African Dawn

African dawn. Lavish lashes of burnt orange streak across dark soil, blinding, binding everything together; hot fusion; earth, wind, water fused by fire, creating flesh, African flesh; the glory of the earth, the glory of the continent. Africa.

      A black mass rolls down a green hillside: a distant flickering light its beacon. A drumbeat, like distant thunder, closes in. Voices rise from the thunder, angry voices carried on the dawn-wind to below. The light at the foot of the hill, dangerously close.

      A father's head snaps up from the breakfast table, the Morning Prayer interrupted. A chair falls backwards. A rough farmer's hand reaches for the rifle. A mother lunges for her only child.

      Fire. Fire outside the window, glowing red against the dark hump of the hill, overshadowed by the brilliance of the red orb rising behind it. A year's worth of corn and toil is going up in flames. Bodies, dancing bodies, bedraggled figures. Anger on the rampage. Machetes dance to the beat of freedom songs: freedom from oppression, freedom from the white yoke.

      Take back what is rightfully yours, boys! Kill!! Kill the white farmer and take his land! It is ours! We fought for it then, we'll fight for it again! Kill!! Kill the traitor who works the white man's land!

      Black upon black, black upon white. Blood is still scarlet on the yellow soil of the motherland. Laborer and farmer suffer alike at the hand of the hooligan parading under the banner of heroism and freedom.

      Flying missiles, broken window, rock on the floor amidst shattered shards of glass. Black silhouettes descend upon the house. A cry of fear from inside is smothered by cries of joy from outside.

"Twenty-five farm workers, including a three-year-old child and eight-month-pregnant woman, were assaulted on Munemo and Mushangwe farms in Ruzawi River Valley. . ."

"The militants, who say they are supporting Mugabe's bid to redistribute white-owned land to Zimbabwe's black majority, had also rampaged a nearby farm village, smashing doors, breaking windows, burning down a house. . ." CNN, 9 Nov 2001

Wails of grief tear through the dawn-hour. They're hoarse. She has nothing left. The pain in the frail body of her child is soaked up by her tears and turned into the desperate feelings of a mother certain of one thing only: the death of her child.

      Skin, dry like parchment, wrapped around marrow-less bones; distended belly greets the day at attention, grotesque in its efforts to simulate the look of the good life. Come closer to the grimacing lips, come and see the sortie of flies inspecting the soft, decaying milk teeth and the insides of the mouth. Yes, soon, soon it will be over; the last feeble breath will leave for heaven, and the bastards can have their breakfast.

      He is one like so many others. Many more wailing mothers are holed up in the huts, huts forgotten by fat men slumbering in silk-shod beds behind thick drapes of effortless spendthrift. The hopes of dispirited fathers and broken mothers rest like unseen dust on men's' shoulders, wiped away by aids and attendants, swept under the carpets of the struggle against Imperialism. Forgotten like the morals of a madman.

      Who will cry for him? Who will remember his passing on this earth? Not I, says the madman, not I.



"In Zimbabwe the ongoing land resettlement program has hit the local maize harvest, with local supplies set to run out by February 2002, international food officials say. . ." BBC, 20 July 2001



His hand lies on her forehead. It soaks up the fever that runs through her body like a three-wheeled runaway car. Hot and cold tremors shudder through her emaciated body. For three weeks now, the disease has tormented her. Doctors and hospitals operate in filth and poverty, far away from his reach. The one within calling distance reeks of cheap wine and charges too much for ineffective medicine.

      A knock on the door - perhaps it is the doctor now. After eighty years under the African sun, his bones have withered to almost nothing, and his legs can carry him only slowly to the door.

      Another urgent knock. His wife's faint wail comes from the room behind him, spurs him on to greater speed. The new sun's first rays shine paints a gloomy shape through the obscure glass of the door.

      The knob turns in his liver-flecked hand.

      Three dark shapes stand in front of him. Three grinning mouths greet him and a hard hand pushes him back into the corridor. He falls down with a snap. The pain in his hip says 'you'll never walk again.'

      Rough hands pull him upright. "Where are the guns? iMali! iMali! Come, old man, speak or we kill you!" They push him through the door and he falls on the floor at the foot of his wife's bed. Three grinning faces greet the dying old woman. Immaculate white teeth set in ebony faces.

      One pulls down the blankets, displaying her emaciated body to his co-villains like a prize.

      Shrill laughter, hooting, dancing. He knows what is to come but cannot bear to lift his head from the floor. She screams as they tear her clothes, screams as they tear into her body. One holds her down and the other lifts him upright while the third bangs his hips into her frail frame. The old man's screams mingle with those of his wife's. No one to hear; no one to care. They hold him in turn, forcing open his eye to witness their deed, pulling at the old eyelids until they tear in the corners and spill blood into his irises. Like her blood on the bed.

      She was done long before them.



". . . White farmers are the enemies of Zimbabwe!" - Robert Mugabe, President of Zimbabwe, in an interview with state-run television BBC, 18 April 2000

"Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Those who have invaded the farms, they are going to stay." - Robert Mugabe Zim Today

"We must stand united against white rule! We must eradicate the remnants of Imperialism and Colonialism! Look at our impoverished brothers and sisters across our Southern borders! See what Apartheid did to them! They go hungry and have to suffer the consequences of their inept forefathers who were too weak to get rid of the Crown of Oppression! We'll have none of that here! Our children will live in a land of plenty, where corn will grow head-high in fields of freedom to feed our people! Viva Freedom! Viva Black Power!" - Author impression [Gathered through reports from local and international media.]



Dawn in the suburbs is different than dawn on the farms. Pollution obscures the first rays of sun, smoke dims the glory and stench rising from unattended sewage dams drives away the sweet smell of waking flowers and grass.

      Heavy boots leave trampled marks in the neat lawn. A rough fist banging on the door wakes the occupants of the sleepy house. How they knew which one they wanted, only they know. All the houses lining the dusty road look the same. Same shape, same size, same color. Only upon closer inspection is it evident that individuality is lent by a variety of doorknockers. This one was in the shape of a lucky horseshoe, but was ignored by the rough hand.

      His urgent knocking went unheeded for too long. A large boot makes its mark on the baby-blue door. It is flung wide open, crashes into a wall, shatters the glass in the upper half. Scared little black faces peer out of rooms that line the single passage. The mother escapes half-dressed from the bathroom at the end of it.

      Then the man appears. Huge. Mineworker muscles ripple on his upper body. He is clad in long gray pants and white vest with holes, no shoes, and still fumbling with his patent-leather-imitation-cowhide-plastic belt.

      "What the . . .!" is all he can manage before a rude rifle-butt smashes into his face. It leaves him on his knees coughing blood and teeth onto the floor.

      "Get up pig!" an even larger man screams. Four hands drag the bleeding man down the corridor, shoving him into the tiny cluttered lounge. His son, his daughter and his half-naked wife already wait there.

      "David Murabinda. You are charged with treason to the State and with the murder of Mandla Mabala. . . "

      "But . . . but!"

      "Shut up pig!" A black fist splits black skin and blood runs red over his chin. A large black hand flying in from nowhere stems the daughter's cry for father. Her wide white eyes slowly rolls to the corner where her mother, now naked, is tightly gripped between two uniforms. Her muffled whimpers are trying to cover her shame as they fondle her ample body.

      Her father has lost some of his teeth and most of his will to fight. Although he grew up on the mines of Johannesburg, he was now a politician, having grown weary of violence and afraid for his family. Images and thoughts blur through his mind. His father dying of TB in a Crown Mines hostel; his mother's ever-friendly face. Another face, Chris Rheede; this fight is futile, he knew it now. If only he stayed on the mines. Chris Rheede was not such a bad boss after all. At least he had reason to hate him and what he stood for. It is so difficult to hate your own. MP is such a lovely title.

      "Take me away. Just leave my family. . . ." His pleading eyes are fixed on the two grinning faces flanking his wife.

      "Daddyyyyyy!!" is the last word he ever hears.



"HARARE, Zimbabwe -- David Mpala, the Movement for Democratic Change MP for Lupane, northern Matabeleland, was battling for his life on Monday after Zanu-PF supporters slit his abdomen with knives, a few hours after abducting him on Sunday morning. . . ." BBC, 15 Jan 2002



Far away from the horrors of Harare, an old woman sits on a dead tree. Its leaves, bark and branches are gone, consumed by the laboring, smoky fire by which she heats her gnarled bare feet and her children's porridge. Her eyes narrow and strain towards the horizon as the first rays of dawn spill over it. Another night gone, another day begins.

      All around her shapes of mothers tend meager fires and become visible. Soon the courtyard of the kraal will be teaming with hungry children and mangy dogs, all looking for something to still the ever-present hunger pangs. Then the men will appear, stretching cramped muscles, shaking ruffled clothing and going off beyond the kraal perimeter to empty their bladders.

      A few mouthfuls of porridge will carry them through the toils of the day; the men in the towns, the women in the fields.

      The old woman knew someone would go hungry this morning. It will probably be her again. Her drained breasts hang like ancient, fragile, dried-out water pouches against her chest, useless nipples pointing towards her belly button. The skin of her sagging abdomen reaches even lower, hiding her once fertile belly. Underneath it, the dry remains of what was once the most luscious and sought-after flower in Matabeleland. Back in the days when the fields were green and the towns were prosperous with settlers who had big houses that needed cleaning and washing every day.

      She was sixteen and nubile - and she knew it. Every man wanted her. They stood in line at her mammy's backdoor with their pinstripe suits and comic black bowler hats to ask her out on a date, bury her with flowers and cover her with kisses. Back then every man wanted her. There were dark summer nights, music and wine merging in her mind and hot sweaty bodies entwining on wet white sheets. Young bucks riding her, so sweet and juicy, their strokes matching every bucking thrust of her young hips. Her flower, blossoming pink in the night.

      But here and now, as she hunches in front of the smoky fire, waiting for the children and the dogs and the men to appear, the ugly remnants of that once juicy pink flower pointing towards the dry earth, she remembers none of it. Her half-empty mind is occupied only with the hardship brought upon her by this emptied dried-up, ravished land.

      If only it would rain. Maybe the flowers will bloom again.



"President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe is building a huge mansion, estimated to be worth nearly £6 000 000. It is the latest addition to a constellation of private homes and state residences dotted around Zimbabwe that Mugabe, 77, and (his wife) Grace, 36, have acquired over the years. Their new house will further insulate them from the despair sweeping the country as its economy declines under his misrule." Zim Today, 5 April 2001



Dawn strikes Harare like a boxer: hard and smack on the nose, leaving her reeling in the first dirty rays of the red-eyed sun. A tightly woven blanket of smoke and filth hangs over the city, bounces dust and heat back to its red surfaces.

      A distant cry moves over the rooftops summoning the start of the MDC March for Freedom. Wives and children stand shoulder against shoulder with their solemn fathers and husbands. They know this volatile day could bring victory or defeat. Silent prayers ascend amidst dust clouds and ululating nervous voices.

      The drum starts the beat. The crowd moves as one. Placards and songs rise above their heads, hopes together with it as well. The songs are the songs of the oppressed, songs of peace, songs of hopeful deliverance.

      Not far down the road, the crowd is met with force. The crowd is driven back where they came from, the rubber bullets and batons make them turn on their heels like fleeing dogs. Tear gas causes confusion; the crowd splits in a hundred directions. Husbands separate from wives, mothers separate from children. All the while, the dogs are biting at their heels.

      After the dust clouds settle and the cries stop, the soldiers drag away the dead and the dying. In a pool of darkened mud lay the remains of the young daughter of English Sedaka, barely five and barely recognizable as once human. The tracks of the armored personnel carrier that crushed her body run neatly across the length of her body.

      The death of many still brings freedom for none.



"Brothers and Sisters of the International Community . . . Zimbabwe will have Free and Fair elections in 2002. Zanu-FP will not stand for violence. We have already agreed to come to the table to discuss our land-reform policy in an open and internationally represented forum. . ." - Local ZANU-PF leader. Reported by Harare radio station, 14 Dec 2001.

"Robert Mugabe is pulling out all the stops to ensure that he wins the presidential elections due in mbabwe" - Joseph Winter, BBC News Online

"There's no way that Mugabe will lose the election. And even if he does lose the vote, he won't give up power" - Harare Resident, BBC, 20 July 2001





THE BLOODY END