They Called It Academic Genocide Part 9: Zimbabwe Footers Association (ZIFA)

The cars which were being destroyed were the same cars which were taking us to campus every morning and back. With taxis and kombi fares skyrocketing, responding to the over 500 million per cent inflation rate, ‘lifts’ were the only option for most of us. Lifts were private vehicles that we begged for discounted fares. In fact, lifts were actually not the only option for some of us. Walking - footing - was the other option. We called it ZIFA; Zimbabwe Footers Association. There was no pride nor honour in being a ZIFA member. No need for subscriptions or membership fees. Just walking to and from campus was enough. So yes, I was a member of ZIFA as well during that time. I knew my roads pretty well, just like fellow ZIFA members and associates. One condition for selecting roads was to choose routes seldom plied by kombis and public transport. This was done for two reasons; to keep ZIFA membership a secret to fellow students and avoid being bothered by touts and kombi drivers. Because I stayed in Greenwood Park, Fife Avenue and 10^th Street - about 8km from the university, the most convenient road was Fifth Street. It was secluded and isolated enough. It was supposed to be. That particular road passed behind the Zimbabwe House which is the residential side of the State House. The security along that road was indicative of that functionality. Even though the President was staying at his private residence in Borrowdale Brooke, the Blue Roof, security details continued to man the area with verve and vigour.

The presence of armed security details made it a very difficult choice for the ZIFA members. There were lots of dos and don’ts and behavioural expectations. For example, you were supposed to just walk looking in front and not looking everywhere. There were no time restrictions along Fifth Street as opposed to Seventh Street aka Borrowdale Road, however, the road was dangerous to use between 6am and 6pm every day. Failure to abide by these restrictions and expectations would attract unnecessary attention from the AK47 wielding soldiers. You were also not supposed to stop. That was a no, no exceptions. I remember the day I was nearly forced to stop on my way from campus. I had my drinking water, borehole water, in a 500ml plastic bottle when I met a gentleman who was coming from the CBD direction. He stopped and asked me for water. I shushed him and handed him the bottle, he was very grateful. But before consuming, he asked if it was safe to drink. I understood him because the nation was reeling from a serious cholera outbreak that had claimed many lives and was still prevailing. Harare, in particular, Budiriro, Glen View(s), Mabvuku and Chitungwiza suburbs were ravaged, typical of the epicentre. But the whole country was under siege from the communicable disease. I told him it was borehole water and dismissed him. He wanted to drink and hand back the drinking bottle but I told him no need. He could not understand so I whispered; “We are not allowed to stop here”. Lucky him, he was going the other direction, towards Alexandra Park. Meanwhile, one soldier literally jumped off the pine tree and landed in a neat flower bed, destroying a few in the process. He did not bother enumerating the damages. He ran on the freshly irrigated and manicured lawn towards me.

They Called It Academic Genocide Part 8: The Centre No Longer Holding

I had known Cutman for some time and had found him as a very likeable and jovial individual. But there was one trait about him that I didn’t know; bravery. He surprised me when he took over leadership of this protest and defined its course. I could only smile in admiration. He reminded me of the inscription on the t-shirt that I had consciously worn on that day. It was a simple plain white written in black: Born to Rule. Gen 1:28. This was the theme at our church the previous year. ‘Born to rule’, I repeated quietly as Cutman was shaping the path. The mob was roaring in agreement, literally eating from Cutman’s palms. “Aluta Continua!!!” he repeated as if to confirm if the first response he had received was genuine or not. And there he got, another thunderous response. If ever he was in doubt, there was no need anymore. We were all in agreement and had given him the mandate to carry the staff and point where he wanted us to go. “Town, town, town!!!” A few voices shouted. I dreaded with fear. Staging a demonstration in Mt Pleasant was one thing, taking that same demonstration to town was an entirely different thing. State security apparatus were not going to just watch us getting in town. They were going to violently crash this. And funny as it was, they were empowered by the law to do so in what lawyers and human rights activists called ‘rule by law’.