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Why I wept bitterly when Robert Mugabe died!

11 Mar 2020 at 08:59hrs | Views
I wept bitterly when Robert Mugabe died, leaving me discombobulated and severely pained. Indelible, agonizing, stabbing,  chronic pain! Pain that eats into my liver, intestines and buttocks. The pain of the thin and troubled woman whose husband burned to ashes in her eyes. Tyrannical, totalitarian pain and other things is what I felt when the news of the untimely death of former Zimbabwe despot, Robert, pint-sized Uncle Bob invaded my ears. Tears of excruciating pain fill my eyes. Could death really kidnap the undying Bob? Churn a fly's death and funeral to him? No. Everything was all maliciously unfair, stage-managed and rigged, I suspect.  Both fairness and justice are my worst rapists. Molestation, forceful, illegal breast-fondling and other things! I shed tears, real painful tears from the deep ends of my heart.

 Mugabe of the Matibili clan is dead! The news had either been beaten, tortured, maimed, burnt alive, bayoneted, raped or murdered. What a sad deprivation! I think about myself and other victims. Endless tears, wails, blood, stench, death and decomposition. Miserable.

*Brutish, vengeful tyrant!*
 
The sad death of Angel Gabriel Mugabe on the 6th of September 2019 at the prestigious Gleneagles Hospital, Singapore, sadly discontinued the life of the immortal, brutish, tribal and vengeful unrepentant autocrat Africa and Zimbabwe have ever had. The pint-sized venomous creature lived to his diabolic billing of being torturous, stoney-hearted and vengeful, in stark contrast to his alleged Christian grooming. What an insult to heathenism!

Confusion, desolation and emptiness
 
As salty tears ceaselessly drip onto my chest to this day, they go in stark parallel to a horrific movie of the barbarous misdeeds and heinous human rights violations that incessantly and brutally plays out in my mind. It plays endlessly. I try to resist it. It refuses to go. It is just hell-baked trauma. I involuntarily view it on stage. It shamelessly boasts of all the physical, emotional and psycho-social traumatisation of the dictator's dynastic, unending and uncultivated rule. It plays on the nominal Shakespearean acting stage pitting fear, pain, discombobulation, desolation, anger and emptiness. Its shamelessly callous characters are in accordance, diabolically selected to meet the needs of the savage and dragonous qualities of Luciferland and its film-acting. The young, abused boys from Mashonaland, mostly thick-skinned, hard-nosed and tribalised, are the vicious actors while the old and grubby-kneed primitive rascals are the play-makers. The damned masters of doom and doomsday! It is Robert Mugabe of the Matibili clan and his dopey clueless cronies. Unconcealed, savagely cruel, unfeeling  gukurahundi script writers; the  epigraph of shame!

Excrement, blood, rotting flesh
   
Unease punctuates the mood in Zwelabo village in Nkayi district, Matabeleland North this morning. The village is not its usual vibrant and vivacious self. When a chicken has disease, the umlenka disease, it is like this. Something is wrong somewhere, and the elders know it. We, the children are in the dark but we somehow feel it. The elderly and discerning are sad-faced and converse in low, subdued undertones. Awareness is like the urge to have sex. You feel it even in the presence of visitors, our elders say. Our parents sheepishly sit under the igonte tree at Mpakama Primary School waiting for the meeting to start and for those who commanded it to arrive. They probably know what it is about. Had we not conveyed the message as it was? "Tell all your families that everyone should attend the meeting tomorrow here at school. No one should remain", the headmaster had announced. We complied. If you were a child you did everything the elders and teachers told you. Cultivated, nice, small ones, we were! Respectful, obedient and innocent little souls.

I am in Grade 4. We are in class learning and suddenly I see, in the hazy distance, what looks like animated moving dark-green trees with matching babies on their backs. They enter the unfenced school premises from various directions. Ah no! Is the white man back again to do the war thing at whose termination our elders celebrated, I wonder. These are soldiers in camouflage with green satchels on their backs and brown merciless guns in their hands. They peep through the classroom windows like disrespectful delinquent and poorly raised up adolescents. Our teacher, Mrs Ncube had taught us that such was unmannerly behaviour. They command Grades 4 to 7 to go to the igonte tree and join the parents. As we respond, I see a stark semblance of the white man's boys who in Zwelabo were known as DAs(District Army) whom we disliked during the war and never informed when guerrillas ate and slept in our village. The DAs had left a few years ago after defeat by Joshua Nkomo and ZIPRA(Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army), older boys had told us as we herded goats and donkeys. Now what are these soldiers doing in peaceful Zwelabo, not in war? I wondered as we silently approached the point of assembly.

In broken English, one rude and red-eyed unmannerly boy in army uniform and pointing a gun at the audience thunders, "All this above the age of forty years stood up! If it run away I shoot it!" Babamkhulu Juba, our highly revered old man and Sobhuku  of my village softly and respectfully responded in  IsiNdebele: "Thina sesibadala, asisayazi iminyaka yethu". He says this in a trembling thin voice. The boy then orders all the elders and big pupils to move to the soccer and netball pitches as their gender dictates.
Men are forced to lie on their tummies in single file along the centre-line. Those of us not yet qualifying for the bashing, at least for today, timidly remain frying on the pan of answering stupid questions on where, when and how we had seen dissidents and our parents feed them. Dissident? What is that? I wondered.

That day I witnessed what I had never seen nor heard before. The defenceless youth and the weak elders were severely beaten and humiliated as we sadly watched. We were terribly abused. The so-called heroes are strange sometimes. Why use guns against the defenceless unarmed people of Zwelabo instead of giving them a better life? Shame.

 In our fights as herd boys the rule was simple. Put away your knobkerries and never pick any instrument to hit your adversary. Your bare, fisted hands are your fairest balanced weapons. It seemed to be different in other lands. Trick your perceived enemy to disarm and then butcher him and win the medal of shame!

One soldier was thumping them with a log while the other with the thick end of his gunstock. Two sets of them alternated battering them in opposite directions, over and over again. Suddenly, one old female teacher is singled out by one overzealous soldier to be shot dead. This is to serve as a practical example that the whole scenario is not goose play.  Our elders are correct to observe that sometimes even the devil's first born son can be a peacemaker. As the gun corks to vomit its deadly components, one accomplice says no! Her precious life is spared. She breathes yet another day. The grieving  spectators and the victim heave sighs of relief. At the end of the day's movie show, the school environment smells of fart, human excrement, armpits, meat, blood, pain and death. Peacetime violence!

We are unceremoniously plucking the supposedly nutritive and life-giving fruits of our independent Zimbabwe. Tears, guns, urine, rape, chronic pain, poverty and mass slaughter.

And many years later, when the antagonist dies, I weep red tears, bloody red tears of excruciating pain! The murderer is found on the crime scene with his red hands but is not arrested. Just like that.


Those who can, let them hear.


Nhlanhla Moses Ncube writes in his capacity as a rural-based gukurahundi victim.

nhlanhlamoses@gmail.com

Source - Nhlanhla Moses
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