IT was sometime towards the middle of July 1975.

The place was Vila Pery Garrison, a large cantonment on the edge of a small town by the same name.

It is now known as Chimoio, the capital of Manica Province.

FRELIMO (Frente le Libertacao de Mozambique) soldiers, who we got to refer to as ‘camaradas’ had smart new uniforms, macarao (macaroni), rice, meat, fish and beans were abundant at their cozinha (kitchen).

Pao (bread) and tea were never short at breakfast.

They were in a jubilant mood.

They heartily enjoyed their Rhumba music.

Quite often, I saw them dancing with much vigour in groups of four or five to the music coming from Radio Beira or Lourenco Marques, as the capital Maputo was known then.

Each man would have a little portable radio held to his ear and all of them would be tuned to the same station.

I found this quite amusing. Life was good. Independence indeed, I thought. Mozambique had just celebrated its victory over the Portuguese colonisers and oppressors on June 25 1975, the culmination of a long war for independence.

We got to know of the brutality of the Portuguese forces against the people of Mozambique from stories told by the camaradas and got to understand the well-earned jubilance.

Murals proclaimed liberty with pictures of the povo (masses) and workers breaking their chains of subjugation and slavery.

Emblazoned on walls and boards were slogans such as:

“Viva Povo Mocambicano”

“Viva Independencia”

“Viva Marxismo-Leninismo!”

“Viva trabaljores do todo munto!”

(Long live the workers of the world!)

“Abasha Colonialismo!”

“Abasha Xiconhoca!”

Although we were confined to the garrison and could not see much of what was going on outside, the euphoria and festive atmosphere was palpable.

Stories from the camaradas who got curious about us and talked to us about their battles with the Portuguese army and how, finally, they had defeated the ‘inimigo’ along with the traitors gave us a fair idea of how Mozambicans, in general, were feeling.

We would soon have our experience with traitors too.

They were not long in coming in the times ahead; the camaradas warned us.

Indeed, this phenomenon would be a permanent feature in our own war of liberation.

We had taken the first step to join the liberation struggle by being at Vila Pery, FRELIMO’s garrison.

I had left St Augustine High School, also known as Santaga or Santa, but better known by generations preceding us as kwaTsambe, in Penhalonga.

We were confined to the garrison for good reasons.

Rhodesian spies sneaked into Mozambique to track down people like us.

That is the African schoolchildren who had invited the ire of the Rhodesian government by crossing the border to become ‘terrorists’ who would come back to fight it.

At this time, the border between Mozambique and Rhodesia was still open; there being no hostilities declared by either side.

So the notorious Rhodesian Police Special Branch had free range into Mozambique in pursuit of information on the terrorists-to-be.

On our journey from Rhodesia to Mozambique, we had been temporarily hosted at another FRELIMO camp at what is now known as Manica, less than 20  kilometres from the border post known as Machipanda by local people on both sides.

The Rhodesians called it Forbes and it is still officially known as such, for reasons beyond my comprehension!

One day, a Rhodesian Special Branch (SB) Land Rover appeared at the gates of the Manica Garrison, where we were temporarily domiciled.

Its occupants, we were told, had the audacity to inquire about “…a group of delinquent boys who had absconded from school.”  

Like responsible authorities, they were after repatriating these wayward boys back to the school.

Of course, our good old camaradas did not buy this, being well aware of the intentions behind this act of ‘benevolence’.

Had they not just been through a war with a similar colonial regime?

The SB’s intentions were to take us back to Rhodesia and then throw us in jail, with the real possibility of harvesting our heads off our necks eventually!

So, we were hidden indoors and quickly moved on to Vila Pery in an old former Portuguese Army Berliet truck.

How the SB had zeroed in on the camp was very simple.

Portuguese soldiers, the not-so-long-ago previous occupants of the camp, had beaten a hasty retreat from FRELIMO’S advance.

In their unceremonious departure, they did not forget to get one last parting shot at the victors in a most unimaginably barbaric way.

As revenge for their defeat, they poured concrete into all toilet chambers and sewer systems.

It was difficult to imagine this kind of malice unless one had seen it firsthand. Consequently we had to go out of the camp in a group to relieve ourselves in nearby bushes.

On these outings, we were inevitably observed by people as the camp’s gates opened onto a street.

That was how easy it was for spies who lurked in the populace to identify a group of young boys emerging from the camp at certain times as no ordinary group of boys.

The Rhodesian SB were no fools.

In FRELIMO parlance, traitors or spies were called ‘Capricorn’.

Up to now, I have never fathomed the origin of this word and how it relates to spying. It became part of our vocabulary too in due course.

Our own Capricorn was not long in making his appearance at Vila Pery.

One day we were joined by a certain character who arrived alone.

He introduced himself as one with the same intentions as us.

Mukoma Shacky, he became to us.

He had made his solo journey (so went his story) from the then University of Rhodesia to also join the noble liberation war.

I forgot what he said he was doing there. University stuff was beyond my understanding then anyway.

Soon, we were listening in awe to stories of how our Mukoma Shacky had made a dramatic escape from the jaws of the infamous SB.

He had been planning his departure alone from the said university when the brutal SB got wind of his plans and he was arrested before his move.

We listened eagerly as he narrated how he had been subjected to the most horrendous torture by the said SB.

Poor Mukoma Shacky was thoroughly beaten by the notorious SB during which he suffered injury to his ear (l forget left or right) and back.

But our heroic Mukoma gallantly resisted the horrid SB activities to his person and refused to be broken.

So the horrible SB stepped up the tempo and attached electric wires to Mukoma’s private parts.

But the nasty shocks administered to him also failed to break our brave Mukoma.

Frustrated, the SB let him off but then put him under surveillance.

They hoped to somehow find something to nail him with once he made wrong moves outside the SB cells.

Given the proverbial long leash, our Mukoma Shacky did not wait to be nailed.

He outwitted the SB tails and made for the Mozambican border via Umtali, now Mutare.

My friend Robin Mwenje and I were so impressed that we hung on his every word.

Literally worshipping him as our hero. How naïve! We were third formers and the younger ones in the group of 10.

The bigger boys — fourth and fifth formers — secretly harboured doubts about Mukoma Shacky’s tales and exploits but did not question him.

Mukoma Shacky was indeed clever and streetwise.

Before long, he had the camaradas impressed too.

To them, he was the natural leader of our group.

What with the University background and him being older.

Soon he was appointed ‘Chef de Group’ and was dining with the camarada chefs at the ‘Commando’ — Garrison Headquarters Officers mess, while we queued with the other soldiers at the troops dining hall.

Soon, despite our restrictions to movement outside the Garrison, he was making forays into town.

We did not know quite how, but he got connected to a Mozambican girl who worked for Radio Vila Pery. I saw this girl once. It was at a function in the camp meant for the soldiers who had missed the big main independence celebrations for reasons of duty. She was quite nice.

Sometime towards the end of July 1975, our FRELIMO hosts informed us that more people-students and others had crossed into Mozambique.

We were to be relocated to another camp a few kilometres out of Vila Pery.

It was called Junta.

Soon, our little group, which had grown to 13 with the arrival of two other blokes, found itself headed for Junta in the back of a Unimog Mercedes Benz truck, inherited from the departed Portuguese Army.

Mukoma Shacky was Chef de Groupo of course.

There was much crunching of gears either because of bad driving or a fault with the vehicle, causing us some anxiety.

But the Unimog did get us to the Junta.

Unknown to us, Junta was where all the terrors that we would have to endure began.

At this small camp, we found more people.

Firstly, it was mainly students. Teachers also came along, shepherding their charges to the unknown.

Then it was boys, girls, men and women from all walks of life.

And they kept coming.

Soon the numbers swelled to hundreds and they kept coming!

It was like floodgates of humanity had been opened from Rhodesia to Mozambique.

Our FRELIMO hosts’ logistics were soon overwhelmed.

Food supplies dwindled.

Hunger and disease caused the weaker ones to turn around and find their way back to Rhodesia, risking getting caught and punished for desertion as happened frequently.

In the midst of this misery, my sister turned up at the gates of Junta.

While I appreciated her patriotic spirit to leave her teaching job for war, I was heartbroken that she should suddenly appear and walk into this dire situation.

I will have to write about the hard five-year existence that we endured after Junta another time.

This war that took the lives of thousands after Junta, including my school mates from our group of 10 and others that followed.

It is a long sad story of its own. In this story, I want to talk about our Mukoma Shacky….

To be continued…

Compiled by Plaxedes Chizarura