The Sunday Mail
Jane Majo —
I was born on December 25, 1948, and became politically active in my teenage years. The oppression was all around me.
Mai Mabhena, one of our neighbours in Mufakose, died while in detention at Gonakudzingwa after eating a fruit poisoned by Ian Smith’s boys.
We were restricted from visiting certain areas as they were “reserved for whites”. Even our living conditions could not compare with those on the “sunny side of town”.
I reflected intently on these and other injustices blacks suffered at the time, and that thrust me into politics under the banner of the National Democratic Party. I was a vibrant Youth League member who participated in demonstrations against colonial rule. We destroyed white farmers’ tobacco, disrupted livestock and blockaded railways.
One day in 1963, we took our protests a notch higher by stoning Rutendo Hall in Mufakose. The protest was mainly against a police officer who was nicknamed “Hitler” for his brutality. After stoning the hall, we attacked “Hitler”, leaving him for dead.
Many white-owned assets were either destroyed or damaged as our anti-Smith crusade reached a crescendo. Unfortunately, some among us later snitched on the entire group. The backlash was instant and ruthless: Smith’s law enforcers descended on our homes in scenes that revealed shades of Adolf Hitler’s Storm Troopers.
We were held at Mufakose Police Station, only to appear in court three months later, charged with violating the Law and Order Maintenance Act. We plead innocent, but were, nevertheless, taken to Salisbury Central Prison where we got a full serving of the regime’s brutality.
The beatings seemed relentless. Sometimes we did not eat for days. Our tormentors appeared high on marijuana, and said our diet would be batons, shamboks and glass bottles – all items they used to assault us. I still have scars from those days. My knees were badly damaged, and I can’t squat or kneel. Torture was introduced to spice up the beatings.
Men had bottles shoved up their anuses, while I was undressed and battered on my privates. This was enough to make us admit to the charges against us. At least that stopped the torture, and we proceeded to recount the horrors to the magistrate as soon as court proceedings resumed.
The magistrate requested an inspection-in-loco to corroborate our story.
And thank Providence, a huge quantity of marijuana was subsequently discovered at the prison. That small victory gave us hope.
Back in court, the magistrate – named Hemmington – told us how “very serious” the charges against us were, and how they warranted “stiff punishment”.
Once more, thanks to Providence, our ages were the mitigatory factor that spared us lengthy imprisonment. The case attracted widespread attention, leading Hemmington to petition the Queen of Britain who then recommended confinement at a probation centre.
I was 15-years-old at the time, and would spend four years on probation. It was one of the worst periods of my life. Ian Smith’s goons tortured us, with waterboarding in Hunyani River being one of their preferred tactics. They made me lie on my back, and covered my eyes, nose and mouth with a cloth. I felt the pain of drowning.
On one such “outing”, two black policemen, Hove and Mazuva, raped me. They took turns over several hours. I cried desperately, but they threatened to kill me if I dared reveal the abuse to any other soul.
I fell ill as soon as we returned to the centre and was admitted at the site hospital. The trauma was unbearable. I was numb and yet could feel the pain Hove and Mazuva had inflicted on me. I was mum’s precious flower, but the devilish duo had plucked me well before my bloom, and violently so.
Hardly 16-years-old, I had known no man. I would never under any circumstances come to terms with the rape. The pain bore into my bosom like an archer’s arrow on a deer’s tendon.
My soul cried, but only I could hear it in those innermost chambers of my bosom. It was imprisoned, and only I shared its sorrow and solitude. It tried to reach out for help, but recoiled at the thought of the two policemen’s threats.
In any case, the white doctor who attended me did not seem given to lending an ear to a little African girl’s story. I was discharged from hospital five days later, and the little girl in me kept weeping. Hove and Mazuva threatened me again to guarantee that I would not squeal.
I was released from the centre in 1967, and my plan was to go for military training. However, I could not be trained because of the injuries I had sustained during the rape.
I was heartbroken as I wanted to be a guerilla so badly. All I could do was support the struggle in a lesser role; providing food and shelter to the comrades. I was an active member of Zanu’s and Zapu’s Youth Leagues, and also known for leading demonstrations against white colonial rule.
One could call me a war collaborator, a role I played from 1967 to 1979. I also held several post in Zanu before Independence and after independence. I am still an active member of Zanu-PF and also serve as deputy chairperson responsible for women’s affairs in the Zimbabwe Ex-Political Detainees and Restrictees Association.
The war ended many years ago, yet the abuse that diminished my role in the struggle still haunts me.
I get goose-bumps whenever I think about it. I sometimes have nightmares, while a sudden surge of hatred for men overwhelms me at times.
The psychological and emotional wounds the rape caused affected my marriage, ending it prematurely.
I have not remarried: It is sad that men who had good intentions toward me became victims of my past and prisoners in my dungeon of vengeance.
The irony, though, was that the men who ruined my life were never brought to justice. Hove died years after the rape and I attended his funeral.
As his coffin was being taken to the grave, I laughed openly. I laughed because one of the men who had hurt me had met his match – death. I laughed because I wanted to get a sense of justice. I laughed because I wanted closure.
I am bitter about the torture and rape, but mighty pleased that all the torment did not kill my fighting spirit.
We managed to get our Zimbabwe back.
Cde Jane Majo was speaking to The Sunday Mail Chief Reporter Kuda Bwititi in Harare last week
