Joice's War
Which has gotten me to wonder whether the word history as we know it
today is a bastardised version of two words – his, and story? Because if that is
the case, it would really make sense with regards to the way our only political
party of Hobson’s choice in Zimbabwe – the Zimbabwe African People’s Union of
Progressive Farting… eerrr, sorry, I meant Patriotic Front, or its more popular
abbreviation ZANU-PF – has done a wonderful job of writing and rewriting our
history since they came into existence in the early sixties. Because according
to Zanu PF, history is simply gossip; several versions of an event told by one
man to suit whatever sticky situation the party has to explain its way out of. None
of the bullshit about history being an accurate account of what happened in the
past. Oh, Zanu PF; what did we ever do to deserve something like you at the top
of our country’s power pyramid?
They were at it again yesterday, through their storyteller-in-chief
Georgie Rutanhira, whom they always dig up from whatever hole they have buried
him in to correct some versions of the war effort that have been fed to the people
for decades. Yea; they do that. You think you know everything of some aspect of
the war; then one day, dear old Georgie comes in and just says, no; this is not
what happened. And you are like; what the fuck? There was that time around 2007
as the country readied itself for the elections, and ZBC dug up historian
George – with all his fishing sticks and gourd of worms – and cajoled him back
to his hut to correct a historical lie. The lie cannot come to me right now,
but I know Professor Jonathan Moyo had a very hearty laugh about it; because it
was a time when the party had banished him into the abyss of political
wilderness, and he loved to make fun of his estranged party during this exile. God
– those were the times.
Rutanhira is your go-to guy when it comes to tales of the struggle. During
the war, he was Sauron’s all-seeing eye in The
Lord of the Rings (except he was doing it for ZANU PF); and yesterday, the eye just had to tell of what he saw
with regards to Joice Mujuru’s war credentials. Growing up, we were taught that
Joice was a courageous woman who blew a helicopter into kingdom come during the
war. Her efforts were rewarded soon after independence, when she was appointed
into Prime Minister Robert Mugabe’s first cabinet as the youngest minister of all
time. She was only twenty-five then. To date, I do not think anybody has beaten
that record; what with them all fighting to be the oldest member in cabinet, to
the extent that Ngwena himself had to add three more years to the previously
known date of his birth in 1946. In this age of anti-aging, only Zanu PF has
people who cannot wait to be older!
Then Joice became the first female vice president and we have tomes of
articles of how her war exploits were enough to warrant her a place on the
country’s presidium. That was just twelve years ago in 2004
Fast forward to a decade later; and who emerges from the deep, but
Georgie Rutanhira himself! Just seeing his name in the newspapers, you just
have to know that something is wrong; and this time the wrong was with how
Joice Mujuru’s war history had been told. It was all false, Georgie said. He was
the commander during the war, so he should know. Runaida Mugari was just a fat
village young person who just happened to have the right sexual parts and just
happened to be at the perfect place in history when that helicopter blew into a
shower of flames in Mt Darwin that day.
Again; what the fuck?!
This is George’s correct version of what happened the day Runaida joined
the war: They were just a group of girls who had the duty to bring food to the
freedom fighters that day. We all know the fighters loved their food
well-cooked and healthy – a fact which automatically disqualified dishes like
okra (there was even a song about it; Gandanga
Haridye Derere Mubase), plain vegetables like muboora, munyovhi, muchacha, munyemba; anything that did not have
blood in its veins. So Runaida and her friends spend the day preparing the food
for the heroic boys, and when it was dark, stealthily made their way to the
base. And as was always the case, when the comrades were well-fed, they started
singing. Maybe they loved the country so much they got emotional each time they
thought of how the masses were being starved of independence and freedom and
sovereignty and the privilege to tell the world to keep their England and let
us keep our Zimbabwe. Or maybe it was just something they laced their food with
as they ate. Something so strong and sedative it gave them a belief they were invincible.
So they sang. An impromptu pungwe was
organised and sweet songs of war rang out.
They sang all night. Sweetness is in your ears right now. I remember
somebody saying that on radio some time ago. Sweetness… is in your ears. Right now.
No offence, but that voice took me off radio for a while. And I should know
because I have the worst voice in the universe. It is true; my voice is so bad I
actually patented it; it sounds worse than how Dikembe Mutombo sounds when he
screams during ejaculation. Actually, I really do not want to imagine how Dikembe
Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo sounds as he shoots his seed
into whatever pussy has burned his boner hot enough.
But I digress. The pungwe
revellers could only have been singing Nhamo
Yatakaona, that lovely song that made a lot of us wish we were born during
the war, if only so we could sing:
Nhamo
yandakaona (Nhamo hereee)
Kutambudzika
ndega musangooo senherera
So the pungwe was now in full swing, and the chimbwidos (I would have loved to use the term girls, but Georgie
Rutanhira wrinkled his nose and insisted they were chimbwidos, not girls. Not war collaborators. They were chimbwidos) were shaking their arses in
front of the bonfire with a rhythm that years later inspired Beyonce and
Shakira to twist their booty in that Beautiful
Liar song. Pity they could never do it the way Zimbho girls shake their
arse when they perfect the kongonya
at a jiti. Just as well they had to
dance like this was their last night on earth; this was war damn it; the sweet
fragrance and reality of death was right in front of your nose. So what would
be the point of trying to make plans about the future as if you would win in
this game of thrones called life and war anyway? If the odds were short that you
were to die today, or tomorrow, you had better check out with a bang.
One of the girls was so certain that one day soon, one of those shiny
new brown bullets from the colonial soldiers’ FN would come for her heart and
permanently delete her from this earth. The thought of dying with the curse of
her hymen still holding her vagina hostage was one that filled her with dread.
She had heard tales being told of girls who had died before tampering with
their virginity; they had had to buried with rats and pestles and dildoes and… she had to
physically close her eyes with both hands to wade the horrid thoughts out of
her head. She, Runaida Mugari, would not be buried with a rat to accompany her
and creep up her tender nether parts to claim her virginity while she lay
helplessly dead inside a reed mat and mounds of earth on top of her
She tried inserting sticks in the soft flesh but they hurt and made her
bleed, so she used her fingers instead, but they felt small and unsatisfying.
She knew that men knew of one sure way to get rid of her curse; but most men
and been swallowed by the war, or had fled to the comfort of the cities to
escape. So when vana mukoma rolled
into town with their canvas shoes that had seen better days and camouflages
that had been drained of their camouflage by years of exposure to the vagaries
of weather, Runaida knew her chance had come.
Freedom fighters had acquired something of a cult hero status among the
villagers, whom they called the Povo. Never mind that they promptly slit the
throats of suspected sell-outs at the slightest provocation, which led to many
villagers taking that advantage to eliminate their enemies by simply labelling
them as sell-outs then standing back and folding hands as their nemeses
vaingloriously pled for their lives to the boys. All the people needed to know
was that vana mukoma had AK’s and
they had the name too; vana mukoma.
Nothing on this earth was a better aphrodisiac than that name for the women who
lived in the war days. Poor Runaida was just in Form 2; who was she to resist
this almost utilitarian irresistible force called mukoma with an assault rifle casually slung on its back?
Like a moth to a flame, she was caught in the spider web unwittingly set
by the freedom fighters. She prepared the boys’ food with the other girls;
waited until it was dark to smuggle the food into whatever base the boys were
spending the night at. When the pungwe
party properly started, she made sure that her big, fat body would do its magic
on the dance floor and help her catch the prey that would scratch her itch.
At first the disciplined fighters resisted. All they wanted from the
people of Chahwanda Village in Mt Darwin was food and drink, and a safe place
to strategise the war effort from. Nothing whatsoever to do with women and sex
and all that mumbo jumbo about sexual gratification offered by the defenceless
women whose presence played relentless imagery games inside the minds of our
dedicated guerillas. You see, the ZANLA trained guerrillas were the most
disciplined soldiers in the history of any war – they had been taught the magic
of Nzira Dzemasoja (the disciplined
soldier’s way) and they were experts in treating the masses with respect and
paying for every transaction they made while in the bush. It couldn’t be their
fault that people offered their food and other goods and services for free –
and that girls like Runaida Mugari and perfected the art of sexual seduction.
Again; what the fuck?
Because sex IS powerful man; it can turn the most unbelieving among us
religious in an instant, and have them speaking in tongues and screaming Oh
Jesus over and over as if they have been touched by the holy ghost fire from
Papa of the Gospreneurship prowess. Aside from making all of us temporary
beggars (please give it to me!), sex will make the stingiest guy generous and
saying yes to everything. Imagine sneaking a nubile warm maiden into Bob’s bed,
then just as he is about to yell OH JESUS! we ask him to please
remove his wrinkled tentacles that hold Zimbabwe hostage by resigning his
presidency. Dude will be like; oh hell
yea! Where do I sign! Shit, why didn’t somebody think of this before three
children were born?
But I digress; the great Zanu PF historian reckons that the base
commander, Joseph Chipembere, unfortunately had his eye held captive by the big
frame of Runaida; so much that he could not concentrate. They had to make sure
the base was secure because they had civilians among them; and they could have
members of the povo dying on their
watch. The commander had to make plans – but once his eye caught Runaida; he
could physically feel all his strategies being violently pushed out of his
cognitive faculties and being replaced by the haunting image of a big, fat
African teenager who was the dream of every African male. So juicy like a water
melon, she had the very African nose to go with it too, which made Commander
Chipembere’s blood feel like boiled mercury scalding its way inside his veins.
He thought; this is the nose that inspired the Egyptians as they carved out
that great Sphinx at Giza; and it is here in my presence, but all I have to
think about is the war and winning and strategies and girls and sex and… fuck!
What the hell am I thinking?
The commander tried again – he looked at his map and tried to draw some
plans… and ended up doodling the rough sketch of the girl in front of him. For
her part, Runaida pretended to keep busy, swaying this way and that as if
completely taken by the intoxicating sounds of drums beating to the song. When
she bent over to shake her bum the kongonya
way – that very way those women do it whenever there is a gathering at the
National Heroes Acre – the member hidden under the commander’s camouflage
revolted. He wanted his rights recognised right now; or there would be another 'I Have a Dream Speech'.
Commander Chipembere stood up and ordered one of his juniors to fetch Runaida and escort her to a secluded place behind the bushes.
Commander Chipembere stood up and ordered one of his juniors to fetch Runaida and escort her to a secluded place behind the bushes.
“You dance so well, kid,” he said when he finally got round to where she
was hiding. “Are those bums natural?” He asked, reaching out to feel one of them
as he said so.
Runaida bit her nail and jumped at the same spot. “Aah, mukoma. It’s
just a little flesh. I was born like this.”
“You must have been baptised by fire when they gave birth to you. You
have burned every bit of my body and soul. And now I cannot concentrate until
that fire has been extinguished.”
Runaida kept quiet for a while, as she fished for leaves from a nearby
branch. “But you look very normal to me.”
“That’s because you are not looking at me, kid. I’m burning up. My heart
is on fire. We need to do something about it right now.”
“Alright. What should we do then?”
“First, take off our clothes,” Commander Chipembere ordered, reaching
for her dress. It should have been a simple, plain dress that would hide all
the parts a girl living in those times need to hide, and hide some more too.
But Runaida was not your everyday simple plain girl, who would look like she
was carrying a door on her back; she might have been big, but was not
amorphous. She had a very good pelvic bone and some very healthy steak around
that bone, which made the commander drool. She did not try to fight him when he
hungrily lifted her frock; instead she continued to bite her lower lip, then
her nails as she expressed her terror at being discovered by any of the
hundreds of people around them.
“Hey kid,” Commander Chipembere said he laid her on the rotten leaves.
“This is a war we’re fighting. And in a war situation, people die. They die any
time. We could die right now. Do you wanna die a virgin?”
Runaida opened her eyes and stole at look at him. She shook her head no. She could see the hunger in his burning eyes, could feel him fumbling around
down there, looking to bludgeon his rock-hardness into her soft flesh. She was
terrified of scorpions, terrified of snakes, terrified of all the crawling
insects that could creep under her upturned dress. And she was terrified of
opening her eyes and finding herself surrounded by people from her village. How
was she ever going to live with them after this?
“Don’t worry about these other people,” the commander said, his tone
softening; maybe because he had seen that she had started crying. Her eyes were
red and tears flowed from the ends and went straight to her ears. The commander
stuck out a rough hand and wiped them.
“Everybody is doing what we are doing right now. Or thinking about it.
Have you ever heard of the Dothraki?”
Runaidha blinked. “The Dothraki?”
“Yea. They are a warrior clan who can have sex right in the middle of
the day, and right in front of everyone. They are a fierce fighting force, it’s
actually a pity we do not sent our guys there for training. We would learn a
lot from them. One of which lessons is that you do not have to be afraid of
fucking under the sun. Ok, kiddo?”
She nodded uncertainly…
…then he slammed into her.
She screamed. Loudly. Loud enough to bring the whole of Mt Darwin down.
She did not care who heard her; the commander had filled her so full she wholly
expected to spit him out through her mouth. All the fear of snakes and
scorpions and crawling insects flew out of her when she suddenly came to know
that what she should have been terrified of was the man pinning her to the
ground right now, with his violent weapon that was grinding her sex into smithereens.
She thought she was dying. Runaida did not want to die a virgin; but neither
did she want to die while in the process of losing her virginity. Sadly, it
seemed she was too late now; the commander was burying her alive right into the
ground with his ceaseless pounding that ravaged her nether parts and left her
helpless. If he had her screams, he did not care.
But the screaming did not stop. In among the animalistic grunting of a
commander completely hypnotised by the throes of passion, Runaida was surprised
to hear that her voice had suddenly become many voices screaming inside and on
top of her head. The grunting by the man on top of her seemed to be rising to a
crescendo too; like the staccato sounds of a helicopter swooping in for the
kill…
A helicopter! Her mind became suddenly clear. Runaida saw the trees
move, and right then, she knew this was the day she could be killed by both sex
and guns.
“Mukoma,” she called out,
softly at first, then realised that this was just not of the moments where
being coy got you anywhere. “Mukoma!”
Chipembere grunted again. His voice sounded like two boars squealing
delightfully in the mud. “Hmm. Yea. Yea, yea, yea. Say my name girl. I’m gonna
screw the shit right out of you. Say my name again.”
“Mukoma! Listen!” this time
she slapped him right across his sinewy face that reminded her of the ridges on
a piece of drying cow dung.
“Wh… What?” he slowed to look at her, but he did not stop. She felt like
his movements were spasmodic now, he was a temporary epileptic held prisoner by
the organ violently throbbing inside her.
She had not finished trying to explain the chaos that surrounded them, when
the tin bird of death briefly swung into view, then swung out again. But only
for a moment. When it returned, it did not go away. Still sandwiched between
her heavy legs, the commander gave out a roar and grabbed his gun. He took aim,
just at the moment when the helicopter was dropping fire over them. The white
boys, thinking that this was going to be an easy kill, were sloppy and a tad
too slow. From below, Chipembere shot straight at one of the falling bombs, and
returned it, damaged, simmering and ready to explode, into the helicopter. It was
one of those moments where, even in a movie, the music would stop and people
would tense their muscles in readiness for the doom they knew was coming. Runaida
knew fuck all about movies then, but she felt the silence and the sudden serenity around the place; that was the first moment she learned about being in
the eye of a storm.
Because a second later, it happened.
There was a deafening boom as the helicopter exploded into two balls of
fire, and hurtled towards the base like a meteor gone rogue. Terrified shrieks
from above and below tore through the atmosphere like thunder fighting for its own voice in a tropical cyclone; burning white bodies flying through the air, blazingly angry
angels descending with all their might on Sodom and Gomorrah; and terrified
black bodies taking all the evasive measures they could to avoid the blazing
shower from above. There was gun fire and blood everywhere. In all this
madness, Runaida accepted her fate and waited for the moment her life would
end. She had always known that one of those shiny brown bullets from the white
soldiers’ FN rifles would enter her heart at unbelievable speed and bore the
life out of her. What the hell, her ass and legs felt dead already; what would
it hurt if her heart stopped beating too? The violence inside her cunt did not
stop. With his massive arms raised, Chipembere shouted some self-praising but
unintelligible undertones, holding the M.A.G in victorious salute. She felt
explosion again, but this time it was inside her, as Chipembere finally went
limp and dropped his gun on her chest. It was heavy; so heavy. She struggled to
remove the deadly piece of metal between them, and when she finally did, she
wrapped her arm around her lover and wept. She did not care if he or anybody
else took notice. Everything was quiet again, as if the earth had just been
clearing its throat and had gone back to sleep. The realisation that she had
survived a battle was too much on poor Runaida. She tightened her grip on the
trigger and let the emotion flow out in waves.
That was how they found her, a sobbing girl with the gun in one hand, a
bloodied arm around her commander and a numb arse wedged into the earth. When they
removed him from her, she made not sign of movement; just her sobbing told them
that she was still alive. But the troop commander had not been so lucky – a burning
rotor blade had found its way into his heart though his back.
One of the freedom fighters asked Runaidha if she was the one who had
shot the helicopter and saved the whole base. Her reply to weep even more and
heave her chest. This girl was broken, the fighters agreed amongst themselves. And
unbelievably brave too. She had the heart of a lion. Where else had it ever
happened that an untrained girl had shot down a helicopter while a penis was
shooting her right into the earth? This was a miracle. How lucky their
commander was to die in a moment of his greatest joy! The girl’s name must be
Joyce. Only girls named Joyce can give such a dying wish to a man. They looked
at her like she was the saviour just fallen out of Mutiusinazita. With miracles
like these, they were certainly going to win this war.
But right now they had pressing needs to be attended to. Their leader
had been killed in combat, so they had to cross back to Mozambique.
“What about these girls?”
One of the fighters opined that they were not to let these girls out of
their sight. They had witnessed what it meant to be in a war, and were not
innocent any more. They would be taken to Mozambique and start training.
“And make a stretcher for Joyce; the poor girl has been so overworked
today I don’t think she will walk any time soon.”
And just like that, a legend was born. A simple rural girl from
Chahwanda Village in Mt Darwin called Runaida Mugari had her first encounter
with sex, shot down a helicopter and earned an English name, and lost her first
lover to death in her first battle.
That is history according to Zanu PF. It is Georgie Rutanhira’s story,
and he is sticking to it.
That is why it is called his story.
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