Below is Ambrose Mutunhiri’s story as told to Evans Mushawevato:

“I was born in Marondera, under the domain of Chief Nyandoro. My earliest memories are of the land — the red soil beneath my feet, the scent of rain-soaked earth. But it didn’t take long to realise the land didn’t belong to us, even though we belonged to it. Rhodesia made sure of that.

Hope among us barely existed it was often overshadowed by the stifl ing reality of Rhodesia — a land where blacks, the rightful owners of the soil, were rendered second-class citizens. “I started my education at Chionana Primary School, but it didn’t take long for me to learn that, for children like me, schooling was neither stable nor fair. The black child in Rhodesia had no claim to quality education; what we had was a patchwork of overcrowded classrooms and under-qualifi ed teachers.

“My primary education became a nomadic journey. From Chionana, I moved to Mhondoro to live with my aunt and attend St Peter’s Musonza. Life there was simple, but my young mind felt the cracks of an unjust system. Eventually, my wanderings took me to Highfi eld, where I enrolled at Tsungai Government School before continuing my education at Highfi eld Secondary School. “Highfi eld, located on the eastern outskirts of Salisbury, was more than just a place of education — it was the home of African nationalism.

It was there that the embers of my political consciousness began to burn, stoked by stories of rebellion spoken among peers and the presence of men like Joshua Nkomo and Josiah Chinamano, who inspired a generation to dream of freedom. “My father, a man deeply connected to the land, was a farmer at heart. He carried within him the ambition to own a piece of this soil that had been tilled by generations of black hands yet remained out of their grasp. In Rhodesia, for a black man to own a farm, he first had to earn the title of ‘master farmer’.

It was a cruel irony: before you could claim land, you had to prove to your oppressors that you were worthy of working it. “My father travelled to Chitomborwizi outside Chinhoyi with his brother to undergo the rigorous apprenticeship required for certification. Under the watchful eyes of extension officers, they laboured and learned, enduring the condescension of white overseers who held their futures in their hands. In time, both men earned the coveted certification.

My uncle went on to acquire land in Sipolilo (now Guruve), but my father’s fate took a different turn. The extension officers labelled him a hothead, a man too stubborn to follow their commands. It was this fiery nature, this refusal to be cowed, that I admired most about him. Unable to secure a farm, my father sought refuge in Chief Chirau’s territory, where a headman granted him a modest plot of land to work. But Chief Chirau was no ally.

A known Rhodesian sympathiser [who would one day become a member of Ian Smith’s Internal Settlement], he viewed my father as a threat — a man whose defiance might spread like wildfire. The harassment began swiftly. “Rhodesian police were a constant presence, hounding my father as though his mere existence was a crime. One day, they came in force. I watched in helpless fury as they brutalised him, their blows heavy and unrelenting. All I could do was cry, a boy powerless against the machinery of oppression. Yet, in those tears, something ignited within me.

I knew then that I could not stand by and watch. I had to fight back. “When I returned to Highfield, the township became my classroom of resistance. Joshua Nkomo’s house was a gathering place, a quiet epicentre where young minds like mine were shaped and sharpened. We learned the language of liberation, words like self-determination, revolution, freedom. I swallowed it all hook, line and sinker; my youthful eagerness matched only by my growing anger. “Every holiday, I returned to Chief Chirau’s area, carrying with me the seeds of resistance. I taught the local youth what I was learning in Highfield. I knew I was putting myself in danger, but fear had become a distant memory, replaced by a simmering determination.

“One day, the Rhodesian authorities came for me under the Unlawful Organisations Act. They saw in me not just a boy but a spark that needed extinguishing. I was still a minor by their laws, so they sentenced me to six lashes. The cane struck my back with a sharp f inality, but the sting only deepened my resolve.

“By then, I had learned to make petrol bombs — a crude yet powerful weapon against those who sought to crush us. One night, I decided to act. Chief Chirau’s house, a symbol of betrayal, became my target. My attempt to bomb it was clumsy and ultimately unsuccessful, but it felt gratifying to strike back, even symbolically. “The authorities responded swiftly.

I became a fugitive, constantly on the run, until they resorted to a tactic that broke my heart. They arrested my father and mother, using them as bait to force me out of hiding. I could not let them suffer for my actions, so I surrendered. This time, the punishment was harsher — eight lashes. Each stroke left a mark, not just on my skin but on my soul. From that moment, I became a marked man.

“The harassment escalated. The police shadowed me relentlessly, their presence a suffocating reminder of the life life I could no longer endure. My father, ever the realist man, sat me down one evening. His voice was heavy, each word laced with a mixture of sorrow and urgency. ‘You have to leave,’ he said. ‘This land is no longer safe for you. Go. Get training.’ “It was not an easy decision, but it was the only one. I approached William Mukarati, a man known for helping young revolutionaries cross the border.

Together with another youth, Alexander Mhan’ara, I prepared to leave everything I had ever known. “We left Rhodesia in the back of a Clan Transport truck, the road ahead filled with uncertainty. In my pocket, I carried a letter addressed to the ZAPU offices in Zambia — a piece of paper that would grant me entry into a new world. “When we arrived, the welcome was warm but sombre.

The men and women at the ZAPU offices knew what lay ahead for us. They saw in our young faces the same hope and determination that had carried them into the struggle. They also saw the sacrifices we would have to make. “Thus began my journey in the liberation struggle. It was a path filled with hardship and sacrifice, but it was also one of purpose.

I carried with me the memory of my father’s defiance, the cries of the oppressed, and the dream of a free Zimbabwe. “I had left as a boy, but I was determined to return as a man — a soldier ready to fight for the land that had been stolen from us, for the dignity that had been stripped away. “The road to freedom would be long and bloody, but I was ready.”