In keeping with the liberation war template of fish and water, the rural folk were expected to provide food for ZANLA and ZIPRA guerrillas. But God forbid if one was caught by the Rhodesian security forces feeding the ‘terrorists’, as the colonialists called them. Chipo Podora (now in her 70s) happened to be caught in the crossfire. This is her story, etched in blood, courage and everything else in between, as told to Emergencey Mwale-Kamtande.

I WAS born on February 5 1955, in Chijaka Village, in Mutoko, a place surrounded by rocky hills and ancestral spirits that whispered stories of resistance long before I could understand them. By 1976, I was a 21-year-old woman, already working as a cook at a local garage run by one Adam Foya, a businessman based at Kotwa Business Centre. My days were simple, ordinary but the winds of change were now blowing harder. In January of that year, our homestead received unusual visitors under the veil of night. Two young men with alert eyes and weather-worn faces knocked gently on our door. They spoke in hushed tones with my grandfather, Takundwa Pondora, the respected village head. That night changed everything.

After the meeting, my grandfather sat us down and told us the truth: those men were not just strangers, they were freedom fighters, known affectionately as vana mukoma. They were sons of the soil, fighting to liberate our country from British colonial rule. Grandfather’s voice was solemn as he explained that the war for independence had finally reached our doorstep. By March, a larger group of six young comrades arrived in our area. They were no older than 25, but they looked hardened and their mission could not be doubted. One night, the entire village gathered under the moonlit sky at Kazangarare Mountain.

We sat on cold rocks, some with babies strapped to their backs, listening in awe as the political commissar, Cde Gandamuseve, spoke with a fire in his voice that could melt stone. He told us, “This war is not for us alone. It is your war too, the war of the people.” He painted a picture of a free Zimbabwe where black people would walk tall, own land, speak freely and live without fear. He spoke of the fish and water, a powerful metaphor that stayed with me forever. “The fighters are the f ish,” he said, “and you, the masses, are the water. One cannot live without the other.” We clapped. We sang liberation songs.

The rhythm of Chimurenga music filled the night air. Our spirits were lit. From then on, everything changed. Young boys and girls were organised into small groups to act as war collaborators — the eyes and ears of the struggle. They ferried messages, food, and clothing between villages and the bases hidden deep in the bush. Their courage, though often overlooked, was the glue that held the war together.

As working women, our role was financial. I teamed up with my friends and colleagues Esnate Kamuti, Enie Chazama and Irene Meza and pooled our meagre salaries. We managed to buy six pairs of jeans for the comrades, which we handed over to our local collaborators, Tawanda Nekati and John Magwaza. They were just boys, barely out of their teens, but they stood up like men. But war is cruel. One morning, we received devastating news. Tawanda and John had been intercepted by Rhodesian soldiers. It was their first assignment. They were beaten, tortured and forced to betray us. By then, the Rhodies had our names. It was just before sunset when we were ambushed. I was preparing supper at my workplace when the soldiers arrived, armed, stern and unfeeling.

We were thrown into the back of a Land-Rover, the kind the colonial army used. The journey to their military base, about six kilometres away, was silent except for the sound of our own hearts pounding in our chests. Once there, they separated us for interrogation. The questions came like bullets: “Where are they? How many? Where’s their base? Who is helping them?” But we had been warned at the pungwes, that selling out was a serious crime against the revolution, punishable by death. My lips remained sealed.

My silence enraged them. A black soldier beat me with a sjambok; the pain was excruciating. My body bled and swelled. I was thrown into a dark room where I lay for hours, aching and confused. We were given sadza with leftover cowpeas, barely edible. This was not food; it was humiliation. On the second day, they brought me out again. This time, they subjected me to electric shocks. I screamed until my voice disappeared. I blacked out. I only woke up hours later, on a dirty floor, with the smell of blood, sweat thick in the air. When they released us, they made it clear: “We are watching you. Help them again, and you’ll die.” They even tried to bribe us with 20dollars in exchange for information. It was a lot of money.

My employer paid me only seven dollars a month. But no amount of money could make me betray my people. What they didn’t realise is that the beating only bolstered my resolve. I continued to work with the collaborators in secret. We changed routes. We used coded language. I kept sending money. I cooked extra meals and wrapped them carefully for the boys in the bush.

Every piece of clothing, every morsel of food I gave them, felt like a small rebellion, a victory against the system that had tried to break me. And I wasn’t alone. Across Mutoko, in villages like Nyamuzizi, Nyamakope, and Chindenga, thousands of mothers, sisters and daughters risked everything for the cause. We concealed bullets in grain bags, medicines in cooking pots, messages in firewood bundles. The war was fought with guns, yes, but it was won with the hearts of the people.

When the ceasefire agreement was signed on 29 December 1979, and news of peace reached us, I wept. Not because the war was over but because we had survived. Because the names of those who died, some buried in shallow graves, some never found, would now echo in the freedom of our land. Today, when I walk past schools, clinics, or see children play under the Zimbabwean flag, I remember that these were once only dreams whispered in the dark. Dreams that brave young men and women, with nothing but hope and conviction, dared to fight for. And mine is just one story among thousands. Yes, I was tortured for feeding freedom f ighters. And I would do it all over again for the freedom we now enjoy.