Under siege, a first hand account

At around 8.30am, the MPs wife (Mrs M) swooped past the farmhouse in her white diesel Isuzu, telling our gardener she’d be back. We’d heard they were having a meeting in the old farmhouse they now have the keys to.

Around 11am, Mrs M arrived at the main gate with three women, two older, one younger and four young men. Our farm staff recognised them from Tree Tops Cocktail bar (where apparently they’ve been involved in a few scraps before). I refused to let them in and asked where Mr M was. Mrs M said she was representing her husband and here to take occupation of the house.

While phoning our farm manager, I saw the gang cutting the fence and rushed out to try and stop them, of course to no avail. I was asked by the fence-cutter, ‘Whose farm is this?’ and I said, ‘My father’s…it’s in the courts.’ He said, ‘No, the land can’t belong to a white man. It belongs to Zimbabweans.’ I said, ‘I am Zimbabwean.’ He said,

‘No, you’re white, I am black,’ comparing the skin of our arms as conclusive proof: ‘You are NOT Zimbabwean.’ ‘Please, don’t disturb my parents,’ I asked, ‘My father’s old and very sick. Please show respect.’ ‘No, you must move him,’ said the man in a woolly hat.

Drawing the curtains

By now, they had breached the fence enough for Mrs M to drive her vehicle into the yard. We retreated into the house, locking ourselves in, shutting windows and drawing curtains for the siege. The farm manager and son were on their way, and it would be about 40 minutes before they reached us from Gweru. I rang the Chief Lands Officer who said there was nothing he could do. I rang the Governor who said there was nothing he could do. I rang the Provincial Police Officer in Charge who spoke to the District Police Officer in Charge and eventually it was agreed two officers would be dispatched, but they needed transport from Gweru (35kms) so we arranged a lift.

Mrs M’s fridge, cooker, TV, satellite dish, double bed, and suitcases piled into the passage between the garage and our main house. A young woman began to hang Mrs M’s washing on our line. An older woman stole a padlock for the small security gate. The others roamed around the house trying to gain entry though the doors. One of Dad’s carers, who recognised the intruders from Tree Tops Cocktail bar, chastised them for their terrible behaviour. The farm workers gathered outside the fence, also horrified.

Mrs M shuttled back and forth with truck-loads of belongings, and her workers littered the lawn with orange peels, banged on the glass sliding door to the lounge and even on the French doors of Dad’s ‘sick-bay’. Dad began to mutter, ‘Get these people out…Get these people away.’ We’d tried to shield him from the intrusion but he knew there was a serious problem in his home.

Mobile phones rang and rang. Our manager coped magnificently with the pressure while I was reeling from the shock of it. He spoke to war veterans, other new farmers – anyone to help. (Sadly one of our black friends who helped is now receiving anonymous threats.)

Guns cocked

Dad’s nurse-aides overheard plans of a forced break-in. Iron bars had been gathered in preparation. Mrs M had made it clear she wanted to move into the main house, wanted at least three rooms. The farm manager went outside to say ‘No-one is coming into the house.’ Mrs M laughed, saying ‘I’m not intimidated by you.’ Inside, guns were cocked and I went as white as a sheet, praying for the police to please, please arrive.

Eventually the Chief Inspector for Gweru Rural and a constable got here. Slowly order returned. The youths were told to leave the premises but could protest or camp outside our fence if they wished. The manager and staff got permission to mend the fence (also because we’re concerned about the spate of armed robberies in the area).

The Chief Inspector wanted to see Mrs and Mr M but they didn’t return until much later. We discovered Mr M had spent the whole day at the other farmhouse while his wife was spearheading the invasion. The farm manager and I spoke to both through the gate. The MP said he was so angry I was appealing for his offer letter to be reversed. (I want the family home since 1942 and the small remaining piece of land returned to Mum and Dad and this apparently demands an apology because it’s an

outrageous thing to be doing!). Then he became the voice of reason and compromise, said he loved my mother and father like his own, that he was praying everyday for my father to recover. The Lands officer, supposed to be finding an amicable solution, had actually raised tensions (I think deliberately) by showing Mr and Mrs M my letters. Both said they were not the least bit concerned about the police. Nevertheless, Mrs M was persuaded to remove some belongings and they finally drove off into the cold autumn night with the youths who had helped them.

Our farm manager stayed overnight in case of further disturbances. Cell phones rang continuously. Mum cooked. The nurse-aides settled Dad. We ate curry and rice and watched TV. On the way to my bedroom I squeezed past Mrs M’s belongings, still piled in the outside passageway and noticed under her bed was a sharp axe. I was relieved they were gone but wonder when they’ll return.

Tuesday May 18

Another cold, windy Somabhula day. The remnants of an invasion are still evident but the fence is mended and a sense of calm has returned. We were expecting Mrs M to return for her belongings but no-one arrived. A neighbour came for tea, the sun came out and we sat outside with Dad, who is still muddled but calmer. We hope for brighter days ahead…