Should I Forgive?

SHOULD I FORGIVE?

Rape, Torture, Murder - The Ordeal Of A

Woman Who Defied Mugabe’s Thugs in Zimbabwe

NYASHA ‘MANY FACES’ GAPA

Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©Nyasha Gapa, February 2013

The moral right of Nyasha Gapa to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

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First published in England, February 2013

Book jacket design Ray Lipscombe

ISBN 9781909544260

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of Memoirs. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct when going to press, we do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. The views expressed in this book are purely the author’s.

This book is dedicated to all the innocent souls who have been raped, tortured or murdered during the political violence in Zimbabwe and xenophobic attacks in South Africa. It has been written in memory of those who suffered, including Farai Kujirichita, Kapfudza Tafirenyika, Douglas Mutesa, Costan Musariri, Kasambarare Mariseni, Katsande Clever, Kazemba Alex, Knight Ngoni, Maramba Rosemary, Nyarai (who bled to death after being gang raped and vaginally mutilated by Zanu PF militia), Lunga Edna (abducted, tortured and burnt with plastics), Mavhangira Pepukai, Mabwera Brighton, (four years old, burnt to death while sleeping in his parents’ home), Machasi Maxwell, Machipisa Elliot and Madamombe Nguwani, just to mention a few.

We remember you. We mourn you and we salute you.

May your souls rest in peace.

Acknowledgements

A huge thank you to my friends at Wordszilla, Erika Potter, Luis Bonilla and Kristin Smith for all your support. Kristin, thanks for all your help in making Should I Forgive? better than it started out.

A big thank you also to my online family, the talented staff and writers at writing.co.uk, particularly Lorna Read and Jane Buckley for their encouragement, assessment and inspiration.

INTRODUCTION

Most people in Zimbabwe were looking forward to our country’s elections in March 2008. This was the year we believed President Robert Mugabe would finally bid farewell to the presidency. The elections were expected to be Mugabe’s toughest electoral challenge yet - Zimbabwe’s dreadful economic situation had, it appeared, put an end to his chances of political survival.

My husband Peter and I, as dedicated loyalists of the opposition party MDC (Movement for Democratic Change), had worked very hard to bring more members to our party, as we wished to see the tyrant’s rule come to an end. We were fully convinced that the time for change had come, for we were tired of the empty promises Mugabe was constantly giving as he pretended to listen to his people’s concerns. Life for us had become a nightmare because of him, and fighting for change was the only way forward.

It had all started in 2000, when the Mugabe regime embarked on a controversial fast-track land reform programme. This had begun in part about twenty years earlier, when Mugabe had worked with the United Kingdom on the land distribution programme, which was intended to correct the inequitable land distribution created during the colonial era.

This aggressive move by Mugabe resulted in an economic downturn in Zimbabwe. The United States put a credit freeze on the country which wiped out our trade surplus, causing it to go from an excess in 2000 to a deficit which has increased every year since.

Other problems arose. As the élite families began taking over land once cultivated by experienced farmers, the food production greatly decreased, causing the supply to drop drastically and spreading famine and starvation.

Mugabe’s policies were condemned both at home and abroad, yet his heart remained iron hard. He continued giving to his supporters and taking away from those who opposed him. Consequently, a wide range of sanctions were imposed against Mugabe, the individuals and companies who associated with him and the government of Zimbabwe.

As a result, Zimbabwe was gripped by record-breaking hyperinflation, bringing international media attention to the country. Mugabe vehemently opposed this, as he wanted to keep his actions as contained as possible.

Efforts to hide the hunger and starvation of the masses from the media were escalated by the brutal treatment of opposition members and mass arrests of journalists, not to mention refusing to allow foreign journalists into the country. This era marked the dawn of Mugabe’s ‘vampire’ attacks as he preyed on his own masses to satisfy his political thirst and hunger.

The people of the once proud capital and Africa’s breadbasket were plunged into a horrific struggle as their country became the African hunger dungeon. Many citizens were reduced to pedlars, paupers, hawkers and black market hustlers, consuming at most a meal a day to energize their tortured minds, their hollowed cheeks, protruding jaws and sharply-defined ribs were a clear testament to their starvation.

To add salt to the excruciating and bleeding wound, cash dwindled in all quarters. For many, banks became a thing of the past. Instead of customers flowing in and out of the thriving banks, the empty buildings now had the homeless sleeping outside the cashless buildings, while empty ATMs hung uselessly on the walls.

Economists predicted that the only way to rescue Zimbabwe from the mouth of the lion was to change the leadership. With Robert Mugabe’s hands removed from the control of the economy, the country could recover. While we all hoped he would resign, this was more of a dream, as he would never consider such an action; we knew the only way to be free was for him to be voted out of power.

This prompted countless Zimbabweans to join the opposition party, led by Morgan Tsvangirai, who was taunted and branded ‘Chematama’ (‘big cheeks’) by Mugabe and his fanatics. My husband and I had joined the MDC party in 2005, as it had been formed on the basis of relieving the struggle of the people, creating and providing jobs, establishing decency, justice, transparency and democracy in government, providing equal distribution of resources and maintaining equality among all Zimbabweans. With this platform, the MDC became the light of hope in the gloom. It was the only party which offered the hope of giving the men and women of Zimbabwe their rights back.

After the elections, which were described as peaceful and a credible expression of the will of the people of Zimbabwe, we eagerly awaited the announcement of the key to our freedom. But alas, no official results were announced. It took more than a month for the sad truth to dawn upon us. Mugabe had cheated once more. He had destroyed the key to our democracy. He refused to release the results. This failure to discharge the results was strongly criticized by the MDC leadership, which successfully sought an order from the High Court to compel their release.

After a recount and verification of the results, the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission announced, on May 2 2008, that Tsvangirai had won 47.9 percent and Mugabe 43.2 percent, thereby necessitating a run off, which was to be held on June 27. The pronouncement of a re-run revived a hope which had become comatose, and this time around we were convinced there would be no escape for this tyrant and his regime.

Despite Tsvangirai’s repeated claims that he had won an outright majority, he decided to participate in the second round, presumably to prove his claim. By April we had already started hearing rumours of the possibility of this second round. I, my husband, and our campaign team then began to work on tactics to win over those who had voted for Robert Mugabe in the first round in case the rumours were true. The attacks described in this book started on April 19, before the results were announced.

CHAPTER 1

‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ our daughter Sheila screamed with excitement. She had been helping me to gather firewood, but she sprinted away from me when she saw her father, Peter.

I looked up and smiled as I watched my tired husband drag his feet behind our four cows, a small fortune to us. He was wearing his favourite blue overalls, rubber rain boots and an African sisal hat to shield his face from the scorching Murehwa sun. Here comes the most handsome man in Nyamutumbu village, I thought.

‘Daddy!’ she delivered her final scream as she jumped full force onto Peter’s brawny chest. ‘My little angel!’ Peter exclaimed with delight, swinging her around.

A warm feeling of happiness filled my heart as I heard my five-year-old girl giggling with excitement. She loved her father to bits. He was her favourite, which, immature as it may sound, made me feel jealous at times.

She was the best thing that had ever happened to us, the source of our joy and happiness. It was such a blessing to have such a lively and beautiful little girl around, giving us so much love. She was constantly smiling and full of energy; that is how I always described her.

I had eagerly watched my daughter’s progress throughout her short life, anticipating every inch of growth and each new developmental milestone. It made me feel so good to see some of my physical characteristics in her, with a bit of Peter in her as well. Looking at her, it was as if I were looking at a picture of myself as a child. She had my round face and my long, thick hair. I could see her developing big hips and a round backside when she was grown up. I hoped she would develop that way - Peter said that was what had caught his eye when he first saw me. That didn’t make me too happy. While I felt I was by far the most beautiful girl in our village (an opinion echoed by the numerous boys who were after me), I thought Peter would be swept away by my blue, lazy, sexy eyes, my luscious long hair, my beautiful pointed nose and my lovely chocolate skin. For him to say that only my hips and big backside caught his eye was disappointing at first. Eventually, however, I came to embrace what Peter loved about me.

Within a few months of giving birth to Sheila I had regained my beautiful figure, thanks to my house chores, which were as good as working out in a gym. Women in rural areas, I’ve noticed, are quite fit compared to our counterparts in cities, as we are required to do more physical labour. We walk long distances every day, fetching water and helping with the hard work in the fields.

The only attributes Sheila had got from Peter were his brown eyes, big ears (which seemed to be running away from his head) and his light complexion.

We had talked about trying for a second child. It had always been my dream that Sheila would have a sibling. We had Peter and I finally felt the time was right. I had scheduled a hospital appointment to get the hormone implant removed by the doctor. I knew my husband would be over the moon if God blessed us with a baby boy this time. I always imagine my husband weaving through the Nyamutumbu Mountains with Peter Junior by his side, showing him the 1,000 year old cave paintings and the different trees and bushes that evenly covered the vast Murehwa forests. I imagined him showing our son the different leaves used to cure many ailments and teaching him how to hunt and fish - essential skills for a young man growing up in the rural areas.

Our cows were now used to the order of the day and I looked on as they walked straight towards their kraal. The sunlight was fading, creating new shadows around the cows as they walked away. Ahead of them near their kraal, trees lashed and crashed against each other as numerous monkeys jumped up and down on the branches. They blurted out hostile screeches, as if to intimidate the cows not to go into the kraal.

Peter walked towards me with Sheila still in his arms. This was very unusual of him, as he would usually secure the kraal before he came to greet me. I had a feeling something must have gone wrong.

That week of April 21 2008, it was the beginning of our turn to look after all the cattle in the whole village. It was a hard and painful task for a single person to do and in most cases the cows would go astray and some would end up in other people’s fields. There was a weekly rotational duty to look after the village cattle and this was our week. I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

‘Daddy! What did you bring me today?’ asked the still excited Sheila.

‘I didn’t manage to bring you anything today, love. I’m so sorry,’ replied Peter. ‘The cattle gave me a hard time today. They didn’t give me time to get your favourite fruits.’

‘Uh!’ she grimaced.

‘Sheila, your father is tired, please give him a rest. He will bring you the fruits tomorrow,’ I said, trying to comfort her.

He put Sheila down, grabbed me, and gave me a kiss. This was odd behaviour for my husband. I couldn’t even remember the last time he had kissed me. This kiss was different from any other I could remember. It was long and passionate.

We loved each other dearly, but we believed public displays of affection, like kissing, were part of English culture: a culture which I believed had polluted our generation. Now women were putting on trousers and demanding equality with men. We preferred to be traditional in our approach rather than copying other people’s cultures. Peter was the head in our family and I gave him the respect he deserved.

Sheila quickly covered her face. She had never seen us kissing and was embarrassed to see it. Shyness was one of the things she surely had inherited from me. I looked down, embarrassed as usual, trying to avoid eye contact with my husband. I didn’t want to show him that he had just aroused something in me.

‘How was your day?’ I asked, hoping to cool down the romantic atmosphere which Peter had just created.

‘Hard, as usual,’ he replied, looking at me mischievously.

‘Tomorrow we will have to come and give you a hand’, I said, as I knelt down to pick up the sticks I was gathering for firewood.

‘Don’t tell me you are only going to start cooking now’ said my tired husband. ‘I’m starving!’

‘I have already prepared the stew. I’m going to prepare sadza [thickened maize porridge] now. I just wanted to make sure it would still be hot when you had it.’

We both laughed as we looked at our daughter, who was still covering her face.

‘Like mother like daughter’ retorted my husband, smiling.

‘No, no, this is too much!’ I replied, still giggling.

‘That is exactly what you did the day I told you I loved you,’ my husband reminded me. ‘Then you said ‘I love you too’ and you ran away.’

‘Please, please, let’s not talk about that,’ I begged, hoping he would stop. The memories of that day made me feel silly and stupid. But he was also forgetting that he had almost uprooted all the grass nearby as he struggled to utter those three words.

‘I’m going to close the kraal,’ said my husband as he started to walk away.

‘Daddy, can I come with you?’ asked Sheila smiling.

‘You are more than welcome, if you are really up for it. Let’s go,’ replied Peter. ‘Just don’t laugh at me when I fall down.’

She smiled and nodded her head in agreement, knowing that she would definitely laugh if her father fell down. What Sheila enjoyed most about helping at the kraal was watching her father running after the calf. The calf was quick and clever, which caused Peter to stumble in most cases.

This was challenging work at times for Peter. It was important that the calf stayed away from its mother at night so that we would have enough milk for ourselves in the morning, then the calf could be allowed to suckle from its mother. But actually getting hold of the calf and putting it away wasn’t an easy job, especially for someone who had spent the whole day working outside.

The two walked towards the kraal, leaving me to finish what I was doing. I had to hurry. I had prepared his favourite stew of oxtail mixed with green vegetables. It wouldn’t take me long to cook the sadza. I wanted my hungry and tired husband to find food ready when he finished locking up the kraal. I knew what it was like, herding close to fifty cattle on your own. The cattle acted as if they knew you were alone on that day and would be even more uncooperative. They knew how to wind people up. They had driven me to tears the last time I had done it myself. The things you don’t want them to do and the directions you don’t want them to take are exactly what they will do. When I tried to retrieve the ones who had gone astray, I came back to find the others already in someone else’s field. And the penalty for allowing that to happen wasn’t something to joke about. That was up to the chief of the village, and in many cases he had ruled that cows be paid as compensation. So staying alert and tracking the cows was of the utmost importance.

I had gone into a forest very close to our house to gather the last pieces of firewood I would need to prepare the food. I quickly tied the sticks of firewood together and put them on top of my head, walking as fast as I could, then went straight into our kitchen and started to prepare the sadza. After a few minutes, I heard my daughter giggling outside and knew they had finished locking up the kraal.

‘Go to your mum, I’m coming. I just want to change out of these dirty clothes,’ I heard my husband say to Sheila.

He went to the bedroom to change and she joined me in the kitchen. I could hear him whistling in our small bedroom. I looked at my daughter as she tried to rub off a stain she had got on her new white dress while helping Peter. Though we rarely bought ourselves new clothes, we made sure Sheila always had