It is the month of August. Once again, 45 years on, we celebrate our heroes. In my soliloquy, I could not fathom what exactly we are celebrating about them. Can we celebrate the fact that they successfully drove away the white oppressor, replacing him with the black oppressor?
I am tempted to reflect on Shimmer Chinodya’s famous literary work, Harvest of Thorns - so apt in its depiction of the misfortunes that never left the comrades, the war collaborators, the villagers who cooked the meals, the citizens - our heroes who sacrificed everything to bring about the independence of Zimbabwe.
Yet, these have remained just a statistic in the goings on in our beloved country — a forgotten story. Some of the comrades, such as Shimmer’s protagonist, Benjamin Tichafa, voluntarily gave up everything to join the struggle. Others were forcibly abducted in schools to join the war effort – but still put up a good fight.
Most of the gallant ones perished. They never came back. Some lost limb. Most share our late uncle’s gruesome story. Having crossed the Zambezi at 14, he survived 19 bullets pumped into his body, but against all odds, limped his way into an independent Zimbabwe to nothingness.
Some roamed the streets of their host countries freely, disinterested, having deserted the struggle, only to show up when the glimmers of the dawn of freedom were getting brighter. The reluctant participants caught up in the euphoria and discordantly joined in the songs of victory. They sang the loudest.
Tired, in worn out fatigues, they prodded home laden with hope and images of rivers flowing with milk and honey – the promise their commissars fed them with every day and every night in those long battles far from home in Zambia and Mozambique those many years ago.
When they trooped into their rendezvous around the country, to wait for the next word from their leaders, the war cowards, those that evaded the bullets by hiding behind the true heroes who took the hits had already led the way to Harare, then Salisbury to take over the reins of power.
By the time the heroes followed to Harare, the rivers which flowed milk and honey were already dry bedrocks. The war cowards had taken all and left nothing for comrade Tichafa, nor for my bullet-riddled uncle, let alone for the child of the hero who did not come back home.
Forty five years on, the true heroes, those who have managed to survive oppression and negligence by their own government, poverty, diseases and trauma of the battles they fought, are still being regaled on promises of a better Zimbabwe firstly under the First Republic, and now under the Second Republic.
I wonder if anyone in the higher echelons remembers that comrade Sadat, who survived the Chitepo assassination in Zambia is still living but forgotten. There are so many Sadats out there, forgotten, impoverished in their rich country.
The villagers who endured the night long vigils and the long walks to freedom carrying the wares and war equipment, can only look into the distant horizons, reeking of hopelessness. They were the water and the comrades were the fish.
The water has dried up and the fish cannot live. Most lost their children and their future aiding the war for independence.
When 18 April 1980 dawned, the promises of a perfect, happy life fizzled away. Both the comrade and the war collaborator have nothing to show for it. The chefs have it all.
A new breed of heroes has emerged. Those that can steal from the government coffers and buy extravagance are our new heroes. Those that can get every inflated tenders that they do not honour.
The rest of us will have to eat the crumbs under their tables. And even for those crumbs, they need our votes before we can sneak under their tables for the crumbs. It has indeed become Shimmer’s harvest of thorns. Zimbabweans are still languishing in extreme poverty, yet they walk on top of minerals they are not allowed to touch.
There is hardly nothing to celebrate for the hero. Unless we are celebrating the Trabablas Interchange, the best the world has ever seen when it comes to infrastructure. The economy has been dead for years now – a sad contrast from the first few years post - 1980 when we were the bread basket of the region. We have since thrown away the basket tag and the basket altogether.
The cowards, those who shielded themselves behind the gallant fighters, are now claiming more heroism than the real heroes who were not afraid to die for a cause - real heroes who were never motivated by money and comfort in a sea of poverty.
The wartime cowards have taken all the land, all the factories and every other factor of production, yet they do not and cannot produce anything. They just harvest where they did not sow. They are unashamed.
Even as we celebrate the true heroes, the thieves want us to celebrate them too. The true heroes, some whose bones lie unburied in open skies and far ways forests, must be wishing they could rise and take up arms again, this time against the wartime cowards, their erstwhile colleagues who have morphed into zvigananda, who are looting and ravaging the country’s resources dry. Those they fought side by side with have turned against the people.
Meanwhile, the honest heroes and the rest of us continue to harvest baskets full of thorns while the cowards regale themselves in opulence. For the real heroes and the rest of the citizenry, independence is a commemoration of broken promises — the scars sustained from war injuries as well as destroyed futures.
Kapepa is a political activist, social justice and change proponent. She writes here in her own capacity. She can be reached on fariekapepa@gmail.com
