CAUGHT IN THE

CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE Patricia Chater LLS -7

Caught in the Crossfire Patricia Chater ZIMBABWE PUBLISHING HOUSE P.O. Box BW-350 Harare, Zimbabwe (il;

Dedication To the people of St Francis and in memory of Basil Nyabadza and all those who died in the liberation struggle. Zimbabwe Publishing House (Pvt) Ltd, P.O. Box BW-350 Harare, Zimbabwe ©Patricia Chater 1985 First published by ZPH 1985 ISBN 0 949932 82 5 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system oT transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers. Typeset by Colorset Printed in Zimbabwe by Zimpak

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INTRODUCTION 'In the eastern operational area terrorists have murdered a wellknown African businessman, Mr Basil Nyabadza, aged 53 years and married from Makoni.' Part of an official communique issued by the Rhodesian security forces on 4 April, 1977. I started to write this book just a few weeks after the murder reported in such a detached way in these lines. I wrote sitting up in bed in a little room at the back of the Nyabadzas' house, only a few metres in fact from the spot where Basil fell when the hail of bullets directed at him found their mark. Other members of the community of St Francis were crowded into the house to sleep too. We were twenty kilometres from Rusape, on the road to Inyanga, in what was officially termed 'the eastern operational area' and we felt that it was no longer safe to sleep in our separate houses more distant from the church and the main yard. A knock on the door at night could mean a summons to death, as it had for Basil. A few minutes before his murder, the soldiers had knocked on the door and banged on the windows of the small house I normally shared with Mavis Nyagumbo, but we lay low, and no-one will ever know whether they had intended to kill us too. During the long curfew evenings that followed I recalled and wrote down the events of the past twenty years. I remembered my first visit here, cycling up from St Faith's where I was working then, and the wonderfully warm welcome I was given by the people of St Francis. Then I wrote about how and why I left St Faith's to come and live here with the Sisters, and my ex- perience as the only European in an African community. I was anxious to include what I had learned over the years of the history of St Francis Church, much of it from the recollections of the older people, and to tell the moving and inspiring story of how the community started under the leadership of Basil's father, Francis. I wanted also to pay tribute to Basil himself, for I was sure that when the story of the struggle for an independent Zimbabwe came to be told, he would be one of its heroes. Basil was only twenty six when he assumed the leadership of the community on his father's death in 1951. During the following years he struggled to develop the economic life of the community while caring for the spiritual side, and was at the same time wholeheartedly committed to the African nationalist cause. Writing quietly at night I completed the story up to the early 1970s and the start of the armed struggle. There I had to stop. Having friends whose houses had been searched by the CID, I felt it was too dangerous to put down on paper the part which Basil had played in helping the freedom fighters. It had led to his imprisonment in 1975 and to his murder by the security forces two years later - for, as we all knew at the time, in reality his murderers were not 'terrorists' at all. The manuscript was put away, unfinished. But after Independence, in 1980, it was possible to finish the story and to bring it up to date. I have been greatly encouraged by Professor Terence Ranger, who visited us in 1980/81 during a sabbatical leave. With his considerable knowledge of African independent churches, he feels that the early history of the St Francis community is of general interest and should be written down, as should the story of Basil's life and death. During his visit to Zimbabwe Dr Ranger spent much of his time reading in the National Archives in Harare. There he found a small amount of material about the controversy which led to the breakaway of St Francis community from the Anglican Church, and we agreed that this material confirmed what I had already written. I am very grateful to him, and to Professor Adrian Hastings and his wife, Ann, who have given me helpful advice and hospitality. I would also like to thank the members of Zimbabwe Publishing

House who have taken the trouble to visit St Francis and whose suggestions have, in consequence, been all the more valuable. This book is offered as a small tribute to Basil Nyabadza and thousands of others who gave their lives in the struggle. I would also like to put on record my immense gratitude to the St Francis community for accepting me as one of them and for their never-failing love and generosity. St Francis of Assisi, Rusape, Zimbabwe.

Chapter 1 It was a hot day even for October, and the sun beat down on us as we cycled through the European farms. My companion was a young African woman, Margaret Shumba, and we were on our way from St Faith's Mission, where we both worked, to visit her friends at St Francis Church. It was uphill most of the way and often we had to get off and push our bicycles through the thick, loose sand. After an hour and a half we came to the main Rusape/Inyanga road and by this time we were hot, dusty and tired. We paused to brush ourselves down before crossing the tarmac, and then a short dirt road brought us to the archway and main gate of St Francis. A notice proclaimed 'ST FRANCIS OF ASSISI - THE AFRICAN CHURCH'. This was my first visit and I was immediately struck by the beauty of the place: to the left the long thatched church with its arched porch and rounded bell tower, and on two sides of the well-swept yard thatched dwelling houses, some round, some square. In the centre was a huge gum tree, which with the other gums surrounding the yard gave cool shady relief from the harsh sun. We were welcomed by Margaret's friends in the typical Mashona way with enthusiastic hand-shaking. Our bags and bicycles were taken from us, and we were ushered into a little house near the church. We sat down and clapped as we exchanged greetings: 'Makadini?' 'How are you?' 'Tiri wadi kuti muri wadi wo.' 'We are well if you are well.' 'Wakadini Baba na Mai?' 'How are Father and Mother?'

'Wakadini wa pwere?' 'How are the children?' Unhurried exchanges, formal, yet heartfelt and sincere. I immediately felt at home. We were in the tiny sitting-room of the priest's house and while we waited for Father Basil Nyabadza we were entertained by his elder brother, Simon. A slightly-built man of about fortyfive, he had recently returned from South Africa and was now working in Rusape. He spoke excellent English and told us something of how the community of St Francis had started. 'My father, Francis, was a wonderful man. He was a great preacher and he also had the power of healing. People flocked to his services and loved to listen to him.' 'Where did he hold these services?' I asked. 'He first worked on the other side of Rusape, in the Chiduku villages. Then he was stationed at St Faith's Mission and later on in Rusape. So many people came to him from other Anglican churches that the priests got jealous. And they didn't like him because he preached strongly against beer drinking and some of them were heavy drinkers themselves. They made so much trouble for him that in the end he had to leave Rusape, and he came to live here at his home.' I wanted to hear more, but then Father Basil came in to greet us and we went through the formal exchanges again. A big, strong, generous-looking man with a wide smile, he was friendly but somewhat reserved, and left it to his brother to do most of the talking. We sat around drinking tea while the Sisters and other members of the community came in to greet us. The few chairs were soon occupied, and most of the women sat on mats on the floor and on the doorstep. Presently Father Basil said, 'Let's go in to church,' and I realised this meant that mattins was about to start. I was struck by this informal and relaxed approach to church time-keeping! We walked up the path with Father Basil, now in his black cassock, and Simon took Margaret and me into the church and up a steep staircase to the gallery where we sat with the six Sisters who made up the choir. The church proved as beautiful inside as out, with its simple white-washed walls, earthen floor and reed mats. It had the feeling of being constantly in use and was quite unlike any other church I had seen. As we looked down through the gum-wood rafters onto the heads of the congregation we saw that some of the women were wearing yellow head veils, and others black and white Sisters' habits. There were very few men in the congregation, but few as they were, their voices sang the bass parts strongly, while the women sang the other parts. The service was wonderfully alive and I felt involved in a very real and immediate spiritual experience. After church Simon showed us around. We saw the little chapel which had been built over his father's grave, and the vegetable garden scattering its bright greens down a large vlei. Then we visited the Sisters' quarters and the dormitory where the Novices and other single women lived - simple rooms where tidy, colourful bedcovers stood out against the grey of a beaten earth floor. We were called back to the Nyabadzas' house to find that Simon and his cousin, Maurice Nyagumbo, had organised a special lunch for their visitors. They had both worked in hotels and private homes in South Africa and had a very high standard of European cuisine, but used as we were to simple local food, Margaret and I were surprised at all the extra trouble taken on our behalf. After lunch I practised my few words of Shona with some of the Sisters. Love and friendliness literally shone from their faces as we laughed over my mistakes and tried to understand each other. 'Uno gonad uno gona!' 'You can, you can!' they encouraged me, and promised another lesson next time we met. Soon there was 'four o'clock tea' and more conversation with the Nyabadza brothers, and then it was time for us to leave before the early darkness fell I had already been living at St Faith's, an Anglican Mission outside Rusape, for three years, having come out from England in 1952 at the invitation of Guy and Molly Clutton-Brock. The C-Bs (as they were always called) had come to Rhodesia in

1949, having had experience of practical farming and community projects in England. Together with John Mutasa (who became farm manager) they started a co-operative farming scheme at St Faith's with the intention of restoring the badlyeroded Mission land and encouraging the men to return from the towns. I first read about the scheme in an English Sunday newspaper, and I was particularly impressed by the fact that blacks and whites were working together on the scheme, trying to put into practice the policy of partnership between the races on which the proposed new Central African Federation was to be based. Even before I left England I realised that racial co-operation at St Faith's was causing tension. In London I met the priest-incharge of the Mission, Rev Donald Stowell, and Bishop Edward Paget, in whose diocese St Faith's lay, and both were enthusiastic about the scheme. But I discovered that others, such as members of the Diocesan Standing Committee, local whites and even a few of the missionaries at St Faith's itself, were distinctly hostile to the idea of partnership, and Government officials were deeply suspicious. It was not long before we Europeans working on the scheme got labelled as 'communists' - a label attached indiscriminately to any who dared to cross the colour line. One of my first friends at St Faith's was Margaret Shumba. Molly C-B had recently started a small clinic for handicapped children, and Margaret, after two years' nursing training, had come to work with her. During 1955 Margaret joined a Ranger* company which was being run by one of the Sisters at St Faith's, and she asked if I would like to join too. I was already thirty-four and thought I was a bit old, but I agreed to go along as I felt it would be a chance to mix with other young African women living on the Mission. I was put in Margaret's patrol and after attending for some weeks was told that I should do a series of tests in order to get enrolled. One of the tests was to go for a day's outing with my patrol captain, and then to write a report on it for the Sister *Senior Girl Guides running the company. It was Margaret's idea that we should visit St Francis Mission, as she had friends there. She told me that the community was all African, but what she didn't tell me was that its members had all been excommunicated from the Anglican Church and were regarded as 'heretics'! So it was that early on that Sunday morning in October we had put on our Ranger uniforms and set off to cycle the 15 kilometres to St Francis. I had a great longing to return to St Francis, and a few weeks later I went on my own to spend a Saturday night there so that I could attend the 5 am Mass on Sunday. I was given a little room with a beautifully made-up bed, but I slept fitfully, fearing I might oversleep. I need not have worried, for two of the Sisters came to call me in time for the service. The Mass followed the Anglican liturgy exactly, and again I felt very involved. I was also impressed by the way Father Basil took the service. His singing of the liturgy was utterly fresh and real; there had been no Theological College to stylize his chanting. Although I knew by this time that the community was regarded as heretical by the Anglican Church, I had no hesitation in receiving the Sacrament. Soon after this I was working in the farm office at St Faith's when Ruth Stowell, the wife of the priest-in-charge, came in and asked me to go for a little walk with her as she wanted to talk to me. She told me that she had seen the report I had written about the visit to St Francis. 'Perhaps you don't realise those people are heretics,' she said. 'You should have nothing whatever to do with them. Very shocking things are done there. We don't go there and certainly never go inside their church.' I told her how impressed I had been with the place, its beauty and peaceful atmosphere, but she was adamant. Then she told me that she was hoping I would take on the running of tiM Rangers. 'Sister's leaving,' she said, 'and you woulC be the person to take it on, but you will have to promise never to go to that place again.' She told me to think it over, but I told her there and then that I could not possibly make such a promise, and we parted. I left the Rangers soon afterwards, and continued to visit my 'heretical' friends. Sometimes I took visitors there, and we were always given a great welcome. Simon Nyabadza was the one I got to know best at that time. He had spent a good many years in South Africa, but was now home for good, working as a clerk in the Native Commissioner's office* in Rusape. He helped his brother Basil take the services (other than the Mass, which only Father Basil took) and to entertain visitors. This he did in a simple but lavish style which he had learned from various 'madams' in Cape Town. With t1'e help of the Sisters he organised the preparation of huge picnics which we took with us in their truck or carried up the hill behind the Mission. Often we talked politics, and after the meal the Sisters would sing to us. Right from my first visit I was impressed by the sturdy independence of the people at St Francis, their natural acceptance of us as Europeans together with a complete absence of any desire to win favours or get anything out of us. They seemed to be so much a part of their surroundings, as it were growing out of the granite rock on which the church and houses stood, a real indigenous Christian community. Unlike the larger denominations, they ran neither school nor hospital, nor, as I learned later, was there any financial support from outside. Absent too was any apparent effort to make people join their community. 'They will come and join us if the Lord calls them, not otherwise,' I was told. What I saw was a deep faith in the bountiful hand of the Lord God, a community living the Gospel fully, truly and joyfully. Because of what I saw, I felt I wanted to help in some way, to become involved with them. An opportunity came when, early in 1956, I was told by Father Basil, 'We're taking on a small farm about five miles from here called Zonga. It needs fencing, but we haven't got money for that yet.' So I wrote to him offering L100 and he appeared touched by this really very modest offer. He wrote back: ...I feel we do not deserve all that goodness, and until yesterday I had decided to write back to say I am afraid we cannot accept your kind offer... but after thinking it *The term Native Commissioner was later changed to District Commissioner, now District Administrator. I - over and over I now feel that without my inviting you, Almighty Father led you to St Francis and was pleased to make you see that the existence of this Community was not man-planned and with that I think your kind offer must find its place in the Community. Friends of different races have visited us, and have admired our existence as a community, but all do not seem to have been given eyes to see what you and the CBs have seen. You already believe, almost as well as I do, in God's plan about this Mission, but I have this faith because I have been made to see miracles and convinced, when you have not seen any. On behalf of the Community here and with gratitude I accept your kind offer... I pray that God thanks you in the place of man...

Chapter 2 Much as I enjoyed visiting my friends at St Francis, I found that the increasing pace of life at St Faith's gave me little time. By 1956 the 10,000 acres of land was in much better heart, erosion had been halted and we were learning how to grow good crops on the light sandveld soil. Most of the Mission tenants had returned from the towns and were able to earn a wage on the cooperative farm, as well as working their own lands. The people of St Faith's were having much more say in their own affairs and looked upon the co-operative scheme as 'their show'. With the help of gifts and loans from supporters overseas, a trading store, butchery and grinding mill had been started as well as a small herd of indigenous Mashona cattle, pigs, poultry and a vegetable garden. My jobs included book- keeping, buying goods for the store, driving produce to Rusape and incubating and rearing baby chicks. I was also an occasional baby minder for Molly C-B's handicapped children. I never learnt to 'wallop' them (Guy's irreverent term for the Neumann Neurode system of exercises), but there were odd times when Margaret was away and I slept on the clinic floor surrounded by half a dozen blanketed bundles. Two young men came out from Britain in the same year as I did and at first we all lived with the C-Bs in what they called the common house. There were constant visitors - local African farmers, businessmen and teachers, as well as visitors from overseas who were interested in the co-operative scheme. We used to have long and sometimes heated conversations on every subject from pig-keeping to the Kingdom of Heaven, and of m course on the ever-present topic of the political future of Rhodesia. Soon after I arrived a weekend conference took place at the common house. This was the first of many such gatherings which later became adult education courses. Issues discussed covered such wide-ranging subjects as education, law, trade unions, democracy and local African history. Speakers of all races were invited to address the seminars - University professors, civil servants, lawyers and political leaders mixed freely with their audience. This first weekend was a small affair and was held in the newly-built clinic room and visitors slept in the various houses on the Mission. I, feeling very revolutionary at breaking the colour bar, slept with an African girl in a room at the European Sisters' convent. In 1955 we were given money to build a community centre, with residential accommodation, and this was used for the weekend courses as well as for meetings, a discussion group and social functions. St Faith's was becoming known in an everwidening circle as a place where people of all races could learn, work, eat and discuss together in a free atmosphere - a rarity in Rhodesia in those days. These activities were regarded by local whites as highly subversive and so were the several occasions on which we went as a mixed group to political meetings in Rusape. By 1956 Guy C-B and John Mutasa were becoming very much involved in the formation of the African National Congress, and we were visited by some of the leading nationalist politicians. The CID were also becoming increasingly interested in what they thought were our 'communist' activities. The tension which I first sensed in London between'the farm people' (as we were called) and the more orthodox missionaries and diocesan officials was never resolved. In spite of the fact that we ran on co-operative lines, real power still lay, as it did on all Anglican missions, with the priest-in-charge and ultimately with the Bishop. The occupants of mission land were on a yearly tenancy and could be turned off for any infringement of church rules. The Village Committee which had been formed to give the people at St Faith's more say in their own affairs was regarded by the church officials as a revolutionary body bent on seizing power from the church. It was not surprising that we had some stormy Mission staff meetings! Guy, John Mutasa and a Salisbury firm of lawyers tried for several years to draw up a scheme for a co-operative society which would have a legal status, but their efforts were thwarted by government and diocesan officials. In 1956 the priest-in-charge, Donald Stowell, returned to England. Guy by this time was anxious to leave, fearing that the scheme was becoming too much 'his show', and he and Molly were preparing to help start a similar project in Botswana (at that stage Bechuanaland). But their departure was delayed because the Bishop took nearly two years to find another priestin-charge and begged Guy to stay on. When the Rev A. R. Lewis finally arrived it was obvious that he was strongly opposed to the formation of a co-operative society or the handing over of any power to the people of St Faith's. He soon took back into his own hands the limited powers which the Village Committee held. By the time the C-Bs left at the end of 1958, the cooperative scheme was beginning to founder. The events at St Faith's were a true reflection of what was happening in the country as a whole. While blacks in Northern Rhodesia and Nyasaland* were becoming more and more hostile to the Federation and feared white domination, whites in Southern Rhodesia feared any relaxation of the colour bar or moves toward racial partnership. When trouble erupted in the two northern territories in February 1959, a State of Emergency was declared and 495 blacks were arrested. Among them were John Mutasa and three others from St Faith's, while Guy (the only white to be arrested) was taken from a cottage in the Matopos where he and Molly were on holiday. Guy was released after a month in Salisbury** Central Prison and John and the others from St Faith's spent three months in detention. The political tensions and arrests put ever-increasing pressure on the co-operative scheme which was already being undermined by Father Lewis' opposition. Members of the *Now Zambia and Malawi I **Salisbury was renamed Harare after Independence. 14

Diocesan Standing Committee regarded St Faith's as a hot-bed of subversion, though most of them had never visited us. With the encouragement of both government authorities and local whites, the Standing Committee took over the co-operative farm in October 1959, froze the bank account and appointed a white manager over John Mutasa, who resigned. Few of us had any belief that the Diocese would continue to run St Faith's farm as a co-operative, and although the Bishop (a new one Paget had retired) tried to heal the rift, the damage had been done. Supporters overseas who had invested in the scheme began to withdraw their loans, several key people working on the farm left, and the scheme collapsed completely early in 1960. Finally, a year later, the Diocese decided to sell the land to the government and the 10,000 acres was divided so that the Mission tenants were settled on smallholdings. An adjoining farm, Mbobo Flat, which had recently been bought, was divided into slightly larger farms, several of them near St Francis. It was a great relief during these difficult months to be able to visit our friends at St Francis. As I recounted these events to the Nyabadzas on one of my visits, they seemed to understand very well. They told me the same sort of thing had happened to them when they were forced to leave the Anglican Church, but at that time I didn't know much of the early history of St Francis. But for all the apparent failure and defeat at St Faith's one could see new shoots beginning to appear. By the end of 1959 Guy and Molly were starting on a similar scheme in Botswana. Molly had handed over the Mukuwapasi Clinic to Margaret, now married to a teacher, Peter Chiwandamira. The Clinic was soon to come under the Jairos Jiri Association, and Margaret and her staff continued their dedicated work. Others from St Faith's, both black and white, had formed a co- operative company on Nyafaru farm near the Mozambique border, and those left behind on the land at St Faith's would soon be putting into practice much of what they had learnt in the past ten years. During much of my time at St Faith's I was assisted in the farm office by two people: Sheila Graham, a nurse from V,-

Northern Ireland who came to join us in 1956, and Didymus Mutasa, John's younger brother. Didymus was born and brought up at St Faith's, and after secondary school he came to help us, particularly with the running of the weekend adult education courses. The co-operative scheme, and the non-racial attitude of those working on it, made a lasting impression on him, and when the Diocese took over he, like his brother, was deeply disillusioned with the Anglican Church. In 1959 he left St Faith's to take a civil service job in Salisbury. Sheila and I carried on until the end of that year, but we could see no future at St Faith's and at the end of December we gave two months' notice to the Diocese. We wondered what to do next. Neither of us wanted to return to Britain or to look for jobs elsewhere in Rhodesia. We knew we would find it impossible to fit into the usual pattern of white Rhodesian life, and we couldn't face the prospect of working on another Anglican Mission. I, in any case, had already told the Bishop that I no longer regarded myself as a member of the Anglican Church in Rhodesia. Just before Christmas I went up to St Francis on a Sunday morning and told Basil that Sheila and I had decided to leave St Faith's. He was not surprised. 'Where are you going?' he asked. 'I don't know,' I answered. 'but certainly not back to Britain. We want to stay in this country.' No more was said, and we went into church for the morning service. After the service a communal meal was being prepared which we were to eat in the shade of the tall gum tree in the middle of the yard. As we waited for the bowl to be brought round for hand-washing, Basil turned to me and said: 'If you haven't any other plans, would you and Sheila like to come and stay here? That would give you time to make up your minds what you want to do.' I said that personally I would gladly accept the invitation, but I couldn't answer for Sheila. Sheila, who had visitpd St Francis several times, needed no persuading, and we made plans for the move. We were told that we would be living at Zonga Farm, and one weekend we were taken down to see the little two-roomed house and separate kitchen which they were preparing for us. Neither of us had much in the way of furniture, so we arranged to take only our beds, a few paraffin boxes and our bicycles. A big square table and four chairs already filled the tiny sitting room. Farewells were said at St Faith's, and on the first Saturday in March Basil sent his truck down to fetch us. After months of frustration and disappointment at St Faith's we appreciated the warm welcome and loving care of our friends at St Francis. Gradually we got to know the community and to sort out who everyone was. Basil and his wife Rosemary had six children, two boys and four girls; the newest baby, Yvonne (who became my god-daughter), arrived at about the same time as us. Basil also had responsibility for his ageing mother, Mbuya* Elinor, and for his older sister, Maria, and her five children. Simon, now a widower, had two sons, being cared for by his unmarried sister, Anna; another brother, Lucien, working in Johannesburg, had his wife and two children living at the Mission. This large Nyabadza family and the twenty-three Sisters made up the community which welcomed us. Sheila and I settled down very happily at Zonga and enjoyed the simplicity of the little house - its unburnt-brick walls, thatched roof and dung-smeared floor. It had a tiny veranda facing east where we had breakfast, catching the sun before it rose above the low thatch. At first we were not allowed to do a thing for ourselves. Simon had taken some leave and put himself in charge of us, and Sister Felicity, who normally cooked for Basil and his family, had been sent down to cook for us. Wonderful meals appeared twice a day - meat, chicken, rice, potatoes, macaroni cheese, and lovely vegetables and fruit which were growing on the farm. After a week or so we had to suggest, as politely as we could, that we be allowed to have only one main meal a day. We also said we were quite used to sadza** and would be very happy to have it *Mbuya - Grandmother **sadza - stiff maize meal porridge ...... I in place of rice and potatoes. Alongside our house was the round kitchen and sleeping quarters of the Sisters who were working on the farm. They were busy silage-making, harvesting ground nuts, tending the vegetable garden and minding the cattle, goats and poultry. Sheila and I joined the silage-making, sitting round a pit chopping up maize stalks, and sometimes we helped in the garden. Our efforts were often greeted with bursts of laughter; we were evidently quite a rare sight, two white women actually doing some manual work! In due course Simon returned to work and Sister Felicity to St Francis, and Sheila and I remained with the Sisters. We were allowed to get our own breakfast and we joined the others for the evening meal in the big round kitchen. Nobody trusted us to cook sadza but we were allowed to wash the dishes and sweep the floor. Living in an African kitchen, with the fire in the middle of the floor, presents some problems for the beginner. For instance, we had to learn the difference between the firewood, the sweeping sticks and the mugoti (specially shaped wooden stick for cooking sadza) if we were not to throw our useful tools on the fire. Then there was the smoke, and our eyes streamed with tears until we got used to it. At first we were horrified at the smokey grime which settled on everything, but after a time we accepted it as 'clean dirt'. Constant warfare had to be waged against cockroaches, otherwise they got the upper hand. But all these difficulties were far outweighed by the advantage of being able to sit in a circle round the fire, and the warmth of the fire was reflected in the warmth of the companionship which we felt. As well as learning how to live an African life, Sheila and I were improving our Shona. The Sisters could speak very little English, so we mostly spoke in their language. Our efforts to teach them English were less successful, chiefly because they so seldom needed to speak it. We were living at the foot of Zonga mountain, a beautiful outcrop of rock which towered above us. A short distance from our house the boundary fence ran up to the top; on the other side of the fence there was a large tobacco farm owned by a white farmer. I had, in fact, met him and his family soon after I arrived at St Faith's when we Europeans were invited to an elaborate picnic at the foot of the mountain. Having eaten well, we had struggled to the top, and when we got down again were regaled with tea and sundowners at their house. Later on our inter- racial activities at St Faith's made us unacceptable visitors in the local white community, and there were no more picnics. Now Sheila and I wondered what they thought of the two white women 'going native' on the other side of the fence, or whether they even knew we were there! Zonga was wonderfully peaceful. We rarely saw a car, though some of our friends did brave the bad road to come and stay with us. Basil appeared one day with the C-Bs and their young daughter, Sally, who were up from Botswana on a visit. In the evening we sat round a huge fire outside, surrounded by stacks of harvested groundnuts, and talked politics and religion as we roasted mealie cobs and nuts at the fire. Before we women went inside to bed (the men slept round the fire), Basil led the evening prayers as we knelt under the stars. We were all moved by this experience, being brought together in such a simple but meaningful way. Sheila and I already took part in the morning and evening prayers, which were never missed, and we began to realise that this was the clue to the deep feeling of peace and serenity at Zonga. We had already experienced the same atmosphere at St Francis, and now we found that it wasn't just a happy mood on a sunny Sunday morning when visitors were around; it was there too on a rainy, working Monday morning when the wood was wet and the fire smoking worse than usual. There was no bickering or backbiting, no sarcasm, no jealousies. Sheila and I did our best to live up to the standard. Every Saturday Basil came down to Zonga with the truck to see how the work was going. After lunch, all of us, excepting two or three Sisters who remained, piled into the truck to go back to St Francis for church. On the Monday morning Sheila and I would cycle back down the rough track, laden with bread, cheese and newspapers. One Saturday in May Basil couldn't come and we had to decide whether to cycle up to St Francis or whether to miss out .. - 19 on church and spend the weekend at Zonga. Sheila decided to stay put, but I was unsure what to do. I knew that the Sunday services were a very important part of the community's life, and coming together for Mass meant a great deal to everyone. I had a feeling that this was an important decision I was facing, and I remember sitting in the kitchen at four o'clock knowing that if I didn't make up my mind soon it would be too late to get there before nightfall. I decided to go. It was nearly dark and the six o'clock Angelus had already been rung when I reached St Francis, but the beaming smiles and warm handshakes of Basil and the Sisters made me sure I had done the right thing. At St Faith's I had been a rather unenthusiastic attender at church; it had been a duty rather than a pleasure to sit through the long Shona services. Now I was beginning to want to go to church, and to see that prayer and work must go hand in hand, each equally sustaining the life of the community.

Chapter 3 It was at Zonga that I began to learn more about the early history of St Francis and how the community had started. Simon told me a good deal and gave me an account in English of his father's life which had been written by Matthew Nyamapfeni,*a builder and friend of Francis. Like many of his generation, Francis was converted to Christianity as an adult. He and his wife were baptised in the Anglican Church in the 1920s, took new names and began to follow a new life. From being a 'drunkard' he is described by Nyamapfeni as having become 'a new creature'. He learnt to read and write and in turn took on teaching other converts. By the 1920s the Anglican Church had acquired large tracts of land. New converts were invited to settle on these lands as tenants of the Church, to cultivate their own crops and to help with the building of churches and schools. The priest-in- charge of a Mission was invariably a white, and he was assisted by black priests and catechists in the work of visiting the small churches and schools in the surrounding area. Francis was one of the catechists in the St Faith's district and was stationed at a small village in the Chiduku Reserve". The priest-in-charge of St Faith's was the Rev (later Canon) Edgar Lloyd, a man of humility and simplicity and a close friend of *In fact Nyamapfeni wrote two accounts. The first was a translation by Nyamapfeni of Francis' own account in Shona. The second account was written by Nyamapfeni in 1981. I have quoted from both accounts, neither of which has been published. **Rural land set aside for Africans. Originally called Native Reserves, changed to Tribal Trust Lands, and now known as Communal Areas.

Rev Arthur Shearly Cripps, the priest and poet. When Lloyd went on trek round the villages, Francis' out-station was one of his favourite stops. He evidently thought much of Francis, finding him a man after his own heart, simple and kindly, yet a strong and powerful preacher. It is clear from Nyamapfeni's account that Lloyd supported Francis in his preaching against beer drinking, particularly his anger at people coming to church services in a drunken state. Sometime in the mid-1920s Francis was transferred to St Faith's Mission. Here, in 1932, with Canon Lloyd's encouragement, he formed a chita, a lay guild dedicated to St Francis of Assisi. Francis was the leader of the guild, and his wife, Elinor, led the women. Those who joined renounced smoking, beer drinking and the brewing and serving of beer, and promised to attend the daily morning and evening prayers. A man preaching with such zeal and power, a leader able to persuade others to abhor the customary beer drinking and to get up before light for morning prayers, inevitably provoked antagonism and jealousy. African priests and church officials, some of whom drank heavily, were particularly enraged. In an effort to discredit him they even went to the length of deliberately putting some mamera (the residue of the beer-making process) in his yard, to try to prove to the priest- in-charge that Francis was secretly drinking himself! Far from embracing this ardent member of the Mission staff, the priests did all they could to persuade Lloyd to have him removed. Matters came to a head when Canon Lloyd and his wife were planning to make a visit to England. Rather than leave him at St Faith's with the hostile priests, Lloyd arranged for Francis to be transferred to St Matthew's church in Rusape. Here again he drew many people to his services and classes and many joined the guild. But once more he was in trouble. Nyamapfeni describes how: They began to worship at night on Saturdays up to Sunday mornings. Before long the white people (living) near them, especially at John Cowie School, complained to the Town Council that it was just a nuisance to have them nearby. They must stop (the services) and clear away the church. 22

Within a short time another church was built in the African location and the old church in the town was later pulled down. By this time, not only was Francis drawing people by his preaching and prayers, but the gifts of prophesy and healing were also becoming evident. It is not surprising that many gave up attending their home churches to join in the guild services at St Matthew's, thus incurring even more the wrath and jealousy of the priests. In their eyes Francis had gone far beyond the bounds of his licence as a catechist. Several times he was 'brought to judgement' by church officials for preaching against drunkenness, and on one occasion he was 'commanded not to receive the Holy Sacrament for a month'. This seems a singularly inappropriate punishment for such an ardent believer. This did not deter Francis and he continued his work. When Canon Lloyd returned from England the priests once more asked him to have Francis dismissed. Lloyd was very unwilling to take this step, but the pressure on him was too great; he reluctantly asked Francis to give up the work at Rusape and to go to his home. When the guild members heard of his dismissal 'they all said, "We are prepared to accompany you as our dearly (loved) teacher up to Makoni Village. We can all carry luggages on shoulders."' Some years previously Chief Makoni had bought 11,000 acres of Crown land with money subscribed by his people. It was land on which the Chief lived, and a portion of it was regarded as sacred because it contained the graves of the daughters of previous Chiefs. When the Land Apportionment Act later demarcated 'European' and 'Native' areas, this land was termed 'Special Native Area' and was held in trust by the Chief Native Commissioner. The land, known as Makoni Farm, lay 20 kilometres west of Rusape and was bounded on one side by European farms and on the other by the Makoni Reserve. The north-east corner of Makoni Farm encompassed the headwaters of the Nyatande River, and the Chief had allocated this piece of land to Francis because he felt he would look after it. It was here that Francis and his family came to settle. Ten minutes' walk away, in Makoni Village, was the church and school of St Luke's, an outstation of St Faith's Mission. 23

Francis was, to some extent, relieved that he no longer held the Bishop's licence as a catechist, and he hoped the priests would now change their hostile attitude. But within a few days of his coming to Makoni, the guild members started visiting his home and insisting that the meetings continue. So he went to see Canon Lloyd to ask him what he should do. He told Lloyd that the members refused to disband and were prepared to walk long distances from their homes to hold their meetings at Makoni. Lloyd suggested that he should ask the church officials at St Luke's whether he could use their church for the guild meetings. Francis went to see them but was refused permission. The guild members were quite undeterred by this, so a round hut, in which a small altar was built, was set aside for their prayers. But they evidently feared the local church officials. Nyamapfeni relates how: People awakened each other to go to church as soon as the cock cried. They had no bell rung, being impressed that if they rang a bell to wake them up the elders and priests may hear the tintinnabulation and they would be arrested... They said their prayers by heart and no voice was allowed to shout. How dreadful it was goodness knows. Therefore in those days the cock was an important bell among the African people. It seems quite clear that Francis had no intention of founding his own church or even a community, and he and his wife and the guild members continued to attend Mass at St Faith's and to pay their church dues. It must therefore have come as a shock to Francis when, through prophetic utterance, he was told to build a church at his home. At first he refused. In his own words: I... was very afraid... While I pondered on this for many days, another man made the startling announcement that if the Africans fail to put up a building, something would happen to our work - God said this to him: 'I am the Lord of Hosts.' Seeing how small and nothing I am in the presence of the Lord, I wrote a letter to the parish of St Faith's and to the Bishop in Salisbury. The Bishop refused permission for the church to be built, so Francis wrote again saying: 'The Lord of Hosts says it must be built,' This time there was no reply, so it was decided to go ahead with the building 'under the guidance of the Holy Spirit'. The site for the church was at the highest corner of the Nyabadza plot, on a flat piece of solid granite rock. The young builder, to whom Francis gave directions, was Matthew Nyamapfeni, assisted by members of the guild. It is said that the whole building - the arrangements of the altar, which is raised well above tle nave (and originally included glass doors enclosing the altar), the gallery and bell tower, the side-chapel of the Virgin, and the vestry - was given to Francis in a dream. Certainly parts of the church are quite unlike anything he can ever have seen. The building of the church once more provoked the wrath of the priests, and during 1935 they sent 'bad reports' about Francis to the Bishop. The part played by Bishop Paget in the controversy reflects his difficulty over divided loyalty. A man of considerable insight, courage and largeness of heart, Paget obviously came to love and respect Francis. At the same time he felt he had to listen to his priests and their complaints and give them his support. The Bishop decided to meet Francis and the guild. He was due to take a confirmation at St Faith's on 6 March, 1936, and Francis and the guild members were summoned to attend. Francis relates: We went to meet the Bishop who was coming for the first time to meet the guild of St Francis. The rumour went round that the Bishop was really coming not to the confirmation but to make a final judgement on the guild's members. This was very dreadful and we were not at all happy at the thought of meeting the Bishop. We felt like a flock of sheep going to the slaughter. There was no conversation on the way to St Faith's. We were all in a silent mood. On arrival at St Faith's they were told to wait in the church. ...at once the Bishop came and... greeted me saying, 'Are you Francis? Are you Francis? Are you Francis?' At this extraordinary greeting my heart beat faster - much faster than before. Then we sat down. The Bishop was standing and he said, 'Francis, do you know that I have bad reports about your work - I have had many letters about you.' The Bishop then spoke words which I still to this day cannot understand. He said 'Francis, you are my brother, and I am your young brother; now I want you to accept me as a member of your guild. Though I may not be present with you in person, I shall, I am sure, be with you in spirit.' Then the Bishop said, 'Francis, may I speak publicly to you in front of the priests?' I agreed to this but the Bishop sent the priests out of the church. The Bishop then asked me if anything troubled me. I said that we were in trouble with the priests.. .They say 'You should not prohibit drinking.' The Bishop then recalled the priests. The priests came in and the Bishop said, pointing at them, 'Francis, do not fear these people - they are unable to see through thick clouds - they do not understand what good work you are doing.' And to them he said, 'Francis and the guild have taken another step forward for Christianity. This guild is a branch of the Anglican Church.' Then the Bishop gave me ordination* and authority. He said, 'Francis, today you are authorised and ordained as a priest in this parish. Whenever you want to ask about anything and whenever you see something wrong in the parish, write to me as your Bishop.' Speaking this word he laid his hands upon me and also strengthened my wife, Elinor. After this he raised his hand to bless the whole guild. This support for his work heartened Francis, who felt that the Bishop was 'a true prophet...he has foreseen what work Africans would do.' *In the English translation of Francis' manuscript the Shona word kugadzwa has been translated as 'ordination', but it can also mean to be blessed or commissioned. Neither Francis nor the guild regarded this as ordination to the priesthood, but rather as authority to carry on the work he was already doing.

In spite of the authority given to Francis by the Bishop, the controversy went on. By 1937 Canon Lloyd had retired to live in Rusape and a new European priest, Rev AC Knights took over at St Faith's. He was evidently very unsympathetic to the guild and once again Francis and the guild were called to a meeting 'forjudgement'. Francis recounts how Father Knights said, 'The church you built should be abandoned and burnt by fire.' Francis and the guild returned from the meeting deeply troubled. A few days later the priest and a crowd of local people came to burn down the church. But with great courage Francis and the guild members marched over to the church: 'We went two and two to our places, singing hymn 167, The angels have mighty powers. The priest and the crowd that judged us were amazed. We entered the church waiting for him to set fire to it, but after a while we heard his motor car going away to St Faith's Mission.' On the advice of Canon Lloyd, Francis again wrote to the Bishop, and asked him to come to dedicate the church. The Bishop replied that he would visit them when he was next in the area. On 20 October, 1938 the Bishop arrived and 'was very pleased with the church, especially the gallery'. Then he said to Francis: ' "Francis, how did you manage to do this? Surely the Holy Spirit guided you in doing the work."' He promised to come to dedicate the church in five days' time. Great preparations were made by the guild, but once again they were to be disappointed. The Bishop was persuaded by his priests not to recognise the guild or to dedicate their church. In spite of this set-back the guild carried on as before, and they still went occasionally to Mass at St Faith's. On the eve of St Faith's Day in October, 1940 they went down to attend the festival and found another white priest-in-charge. They had a hostile reception. He asked why they did not come to regular confession:' "Have you no sins? If you do not bring your church tickets* and say a true confession I will chase you. I shall not give *Record of church dues paid. the Holy Sacraments to heathen people belonging to a different church." ' The guild returned to Makoni rebuffed and deeply hurt. Francis relates that: the priests for jealousy traduced and maligned us, judging the Africans as poor instruments to proclaim the great truth of observing and keeping God's rules, but yet a blazing star of the Lord God of Armies was leading them. Two months later, on 8 December, the priest-in-charge of St Faith's went up to Makoni. He arrived as the morning prayers were about to begin and Francis asked him to take the service. He refused, saying that all services must be held at St Faith's or St Luke's. 'I am afraid you are astray,' he told them, 'I had the aim of bringing you back to repentance and to send you to your former churches.' Francis asked him why their offence was so terrible, after all 'we have not committed adultery or murder'. Then Francis said to the priest, 'You interfere with those that are praying and seek God, and leave those who are astray and have forgotten the doorposts of the church.' Francis, realising that the priest wanted to close their church and scatter the guild members, then went and sat by himself to consider his position. Presently he came to a conclusion. Directly on the very same hour I told the priest that I have branched from the Church of England today. Whatsoever I shall not return to join the Church of England again. If I want repentance I have to join the Methodists or some other churches which do not allow any strong drinks.' So the break finally came, and Francis and the guild became independent of the Anglican Church.

Chapter 4 Francis was now faced with the problem of how to survive as an independent church. In his account he says: After leaving the Church of England I heard from many people that I was about to be put in prison for the fact that the Government was very against to see a man, especially a black man, running a church of his own. This was quite intolerable. One day, at the police station, a constable spoke to Francis: 'We are hearing of your work. Does the Native Commissioner know?' So the next day Francis went to the Native Commissioner, Mr Phayre, and invited him to come to Makoni to see for himself. Nyamapfeni continues the story: The N.C. agreed and appointed a day and he asked for the presence of Chief Makoni so that they could both see whether or not the work was efficiently good among the people. There was a great preparation to receive such notable visitors and everyone palpitated at heart. The congregation and strangers assembled to hear and see the activities of the day. They drilled like soldiers in regiment, melodious songs proceeded from their voices as they attended the N.C., Chief and councillors. The N.C. stood up and gave a few words of thanks for such respect but never said anything about Nyabadza's work for which they had called him. Then they were shown round, but still Mr Phayre made no comment. After receiving gifts they departed. Nyamapfeni continues:

This was not satisfactory. Nyabadza was in great terror and asked some of his followers, 'Tell me, why did the chiefs fail to say a word about this? Will this work be with us still? These chiefs are in conspiracy with the Bishop.' Most of his days he fasted and gave a prayer frequently: 'God, if this work is not to thy Will and approval break it and destroy it entirely, but if it is yours give guidance and develop it for ever.' His prayer was answered in a fortnight. A messenger from the N.C. was sent to call Francis to Mr Phayre's office in Rusape. Francis was evidently afraid it would be bad news. His hands started to shiver with sadness in his face. We arose early in the morning and cycled to Rusape and on our arrival he reported to the Sergeant: 'Sir, I have come according to the request.' Looking into the court, we saw things covered by a veil on the table. The N.C. came very quickly, greeting Nyabadza. We entered the court room. He said: 'I was happy to see your work that you are doing. There is no person or government that will say "Do not pray to God." Today I will give you this golden cross and two candlesticks, they are gifts which I am giving you to put in your church. You must keep them, but if you get tired of worshipping and give up your work you must bring them back to me.* I am a communicant of the Roman Catholic Church. I am pleased to give these to you.' The N.C. strengthened him saying, 'God does not stay in someone's house - he is everywhere, you go and hold your services, it's all right.' Nyabadza was so delighted and brought these things to the church. Francis then sent someone to Salisbury to find 'a bell'. Like many other churches the bell installed was an empty oxygen cylinder and, as Nyamapfeni relates: It was after the permission of the Native Commissioner when the tintinnabulations of the church bell was heard from afar. *The brass crucifix and candlesticks are still on the altar.

Now that the guild had broken away from the Anglican Church and was recognised by the government as a Church in its own right, it took the name 'The African Church'. A manifesto produced in the 1940s reads: St Francis is the Church of all black people born in this Country. It is known as an Harbour for the Africans. For an example: The Church of England was started by a man of England. Therefore let us turn back to our starting point. The work is supported by a good number of the African people. Doing work for themselves all the time. There are skilled Girls and Boys. They milk, cutting by saws, 10 girls can make 3,000 bricks a day, tailors, painters and inside wall builders. The African Church carried on observing the rules of the guild - no smoking or drinking or beer brewing. There were other prohibitions: no eating of pig meat no eating of an animal which had died of itself (had not been slaughtered ) no eating of meat at a funeral (in case it had been offered to the ancestral spirits) no wearing of charms no attendance at beer parties Furthermore, within a marked area round the church, all members were to walk in pairs, unless they had permission to walk alone, and unmarried girls were not to go into town or into stores without a fellow church member. These rules were not imposed but were gladly accepted by the members. There were no punishments for infringements. A few months after the break-away, Francis announced that he would hear confessions and celebrate Mass in the church the following Sunday. Since he was not an ordained priest this was, in the eyes of the Anglican Church, the ultimate act of disobedience. A year later, after due warnings had been given, the Bishop took the final step of expelling Francis from the Church. A typed notice of excommunication, dated 19 May, 1942, of 'Francis Nyabadza and all his followers' was brought to Chief Makoni. The Chief said they must deliver it to Francis personally, but when his messenger sent for Francis he was told, 'I left their Church long ago. We have nothing to do with the notice.' So it was nailed to the gate at St Francis and a similar notice appeared on the door of St Luke's church. From then on the Anglican Church regarded the St Francis Church as heretical and there was no further formal contact between them. Members of the Anglican Church were discouraged from visiting St Francis and were forbidden to enter the church. As a result of the break-away some members of the guild certainly gave up attending St Francis church. Others had more courage. Joseph Chimhowa and his wife, Rhoda, gave up their lands at St Faith's and went to settle beside the Nyabadzas' home at Makoni. But most of the married members continued to live at their homes in the Reserves. Friday mornings would see them setting out to walk up to St Francis and on Mondays they would return home. As I pieced together the story of how the St Francis community broke with the Anglican Church, I saw how history had been repeated at St Faith's. In both cases the Bishop was divided between admiration for a new manifestation of the Gospel and his loyalty to his priests, and it was the priests who won him over. In each case the Anglican Church could not contain the new wine and the old wine-skins were broken. As we sat round the fire at Zonga the Sisters started to describe how they had come to live at St Francis. Many of them had joined the guild when Francis was teaching at St Matthew's, Rusape. Some of them lived a few kilometres from the town and went to school in the mornings and then stayed for prayers and singing in the afternoons. When Francis moved to Makoni they walked up there three times a week, taking food with them and staying a night. Most of their parents were very hostile to the guild, especially as their daughters were refusing to help brew beer, and they tried to prevent them from going. Boys, in whom these marriageable girls had no interest, would throw stones and taunt them as they left. One of these girls, Jenny, the daughter of Boniface Mutasa, was particularly badly treated. She recounted how: When Baba Francis left St Matthew's to live at Makoni I was too young to walk all that way, but when I was about fifteen I decided to go with the other girls. I was afraid to tell my parents, so I said I was going to visit 'friends'. After the third time my father said, 'Who are these friends you keep visiting?' One of the girls, Grace, had advised me to tell my parents the truth, so I told him I had been to church at Makoni. He was very angry and told me never to go again. But I couldn't promise him never to go again. On the next Friday I went to our fields and in the afternoon I just left to go to Makoni without saying goodbye. When I got home on Monday my father was furious with me. He took a rope and tied my hands and tied the rope to a tree. Then he beat me on the legs and back with a bhandi (a strap). 'Now will you go to Nyabadza's place again?' he asked me. I said that I would go again. Then he released me and told my family that I was not to have any food all day. But my mother was sorry for me and whispered that she had hidden some food out at the lands. Later, when my father went off to drink beer, I went and ate. I went to Makoni again on the next Friday and when I got home my father didn't beat me but he took all my clothes, except the dress I was wearing, and burnt them. Another time, when I got home, he tied me to the tree in the yard again. It was after dark and he just left me there. I could hear him and the family saying the evening prayers in the kitchen and my father was praying that I should repent of my disobedience. I was very frightened and I was praying too, to St Michael and St Francis, 'Please protect me.' Before he went to bed my father released me. In 1937 I went with others to be confirmed by the Bishop at St Faith's. I then became a member of the guild and I had to tell my father that I couldn't help to brew beer any more or even draw water for beer making. He was very angry, but he couldn't force me. Then one day my father told me that we would all be moving to Tanda to live. This place was much too far for me to walk to Makoni, so he asked me, 'What will you do now?' I said that I couldn't go with them to Tanda. When I went up to Makoni I told Baba Francis about my family moving away and said that I would try and find somewhere near St Francis to live. I knew that he wanted to ask me to live with them, but they already had Philida and Grace, who were ill, and two others nursing them, and they had no room. He knew how difficult my father was and before I left he took me into the church and laid his hands on my head and prayed that I might be strengthened in my resolve. When I got back home I found everything being packed ready to leave for Tanda in the morning. My father again asked if I was going with them, and I said I couldn't go. Then, in the kitchen that evening, he took a length of tambo (rope) and gave me one end to hold. He gave me a knife and told me to cut it. 'When this is cut it will mean you are no longer my daughter,' he said. 'If I die you will not come to bury me, and if you die I will not come to bury you.' I refused to cut it, saying, 'No, I cannot do this, you are still my father.' I could see how angry he was, but he couldn't make me cut it. Then I went outside the hut and sat and prayed that my father's heart would be softened so that we could part from each other in peace. When I went to sleep I dreamt that I saw two men, one was my father and the other St Francis. I was asked which I would follow and I went and knelt and took hold of the hem of St Francis' habit. Next morning I knew my prayer was answered. My father was quite quiet and said goodbye to me before they left on their journey. When I got to Makoni later in the day, Baba Francis said that Mai Elinor wanted me to live with them. She would find room somehow. My father never reached Tanda. He was taken ill and died on the road. The family buried him over that side, but I didn't go because it was too far. My mother came back later to our old home, and I went to see her, but I never went back to live there. I stayed at St Francis. Philida and Grace were a few years older than Jenny. Nyamapfeni remembers how they came to live at St Francis: Baba Lloyd retired from his ministry at St Faith's and obtained a plot called 'Zuwa ra doka' ('the sun has set'). One day the guild [went] to visit him [to] be preached to and receive the Holy Communion. [Afterwards] the whole guild left Zuwa ra doka for their homes. When the people had come to the junction for each group to go to their homes, the power of God came down to capture some of the girls. Philida and Grace were struck and fell on the ground. They became very ill in so much that they could not go their way home except they face towards the way to St Francis. Each time they attempted to go towards their own homes, the girls were 'struck down' (became unconscious). Every time this happened, Francis prayed over them until they came round. It was finally decided to walk up to Makoni as it was quite clear that God did not want them to go to their own homes. Next morning the two girls decided they must go home, but as they reached the main gate they fell down again. After Francis had prayed they tried the back gate, but again the same thing happened. They then stayed a whole week, and on the following Monday they tried to go home again, but again they were 'struck down' and had to be revived. After this they made no further attempts to leave St Francis, but a further constraint was put upon them. No longer were they able to eat normal food without again becoming unconscious, and they became progressively weaker. In a prophetic utterance by one of the guild members two other girls, Violet Nyambia and Margros Nyagumbo, were called to come and stay to nurse the two sick girls. Gradually the two girls recovered and were able to eat normally again.

Those, like Nyamapfeni, who saw these things happening could come to only one conclusion: 'There was no man commanded or ruled them to stay and leave their homes, simply because God himself called them.' Furthermore, one of the prophesies had been, 'People shall be captured and stay in this Mission.' Thus the four girls, Philida, Grace, Violet and Margros, joined later by Jenny, came to live at St Francis. Soon other girls were asking to come and stay; some of them, like the Nyagumbos, were related to the Nyabadzas, others were not. One of their first tasks was to mould bricks and cut grass for thatching so that a dormitory and kitchen could be built for them by the men and boys. It was about this time, too, that the gum trees were planted round the yard. Another significant event occurred at about that time which had far-reaching consequences. Philida tells the story: We were ali in church one evening when, at the end of the service, two of the women, Mai Rhoda and Mai Agatha, came and took hold of me, one on each side. Still holding my dress, they took me up the steps to where Baba was standing at the altar. Baba then said to me: 'Philida, you are commanded by the Lord to serve him, to look after the altar and the church; you will not marry, but you will be a Sister and a servant of the Lord until your death. This has been commanded in a prophesy given to the two women who stand beside you.' Then he laid his hands on my head, and gave me a new name Clara. As we came out of the service everyone shook my hand and called me 'Sister', and they seemed overjoyed that this had happened to me. But I was shaken and shocked. I had known nothing beforehand of what was to happen in the service that evening. Then I went to Baba's house and he told me that Mai Rhoda and Mai Agatha had prophesied that I was to be the first Sister. But he had told them not to say anything about it to me. During the next few days he taught me what it meant to be a Sister, and about the rules, and I was given a white veil to wear. He also told me about St Clare of Assisi* and said that this was to be the name of the Sisterhood. From this extraordinary start, so unexpected and unsought, the Sisterhood at St Francis grew. Two years later Sister Clara was joined by two more girls - Jasmine Garanewako and Violet Nyambia. Then by Grace (who took the name Maria), Catherine, the daughter of* a church member, and Jenny. Before they took their vows, Sister Clara gave them the instruction which she herself had received, and they were all made Novices and later full Sisters. For them the service of 'ordination' was a more conventional one than Sister Clara's and they took the three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. During the following years more girls joined, and within ten years there were seven full Sisters and nine Novices. The rest of the girls, who had taken no vows, were known as 'maSoja', 'the soldiers'. They continued to live with the Novices, but the full Sisters were given a smaller dormitory and kitchen to themselves. Sister Clara, although the first to be made a Sister, was not made Mother Superior as in other Religious Orders. She ranked above the others, but the leadership was shared with Sister Jasmine and Sister Violet. Sister Jasmine became the leader of the work in the fields and the brickmaking, and all three were consulted by Baba Francis on matters concerning the church and the community. The other Sisters and Novices took their rank according to the order in which they had taken their vows. Their habits, conventional black and white dresses and veils, were similar to those worn by the white Sisters at St Faith's. At first they modelled their domestic life too on what they had seen *St Clare of Assissi ran away from home when she was eighteen and took the veil from St Francis. He provided a refuge for her and other Sisters at San Damiano where the first house of Poor Clares was founded under her leadership. done at St Faith's, and the younger Novices and girls cooked for and waited on the full Sisters. When I first visited St Francis, I asked about their cooking arrangements and was told 'The girls cooked for us at the beginning, but it didn't work out well, and now we cook for ourselves.' I learnt too that being a full Sister didn't bring any special privileges. 'We all do the same work and eat the same food.'* Francis' wife, Elinor, appears to have played an important part in the formation of the community and was much loved by everyone. She was regarded as the mother of the church, and she took rank above the Sisters. Born a Nyagumbo, she was, like others in her family, a very courageous woman, determined, hard-working and with a fine spirit. There is a story of her walking down to Mass at St Faith's alone very early one morning before light and meeting a lion on the way. They say she looked it full in the face and commanded it 'in the name of Jesus Christ' to depart, and it did. She was a fine example to the other women and was prepared to do even the most menial tasks. From the time the church at St Francis was built, she always started the day's work by sweeping the church - a job she did every day except on Thursdays, when she spent the morning in the church fasting and praying. Although she had her own family to care for, she gladly accepted the young girls who were gathering to live at her home, and became a mother to them too. Sister Jasmine told me: In those days life was very hard, we had no land, only the small plot for the Nyabadza family. We asked the Native Commissioner for land but he couldn't give us any, so we used to go and work for the European farmers. The pay was very low for weeding or harvesting maize, but we got more for brickmaking. Sometimes the work was near home, but at other times we would stay on a farm all the week and come home on Saturday for the Sunday services. Often food was scarce she went on: Sometimes on a Friday evening, when many people *To avoid unnecessary repetition I refer to the three 'orders' - full Sisters, Novices and Soldiers - as the Sisters. had come in for the weekend, there would be only half a tin of maize meal to last until Monday, not nearly enough for us all. So we went to Baba to ask what we should do. 'Divide the meal into equal amounts for each meal and cook just that amount, no more,' he would say. 'Then call me when it's ready and I will come and say the blessing.' So this is what we did and we were very amazed because always the cooked sadza was enough and everyone was satisfied. There seems to have been little contact with whites in those days, apart from local farmers who came in to ask the Sisters to come and work for them. There was still a good deal of feeling against the St Francis community amongst local blacks, and they were regarded as outcasts. Sister Jasmine remembered how: Often we were charged a very high price for vegetables or maize which we needed to buy, but there was nothing we could do about it. Then there were the times when some local people stole blankets and clothes from our huts while we were in church. They even put poison down in the cattle kraal and some of the cattle died. Many lies were told about the community and there were a number of scurrilous stories which circulated amongst Anglicans. Even after I had come to live at Zonga I was told by an Anglican friend that people believed that the Sisters were not Sisters at all, but were a kind of harem for the leader. We later heard that some people thought Sheila and I were additions to the harem, kept well out of sight at Zonga! In spite of all these difficulties the little community not only survived but grew stronger. Sadly, within a few years of becoming independent, the community began to be increasingly concerned about Francis' health. His illness progressed slowly over a number of years. When, in July 1951, death seemed near, he asked to be taken to the home of his eldest married daughter on the other side of Rusape.

His wife and two of the Sisters accompanied him and he died there on 10 August. He was buried the following day in the yard beside the church at St Francis. A few years previously he had already trained and ordained his youngest son, Basil, and it was he who now took over the leadership of the community. Chapter 5 From the time we went to live at Zonga Sheila and I got to know Basil a great deal better and he became less shy with us. We were very impressed with him, particularly the way in which he organised the work and his deep concern for the welfare of all the members of the community, including ourselves. Sometimes on his visits to Zonga he would have a cup of tea with us on our little verandah and we got talking on all sorts of subjects farming, education, religion, politics. Or he would talk a bit about himself, and it was from him, as well as from Simon, that we learnt something of his early life and upbringing. Basil was born in 1925 while his parents were still at St Faith's, the youngest of their six children. His Christian name was given to him by a European priest from Bulawayo who was visiting the Mission. He came to the house to congratulate the parents on the birth of their son, took the baby in his arms and said that his name was to be Basil. It was a prophetic choice St Basil the Great was a good organiser. Basil grew up first at St Faith's and then at Makoni. Nyamapfeni remembers him as a boy, as 'meek and charitable... he did not fight anyone.' He went to St Luke's school and then as a boarder to Bonda Mission. 'There were no buses in those days,' Basil told me, 'so we had to walk over the hills with our tin trunks on our heads and it took us all day to get there. School was tough and we used to work very hard digging the foundations for the new Bonda hospital. But it was good for us - it made men of us.' He did well and his father managed to scrape together enough money to send him to St Augustine's, the leading Anglican school for Africans near Umtali.* 'I came out top of the class, but they wouldn't take me into the Secondary School because my father had left the church and they looked upon him as a heretic.' The Roman Catholics, however, were quite happy to take him at Kutama, where he again did very well. With his big build and determined character, he was a star footballer. 'The Catholics wanted me to join their Church. They saw that I used to go to Mass every morning and they thought they could convert me. But I loved and respected my father and I had seen many wonderful things happen at St Francis, and I knew I couldn't desert him.' He got his Junior Certificate at Kutama and, as there was no money to send him further, he came home. It was then that his father began to plan for the future. Although there were two older sons, Simon and Lucien, both working in South Africa, he knew that young Basil was the one to lead the community after his death. Simon remembered that 'my brother was very reluctant to take on this responsibility, he didn't really want to do it. He was clever and could have got a good job.' However, in 1945 Basil was ordained as a priest by his father, but it was another five years before he began to hear confessions or to say Mass. In the intervening years he learnt a great deal from his father. Francis, glad as he was to have his son at home, felt that he should gain some experience elsewhere, so Basil went to Salisbury to work. 'My first job was as a gardener and looking after poultry for a European. He was a very nice man. My father used to come and stay with me sometimes, and we had prayers together in the servants' quarters where I lived. The European was very impressed with my father and had long talks with him. After that job I joined the Roads Department and worked as a mechanic. I learnt a lot, and it was very useful to me afterwards.' When his father bbcame ill it was decided that Basil should work nearer home. He took a job as a clerk in the Native Department in Rusape, cycling the 20 km to work and back every day. *now Mutare 42

The Sisters have told me something of Francis' illness. 'He had a lot of swelling in his legs and he couldn't walk, so we used to take him in a wheelbarrow to the door of the church and then some 6f us would carry him up to the altar.' (One wonders whether this was the origin of the story which Ruth Stowell told me, 'the St Francis people so worship their priest that they even carry him about like the Pope.') Standing up at the altar he was able to say Mass, but he relied increasingly on his son to take the services. When Francis died in August 1951, Basil took full responsibility for the community. He didn't immediately give up his job, mainly because his salary was needed to support his family and the community. 'After my father died, I was transferred from Rusape to Inyanga. So I bought a small second-hand car and every Saturday afternoon I drove down to St Francis. I stayed until after a very early Mass on Monday morning and then drove back to be in time for work at eight o'clock. I did this for two years and the car never once let me down.' It was at Inyanga that he met Rosemary Gorogodo, who was to be his wife. She was very young, but had finished her primary schooling and was now teaching. She belonged to the Anglican Church, but because she was marrying a 'heretic', no priest would perform the ceremony. So it had to be a civil marriage in the Native Commissioner's office, and later a service in St Francis church. This service took place after his father's death and the Sisters tell, with some amusement, how Basil doubled in the role of priest and bridegroom. Basil soon set about the task of getting the community onto a better economic footing, thoi h still continuing with his job. He had one great asset in the willing band of Sisters, now numbering about twenty, but the daily work needed initiating and organising. The Sisters remember there were times when there was not enough work, and how they all used to go down to the garden just to plant one small bed. Basil wanted to make it possible for them to give up working for local white farmers, though the Sisters were still keen to go brick-making. His father-in-law, Lucien Gorogodo, was a businessman and had recently acquired a small farm near the Manyika Reserve. He was able to give his son-in-law some help with starting a small trading store in the Reserve, and although it was 50 km from Makoni it was to bring in a useful income. Basil was also given a piece of arable land on Gorogodo's farm, and the Sisters were allowed to make bricks there. This help meant that the community was less dependent on Basil's salary, and there followed two particular incidents in 1953 which made him sure that the time had come to give up his job and come home. The first occurred on Gorogodo's farm very soon after Lucien Gorogodo and his family came to settle there. The Sisters relate how it happened: We were making bricks some way from the farm house. We cooked our meals there, and one evening we were just going to eat sadza when a lion passed very close to us. We were rather frightened but we all stood up and formed a procession and marched back to the house singing a hymn, and we reached it safely. Then the next evening at about the same time we noticed that a fire had started on a hill not far from the brick-making. This seemed strange to us, as there was nobody up there. Then that night Sister Jasmine had a dream. A dead woman we had known in Makoni who had lived a bad life appeared to her in the dream saying, 'I am greatly troubled. I have nowhere to rest and I'm wandering all over - Umtali, Headlands, Makoni. Did you see the fire on the hill? It was I who started it.' When Basil came to see how the work was going the Sisters told him about these happenings, and they all concluded that there were bad spirits abroad on the farm. That evening they lit a huge fire outside and all gathered round to pray and sing. Soon a new hymn was being sung: like the fire on the hill the words and the tune had burst into flame: Ari Mambo we wamambo Tenzi we watenzi Jesu Kuwamba ne Kuguma Apana anoyenzana naye.

Wakagara kugwenga, Apana anoyenzana naye. He is King of kings Lord of lords, Jesus, the Alpha and Omega There is none other like Him. He lived in the wilderness There is none other like Him. Basil spoke with great spiritual strength of the power of the Lord which would overcome the evil spirits: 'There is none other like Him'. From that time on there were no further incidents, the spirits departed and the farm was blessed. One hopes that the spirit of the poor woman also found rest. The other incident happened at St Francis. Sister Jenny had been ill with a stomach complaint for about six months. She got steadily worse, could eat little and was quite unable to walk. The Sisters watched her strength slowly ebbing away until one day she went into a coma and was obviously dying. They sent a message to Basil to come at once. By the time he arrived her breathing had stopped and she was thought to be dead. But Basil took command and prayed over her with great urgency and power. In a short while she had regained consciousness, and from then she slowly and steadily recovered until she was able to lead a normal and active life again. These two incidents, in which Basil prayed with such spiritual power, convinced the community that he had been given the gifts which his father had had. And Basil now knew, without any doubt, that he was needed at home. There was another reason for his coming home. Before Francis died, he had started negotiating to buy Zonga, the small farm where Sheila and I were now living. Provided he qualified as a 'master farmer', Basil could take over the farm himself. With characteristic vigour and enthusiasm he did his qualifying cropgrowing on the family plot at Makoni, and took possession of Zonga in 1955. From then on it was no longer necessary for the Sisters to work on European farms; there was plenty for them all to do on the 200 acres at Zonga. *** By October Sheila and I had been at Zonga for six months. In that time we had learnt a great deal about St Francis, how it had started and how it functioned, and we were very impressed by the life and spirit of the community. We had also had time-to decide what we ourselves wanted to do. Sheila told us that she felt she should go back to Britain for a while, and she flew back in October. While she was over there she learnt to spin and weave and later returned to join the others who had started the co-operative project at Nyafaru. For several months I had had a growing conviction that I should stay permanently with the community at St Francis. I discussed it with Basil and he agreed that I could stay, but suggested that when I returned from a visit to England in 1961 I should live at the Mission rather than at Zonga. Meanwhile I remained at Zonga, working on a book about St Faith's and caring for 100 baby chicks which Basil had asked me to rear. Two weeks before Christmas I took a rest from writing and got busy making figures for the crib which was to be set up in the little side-chapel in St Francis church. About a week before Christmas I was happy to be joined by another Shelagh - Shelagh Ranger. Her husband, Dr Terence Ranger, had joined the history department when the University opened in Salisbury in 1957. He was the first warden of Carr Saunders Hall, and he and Shelagh did much to encourage black and white students to mix freely. They also became deeply involved in Salisbury's political life and knew all the leading black nationalists. Shelagh arrived at Zonga obviously extremely tired and tense. 'I've been at the trials of some of our friends,' she told me, 'taking down the proceedings in shorthand. I've brought my typewriter so that I can transcribe my notes.'

For the first few days she worked away furiously on one side of the table while I manipulated pipecleaners and bits of material on the other. Then one morning she suddenly stopped typing, pushed her notes away and said, 'What am I doing this for? Do you think there's any purpose in what I'm doing?' 'Who needs these typescripts?' I asked. I don't really know,' she replied, 'but I suppose Terry might need them some day, perhaps for a book. But I may be just wasting my time.' For the first time she relaxed and joined me in making the crib figures. The life of the community and the peacefulness of Zonga were clearly affecting her in a very fundamental way and she was beginning to love the place as much as I did. On the Monday morning, when we had been at the Mission for the weekend, she told me she had had a dream which seemed to compel her to go to Mass rather than to lie in bed. 'Patricia,' she said. 'I would never think of going to church on a Monday, but I think I must go.' She got up and went. We went up to the Mission two days before Christmas, and Terry Ranger joined us there. Every major festival at St Francis, such as Christmas and Easter, is preceded by two or three days in retreat. The women come from their homes and they and the Sisters spend the morning in the church in extempore prayers and hymn singing. It is also a time when testimonies, prophesies and dreams are told. A strict fast is observed until noon, and after a meal everyone joins in the work outside. The Rangers and I were not expected to join in the retreat or to fast and we were given various jobs to do. On Christmas Eve great tidying up went on, the church was decorated by the women while the men built and thatched the little crib. As I set the figures on the hay late in the afternoon I had a strange feeling that they were alive and were glad to be in their places in the Bethlehem stable. At the evening service they and the crib were blessed, to the singing of 'Oh come all ye faithful' as we all gathered round. After evensong we gathered outside in the yard to drink tea and talk. Basil's uncle, Lewis Nyagumbo, told us of how Baba

Francis had foretold the coming of Europeans to St Francis. 'He had a dream some years before he died, and in the dream he saw white hands amongst the black hands held out to receive the Sacrament. We found it hard to believe that white people would want to come to this poor place, but now we know that he was right.' We were up at five the next morning for Mass, a long and very beautiful service. Shelagh and I had brought presents for everybody, and after the service we gave them out. Then the Sisters and the children sang their thanks and some of the women danced. But we discovered that present-giving is not a great feature of an African Christmas, though sometimes children bring little bunches of flowers and chant 'Christmas box, Christmas box' and wait expectantly for sweets. Later in the morning there was tea and bread for everyone under the big tree, until it was time to go into church again for mattins. Meanwhile chickens, rice and sadza were being prepared by the duty cooks and in the afternoon there was a communal meal and more singing. We celebrated the coming of Christ in what is surely the best possible way - simply and joyfully, without all the overspending and over-indulgence which clutters up Christmas in the western world.

Chapter 6 The Rangers had returned to Salisbury and I was back at Zonga in the New Year when Basil started talking about a possible trip to Lupani Restriction Area. 'I think we should go and visit Maurice,' he said, 'and Terry and Shelagh would like to go too.' Basil's cousin Maurice is the eldest son of Lewis Nyagumbo. As a boy just left school Maurice had made his way to South Africa, where he was employed in various domestic jobs. After some years he became involved in politics and was eventually deported. On his return to Rhodesia in 1953 he got married and started a small store in his home in the Makoni Reserve. At weekends he often visited St Francis, helped cook for visitors and talked politics with his cousins. After the formation of the African National Congress Maurice went round, often with John Mutasa, disrupting meetings being held by the Native Commissioner, and it was not surprising that he was one of those arrested and detained in February 1959. While many others had been released, Maurice and a few nationalist leaders had been restricted at Lupani on the western side of the country. According to the rules governing their restriction they were allowed to be visited but could not themselves leave the area. We left for Lupani in two cars, the party consisting of Basil, Rosemary and baby Yvonne, Sister Jenny and Sister Amy (Maurice's sister), Eric Mugadza (a church member and friend of Maurice), the Rangers, John Read (a lecturer at the University) and myself. The camp was a collection of huts spread over a fairly large area of forest, and there appeared to be no guards. Maurice was overjoyed to see us and we spent most of the time talking. The men played draughts while the women cooked and we all sang. Most of the talk was about politics and the detained group told us, 'We're educating the local people in politics and they are learning fast.' In the evenings and early mornings Basil led the prayers as we knelt on the dirt floor of one of the huts. Maurice was then (and continued to be after spending the best part of twenty years in prison) extraordinarily patient and tolerant. Although he was a man who could lose his temper (a characteristic which on a few occasions put him in trouble in his prison days) his resistance to oppression took a passive form. Yet he consistently refused to co-operate with the authorities or to 'buy' his release by renouncing the struggle. Nor did he take the few opportunities he had of leaving the country, preferring to stay and suffer with his own people. Basil and Simon were not as politically active as their cousin Maurice. Basil no doubt felt that it could have conflicted with his responsibility for the community and he was probably right, for, had he taken a larger part, he might well have been one of those detained during the Emergency. A friend of his, Columbus Makoni, was one of those detained, and when he was released he went to see Basil. The two men agreed it would be better if they didn't show publicly that they were 'politicians': 'We agreed to work underground,' Columbus remembers, 'to talk privately to people so that they would learn politics. If we were all to be arrested, the people would never learn. So that is what we did.' Columbus had known Basil since they were boys, and now they did business together. They bought in maize from people in the Reserve and resold it to white farmers in the area. This was illegal, as Africans were permitted to sell maize only to other Africans, or to the government at considerably lower prices than they could get from the farmers.* Most years the people in Makoni Reserve had plenty to sell, but one year there was a severe drought, and instead of selling maize they needed to buy it. Columbus recalls: We decided to go and look for maize near the Mozambique border, beyond Inyanga. We went in my truck; we took no food with us as we thought we should find stores where we could buy some. But when we got to the area we found no people and no stores. It was getting dark and we found a place to sleep in a deserted house, left by people who had been chased away from the area by the Europeans. I asked Basil, 'Now what are we going to do about food?' He replied, 'God has made us to come here, he knows we are trying to help our people, and he will know what to do.' He wasn't worried, and before we slept we prayed together and he asked for God's help. We slept well and were not disturbed. Next morning we left the house and had only gone a short way in the truck when we met an agricultural demonstrator from Makoni, a man we both knew. He was working in the area and he directed us to the people who had maize to sell. As we were buying, more and more people came with maize, until the truck was full. Meanwhile the demonstrator cooked us food and we spent another night with him before returning home. God had answered our prayers. The following year there was plenty of maize in Makoni, so we bought from the people again and sold it to the white farmers. We did that for a whole year, but had to stop because some Europeans didn't pay us. We couldn't complain to the police about it because Africans were not supposed to sell grain to whites. Columbus remembers that he always worked happily with Basil: 'He never showed me a rude face, he was always a smiling man.' *The government did this in order to fund work, roads, dip tanks etc. in the Reserves. This levy, the African Development Fund, was much resented by Africans.

Although he appeared 'a smiling man', Basil was becoming increasingly frustrated over the colour bar and the restrictions suffered by all blacks in Rhodesia. He was convinced that only well-organised opposition to the government would be effective, and he was always very ready to discuss politics. Guy C-B remembers looking in at St Francis occasionally, and Basil 'immediately seized us and took us into his room, sat us down and started talking about nationalist politics and the growing nationalist movement. We didn't talk about anything else, and what impressed me was his keenness about it.' In September 1961 I returned from six months leave in England having seen my book about St Faith's on the way to being published. Soon after I got back we built a small threeroomed house at St Francis for myself and visitors with money donated by a friend of the C-Bs. Two years later Basil built me a round, thatched kitchen. At first I slept alone, but later two of the Sisters came to sleep with me. In a circular letter to friends written in May 1963 I described my domestic life: I have most of' my meals with the Nyabadza family, and give Mai a hand with washing up, sweeping etc. and provide a lap for one of the babies. (Mai Nyabadza has eight children under twelve, so there is nearly always someone in need of consolation!) Water has to be brought from the stream, and the children learn to carry tins, kettles, jugs and finally buckets on their heads. Washing is done where the water runs over a rock, along with other women from Makoni village. I feel slightly guilty that I am given the upper reach of the stream because my sheets are more or less white. I find this life refreshing after our pavement-bound life in the West, although in England I got a peculiar thrill out of washing up with running hot water, and the electric iron... All the same I wouldn't exchange the washing rock or the maddening charcoal iron for any amount of Western civilization. I rather suspect that Mai, with her eight children, would. During 1961 and 62 Shelagh Ranger spent a good deal of time with us, and obviously found the life at St Francis deeply satisfying. In many ways she took to the life quicker than I did, and she helped me to become assimilated. Once she said to me, 'Everyone else here calls Basil "Baba". Don't you think we should too?' I agreed, so after that Basil was always Baba and Rosemary was Mai. Everyone called me Mukoma* Patty. Shelagh and Mai got on very well together, Shelagh had no children at that time, but Mai would often confide in her. 'Shelagh,' she would say, 'I love my husband and I love my children, but having so many babies so close together is a big burden for me to bear.' Once we asked her, 'If you didn't have these babies what would you really like to be doing?' and she answered, 'What I would like is to run a little cafe on the roadside, where the buses stop at the turn-off to Makoni, and serve tea to people.' Sometimes Baba took us in his truck down to the store in Manyika Reserve and we stayed a few days there. On the way we would call in on Maurice's wife and family to see how they were managing on their own and to take goods to their store. Then there would be another call at Eric Mugadza's home and a welcome cup of tea from his wife. Eric and his wife Erica were guild members in the early days and they later married. Eric - server in church, maker and drinker of innumerable cups of tea, shoe repairer, farmer and friend - was Baba's frequent companion, a diminutive figure alongside him. On a Friday afternoon Eric would arrive at St Francis, having walked or cycled the 25 kilometres from his home and greet me with: 'Mukoma Patty, you got cuppa tea?' Hardly time to drink it before he was off to join Baba on a trip to buy a cow, huntfor buck or sit down to a game of draughts.Then into church for evensong, knowing all the bass parts. After church more tea and more draughts until the early hours of morning, finally laying out his blankets for a few hours' sleep before the early morning bell for church. *Mukoma - sister (or brother)

Eric seldom misses being at the Mission f'om Friday to Monday, yet he is one of the best farmers in the Makoni district and his crops are the envy of his less hardworking, beer-drinking neighbours. Many of the male members of the church have drifted away, but Eric, and his great friend Onias Tenha, have remained faithful since the beginning. Towards the end of 1961, soon after I moved into my new house, Simon began to complain of indigestion. After tests it was discovered that he had cancer and that there was nothing the doctors could do for him. He gave up his job in the New Year and came to live at home. Because of his difficulty with eating I sometimes cooked him a light, nourishing meal which we ate together. He was a very interesting man to talk to and would tell me more about his father and 'the old days' and of how the community had started. Once he described how, 'in the early days, before the church was built, we used to hold our services in a little round hut which we called "Holy Cave". It was very amazing how many people got into that tiny hut. It didn't matter how many came, they always managed to get in.' Then he would tell me how he took choir practice every Sunday afternoon. 'We used the tonic sol-fa and we learnt most of the hymns in the book, far more than the Anglicans use. The women made church uniforms and banners, and we used to practise marching and singing. But some of the things we used to do are not done now - I think people are busier on the land these days.' Once he said, 'You know, Mukoma, this place didn't start like other Missions, nobody actually planned it.' Then he told me something of the dreams and prophesies which played such an important part in the founding of the community. 'We know that the Lord is directing this place, and we just have to follow.' He told me too of the area round the church. 'This area, which we call the yard, is very sacred. The boundary is marked by the gum trees and the white painted stones, which you have probably noticed. St Francis is a very secret place, Mukoma, and there are still many things which cannot be told.' I knew that many miracles of healing had occurred at St Francis, and throughout his illness I was convinced that he would be cured. But one day, just before Easter, he told tie of a dream he had had the previous night in which he was lying on the Cross on the ground, his arms outstretched. He knew how ill he was, and I think he took his dream as a sign of his approaching death. Many people were paying him visits by this time and he asked his family to carry him down to a sheltered place in the garden where it was quiet. He spent several days and nights there and on Easter Sunday Baba took him the Sacrament. On Monday morning the weather was wet and cold, but Simon refused to go back to his house in the yard. 'To die within the yard is difficult,' the Sisters told me. So I offered my spare room, and it was there, two days later, that he died. His body was carried over to his kitchen and even then, as his family mourned him, I still believed a miracle could happen. So I asked Baba to pray and not to announce his death by tolling the bell. He was obviously surprised, but he went at once into the church and I followed him. He prayed for some time in a little chapel, dedicated to St Gregory, behind the main altar. Eventually he came down to me and just said quietly, 'I'm sorry, it is not given to me to do.' This was the first of many times that I learnt to accept his judgement and authority without question. The bell was tolled. The relations and friends who had come from far and wide to see Simon when he was ill now came again for the funeral. He was buried the following day on a hill a short distance from the Mission. Although he had spent much of his life in South Africa, he was known and loved in the district and hundreds came to mourn him, among them Terry and Shelagh Ranger. As we talked with Baba after the funeral, we all came to the same conclusion: Simon had not sought, or even wanted, spiritual healing, and was ready to go on to his next life. Barely six months later the Nyabadza family suffered another blow, the death of Lucien, the second of the three brothers. He died in South Africa and was buried by his friends there. Now Baba was the only brother left and thus had responsibility for Simon and Lucien's four children. It was decided that they should be brought up by their aunt, Tete Anna, who was also looking after Mbuya and working the family plot. Early in 1963 we heard that Terry had been served with a deportation order, and that he and Shelagh had to leave the country. The deportation order was the result of Terry's political activities - sit-ins, classes in passive resistance (which were banned), and the publication of a political magazine, Dissent. (He also achieved fame by being pushed fully-clothed into a public swimming bath by an angry white!) On Ash Wednesday Baba drove some of us up to Salisbury to see them off at the airport, little knowing that it would be seventeen years before they could return.

Chapter 7 The St Francis community had, from the first, accepted me as a kind of honorary member of the church, and I received the Sacrament, though I didn't go to confession as the other members did. I took this step later. But now, early in 1963, I decided that the time had come for me to make a more positive commitment, and I asked Baba if I could join the church. He told me that he would have to consult the senior Sisters and the men of the church and, if they agreed, I would be admitted. In my circular letter of May 1963 I said: My decision to join this community has been arrived at gradually over the three years since Sheila and I were first invited to stay here when we left St Faith's. No pressure whatsoever has been put on me by anyone here, other than being told that this is my home for as long as I like to stay. I am not alone in experiencing this strong pull to come here, since over a score of African women before me have had the same experience. I believe that if we Europeans are to become rooted in Africa, it is necessary for some of us to stay put quietly in one place so that we can put our roots down. Africans have become so used to Europeans being constantly on the move - into town for shopping... down to the Cape for a holiday, off to England... ours is a mobile, restless civilization, bewildering to people whose only means of transport is two feet... I realised that integration into the St Francis community would mean that I would, to a large extent, surrender my indepen57 dence, and that I would come under Baba's authority. I decided that it would be easier to do this if I gave up being independent financially. So I told Baba that I would like to contribute to the community the small income I received from a family business in England, and in return receive my living expenses and a small amount of pocket money. He agreed to this somewhat reluctantly, wondering perhaps whether I really meant it. This arrangement went on for the next fifteen years. When, by August 1963, I had heard nothing further about my joining the church, I enquired again and was told that I would be admitted on St Francis Day, October 4. I had already been given a small book in Shona setting out the rules of the church, which I would promise to obey. When I discussed the rules with Baba, he told me, 'Although you may find them difficult to understand, they are still a necessary discipline in the community.' At the same time Baba made it clear that he could relax a rule if necessary, 'I can allow you to eat pig meat if you go overseas.' Another rule which was waived for me was the one forbidding a woman to walk on her own in the yard at night. The house in which I lived was outside the yard, and Baba was obviously anxious not to make life too difficult for me. The initiation ceremony is a simple one and the same for all who join St Francis Church. In my case it took place during the evening service on the eve of St Francis Day, and I was told that I should prepare by fasting from midday onwards. Towards the end of the service I was taken to kneel at the chancel steps. After a few prayers Baba asked me if I would keep each of the rules and to each I replied, 'Ndino rega izvo zwese kuti Mwari ari mubatsiri wangu.' 'I will abstain from this, God being my helper.' To the last question, 'Are you prepared to be harassed, despised or ill-treated and to suffer persecution?' I replied, 'I will endure this, God being my helper.' Then the Sisters put on my newly-blessed yellow head veil, and red and white bands (signifying the Body and Blood of Christ) diagonally across my chest - 'uniform' which I would in future wear at all services. Then, as a hymn was sung, Baba took off his stole, put it round me and led me up the steps into the chancel, where we knelt during further prayers and the singing of the 23rd psalm. As we came out of the church afterwards, everyone c lasped my hand saying, 'Makorokoto', congratulating me on becoming a soldier. Then we gathered in the Nyabadza house for a little celebration followed by prayers before going to bed. I was the first white to join the African Church, though both Bishop Paget and Canon Lloyd are listed as having been members of the guild. (The Bishop, at least, must have been an honorary member, for he enjoyed his brandy and orange when he visited us at St Faith's!) Two other whites have at one time considered joining, but it was not to be. Shelagh Ranger, who had found new faith at St Francis and felt very drawn to us, subsequently joined the Roman Catholic Church. Although we were disappointed at the time, it now seems wholly appropriate that her new-found faith should have found expression in a wider context. The other was Ann Spence, who first came to St Francis when she was one of Terry Ranger's history students. Born in Britain, Ann and her family came to Rhodesia when she was a schoolgirl. After University she became a teacher and used to come down to St Francis as often as she could. In a paper which she gave at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London in 1974 she describes her early visits: On each occasion I was welcomed with more courtesy and kindness than I had any right to expect, cared for with bountiful hospitality and invited to regard the community as my home and myself as mwana wa Baba, one of the 'children' of the leader... I developed immense affection and respect for those members of the community I came to know best, and their influence on my own life and thinking has been of the profoundest... That [my relationship] with them could have developed at all says much for the nature of the community. I spent most of my childhood in Rhodesia in a home which fostered many of the undesirable values with which white Rhodesia is afflicted, and first met them as a young student who was only on the brink of awareness that Rhodesia was made up of two nations. The ignorance I must have exhibited and the blunders I must have made in the first contact with another culture were never allowed to affect the human warmth of our encounter even at times when political feelings ran very high. Ann showed considerable courage in coming to St Francis. When she returned to Salisbury from these visits she had to endure the taunts of family and friends - 'You've been living with natives' - and was made to feel an outcast and to have betrayed 'her own kind'. But she felt very drawn to St Francis, and in a letter to me she wrote, '...although I cannot forget the many real difficulties in the way, I feel more sure every time I come that my future lies with you all at St Francis and I wish I could see more clearly how things might work out. Still, I know that this urge to plan the future is a secular western obsession, and I believe that I am beginning to learn from you all now a little of the way that faith and prayers take care of this.' We all realised that one of the many real difficulties was what work Ann would do if she did come to join us. Although she always took part in whatever outdoor work we were doing, I don't think she was ready to give up the kind of work for which her education and intellect fitted her. She could have continued teaching, spending her holidays here, but that would have been a half-measure which might not have worked out in practice. The greatest difficulty, however, was that she would have had to surrender her independence and put herself under Baba's authority, not easy for someone brought up in the western world. Perhaps, after all, the time was not ripe. Although neither Shelagh nor Ann have joined us they have both continued to have a very sympathetic and deep concern for all that goes on at St Francis. With no university degree ('0' levels and elementary bookkeeping were all I ever achieved), it was easier for me to surrender my independence than for Ann. Even so there were times when I found it difficult to accept Baba's authority. On the occasions when we did disagree and I 'flew off the handle', I invariably found the only way to keep our relationship on the right road was to apologise as soon as possible and to talk the matter out. Though sticking to his point (and he was usually right), he was always reasonable, kind and generous. I remember once Baba asking me to sign a document to do with sending maize to the Grain Marketing Board. I knew the figures were false, and with my usual British regard for honesty I took great exception to putting my signature on the dotted line. Baba had no such compunction; beating the white- biased system, by whatever means, was quite in order. We argued about it, but in the end I apologised and signed. There must have been many times when Baba and the Sisters found me quite insufferable with my tendency to criticise, argue and insist on having my own way. With infinite patience, and in true Shona fashion, they refrained from reproving me. I was allowed to learn from my mistakes and was seldom told directly what or what not to do. I was expected, like the children, to learn from others' example. It was considerably easier for the Sisters to come under Baba's authority, for they had never known independence. According to African custom a woman is subject to her father and, when she marries, to her husband. The Sisters had all had only two or three years' schooling and had come straight from their homes to join the community. They seem to have found no difficulty in transferring their obedience from their respective fathers to Baba Francis and, when he died, to his son. Great deference was always paid to Baba both as priest and as father of the community. No important decision, such as going on a journey, could be taken without his consent. 'Baba, may I go to my home, my mother's ill?'... 'May I go to Rusape Hospital?'...'Baba, I've heard that my brother's home from Johannesburg, may I go and visit him?'... Then, on return, the visit would be told him in detail, 'I found my mother very sick, but when I left she was better.'.... 'Baba, I was given these pills by the doctor.'.... 'I was given this blanket by my brother, Baba.' The outward sign of this deference to him was shown by kneeling, a custom largely abandoned elsewhere. Every morning after church, we all knelt to say 'good morning' and I knelt too, the alternative being to remain standing alone. But at other times, especially when speaking in English, kneeling didn't seem appropriate and I would speak to him standing. As time went on I gradually came to defer to him and consult him on any problem. Like the Sisters, I too experienced a feeling of security and assurance in our relationship, and like a true father he took full responsibility for us, loved us and respected us. I was surprised when I first came to St Francis to find that no formal meetings were held, either to discuss church affairs or matters concerning the daily work. I was told that, though Baba often discussed things informally with the men or with the senior Sisters, he himself made all the decisions. Ann Spence, in her paper to the SOAS describes him as: ...a chief-type leader in the style of the African heritage. He is father, brother, uncle, confessor, provider and works manager. Every deference is shown him; he is informed about everything that happens... and his advice and approval are sought in all matters. To an observer, this seems to be more because his people wish it to be this way than because he commands it. It was well, perhaps, that Baba's 'family', the African Church, remained small. After twenty years of independence from the Anglican Church, the total membership, including children, never rose above 150 at any one time, a number which he could effectively minister to and lead. Many of the original guild members had died, and some of their children and grandchildren who were baptised into the church had drifted away. The men often found it difficult to keep from beer-drinking and gave up their membership; girls, on marriage, usually joined their husband's church. New members were almost invariably the young wives of existing members; some joining more willingly than others. Like so many newly-established societies, St Francis was beginning to feel the effect of having thirdgeneration members; the ardour which had been so strong in the old days was cooling, and the claims of modem life were starting to compete with the claims of the church. The Sisterhood also remained static. From 1953 onwards no new Novices or full Sisters were made, and I was one of the only two new Soldiers. Visitors would sometimes ask, 'What of the future? What happens when you're all old and there are no new ones coming in? Won't the community die out?' These are questions which cannot be answered. But lack of vocations does not seem to worry the Sisters. Again they say: 'People will only come if they're called.' Baba himself never put pressure on anyone to join the Church or the Sisterhood, nor did he try to swell the numbers by evangelising in the district. He was quiet and unassuming and never sought publicity for himself or for the community. He never wore a dog-collar and had little contact with leaders of other Churches. The only occasion on which he spoke about the community to a public audience is recalled by Terry Ranger: In 19611 organised a conference at the University about Christianity and Society. I had begun to do research on missionaries and their relationship in the past to Government and to African politics. I knew that there had been a challenge to the mission churches by prophetic leaders who had broken away to found their own churches - though in 19611 did not yet realise that Southern Rhodesia/Zimbabwe had become one of the great ventures of African independent Christianity. I thought that we must have a spokesman for the African churches and the obvious man in my eyes was my close friend, Basil Nyabadza. In some ways I could not have chosen a less suitable spokesman: in other ways I could not have chosen a more impressive one. Basil was extremely reluctant to speak at the conference, to a public audience, full of white churchmen. He did it in the end merely out of friendship to me. But when he did speak he conveyed his reluctance in a profoundly impressive way. To him the history and experience of St Francis was really a holy secret: St Francis was a hidden garden of the Lord. Basil did not claim, at the conference or at any other time, to possess for himself the prophetic and charismatic gifts which had distinguished his father. He presented himself as the guardian of the community which his father had created. But his sense of the holiness of the inner life of that community came over very strongly and very impressively. As he briefly traced the history of the origins of St Francis it became clear that he did not see the church as a great evangelising movement, challenging white Christianity in the name of a general African religion. The community had come together because it felt a divine imperative to worship together: it had left the Anglican church when its members had been prohibited from taking communion at St Faith's and were in danger of being scattered. Francis had assumed the priesthood which Basil, all unworthy in his own eyes, had inherited in order to ensure the continuity of sacramental worship at the heart of the community. Basil spoke no word of criticism of the established mission churches, but at the same time he revealed a concept of the priesthood and of the worshipping community which many of the white clergy who attended the conference found challenging and humbling. I remember a Jesuit priest exclaiming with enthusiasm: 'But they became a church for all the very best reasons!' The fact that I, a while woman from a country thousands of miles away, had joined their Church seems to have deeply impressed the people at St Francis. It was for them yet another sure sign of the divine foundation of the community - that it was not man-planned'.

Chapter 8 During the first year that I lived at the Mission at St Francis I received several visits from the local white CID. Although I took no active part in politics I suppose my 'communist' reputation had followed me from St Faith's. Also I was, technically at least, breaking the Land Apportionment Act by living in an African area without permission, which I refused to seek. My living with an African community was considered abhorrent by iRusape whites, and I heard later from Margaret Chiwandamira that I was considered to be 'not quite right in the head'! Another reason for CID attention may well have been the fact that we were having quite a lot of visitors including such 'subversive elements' as the Rangers and others from the University in Salisbury. During 1962, before he was deported, Terry brought his history students to explore the Gwindingwe caves a short distance from St Francis. It was at Gwindingwe that Chief Makoni and his people defied the settler troops in the 1896 rebellion, until finally the entrances to the caves were dynamited and the Chief surrendered. The Chief was condemned to death by the British commander at an irregular 'trial' and executed on the spot. The students learnt their history at first hand from Lewis Nyagumbo and other old men of the district who could remember those days. They heard of the anger which the Makoni people felt over the death of the Chief and his replacement by a puppet 'Chief' chosen by the Native Department, and they could see that, sixty years later, this bitterness remained. Other visitors included the Salisbury Work Camps Associa- tion who spent two weekends with us. It was an interracial group and they worked on various jobs such as erecting a chicken run and creosoting gumpoles for a new roof for the church. Conversation over meals invariab!y centred on the political situation and we would all hazard a guess on how long before there was majority rule. Five years? Ten? Fifteen? 'At least twenty,' said the pessimists. But no one doubted that it would come. Visitors from Salisbury came with stories of demonstrations and sit-ins in protest against the colour bar, which made me feel that we at St Francis were very inactive. I was hardly aware of the politicising which Baba was doing amongst people in the villages, a job he was quietly getting on with while Maurice Nyagumbo and more prominent nationalists were in and out of detention. Although Baba rarely attended political meetings, he did sometimes commit his views to paper. In 1960 he wrote to a white MP, Mr H. E. Davies, who had asked for his comments on the Monckton Commission Report. This Commission had been set up to test opinion in the three territories of the Central African Federation. Baba wrote: ...I agree... [with the Report] that 'far-reaching reforms are essential' if federation is to continue without the use of force... I think the Native Department should be abolished... it has become a dictatorship and the Native Commissioners have.., enormous power over the lives of Africans who are completely at his mercy... On widening the franchise he wrote: ...I quite realise that elections Ion a much wider franchise] ...would mean a majority of African voters, so I would suggest that for the next ten years there should be parity... On racial discrimination: It is very important that.. .there is protection for some sections of the people because of poverty or backwardness. But this does not mean that there should be unfair discrimination against all African people on grounds of colour. The S Rhodesian government should bring in legislation to make the colour bar illegal... The Land Apportionment Act... must be repealed. I do not believe this country can go forward in any way until the Act has been abolished... On safeguards: I agree... that safeguards are needed and especially to safeguard the liberties of everyone... At the moment Southern Rhodesian citizens can be detained for five years without trial and this law is being used against African people. But Europeans as well as Africans may need safeguards in the future, and if they are made now they might help to remove some of the fears of the Europeans. On the civil service: ...In the Southern Rhodesian civil service no European ever works under an African and this must stop. There are now many Africans who are as well, if not better, qualified than some Europeans... On partnership: ...The policy of the federation is one of partnership, yet in Southern Rhodesia the races are kept apart by segregation, and there is not enough contact between us. Europeans are extremely ignorant of conditions in the African area, and think they know the African when they see their cookboy. But if Europeans try to make contact with Africans they are looked on with suspicion by the authorities and made to feel they are doing something wrong. For instance, I am in charge of an all-African Christian Mission and we have Europeans to visit us from time to time, and some European friends. But when they have been to see us I and some of my neighbours are questioned by the CID which makes us feel we are suspected of doing something against the law. I think that if the country really means to go ahead with partnership the government must stop this sort of thing and instead encourage mixing of the races, and make more opportunities for people to meet... Although in retrospect these views seem quite moderate, in those days they were considered extreme by whites. The failure of those in power in Southern Rhodesia to make any meaningful progress along a more liberal path inevitably resulted in the appearance of a more militant mood amongst blacks. Hope of any changes coming through constitutional means was fading. Young men, as well as some of the older leaders, made their way to Zambia and Tanzania to prepare for the liberation of their country through armed struggle. Meanwhile, after the break-up of the Federation and the granting of independence to Zambia and Malawi, the quarter million whites in Southern Rhodesia were clamouring for 'independence' which Britain, quite rightly, refused to grant to a minority government. Ian Smith, confident he could wrest independence from Britain, became Prime Minister in April 1964, but 18 months later he took the desperate, and what proved to be for him fatal, step of declaring unilateral independence. Almost exactly a year after I became a member of the church at St Francis I asked Baba whether I could be admitted to the Sisterhood as a Novice. In due course he gave me his answer yes - and, in true European fashion, I assumed that I would be joining the Sisters in the near future. Baba .agreed that Easter 1966 might be a possible time, but told me that he could not yet say the actual date when I would make my vows. In January 1966 1 asked if I could go down to Zonga for a couple of months and he agreed. Down at Zonga I spent the time working on the farm, helping in the kitchen and reading. By now I was allowed to do many more of the chores and to try my hand at cooking sadza. I slept with the Sisters who were there (they changed from time to time) and I was expected to take my turn with extempore prayer (in my faltering Shona) in our morning and evening prayers. Baba came down every week to see how the work was going, and on one of his visits I asked him if I could have two or three Sisters to live with me when I returned to St Francis. He agreed. I was by this time feeling much more a part of African life and my Shona was improving. I wore the blue uniform cotton dress and headsquare which all the other Sisters wore for work, my hands were rough from gardening and saucepan scrubbing and my clothes probably smelt of woodsmoke. I had indeed gone native!

It was a happy time - I was enjoying the life and looking forward to Easter when I would be taking my first vows, or so I thought. We had reached Passion Sunday, two weeks before Easter, and Baba had still not said a word to me about the date of my admission. I was expecting to be recalled to the Mission for a period of instruction, but no word came. By mid-week, ten days before Easter, I was really getting worried. Baba came down on the Wednesday, and while I was making tea for him in the kitchen he told me that he was sorry but I would not, after all, be admitted at Easter. 'I've thought about it and prayed about it,' he said, 'and wondered whether I should make an exception in your case, but I think this wouldn't be right. You see, the actual day is not chosen by me.' He went on to tell me that the day would be given, perhaps in a dream or by someone coming with a message. This would make the day clear. 'We don't arrange things like other churches where a Bishop makes these decisions. We wait for the Lord,' he said. I said that I quite understood, and then went outside so that he shouldn't see how much I minded. When he had gone I told the two Sisters who were with me, Sister Jenny and Sister Felicity, what Baba had said. In the evening I was still very upset and they spoke to me severely. They said that many of them had been waiting for years and I must accept Baba's decision. Next morning I was still in a bad state and was told that Sister Jenny would accompany me to the Mission to see Baba. When I said, 'Oh no, I shall be quite all right soon, I'll stay and do the cooking,' Sister Felicity told me severely that they couldn't possibly have me at Zonga cooking because my tears would fall into the sadza! That seemed to settle it, and I agreed to go. We walked up at first light and arrived at about nine. Baba and Mai were busy sorting invoices, but Baba shoved everything to one side and asked Mai to leave the room as he had work to do. Then Sister Jenny explained to him that I was very upset and I could see that he was visibly moved. He again explained about not being able to make an exception just because I was a European. I told him that I accepted his decision absolutely, but was extremely disappointed. 'Does this mean I shall have to go on living on my own when I come back here?' I asked. 'No,' he replied, 'I will arrange this. It will just mean that the two who will be living with you will be masoja and not novices.' He then said that I was not to worry and I would soon feel all right about it. Sister Jenny and I then went into the church, as we always do when we have been away. Very soon Baba came in too and we all prayed silently for a few minutes. Immediately my spirit came out of the depths and I felt almost gay as we left the church. After lunch we walked back to Zonga. I had had a salutary lesson in patience, and I pondered on how much we Europeans have to learn from Africans in this respect. I returned to the Mission in time for Easter and two of the masoja came to live with me as Baba had promised. The younger of the two didn't stay long, but the other was Mavis, sister of Maurice Nyagumbo and niece of Mbuya Elinor. Mavis first came to live at St Francis in 1945, when she was fifteen. She told me, 'My parents sent me to Makoni to stay with my aunt. I had a bad leg and as there was no bus I had to walk all the way. By the time I reached St Francis I was very tired and my leg was very painful. My aunt offered me food but I couldn't eat and went straight to sleep under a blanket in her kitchen. I didn't know it until afterwards, but Baba Francis came and prayed over me for a long time. When I woke the pain in my leg had quite gone, and it never came back. After that I decided I wanted to join the others who were living here.' Mavis has since admitted that she was extremely nervous about going to live with a European. She thought that we wouldn't be able to get on well with each other because of the language difficulty. But courage runs deep in the Nyagumbo family, and she survived! At times we have had disagreements, but as my Shona improved we have become firm friends. She has always been interested in politics (like her brother, she holds strong views) and on hearing the latest news we would have a long discussion or occasionally a heated argument. It seemed important to me that we should sleep (and pray) together, leaving the other small bedroom for visitors. We shared the domestic chores - cooking on the wood fire, washing dishes and sweeping the yard round the house. Mavis took charge of finding firewood and did most of the water carrying. I cleaned the house and every week smeared the earth floor of the kitchen with cow dung mixed with ground charcoal - a much pleasanter job than it sounds. We combined an African and European diet - sadza at one meal and bread, cheese, eggs, etc. at the other. By this time I was able to eat most African foods, even sour milk with sadza, which few Europeans can stomach. At the same time Mavis was getting used to eating new foods such as lettuce, avocado pears, carrots and cheese. We were also learning from each other in other ways. When there were European visitors Mavis had to be told that it was quite in order for the men to fetch water or help wash the dishes, jobs which African men were not expected to do. I was learning the customary ways of giving and receiving gifts, and how food must always be offered to anyone who called while we were eating. I shall always remember Mavis' look of horror when she saw me using the washing-up bowl to wash myself. 'Mukoma Patty, you must never do that.' But then I was rather shocked when I saw her sweeping crumbs off the table with the floor broom! Mavis had to learn to light a pressure lamp without setting the house on fire, and I had to learn how to light the kitchen fire with wet sticks on a damp morning. Even superstitions were part of our mutual education: she watched me curiously as I threw the spilt salt three times over my left shoulder ('to ward off bad luck') while I expressed surprise at her anxiety that the spilt milk shouldn't get into the fire ('or a cow will die'). I, of course, had far more to learn than Mavis. I had to learn which woods made charcoal for the iron and how to bake bread using flour and mealie meal. Often I had to learn the hard way. I had never taken much heed of Mavis' warning 'never leave soap outside on the ground', until I lost a few pieces and discovered that they had been eaten by the hungry local dogs. Then there was the time when I threw out hot ashes and started a grass fire on the next door farm. Everybody rushed to put it out and our neighbours were very nice about it, but I felt very bad. In the early days, I had to resist quite strongly the desire of Baba and the community to see me live in what they felt was 'European style', both in food and in material comforts. I have tended to follow the example set by the C-Bs at St Faith's, where we lived simply, though we were by no means poor compared to those around us. It seems to me that we who come from the western world should aim at a standard of living which is appropriate and not too far removed from that of most African people. At St Francis this has meant, in my case, no electricity or piped water, no stove, refrigerator or bath, and of course no car. It has also seemed important to keep the Africanstyle kitchen, with a fire in the middle of the floor, since our local visitors feel more at home than in a European-style kitchen. However, the time may soon be coming when open wood fires are considered too wasteful and we shall be cooking our sadza on an appropriate technological bio- gas ring! I started this way of life some time before the current popular interest in ecology and the depletion of energy and mineral resources. It is good to see that many people in the western world are now going back to a more simple life and finding it, as I have done, both spiritually and materially satisfying. At the same time it has not always been easy to fit myself into the culture, customs and way of life of another race, and I have made many mistakes. At first, if I saw something that needed doing, I used to go round trying to rope in other people to help me: 'The church hasn't been swept...', 'The chickens have got out, you must come and help me get them in...', and I expected to be instantly obeyed. It took me time to discover that I had to be much more circuitous in my approach - 'Would you have time...?' 'If you haven't got too much to do would you...?', or very often just to get on with the job myself and hope someone would come and help me. Then there was the mistake of feeling, like so many English people of my generation, that 'my home is my castle' and failing to welcome the disturbers of my afternoon nap - the child with the cut leg, the Sister wanting help with her knitting, the man wanting to borrow my hammer, the schoolboy coming to borrow a book. Another mistake I made was to refuse a rather smart new bicycle which Baba offered me to replace my old one. At the time I didn't want to appear specially favoured, but I later learnt that in Shona custom a gift is never refused, passed on or given away, and must be used for the purpose for which it is given. A gift becomes a bond between the giver and the receiver - a living reminder of the friendship between them. For the same reason letters and photographs are treated with great respect and are rarely thrown away (though I must admit I continue the habit of disposing of my answered letters.) One of the most difficult things for me was getting accustomed to not knowing what was going on or what was planned for tomorrow. I often wanted to ask Baba 'What's happening?' but the Sisters discouraged me. They rarely asked him questions, but seemed to be much better at deducing his intentions than I was! In spite of these difficulties I found the process of learning to live amongst Africans an intensely interesting experience. In my circular letter of May 1963 I wrote: ... as one learns more of the language and customs there is a constant unfolding, almost as if one is reading an enthralling book. I have much to learn, but the Sisters are the most patient and painstaking of teachers, and they haven't despaired of me yet.

Chapter 9 'Mukoma Patty, ita kudaro "itsva" ' (say it like this.. .), and I tried 'eeja'. 'No, no, that's wrong, say it again "itsva" ', and after another try, 'Ah, that's better.' Sister Jenny did her best to teach me Shona, always correcting me and teaching me new words. The lessons went on as we swept the poultry runs, weeded the onion beds or had a meal together. Although I have never become very fluent and I would hate to have to sit an exam, I have got to the stage where I can talk reasonably well with the Sisters. My main responsibility has always been to look after the poultry - hens, broilers, turkeys and ducks. We buy day-old chicks, 100 or 200 at a time, and the hens are fed on bought-in concentrates mixed with our own maize, while the ducks and turkeys get the left-over sadza. There have been one or two disasters (such as packing too many chicks into a box to sleep and finding them all dead in the morning), but slowly over the years we have learnt how to keep them successfully. Because of shortage of space we have always kept the poultry in the same yards year after year, and we used to suffer continual losses through disease, especially in the wet season. Now we feed them Russian comfrey, an easily grown plant, and this has revolutionised our poultry-keeping and we hardly ever lose a hen. There never seems to have been much money to spend on housing or equipment, so I have always had to do a good deal of improvisation - bits of wire, old tins, used tyres, broken asbestos - with serviceable but often rather unsightly results! Sister Jenny and one of the other Sisters work in the vegetable garden and I help them with the lighter jobs when I have time. Sister Jenny is a great encourager: the village children, who come to help with the watering in return for a stick of sugar cane and a bunch of vegetables, all love her. 'Put plenty of water on, put plenty on!' she calls to them. 'Yes, we are,' they call back as they heave a can of water up from the water hole. Then as they finish, 'You'll come again tomorrow?' 'Yes, we want to come,' they say before running off to sit on a rock to eat their sugar cane. Sister Jenny encourages me too. In the middle of a hot morning spent tying tomatoes she will call me over to where she's working. 'Sit down in the shade,' she will say, 'I've got something for you,' and out of her basket comes a big orange or a few ripe bananas which we share. She certainly knows how to keep her labourers happy! I haven't got green fingers, but I have learnt a bit about gardening over the years. I also try to keep the garden free of the' products of agri-business - encouraging compost-making rather than fertilizers, and soap and paraffin rather than pesticides. The learning of gardening and poultry-keeping is a two-way process between me and the Sisters. With their considerable practical experience they often know better than I what to do. On the other hand I am able to read books or newspaper articles and try to apply this knowledge to our problems, and this joint effort seems to have fruitful results. I have, however, found that there can be quite a long time lag between the time one suggests something and when it is actually done, and one has to be patient. For instance, when I first came we swept the poultry yards every week, throwing the manure outside the wire where a lot of it got wasted. 'Can't we put grass in and make compost?' I asked. No one took any interest and I wasn't up to cutting the grass on my own. But years later the idea took root. We made the poultry yards smaller, collected up all the grass and other waste we could find and put it in the yards, and at the end of the wet season we dug out a huge quantity of compost which we carted down to the garden. There are, of course, dangers about reading about new ideas and trying to get them adopted. After five or ten years you may find that the experts have come up with a much better idea, or you may have been proved completely wrong! You begin to realise why new ideas are not immediately accepted by rural folk who tend to have a 'wait and see' attitude. This was especially true in the colonial situation from which we are only just emerging. 'Wait and see' has often been a kind of passive resistance to white domination. As well as the poultry and garden there are numerous other jobs which come my way - sweeping and window-cleaning in the church, hedge cutting, church laundry, making the Sisters' uniform dresses, and then there are always the household chores waiting to be done. Among the things I have learnt at St Francis is how to work hard and for long hours. A Land Army farm job in England in the Second World War had taught me certain skills and ways of working, but the example given me by the Sisters has shown me what hard work really is. At first no one expected me, a white woman, to do any manual work at all - my small efforts at sweeping a yard or cleaning out the poultry houses were greeted with 'oohs' and 'ahs', and at the end of the job I would be thanked profusely and my work admired. Gradually, as time went on, it came to be accepted that I could work, and I found that I was able to do more and more. Now I am able to do the lighter jobs as well as anybody, butl am always outclassed in the heavier work. In one job, though, I am much quicker and more accurate than anyone - throwing the harvested maize cobs into the trailer. Cricket on the sands as a child holidaying by the sea taught me how to throw fast and straight! Apart from the Sisters who work in the garden or on other specific jobs, there is always 'the gang' - those who go out to work on the lands. A small bell in the yard is rung after morning church and the gang lines up in front of one of the senior Sisters to be told (with a good deal of good-humoured banter) what the day's work is to be. If the work is far from home, cooking pots and food are taken, and the Sisters take turns to be the duty cook. An annual event involving everyone is the threshing of rupoko or finger millet. On a fine day in August or September we are all told to come to the ruware, a large flat rock near the Mission. The rupoko to be threshed is laid out on the rock and the tractor, with its wide rubber wheels, runs round and round over it while some of us turn the rupoko heads over with sticks, making sure we avoid the tractor wheels. After some hours it is ready to be winnowed in flat baskets held to the wind while the grain is swept to remove the rubbish. Finally the clean grain is collected into bags which, unlike maize, can be stored for many years. The threshing is always a communal effort in which neighbours join, and breakfast and lunch are cooked for everyone out on the rock. Ploughing, planting, weeding, harvesting and threshing are all part of the rhythm of the year in rural life almost anywhere. This rhythm is still apparent at St Francis, but the pace is constantly quickening as more and more modem technology is adopted. Some of the innovations, such as a well and handpump installed in the yard in 1968, certainly make life easier. No longer do we have to spend twenty minutes going to the spring for water. Cars, trucks, tractors and engines may make life easier, but they are greedy creatures demanding fuel, spare parts, time and money. Between them they swallow up much of the cash produced by the community. It is a problem that besets every developing community and, on a national scale, every developing country. Perhaps one. day we shall go back to the humble ox or donkey and our own two feet. Coming from a European background, it was necessary for me to revolutionise my attitude towards relaxation and leisure if I was to adapt to the rhythm of African life. Any idea of threeweeks-holiday-a-year and one-day-off-a-week with a lie-in in the morning every so often had to be abandoned. I found that European- type holidays are not part of African culture (though they may well be in the future) and that the Sisters did not expect to have holidays, or even days off. Their occasional visits to their homes for a night or two would be to visit a sick relative or to attend a family wedding. They would never stay away longer than was necessary. With my job of looking after the poultry, I found myself working seven days a week, but I gradually got used to it. Illness, however, is another story. No-one is ever expected to do any work if they are ill - there are no stiff upper lips or gritting of teeth so as to carry on with a streaming cold or a rheumatic back. Non-appearance in church in the morning signifies that you are sick, and a stream of people arrive at your bedside to ask how you have spent the night. The Sisters, and this applies especially to the full Sisters, seem to manage to keep a good balance between their work in the economic sphere and their church work - the daily services, retreats, sacristan work, church cleaning and so on. There is no doubt that prayer is considered the most important work of the community. Sister Violet, one of the three senior Sisters, puts it like this: The power for work comes from our prayer life. Worship is the most important part of our life, and the work we do is because it is necessary for us to live. But we can praise God and worship him through our prayers and our work. When we think of work in this way it takes on new meaning, so that working hard and intelligently, as well as taking good care of the things we work with the crops, the animals, the tools - are important and are offered to God who created them and us. This is why we always have some prayers to bless the seed before it is sown, and a thanksgiving service when the harvest is reaped. I have always loved the life at St Francis, but much as I wanted to stay put there, I often got called away. During these years I made several trips to Britain, usually because one or both of my parents was ill. Being the only unmarried daughter I felt it was my duty to go, though I never stayed more than a few months. I was also asked to check the accounts of various projects and schools in Rhodesia. I went twice to the co-operative farming project which Guy and Molly C-B had started in Botswana. When they returned to Salisbury, and with Didymus Mutasa helped to start the Cold Comfort Farm Society, I again paid annual visits for checking accounts. Two Anglican secondary schools, St Anne's, Goto, and St Faith's, also roped me in for book-keeping at different times. Longer visits to Nyafaru were also necessary, and I spent seven months there in 1965 when Sheila Graham had to return to Britain. Much as I enjoyed these visits, I was always keen to get back to St Francis; in each case I managed to hand over my responsibilities after a reasonable time, even if it meant training someone up to do the job. I have sometimes been asked by whites, 'Aren't you lonely?' the implication being that as I am the only white at St Francis I must miss 'my own kind'. I certainly have never had any local white friends, but I have never felt in the least bit lonely. Over the years, as my Shona has improved, I have been able to find increasing companionship with the Sisters, especially with Mavis, and there are other friends living in the vicinity. In addition we have always had the pleasure of visits by friends, new and old, from other countries in Africa and overseas. Now another pleasure is appearing: after twenty years living at St Francis, there is the friendship of the younger generation of Nyabadzas, several of whom have been in England and with whom I can relate easily. In all these relationships I have given very little, usually rather hesitantly, perhaps sometimes unwillingly, and with a good deal of British reserve. The fact that I have been accepted so completely, both by the Nyabadza family, the St Francis community, and by local black people, says nothing for me but a very great deal for those who have so willingly accepted me. For twenty years I have had the love, friendship and human warmth of the Mashona people showered upon me. Maybe it has been partly because I am quite happy to be amongst them, but mostly I think it is because this warmth, love and affection is so characteristic of the people in this part of Africa. It is tragic that so few other whites seem to have discovered this.

Chapter 10 In 1962 Baba Nyabadza was asked to become a director of the Nyafaru Development Company. The Company had been formed to make it legal under the Land Apportionment Act for blacks and whites to be shareholders and to participate in this co-operative venture. Baba's wisdom and judgement were much respected by those who knew him, and in spite of all his responsibilities, he took on this further commitment. Until 1965 Sheila Graham was secretary of the company; I was a director for a time, and in 1966 Guy C-B and Didymus Mutasa were appointed. Directors' meetings were held three or four times a year, nearly always at Nyafaru. A three-hour drive through the beautiful eastern district brought us to Nyafaru - 2,000 acres of very hilly but quite fertile land. Our meetings usually lasted for two or three days, and in the wet season there was always the risk of being cut off for a week or more by swollen rivers. Our discussions covered the various activities underway at Nyafaru - cattle and sheep, youngberries, the trading store, the weaving shop and the primary school - as well as trying to sort out managerial and personal problems. The land surrounding Nyafaru had been bought by a European many years ago but a large part of it was still occupied by the Tangwena people, who regarded it as their ancestral land. The attempts, which started in 1965, to evict the Tangwena and their Chief Rekayi, and their resistance, make a stirring story which has been told elsewhere. The Nyafaru directors played a considerable part in helping the Tangwena to put their case and to resist eviction, which meant becoming involved in a fight with the authorities. For Baba Nyabadza, this involvement must have been a difficulty and it may well have been the cause of his somewhat abrupt resignation from the Company in 1967. He had given no hint to his fellow directors that he wanted to give up, and in his letter of resignation he gave no reason. Guy thought Baba had rather lost interest in Nyafaru, and this may have been so, but another reason must certainly have been the pressure of the work involved in building up the economic life of his own community. The community living at St Francis now numbered over forty and included the twenty-four Sisters and Baba's extended family. The upkeep of so many, as well as the education of the children, was becoming an increasingly heavy burden on him, and he needed to increase the farming activities in order to bring in a higher income. He particularly needed more grazing for his growing herd of cattle at Zonga Farm. But land in the area was in extremely short supply. Makoni Farm, of which St Francis was a part, was already seriously overgrazed. The Land Apportionment Act prevented its rising population from moving to other areas, and the adjacent Makoni Reserve was also becoming overcrowded. This left only 'European' land, which whites alone could legally occupy. Baba made several applications for land for the Mission, but was always refused on the grounds that an African community could not buy or lease 'European' land. Although land was not legally available, Baba found ways and means of getting round the Act. In 1961, when he had started looking for more grazing, he got to know a European who had a tobacco farm outside Rusape. This farmer agreed to let Baba use part of his farm for grazing, gave him a small acreage for growing groundnuts and allowed the Sisters to make bricks there. This was quite illegal, but the authorities either didn't know about it or turned a blind eye. A grass hut was put up near the crop land and some of the Sisters stayed down there during the week. I remember spending a few days there harvesting the nuts. I slept with the Sisters in the hut while Baba and his tractor driver slept by a big fire outside. Very early one morning Baba celebrated Mass in the hut, and it was a moving experience to kneel on the earth floor and receive the Sacrament with the rising sun slanting in through the open door, heralding the new day. Afterwards, when I commented on the Mass to Baba, he just said quietly, 'We can find the Lord wherever we happen to be.' After a couple of years the owner of the farm sold up and left the area, so the arrangement had to stop. Fortunately another farm, 'Kleinfontein' (Or 'Gekeke' - its local African name), became available, only 5 kilometres from the Mission. For the first two years we had a similar 'illegal' arrangement with the owner and were able to run our cattle on his thousand acres. One day Baba called me over to the yard. 'Mukoma Patty,' he said,'we want to have a proper arrangement about Gekeke. The owner's quite glad for us to rent it, but as it's European land the lessee has to be a white person. Would you mind signing the lease and it being in your name?' 'That's all right,' I answered, 'but don't you think the authorities will see through it?' Baba assured me that it would be quite legal. He would be my manager and the Sisters and farm men my employees. 'What about income tax?' I asked. 'I'm single woman and the tax may be quite heavy.' 'Don't worry,' he replied, 'I'll go and see the income tax people.' So I signed the lease, kept a labour book and filled in the agricultural returns when they fell due. Fortunately I did get out of paying tax because the Tax Collector was sympathetic to our situation. Our lease arrangement worked well for four years. Our cattle had plenty of grazing and we grew enough crops for ourselves and for sale. Baba was on good terms with the owner (whom I rarely met) and was expecting to be able to lease the farm for another four years. In fact in 1969 he felt confident enough to build a cattle dip on the farm at his own expense, rather unwisely as it turned out. For in December 1969 we heard that the owner of Gekeke had been killed in a car accident. A few months later Baba was told that the farm was up for sale, and he at once set about trying to find some way of buying it. There were two problems: how to find enough cash for the down payment and how to get round the Land Apportionment Act. The former proved more difficult than the latter. It so happened that the Minister of Lands at that time, Mr P van Heerden, was farming only a few miles from St Francis. Baba knew him quite well and went to see him about buying Gekeke. When the Minister heard the problem he said to Baba, 'I'm afraid it's not possible for you personally or the Mission to buy that land because you are classed as African.' Then his face brightened, 'But what about Miss Chater? She can buy it in her name and then at some future date it can be transferred to the Mission.' When Baba came back and told me this we both wondered whether Mr van Heerden expected the Land Apportionment Act to be abolished. It seemed very odd, because in his ministerial capacity, Mr van Heerden was at that time in the process of tightening up the Act. Armed with this ministerial assurance, we set about trying to raise the $6 000 needed for a down payment on the farm. We appealed to a few friends overseas and I raised a bit through selling some shares in my family's papermaking firm, but this was hardly enough. If Baba had been a white he could have got a Land Bank loan, but our unusual set-up made this impossible. Finally the owner's executors said they could wait no longer, and they sold the farm to a neighbouring farmer for cattle grazing. Needless to say Baba got nothing for the cattle dip. Once again we were without land, and for the next ten years we became 'squatters', using bits of other people's land here and there. Some years after we had given up Gekeke, another illegal arrangement was made, this time with Mr van Heerden himself (now retired from politics), who lent us enough land to grow maize for ourselves and for him. Baba had long had his eyes on a site for a trading store, a few hundred metres from the Mission on the main Inyanga Road, and Mai still dreamed of her 'little cafe' at the bus stop. When the site became available in 1967 he built a small store and butchery there and sold his store in the Manyika Reserve. The store and butchery were opened with a service of blessing, incense, speeches, and a feast of sadza and meat for a big gathering of local people. Our customers found our prices were reasonable and the meat tender, so we soon became popular. As we sold meat to whites and blacks in Rusape we were considerably less popular with Rusape's white butchers, who thought we were poaching their trade. 'These butchers are very unfair,' Baba said on one occasion. 'There's no African butchery in the location so they get all the African trade. I've applied twice for permission to open a butchery there and I've been refused each time.' Twice a week Baba's old truck went into Rusape loaded not only with meat but also with vegetables and fruit from the garden, eggs, poultry and sour milk. Much of it was sold by Sister Jasmine and Sister Catherine, sitting under a big tree in the location, or at worksites. 'We'll pay at the end of the month, come on pay day,' said many of their customers, so credit was given and the promises usually honoured. The business at our trading site grew rapidly, and by the end of 1970 the store had been enlarged, a grinding mill started, and at last Mai had her 'little cafe'. Now the bus passengers (and the driver and conductor who are always served free of charge) could choose tea and buns or sadza and meat while the bus waited. A room behind the main eating room was set aside for VIPs, which provided a bit of peace from the din of the dozens of small boys playing table football in the front! A year later the 'Turn-off bottle store was opened. In view of our strict adherence to the no-drinking rule, I felt very dubious about our selling beer and spirits, though one had to admit that it was no worse in principle than selling cigarettes in the store. When I spoke to Baba about it he said that local people, as well as bus passengers, had been urging him for some time to open a bottle store, and he was doing so reluctantly. 'If we don't run it, the liquor licence will be given to another businessman on the other side of the main road. But the District Commissioner is very against this as people may get knocked down as they cross over from our store and butchery.' He then told me that he had prayed about it and that he felt it was quite all right. After that there seemed nothing more to be said. Several of the Sisters help at the business centre, serving in the store and butchery, cooking in the cafe (Sister Clara always ready with a cup of tea) but are never asked to serve in the bottle store. Soon after the business started, the work both on the trading and farming side had grown to such an extent that Baba had to take on many more paid workers. Their wages were not high, but having paid employment was a help to the local people. They usually got on well with the Sisters and only occasionally was there friction. The management of all these activities was Baba's responsibility but he did succeed in devolving a good deal onto his wife and the Sisters. Mai, after she had finished having her family, was a great help to Baba. She never in fact served in her little cafe, because by the time it was opened she had learnt to drive. Two or three times a week she would make a trip to Rusape to buy bread and other goods for the store and often she would go with some of the men to buy and bring back a beast for the butchery. She still had her own piece of land to work and would sometimes go with 'the gang' wherever they were working. Now, having had a taste of the life of a businesswoman, she admits that her heart is really in farming. Baba did very little accounting, but he had the great advantage of having the Sisters in charge of much of the cash, and he knew that the profits were not draining away through dishonesty. He never brought me much into the accounting side, and I didn't feel I should interfere. He was incurably untidy and I longed to get his papers sorted out and filed, but again I didn't want to meddle. Profits were soon expended: much had to be spent on the education of the children and there was little over for the rest of the community. One of the first things I ever heard about the St Francis community, while I was still at St Faith's, was the criticism that 'Father Basil exploits the Sisters, they don't get anything and even have to beg clothing off their parents.' This I found to be hardly a fair criticism. Baba certainly had a tremendous asset in the willing service of the Sisters, and he knew it and appreciated it. Their keep covered food and accommodation, and both improved considerably over the years. Personal items such as soap, blankets and clothing, were bought with money earned from knitting and crocheting. The Sisters never expected anything more - they had come to live with the Nyabadza family and they knew that Baba couldn't provide everything.'But we know that when we're sick or old we shall be looked after,' is what they say, and that is in fact what is happening. The economic life of the community has certainly improved over the years, while the standard of living of people in the district has fallen. Thus it seems more likely now that the Sisters will be giving clothes to their families rather than vice versa. Providing for the community and his own family was not the only driving force behind Baba's tremendous activity. First there was the insistent demand of the local people to be served at the business centre seven days a week with every necessity of life (and some luxuries), a demand which Baba did his best to satisfy. Whether taking the truck 20 km to Rusape to fetch ten dozen loaves of bread (at a profit of five cents a loaf) was economic or not never worried him in the least; the fact that people wanted the bread was of paramount importance. Then again he was undoubtedly spurred on by the feeling that he must out-do the whites at their own economic game; with the country's economic set-up heavily weighted in favour of the whites, he had to work immensely hard to compete with them. He had no means of borrowing money for capital development as the Land Bank and finance houses were closed to Africans, so new development was financed partly by his taking every possible opportunity to buy on credit, only paying debts when solicitors' letters began to arrive, and even then his cheques often bounced. This made him unpopular with local whites, including the Bank Manager who had to deal with his RD cheques! I remember being given a lift once by a Rusape garage owner who held forth about 'that boy Nyabadza' who owed him money. 'They're all the same,' he said, 'there's only one thing to do with them - put 'em up against a wall and shoot the lot!' It was interesting to me to compare the development going on at St Francis with the methods which had been used at St Faith's and were now being used at Nyafaru and Cold Comfort Farm. On these projects most of the capital needed was found from gifts or loans which came from sympathetic organisations and individuals overseas, and the donors usually took a keen interest in the schemes. Two important characteristics expected of these projects were, firstly, that they should be run on co-operatives lines with members taking part in regular meetings, and, secondly, that the project should produce annual reports and accounts. St Francis, being run in a paternal way, with no formal meetings to discuss the work and no annual accounts, was hardly in a position to appeal for funds. Baba, in any case, was never keen to appeal, fearing that we might become too dependent on outside help, as was tending to happen with the other projects. We were thus entirely selfreliant and any new development had to be financed by our own efforts. Although we progressed more slowly than the other projects, our economic development was laid on firm foundations. Baba, inevitably, carried an increasingly heavy load of responsibility. He had an immense amount of energy and packed a great deal into his day. Often he would blow the whistle for the '6 am' angelus to be rung well before 5 am, getting us all out of bed in the dark in a hectic rush not to be late for church. He never hurried the services, but once out of church he would drink a quick cup of tea, down to the cattle kraal to look at the cows, check the bearing on his truck, then off to the store where an old lady might ask him, 'Can you cart my maize cobs for me?' and another woman would be waiting for a lift to Rusape with a sick child. Scribble a list of stock wanted in the store, then off to Rusape, interview with the Bank Manager, hunt for car spares, then back to the store, a quick meal at home and down to Zonga to see how the winter ploughing was going. Up to the Mission again and off to the old lady's land, load up her maize cobs and deliver them to her yard, then home for supper and evensong. Then over to the dormitory to visit and pray with a sick Sister and finally to see old Mbuya before she settled down for the night. Only then could the day's relaxation begin - dozens of games of draughts with Eric Mugadza far into the night. Yet, busy as he was, Baba always had time for other people to listen to their problems, or just to play with the newest baby on his lap. He had little time for reading or letter writing, but he communicated easily with people once he had got over his innate shyness. He was a very generous man, and helped many people in the area as well as needy relatives. Nyamapfeni describes him as 'full of charity and love to the village people.' Several local white farmers were quite friendly and helpful to him, though only one ever invited him into his home. They evidently considered him to be a good farmer, and they would talk farming and then sometimes move on to a political discussion. He was never afraid of being frank and open with them. When it came to blacks, he had friends from all walks of life. Many were people he had helped at one time or another, others were fellow farmers or businessmen. Men in the police, District Commissioner's office, hospital staff and teachers knew and admired him. On the other hand there were a number of people who were hostile to him. Although the Sisters were, by this time, reconciled to their families, the old hostility still lingered on in some quarters. The older generation, who had been jealous of Francis because of his success as a preacher,had been succeeded by a generation who were jealous of his son because of his success as a businessman. They, like their fathers, were happy to believe and spread any false or malicious stories about him. Baba's success in building up the economic life of the community may seem, to some people, to conflict with the ideal of Franciscan poverty. Certainly he never embraced poverty for its own sake, though he did say to me once, after losing quite substantial sums of money on two different occasions, 'I don't think the Lord means me to have a lot of money.' Baba loved life and gave 'good measure, pressed down and running over.' To him 'the good life' included the material benefits of a bountiful God as much as the spiritual gifts with which we were blessed. I think too that he felt that the development of the community was a great challenge, and that he as the leader must show that progress was possible in the material as well as the spiritual sphere. For who would respect a Church which had nothing to show for its labours? And understandably he wanted to show what black Africans could do on their own without white or missionary support. The community had known hard times and hard times might come again, but all was to be accepted with thankfulness.

Chapter 11 By the end of 1967 Baba and Mai had produced ten children - four boys and six girls. The two eldest girls, Prisca and Rose, were at secondary boarding school, Francis and Michael were approaching the end of primary school and were also boarding. Martha and Yvonne were at St Luke's, our local day school, Francesca (6), Eleanor (4), Christopher (2) and Simba, just born, completed the family. All this child-bearing had taken its toll of their mother, and she very nearly died when Simba was born. Fortunately modern surgery made it possible for her to stop having children. All the children started school at St Luke's, which provided primary education at no great cost. But in order to be sure of getting a good enough final result to qualify for one of the scarce places in a secondary school, it was necessary to get the children into a boarding school (where standards were higher) for the two or three final years of primary education. Even then it was often necessary to repeat a grade, which was not strictly allowed and entailed changing the child's name as he changed schools! Baba and Mai both worked hard, with few scruples, to get their children into secondary schools, and the children usually responded by working hard themselves. They were brought up gently but firmly, with little scolding, and were never shouted at or beaten. 'When we were naughty Baba just talked to us and that was always enough to make us ashamed of what we had done,' Michael said years later. Baba was strict but always fair with them. On one occasion two of the girls were in class before confirmation. This meant that they and others in the class were given instruction twice a day by the Sisters and spent the rest of the day working in the garden. The girls had been invited to be bridesmaids at a friend's wedding some distance away. They knew that they shouldn't be absent from the class for the weekend, but nevertheless they chose to go. When they returned Baba told them he would not confirm them, which meant waiting at least another year. They had made the choice themselves and his decision was seen by everyone to be a fair one. Prisca, the eldest of the family, remembers him as 'very loving, but he didn't spoil us. He expected us to behave well. When I was older I always felt able to approach him about a difficulty and he put me at my ease.' Baba always seemed to want the children at home in the holidays. 'He would never let us go and stay with relatives as other kids do, though our cousins used to come stay with us,' Michael remembers. 'I think he wanted us with him to learn from the life at home, and we grew up to have a great love for the place.' In fact the children were learning a lot as they took part in the routine of the community's life. They helped in the vegetable garden, watering and planting out, the girls as well as the boys learnt to milk and they all helped to weed the maize lands with 'the gang'. The boys watched Baba and the men doing repairs to the tractor, truck or grinding mill and later, as young men, were able to do it themselves. The boys were also expected to take mattins and evensong when Baba was away, and to serve at Mass. The girls helped in the kitchen, cooking for the many visitors, usually quite willingly but 'sometimes we felt we were never allowed enough time to read or study, often we didn't get to bed till nearly midnight.' This division between 'the boys' work' and 'the girls' work' may seem strange to young people brought up in the western world. It still persists in this part of Africa, though in families where there are no girls the boys do help their mothers. In adult life it is very persistent too, especially in the rural areas where the women have to do most of the work. At St Francis the traditional division of the role of the sexes is reinforced by what used to be Anglican Church practice, namely that women play a very minor part in church services. None of the Sisters ever takes a service or serves at Mass, so as soon as the small boys living at the Mission can read they are taught to take mattins and evensong, their piping little voices struggling through three or four verses of the Bible and the daily prayers. Baba was no slave-driver, but he did expect his children to contribute their share of the work. The older children certainly worked very hard, but after the new business centre was established there was a tendency for the younger members of the family to grow up hanging round the store in the holidays, doing nothing very worthwhile. It became increasingly difficult to get them to work in the garden, though they enjoyed going to the lands. Inevitably too, once they were at boarding school following an almost entirely academic syllabus, they were focussing less and less on the rural life around them and more and more on acquiring '0' and 'A' levels with their sights on a University degree. The boarding school system, brought by the Europeans, inevitably tended to create an elitist society in this country. In the days of settler rule black children started together in the village school, learnt, played and herded their cattle together; then shortage of secondary places resulted in a process of selection. Many a child got to secondary school only because his parents, themselves educated, had the energy (and the money) to take him round to boarding schools to look for a place at the beginning of the school year. From then on the child in the boarding school grew further and further apart from the children left behind in the villages. Much has been said and written about the danger of creating an elitist society; here at Makoni I have watched it actually in the making. In the four years since independence it has been difficult to reverse this tendency. Although there are now secondary day schools in the rural areas, the privileged children are still being 'creamed off'. The only difference in this area is that they now go away at an earlier age to the Rusape (ex-white) primary school where they board and live in style. The gap between them and their Makoni brothers and sisters is still wide. One wonders how long it will take for the Government to achieve its goal of improving the standards in the rural day schools and making its town schools a more fitting cradle for African socialism. As the Nyabadza children finished their secondary education, the problem arose as to what they should do next. Only a tiny percentage of Rhodesia's black children were given places for 'A' levels, and there was virtually no commercial or technical training. In 1970, after several months' struggle, we eventually got Prisca accepted for nursing training in England. Francis was the next to go, in 1974, and from then on there was a steady exodus of Nyabadza children to England for further education. Happy as they were to go, they kept in touch with the family at home, returning for the long summer holidays as often as they could. They paid their air fares home by earning money in the shorter holidays as auxiliary nurses and home helps, bakers and street cleaners. As the children grew up, Baba was glad of their help in the holidays and as they left school. His niece Patricia took on some of the clerical work in the butchery and store, and her brother Abraham learnt to service and repair the tractors and cars. Francis, after '0' levels, spent eighteen months with his father before going over to England. He learnt a good deal about the vehicles and helped to do wiring for electricity, and both he and Abraham got their driving licences. The little house in which Baba and Mai first lived had by 1967 become far too. small for their growing family. So it was pulled down and another, with a large living room, four bedrooms and a bathroom, was built on the same piece of flat rock. Cooking continued to be done in their large round kitchen. Along with the new house came electricity. Mains electricity was too expensive to connect, but Baba bought two diesel generators, one for the business centre and one for the Mission. These gave current to the grinding mill, a butchery coldroom and bandsaw, as well as lighting, while at the Mission we had lights in the church and some of the houses in the yard, and in due course a television set. It seemed that in a very short time we had arrived in the modern world.

In spite of having so much to do, Baba never skimped the church side of his work, and always regarded it as the most important. But there was one occasion, on a Monday morning, when he decided to skip mattins, which is always said after Mass. There was some lengthy job to be done on the church building, involving everybody, and he wanted to get started on it early. On the previous day a billy goat had been brought to the Mission from Zonga in readiness for sale and had been tethered in the yard overnight. When we came out of church after Mass it was discovered that the goat had escaped. So off went everyone - Baba, Mai, Mugadza, Tenha, the Sisters, the builder - to look for it. Goats are extremely difficult to catch, and that goat led them far into the Makoni hills, up and down and in and out of the rocks. The entire morning and half the afternoon had gone before they finally managed to catch it. When they all returned it was far too late to start the job on the church. 'That goat,' said Baba to Mugadza, 'was a judgement on us. We should have said mattins.' When I first went to live at St Francis, Mass was celebrated only on Sundays and Mondays, followed by mattins (said every day) and the day ended with evensong. Later Baba added a Wednesday and Friday Mass, and this pattern of services has remained since. In her paper to the SOAS Ann Spence describes how Community life revolves around the daily pattern of worship... The sacrament of Holy Communion is given central importance. Its celebration is an occasion of joy and awe and members will comment afterwards on how wonderful it has been... Singing is the most natural and enjoyed form of expression, but the hymns used are mostly translated from the Anglican hymn book and sung to European tunes. There is little clapping of hands, body movement or use of feet, but the singing style becomes African through its harmony and rhythm. A member of the congregation feeling moved by a hymn may start it off again or repeat a verse. This quite often happens again and again until all are caught up in the mood - time never matters. Hymn singing will often

Francis Nvabadza with (left) Sister Clara, (right) Sister Catherine, and Basil standing behind his chair. 1948 Francis Nvabadza with members of the guild and (eft) bis Sol ?im ,i I . IeJ Ilk 1 4 cý. 4ý cr cý, cr it C s* S A (A ;\ ~I t'4 p. -~ p. 4- 4, "%4~,, Patricia and Sheila's house at Zonga, with the mountain behind. 1960 Basil talking to an American visitor. 1961

-I ä- The Sisters stacking bricks. 1966

St F rancis Church. 'h,t. I,.sn, ,/, Looking towards the back of the Church, with steps leading to the gallery. Photo: Tessa (olvin .

Interior of the Church, looking towvards the altar. io,,: ,',s.,

~f~i?.:~V Sist'er J('nny with flowers for the ('hurch. 198,3 Sister Jenny and Patricia in the garden. 1983

Baba Francis baptising Emmanuel's son, 1983, and changing a tractor wheel with Tapiwa looking on.

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(T17100d1,17... thot(.171,171.1 .ýll'flSS and the thatcher catchíng it.

Patricia doing her uwashing outside the house and cooking sadza in the round kitchen. mitwu I,,s.oI c,it

A1 I', I OV 77""a" occur at other times - around the fire at night, in the back of the truck on a journey, under the trees after a festival meal, in a small group gathered to meet guests... Nearly every Sunday afternoon is spent in choir practice, to which we are all expected to go unless we're ill. We sit outside under the gum trees and Sister Jenny, as leader of the choir, conducts us, beating on her hymn book to keep time. If we sing a wrong note or don't attend, she walks off in feigned anger to find a tiny twig with which to 'beat' the offending Sister. If the offender is Sister Clara or one of the other senior Sisters, Sister Jenny takes special pleasure in disciplining her. A long lecture will follow, after which the offender may have to sing a verse alone; if she fails or breaks down the whole episode will end in gales of laughter with no-one, not even the offender, in the least embarrassed. Baba enjoyed singing and had a lovely voice. Sometimes before a festival he would call us over to the house after evensong to practise a new hymn, and we would struggle to learn the parts and the new words which he had written or translated for the occasion. If Baba and Mugadza had difficulty with the bass part, Sister Jenny (now much more subdued in Baba's presence) helped them out, only gently chiding them when they went wrong. Another part of Baba's work which he obviously regarded as very important was prayer and intercessions for the sick. Many of the Sisters (including myself) went to him at different times and had the experience of being healed or helped by his prayers. People from outside the community also sought his help. Ann Spence makes the point that ...he feels that he has been given some healing powers, but that it is God in the context of a caring community who heals and not himself... Baba only prayed or gave the laying-on-of-hands when he was asked to do so, and would often call a few of the more senior Sisters to join him in prayer and singing with the sick one. At the same time he had a high regard for doctors and encouraged members of the community to seek medical help if he thought it necessary. One healing, which we all prayed for, did not happen. Sister Jasmine, one of the three senior Sisters, began to show signs of brain trouble in 1970, and it was diagnosed as presenile dementia. Though Baba prayed often with her she grew progressively worse and finally died in May 1972. The last year of her illness was spent in our kitchen, where it was warm, and where there was room for the many relatives and friends who came to visit her. Every fortnight a different Sister came to nurse her. In spite of the sadness of seeing Sister Jasmine's deterioration, I enjoyed that year, particularly as it gave me a chance to get to know each of her nurses better during their two-week spell of duty. For the first time I learnt, and used, each of the Sisters' mutupo, the clan name* which is used in greetings. 'It's difficult to die in the yard,' so the Sisters had said when Simon died, and a short time before Sister Jasmine died, a rather strange incident took place. We were expecting a family from Botswana to visit us and, as we would be short of room, I asked Baba if Sister Jasmine could be moved back temporarily to the yard. Baba agreed and we carried her over to a house which had once been Mbuya Elinor's kitchen. Sister Jasmine and her nurse settled down there and, after our visitors had left, there seemed little point in moving her back again. But one morning Mbuya started demanding to be moved into her old kitchen - she apparently no longer wished to live with her daughter, Anna. She was most insistent about it and, though Anna was rather hurt, there was nothing to be done but to move Sister Jasmine back to our kitchen and prepare the room for Mbuya. At midday Mbuya moved in; by four o'clock that *The mutupo, such as hwai (sheep), shumba (lion), mwoyo (heart), is handed down from father to child. Members of the same mutupo do not marry each other. afternoon she was asking to be taken back again to Anna's kitchen. I think we all knew why Mbuya had had this sudden desire to go back to her old kitchen. Sister Jasmine, who had by now lost all power of speech, could not herself ask to be moved out of the yard. In some strange way Mbuya spoke for her. Within a few days of returning to our kitchen Sister Jasmine slipped peacefully away. Eighteen months later Mbuya herself died, but for her it was to be in the yard, in her daughter's kitchen. It was fitting that she died at eight o'clock on a Thursday morning, at the very time when she would have been starting her weekly prayers and fasting. She was buried the next day in the little chapel beside Baba Francis. For those of us who come from the western world an African funeral can be a strange experience. In the West we do our best to banish death - the body locked up in the bedroom unattended till the morning, consigned to the anonymity of the funeral parlour, the coffin firmly closed until committed to the grave. In the West we have become alienated from our dead, they are no longer with us. Our hearts may bleed, in private, but in public we must suppress our tears and emotions. Not so in Africa. The dead one is still very much a part of his family. Relatives and friends gather from far and wide; the body lies in the round kitchen and is watched over by the mourners day and night. As each new group of people arrives the face of the dead one is uncovered. Some mourners come into the kitchen singing a hymn, others will be wailing or crying hysterically and throwing themselves about, a few just stand in silence. Deep emotion is felt and expressed, and even those who are distantly related will want to show their concern. For a child, all may be over in a day, but an adult's funeral may take two or three days as the return of a distant close relative is awaited. The neighbours all come to help the bereaved family. Outside the kitchen the women will be cooking sadza in huge drums, seven or eight women stirring with long migoti until the meal is cooked. Older men and women sit around quietly talking, the younger men are away digging the grave. There is much hand-shaking, many tears, and the dead one will be remembered in public testimony and private conversation. There will be prayers and singing as the body is taken from the kitchen, and again at the graveside, and the women will pay their last tribute with little bunches of flowers placed by the grave as they file past. After it is all over a few close relatives will stay on to comfort the bereaved, make new arrangements for the family and to distribute the possessions of the deceased according to custom. The bodies of those who die at St Francis are honoured in the same way and are brought into the church for a Requiem Mass. There will be no hysterical crying while the body lies in the church, and the Sisters will be singing with a joy and reassurance which their Christian faith has given them. The dead one, like those who have gone before, is still present with us, the bonds of love are not broken; we, with them, are held in the allembracing mercy of Mwari, the Living God.

Chapter 12 It is difficult for.those of us born and brought up in the 'free' world to realise the indignity which blacks experience because of the colour of their skin. During the eighty years of Rhodesian white rule they were regarded as second class citizens in the country of their birth, discriminated against and denied advancement in every sphere of life, and suffered daily insults from a white 'master' at work or a white 'madam' in the kitchen. There were, of course, exceptions, but they were few. At St Francis one sometimes saw a bit of what it was like to live as a black in the white man's world. The 'cookboy' coming up from his home in Makoni to telephone his 'madam' in Salisbury and her angry exasperation when she hears 'the boy' wants a few more days' leave because his father has died. 'But your father died last year,' she says. How can he explain that his father's younger brother is now his 'father', and that he must be present at his funeral? She'll never understand, the gap between the two worlds is too wide. So he returns to the funeral and risks finding another 'boy' has taken his job when he returns to Salisbury. Then there was the telephone operator who asked one rudely, 'Wajuwant?' thinking she was talking to a 'native'; and the long trek from the hospital in Rusape to the bus stop on the other side of the tracks because African buses weren't allowed to pick up passengers in the town; and the friend who was a black Education Inspector with a degree, always being passed over for promotion by young whites. 'I have to teach them the job myself,' he would say, and one marvelled that he didn't despise them. 'It's not their fault, it's the system that's wrong.' 'The system' - the white man always the boss, always in charge, giving orders to the black man but never seeing his heart, blind to the wealth of love and friendship on the other side of the gulf, seeing only the one-dimensional black figure at the kitchen sink - a figure much depended on for the daily comforts of life but when not at work kept well out of sight in the servants' quarters at the bottom of the garden, a figure with (preferably) no family ties, no right to vote, no national pride, no past and no future. It was hardly surprising that, as year succeeded year, the demands of blacks to change the system became ever stronger. By 1970 few of the nationalist leaders were prepared to share power with the whites, whom they deeply distrusted, and most were demanding majority rule. Britain declared 'no independence before majority rule', but did little to hasten the process. The white-controlled Rhodesian Parliament was able to follow up UDI in 1965 with a retrogressive constitution four years later. Blacks who protested were detained without trial, their parties banned and newspapers closed down. At the beginning of 1971 the Cold Comfort Farm Society was banned and its members scattered. As at St Faith's, their work and life-style brought them into confrontation with the Rhodesian government, and they were suspected (quite correctly) of being in contact with some of the external nationalist leaders. Guy C- B, whose courageous speeches showed that he was diametrically opposed to the illegal Smith regime, was deprived of his citizenship and deported to Britain. Didymus Mutasa, Chairman of Cold Comfort Farm Society, was detained, first at Sinoia and later with Robert Mugabe, Maurice Nyagumbo and other ZANU* leaders in Salisbury. Cold Comfort Farm, an eighty-eight acre property a few kilometres outside Salisbury, was sold by the government to a white businessman and the money confiscated. Again the history of St Faith's was repeated. The government's effort to suppress the project merely scattered the *Zimbabwe African National Union 100 members and their ideas over a wider area. One of the young Cold Comfort Farm leaders, Moven Mahachi, went to take on the management of Nyafaru and put into practice the new cooperative ideas which had been developed at Cold Comfort. Amon Shonge and his wife Elizabeth started the Mukute Farm Society, a mini Cold Comfort, at their home in the Weya Reserve. Other members kept in touch and laterjoined a similar project at Ruwa near Salisbury. The illegal regime was finding that the suppression of ideas was more difficult than the issuing of a banning or detention order. Meanwhile the search for a settlement between Britain and the illegal regime continued. During 1971 proposals were agreed between the two governments, but Britain, for the first time, insisted that they be accepted by 'the people of Rhodesia as a whole', meaning of course that blacks must have an equal say with whites. Early in 1972 a Commission headed by Lord Pearce was sent out from Britain to test the proposals. It was stipulated by the British that meetings were to be held all over the country and that people were to be encouraged to speak freely. Having had the proposals explained, they would be asked to give the answer 'yes' or 'no'. There was no doubt that the Rhodesian government and most whites expected blacks to accept the proposals. Political meetings in the Reserves had been forbidden for many years; the thought of being able to give one's views freely was like a breath of fresh air. For the first time since the whites arrived in 1890, the opinions of black people were to be seriously considered. The Commission invited any who wished to submit memoranda. After we had had time to study the proposals (I translated the important points for the Sisters), Baba suggested that we should give our views to the Commission in writing. During a weekend, when Mugadza and other church members were with us, we gathered in the Nyabadzas' sitting room and Baba explained the proposals and asked for comments. After discussion we drew up a memorandum to which everyone agreed. After giving a brief description of our community we 101 said: We have met together to discuss the Settlement Proposals and have agreed we cannot accept them for the following reasons: 1. The terms were drawn up with no consultation with African leaders... 2. We are absolutely opposed to the settlement being based on the separation of the races in Parliament... We fear that every member of Parliament will work and vote for the interests of his own race... it will be impossible to build a truly multiracial state. 3. The franchise qualification for the African Higher Roll is far too high and would exclude a large number ... such as teachers, nurses and orderlies. African wages are low.., and the slow rate at which they will qualify for the Higher Roll will mean that African people.. .will not see majority rule in their lifetime. It will be even slower if there is a large influx of Europeans following a settlement. 4.We do not believe that the Rhode sian Front government and Party intend to be bound by the promises made ... about racial discrimination, land tenure, job opportunities or the release of detainees. It is impossible to believe that these people have completely changed their views overnight, since they have been moving steadily along the path towards apartheid for the past nine years. 5. We do not believe that the Declaration of Rights will protect our rights, since it can be bypassed by declaring a State of Emergency as has been done, and continually renewed, since 1965. 6. The £50m promised by Britain ... looks to us very much like a bribe, but we are not prepared to barter the future of our country for the sake of educational or economic benefits. 7. ...We believe that Britain should not grant independence ...until this is asked for by the majority of Rhodesian people, and that sanctions should be continued and tightened... 8. The proposals fall very far short of African aspirations. We earnestly hope that new negotiations will be started as soon 102 as possible, with African leaders taking a full part... The vast majority of those who attended meetings in this area also gave the Commission a determined 'no'. Every African I spoke to was against the proposals, the chief reason being that Smith was left firmly in power under the 1969 Constitution and that there was no guarantee that majority rule would ever come. When it became obvious that African people found the proposals unacceptable, there was the usual white reaction: 'They are being intimidated, they're being told what to say by people outside the country - agitators go round from meeting to meeting whipping up opposition, - our servants are all in favour...' In due course the Pearce Commission returned to Britain and its findings were published. The proposals, though accepted by most whites and a few blacks, had been rejected by the vast majority of 'the people as a whole.' The Commission found little evidence of intimidation.* The British government accepted the findings and the proposals were dropped. Although on the face of it the Pearce Commission achieved nothing, the effect on Africans, especially on those in the rural areas, was considerable. For long years the ordinary man and woman in the Reserves had been told what to think, what to say and what to do by a succession of white District Commissioners, Police Officers and civil servants. The 'we know what is best for you' attitude extended from major decisions taken in a whitedominated legislature to the smallest detail of what crop to plant and where. The few who challenged the authorities were labelled 'troublemakers' and arrested. Now at last Britain was taking serious notice of the views of Rhodesia's black people; now at last the world was listening. Out of this new spirit was born the African National Council, *But there was intimidation by the Police. A few weeks before the Commission was due in his area, Amon Shonge was arrested on a trumped up charge of theft of a towel from a store in Mrewa. He was summoned to appear in Court, the prosecution witness didn't turn up, and he was remanded until the following week. This happened three weeks running and effectively prevented Amon from going to any of the Commission's meetings. On his fourth appearance the Magistrate dismissed the case. 103 led by Bishop Muzorewa of the Methodist Church. The Bishop had for some time been refused entry to the Reserves, but he had not been detained. The illegal regime was clearly worried by the popular support which the ANC was getting, and hastily banned its membership cards on the pretext that intimidation would be used to enrol members. All previous parties having been banned, the ANC seemed to us at that time to be in the mainstream of the African nationalist struggle and to be voicing the opinion of the majority. As there were no membership cards we didn't, in fact, join, but we gave it our support. In a circular letter of April 1972 I wrote: What about the future? Constitutions, commissions, political parties and elections come and go, but ultimately it will be the people, 95% of them black, who will decide the future of this country. Already there is a much greater awareness of this fact amongst Africans and they are finding a unity of spirit in spite of the many barriers put in their way of translating this into political action... There is still a long way to go, but one can hear the tide turning, and nothing now can stop it coming in... In December 1972, less than a year after Pearce, the armed struggle began in earnest when freedom fighters attacked European farms in the north-east of the country. Young men who had left the country were returning trained and armed to liberate their people, a task which would take another seven years to complete. At that time the war seemed a long way from us and we were hardly affected. Life went on much as usual. However, fifteen months later we found ourselves very much closer to the struggle. I had no radio at that time, but the Rhodesia Herald came 104 daily on the bus. On 26 April, 1974 1 remember standing on the store verandah reading the headlines - the coup in Portugal, the promise of majority rule in Mozambique and Angola. We hadn't heard such good news for years. Our freedom fighters would now have rear bases in Mozambique, and the Rhodesian security forces an impossibly long border to defend instead of only the much shorter border with Zambia. The whole picture of the liberation war was transformed. Later that year I spent three months in England, where my father had just died. I stayed twice with the C-Bs in the little stone cottage in North Wales where they now lived. Perched on the side of the Clwyd hills, with grass up to the door and sheep grazing around, no electricity and only one cold tap in the kitchen, it suited them very well. They had a telephone to keep them in touch with the outside world and a small Prefect car to take them up and down to the village two miles away and to the station at Chester. They had a constant stream of visitors, many of them exiles from Rhodesia. We talked hard over coffee and ginger biscuits round the fire, or out on the grass, with glorious views of Snowdon when the clouds cleared. We talked mostly about Rhodesia, which we were now beginning to call Zimbabwe, and the escalating war. Guy asked me if Baba was involved in helping the freedom fighters. 'Yes, he certainly is,' I answered. 'He's giving bags of maize to a friend who runs a transport business. They're laying up supplies near the border, near Nyafaru, where this man's sister has a store.' Both the C-Bs and I had pacifist leanings, but we accepted that liberation by armed struggle was the only way now left open to blacks in Rhodesia. Much of what Guy had warned would happen if the whites continued their intransigence was already happening. Twenty years of political pressure, at first very gently applied and with only the most reasonable demands to share power, had produced nothing but more and more segregation and discrimination, culminating in the 1969 constitution. I reminded Guy and Molly of the very early days at St Faith's, when some of us went as a mixed group to African Welfare Society meetings in Rusape. The demand then was for 105 a shelter for 4th class passengers at the railway station, but even that modest request was thought by the authorities to be subversive! They thought then that we were communists, which we were not, but now, twenty years later, blacks in Africa were turning to the communist world for helD, because the West was not prepared to support them in their struggle for freedom. After my second visit to the C-Bs I called on Didymus Mutasa and his wife in Birmingham. Didymus had been allowed out of detention in 1973 on condition that he left immediately for England for further education. A peace-loving man, yet a staunch supporter of the armed struggle, he was now preparing to go to Mozambique to join in the struggle when his degree course was finished. 106 Chapter 13 'Give us three more years.' - These were the words which Maurice Nyagumbo used when he came to visit us at St Francis in December 1974, just after he had been released from detention. 'Three years and the whole of Zimbabwe will be liberated.' During 1974 a further attempt had been made to reach a settlement which it was hoped would end the war. The nationalist leaders, including Maurice, had been summoned to Lusaka to talks with the Rhodesian government and Muzorewa's ANC, and the talks ended in the so-called 'Lusaka agreement'. Maurice evidently had little faith in it. He arrived at St Francis early one morning while we were still in church, and slipped in unobtrusively to sit at the back. After the service we all gathered around him outside, singing, crying, and embracing him. When we went into the Nyabadzas' sitting room for the more formal greetings, I congratulated him on the agreement, but he soon disillusioned me. 'That agreement is a sham, just a whitewash job. The war must go on.' Later, when we heard that the Smith regime was calling on the freedom fighters to surrender, we knew what he meant. I had visited Maurice many times while he was in detention in Salisbury, sometimes with Mavis. (Baba, after the Lupane visit, never visited him again, preferring to give time and money to helping his wife with her store and family problems, and with the building of a new house which a Swedish Amnesty group were funding.) Each time I visited Maurice the security arrangements were tighter. To begin with the visits were in a room 107 where we sat together, later we talked through a grill, and finally we had to communicate through a glass partition by telephone. We were never able to talk freely, as there was always a warder present, and usually our conversation was about Maurice's family. Now, at last, we were able to talk about what was really uppermost in our minds. Maurice visited us several times in the next few months and on one occasion brought his friend and fellow-detainee, Robert Mugabe. He also brought, and deposited with me, the manuscript of his autobiography which he had managed to write and smuggle out of prison. He told me that the first two manuscripts had both been confiscated by the CID on prison raids. 'This is the third time I've written it. Keep it safe; I don't want to have to write it again.' It was beautifully typed and I read it quickly and then got the Sisters to hide it amongst their clothes. Later I sent it over to England with my young student nephew in a folder marked 'Mediaeval History Notes - 1127-1485' which we thought looked innocent enough. Needless to say he, being white, was not searched, and the manuscript safely reached Terry and Shelagh Ranger in England. Five years later it was published under the title With the People and Maurice had the honour of being part-sharer in the Martin Luther King memorial prize. Maurice's visits to St Francis were always hurried and it was not until later that I realised that he was working flat out to prepare people for chimurenga - the armed struggle. He worked as a man does when he knows he has only a short time driving at night, hardly taking time to eat, giving a word of greeting here and a hand-shake there, and then off again. He was travelling round the country holding meetings with small groups in the rural areas, explaining to people the political situation and the part they would play in the armed struggle. On one occasion I noticed that his hands were blistered, and I asked why. 'When we find people at work tree-stumping or hoeing we lend a hand,' he said, 'because we want to show people that hard work is a very important part of the struggle.' He was also visiting African Secondary Schools, such as St Augustine's, where students were clamouring to cross over to Mozambique 108 to enlist as freedom fighters. All he told me was that it was 'ANC business'. On some of these trips he was accompanied by John Mutasa, but often he was alone, and then his chief worry was that he would be stopped at a road-block, 'because I've got no driving licence'! Maurice, of course, expected to be arrested at any time, hence his great sense of urgency. We too were not altogether surprised, knowing Maurice, to hear that he had been taken in again, 'at Cornelius' house (his cousin) at two in the morning. I was washing my underpants and vest,' he said in a rather pained way, when I saw him later in Umtali Remand Prison. John Mutasa had also been arrested, taken from his home. We were less prepared for the news, a few days later, that Baba had also been arrested. It was on the Saturday after Easter and the first thing that told me anything was wrong was when I heard praying and sobbing coming from the church. I asked someone what had happened and was told 'Baba's been arrested. He's in the Police Camp at Rusape.' Later we heard from Baba that he had been stopped by the CID just as he was preparing to come home from Rusape. 'Just come along for questioning, we won't keep you long.' Baba was taken first to Headlands Police Camp and then on the Tuesday he was transferred to Umtali. We were allowed to see him there. He was unwashed and unshaven, looked tired and had a bad cold. Later we heard that he had been questioned at Headlands, and when they had threatened to beat him he stood up to them and they didn't touch him. He told us that he had not been formally charged, but was being held with about ten others for questioning. As well as Maurice and John Mutasa, there was Moven Mahachi (manager of Nyafaru), Abraham (Baba's nephew) and several others including a bus driver and conductor and a man living near the Mozambique border. We now know that all of them were involved with transporting recruits from Salisbury to the Mozambique border and that many of the recruits went through Nyafaru. One of the bus services (the owner avoided arrest and fled to Mozambique) and various vehicles were used, including Baba's truck and Maurice's car. Our store was one of the pick-up points. The 109 chain was working well until the man ferrying the recruits over the Gaerezi River was picked up, and he gave the police the name of one of the members of the chain. This man, apparently, revealed all the other names, and so the whole network was exposed. None of us, except Mai, knew how much Baba was involved. When we knew that the police were looking for Abraham (who was taken in two days after Baba) we advised him to say as little as possible, only that he had been told to drive some people to Inyanga. Baba was so much the hub of our life that it was inevitable that we should feel deep shock at his arrest. For the first time the community could no longer have Mass, since he was the only priest. Eric Mugadza, who came every weekend while Baba was in prison, talked to us about the importance of holding regular mattins and evensong. The Sisters inaugurated a rigorous programme of prayer and fasting: we fasted (while working) till noon every day and prayed each evening in the church till midnight. Otherwise we carried on as usual, with Mai directing the work, helped by the senior Sisters. We were allowed to visit Baba and the others fairly frequently at the Remand Prison in Umtali, and nearly every one of our church members made at least one visit. The group Baba was working with were charged under the Law and Order Maintenance Act with'recruiting', an offence which carried a mandatory death sentence unless 'special circumstances' could be found by the court. Baba had been formally charged in order to be sent to the Remand Prison with the others. This was actually done out of consideration for his bad cold, as the authorities thought that conditions would be better for him there than in the police camp. Abraham and one or two others were not charged, but were kept in detention. We tried hard to get Baba out, even if only for a few hours to be able to take a Sunday Mass. We put this request to the District Commissioner in Rusape, but he was most unsympathetic, and so was the Umtali Magistrate, who refused to consider it. Now that Baba had been charged it was possible to apply for bail. We put in an application through a lawyer, but 110 heard just before Whitsun that it had been turned down. Umtali (now Mutare) Prison is in what must be one of the world's most beautiful cities. Surrounded by green, tree-clad hills, with flowering trees and shrubs in a well-kept garden, the prison hardly looks like a penal institution. However, once inside with Umtali's beauty shut out by the huge clanking bolts and bars of the prison doors, you begin to get a feeling of what it must be like to be a prisoner. Maurice, with his long experience of prison life, was the natural leader of the group and was able to advise the newcomers. He was soon at work too, giving political education to the ordinary prisoners. The group was living with these prisoners at first, but it wasn't long before the authorities realised what was going on in the way of politicisation, and the group was moved to separate quarters. They were all on different scales of rations, but they ate together, sharing out the food between them. There is no doubt that Baba's influence was felt in the prison. Maurice remembers: To him, it was not a prison but a place where he loved to conduct prayers in peace. Even members of the prison staff and hardcore criminals would come every morning to attend his wonderful sermons which he often conducted in a big cell. As well as conducting prayers he enjoyed having time, for once, to read his Bible and other books which he was allowed. A similar appreciation of Baba's influence is given by Moven Mahachi: When we met under very hard prison conditions Baba Basil Nyabadza gave me a shock. All the other comrades under those conditions were worried... but Baba Nyabadza was not moved by that horror at all. He sat quietly and confidently as if he knew what his fate would be. He gave me courage not to fear, comforted me by his beautiful singing and entertained me by playing tsoro* and cards with me. The chorus of 'It is Christ who had mercy and forgave even at the most hardest time' is still very fresh in my *tsoro - draughts memory. 'Who am I not to forgive those who are persecuting me?' said Baba Nyabadza. 'If Christ forgave then we who claim to be his followers must also learn to forgive.' ... The six months I stayed with him were sufficient to convince me and make me more determined. Baba Nyabadza has contributed a lot to what I am today... The Prison Superintendent appears to have been a good man who treated them well, and he too was impressed by Baba. One Sunday he provided a room so that Baba could hold a farewell service for his daughter, Martha, who was shortly leaving to study in London. Mai and a few of the Sisters who were there recall, 'We had very meaningful prayers and singing, and Maurice and two of the guards came in too.' After two months the whole group was transferred to Salisbury, where their trials were to be held. In the early morning, befoTe they left in the prison transport, the Superintendent asked Baba to lead them in a few prayers, and he appeared to be really sorry to be losing the group. Conditions in Salisbury Remand Prison were very different - much stricter and more uncomfortable - and visiting was more difficult. By now we were making renewed efforts to get Baba out on bail, and this time we were successful. The bail was set quite high, but we were helped by friends, and he was ordered to surrender his passport and report daily to the Rusape Police. His return home on 24 June was memorable. We had gone up to Salisbury to fetch him, and as we drove into the yard he told us to stop the truck and we all went into the church, surrounded by the Sisters and children. We were crying, singing and giving thanks that our prayers had been answered. Then he was greeted outside and we all went down to the house, where we talked and sang and danced, and people from the village began coming in to greet him. All the pent-up anxiety and pain of the last three months was swept away in a spontaneous expression of joy and thanksgiving. Baba showed no trace of bitterness as he told us of his experiences. A friend recalls: 'He bore no grudge against those who had locked him inside. He was satisfied that he had done 112 the most honourable thing in assisting the liberation struggle.' During Baba's absence, Mai had taken full responsibility for the community as well as directing the farming and business activities. I helped her a bit, especially with the driving and on the financial side, and she got support and advice from the Sisters, but she had to be Baba as well as Mai. During these months she blossomed out, proving to be very capable, untiring, and with a sympathetic concern for everyone. When Baba returned I was rather sorry to see that she quickly slipped back into his shadow, deferring to him in everything as a Mashona wife is supposed to do. I felt she could have carried on with quite a few of the responsibilities which she had been carrying so capably, but she quickly reassumed her previous role of Mai, and left him to make all the decisions. After a week or so he was in full control again. A few weeks after Baba's return, we learnt that my goddaughter, Yvonne, was missing from her secondary school at Elim Mission, near the Mozambique border. In a letter to Francis in London, Baba wrote on 6 August, '...a new development is that Yvonne is not at school and she is believed to have gone over to Mozambique. The.. .matron is said to have understood from Yvonne that she was so upset by my arrest that she made up her mind to go and fight...' After her return home in 1980 Yvonne described how she went: A friend of mine, a girl called Matilda, lived in Mozambique, and she knew Frelimo soldiers. I got directions from her on how to cross. I told the principal that I was called home for a death, but he refused to let me go. So I just told the boarding mistress that I had permission, and I left the school at 3 am on 16 July. I wore my home clothes and put on an extra pair of trousers and two dresses. But I didn't take a blanket. I got the bus and arrived at Christmas Pass at 10 am. I waited there for the bus that comes from Umtali and goes to Imbezi at the border. The bus came in the afternoon and when we got to the border I was questioned by the police. I said I had been to Umtali to shop and that I lived in Mozambique. They let me through and I went and stayed the 113 night with Matilda's mother who was living a short distance on the other side of the border. She was a branch secretary of the nationalist party in Mozambique. Next day I was taken to a Frelimo camp, where I slept, and then by transport to Chimoio. Yvonne was only fifteen when she left to fight. We knew she had gone alone and we were very concerned until we got news that she had crossed safely and was in a training camp. The cases of those who had been imprisoned with Baba came up in the High Court in Salisbury in October. They all pleaded guilty, 'special circumstances' were found by the Court in all cases, and they were sentenced to varying terms of imprisonment. Maurice's case was heard last, and we feared they would have overwhelming evidence against him. We knew that he had visited several secondary schools and it seemed more than likely that the CID would have questioned the children. If they did, however, the children all kept quiet, and the only solid evidence, which he admitted, was that his car had been used to take people to the border. Maurice himself had evidently told the CID as little as possible. We were all praying hard that 'special circumstances' would be found in his case too, and were greatly relieved when we heard he had been given fifteen years imprisonment, five of them suspended. With the war gathering momentum, it seemed highly unlikely that any of the group would serve their full terms. Mavis and I continued to visit, and correspond with, Maurice, who was being held in the maximum security block in Salisbury Prison. He and others with him were classed as 'politicals', so there was no compulsory work, and we heard that many of them were furthering their education. Maurice, who had started his prison career in 1959 with only a primary school leaving certificate, was now doing 'A' levels, and later started a degree course. Baba was not put on trial, and after Maurice's case was over he was released from bail. Abraham, who had been detained at Marandellas,* was released just before Christmas. *now Marondera 114

Chapter 14 Baba's ten weeks in prison had a considerable effect on him. He told us that he no longer had any fear of the authorities. 'Prison does a lot for you,' he said, 'It's like going to University.' His experience also made him more aware of the liberation struggle, and his extempore prayers at the end of evensong now included prayers for 'our brothers living in the bush and in the caves, and those dying without help.' During the five months he had to report daily to the Rusape police he came under considerable pressure from the CID and the security forces to 'come on side', in other words to join them as an informer. He would have been a good catch, and no doubt they thought that he would want to safeguard himself and his business by changing sides. But Baba had his heart and soul in the struggle, and neither inducement nor intimidation would shake him. After he came out of prison some of his friends advised, 'If you've got a passport, get out of the country,' but of course Baba would never leave his work at St Francis. Nor would he opt out of his role of supporting the liberation movement, work which became ever more important as the war came nearer to us. By 1976 the freedom fighters (now generally known as vakomana - 'the boys') had infiltrated well into the Inyanga district to the east of us, and they were relying on the local people to feed and clothe them. Although they were still some distance from us, the boys were sending messages asking for clothing and footwear, and Baba supplied them through the store. Sometimes he would come back from Salisbury with 115 fifteen or twenty sets of denim trousers, jackets, caps and shoes, costing several hundred dollars. After a few months of this he asked me whether I could get any money from overseas for this purpose, and I said I would try. I knew that our letters were sometimes opened by the CID and that it would be far too dangerous to make a direct appeal. So when Ann Spence came to stay in September, before leaving for England, I asked her if she could try and get help for us. She was teaching at a college in Birmingham, not far from where Didymus and his family were living. (In fact soon after this she took on responsibility for the Mutasa children so that Didymus and his wife could both go to Mozambique.) So I asked Ann to approach Didymus to see whether he could find any help for us in Britain or Switzerland. Before she left we set up a code - the appeal would be for 'the Sisters' new dormitory', which was in the process of being rebuilt. During the next few months we received $400 'for the new dormitory'; this money was sent through friends in Switzerland, and was used by Baba for the clothing. Fortunately that year we had a very good crop of maize grown on van Heerden's land, and we were anxious to get it in quickly. With the war coming closer, there were rumours that we might be put into 'the wire' ie into a 'Protected Village'*. So I went to the lands to help too, going down every morning with the Sisters on the tractor and trailer with our food for the day, and returning in the evening on top of the trailer load of maize cobs. The lands were near the main road, and as we harvested we saw an increasing number of military vehicles tearing up and down the tarmac. There was no doubt that the war was intensifying. In some areas of the country a dusk to dawn curfew was in force, and although this had not yet reached us, the security forces were beginning to tell people they must be in their houses by sundown, 'or you will be shot'. When Mavis told me this I said, with my usual British belief in fair play, 'They can't shoot, *Established by the government in an effort to deny the guerrillas food, the PVs were largely unsuccessful, and by the time the war reached us they were no longer being constructed. 116 there's no curfew here.' Mavis, however, took the view that the soldiers could do anything, legal or illegal. She also told me not to answer if there was knocking at night. People near Zonga had been woken by knocking, and when they got up had found soldiers at the door. 'Who were you expecting?' the soldiers would ask, and then the people, suspected of cooking for 'terrorists', would get beaten. One of the earliest of the many wartime regulations imposed by the Smith regime was that of 'reporting the presence of terrorists' (the name by which the freedom fighters were officially known). Villagers were told that if they were visited by terrorists, they could feed them, but must report to the Police within three days. Undoubtedly some villagers did so, whether for money or from fear of reprisals, but the vast majority of the people supported the boys and they were not often given away. But a great difficulty over reporting arose when the Selous Scouts came into the area. Members of this highly secret unit were being sent out by the Rhodesian forces to live and operate in the bush in imitation of the boys. Some Selous Scouts were recruited from captured guerrillas, who had been given the choice of changing sides or being executed, and these men were in possession of very valuable information. They knew what to wear, how the boys behaved and how they talked. If they had visited a particular village before capture, the villagers naturally thought that they belonged to another guerrilla group. When people began to realise what was happening, they asked the boys to give certain signs to indicate who they were. If the signs were not there, the group would be suspect. After a suspect visitation the villagers had to decide whether to report or not. If they really were the boys, to report would be giving their own side away and they risked being killed as informers. If they were Selous Scouts, to fail to report would bring reprisals from the security forces. Eventually, to protect the people, the boys told villagers, 'We don't want you in trouble, go and report us.' But at that time, in 1976, the villagers were in a very difficult position. We had already been warned about the Selous Scouts when, in July 1976, we had our first visit from one of these bogus groups. One evening Baba and Mai were called to Tete Anna's 117 kitchen where they found a group of men. Mai tells the story: These men had AK rifles and they looked like the boys, but we couldn't be sure. They asked to be cooked sadza and one of them said to Baba,'We are vakomana. Have you seen the others of our group?' Baba said he hadn't seen anyone. Then they asked to speak to him privately and he went outside with them. One of the group stayed behind in the kitchen. Tete was cooking the sadza and this man talked to me. 'Your mudzimu (spirit) is very strong,' he said, 'and I am made to say this. We are not vakomana, we are the Selous Scouts. They want to destroy your business and to kill the Father. He will be asked to keep our weapons, and this is a trap. You must tell him to refuse. We shall spend three days here.' I was very frightened at this and I asked 'What can we do? You are government people.' He told me that we must go to the police and report. Then he told me that he had been captured in the Mtoko area and released on condition he joined the Selous Scouts. 'I have to train the security force people how to fight in the bush.' Then he told me that he wasn't happy to trap us. 'But you musn't tell anyone what I've said, not even the Father, or they will kill me.' Baba then came back with the other men. They showed him their weapons and he was asked to handle them, but he refused. Then they asked me and I touched the weapons because I was afraid they would think me suspicious if I refused. Then they ate their food and went away. When Baba and I were alone, Baba immediately said, 'Those are not the boys, they are Selous Scouts. The signs the boys give were not there.' Then I told him all that the Selous Scout had told me. Next morning the Scouts sent someone to call Baba to go to the hill, but Baba refused to go. They also asked for sadza, which we gave them. In the afternoon Baba sent me to the police camp to report. The police asked me 118 why Baba hadn't come himself, and I said he was busy. Then they said they were surprised that I had come 'because we never thought your husband would report terrorists.' The group of Scouts left Makoni soon after this and went down to the Nyagumbos' village. There they tricked the people, who believed they were the boys, and they were fed but not reported. After cooking for them, Maurice's wife, Victoria, sent her eldest daughter, Eleanor, to St Francis to ask Baba what they should do. Baba told Eleanor that they were almost certainly Selous Scouts and advised them to report. But they did nothing. None of the other people in the village would report, and it was difficult for them to act alone. The next day we heard that most of the villagers, including Mai Nyagumbo, Eleanor and her young sister of thirteen, had been arrested. The next morning I went to Rusape camp and asked to see Mai Nyagumbo. I was taken upstairs to the CID offices, and in due course she came in. It was a bitterly cold day and she was wearing only a thin dress, no jersey, shoes or headscarf. I asked the CID officer why, and he said these things were not allowed 'because they try and kill themselves with them.' But he said he would see if she could have her jersey back. When I talked to Mai she told me that she didn't know where Eleanor was. 'You know she gets this shaking of her limbs sometimes, and I'm very worried about her,' she told me. I then went into the town to buy some things for her, and quite by chance I met a Nyabadza relative who was teaching at Headlands. She told me that she knew from a friend that Eleanor had spent the night at Headlands police camp, but had been taken that morning to Rusape Hospital. So I went down to the hospital to enquire and was told that she had never been there. I then returned to the CID office. 'I hear Eleanor Nyagumbo spent the night at Headlands,' I said, 'but has been taken away. Can you tell me where she is now?' 'Who gave you that information?' the officer asked. 'No, I can't tell you who my informant was,' I replied. 119

'Well, in that case I won't tell you where she is.' 'That's all right,' I said, 'I shall be getting onto our lawyer when I get home, and he will be making enquiries.' He then went out of the room and came back a few minutes later. 'I'm told she was taken home in our vehicle this morning,' he informed me.'She refused to go to hospital.' We later heard Eleanor's own story. She said she had been severely beaten at Headlands, and during the night it was very cold and she had started to shake. 'I knew it was my same trouble,' she said, 'but the CID were very worried and wondered what they had done to me. They wanted to take me to the hospital, but I made them take me home.' Mai Nyagumbo was held on remand for three months and her trial was set for 9 October in Umtali. Some of us went along, and after sitting listening to other cases for most of the day, we were told that her case had been postponed to the 22nd. Whether deliberately or not, the case was taken a day earlier, so none of us were there. Some of the other people from her village had already been tried, and some sentenced to five years. Mai Nyagumbo had a good lawyer and got only three years, with two and a half suspended. She came out in February 1977. On 9 August 1976 the dusk to dawn curfew came into force in our area. The regulations allowed us to be within fifty metres of a dwelling house or in a car on a main road, but otherwise we were liable to be shot on sight. This meant that the store must be closed before sunset, and we discussed whether evensong should be put forward to 5 pm. I measured the distance from our houses to the church and all were just within the 50 metres. Baba was not keen to change from our usual time of 7 pm fearing that we would all be late for church. We agreed that we were not going to be intimidated by the curfew and that church should be at the usual time. I was to remember months later my lighthearted remark, which made Baba laugh, 'Better be shot than be late for church.' 120

Although the curfew did not apply if one was in a car on the main road, the short dirt road into the Mission was within the curfew. Baba was usually, but not always, back at the Mission by 6 pm, but he didn't seem unduly worried. However, when I was in Salisbury visiting Maurice Nyagumbo I met his brother, Ezekiel. 'Tell Baba,' he said, 'to be careful not to move around in the car at night. We have already lost too many good people shot during the curfew.' Some time before Christmas there was a further attempt to trap Baba and to lure him out of the Mission. One evening, at about 6 pm, two men came into the yard, running, and said they were hungry and needed money. While they talked to Mai, Baba went into the house and came out and gave them some money. They then said they wanted him to go to where they had hidden their weapons. Baba asked Mai to arrange sadza for them, and she went into the kitchen and called the Sisters. 'Pray hard,' she said, 'Baba is in danger.' She was determined that Baba shouldn't go with these strangers, and when she could get him alone said, 'Baba, I know you have to die sometime, but I want you to die here at St Francis. Don't go with these men.' Baba then went into the house and Mai told the men that he was ill and couldn't go with them. As the food was not yet ready she suggested they go and get their weapons, and come back to eat. They left, but never came back. Mai was quite sure they were not the boys because they were 'nervous and shivering.' This time the incident was not reported. 121 Chapter 15 During 1976, and in the following years, there was a constant stream of young people crossing over to Mozambique to join the struggle. Parts of the border were patrolled or mined, and crossing became increasingly dangerous, yet the youngsters kept on going. Sometimes we would hear, several weeks after they had left, that so-and-so and so-and-so had gone. Departure was always abrupt, without the parents' knowledge, and often from school. The children, many of them still in their early teens, took nothing with them - to be seen with blankets at a bus stop was far too dangerous - but sometimes the girls wore two dresses. As the number of recruits grew, a system of signing them up was started. So they had to wait their turn and were escorted across in groups by the boys. Some children were told by the boys to stay at home: 'You are too young,' or 'Others in your family have gone, you must stay and help your mother.' A group of young Tangwena from Nyafaru had joined Amon Shonge at Mukute Farm to help on the co-operative scheme. They too were very keen to cross to Mozambique. They set out for the border, but after walking for a few days they were sent back by the boys. They were told, 'Your work with the people in Weya is more important - it's just the kind of life we're fighting for.' Five of our young church members went across. Yvonne went first, and later Samuel Tenha, his brother Jonathan and his sister Anna, and Jasmine Nyagumbo, Maurice's niece. Several young men who were working for Baba also went, and many from Makoni village. The courage of all these young people was 122 a great inspiration to those of us left behind. By the beginning of 1977 the nearest guerrilla groups were based twenty or thirty kilometres away from us. There is a long line of hills with deep caves stretching down the east side of the Makoni Reserve. Here they were able to establish a secure base where the Rhodesian forces were unable to penetrate. Arrangements for feeding the boys were always made well in advance of their arrival. Committees were set up, which at that time functioned under the ANC, with officials in touch with both the villagers and the guerrillas. The dangerous work of carrying messages (often written), of collecting chickens and mealie meal, of cooking the food and then carrying it to the bases, was done by the villagers. Many were killed - shot during the curfew - and many more had their houses and granaries bombed or set alight by the soldiers. The young people, who helped as messengers and who passed on to the boys information of security force movements, were known as mujibhas. In our area the two ANC officials responsible for supplying the boys were well known to us. One was Maurice's cousin, Cornelius Nyagumbo, the other a man called Geoffrey* who lived a few miles away. Both of them were carpenters and moved round in their cars doing jobs, so were in a good position to do their 'ANC work.' It was Geoffrey who brought the boys for the first time to St Francis. They came at about 9 pm. Geoffrey came to the Nyabadzas' kitchen and asked Mai to come down to the garden. There she met the group, and then they sent her back to call Baba. Down in the garden they all greeted one another and talked. Mai offered them sadza, but they refused. 'We have eaten,' they said, 'but we would like water to drink.' They said that they were on their way to Epiphany (an Anglican outstation about 20 km from us) and had no time to come to the house. They didn't stay long, but Mai was impressed by how different they were from the other 'visitors' - 'confident, speaking out straight, no nervousness, no delaying for sadza or showing of weapons, but wanting to get moving.' *For reasons which will become clear his real name cannot be given. 123

There was one other incident which we believe was an effort to trap Baba.A group in Inyanga sent him a letter by the bus.The letter began, 'We are ZANLA* members...' They said they had heard that he could help them with clothing, and they asked him to meet them at a certain place near Inyanga. Baba was a bit suspicious and he showed the letter to some of the local guerrillas. 'This is bad, they said, 'don't go. The people who sent this letter are not ZANLA, they are Selous Scouts. They want to kill you. We know because we always say we are ZANLA forces, not ZANLA members.' So Baba didn't go. Baba and Mai told us very little of all this, fearing to involve us too much. But Baba did tell me that he had met the boys, once at the Mission and once when he and Cornelius went in the truck to meet them. He told me how impressed he was with them. 'They say they are fighting for the liberation of Zimbabwe, not for any one party or leader or any one tribe. They are well informed and very keen.' Although he didn't talk much about his activities, Baba was not particularly careful to avoid being seen. People must have noticed quantities of guerrilla-style clothing arriving at the store and being repacked for distribution. Mai was much more concerned. She was also worried about the financial drain on the store. 'There's no profit in all this,' she said to him. But his view was different. 'The profit is in our friends,' he told her. As thousands of guerrillas infiltrated further and further into the country, the general situation appeared to be getting worse. More and more people were dying, 'caught in the crossfire', 'curfew breakers', 'killed by terrorists' according to the official communiques. Yet much as we grieved over all this suffering, we all knew deep down that only in this way would our liberation come. Towards the end of 1976 another effort was made to reach a settlement. A conference was convened in Geneva, but after a *Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army. 124 few weeks the talks collapsed. In January of the following year Baba wrote to his son Michael doing 'A' levels in London: 'One hoped that there could be a change for the better in sight by now but there is no sign of this at all. I think we ought to pray, and pray hard, in asking for true peace in this country...' But he was happy because he had had news of Yvonne: '...some man did report that [she] was fine...' The police and security forces were still trying vainly to get Baba to support them. He was called in to the CID office at Rusape on a number of occasions and warned against supplying 'terrorists'. Several times he was asked to address meetings in the area, to denounce 'terrorism' and to tell people not to feed the 'terrs' and to report their presence. He never went to these meetings, usually managing to have 'important business' in Salisbury on the day a meeting had been arranged. Although he wouldn't lend them any support, he was always courteous to the police and military personnel; perhaps for this reason they thought he could be easily won over. Knowing nothing of the Selous Scouts' visit and other efforts to trap him, I was rather sceptical when Mavis said one evening, 'There are people who want to kill Baba.' I knew there were local people who were jealous of his business success, but I couldn't believe that they would want to kill him. I was not aware, at that time, of the interaction between those who were jealous of him for personal reasons and those who wanted him out of the way because he supported the guerrillas. It seems certain that Baba himself was well aware of the danger he was in. Columbus Makoni, who himself had been deeply involved with the boys and had had to go and live in Umtali, remembers visiting Baba at the store in March 1977. Baba told him, 'Things aren't going well for me. Mr M is reporting me to the police.' (Mr M was a local businessman.) Columbus told Baba that he ought to leave the country. 'But since you were in prison, they'll never let you out legally. But you ought at least to go to Salisbury.' Baba wouldn't hear of it, 'No, I can't leave the people and my work here.' Mai and the Sisters were also very worried about Baba's safety. They knew that other businessmen suspected of helping 125 the boys were removing themselves and their families to the towns or sleeping in a different place every night. Knowing that Baba wouldn't agree to leave the Mission, even temporarily, they begged him to sleep in the little chapel of St Gregory, hidden away behind the altar of the church. But even this he refused. 'He wouldn't even shut the bedroom windows at night.' Mai told us later, 'and just said, 'if they mean to kill me, they'll kill me."' So the Sisters had to content themselves with arranging for two of them to sleep in the Nyabadzas' sitting room, believing they could in some way guard him. Since the New Year, Baba with the help of his brother-in-law (a builder) was doing various jobs at the bottle store and cafe. Flushing toilets and basins, sinks and a hatchway were being installed to complete the business complex. On the last Monday in March Mai was with him in the cafe and he said, 'I hope I've done everything for you so that you can carry on. If you are strong enough, you can look after the children and the Sisters for ten years with what you can get from the business.' Mai replied, 'Yes, I can, but I would rather God took all these things away and left you with me.' To which Baba replied, 'We must do what is God's will for us.' Mai later told friends, 'During those last two weeks in March he seemed to know that his death was near; he retired from all his usual business activities and even lay on his bed in the daytime.' Then, on a bright moonlit night, as the last day of March became the first day of April, it happened. 126

Chapter 16 On Thursday 31 st Baba had gone to Salisbury, accompanied by one of the farm men. He finished his business as the shops were shutting, and went to see some relations. We heard later that they tried to persuade him to stay the night, but he refused, saying he must be back for the Friday Mass. He got back to St Francis at about 8 pm, and Mavis and I went over to greet him. The sitting room was full of stuff bought for the store. We didn't stay long. 'Amangwana, Baba' - 'see you tomorrow'. We returned to our house and went to bed. During the night I woke up and looked at my clock. It was almost exactly midnight. Then I heard someone knocking on the door and low voices. Mavis woke and whispered to me, 'Chinyarara' - 'Keep quiet' - and I hardly dared breathe. Then they knocked on the other door into the sitting room and finally, and much more insistently, on the window behind our beds. The voices were too low to hear what they were saying. Then all was quiet, and Mavis immediately got up and looked out of the window. With the bright moon she could see that they were soldiers with their rifles slung at their sides, and they were walking towards the yard. She came back to bed and almost immediately there was a loud burst of firing, three short bursts in rapid succession, then silence. It sounded as if it came from the garden. I got up and looked out of the window and saw someone running towards our house. It was Sister Catherine. As we let her in she was calling to us, 'Uyayi, uyayi. Come quickly, bring the lamp. They have shot Baba. He is dead.' I lit the gas lamp and we put on our coats and followed Sister 127

Catherine to the yard. There, half way between his house and the church, Baba lay on the ground with his arms outstretched, bleeding from the side of his head and chest. Nearby were a number of' empty cartridge cases, but we saw no sign of the soldiers. Sister Catherine was one of the two Sisters whose turn it was to sleep in the Nyabadzas' sitting room that night. She and Sister Felicity had been woken up by loud banging on the glass door onto the verandah. Afraid that the door would be smashed, Sister Felicity got up and opened it. She saw a black man standing on the verandah. In the bright moonlight she could see that he was wearing a dark coat and that he carried a camouflaged rifle. He was trying to pull the coat together at the neck as if to hide what was underneath, but even so she could see that he was wearing a camouflaged battle dress such as was worn by the security forces. 'Where is the Father?' he asked, but she didn't answer. He repeated the question and again she kept silent. As he was asking a third time, Baba himself came out of his bedroom. He greeted the soldier, shaking hands, and then Mai too came out onto the verandah. 'Where are you from?' Baba asked him, but he didn't reply. 'Just come outside, I want to talk to you, Father.' 'Can I get my coat?' asked Baba. 'No, it won't take long.' During this conversation Sister Felicity had gone to call off the dogs which were barking round the soldier. As she went to the side of the house she saw a second black soldier standing in the shadow of a doorway, also carrying a camouflaged rifle. She then went back and joined Mai and Sister Catherine who were following Baba and the soldier as they walked up the path leading to the church. 'Are these women your family?' the soldier asked Baba. 'Yes they are.' The soldier turned to the women. 'You stay behind, we shan't keep the Father long.' But they continued to follow. Then there was a deafening sound of firing and they threw themselves on the ground. When they looked up they saw Baba 128 lying on his back on the ground. The two soldiers were looking at his body, but they soon moved off towards the main gate, where they were joined by a number of other soldiers. Sister Catherine, on her way to call us, saw another group of men, in ordinary clothes, standing outside the fence watching what was happening. The sound of firing had woken everyone, and Abraham and some of the Sisters carried Baba's body into the kitchen. I phoned the police to report the shooting and asked if anyone would be coming out. The African who answered said he didn't know, he would have to ask the Member-in-Charge, and rang off. I then went back to the kitchen where they were washing and laying out the body. When they had finished we all knelt round and prayed and sang until daylight. At 6.30 am a police contingent arrived - several whites and one black. They all wore camouflage and carried camouflaged FN rifles at the ready. After saying good morning to me they immediately went round picking up cartridge cases and removed a bullet which had lodged in the wall of the church. Meanwhile the body had been carried into the church, the bell was tolled and people living nearby were coming into the yard. The police then asked me if anyone had witnessed the shooting and I called Sister Catherine and Sister Felicity. They started to tell their story: 'Two men came to the house...' The African interpreted. 'What sort of men?' asked the leader of the contingent. 'Two soldiers in camouflage,' said Sister Felicity. This was clearly the wrong answer. She should have said, 'Two terrorists.' 'You're lying!' he shouted at her. 'If you lie it will come very bad trouble for you women and for this place.' I intervened at this point to say that they were religious sisters and would not be lying. The interrogation continued. 'Did these men have rifles?' 'Yes.' 'What sort of rifles?' 'They had camouflaged rifles, just like the ones you are 129 carrying now.' The two Sisters then described how one of the men had taken Baba out of the house and a second man had come from the side of the house where cars were parked. It was clear that it was this second man who had done the shooting. The police then asked to speak 'to the man's wife' Mai was, of course, in a state of very severe shock, but she came out to the yard supported by two of the Sisters. When she came up to the police, she just stood there looking them up and down. Then she spoke in English, in a clear voice with no hesitation, 'You killed my husband.' This was clearly not the remark they were expecting, and they hastily sent her back to the house, as 'not fit to make a statement'. The police then showed me the bullet taken from the wall of the church and compared it with their own bullets. Ignorant as I was, I could see that they were quite a different size. 'The Father was shot with a communist rifle using communist bullets. These bullets can't be fired from our FN rifles,' they told me. We went with Mavis over to our house and looked at footprints, one barefooted and two or three wearing canvas shoes. 'Terrorists,' one of the police remarked. We couldn't argue. The police then went into the church to look at the body. When they came out they told me, 'This is a terrorist killing. No doubt at all. In these cases we don't have inquests, we sign all the papers. You can bury the body.' I knew they were wrong, but I couldn't say so. So I said that the family would like an inquest and would they please take the body to the mortuary in Rusape. They refused and then left. I phoned Maurice Nyagumbo's lawyer and he told me that if the family insisted on an inquest, the police could not refuse. On his advice I phoned the Member-in- Charge (of the police) in Rusape. He was touchy and reacted rather too quickly I thought. 'What do they want an inquest for? Do they think he was killed by the security forces?' I said I didn't know what the family thought, but they were not satisfied. 'Well, it's up to the Magistrate, he decides if there's to be an inquest. You'd better ring him.' 130

The Magistrate was out, and before I had been able to contact him the police arrived back in a vehicle with a coffin. 'We've come to take the body. We hear you want an inquest.' The Member-in-Charge had evidently changed his mind. So the body was laid in the coffin, which was loaded onto the police truck to be taken to the hospital mortuary for a post mortem. It was decided that Sister Catherine and Sister Felicity should go in on the truck to make sworn statements to the police. Mavis and I went in later to make our statements. I spent the rest of that Friday telephoning relatives and friends. We had no phone number for the Nyabadza children in England, but the news reached Prisca that morning through another relative. It was the last day of term, and she tried to contact her brothers, Francis and Michael, and her cousin Emmanuel. She eventually found them all together that evening at Emmanuel's lodgings, and they met there to plan what to do. It was decided to try and find enough money to send Francis and Prisca home. Friends in England heard the news from Prisca and on Friday evening Shelagh Ranger phoned me. After hearing what had happened, she asked if she should give the story to the British Press and I told her to go ahead. On Saturday morning th6BBC phoned and I did a telephone interview for a British radio programme, The World at One. In answer to the question, 'Who killed your priest?' I said that we didn't know, but we thought it was not the guerrillas. 'So you think it was the Rhodesian Security Forces?' To this I gave an evasive answer. I knew that bringing the forces of law and order into disrepute was a punishable offence, and I had no wish to bring more trouble on the Mission or get myself deported. The interview was broadcast the following day at one o'clock, and my sister in Kent, knowing nothing of what had happened, nearly dropped the Sunday joint! On that Saturday morning I had been to Rusape with two Nyabadza relatives to enquire about the inquest. The Memberin-Charge told me that although the post mortem would be done that day, the inquest could not be held for several weeks as, 'We shall try and find the gang responsible, if it exists.' He then hastened to assure me that it was a 'terrorist killing' all right. 131

'The expended cartridges are conclusive proof,' he said. When I pointed out that communist-made weapons were being continually captured, I got an angry retort, 'We don't go round murdering innocent people.' The post mortem was done that afternoon. As was to be expected, death had resulted from multiple gunshot wounds. Meanwhile at St Francis more and more people were coming in to mourn and many of them stayed over the weekend. Local people arranged the cooking and saw that everyone was fed. At night the Sisters and I slept with the women visitors in the church while the men slept in the various houses or sat round a big fire in the yard. Most of our church members had arrived, and Mugadza and Tenha took the morning and evening services. We were all wondering how the gap left by Baba could be* filled. As we woke on the Sunday morning we realised it was Palm Sunday, and palms should have been cut and the church decorated the day before. To me, one of the most moving moments of those eventful days was when Mai and some helpers came into the church early on Sunday morning carrying palms, reeds and flowers and we all folded our blankets and set about decorating the church. During the service which followed, palms were given out to hundreds of people to the singing of the Palm Sunday hymn, 'All glory, laud and honour.' Up to this time few of us had had time to shed any tears, or maybe we were too stunned, but now many of us were weeping unreservedly. With tears came also a firm determination to carry on our life and services as Baba would have wished, and with this determination came strength and guidance. We were filled with the assurance that Baba's death was the will of God, and with this assurance, mourning and tears gave place to rejoicing. Grief, pain and shock were" there - Mai especially was deeply troubled - but from that time onwards we knew with great certainty that Baba had given his life for us and for Zimbabwe, and so we rejoiced. On Sunday afternoon Prisca and Francis arrived from 132

London, their air fares paid by kind friends in Britain. They told us that the others hoped to come if they could find the money, and for this reason it was decided to delay the funeral until the Wednesday. On Tuesday morning we read the official communiqu6 of Baba's death in the Rhodesia Herald, and there was a report of how it had happened. The Sisters' description of seeing soldiers in camouflage' was given correctly, but needless to say the murder was attributed to 'terrorists.' It was planned that Baba would lie in the church during Tuesday night and that afternoon we went to Rusape Hospital to collect his body. As we drove out of the town a car carrying Emmanuel, Michael, Rose and Martha joined the cortbge, and we were immensely heartened that all the children had managed to get home before their father was buried. Only Yvonne, fighting for us on the eastern border, was absent. Baba was taken into the church and the coffin placed in front of the altar. After dark we all packed into the church. There was hardly room to sit; the gallery and steps, the vestry and side chapel, even the chancel itself was crammed with people. Nobody slept: throughout the night we sang and prayed and listened to testimonies. Familiar western-style hymns, which became Africanised in the singing, were accompanied by the rhythmic rattle of the hosho, and were followed by stronglyworded nationalist liberation songs. If there were any informers present no-one cared. Then there were quiet periods of extempore prayer, or a visitor would rise and speak of Baba's generosity to him, until his final words were drowned by the starting of the singing again. It was a night never to be forgotten by those present. In the morning Mass was celebrated outside the church by a friendly black Anglican priest. Although we of St Francis did not receive the Sacrament, we were all moved by this expression of' love and friendship towards Baba and ourselves. Later in the day the church filled again as we gathered for the funeral service, and Baba was laid to rest in the little chapel beside his father. Although I didn't know it at the time, a number of friends 1133 from the hills were amongst those present at the funeral. They were, of course, unarmed and in ordinary clothes, and had come to honour the man who had helped to feed and clothe them and who had given his life for Zimbabwe. Also amongst the mourners was our neighbour, Mr van Heerden. He was the only local European present, courageously braving the hostility of his fellow whites. During the funeral somebody came up to me and said, 'The police are looking for you.' 'This is it,' I thought, 'I've stuck my neck out too far and they've come to arrest me.' I was determined not to be found until the service was over, and I managed to lose myself in the huge crowd round the little chapel. After the funeral was over I was told to go to the Nyabadzas' sitting room. Far from being arrested, I was courteously greeted by a quiet-spoken white in ordinary clothes. He was accompanied by two people, one black, one white, from the Rusape CID, both in camouflage uniform. The man introduced himself as a retired journalist, now working for the Ministry of Defence Psychological Warfare section.* He said he had been sent to get more details of the shooting. So once again, but this time to much more sympathetic ears, the two Sisters and Mavis and I told our stories . He asked many more pertinent questions than the police had done, and as a result of his visit we had to make fresh statements to the police the next day. Two important facts had evidently been omitted from the Sisters' first statements: First, that it was a bright, moonlight night, which enabled them to see very clearly, and second that the rifles carried by the murderers were camouflaged. After the three men had left the Mission, the Press arrived. Apparently the Press had been invited by the security forces to visit St Francis 'to see for themselves'. When they got to Rusape on the Wednesday morning, the police prevented them from coming on to the Mission until late in the afternoon. (Under emergency regulations the police had power to prevent the Press from entering certain areas). So, at half past four, with the *A recently formed unit charged with winning 'hearts and minds', at which they were singularly unsuccessful. 134 gum trees throwing, long shadows across the yard and the funeral well over, the group arrived, not in the best frame of mind. There were about ten of them, representing British, South Africar and Rhodesian newspapers, broadcasting and television. The leader of the group was a South African, and his questions left no doubt as to his own racialist views. For about twenty minutes I was subjected to a barrage of needling questions which I did my best to parry. I learnt later that the rest of the group were considerably embarrassed by their leader's behaviour. There is no doubt that the authorities were worried about the stories which had appeared in the overseas Press saying that Baba had been shot by the security forces. This was not the first such allegation, as can be seen from the following leading article which appeared in the Rhodesia Herald on Wednesday 6 April: It is distressing that yet another mission worker - a sister at the St Francis Mission in the Zonga Purchase Land - believes a lay preacher there was murdered by security forces and not by terrorists. The government has produced evidence in this case, as in the Musami massacre,* that communist bullets were responsible. It is distressing that, faced with such evidence, some churchmen persist in their doubts. Considering the influence they have among Africans in the tribal areas, these doubts can only help -to undermine faith in the security forces. The churches concerned should be doing all they can to induce a greater appreciation of the good intentions and accomplishments of the security forces, and a more positive approach to the Christian belief in the triumph of good over evil, among their staffs and their flock. There was one churchman who appears to have had no doubts, and that was the Rev. Paul Burrough, the Anglican Bishop of Mashonaland. Asked for his comment on the alleg*A group of Catholic missionaries had been murdered at St Paul's Musami, near Salisbury. Many people refused to believe that they were killed by 'terrorists', and the evidence is strong that it was the work of the security forces. 135 ation that the security forces were responsible for Baba Nyabadza's death, he told the Press: 'It is absurd to make such allegations when nine bullets of the type used by the nationalists were found near the body. If one supposes that security forces would deliberately swap the cartridges, one would believe anything.' (Rhodesia Herald 6.4.77) The Bishop, already known for his pro-Smith statements to the Press (to the embarrassment of his black clergy), had made no enquiries with us before giving his comment. *** What was the truth about Baba's death? Was he killed by 'terrorists' as the authorities claimed, or was he, as we believed, killed by the security forces? There had not yet been any informers killed by the guerrillas in our immediate neighbourhood, so we had no first-hand knowledge of how the boys acted. But some people who came to the funeral had experience of the operational areas, and they were unanimous in saying that it did not look like a 'terrorist' killing. They told us that when an informer was killed, the victim himself and his family would be given the reason, and the family and local people were told that there was to be no mourning. After the killing, the body would be left outside at the mercy of the vultures and the jackals; sometimes permission might be given for a burial, usually at night. A typical remark at Baba's funeral was, 'If he had been killed by the boys, we wouldn't be here and his body would still be lying in the yard.' Immediately after Baba was killed, our two ANC local officials did in fact contact the boys, who swore that they had nothing whatever to do with it. They even wanted to come straight away to deal with the man known to have informed on Baba, but they were persuaded to stay away for fear of bringing reprisals on the Mission during the funeral. After Baba's death, people remembered small incidents which seemed to point to the Rusape authorities having a hand iW it. [uiring the previous week, Abraham had walked in to the l)i.trict Commissioner's office and seen several people standjjr r'ound a table looking at something. When they straightened 136 up to see who had come in, he saw that they were looking at a photograph of' Baba, presumal)ly taken when he was arrested in 1975. Nobody made any comment, but it seemed significant. Another man, a f'riend of Baba's, had seen a piece of' paper on the Magistrate's desk with just three names on it, of' which Baba's was the first. The other two, a white Catholic priest and a black businessman, were also supporters of the guerrillas, but are happily still alive. About a month after his death, another friend was told by a black member of the Rusape CID, 'We were all offered money to kill Baba Nyabadza,but most of us thought he was a good man and we refused.' It was not long, however, before the security forces were openly promising to kill 'terrorist supporters'. On 7 June a leaflet headed 'Makoni Gandanzara Military News' was scattered by a light aircraft. It was addressed to: Terrorist Informers Terrorist Agents Sympathisers and Feeders of Terrorists Recruiters for terrorist training. It went on: There are still some people who continue to help the terrorists and a few even try to do their evil work for them. These people are counted as terrorists and will be killed by the Security Forces... These cold-blooded murders were usually made to look as if' they were a 'terrorist killing', and because people were afraid to speak up, the murderers invariably got away with it. But sometimes they were careless and there had to be a 'cover-u p', such as the leaflet which was scattered over Makoni Reserve later in 1977. We the Security Forces and Government of the country are very sory (sic) and sad to hear of the murder of 137

Headman Chikunguru by Terrorists. We convey our deepest sympathy to family and friends. The terrorists responsible for this murder we are going to kill and revenge the death of your loyal Headman. As stated in our past military news: these terrorists have only caused trouble since they arrived in Makoni. They are eating your chickens, goats and are taking your young women. They are continuing killing the people of Chikunguru. What will they do next? While the terrorists are among you people you will continue to suffer misery and death. For peace to return continue to assist the Security Forces as you have done in the past and we shall chase these animals from the land. PAMBERI NE HONDO * The 'loyal headman' had been taken out of his house on a dark night and shot. After the shooting his wife took a lamp and approached the murderers. They were wearing camouflage and she clearly identified them as security force soldiers; they had made no attempt to disguise themselves. She and her husband were strong supporters of the boys and had been feeding them. She expected to be shot herself, but lived to tell her story. Other wives were not as fortunate, and were taken out and shot together with their husbands. Sister Clara and Sister Catherine both lost close relatives in this way, all of them supporters of the struggle. Eleven months after Baba's death we were to have even more positive proof that he was killed by the security forces. 138 *Forward with the war.

Chapter 17 During the weeks which followed Baba's death we were visited by many relations and friends, and many more would have come but for the war. It was getting more and more difficult to travel; dirt roads were closing all over the eastern district, and in May the road down through the Makoni Reserve closed and buses ceased to run. People now had to cycle or 'foot it'. Other friends were behind bars or out of the country. We had letters from local and overseas friends. Guy C-B put into words what many of us were feeling: From all the bits of evidence, there seems no doubt at all who will have to answer one day, in higher spheres at least, for what seems the great senseless tragedy in which you are all involved, and the great sadness to so many. But your description of events at St Francis makes it clear that the whole pattern of human life is unfolded, - the glory of the resurrection and ever-increasing power of love and certainty - to ever more souls, ever more widely. So it all sounded true to the pattern of life declared by Christ and St Francis, to which you are all dedicated daily and hourly. After expressions of sympathy for Mai and the children, he wrote of 'the certainty that through such suffering a better Zimbabwe will be born - in the long run.' Molly C-B wrote: We know that anything can happen these tragic days but the time for love to build life anew is close, and Basil and so many others will be with us on earth from another 139 dimension to enlighten a new way of life. This sense of Ba)a's continuing presence with us was echoed in a letter from another friend, Stephen Matewa: I felt at his funeral service that he was more than Basil, and I hope all of you at St Francis will never forget him. Do everything as if' he were with you. He is much (loser to you, and all of us who have been close to him, than before. He is now always at home...' Moven Mahachi in a letter to me in 1981, recalled how the news reached them in Salisbury prison: News of his death shocked me and I was touched straight to the heart. It was painful and very difficult to believe. 'They have killed Baba Nyabadza'... Comrade Morris Nyagumbo telling me with tears flowing down his cheeks. We both sat in a corner... John Mutasa Icamel to join us in that corner.., other prisoners came to pay their condolences to us, but there was nothing we could have done. The Lord had decided, but even then why did he decide to use the devil? No, it is the devil represented on earth by the brutal Smith's regime soldiers. Worse still we were unable Itol pay our last respects to Baba Nyabadza as we were physically handicapped (ie in prison) but morally with all of you at home.' In addition to letters of sympathy there were offers of help from friends who felt that the lives of the rest of us must be in danger. The fathers of the Community of the Resurrection at St Augustine's wrote to me: ...if you or other members of your community would like to come here, we would be glad to welcome you... we do not know very much about the circumstances of the tragedy or whether you are in danger now... Ann Spence, in England, also wrote: ...Please do let me know if there is anything at all I can do as you begin to sort out the future. I suppose you must have thought out very carefully about your own situation now. I think that some friends might want you to come back 'for a while - but I feel that I know your answer to that. May God be with you all... 140

Very soon after Baba's death a friend in Salisbury had phoned me and passed on a message from the Bishop of Mashonaland offering me asylum. Grateful though I was for these offers, neither then nor in the following years, did I ever consider leaving St Francis. After a few weeks the Nyabadza children returned to Britain to continue their studies. They were in close touch with the Rangers, and in a letter dated 9 May Shelagh wrote: ...Emmanuel phoned me when he got back... (and said) that it had been a great spiritual experience for all of them to be there and they had returned to England with a new determination to keep the St Francis spirit alive in their hearts through regular prayer and fellowship together... Before the family left we had discussed the idea of holding a memorial service in London. Early in July a service was held at an east London church, kindly lent by the minister, who entertained to tea afterwards the hundred or so people who came. Once again Baba was remembered in singing (in Shona and English), prayers and testimony, and it was a moving occasion. Several people offered to contribute money, and Shelagh started a memorial fund. These words, spoken by Guy a few years later, bring into focus the deeper meaning of Baba's life and death. The significance of his life was not just in himself as an individual but of course in the carrying on and development of St Francis with all its Sisters and friends who were/are a manifestation of the Christian gospel far more significant and nearer to the Christian gospel and the love Christ brought into the world for mankind than any other Christian organisation or church has to offer... a very rare flower indeed, and Basil during his lifetime was the one who kept it on. There may have been deviations as with all of us, we all compromise at times, but what matters really is the basic golden thread running through our lives and the lives of all the comrades, father, Sisters and all of them concerned with St Francis... quietly hidden away there in the trees on 141 the edge of the Reserve... The crucifixion of Basil was really for exactly the same reason as the crucifixion of Christ, that he really faced right up to the Establishment in the simple quality of his life and basic belief of himself and his comrades, disciples, Sisters and so on. (From a tape recording made by Guy Clutton-Brock, June 1981.) I had often been asked in the past by friends who knew we had only one priest, 'What would happen if Baba Basil died?' My usual reply was that our church members didn't worry about the future, but if it were to happen we would go down on our knees and ask for guidance. During the weeks after Baba's death we gradually came to realise that our prayers had been answered. The choice had already been made and his successor was there with us. In a letter to Shelagh Ranger I described what happened: ...On the Tuesday evening we all foregathered in the Nyabadza sitting room, as we are doing every night, singing, talking etc and ending with our evening prayers together.... After prayers Rosemary (Mai) spoke about the children going the next day and then said that Francis had told her that he would not be returning to UK, not even to take his A levels, and that he would stay and help her. After she had talked for some time the Sisters broke into singing and dancing, saying that Francis was now 'Baba we musha'* and everyone greeted him and Mai and said 'makorokoto'**. Then next morning, in the church at the end of the morning service, Francis was revealed as having been specially blessed or 'ordained' by Baba years ago and he was robed in cassock and stoll and again everyone went to the chancel steps to greet him. It was very moving how everyone, including Michael, Emmanuel, Abraham and *Baba we musha - Father of the home **'Makorokoto - congratulations. 142

Mugadza... accepted it and gave Francis their allegiance. From that moment on Francis was 'Baba' and in the evening he duly occupied Baba's desk (in the chancel) and led the prayers, and began to hear confessions. Then on this last Saturday 7th, Mugadza announced that Baba would be saying Mass the next day, which I think surprised us all! He did it beautifully, not singing it yet, but seeming to know just what to say and do. Of course he had been a server for many years, but even so it must have been quite an ordeal. We had Mass again this morning, and you can imagine how joyful everyone is that we are no longer 'orphans' and how thankful we are for God's mercies and protection... As we knelt to say good morning, 'mangwanani Baba', for the first time, I must admit that I found the transition a bit sudden. I think Francis did too, but the Sisters channelled their deference and respect to their new leader quite naturally. The senior Sisters told us they had known that Baba Basil wanted Francis to follow him, and that they had in fact been at the informal service ofblessingwhich had been held when he was still a small boy. It may appear rather shocking to some devout churchgoers that Francis, like his father before him, had no training in a Theological College. He had, however, the great benefit of an upbringing in a Christian home, he had the loving example of his parents and the Sisters and he was educated at Anglican Church schools. He had been a server at Mass from the age of four and had heard the Bible read daily from his earliest years. Now, at the age of twenty-two, he was assuming his father's mantle. Growth and maturity would come with the new responsibility, and the wisdom and advice of the Sisters was always at hand. I wrote to friends in England telling them that Francis was now our leader. One of these friends, Maurice Carver, who had himself been in Africa for most of his life, wrote back: ... I find this a wonderful thing (that he should have given up his 'A' levels)... I would very much like to know about this Francis II. Does he have the family inspiration? In 143 the unique circumstances how does a young man succeed in his father's leadership? Is there a decision by the Sisterhood? I suppose it will just happen in a natural African fashion, not democratic, but happily accepted... From his store of wisdom and years of experience of African life, Maurice knew exactly how it was - not democratic, but happily accepted. 'Francis II' had always been rather more withdrawn than the other young Nyabadzas, with the quiet seriousness of his father. Now, with the new responsibility, he tended to be even more reticent. During the days when he was having to decide whether to go back to London or not he wouldn't discuss it with the rest of the family. His elder sister, Rose, complained, 'We just don't know what Francis is thinking, he won't tell us.' Nor would he agree to talk to a reporter who came all the way from Salisbury to get an interview with the new priest. Francis also inherited his father's courage. He knew quite well that he himself could become another victim of the security forces, but he never hesitated to become involved in the struggle. A week after the funeral Abraham took him and Emmanuel in the truck to introduce them to the ZANLA group which had sent representatives to the funeral. Our store, which had been shut for a week after Baba's death, had reopened, and they assured the boys that they would now carry on keeping them supplied. Since Baba's death everyone living on the mission slept in the houses round the yard. Mavis and I locked up our house before evensong (now brought forward to 5 pm) and went over to sleep with the others. Mavis slept in the dormitory and I shared a room with Sister Felicity in the Nyabadzas' house. During the first few weeks we all gathered every evening in the Nyabadzas' sitting room for a cup of tea and kutandara (to talk together). Often the talk would centre on Baba, and people would remember things he had said or done or about his death. One evening we discussed how the work would be carried on. In 144 my letter to Shelagh I wrote: ...Although Francis is Baba, he and Mai have wisely decided that he cannot carry the whole of this place and all its decisions in the way Baba did So last Saturday evening we were all told what our special responsibilities and spheres were, and given a chance to discuss it... Mai did most of the talking, 'Margros will be responsible for the store and Sister Catherine for the butchery. Sister Violet, you will be in charge of the work on the lands, Sister Jenny the garden, and Mukoma Patty the poultry...' and every side of the work was covered. In my letter I continued: Mai is very keen for everything to be discussed and open, so we may see changes in how things are done. There was more discussion on subsequent evenings, and I hoped that we were getting a little nearer to some sort of system of regular meetings. But it soon became obvious that, however much Mai might like it, the Sisters were not at all keen on open discussion. They felt that Baba Francis should, as soon as possible, take on all the decision-making himself, and in the meantime he could ask advice from them or from Mai. Francis was too inexperienced to initiate any changes, even if he wanted to, and slid easily into the role which the Sisters felt should be his. So after a few evenings, discussion fizzled out and we were back to watching television. During the night of 13 May we heard the thud of mortars for the first time, followed by short, sharp bursts of rifle fire. It was over quickly and we didn't get up. We heard the next day that the ZANLA forces had attacked a security force camp about five kilometres from us. Later we learned from the boys that it was 'just an opening shot to say we've arrived', and it evidently didn't do much damage. The attack brought a scathing reply from the security forces in the form of a leaflet drop on the 15th, 145 addressed to 'the terrorists': You have failed again to disturb the mighty Security Forces and even your new weapons did not help in your cowardly attack on our strong fortified base.. .You did not even hit the camp once, and nobody was injured... Bad luck on your side for having to carry that landmine all that way because we picked it up and it is now in our office.. .When the Lion roars you animals must run back to the hills and hide. We look forward to meeting you again because we enjoy hondo and we like to kill terrorists... The landmine had been laid at Mr van Heerden's gate (it was on his farm the security forces had their base camp). These and other leaflets, all with the crudest of wording and often drawings as well, were showered down on us and were treated with the disrespect they deserved. People, especially children, picked them up out of curiosity, but as a propaganda weapon they were completely ineffective. Sometime in June we heard that the inquest into Baba's death would be held on Monday 18 July, and Mai Nyabadza, Sister Catherine, Sister Felicity, Mavis and I were called to attend. Ten days before the inquest was due to open, on Friday 8 July, one of the Sisters came over to my house, 'Baba's been arrested,' she told me, 'he's at the police camp in Rusape.' Next day Abraham was also taken in. Both of them were suspected of feeding 'terrorists'. Early on Saturday morning Mai called me and asked me to phone Maurice Nyagumbo's lawyer. 'People who have been arrested say the treatment is much better if a lawyer is watching the case,' she told me. So I phoned the lawyer and asked him to phone the Rusape police camp where the two were being held. When the lawyer's call was put through, Abraham was under interrogation. He had already been hit about the body and threatened with a live hand grenade. The CID officer question146 ing him was called to the phone, and when he came back the intimidation was not resumed. From then on they both received reasonable treatment and were released the following Saturday, just two days before the inquest. According to the rules governing an inquest, if we wished to challenge the police evidence or to bring evidence beyond the statements which we had already made to the police, we could only do so through a lawyer. We knew that we had circumstantial evidence that Baba had been killed by the security forces, but to make a convincing case we would have to have been prepared to state in court that we knew he had been assisting the guerrillas. Mai, (though I didn't know this at the time) could have brought evidence of the Selous Scouts' visit, but she very understandably kept this to herself. After discussion we decided that putting our case could well result in bringing more trouble on the Mission, and endanger the lives of Baba Francis and Abraham. So the inquest was on a low key, with no lawyer and no publicity. The only evidence produced by the police was that the bullets used were of communist origin. There was no evidence that there were any 'terrorists' in the area, no search had been made, no-one living in the vicinity (who might have fed them) had been questioned. The Magistrate asked a few questions; but in view of the paucity of the police evidence, what was very striking (and significant) was the number of questions the Magistrate should have asked and didn't. The sworn statements we had made to the police were then produced. It was a very lengthy procedure, with every word being translated and the questions and answers being written down in long hand by the Magistrate. Every small, insignificant detail was investigated - 'How many steps down from the verandah?', 'How wide was the flower bed?' More pertinent questions followed, and the magistrate appeared genuinely perplexed when the Sisters stuck firmly to their statements that the men wore camouflage and carried rifles 'just like the soldiers'. Yet the bullets were 'communist' and, according to the police, could not be fired from an FN rifle. The crucial question as to whether the rifles could be modified to take the 147 smaller 'communist' bullet was never asked. The proceedings took the better part of three days. The principal police witness had forgotten to sign his statement, had recently been transferred to Salisbury, and had to be brought down to Rusape. So it was Wednesday afternoon before the Magistrate summed up. The conclusion arrived at by the Magistrate was that the murder was committed with an AK rifle, using'communist type' bullets, but that the evidence was too inconclusive to say who was responsible. He thought it was probably the work of 'terrorists', but on the other hand he could not say that a member of the security forces might not have an AK rifle and bullets in his possession. Futhermore, the security forces had the power to arrest or detain anyone suspected of helping 'terrorists' without recourse to murder. 'If they did it,' he said, 'it was very badly staged.' Which, of course, was exactly what we thought at the time. Obviously those who staged it didn't expect an inquest. It may be thought that we were unduly cautious in not challenging the official view that it was a 'terrorist killing', and that the resulting publicity could have prevented others from being killed in a similar manner. There was, of course, the danger to ourselves of revealing too much, but apart from this we knew that many atrocities committed by the security forces had already been documented and published by the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace. Nothing could be done in these cases because legislation protected all military and police personnel from prosecution for crimes committed 'in good faith'. We had already attracted a certain amount of publicity in this country and overseas, and I think that this worried the authorities more than they ever would admit. They must have feared that the belief, so firmly held among whites, in the rectitude of 'our security forces' might begin to erode. But, though cracks might appear, the whole edifice of white power was still standing, and it seems doubtful whether more determined protest on our part would have had any effect. One only hopes that the little we did do contributed something to the demolition of the edifice three years later. 148

Perhaps Robert Mugabe, at that time away in Maputo, should have the last word on Baba's death. In a speech at the United Nations conference in support of the people of Zimbabwe and Namibia on 16 May,1977 he said: ...The Smith regime has also resorted to mass murder of innocent civilians, both Africans and whites, including missionaries who have become our sympathetic, often active supporters... He then referred to the killings of refugees at Nyadzonia in Mozambique and the killing of various missionaries and priests in Zimbabwe during 1976. He continued: 'On February 2nd this year, a well-planned and orchest" rated murder of three Jesuit Priests and four Dominican nuns was systematically carried out at Musami Mission...' and he gave the names of the seven who were 'gunned down in a lightning attack by Smith's killer squad.' Then he went on: 'On April 4th (sic) the Smith gangsters murdered Rev. Nyabadza, - a well-known staunch supporter of the nationalist cause...' (Zimbabwe News, May - June 1977. Vol 9 No. 4) 149 ____ - _... , , MIKENNINW-11

Chapter 18 The rest of 1977 was fairly quiet as far as we were concerned, and we continued our moral and active support of the liberation struggle. As the war came closer so did the security forces, and our local informers and 'sell-outs' kept themselves busy. The small bell which was always rung in the yard at about 9 pm (after which no one moved about) was said by one of them to be 'summoning the boys for sadza', so we gave up ringing it. The soldiers also sent word that they didn't want to hear our diesel enginve after dark, so that was the end of electricity and television. Sometimes, when there were soldiers about, we showed no lights after 6.30 pm which made a long night indeed. At about this time too the Sisters warned me not to give money to anyone who might come asking for help. Collections were already being made for the boys, 'but there are also sellouts going round trying to trap people into giving money. If you give them even a few cents they will go and report you to the police. They'll say you are supporting boys.' I was also warned against talking to outsiders about the war, and from then on I kept my mouth very shut. Whenever anyone tried to pump me I pretended to be completely ignorant of what was going on, which indeed I sometimes was. During the latter part of 1977 and early 1978 Bishop Muzorewa, the leader of the ANC, and other black politicians began to negotiate a settlement with the Smith regime. When an agreement was signed on 3 March 1978 by Smith, Muzorewa, Sithole and Chirau, we, like many others, hoped that it would be a step towards bringing the war to an end. But as the months 150 went by it became increasingly apparent that the leaders who had chosen to do a deal with Smith were merely puppets, and were being pulled into the white laager. On 1 March, two days before the agreement was signed, Baba Francis was called to the Rusape police camp by the head of the CID special branch 'for a talk'. The interview started with the officer saying straight away: 'Don't tell me you're not assisting the "terrs", because every single businessman in Makoni without exception is, and you definitely are.' Francis said nothing. The officer then showed him various letters, records and notebooks with lists of names 'taken in a contact with the "terrs" ', which appeared to Francis to be genuine. 'As you can see,' the officer went on, 'we know all about what you're doing. You cannot please us and the "terrs" as well. You cannot sit on the fence. You've to decide who to support. One thing for sure is that the "terrs" will never win, especially in this area as long as I'm here. I've said enough and the ball is now in your court.' Francis still said nothing, so the officer went on: 'We want your co-operation. There is a way you can carry on your business. I want you to let me know whenever the "terrs" or their helpers come into your store. I know you can't come openly to the camp here, but I've got a private telephone number which you can ring at any time and no-one'll find out.' Still Francis remained silent, and the officer went on: 'I knew your father was supporting the "terrs". In fact I saw him one day with a lot of stuff he'd bought in Salisbury. He was delivering it to them. I thought his death would have discouraged you from supporting them, and I'm surprised you're still continuing.' Francis now spoke for the first time. 'You are working on the assumption that every single businessman in Makoni is helping the boys, so if I say I'm not, you won't believe me. That's all I can say.' The officer, realising he was getting nowhere, decided to close the interview. He said to Francis: 'You are an educated man, I am not, but I can do my job very well. I'm very good at it. I'm going to give you two days to decide whether to co- operate 151 with me or not. After that two days, if I haven't heard from you, don't blame me for whatever happens to you or your family at the Mission. We could do to you exactly the same thing as we did to your father, and no-one would ever know we had done it. Now get out.' Francis got out. On his return home, he and his mother, Abraham and the senior Sisters conferred. At about four in the afternoon I was called over to the Nyabadzas' house and I learnt that Baba Francis, Mai and Abraham were packing and would be leaving for Salisbury immediately. Baba, in a somewhat shocked state, told me about the threats. I suggested he should contact a lawyer in Salisbury in the morning, and he agreed. Then he told me, 'We are closing the store and everything, Mukoma Patty, and I am asking you to help the Sisters to bring all the stock to the Mission here so that it won't be stolen. Then next week you must come to Salisbury with some pigs for the Cold Storage.' I agreed wholeheartedly with everything they had planned. It went without saying that he would never 'co-operate' with the CID, whose threats were very real. We now knew, without a shadow of doubt, who had killed his father, and that they were prepared to kill him too. With clothing, mealie meal, eggs, vegetables and a few live chickens bundled into the back of the Peugeot estate car, the three of them left for Salisbury. Later that evening they phoned to say they had arrived safely and were staying with Mai's sister in Highfield. The next morning they contacted a black lawyer, a friend recently returned from Britain. He listened to their story and then said, 'Leave it to me. I'll phone the Rusape CID.' On the phone he made it quite clear to the CID officer that he knew all about the threats. 'Now Mr. - ,' he said, 'the Nyabadza family have closed their store. They are here in Salisbury and in my care. The people left at the Mission are in your care. If anything happens to them, that will be your responsibility,' and he rang off. At the Mission we didn't have much time in the next few days to worry about what might happen to us. Using the tractor and trailer and the pick-up truck, we transferred everything move152 able from the business centre to empty rooms at the Mission. Refrigerators, lengths of material, butchery scales, blankets, cycle parts, bags of sugar, buttons, shirts, tables and chairs were all carted over. Anything which could be stolen (and break-ins were frequent at that time) was moved, until only the bare buildings were left. The business centre would now be deserted. The men who slept there were paid off since the only work done now would be at the small Zonga farm. As we packed the stuff, our local customers came to see what was happening. 'We're shutting the store, the butchery, the bottle store, the mill, everything,' we told them. People asked no questions: 'It's the war,' they said understandingly. A small store opposite us, run by a friend, also closed for a short time 'in sympathy', a gesture which we appreciated. All this happened in Lent, and it was Palm Sunday before we felt it was safe for Baba Francis to come down to take Mass. We were, of course, carrying on with daily mattins and evensong. The services were taken most faithfully by one of our church members, Ian Chimhowa, but only Baba could say Mass. So a few days before Palm Sunday Sister Felicity phoned Mai in Salisbury: 'The weather's fine. No rain,' which was our code meaning that all was quiet at the Mission. Baba Francis and his mother and Abraham drove down early on Palm Sunday morning, returning the same day. By Easter we felt that the immediate danger had passed, and they slept two nights at the Mission. A week after Easter we kept the first anniversary of Baba's death. The community already kept the anniversary of the deaths of St Francis (4 October) and of old Baba Francis (10 August), and now 1 April was added for Baba Basil. Soon after his death, Matthew Nyamapfeni, who built the church, came to tell us he had been told of a dream and that we must build a shrine over the spot where Baba was shot. 'It must be a strong stone building,' he said, 'with a cross which can be seen from the Chief's home.' The shrine was duly built, and it was in this stone chapel that Mass was celebrated on this first anniversary. The shrine was too small to admit more than Baba and the servers, so the congregation, which included Chief Makoni and a few 153 local people, gathered round outside. The service was followed by food, speeches, singing and dancing. This festival has been attended by more and more people each year, as the realisation that Baba Basil died for his faith and for his country has come to be more fully and widely known. The feeling that Baba is still present with us has continued to be strong. Prayers are addressed not only through him but to him, as they are also to his father, to St Francis, St Michael and the saints. But because of the special position they held in the community, Baba Francis and Baba Basil are regarded as particularly able to intercede for us. During those dangerous war years a prayer would often start, 'Baba, you know our life here, you know the dangers and problems we face...' Baba, Basil, who gave his life for us and his country, could protect us, 'Baba, you shed your blood for us, protect us from our enemies...' At first I found this type of prayer difficult, but as time went on I came to understand it better. I have come to realise that neither Baba Basil nor his father are worshipped, any more than are St Francis and the saints; they certainly do not supersede the Christ, but they are fulfilling a role which appears to be of vital significance to the community. In a beautiful passage in The Primal Vision John V. Taylor says: Surely the 'tender bridge' that joins the living and the dead in Christ is prayer. Mutual intercession is the lifeblood of the fellowship and what is -there in a Christian's death that can possibly check its flow? To ask for the prayers of others in this life, and to know that they rely on mine, does not show any lack of faith in the all-sufficiency of God. Then, in the same faith, let me ask for their prayers still, and offer mine for them, even when death has divided us. ( The Primal Vision by John V. Taylor, p 168) In another passage he asks: Is it not time for the Church to learn to give the Communion of Saints the centrality which the soul of Africa craves? Neither the inhibited silence of the 154

Protestants nor the too-presumptuous schema of Rome allows African Christians to live with their dead in the way which they feel profoundly to be true to Man's nature. (Ibid,p 166) Another aspect of this type of prayer has been the way in which it has acted as a catharsis - purging, cleansing, healing the emotions. During retreats someone, very often Mai, would describe a dream connected with Baba's death or recite in every detail the whole drama of that terrible night. In this way the shock, pain and grief was somehow alleviated and any feelings of bitterness or resentment against those who were responsible for his death were swept away. Here again I felt it difficult to enter into this kind of prayer, and my protestant upbringing would have preferred an 'inhibited silence'. But I can see the great value of this emotional outpouring, especially for Mai, who needed to be healed of the great wound and shock of Baba's death. That she has recovered so well is undoubtedly due in part to this catharsis during retreats. After the Nyabadza family had gone to live in Salisbury, the Sisters and I left at the Mission settled into a routine as best we could. Sister Violet was in charge, and Sister Jenny and I drove into Rusape once a week to sell our produce and to buy what supplies were needed. Our farming at Zonga continued as before, with three Sisters (who changed every Saturday) living there. We had the help of a tractor and driver, but vehicle repairs and servicing had to be done in Rusape. Since the arrival of the boys in the area in May 1977, we had been hearing short bursts of firing from time to time, nearly always at night. We were told that informers and sell-outs were being dealt with, and that others had fled to Salisbury. After a shooting there would be fear of reprisals from the soldiers. One evening I got to the house to find Mavis removing the table and cupboards from our thatched kitchen, and putting them in the sitting room. 155 'What are you doing?' I asked. 'The soldiers are coming to burn the houses,' she replied. 'We don't want to lose everything.' In the evening we watched scores of local people going down towards the St Faith's farms, babies on their backs and blankets, pots and mealie meal bundled on their heads. 'They're going to sleep down there, it's safer,' Mavis said. 'Some of the girls have come to sleep here at the Mission.' Our kitchen remained empty for a week, but in fact nothing happened. Unlike in other places, there were no reprisals, and no huts or granaries were burnt. As the war came nearer, the prayers which we said every evening in church seemed to have taken on a new meaning and urgency... 'that we being defended from the fear of our enemies may pass our time in rest and quietness...' '...by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night...' -prayers which, in normal times, always seem rather alarmist. One evening in May 1978, at about 8 pm, we heard firing from the direction of the main road - a short sharp burst, then silence, then another burst. We immediately put out the light and went to sleep. About two hours later we were woken up by loud banging on doors, shouting and dogs barking. Sister Felicity whispered, 'Soldiers, keep quiet.' I lay there expecting almost anything - to be burnt, raped, or, at the very least, the door to be broken down and to be forcibly taken out for questioning. After a short time the banging stopped and what sounded like commands were shouted across the yard. Then all was quiet. Sister Felicity said we must stay in our beds, so we went back to sleep wondering what had happened. Next morning we lay in bed till about seven, then got up and ventured out into the yard. One of the Sisters told us that Tete Maria (Baba Basil's sister) had been taken by the soldiers. 'Was she taken alone?' we asked. 'Yes, they wouldn't let anyone else go with her.' After church we gathered together to decide what to do. Baba Francis and Mai must be told, but we feared to use the telephone, which we knew was tapped. 'Mukoma Patty, you must go to Salisbury to tell them.' I knew very well that the 156

Sisters thought I was in danger and wanted me to stay up in Salisbury, but I had no intention of leaving. I made it clear that I wouldn't go, so two of the Sisters were sent off to catch the bus to Salisbury. Two others were sent to inform Chief Makoni that Tete Maria was missing. We soon learnt the reason for the firing which we had heard earlier in the night. Mr M, who had informed on Baba Basil, had been shot by the boys. We felt sure that there must be a connection between this and the disappearance of Tete Maria. Chief Makoni had evidently informed the authorities in Rusape about her, because at about 9.30 am a police contingent arrived at the Mission in an army vehicle. They asked me what had happened. I had already discovered that Tete Maria had been sleeping with her elder sister, Tete Martha, who happened to be staying at the Mission, and with some small children. I had told Tete Martha that if the police came she must tell the truth, but she was very reluctant. 'I shall say she was sleeping with the children, and they didn't wake.' She obviously feared trouble, but I told her not to be afraid, and she agreed to speak up. When the police questioned her, she started to tell her story: 'My sister Maria was taken by two soldiers...' The white in charge of the contingent immediately pounced on her. 'You're lying' he shouted at her, 'She was taken by terrorists. You lied last year when the Father was killed, you said our forces killed him. Now you're lying again. If we find her body down there by the river, things will be very bad for you all here.' He then told us that Mr M had been killed by the group of terrorists. 'We've followed their footprints from his house to this Mission.' At this point I suggested they ask Tete Martha what kind of men came to the house. 'What colour were they?' 'A European and an African.' Again she was accused of lying. Rather naughtily I suggested that there was a European fighting with the guerrillas. This outrageous suggestion was immediately brushed aside, 'Impossi157 ble. We should know if there were.' 'Could he have been an albino?' one of the African police asked. 'No, he was European.' Tete Martha was sticking to her story, and was not to be budged. 'Which way was she taken out of the yard?' 'Out of the main gate. I heard the click of the gate.' By this time the police were possibly beginning to have doubts, and after a few more threats they got into their vehicle and drove off. There seemed to be nothing we could do except wait and pray for Tete Maria's safety. At noon we went into the church to keep the Angelus as usual. As I rang the bell in the belltower I noticed an army vehicle arriving at the gate. When I came down the stairs I saw Tete Maria at the back of the church, surrounded by the Sisters all clasping her and crying. After we had given thanks for her return in prayer and singing we went outside and heard her story. I was walked to the main road, and they put me in an army vehicle and I was driven to the camp. They took me to a cold, damp place outside. I had no blanket and I was very, very cold. Early in the morning I was taken to a room for questioning. I told them I had heard no shooting and was asleep when the soldiers came and banged on the door. I told them I didn't know why I had been taken away. Then they got rough and told me to turn my back and put my hands against the wall. I refused. I told them, 'If you want to kill me, like you killed my brother, you kill me frontwards.' Her courage seemed to have impressed them: the intimidation stopped and she was put outside again. She was being held at the base camp on Mr. van Heerden's farm. At about 9 am Mr. van Heerden happened to come along to see the commander. He saw Tete Maria sitting outside and said to her, 'I know you don't I? You're the late Mr Nyabadza's sister. What are you doing here?' 'I was taken in the night by the soldiers,' she told him, 'but I 158 don't know why.' 'He went inside and evidently said something to the commander, because soon afterwards she was taken to sit inside and was offered tea. She refused. What about a coca cola? No, she only wanted to be taken home. Then the police contingent, which had visited us at the Mission, arrived, and in due course she was driven home. Why was she taken? Presumably the soldiers and police thought we must know something about the shooting of the informer. In fact the guerrillas came nowhere near the Mission that night, and it seems doubtful, in any case, whether seasoned guerrillas would leave a clear trail of footmarks. If the authoriities thought we were involved in the shooting, they were very much mistaken. After several days the informer's body was buried by the soldiers from the camp. There was no gathering, no mourning. 159

Chapter 19 Four months after they had gone to live in Salisbury, Baba Francis, Mai and Abraham moved into a small rented house in a 'white' suburb near the Harare African township. Racial laws in the biggest towns were beginning to relax, but technically they were breaking the law at that time. Baba had managed to find a job with a pharmaceutical firm, and the house was within walking distance. His salary helped to pay the rent. Mai, still very shocked over Baba's death, was homesick for St Francis, but we didn't encourage her to come down more than was necessary. Although we had closed the store, we still had the stock, and were being called upon more and more to help supply the needs of the boys in the area. We felt that the presence of any of the Nyabadza family at the Mission could attract the renewed attention of the CID and the army. During the second half of 1978 we began to get letters written by the boys and brought by their helpers, the mujibhas. Often they were asking for eggs or for chickens, five or ten at a time. (This went on until there were neither eggs nor chickens left. Even a batch of 100 pullets at point of lay were all consumed before they had laid an egg!) Other items requested were cigarettes, sweets, biscuits clothing and shoes. Money, when they had it, would be sent, but frequently the note would include an apology for not having any money 'at the moment'. The letters were always very polite and would be signed Comrade... (From this time we stopped calling them 'the boys' and called them 'the comrades'.) Nearly always we had to scale down the requests to an amount which was more within our means, and 160 then the Sisters would get me to send a note in reply. I always burnt immediately the notes which came to us, and hoped, but doubted, that they did the same with mine. The first time the Sisters made direct contact with the comrades was when Sister Clara and Sister Violet visited a sick relation a few kilometres away in the Makoni Reserve. There they met a section commander, whose chimurenga name* was Ernest Shasha, and one of his lieutenants. After explaining where they came from, the Sisters told the comrades, 'We are Sisters, we aren't married.' 'That's good,' said Shasha, 'we are like you. We don't marry or have girls at the moment because we have very important work - the armed struggle to liberate our country.' Then the comrades said they had heard there was a white woman at the Mission. 'What sort of European is she?' they asked. The Sisters hastened to tell them that I had lived with them for a long time, and to assure them that I was on their side. 'Tell her we shall come soon to visit her.' When the Sisters got back in the evening, they described their encounter with the comrades. We were pleased, but not surprised, that the Sisters had been so well received. Nor were we surprised to hear of the comrades' attitude towards girls. A friend who had been much longer in the operational area than ourselves had told us that he had never once heard of a village girl being pregnant by a guerrilla. On an overcast, drizzly afternoon just before Christmas I was in the Nyabadzas' house machining a blue uniform dress for one of the Sisters. I heard the dogs barking fiercely. Strangers, I thought. Probably soldiers. Suddenly the bedroom door burst open and in walked two black men with rifles. They were wearing black oilskin capes, white shirts and dark trousers. My thoughts raced. Definitely not soldiers, so - keep calm Chater - this must be the comrades. I suppose I was expecting them to come at night, not in the middle of the afternoon, and I was taken completely by surprise. They too were probably not sure *War name. Every guerrilla took a new name when joining the nationalist forces. 161 what to expect. After all, a white woman might have a gun. As we shook hands I heard the reassuring sound of Sister Jenny's voice in the passage, 'Ah, Mukoma Patty's here,' and she and another Sister came into the room. We sat on the beds. 'Do you know who I am?' one of the comrades asked me in Shona. I shook my head. 'I am Section Commander Ernest Shasha, and this is my lieutenant, Comrade Hannibal.' I told Shasha, also speaking in Shona, that I knew his name because we had had letters from him. 'Do you know there is a war on?' Shasha asked me. I said I did. 'Do you support us?' 'Yes, of curse,' I answered, 'Baba Nyabadza, who was our priest, was supporting you and he was killed by the soldiers. Now we are helping you with chickens and eggs.' 'Yes, we knew Baba Nyabadza, and we were very sorry that he died.' Then they asked me how long I had been in the country. I told them I had come from England twenty-seven years ago and had worked with the Clutton-Brocks at St Faith's. 'St. Faith's, yes we know that place.' They evidently hadn't heard of Guy C-B, so I tried again. 'I also worked with Didymus Mutasa and know him well.' 'Ah, Didymus Mutasa,' said Hannibal, 'I know him. I met him in Maputo.' I felt a bit better accredited. Then they asked if I heard the radio programme from Maputo. I said I had no radio. 'Ah, we will get you one,' said Shasha. (Difficult this. It would have to be one taken from someone else. In fact it never came.) So I said they shouldn't worry as I did see the newspapers. Had I got any recent newspapers I could give them? 'Yes,' I said, 'but they are over in my house. I'll go and get them.' No, very firmly from Shasha, 'you stay here with us. Sister will fetch them.' (Still not sure I might not go and telephone the police?) \Vhen Sister Jenny returned we offered them sadza or tea. No, t hey couldn't stay. They gave me a well-worn, much-read copy )t Zimbabwe News in return for the newspapers. 'We'll see you again,' the\, said as we accompanied them outside. A third 162 comrade, who had been on guard, greeted us, and I saw that they had been brought by a local mujibha. There were no elaborate goodbyes, and they left quickly and quietly by the back way through the garden. I went back to the house feeling slightly shaken, but immensely relieved that the visit had gone so well and that I had now met the comrades. We were now entering a very dangerous period in the war. After the 3 March agreement the four signatories, Smith, Muzorewa, Sithole and Chirau, formed themselves into an Executive Council. They tried, with no success, to get the external leaders, Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo, to give up the armed struggle. Then with leaflet drops and other inducements they tried to get the guerrillas to surrender. One such pamphlet called them to: Come home in safety... Why die for nothing and leave your family spirits unappeased? If you return in peace the Security.Forces guarantee that your life will not be in danger. All you have to do is hide your weapons... and (a) Carry a stick with a piece of clothing tied to it and go in safety to the nearest Police Station, Security Forces base, DC's office or Government official. When you are close, drop the stick and put your hands on your head to show you come in peace. or (b) Wave a stick in the air when you see the Police or a Security Force patrol... Make sure you do not have a weapon and you will be safe. The pamphlets certainly provided light relief. I couldn't quite see Ernest Shasha walking down Rusape high street waving a stick with a piece of clothing tied to it! Not surprisingly, this call to surrender also failed. Far from surrendering, the comrades were intensifying the war, and more areas of the country were being liberated. Having failed in their bid to stop the war, Muzorewa, Sithole 163 and Chirau threw themselves into the fight on the side of the illegal regime and the security forces. They openly gave their support to the raids into Mozambique, which Muzorewa said were 'a good way to start the day.' The doubts which we had about the 3 March agreement were, by the end of 1978, amply confirmed. Any lingering support we may have given to the ANC was now ended. Meanwhile the exodus of military age whites had begun; they left in disillusionment at the progress of the war and the continual call-up. This depletion of the security forces led to the drafting of thousands of blacks, most of them unemployed, into various para-military wings, chief of which was the unit known as 'auxiliaries'. Many of them were recruited from the political youth wing of Muzorewa's ANC, no doubt making the Bishop feel he now had his own force behind him. These young auxiliaries, who were well paid, were given three weeks' training, were armed and then sent into rural areas. They were told to fraternise with the people, to counter the influence of the 'terrorists' and to win 'hearts and minds'. The great danger to Zimbabwe now lay in the possibility that the people in the rural areas would become hopelessly divided between those who supported Muzorewa and the auxiliaries and those who supported the guerrillas. That this did not happen was due, in part at least, to the shocking behaviour of the auxiliaries, behaviour which was in marked contrast to that of the guerrillas. One of the tasks of the auxiliaries (known by Shona speakers as skuzis) was to recruit others from the rural areas, particularly the mujibhas. Many of these mujibhas, seeing the danger, quickly made their way over to Mozambique. Other young men and boys, not so fortunate, were picked up by the auxiliaries and taken to the nearest security force base. Some no doubt wanted to join and needed no inducement, but others were intimidated and forced to join. Girl mujibhas* were also 'drafted' and many ended up as 'wives' of auxiliaries, awaiting their babies in the rest camps. Many others were questioned, *In many areas girl mujibhas were referred to as chimbwidos. 164 beaten and tortured, and after release fled to the towns. Eric Mugadza's youngest daughter, Clara, was spared because she feigned illness, and she spent the rest of the war with relatives in Salisbury. Eleanor Nyagumbo, alone in the house when the auxiliaries came for her, stuffed a pillow under her dress and met them at the door with, 'Can't you see I'm a married woman? I'm pregnant,' and they left her alone. The skuzis, who were supposed to be winning hearts and minds, became extremely unpopular. The next visit of the comrades to St Francis was on Sunday 24 December. Baba Francis, Mai and Abraham were down from Salisbury, an ox was being slaughtered for Christmas, and some of us were busy decorating the church and setting up the crib. During the morning three or four comrades, led by Ernest Shasha, arrived and were shown into the Nyabadzas' sitting room. People went in to greet them, including several of our church men from the towns who were spending Christmas with us. The comrades wanted to know who they were, and everyone had to explain themselves. Then the comrades asked to see Baba Francis and Mai privately, and after they had talked, they left. They evidently noticed a few cars and trucks parked in the yard. Later that day we were visited by Geoffrey, one of the two ANC officials who had been arranging food for the guerrillas. He told us that he was now working for the ANC in Salisbury and that he had introduced the auxiliaries into the area the day before. Mai Nyabadza, who knew that the comrades were looking for him, begged him to go quickly back to Salisbury. 'You are in great danger,' she said, 'and so are we by your presence here.' He said he had to go down to his home, but would leave his car in the yard and go on foot. On Christmas Day, Ernest Shasha, accompanied by three or four other comrades, came into the yard during the morning, a glint in his eye. 'Fetch your car keys,' he said to Baba Francis, 165 who complied. 'Now get in beside me,' commanded Ernest, as he took the driver's seat of the Peugeot pick-up. I came into the yard at this moment and to my horror saw Baba being driven off at high speed by Shasha, while another comrade was making a deafening noise revving up the engine of the other Peugeot. 'Don't worry,' said one of the Sisters, 'they're learning to drive.' At this point Geoffrey arrived, come to say goodbye and take his car-. Too late he realised that the comrades were in the yard, and that they had spotted him. When Shasha returned (he and Baba and the truck mercifully all in one piece), Geoffrey was taken off by the comrades down towards the river. Realising what could happen, everybody made for the chapel where Baba Basil was buried. Urgent prayers were made to him, to his father buried beside him, to St Michael, St Peter, St Paul, the Virgin Mary - to anyone 'on the other side' who could intercede with the Lord God in this desperate situation. Twenty minutes later, on emerging from the chapel, we saw Geoffrey walking into the yard alone, apparently unhurt. Prayers, this time of thanks, ascended once more. Geoffrey returned to his home and his car remained in the yard. The next day, Boxing Day, the Nyabadza family returned to Salisbury directly after Mass. Later in the morning Sister Felicity called me over to the yard and gave me a set of car keys. 'The comrades say you must start the car.' It was Geoffrey's car. I managed to get it started, and then Ernest took over the driving seat and shot off down through the back gate. We later heard that the comrades took Geoffrey down through the Makoni Reserve in his car until the petrol ran out, and then burnt the car. We believe that he was taken on foot to Mozambique. 166

Chapter 20 Early in 1979 it was announced that a general election would be held in April. The election seemed to us completely futile, since there was no real choice: all the parties contesting the election were supporting the Smith/Muzorewa government. ZANU and ZAPU* were, of course, still banned. The only way we had of showing support for Mugabe and Nkomo was to boycott the election. The authorities obviously realised the importance of getting people into the polling booths; which party we voted for didn't matter, as long as we voted. Sheafs and sheafs of propaganda leaflets were stuffed into the post boxes. Many people, like us, simply strewed the leaflets on the ground, and often the area round Rusape Post Office looked as if there had been a snow storm! It was one of the few ways we had of showing what we felt about the election. On the day before polling was due to begin, a plane flew over us doing a sky- shout. After giving details of where and when polling was to take place in Makoni village, the sky-shouter added, 'and if anyone doesn't vote he will be gaoled for two years.' No nonsense about the right of the individual to abstain from voting. We later heard that the European CID officer who had threatened Baba Francis was really sorry that he had caused so many stores and businesses in the area to close: they would have been useful venues for election meetings! On the day we were supposed to vote, auxiliaries came round at breakfast time and told us to go down to the school. We just *Zimbabwe African People's Union 167 called back, 'We're coming,' and stayed put. No effort was made to force us. But other people in Makoni village were actually forced out of their houses by armed auxiliaries, taken down to the school and pushed through the wire surrounding the grounds. The auxiliaries were careful not to be seen by the officials who had been sent from overseas to observe the election. These tactics were evidently quite successful, although a large number of people did manage to avoid voting. It was officially announced that over 60% had voted, but as there was no voters roll, this figure was open to question. The election resulted in Muzorewa's party, now called the United African National Council, being returned with a big majority. The Bishop was installed as Prime Minister of 'Zimbabwe-Rhodesia', the country's new name. Real power remained in the hands of the white minority, and the war continued. *** It was not long before I myself became a mujibha. After the comrades first visited me in December I became more and more involved in the task of supplying their needs. Besides Shasha's group, there were several others in the area, all wanting supplies. Often a mujibha would arrive with money and a note: 'Dear Sister Patty, Just jump into your motor car and fetch us the following...' Usually we didn't have to do the buying ourselves; often the order was for beer or spirits and one of the mujibhas would come with us. Usually we brought the stuff back to the Mission and it was fetched, but sometimes we had to take it as far as we could with the truck. Once I was sent to collect two crates of beer from one of the St Faith's plots, but when we got there we found two crates of empties. The comrades based at St Faith's had drunk it all! I was always expecting to be stopped by the police or the military and questioned. At the beginning I used to have my story ready: 'I'm fetching it for a teacher at the school...', but I doubt whether my story would have fooled anyone. If the authorities did suspect us, they didn't take action, and we were never stopped. Apart from a few older married men,the messengers for the 168 comrades in our area were by this time all girls. One of the leaders was a relation of ours, Vi Nyabadza who lived with her family in Makoni village. She and other mujibhas carried out their tasks - collecting supplies, preparing and cooking food with great courage, ever on the move and in constant danger of being attacked along with the comrades. Sometimes they would come and take refuge with us for a few hours - 'The skuzis are looking for us' - and I would give them brooms and badzas to look as if they were working for us. On one occasion helicopters descended on a kraal in Makoni Village, expecting to make a contact with the comrades. It was the wrong kraal; the comrades and mujibhas at their base a mile away had time to run, but it was a close shave. These girls were every bit as brave as those who crossed to Mozambique. They were untrained and had no uniforms or weapons; yet they cheerfully and willingly stuck it, and only when the comrades decided it was too dangerous to stay did a girl leave the area. As soon as the comrades arrived in the area they began to hold meetings with the people at night. These pungwes, as the meetings were called, were an important part of the armed struggle. The people would be told the purpose of the liberation war and what was planned for Zimbabwe after independence. They would be warned about informing and told, perhaps, that their school must be closed or cattle dipping stopped: 'Dip fees and school fees must not be paid, because money going to the illegal government will be spent on weapons to kill us.' (Simple logic, but difficult for whites and people overseas to understand.) The people would be also be told what arrangements they should make for feeding and supplying the guerrilla groups. Many pungwes were held in Makoni village, but we at St Francis were not expected to attend. Instead, a small group of comrades would visit us after the meeting and tell us what had been said. On these occasions we left our beds and gathered in one of the two big dormitories. One or two comrades would talk to us while others stayed on guard outside. It was at these meetings that we were able to find out what had really happened at local incidents. At one of the early meetings we asked whether we should 169 continue to ring our church bell. We knew that other churches, including St Luke's Makoni, had been told by the comrades to stop ringing their bells, and many had stopped having services. Should we carry on? We were told that we should most certainly carry on: 'We know you are praying for us,' they said, 'and we tell the time by your bell.' So our bell continued to be rung. We remembered how, in the old days, the members of St Francis had feared that the local elders would hear 'the tintinnabulation and they would be arrested'; now, forty years later, it was the St Luke's bell which was silent while the St Francis bell rang out! It was at one of these evening meetings with the comrades that I told Ernest Shasha that I was going over to England for two months. I said that my mother had died and that I must go and visit her grave. He understood perfectly. I naturally felt some hesitation at leaving the Sisters, but I had not been to England for five years, and I was keen to visit my family and friends. As far as my work as a mujibha went, I didn't want to appear to be running away, but I had a feeling that it would be no bad thing to make a break in what I had come to call 'the brandy run'. Besides, I knew that other people's cars were also being used to carry supplies. I left for Britain (via Switzerland) at the beginning of May 1979. It had been arranged that Eric Mugadza would drive me to Salisbury, with some of the Sisters, who were coming to see me off. Just before we left, Vi Nyabadza arrived in the yard. Could we take her to Salisbury? The skuzis were looking for her and had threatened to kill her. So we hid her in the back of the pick-up and got her out safely. Nearly everyone, family and friends, wanted to know about the war and the situation in Rhodesia. I talked, sometimes guardedly, sometimes freely, to many people in Switzerland and Britain. I visited the C-Bs, the Rangers and Ann Spence, now Ann Hastings. Since I had last seen her she had married Adrian Hastings - Catholic priest, writer and university professor. Ann was still in Birmingham and keeping an eye on the Mutasa children while both parents were in Mozambique. Fortunately Didymus was in Birmingham on a visit while I was there, and we had a long talk over a late breakfast in the railway station restaurant. Among many things which I learnt from him was the fact that comrades in the operational areas were not 170 supposed to drink alcohol. When I got back to St Francis in July, I was told that there had been a meeting in Makoni village soon after I left; the people had been told that anyone supplying drink to the comrades would be severely punished. So after this there were no requests for drink for some months, and when brandy did appear again on the requisition, we sent a bottle of orange squash! During my absence the security forces visited the Mission on two consecutive nights looking for Vi Nyabadza. They were told on the first night that she wasn't there, but refused to believe it. When they came again the next night, the Sisters all lay silent in bed, pretending that they had left to sleep elsewhere. As the sun was rising the next morning the soldiers left the Mission. Not only had they come to the wrong house, but they were six weeks too late. One could only conclude that they were relying on a decidedly faulty intelligence network! By now we were severely restricted in movement. Though the Sisters could go down into the Makoni Reserve, where they were known, on foot, I had to limit myself to staying at the Mission or going to Rusape on the tarmac. I never went into any African area where I wouldn't have been recognised, and I was discouraged by the Sisters from even attending local funerals. We had asked the comrades to explain my position to any new group which came into the area, but there was always a danger of a breakdown in communication. On one occasion a European friend arrived from Botswana to spend a night, with a large rucksack on his back. Rumour quickly spread that we had a white soldier staying with us. As some of the Sisters headed off enquiring mujibhas, I had to hustle our friend out of the house and up to the tarmac to hitch a lift back to Rusape. After that I said no more European visitors. Every week Sister Jenny and I travelled in and out of Rusape on our own, without incident. I did, however, take the precautions of always dressing like her, in blue uniform dress and headscarf. If we were stopped by the comrades they would at least wonder who this strange white woman was! Looking back, I doubt if I, or any of the Sisters, were ever in any danger, certainly not from the comrades. But white farmers and their wives living in the area were attacked occasionally, and by 1979 171 most of them were sleeping in Rusape and visiting their farms only in daylight. Others surrounded their houses with high wire fences, built bunkers and protected themselves with the newest type of gun. Every farm had its agric-alert system too, which could summon the security forces at the mere touch of a red button. There is no doubt that some farmers protected themselves another way: they were secretly helping the guerrillas, in cash and in kind, though outwardly remaining firm supporters of the regime. No-one ever offered me an agric-alert (which needless to say I would have refused), and the authorities no doubt knew where my sympathies lay. But being the only white woman for miles around must have made me seem somewhat foolish in whites' eyes, and given Rusape more reason than ever to question my sanity. One day in Rusape I was asked by a young white shop assistant. 'Where do you live?' 'I live at St Francis Mission, up at Makoni,' I replied. 'Do you live alone?' she asked. 'No, I live with the African Sisters there.' 'Are you the only European?' 'Yes, I'm the only European.' 'Well,' she said, with the curious logic of the white settler, for whom blacks don't count, 'you live alone then.' Then she added, with a touching smile, 'I think you're very brave.' How could I explain to her (and I'm afraid I didn't even try) that my safety lay in being firmly rooted in African life? It lay in the love and friendship of the African Sisters and the Nyabadza family, and in a firm faith in the future liberation of Zimbabwe, a faith I shared with those who were, to her, 'terrorists'. Indoctrinated as she was by government propaganda, she would have found it almost impossible to understand. But what she would have found easier to understand was the belief that my safety, and hers, lay above all in the protection of Mwari - God of the Mashona, God of the whites. Many people on both sides in the conflict had had miraculous escapes and claimed that they were saved by divine protection. 172

Chapter 21 Soon after my return from England in July our hopes for a peaceful settlement were raised once more, this time with more justification. The heads of the Commonwealth met in Lusaka in August, and this was followed by talks in London between ZANU and ZAPU leaders (now joined in the Patriotic Front), the Smith/Muzorewa regime and the British Government. The focus of the armed struggle moved from the Rhodesian bush to the lofty rooms of Lancaster House, as every point was fought out. After two-and-a-half months we heard that a ceasefire had been agreed, and just before Christmas Lord Soames, the new Governor, arrived to take over power from the illegal regime. Meanwhile the war went on. The comrades continued to visit us from time to time, and we soon discovered that they were highly suspicious of the proposed ceasefire. Wouldn't it be just the same as all the other times, just a trick to get them to surrender? It soon became apparent, however, that this time things really were different. The ceasefire had been agreed by Comrade Mugabe himself, and his senior commanders were visiting all the guerrilla groups to tell them of the agreement and plans for the ceasefire. They were told that assembly points (APs) were being set up around the country, where the comrades would be accommodated for the time being. To get to the APs they would gather at various temporary pick-up points (rendezvous), and from there they would be taken to the APs in military vehicles. They would have a week, from the date of the ceasefire, to get into the APs. During the first few days of that week nothing seemed to be happening but on the day before the deadline the comrades in 173 our area began to emerge. A small group came up to the Mission in the middle of the morning; 'We've come to say goodbye,' and they told us they would be leaving soon. We later heard that other comrades had gone into Rusape by bus. They had a tremendous reception from people at the bus stop, and again in Rusape, and were feted with singing and dancing. There was a rendezvous in the Makoni Reserve, but no assembly point; the nearest AP was at Buhera, about 140 km away. At about 5 pm our Peugeot truck and the tractor and trailer were commandeered by the local comrades to carry bags of mealie meal. Large groups were passing through on their way to Buhera and needed to be fed. 'We're not going to the rendezvous,' the comrades told us, 'We're walking through to Buhera tonight.' The deadline was midnight. They could, and did, walk very fast, and no doubt reached Buhera by the morning. One got the impression that they didn't trust the rendezvous which was, in any case, in the opposite direction. Later that evening we heard that our truck had been abandoned. When we went to tow it home next morning, we found it had a burnt-out clutch, and the keys were missing. A few days later we received them back from a mujibha who had accompanied the comrades to Buhera. With the keys was a charming note of apology. New Year 1980 arrived and we were now entering a very tricky period. According to the Lancaster House agreement, all guerrillas were supposed to be in the assembly points with their weapons. The security forces, officially under the authority of the Governor, Lord Soames, but one suspects with a considerable amount of autonomy, were to be gradually withdrawn from the operational areas to their camps and barracks. They could, however, be called out at any time in the event of trouble. The auxiliaries were to remain in their camps, many of them in the rural areas, but were apparently still free to enter the villages. The ceasefire was to be monitored by teams of military personnel drawn from the Commonwealth. It would seem that the fate of the people living in the vast areas which had been liberated by the comrades did not worry the British delegation at the talks. Left undefended by the 174 comrades whom they supported, these people would be at the mercy of the auxiliaries, backed up by the security forces if necessary. This attitude of the British is understandable if one realises that they still firmly believed that the great majority of the people were loyal to the Smith/Muzorewa regime. The Patriotic Front and the guerrilla commanders knew otherwise. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that they arranged for their political commissars to remain outside the assembly points, living amongst the people in the villages. Another reason for the commissars to remain with the people was to prepare them for the general election which, it was announced, would be held at the end of February. It was not long before stories were reaching us of girls being raped or beaten up by the auxiliaries. At one village not far from us the people complained three times to the police in Rusape, but no action was taken. We fully expected the auxiliaries to be withdrawn, but they continued to roam the villages. The first time we were visited by one of the political commissars was in January when we were picking vegetables for sale. He came in ordinary clothes, unarmed, and helped us as we sat tying the cabbage leaves into bundles. We talked about the coming election and he asked us who we would vote for. Sister Jenny said we would all vote for Mugabe. 'That is everyone except me,' I said. 'Having a white skin, I have to vote for a European. I don't agree with reserved seats for the whites, so it means I can't vote at all.' 'That was in the Lancaster agreement, they didn't make any arrangements for a white person supporting Mugabe,' he said with a chuckle. 'Well, it cuts both ways,' I replied, 'because the whites can't vote for Muzorewa either.' During the weeks prior to the election (due to be held on 27, 28 and 29 February) it was almost impossible to believe that the ceasefire would hold and that the election would be seen as 'free and fair'. One expected to hear at any time that serious fighting had broken out between the guerrillas in the assembly points 175 and the security forces who were being deployed in areas surrounding them. Real fears of being massacred could have led to the comrades breaking out and returning to the villages. The return of the external leaders, Joshua Nkomo from Lusaka and Robert Mugabe from Maputo, was heartening, but this too caused anxiety. A big crowd gathered in Salisbury to meet Nkomo, and a few weeks later a much larger crowd met Mugabe. It would have been even bigger if people had been able to find transport, but bus owners who were Muzorewa supporters declined to make their buses available. At our store, a big crowd waited all day in a cold drizzle for transport, but nothing came, and we were told that there were many such stranded groups at the bus stops all the way up the Inyanga road. Apparently the same thing happened in many other areas as well. This clear expression of support for Mugabe brought a quick reaction. In the course of a few weeks, three attempts were made on his life. First a grenade was thrown at his house in the Salisbury suburb where he was living. Then some weeks later there was an unsuccessful bomb attempt as he left Fort Victoria (now Masvingo) after a public meeting. Finally party supporters discovered a bomb attached to a pylon near the platform a few hours before he was due to speak in Umtali (now Mutare). They called the police and asked them kindly to remove their bomb, which they promptly did. We were thankful that this and other planned meetings were cancelled. Knowing as we did the strength of Mugabe's support in this area, it seemed incredible to be told that ZANU (PF) (the new name adopted by his party) were 'intimidating' people to vote for them. Even more incredible, it was said that intimidation was most serious in the eastern district. It seemed to us that either the authorities, from the Governor down, were grossly misinformed, or this was a deliberate attempt to stigmatise the party. It would seem probable that whereas the British were undoubtedly misinformed (as we were soon to discover), the Rhodesians feeding them this false information did so deliberately. There was certainly no evidence of any intimidation round us. On the contrary, a Catholic priest who did much travelling in the eastern district told me that the only in- 176 timidation he had come across was the complaint of some estate workers that the auxiliaries were trying to threaten them into voting for the UANC. We both agreed that no-one would need to intimidate the people of Manicaland into voting for Z ANU (P F), the party which had all their hearts and in which all their hopes lay. Although there was no need to intimidate, there was a need to inform people, especially the elderly, about the mechanism of voting. Each party had chosen its symbol for the benefit of the illiterate, and ZANU (PF) had chosen thejongwe, the cock. So it was important for the party's supporters to recognize the symbol, and party workers handed out small printed pictures of a cock standing and crowing on a rock with the rising sun behind it. On two successive Sunday afternoons, before choir practice, I taught the Sisters how and where to make their cross against the jongwe while adding, with tongue in cheek, 'but of course you are quite free to vote for any of the other parties, and it's secret.' Once again our post boxes were full of pamhlets, but this time we took them home and passed them round. Their purpose was mainly to emphasize that voting would be strictly secret. 'No one will ever know how you voted.' There was evidently anxiety in official circles that people might fail to vote for Muzorewa through fear of being found out. We were also told, in these pamphlets, that election supervisors from overseas would organise the election, and that there would be official election monitors and observers who would assess whether the election was 'free and fair.' There were other, less official, efforts going on with the sole purpose of smearing Robert Mugabe. A scurrilous article about him was printed in a fake edition of Moto, the Catholic weekly newspaper read mainly by blacks, and which was strongly proZANU (PF). Many copies were scattered around the country by people in vehicles, and some appeared at our store. It was cleverly done, and quite a few people must have been taken in by it. A short time later the Moto building and printing press were destroyed by a bomb. The bodies of the perpetrators, one of them white, were found in the wreckage. At about this time, too, a particularly unpleasant leaflet appeared. It was not 177 attributed to any organisation, but looked suspiciously like a successor to previous government leaflets. There were no words, simply a series of drawings of a chameleon - a longtongued lizard which changes colour and is abhorred and feared 1y blacks in Zimbabwe. Each picture changed until the last drawing which was unmistakably Robert Mugabe taking little people with his tongue into his mouth. Then there were the attempts to make it look as if' ZANU (PF) was bombing Salisbury churches: when two Selous Scouts were blown up by their own bomb beside St Michael's Church in Harare township the plot was blown too. Through all this Mugabe maintained a dignified silence, and these attempts to denigrate him did more harm to the perpetrators than to him or his party. From our own experience, and from what we heard from other people, the police and security forces made it extremely difficult, indeed dangerous, for the ZANU (PF) party workers to operate at all during the run-up to the election. Maurice Nyagumbo's brother Ezekiel, on his way to his home in the Makoni Reserve, told me he would be preparing people for the election: 'But it's very dangerous. I shall have to work very quietly with just small gatherings of people at night,' he said. Amon Shonge, chairman of Mukute Farm Society, had been elected ZANU (PF) secretary for Weya Reserve; he was arrested a week before the election and held at the police camp in Rusape, as were many others. The election monitors and observers appear to have been oblivious to what was going on. Most of them went on conducted tours arranged by the District Commissioners, though a few did hive off on their own. A meeting held near us was addressed by the DC who, by way of introducing his visitors to the local scene, waved his hand in our direction saying, 'Over there the priest of St Francis Mission was killed by terrorists in 1977.' A ceasefire monitor later told me, 'The DC told us that all the people in this area support Muzorewa.' One wonders how much other incorrect information was given them. The authorities, presumably including the Governor, evidently thought it necessary to have a massive call-up of personnel into the security forces ten days before the election was due to begin. These people, together with the police, 178 auxiliaries and other paramilitary bodies, were supposed to ensure that there was no intimidation duing polling. This looked to us like pouring fuel on a smouldering fire. Looking back, one marvels at the forbearance of the guerrillas and their political leaders. I believe that their steadiness in the face of this provocation was due largely to their faith in the people whom they had liberated, faith in the innate common sense of all those who would be casting their votes. We were soon to have a taste of provocation ourselves. From early in January 1980 onwards there had been a steady stream of refugees returning from Mozambique. Among them were many young people who had crossed the border in pr:vious years but had never been trained or handled a gun. Some had spent their time growing crops, others teaching in the camps. Samuel Maradzamunda, a young man who had lived and worked at _. Francis, came back with other refugees in February, and settled again into living and working at the Mission. He and some of the others were party workers for ZANU (PF). On Thursday 21 February, during the week of the big call-up, we had a visit from two official election observers from Canada. It was pouring with rain and we were having tea in the Nyabadzas' sitting-room when we heard a big burst of firing, coming from the direction of Makoni village. Very soon afterwards a group of security force soldiers arrived on foot, led by a young man in a Muzorewa party T-shirt. They proceeded to search the houes on the Mission, guns at the ready. Two kitchen doors which they found locked they simply tore off their hinges. One of the election observers asked what they were doing. 'We're looking for "terrs",' they said. 'There's been a contact.' After searching and finding nothing, they left, and the two Canadian observers returned to Salisbury.* *Footnote:- One of the observers commented later: 'This incident may have been commonplace to the local people, but the observers were appalled - and frightened by the callous, rough and clearly intimidatory tactics employed by the armed men. Their impression was that the soldiers were nervous and trigger- happy, ready to shoot 179

The next morning the soldiers came to the Mission again, and this time they saw Samuel in the yard. They noticed that he was wearing a pair of safari boots. 'You're a ' terr",' one of them said. 'Those boots come from Mozambique,' and they arrested him. They took him out of the gate and I followed. At the store I saw that other young men from the village had also been taken, and were sitting in an army truck. I spoke to one of the white soldiers: 'Why are you arresting Samuel? He's a refugee.' 'We're taking him for questioning.' 'Where to?' I asked. 'Up to our camp.' He waved his hands in the direction of a nearby white farm. 'If you're still holding him next week, how does he vote?' I asked. 'He'll be back before then.' and they took him away. Sister Catherine and I had to go into Rusape that day. We passed the newly- opened ZANU (PF) office and were greeted by the branch secretary: 'How are things up your way?' he asked. 'There was firing yesterday and we were searched,' I replied, 'and now they've just arrested some of the young ZANU (PF) people - refugees.' 'Would you be prepared to tell your story to the police?' he asked. 'They simply won't believe me when I tell them that our party workers are being harassed.' I consulted Sister Catherine, and we were both rather dubious about going to the police. Then the party official suggested we see the election supervisor - a nice friendly man from Britain.' So we went off and found him and I talked to him in his car. He was sympathetic, but said that it was more a matter for the ceasefire monitors. 'Who are they ?' I asked. 'Two young British army officers,' he replied. 'We're all living at the hotel here, but they have an office next to the JOC, (the at the slightest excuse, their suspicion of and animosity towards the local people was obvious. The observers accordingly reported this incident but it appeared that similar actions were occurring throughout the country, and there was little response from the ceasefire monitoring forces or the British officials. 180 local security force headquarters). 'They're out at the moment with the DC, but I'll tell them when they come in and get them to phone you.' Sister Catherine and I returned to the Mission, and late in the afternoon I was phoned by one of the ceasefire monitors. 'We've heard your story from the supervisor and we decided to visit that camp where you say they're holding the refugees. We've just got back. The commandant says they're not holding anybody there at all.' 'But why are they harassing people like this? I asked. 'It's less than a week to the election.' 'It's the only way they can crack the cell,' he replied, 'There's a lot of intimidation going on.' Crack the cell!' I exclaimed. 'They're breaking up the local ZANU (PF) election committee.' Which presumably was their intention. It sounded to me as if the ceasefire monitors had been well and truly indoctrinated by the Establishment. A short time later someone from Makoni village came to tell us that he had seen Samuel. 'I was over by the hill getting the cattle in. I saw the soldiers carrying him and putting him into their truck. I think he may be dead.' I immediatelyphoned the ceasefire monitor at the hotel and told him this. He said he would make enquiries. I waited anxiously beside the telephone, and in a couple of hours he phoned me back. In a very reassuring voice he told me, 'Don't worry. The CID have told me that Samuel is in Rusape hospital - it's just an epileptic fit they say.' Which I frankly didn't believe: Samuel had never had epilepsy in his life. Enquiries early next morning at the hospital revealed that Samuel was not, and never had been, in the hospital. We were more worried about him than ever. We finally found him on Sunday morning at the Rusape police camp, where he had been kept since Friday afternoon. He was released, and on the way home he told us his story: When I got to the camp I was questioned and I told them I had never handled a gun. They wouldn't believe me, and said I'd been to a communist country to be trained. When I denied this they beat me. Then a bit 181 later we heard that some important people were coming to the camp from Rusape, and they took us all out of the camp. They took me in a vehicle down to the rocks by the hill. They told me to get out of the truck and then they forced me to lie down and put my head into a crack between two rocks. They were beating me and I couldn't breathe because there was no air in that crack, and then I must have passed out. Then they carried me to their truck and took me to the police camp. Here I got beaten again and they said I was lying. I still said I'd never been trained. Then they left me alone. It was arranged that the two ceasefire monitors should come up on their own to the Mission on Monday afternoon. They evidently wanted to know what was going on. We collected Samuel and three or four of the others who had been arrested with him, and I told them they need have no fear of telling the truth. When the two monitors arrived, we all sat round in the Nyabadzas' sitting room and Samuel and the others told their stories. It was clear that they had all been put outside the camp for the monitors' visit. Some had been told they could go home, others were put back into the camp after the monitors had gone. 'An old dodge. We were fooled,' admitted the senior monitor. 'I suppose the JOC telephoned the commander to say we were coming.' They also realised that the CID had lied to them about Samuel being in the hospital. Over tea we got talking. They were charming young British army officers from the west country, but it was clear they had very little clue about Zimbabwe. Since arriving they had spent all their time being taken round in helicopters by the DC; all their background information came from him, and their military information from the security forces and the police. Drinking together at the bar of the hotel completed their indoctrination. It was hardly surprising that few black people even knew they were in Rusape, and if they did would hardly have dared to approach them, let alone enter their office beside the JOC. The monitors had all too easily become absorbed in to the Establishment, and were already part and parcel of the old regime. However, it was obvious that the two young men were 182 beginning to realise that they couldn't believe everything they were being told by the authorities, and they seemed very impressed by what they had heard from us that afternoon. As they were leaving, the senior monitor said, 'This will go right up to the Governor.' 'How long are you going to be in this country?' I asked. 'Oh, not long,' he replied.' 'We shall be leaving on Friday night, immediately after the election's over.' It didn't seem as if there would be much time for their newlyacquired knowledge to bear fruit. 183

Chapter 22 The next day, Tuesday, was the day before the polling was due to begin. We had to go into Rusape again, and this time I met Columbus Makoni who was one of the ZANU (PF) candidates. 'I'm just going over to the police camp,' he said. 'They're holding all my party workers, but they say they'll release them this afternoon. Tomorrow we must be at Inyati Mine, where they're polling.' When I next met him a few days later I enquired how the polling had gone at Inyati. 'Oh fine,' he said, 'the local farm workers were brought in by buses hired by the Muzorewa party. They were all carrying UANC flags and chanting party slogans, and this got us really worried. But one of the workers got me aside and whispered, "Don't worry. We had to come in those buses, but we're all voting ZANU (PF)".' Polling at our store took place on the Thursday, the second of the three polling days. People were told to be there by 2 pm, but many gathered there in the morning to wait patiently for the arrival of the mobile van. I was not alone in being worried that the security forces might deliberately cause trouble. Most of the local mujibhas had got up early that morning and were walking to Rusape to vote there because the auxiliaries in the area had threatened to prevent them coming up to our store. At about 2 pm I walked over to the store, taking Samuel with me. He was still very nervous of authority, but I told him he should vote. We had to pass a group of five or six soldiers, but they were sitting quietly by the road just finishing their sadza, and we exchanged greetings. It was all very orderly and relaxed at the store too, and people were forming long queues. It was raining on and off, and as 184 umbrellas went up and down the scene reminded me of Lord's cricket ground on a wet summer afternoon. The sight of a big, blue-uniformed British policeman, complete with helmet, surveying the scene from the store steps made it seem even more like London. The deployment of these policemen at the polling stations was a brilliant idea on the part of the British, and undoubtedly had a calming influence on the proceedings. Having no vote, I couldn't go in and see what was happening inside the store where the booths had been set up. But all the Sisters voted, and they told me about it afterwards. On entering the store they had to put their hand into a scanning machine this was to check that they had not already voted. Then their hand was dipped into an indelible ink, which was invisible but lasted on the hand for several days and then they were given the forms on which they recorded their vote. An election officer was in charge of the proceedings and a representative from each political party was there to see that all was done fairly. No-one complained of any irregularity, and the whole thing was over before 4 o'clock. *,, The voting throughout the country finished on Friday evening and we settled down to wait for the results, which were to be announced on Tuesday morning, 4 March. The ballot papers were counted in the larger towns in the presence of election observers and party workers. Baba Francis and Mai came down from Salisbury for the weekend and we speculated on the result. Mai told us of how the women in Harare township had come out of the polling stations flapping their elbows 'like a chicken'. That meant they had voted for the jongwe. We agreed that Mugabe would get over fifty seats, which would mean a majority over all the other parties. Baba left us his radio so that we could listen to the results. On Tuesday morning we all gathered on the Nyabadzas' verandah. For some reason the reception was very bad, so I glued my ear to the radio to hear the very official-sounding European voice as he gave the results. I relayed the results to 185 everyone else: 'Patriotic Front (that's Nkomo) 20 seats. UANC (Bishop Muzorewa) 3 seats. (Cheers) ZANU (PF) 57 seats. (More, louder cheers). I signalled everyone to be quiet so that we could hear the results of each district. When it came to our district, Manicaland, we heard that all eleven seats had been won by ZANU (PF). Then everyone broke out into singing and dancing: 'Mugabe a hwina, Mugabe a hu'ina!' Mugabe had won, and the Sisters led the way to the little shrine where Baba was shot. Here we sang Oh God our help in ages past, and gave thanks and prayed and sang again, our hearts bursting with joy and thankfulness. Then Mai phoned from Salisbury to say 'makorokoto', (congratulations'), and the mujibhas and refugees came into the yard and we sang the chimurenga songs. It was a wonderful day. Later on we listened to the news on the radio. Lord Soames had sent for Robert Mugabe to form a government - all very correct and British. Then we listened to Mugabe's speech, words of peace and reconciliation. The war was over and there was to be no retribution; the amnesty would be respected. All those elected, including the twenty white Rhodesia Front members, would take their seats in Parliament in due course. Even Ian Smith. The words of our new Prime Minister were the words of a statesman indeed. Most Rhodesian whites, fed with the regime's propaganda for so many years, regarded Mugabe as some sort of monster. Many of them had their bags already packed, but now his conciliatory tone made some of them hesitate. Most of the Selous Scouts were off though, heading south in planes and trains to the welcoming arms of South Africa. So were many of the auxiliaries - ready material for training by the racist republic's military forces. Others, loyal to the old Smith regime, remained behind and busied themselves sorting documents and records and sending incriminating material away to be shredded. Nearer home, we soon found out what the auxiliaries thought of the election result. Dozens of panes of glass at the store were smashed, doors broken and an unsuccessful attempt made to set fire to the eating house. Poor lads - I suppose they were bitterly disappointed - they too had believed the propaganda 186 and thought we were 'a strong Muzorewa area'. Within a few days telegrams and letters of congratulation were arriving from England. The C-Bs in North Wales, Ann Hastings (still being mother to the two youngest Mutasa children), Sheila Graham, the Rangers, our own Nyabadza children and many others rejoiced with us in spirit. A few weeks later we celebrated the anniversary of Baba's death. We kept the festival on Palm Sunday and everyone gathered on the Saturday - Baba and his young wife, Flora, (they had been married the previous year) and their baby, Basil; Mai (now beginning to be called Mbuya), and Abraham, all of them still living is Salisbury but preparing to come home soon. From the villages came Eric Mugadza and Onias Tenha and most of our church members. With us too were many from Makoni old and young, mujibhas and refugees, and Vi Nyabadza back from Salisbury. During the previous week the young people had spent several evenings with us practising the chimurenga songs, and now they spent the whole of Saturday night singing in the yard, only stopping when our bell rang for Mass at 6 am on Sunday morning. These were wonderful songs. They came fresh from the camps of Mozambique and from Zimbabwean villages which had harboured the comrades. They had been sung in the open hills and round fires in smokey kitchens; they were sung by comrades as they cleaned their rifles and by women as they cooked the sadza; by old men as they sucked at their pipes and by children barely off their mothers' backs. Songs with words to encourage: Shingirirayi! Gadzirirayi! Courage! Prepare! Zimbabwe nge yedu! Zimbabwe is ours! Some with words of warning: Regerayi ku tamba ne subu Don't play with the boys' ye wakomana. sub-machine gun. Then there were songs of thanks: Samora Machel tinomutenda. Samora Machel, we thank you. 187 And to Julius Nyerere, Kenneth Kaunda, Mozambique, Cuba, China. Thanks above all to Robert Mugabe and all the comrades who had liberated us. Honour and thanks to those who had given their lives - 'Chitepo, tinomutenda; Tongogara, tinomutenda; Nyabadza, tinomutenda...' As I joined the circle of people singing in the yard, and later on that night lay in the front seat of the pick-up listening, I was extraordinarily moved and thrilled by these songs. A few weeks later we got some of them onto tape, but somehow you cannot capture the spirit of this music and put it through a machine. Within a few months these songs were being sung on the radio but much of the freshness had faded. Our new Prime Minister soon appointed his Ministers and Deputy Ministers. With such a wealth of talent to choose from the difficulty must have been who to leave out. But one qualification was necessary - to have been involved in the struggle, in exile or in detention. We were particularly pleased with the appointment of Maurice Nyagunjbo as Minister of Mines, and Moven Mahachi as Deputy Minister of Lands, Resettlement and Development*. Both of them had been released in November and had gone over to London to join in the Lancaster House talks, and Maurice in fact had put his signature to the final agreement. Another piece of good news came a few weeks later when we heard that Didymus Mutasa was to be the new Speaker of the Legislative Assembly. All the 'new boys' were busy settling into their new jobs, and into houses in what had previously been the white suburbs. The independence ceremony, at which the new Zimbabwe flag would be hoisted, was fixed for midnight on 17/18 April, to be followed by a public holiday. Prince Charles would be there to represent the Queen. Shelagh Ranger wrote that she would be coming for a short visit, together with Maurice's young *Two years later he was promoted to full minister 188 married daughter and two children. We hoped Ann would come too, but she wrote to say she would come a bit later to bring the two Mutasa children home. The C- Bs also chose to come later. Shelagh duly arrived, and after spending a week at St Francis we went up to Salisbury together. Shelagh and Terry had corresponded with Maurice for seventeen years (many of Maurice's prison letters were smuggled out), so it was with.great pleasure that Shelagh and I accepted his invitation to stay at the new Nyagumbo home in Greendale, a very white Salisbury suburb. The split-level lounge, the best bedroom en suite with black-tiled bathroom, the swimming pool with water gushing from a lion's mouth and the double garage all seemed a long way, indeed another world, from Salisbury Central Prison, but a fitting home for a senior minister and his wife and family. 'But what did the last owners eat?' asked Eleanor, ever practical. 'There's no vegetable garden at all.' Within a week some of the extensive lawns were being dug up and planted. Shelagh and I spent the next few days going round Salisbury in borrowed cars trying to contact old friends, without much success. Everybody was extremely busy and many were moving house. Ministers were out at meetings or entertaining foreign visitors, and trying to contact them at their homes was even more difficult: they still didn't seem to quite know where they were living or what their telephone number might be! Didymus and Gertrude Mutasa we did find - wedged into the overfull ZANU (PF) office in Manica Road - and we had a quick conversation amongst the seething mass of people. Although we didn't see many friends, we were content to join in the wonderful feeling of celebration,of Zimbabwe being on the move, of our friends being so busy after years spent sitting in prison. A visit to a refugee squatter camp in Harare's black township made us realise that many people were still suffering. We spoke to one or two of the residents, and they were obviously feeling angry with the Social Welfare Department: 'They want to clear us out before Prince Charles tours Harare,' one of them said, 'but we're refusing to move.' As we walked in and out of the plastic shelters, we heartily agreed with him: it was right that Prince Charles should see things as they really were. 189

Another, accidental, encounter was with a group of refugees from Mozambique. Shelagh and I had been asked to drive one of the Nyagumbo daughters to register her at a Catholic boarding school. On the way back we heard there were refugees camped out not far from the school. We drove along a grassy track and eventually found twenty young men living in an old kraal. They were cooking in a pole and dagga hut and preparing to eat in their 'dining room' - a beautiful new tent with a table and benches. After greetings we all sang some chimurenga songs and then joined them for sadza. Our visit certainly cheered them up: isolated, feeling somewhat abandoned, wondering if they would find their parents alive when they did reach their homes, they seemed to know only vaguely that we were on the eve of the independence celebrations. Maurice had already told us that there wasn't a hope of Shelagh or me or any of his daughters getting tickets for the celebrations in Rufaro stadium, so we thought we would be watching it on television. It was therefore a big surprise when we got back that afternoon to be told, 'Father says there are ten tickets and we can go if we can find our own transport.' This was indeed a problem, Greendale being a suburb right across town from Harare. 'But surely,' I said to Shelagh, 'we can find some people with cars who haven't got tickets.' So we rang round various friends, and within half an hour everything was fixed and we waited to be picked up. We drove down to Harare and left the cars where there was parking space. As we walked to the Stadium I heard a voice calling, 'Mukoma Patricia!' It was Margaret Chiwandamira, my first friend at St. Faith's, who, twenty-five years ago, brought me to St Francis. There was no time for more than a quick embrace and 'makorokoto', and we were off to our respective entry gates. We queued for an hour or so until we reached the turnstile. Here we were frisked and our tickets scrutinised and we were let in. We fo ind our way up the deep concrete steps which were our seats. As we waited we were entertained by singing and dancing in the floodlit arena. Then the VIPs began to arrive: first various foreign dignitaries, the ladies in their national costumes, and finally our own Prime Minister, the new President - Canaan 190

Banana, Lord Soames and Prince Charles. We all waited expectantly for the flag- raising ceremony to start. What we were not expecting was the tear gas which wafted over towards us. 'Let's go down, quickly, Mukoma', said Eleanor, her eyes streaming. I didn't seem to be much affected, but I went with the others as fast as I could down the steep steps. When we got to the bottom, Eleanor bought a bottle of coca-cola and made us all wash our faces in it. That, apparently, was the remedy. Later we heard that the police were using tear gas to prevent gate-crashers, or rather wall-scalers. We made our way up the steps again. Now hundreds of men and women in uniform were running into the stadium and seating themselves in rows on a mound at our end. 'Comrades', said someone. 'They've come in from the assembly points.' I hoped Ernest Shasha was among them. It was a moving moment, and the ground was now completely full. The Rhodesian flag is being lowered. The crowd is mostly silent, but some laughter and a bit of jeering can be heard. Then the Zimbabwean flag is hoisted, to jubilant cheers. From the comrades' ranks comes a deep-throated song which drowns the voice of the Catholic Archbishop as he blesses the flag. The sound swells as the song is taken up by everyone round the stadium.'Ta tora ne hondo, ta tora ne hondo.' 'We have taken (our country) by war.' Yes, there is no denying it - Lancaster House, the ceasefire agreement, the election, a new Parliament - none of this would have happened without the armed struggle. As we stand to honour the new flag, I think of all those who have given their lives to free our country, thousands of men, women and children. And of Baba Basil who longed and struggled for this moment. Surely he is with us in spirit, and not only at this historic moment; he will be with us as we set our minds and our hearts and our hands to the building of the new Zimbabwe. 191

Epilogue The war and the heady days of Independence over, life quite quickly returned to normal. At St Francis the business centre re-opened, the cattle were dipped again, our poultry increased, and we all went back to sleep in our own houses. We were able to have visitors again and later that year our guests included Ann Hastings, the Clutton-Brocks and Terry Ranger. In May Baba Francis gave up his job in Salisbury and he and his family came home. Others were returning home too - students and exiles from overseas, comrades and refugees from the frontline states. Parents waited anxiously at home for their comrade children or searched the assembly points, sometimes in vain. In due course we heard that all our church members had come back from Mozambique except Anna Tenha, and it was nearly two years before her family were convinced that she was dead. Another comrade who had been with her told Anna's parents that she had been wounded at Chimoio and after recovering had been offered further education or nursing training. But she had refused both and insisted on returning to duty. She was posted to a base HQ and was killed in an air attack, and they buried her there. She was twenty-one. We didn't have to wait anxiously for Yvonne. She came home on Independence Day, now twenty, tall and very thin, and on her back her two-month-old son. 'I couldn't wait for the buses they were sending for us,' she told us later, so she walked to Umtali and got some relations to drive her to St Francis. Her mother, just back from the celebrations, was there to greet her. 192

'Mai, do you love me?' Yvonne asked her. 'Yes, of course I do, very much,' her mother replied. Then as Yvonne handed her mother the baby, 'That means you must love my baby too, and bring him up, because I have to go and report for duty.' So during the next twenty-four hours young Tapiwa was weaned, his mother was off to Salisbury to get her orders, and his grandmother was back to nappies and bottles. Within a few months Yvonne was chosen by Government to be one of a group of twenty girls, all ex-comrades, to be sent to Tanzania for secretarial training. Again life was tough there and food scarce, and we saw little of her for the next two years. On her return she worked for two months with the Railways and then became one of the three secretaries to the Prime Minister. Meanwhile Tapiwa is growing up here, the constant companion of his cousin Basil. Ernest Shasha also came safely through the war, with nothing more serious than losing one of his fingers. He remained in the Army and we see him in the store occasionally. Vi Nyabadza and some of her fellow mujibhas are furthering their education, and Samuel (who has sadly since died) and several other young men went for Army training. Of Geoffrey, the ANC official taken to Mozambique, there was no further news, and he is now presumed dead. All the Nyabadza family have returned from Britain and all except the youngest three are in jobs. Prisca teaches intensive care at a leading Harare hospital, Rose is a computer expert, Michael a metallurgist with ZISCO, Martha a biochemist with a poultry firm, Emmanuel and Francesca work in large comp'anies in Harare, and Abraham works for a bus company and is being trained as a computer operator. Three of our church members, including Eric Mugadza, form a te am to do contract ploughing for people being resettled, a venture which Emmanuel and his firm are pioneering. Francis' wife, Flora, has trained and is teaching in our local secondary school, which opened in 1981. Several of the family are married, and the girls, contrary to African custom, continue as members of St Francis Church. 193 . 1 - - - . - . - - Tr_ .

They and their brothers all take their duties and responsibility to the community seriously and come for weekends as often as they can. Their mother, Rosemary, after a visit to Britain in 1980 to see her children and friends, settled down to a busy life. She divides her time between working at the business centre, driving, overseeing the farm work, tending her own piece of land and looking after her grandchildren. She also takes a leading part in Women's Clubs in the area. The eastern side of Zimbabwe has been almost entirely peaceful since Independence. The last shots we heard fired came from the hill above the Mission. The son of a neighbouring white farmer, home for the holidays, was shooting to frighten off the Makoni women who were cutting firewood on their farm. A visit to the farmer by some of our district ZANU (PF) MPs put a stop to the shooting, and a year or so later the farmer sold his land to the Government and moved away. This and many other farms to the east of us, including Gekeke, were bought by the Government to form a new resettlement area for those who were landless. Mai Nyabadza, being a widow, was eligible for land, and a small plot was allotted her in 1982. A women's group has been formed in the resettlement area, of which she is the chairwoman. Our long wait for land ended in August 1981, when Baba Francis bought, with the help of a loan from the Agricultural Finance Corporation, a 1200 hectare farm, and Zonga Farm was sold. The new farm straddles the road between Rusape and St Francis, so is conveniently situated. Three of the Sisters stay down there in rotation, as they did at Zonga, and a dozen farm men and their families form a permanent village there. The farm is being used mainly for maize and cattle; it is potentially a good proposition, but the lack of rain in the last three seasons has considerably reduced output. Nyagundi, the farm's African name, happens to have been the birthplace of Maurice Nyagumbo, whose parents lived there until they were turned off by European settlers. Maurice himself has moved from his Greendale home to a smallholding outside Harare, so the Nyagumbos are now enjoying a freer and 194 more productive life growing crops and vegetables and rearing poultry in their spare time. The life of the St Francis community continues much as before independence. How far or how fast we can go along the path towards African socialism on which the country is set remains to be seen. Our self-reliance and communal way of working is in harmony with the Government's policy, but our economic set-up remains individualistic/capitalist. Baba Francis has changed things little since he took over in 1977, except that he has been able to divert a bit more of the income to the Sisters' needs.Unless there is pressure from outside events it looks as though the community will continue on its present course for the next few years at least. We are, however, an ageing community with no new young Sisters, Novices or Masoja, and the young Nyabadzas in jobs may have to bear an increasing financial burden if the present standard of living is to be maintained. Looking even further into the future, young Basil and Tapiwa will have to develop strong shoulders! On the spiritual side too there is little change. Unlike other Churches in Zimbabwe, we are not reverting in any way to traditional religion; in fact the Sisters are clearly very shocked at the rituals, such as calling back to their kraal the spirits of the dead, which are now being carried out by some Churches. I try to make the point that an effort is being made to present Christianity in an African rather than a European context, but they are not convinced, and regard these practices with abhorrence. In conferences and seminars, in village kraals and school classrooms all over Zimbabwe, customs and beliefs, new and old, are being critically examined. Since Independence, some Christians have been moved to start an ecumenical group known as Buriro Esizeni (Threshing Floor) Reflection Centre, and through our connection with them we are already playing a small part in the threshing out process. In the words of the chairman of the group, Rev C V Kwenda: 'It is our hope that through these efforts the church of Zimbabwe may become "a church of the soil", rooted in the example of Jesus Christ, who became human in order that the gospel might be relevant to all 195 of human experience.' At St Francis our roots go deep into the soil of Zimbabwe, and it is our hope that we may be of some use in helping others to find this relevance. In a spirit of true Christian love and service our Prime Minister, Comrade Robert Mugabe, formulated the policy of reconciliation immediately after his victory in the 1980 elections. As a result there has been no action taken against those who committed atrocities in the war - no enquiries, no arrests and no trials, and those who disappeared are still not accounted for. Nevertheless, Basil and countless others are honoured for their part in the struggle and many are remembered in various ways. Parallel with Herbert Chitepo Avenue and crossed by Robert Mugabe Street, Rusape now has Nyabadza Avenue, the road in which stands, very fittingly, the District Commissioner's office and the Police Camp. At St Francis the anniversary of Basil's death is kept every year, as near as possible to April 1st In 1983, on Easter Saturday 2 April, the festival was attended by Comrade Robert Mugabe and several of his Ministers. During his speech to a huge crowd the Prime Minister said: Basil Nyabadza was a man of immense dignity and respect among us. He primarily was a man of deep religious devotion. He then told of his visit to St Francis with Maurice Nyagumbo in 1975: I was highly impressed by what I saw about the church organisation and the tremendous spirit of self-reliance which pervaded it. More than that, I was also impressed by the degree of political consciousness which the congregation had. It was therefore inevitable that the church should become a target of direct or indirect attack by the colonial settler regime. The Prime Minister then told of Basil's arrest in 1975 for recruiting and said that on his release he was 'a closely watched man'. But this, he said, did not deter him from supporting the liberation struggle, Thus he continued, especially after ZANLA had opened 196 the eastern military front... to supply, as best he could, the needs of the "boys". It was for this reason that the Smith regime's soldiers killed him in 1977. After saying that Basil's death had robbed his own family and community of their 'beloved father' Comrade Mugabe went on: ...It also robbed the Makoni area of a great man they always regarded as the father of the poor. He was so regarded because of his spirit of benevolence, for Basil Nyabadza gave abundant assistance to those who stood in need. To my party, ZANU, and the people of Zimbabwe generally, his cruel death deprived us of a stalwart freedom fighter who had worked energetically in the background to further the cause of our liberation. After touching on current problems, the Prime Minister ended his speech by reminding his audience to continue working hard towards unity for the good of all Zimbabweans: As we remember Basil Nyabadza today, let us not forget that the freedom we the survivors enjoy could never have been achieved without the degree of extreme sacrifice which entailed the death and suffering of people like him. 197

Chronology 1920s mid 1920s 1925 1932 1933-35 1935 1935 1936 6 March 1937 1938 20 October 1940 6 October 1940 8 December 1940 Francis Nyabadza converted to Christianity. Francis goes to St Faith's Mission as a catechist. His youngest son, Basil, born at St Faith's. Francis forms a lay guild dedicated to St Francis of Assisi. Francis transferred to St Matthews, Rusape. Gives up work of catechist and goes to live at his home at Makoni. Church built at Makoni. Bad reports of Francis sent to the Bishop. Francis and the guild meet Bishop Paget at St Faith's and receive a blessing. Priest-in-charge of St Faith's threatens to burn the church. Bishop promises to dedicate church in five days' time but is prevented by his priests and elders. Guild go to St Faith's to attend festival but are turned away for failure to attend confession and pay dues. Priest-in-charge of St Faith's visits St Francis but refuses to take service. Francis and guild break with Anglican Church and form 'The African Church' of St Francis. Sister Clara becomes Sister. 198

1942 Francis and community excommunicated from Anglican Church. 1945 Basil ordained as priest by his father. 1951 10 August Death of Francis. October Basil married Rosemary Gorogodo. 1952 August Patricia Chater arrives at St Faith's. 1954 Basil gives up his job and comes to live at St Francis. 1954 His eldest son, Francis, born. 1955 Basil takes over Zonga farm. Patricia visits St Francis for the first time. 1959 Co-operative at St Faith's starts to break up. February State of Emergency and detentions. October Diocese takes over St Faith's farm. 1960 March Patricia and Sheila Graham leave St Faith's and go to live at Zonga. 1961 January Visit to Lupani Restriction Area to visit Maurice Nyagumbo. 1961 Patricia goes to live at St Francis Mission. 1962 April Death of Simon Nyabadza. 1963 Terry Ranger deported. 4 October St Francis Day - Patricia becomes a member of the African Church. 1964 April Ian Smith becomes Prime Minister. 1965 November UDI. 1966 April Mavis Nyagumbo comes to live with Patricia. 1967 Store and butchery opens near St Francis. 1971 Cold Comfort Farm Society banned and Guy Clutton-Brock deported. 1972 Pearce Commission. May Death of Sister Jasmine. December Armed Struggle begins in earnest. 1974 April Coup in Portugal. Basil starts to be involved in supplying guerrillas. August Lusaka Agreement. 199

Dei 2 0 C 1 3 DE 1979 DE 1980 1975 1976 1977 1978 cember Maurice Nyagumbo released and visits St Francis with Robert Mugabe. April Basil and others arrested for 'recruiting'. 4 June Basil allowed out on bail. July His daughter Yvonne crosses to Mozambique. )ct/Nov Trials of those arrested with Basil. Charges against Basil dropped. July First visit of Selous Scouts to St Francis. July Victoria Nyagumbo and others arrested for feeding guerrillas. August Dusk to dawn curfew imposed in St Francis area. )ct/Nov Geneva Conference. 1 April Basil murdered. 6 April His funeral. May His son Francis (Francis II) becomes 'Baba'. July Francis and Abraham detained for a week. July Inquest on Basil's death. March Francis threatened by CID. Goes to Salisbury with his mother and Abraham. Business centre closed. March Smith, Muzorewa, Sithole, Chirau Agreement. Easter First anniversary of Basil's death. May Informer against Basil shot by guerrillas and Tete Maria taken for questioning. July Letters from guerrillas start coming asking for supplies. cember Comrades' visits to St Francis. April 'Muzorewa' election. cember Lancaster House Agreement. Lord Soames becomes Governor and arrives in Rhodesia. January Ceasefire. January Joshua Nkomo returns. January Robert Mugabe returns. 200

27 - 29 February 4 March 17/18 April 1980 18 April 1981 1983 August April Election. Election results. Independence ceremony at Rufaro Stadium. Yvonne returns from Mozambique with Tapiwa. Granite Flat 'Nyagundi' Farm taken over. Prime Minister Robert Mugabe attends anniversary of Basil's death. 201

Index African Development Fund 51 African National Congress (ANC) 13, 49 African National Council (ANC) 103-4, 107, 109, 123, 150, 164, 165 Agatha, Mai 36 Amy, Sister 49 Banana, President Canaan 190-1 Bonda Mission 41 Buriro Esizeni Reflection Centre 195 Burrough, Rt Rev Paul (Anglican Bishop of Mashonaland) 135, 141 Carver, Maurice 143 Catherine, Sister 37, 84, 127-9, 131, 134, 138, 145, 146-7, 180-1 Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace 148 Charles, Prince 1S8, 189 Chikunguru, Headman 138 Chimhowa, Ian 153 Chimhowa, Joseph 32 Chimhowa, Rhoda 32, 36 Chirau, Chief 150, 163 Chiwandamira, Margaret 5-8, 12, 15, 65, 190 Chiwandamira, Peter 15 Clara, Sister (Philida) 34-6, 85, 95, 138, 161 Clutton-Brock, Guy and Molly (C-Bs) 7-8, 12-5, 19, 52, 72, 78, 80-1, 100, 105-6, 139, 141-2, 162, 170, 187, 189, 192 Clutton-Brock, Sally 19 Cold Comfort Farm Society 79, 87, 100, 101 Community of the Resurrection 140 Cripps, Rev Arthur Shearly 22 Davies, H E 66 Diocesan Standing Committee 15 Elim Mission 113 Felicity, Sister 17, 18, 69, 128-9, 131, 134, 144, 146-7, 153, 156, 166 Garanewako, Jasmine (see Jasmine, Sister) Gekeke (see Kleinfontein Farm) Geneva Conference 124 'Geoffrey' 123, 136, 165-6, 193 Gorogodo, Lucien 43-4 Gorogodo, Rosemary (see Nyabadza, Rosemary) Grace (see Maria, Sister) Graham, Sheila 15-20, 39, 46, 57, 79, 80, 187 202

Hannibal, Cde 162 Hastings, Adrian 3, 170 Hastings, Ann (n6e Spence) 3, 59-60, 94-5, 116, 140, 170, 187, 189, 192 Jairos Jiri Association 15 Jasmine, Sister (Garanewako, Jasmine) 37-9, 44, 84, 96-7 Jenny, Sister (Mutasa, Jenny) 33-7, 45, 49, 69-70, 74-5, 95, 145, 155, 162, 171 John Cowie School, Rusape 22 Kleinfontein Farm (Gekeke) 82-3, 194 Knights, Rev A C 27 Kutama 42 Kwenda, Rev C V 195 Lancaster House Agreement 173-5, 191 Land Apportionment Act 23, 65, 66, 80, 81, 83 Law and Order Maintenance Act 110 Lewis, Rev A R 14 Lloyd, Canon Edgar 21-4, 27, 35, 59 Lupani Restriction Area 49 Lusaka agreement 107 Mahachi, Moven 101, 109, 111, 140, 188 Makoni, Chief(s) 23, 29, 31, 65, 153, 157 Makoni, Columbus 50-1, 125, 184 Makoni Farm 23 Maradzamunda, Samuel 179-82, 184, 193 Maria, Sister (Grace) 33-7 Matewa, Stephen 140 Mbobo Flat Farm 15 Monckton Commission 66 Mugabe, Robert 100, 108, 149,163,167,173,175-8,185-6,188, 190,193, 196-7 Mugadza, Clara 165 Mugadza Eric 49, 53-4, 88, 94-5, 101, 110, 132, 143, 170, 187, 193 Mugadza, Erica 53 Mukute Farm Society 101, 122 Mukuwapasi Clinic 15 Mutasa, Boniface 33-5 Mutasa, Didymus 16, 78, 80, 100, 106, 116, 162, 170, 188-9 Mutasa, Gertrude 106, 170, 189 Mutasa, Jenny (see Jenny, Sister) Mutasa, John 8, 13-6, 49, 109, 140 Muzorewa, Bishop Abel 104, 107, 150, 163-4, 167-8, 173, 175-8, 186 Nkomo, Joshua 163, 167, 176, 186 Nyabadza, Abraham 93, 109- 10, 114, 129, 136, 142, 144, 146-7, 152-3, 160, 165, 187,193 Nyabadza, Anna (Tete Anna) 17, 56, 96, 117-8 203

Nyabadza, Basil 6 - 7,9 - 10, 15, 16, 17, 19 - 20, 46, 49 - 50,53,55 - 56,57 - 60, 68-70, 73, 107, 120-1, 124-6, 166; birth, 41; childhood, 41; education, 42; ordination, 42; first jobs, 42; takes over leadership of commmunity,, 40, 43; marriage, 43; work as farmer, 43 - 5, 81 - 3, as businessman, 84 - 9; leader of community, 61-4; church work, 94-6; political activities, 50, 52, 66-7, 101-3; part in the struggle, 105, 115-6, 162; friends, 88; family, 17, 90- 3; director of Nyafaru Development Company, 80-1; arrest, 109; in remand prison, 110-2; release, 112-4; visit by Selous Scouts, 117-9; first visit of guerrillas, 123; murder, 2-4, 127-37, 149, 152, 155, 157,162,197; inquest, 130-1, 146-8; funeral, 133-4; letters of sympathy, 139 - 40; London memorial service, 141; successor, 142 - 3; shrine, 153, 186; continuing presence, 140, 154, 191; anniversaries, 153, 187, 196-7 Nyabadza, Basil I1 187, 193, 195 Nyabadza, Christopher 90 Nyabadza, Eleanor 90 Nyabadza, Elinor (Mbuya) 17, 21-4, 26, 34, 38, 40, 56, 70, 88, 96-7 Nyabadza, Emmanuel 131, 133, 141, 142, 144, 193 Nyabadza, Flora (n6e Chitemere) 187, 193 Nyabadza, Francesca 90, 193 Nyabadza, Francis 6, 21-43, 48, 54, 61, 64, 70, 88, 97,133, 153, 154, 166 Nyabadza, Francis 1I 90, 93, 113, 131-2, 142- 5,147,151-3,156, 160, 1656, 185, 192, 194-5 Nyabadza, Lucien 17, 42, 55-6 Nyabadza, Maria (Tete Maria) 17, 156-9 Nyabadza, Martha (Tete Martha) 157-8 Nyabadza, Martha (now Martha Kambarami) 90, 112, 133, 193 Nyabadza, Michael 90 - 1, 125, 131, 133, 142, 193 I Nyabadza, Patricia (now Patricia Nyamutswa) 93 Nyabadza, Prisca (now Prisca Muzvidzwa) 90-1, 93, 131-2, 193 Nyabadza, Rose (now Rose Kadenhe) 90, 133, 144, 193 Nyabadza, Rosemary (Mai) 17, 43, 49, 52-3, 69, 84-5, 90, 93-4, 110, 112-3, 117-9, 121, 123-6, 128, 130, 132, 139, 142, 145-7, 152-3, 155, 156, 160, 165, 185-7, 194 Nyabadza, Simba 90 Nyabadza, Simon 6-7, 10, 15, 17-8, 21, 41, 42, 50, 54-5, 96 Nyabadza, Tapiwa 193, 195 Nyabadza, Vi 169-71, 187, 193 Nyabadza, Yvonne (now Yvonne Chimombe) 17, 49, 90, 113-4, 122, 125, 133,192-3 Nyafaru Development Company 15, 46, 79-81, 87, 101, 109, 122 Nyagumbo, Cornelius 109, 123-4, 136 Nyagumbo, Eleanor 119-20, 165, 189, 191 Nyagumbo, Ezekiel 121, 178 Nyagumbo, Jasmine 122 204

4' Nyagumbo, Lewis 46, 49, 65 t Nyagumbo, Margros 35-6, 145 o Nyagumbo, Maurice 7,49-50,66,70,100,107-9,111-2,114,121,130,140, 4. 146, 188-90, 194, 196 , Nyagumbo, Mavis 2,70-1, 79, 107,114,116-7,125, 127,130-1,134,144, 146, 155- 6 Nyagumbo, Victoria 53, 119-20 Nyagundi Farm 194 Nyamapfeni, Matthew 21-2, 24-5, 29-30, 35-6, 41, 88, 153 Nyambia, Violet (see Violet, Sister) Paget, Bishop (Anglican Bishop of Southern Rhodesia) 8, 15, 24-7, 31, 59 e Patriotic Front 175, 186 Pearce Commission 101-4 Phayre, Mr 29-30 Philida (see Clara, Sister) Primal Vision (see Taylor, John V) Ranger, Shelagh 46-7, 49, 53, 55-6, 59-60, 65, 108, 131, 141, 145, 170, 187-90 Ranger, Terence 3, 46-7, 49, 55-6, 63, 65, 108, 141, 170, 187, 189, 192 Read, John 49 Rhodesian Front 102 St Anne's School, Goto 79 St Augustine's School, Penhalonga 42, 108 St Clare of Assisi 37 St Faith's Mission and Farm, Rusape 2,5-9, 12-6,21-8,32-3,35,37,38,41, 46, 57, 59, 65, 72, 79, 87, 100, 105, 156, 168 St Luke's Church and School, Makoni 23-4, 32, 41, 90, 170 St Matthew's, Rusape 22-3, 32 St Michael's, Harare 178 St Paul's Musami 135, 149 Salisbury Work Camps Association 65-6 Selous Scouts 117-9, 124-5, 147, 178, 186 School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) 59, 62, 94 Shasha, Ernest 161-2, 165-6, 168, 170, 191, 193 Shonge, Amon and Elizabeth 101, 103 (footnote), 122, 178 Shumba, Margaret (see Chiwandamira, Margaret) Sithole, Rev N 150, 163 Smith, an 68,100,103, 107, 117,136, 140,149, 150-1,163,167,173,175, 186, 197 Spence, Ann (see Hastings, Ann) Soames, Lord 173, 176, 178, 183, 186 Stowell, Rev Donald 8, 14 Stowell, Ruth 9, 43 Tangwena, Chief Rekayi and people 80, 122 Taylor, John V 154 205

Tenha, Anna 122, 192 Tenha, Jonathon 122 Tenha, Onias 54, 94, 132, 187 Tenha, Samuel 122 Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) 68, 100 United African National Council (UANC) 168, 177, 184, 186 University of Zimbabwe (formerly University of Rhodesia and Nyasalandl 46, 49, 59, 63 van Heerden, Mr P 83, 116, 134, 146, 158 Violet, Sister (Nyambia, Violet) 35-7, 78, 145, 155, 161 Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army (ZANLA) 124, 144, 145 Zimbabwe African National Union (ZANU) 100, 167 Zimbabwe African National Union (Patriotic Front) (ZANU (PF)) 173, 176-81, 184, 186, 189, 194, 197 Zimbabwe African People's Union (ZAPU) 167, 173 Zonga Farm 10, 16-21, 39, 41, 45-6, 49, 68-70, 81, 94, 117, 153, 155, 19 527 CC. 206