The Sunday Mail
On September 20, 2017, Zimbabwe commemorates the 14th anniversary of the death of Vice-President Simon Muzenda. In the lead-up to the day, The Sunday Mail will run a series of articles on VP Muzenda. Last week, our Chief Reporter Kuda Bwititi spoke to VP Muzenda’s daughter, Mrs Tendai Muzenda-Ngcobo, on how the national hero sacrificed his family’s interests for the greater good of the nation. We publish Mrs Ngcobo in her own words.
I’m Vice-President Simon Muzenda’s daughter; the third child in a family of eight. My father used to call me “my third-born second daughter”.
This confused many people, but the explanation was a simple one, really. The first to be born in our family were twins, making me a “second and third-born” in one.
Born in Bulawayo in 1953, I grew up in Gutu.
I schooled in Mvuma and then Goromonzi.
My earliest memories of dad are quite hazy as I never spent much of my infancy and adolescence with him.
On the few occasions that he came home, a lot of youths would be all over the house, pretending to take carpentry lessons from him.
It was only much later that I got to know that Baba’s “carpentry students” were, in fact, crafting political strategy.
Our home was an “assembly point” and was to evolve into a transit point for liberation fighters.
Baba was very kind and sacrificed the interests and welfare of his children.
At one point, I did not have a pencil, but gave pencils to other children in the community.
He always argued that those he helped were more disadvantaged than us.
Some widows lived in our neighbourhood, so he saw himself as the benefactor of an extended family.
We used to visit him during his detention at Wha Wha, normally during school breaks.
Those were precious moments, though the time we would spend with him per visit was little.
It was always heart-warming to see him enjoy his favourite home-cooked meal at that dingy detention centre.
He would tell us folk tales and cuddle my elder siblings and I.
However, the situation worsened as he was transferred to Central Prison, which we referred to as “Depo”.
There were less visiting hours there, with absolutely no physical contact.
Conversations took place through a fence. At worst, the warders put up a barrier that allowed us to only communicate via telephone.
It was painful.
“The conditions in this prison are terrible,” he would tell our mum.
My father spent about 12 years in prison.
Though I saw him sporadically, we always communicated through letters, letters full of love.
In that correspondence, he constantly explained the reason for his incarceration, telling us not to worry.
“The future is bright,” he reassured us.
That he was passionate about fighting colonial rule was evident in his writings. His determination, courage, strength and hope hardly escaped one’s attention.
This cleft my heart in twain.
One part was proud of him. The other was afraid that something terrible would befall him.
As an adolescent, it was difficult for me to understand why he could not be with us.
But my mother remained a pillar of strength, providing the tonic for us to soldier on.
We got to meet Baba’s colleagues — President Mugabe, Leopold Takawira and others — who shared his determination.
He was in good company, though in dire circumstances.
The years 1975 to 1979 were particularly painful as I never saw him after his release and subsequent sojourn to Zambia.
I was now a student at the University of Rhodesia and conversant with the struggle.
Our biggest worry was that he would be killed by the colonial regime just like Zanu-PF chairman Advocate Herbert Wiltshire Chitepo. Sometimes I had sleepless nights, worried that my father would never come back alive.
Though I never got to see him then, my siblings were fortunate to visit and stay with him regularly while he was in exile.
I derived strength from reminiscing about him and the good ol’ days. Most importantly, I derived greater strength from what he was fighting for.
I realised that he was not just my father, but an entire nation’s father.
I got married in 1977 and he wasn’t around.
He only returned around February 1980 to hold countrywide rallies in the lead-up to Zimbabwe’s first multi-racial elections.
There was such a huge crowd at the provincial rally in Gweru that I nearly failed to meet him.
I watched from the terraces and could not navigate the thicket of jubilant human bodies to the main stage where he, President Mugabe and other nationalist leaders sat.
I had not seen him in years, so longing propelled me through the crowd; shoving and pulling until I got close to the stage.
Security details got alarmed, but one leader Cde Eddison Zvobgo, who was also a close family friend, noticed me and cleared the way for me. My father leapt from his seat with joy!
He had seen his “third-born second daughter” and I suddenly found myself enveloped in a hearty embrace.
Time seemed to stand still. Tears flowed. Emotion superseded joy. My father was alive and there in the flesh!
He told me how happy he was to see me. We chatted briefly about my family and education.
He remarked how proud he was of me for having attained a university degree.
I was obviously happy to see him, but our jubilation was cut short by a security operative who came to advise my father that it was time for him to proceed with the programme. It was only after Independence that we related as father and daughter — properly.
He was loving, but always made it clear that he would treat us in the same way he would treat any other Zimbabwean who required his help.
My father initiated a lot of projects for the people of Gutu and many other Zimbabweans.
This was a reminder to us that every Zimbabwean was our sib- ling
