‘Torn Posters’

In 1984 I was too young to vote, yet that didn’t stop me from performing my patriotic duty with razor-like precision. The early mornings were best for our raids. My small but fierce guerilla squad would trudge through Sanki’s lucerne field, the dew dampening our broganes as we closed in on our unsuspecting targets.

Crouching as we neared, not to be discovered by the sentinels, we waited. Watching for the right moment to strike. Just seeing ‘PAMBERI NE ZANU PF’ emblazoned on their bloody posters, we were engulfed by a bitter rage. It rose like bile in our throats erupting as earsplittingwar-cries roused us into action, and we ran screaming across the field with weapons raised to encounter the enemy.

We ripped into their flesh, stabbing and tearing at it, slashing their principles, punching holes in their policy. Each blow killing HIM and his fat greedy ministers. We surveyed the scene with arrogance. Damage Report: for me and my comrades, a few scratches, a splinter, scraped knees, an undone ribbon and some grass stains on our uniforms: mummy won’t like that. The enemy was another matter ñ they lay indifferent, confettied at our feet.

Treason is punishable by death. Must hide the evidence! Drag the carcasses, stuff them into the anthills. A place where anything from aborted babies to bewitched panties … disappeared forever. Swallowed whole by the earth.

This was our contribution to the elections, our duty to our country. How trivial it may have been, it filled us with an ironic sense of pride. Like the comrades we’d seen on TV, we lifted our fists and shouted, ‘Amandla awethu!’ for the cameras. For now our mission is far from complete. School is still another two kilometres away, our hands stained with the hopelessness of the mutilated posters, our eyes peeled for more that carry the poisonous message.

News from distant realities far far away, trickled into our daily conversations. In the villages of Matabeleland: entire homesteads abandoned, pots still on the fires; huts set ablaze with sleeping families inside them; mass graves in abandoned mines; mothers stripped naked and forced to watch their children’s throats slit; elderly women beaten, raped, and killed for their blankets. From what we were told, an unsettled group of Ndebele army men whom the government called ‘dissidents’, were plundering villages and killing their occupants.

‘It’s Him,’ our father would say quietly, lighting a cigarette. ‘He’s killing us.’

Filling up his and Uncle Dan’s glasses with more whisky, we could feel the tension in their bodies and voices. Uncle Dan was planning to leave for the UK. Apparently, these weren’t dissidents, but soldiers employed by Him to disguise themselves as dissidents and kill the people of Matabeleland. (Many years later we found out that the army consisting of approximately 20,000 soldiers had been given orders to kill a minimum of 100 Matabele people each. The exact figure of how many were killed is still unknown.)

‘That’s where they start, the villages, I’m telling you, Georgie, he’s coming for us next,’ Uncle Dan would say after a couple of glasses.

‘I can’t run anywhere, Dan. How can you run away from home? From what’s yours?’ Daddy would say opening his hands out.

‘Would you rather he kill you?’ Uncle Dan would ask, concerned at my father’s stubbornness.

‘Agh man he won’t kill me ñ maybe arrest me, yes.’ He would say taking a sip, then he’d turn to Uncle Dan to tell him what he always did. ‘Dan, you’re not a politician, you’re not a soldier, you are a businessman, you know how to make money. So go to England and make money. Me, I’m a politician, this is a chess game. I can watch his moves … he’s trying to make us angry at our people’s expense, and he’s doing a bloody damn good job of it; but as long as I’m alive he won’t get his checkmate, maybe he’ll get pieces, yes, but never checkmate.’ Uncle Dan left for England. Our father stayed and continued his game.

Disguised soldiers’ fires continued to light dark Matabele nights as they burnt villages. The cries of women and young girls also filled the night air as their bodies were violated. People’s hearts were heavy with grief for their losses. That grief quickly mutated into a dark bitterness, as we all tried to make sense of it. As children, we inherited that bitterness as a predisposition. Only after they came and took our fathers did it become truly ours.

In my dream, a large truck was trying to run me down. There was no one in the driver’s seat. I was running, but I couldn’t run fast enough. Mummy was standing on a hill calling my name. Her voice was getting closer and closer, and then I fell. Mummy called my name again, I opened my eyes to her concerned face.

‘You have to get up, honey,’ she said softly.’ It’s too early,’ I croaked sleepily.’ I know but we have to get up … get your shoes and come,’ she said as she moved on towards my sisters’ and my cousins’ beds.

They came in the morning. Before the sun was up. There were a lot of us living at home then, seven of us kids, an uncle and our parents. My five-year-old brother, who’d been up for at least half an hour, came running into the room. He was holding his Lego spaceship, which he’d made the night before.

‘There are huge trucks outside, guys,’ he panted excitedly. ‘And they’ve got real soldiers in them, with guns,’ he added, obviously still intoxicated after seeing a dozen or more AK 47s. My heart sank to the bottom of the Zambezi River ñ they’d finally come for father.

A cock crowed…

‘Is Daddy here,’ I wanted to know urgently.’ Yes, he’s outside talking to them,’ Mum said calmly.’ What do they want?’ ‘They want to know if we have any weapons, so we have to go and sit outside while they search the house,’ my mother said, as she turned to wake up another small sleeping body. I cracked the front door ajar to get a peek of what was going on outside. It looked like an episode of the A-team, an action television series we’d once loved: two-dozen or so armed soldiers, scattered amongst half a dozen army trucks of different shapes, sizes and purpose, burdened our front yard, imprisoning flower beds and small trees, digging large muddy skid marks across the lawn. Under a broken peach tree, in a far corner of the garden, Butho’s tricycle lay a mangled mess of metal. I walked out of the door, angry and ready to fight … I was only twelve, what did I know, but I had attitude.

We sat outside on the veranda as the sun came up, while they pillaged our home using our parents as guides. The dogs had been barking all night. Now, they sat around us panting, licking, sniffing and growling. Arrogant, bloodshot eyes gazed uninhibitedly at my budding breasts.

We just smiled politely, even shyly, because we were still in our nightclothes, by far our favourites, Snoopy and Charlie Brown, that our Canadian grandmother had sent last Christmas; but even their cheerful happy cartoon faces couldn’t soften the arrogant gaze. At least Thandi and Siphiwe were hidden behind the thick matching flannel pyjamas they had on.

A few cradled their AKs and tried to make friendly conversation, ‘Wot grrede rr u en?’ ‘Wot es yowa nem?’ Their English with a heavy Shona accent felt like they were insulting us. Then they piled back into their trucks and drove off taking Daddy and Uncle with them.

We went back into the house now empty with loss and heavy with sadness. Scattered papers, overturned mattresses, emptied closets, overturned furniture ñ clothes everywhere … summoned tears that somehow wouldn’t fall but turned into thorns that stuck in our throats.

About the Author

Gugu Ndlovu, a communications professional, has always been passionate about connecting cultures and different perspectives. She was born in Zambia in 1973, to a Zimbabwean father and a Canadian mother. She has several published short stories that capture elements of the Zimbabwean experience. She lives in Johannesburg, South Africa with her husband and three children. ‘Torn Posters’ was her second published story.

Writing Still is available at Weaver Press and at www.africanbookscollective.com