their training after I had been posted to Ethiopia in July 1978, or mujibhas who received training in our liberated areas. There was overzealousness in the manner they carried out their responsibilities, with an air of arrogant superiority.

About 15 people were queuing in line waiting to be served when I arrived. Some wanted admission into the building for an appointment with an official, friend or relative, while others were soliciting for information on the possible whereabouts of relatives that went to join the struggle. The young sentries, proudly brandishing semi-automatic rifles, seemed in no hurry to serve the people. It seemed to them that their importance and superiority was directly related to the length of the queue waiting to be served. To eliminate the queue would erode their power and influence.

I jumped the queue and went straight to the entrance. Those standing in the queue began muttering complaints that I should wait my turn behind them. The two sentries manning the entrance looked at me with mocking interest, relishing the opportunity to demonstrate their superiority.

“Excuse me comrades,” I began, “I am Comrade Dragon Pati…”

“I don’t care what you call yourself, stand in the queue like everyone else,” one of the young sentries began exerting his influence.

“Why don’t you let me finish what I am saying before you interrupt me,” I said with an air of authoritative confidence.

The second sentry missed the significance and authority in my voice and, not to be outdone, moved closer to me and began shoving me backwards. I exploded inside. The rebel in me had been aroused. I was ready to boil over when the entrance door was flung open from inside. The two sentries, seeing who it was, immediately stood to attention and saluted their commander. The commander on seeing me, instead of responding to the two sentries, also stood at attention and saluted me. “Oh! It’s a pleasant surprise to see you Comrade Dragon, when did you arrive? “

During the days leading to independence on 18 April 1980 I was accommodated at the Mushandira Pamwe Hotel in the high density suburb of Highfield in Salisbury, together with many other comrades. Our days and evenings were spent in celebratory mood. For those of us who at that time were heavy drinkers, there was never a shortage of well-wishers ready to foot the bill for whatever quantity of beers we wanted to gulp, as a way of expressing their gratitude for the sacrifices made by the comrades in prosecuting the armed struggle. Day in, day out, we would party and dance all day long and all night long.

At midnight on 17 April 1980 the British exorcised the colonial demon from our land by granting independence to their colony of Rhodesia, thereby giving birth to a new Zimbabwe with Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe as its first Prime Minister. Prince Charles officiated at the ceremony that ended 90 years of colonial rule and saw the historic lowering of the British flag and the raising of the Zimbabwe flag in its place. Comrade Agnew Kambeu* was given the enviable and historically significant responsibility of hoisting the Zimbabwean flag for the first time ever, signaling the demise of British colonialism in Rhodesia and the birth of the independent state of Zimbabwe.

Two weeks after returning to Zimbabwe, I moved from the Mushandira Pamwe Hotel to a Party house situated in the Waterfalls low-density area. During these two weeks, I had avoided trying to locate members of my family for fear that I might learn that those closest to my heart, especially my parents, might have died whilst I was out of the country. Julia, my sister, worked at Edgars Store in Harare, only three streets away from ZANU Headquarters. Our parents tasked her to constantly check with ZANU Headquarters to see if anyone had information on her brother who had disappeared in early 1975 and was presumed to have gone to join the ranks of the freedom fighters. Despite her persistent enquiries, no one knew of anyone answering to the name Agrippah Mutambara.

Julia never tired of going to ZANU Headquarters in the hope that she might by chance meet her brother or come across someone who knew him. On one such visit, she met Comrade John Chimbande* who had seen her come to the Headquarters on numerous occasions. John enquired why she was always coming to the Headquarters, to which she responded that she was trying to locate her brother who left for the struggle five years ago. “What is the name of your brother?” Comrade Chimbande wanted to be of assistance.

“Agrippah Mutambara,” she gave the answer she had given many others for the umpteenth time.

“I am afraid I have not heard of such a name,” John answered. As Julia turned to leave, a thought struck him.

“You said your brother is called Agrippah, is that his Chimurenga name?” Julia seemed a little puzzled by the question and hesitated to answer.

“I want to know if Agrippah is the name given by his parents, or the one he was given when he joined the struggle,” Comrade Chimbande patiently explained.

“That is the name given him by our parents.”

“You might never find him by that name unless you accidentally meet him,” John said with finality.

“How then can I know what name he now uses?” What Comrade Chimbande had said generated new hope in Julia’s mind.

“Anyone who can answer that question will know where your brother is. Unfortunately, all comrades know each other by their Chimurenga names and it is a serious offence to ask one’s real name.”

The light that had been kindled was immediately snuffed out.

Dejected, Julia turned to leave. For the second time, Comrade Chimbande arrested her attention. “I am sorry not to be of assistance, but maybe if you can bring his photograph we might be able to recognise him from it.”

The proposal made a lot of sense. Why hadn’t she thought about it earlier on, maybe by now she would have known the fate of her brother? Julia thanked and bade Comrade Chimbande farewell, but only after she had secured an appointment to meet him the following day with a picture of her brother.

“Now let us see whether I can be of assistance to you today,” Comrade Chimbande addressed Julia as he welcomed her into his office the next day, “and please take a seat over there.” Julia complied and wasted no time retrieving the photo of her brother from her handbag.

“That is the most recent photo of him that I have,” explained Julia as she handed the picture over. As he studied the picture, a smile, hardly discernible, spread over John’s face and then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. John picked up a phone and dialed a number. The person on the other end picked up the phone.

“May I speak to Comrade Dragon Patiripakashata please?” Julia did not hear the response from the other end.

“Oh yes, this is Comrade John Chimbande,” John responded and listened to the person on the other end.

“Okay, leave him a message to contact me as soon as he comes to the office on Monday,” John seemed to be winding up his conversation, and still holding the phone continued, “Comrade Dragon left for Fort Victoria this morning.” He put the phone back on its cradle and looking at Julia enquired, “Did you hear what I just said?”

The question took Julia by surprise. She was not paying attention to the conversation between Comrade Chimbande and the person on the other end. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were still addressing the person on the other end,” Julia politely responded.

“Comrade Dragon left for Fort Victoria early this morning,” John repeated his words.

“Who is Comrade Dragon?” Julia was puzzled by the statement.

“He is your brother.” Julia stared at Comrade Chimbande in utter bewilderment. The response was loaded with so much significance and she was tongue tied.

“You mean Agrippah is alive and well?” she finally regained her composure.

“I don’t know about Agrippah, but Dragon Patiripakashata, the man in the picture you just showed me, is alive and well. In fact, yesterday when I saw you, I had just left Dragon in this office, seated exactly where you are seated now.”

Monday, around 9.30 am, I got to ZANU Headquarters. Usually I would be in my office at 8.30 am but on this day I woke up late having arrived from Fort Victoria late Sunday evening. The routine in my office was to try and identify and link up comrades with their relatives. This was a very difficult task because most relatives did not know the Chimurenga names of the comrades they were seeking. Reuniting comrades with their families was a most fulfilling task that evoked all sorts of emotions. On average our success rate was three reunions per day. We did our best to console distraught families that our inability to link them to their loved ones did not signify they were dead. The majority of the comrades were in Assembly Points and many others were studying abroad and would only return at the conclusion of their studies. We encouraged relatives to bring photos of their loved ones for purposes of visual identification. Most of our successes came by way of this method of identification. There were other instances, however, where we had the difficult and painful task of conveying the sad news that the comrade being sought was deceased.

As I was about to enter my office, a comrade handed me an envelope, addressed in big red capitals, “FOR URGENT ATTENTION OF COMRADE DRAGON – FROM COMRADE JOHN CHIMBANDE.” On entering my office, I sensed rather than saw the presence of a number of persons waiting to be served, as my attention was focused on the urgent message. I tore open the envelope and fumbled to take out the message as I sat behind my table.

“Agrippah!” The voice was distinctly my mother’s. The envelope and the partially extracted message slipped from my hands and fell to the ground. I looked towards the voice and there, right there, seated about a metre away from me, was my mother. Next to her was my father and next to my father was my sister Julia. We were all overcome with joy as we reached out and clung to one another, tears freely rolling down our cheeks. Our five years of separation had come to an end and in a dramatic fashion.

These scenes of jubilant reunion repeated themselves so many times, in so many different places throughout the whole length and breath of Zimbabwe. I was privileged and honoured to be counted among the many who took the courageous decision to join the armed struggle and fortunate, too, to have survived the ardous and protracted struggle which claimed many lives of our gallant fighters. Now was the time for my parents, who had endured a painful five years, unsure whether they would see me alive again, to celebrate my homecoming. The sweetness of the reunion helped atone for the many painful years of separation.

At the end of the day we reluctantly bade each other goodbye, but not before my parents had revealed their plans for a welcome party in my honor at our family house in Bindura during the coming weekend. Naturally I was excited about the proposition as it would enable me to meet many family members, relatives and friends in one day and at one location.

What had been planned as a simple get-together of between 50 and 100 relatives and friends turned out to be a mammoth event that defied any prediction. From our rural home in Madziva Tribal Trust Land, about 45 kilometres from Bindura, my parents had slaughtered a cow and a goat. The meat from the two beasts was more than sufficient for the anticipated maximum number of invitees. Our guests started to arrive at 9 am, two hours earlier than the programmed arrival time of 11am. By 2 pm over 400 mostly uninvited guests had invaded our house and its environs.

News that a local son and guerrilla commander was being welcomed home had spread like veld fire around Bindura town. Such was the enthusiasm to meet the local hero that the reaction was spontaneous and overwhelming. My parents, realising that the meat they had prepared was not going to be enough, sent for another cow to be slaughtered at our rural home.

The party that was supposed to end by 8 pm went on throughout the whole night. The singing of revolutionary songs and the excited noises from the gathering that had swollen close to one thousand was an irritant to our white neighbours. The police were called in to either disperse or quieten the crowd. Both the police and the remonstrating whites were nearly lynched by the excited and mostly inebriated crowd. The police took the logical decision to let the party go on without let or hindrance, much to the chagrin of the complaining neighbours.

* Comrade Chamu Zvipange’s real name is Oppah Muchinguri. She served in different ministerial appointments after independence and also as governor of Manicaland province. She is currently a member of the ZANU (PF) central committee and sits in the politburo as Secretary for Women and Gender Affairs, as well being the Minister of Women’s Affairs.

* In Swahili, a language spoken mostly in Tanzania and other East African countries, ndugu is a word that means comrade.

* Comrade Agnew Kambeu’s real name is Amoth Norbert Chingombe. He served in the Zimbabwe National Army and retired as a Lieutenant General. He died on 9 June 2008 and was declared a national hero.

* At the end of Zimbabwe’s struggle, John Chimbande was the Chief Representative of ZANU to Tanzania and is currently serving in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.