They Called It Academic Genocide 13: Grandpa Benjamin Fought Hitler

 Having thrown my books down, I felt a slight relief. The burden of the books and the folder was weighing me down. But the physical relief did not bring the desired emotional relief. If anything, I was troubled even more. What’s next? It was a question with no answers. I looked around and saw at least twenty troubled souls. The same question was engraved on their faces in symbols that I easily decoded. What’s next? To my left there was a female student, a USA. She was distressed and anxious. Her anxiety was literally audible. I quickly inspected her. Her face was stained by tears, her eyes red with anguish and her knees trembling. She had one shoe missing. It was probably stuck somewhere in the maize field. She seemed oblivious of the missing shoe as she was focused on her prayers. “Oh God, what is this? Oh God, what have I done?” She prayed fervently though very few words were coming out. The rest were just murmurs and indecipherable tongues. I felt pity for her. As if conscious of my eyes on her, and my own burdens, she whispered; “it shall be well.” I nodded in faith.

“Lie down!!! Pasi munhu wese!” One officer shouted. I was putting on a white tee. The soils were red and moist. I looked at the cop who had given the instruction, he was unbothered. We were on the ground in a few seconds. And the beating started. I was closing my eyes when I felt it. The assault stick. It crossed my back to the shoulder blade. I felt the swelling and a lump appeared immediately. I tried to reach it to, at least, scratch the itching. “Nooooo! Usabata usabata (Don’t touch it)” Another cop instructed me. I removed my hand and used it to cover my face. I was tensed, anticipating another hit. I waited and waited for what seemed like eternity. It never came. I could still hear sounds of others being beaten and ladies screaming. “We want to see your phones!” Another instruction was barked. I reached mine and exhibited it. “Take it back”. I obeyed. It wasn't sophisticated enough. Then they started examining phones with cameras. They went into the galleries, searching for videos and photos of that day’s events. In our group, no one had such media. 

As the cops were busy with their duties, my mind was busy. I looked at one cop and saw my grandfather whom I had, and will, never see. He was a cop too. In the pro-independence Zimbabwe, then Southern Rhodesia, my grandfather was a police officer. Perhaps not a full officer but just a black watch, bhurukwacha, for his race could not give him such privileges. He was black man in an unequal society. Irrespective of his inferior post in the force, grandma had proudly told us of Benjamin’s exploits. He was a loved and respected man. He was determined and committed. And yes, typical of those times, he was also a polygamist. Grandma Erinah was the first wife. Grandfather was enrolled into the forces, Reserve Forces from Africa, that went to fight in the Second World War. Grandma would say, sekuru wenyu akarwa hondo yaHitra (Your grandpa fought Hitler). We were so proud of him. He was one of the over a million forces from Africa who fought in WW2.. I wished I had met him even once. But it didn’t happen and will never happen in this lifetime. “We found him dead in Nyanga area.” Grandma would narrate. “What happened to him?” I would question. Was he shot? Who killed him? “Nothing was conclusive”, she would say before changing the topic. Granny was widowed at a very young. She had to bear it all alone, raising her kids alone. 

History lessons at school, especially the WW2 was sentimental. It reminded me of Grandfather Benjamin. I wanted to be like him, I would fantasise. I would visualise him in his khaki shorts, long socks and shining brown shoes. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to take his fancy metallic pen which was always displayed on his breast pocket. I looked at the cops again as they were still checking the phones. What would Benjamin do in situations like this? How would Benjamin do it? I felt tears again. These were nostalgia tears. Tears that were taking me to places I had never been to. Tears bringing faces and places. I was brought back to reality when the cop on the radio was ‘raising’ Harare Central Police. I picked from the conversation that they wanted to take us there. I felt disjointed and disoriented. 

They Called It Academic Genocide 12: There’s No Rebel In Me...

The few feet that Darlington was ahead with made a huge difference. He, followed by another guy, was the first to emerge from the field. I was close behind, a bit overwhelmed by a pile of books that I was holding but still fairly fast. Instincts had told us to leave the field immediately when we realised that everyone else was following us. We needed no Cutman to tell us that we were hiding in plain sight and that it was no longer safe. We ran diagonally across the yard towards the other end. A disturbed house helper, clad in her floral maid dress, froze whilst holding a dish, ready to throw away some water. Had she decided to do it, I might have received my second baptism. She opened her mouth as if intending to say something. But stopped. I felt pity for her. How was she going to account for the maize stalks that had been felled by dozens of students seeking refugee?

About 50 metres behind, I heard some screeching car brakes. The car responded positively, coming to an instant halt. And the voice emerged, “Batai vanhu, batai vose…. Basa rakutinetsa” (Catch them all. They are bothering us). One angry cop barked whilst getting into the field. His instructions were followed by some piercing screams, confirming the operation had started. The girls screamed and yelled. I tried to run faster but the screams had disoriented me. Even so, I did not stop. Darlington got out of the field straight on to the road and continued running without looking back. The second guy did the same. I was the third to get out of the yard, a few metres behind. 

I looked left, ready to get on the road. As I was about to get on the road, I glimpsed something that made me dread with fear. I couldn’t ignore it. I sweated. Maybe I have been sweating, having been running for quite a long distance, but at that time I became conscious of my sweat. It was cold and swift. I did not need anyone to tell me that I was scared. My body did it for me. Adrenaline was released instantly. The Fight or Flight Hormone. But who was I going to fight? The gun-wielding cop? How was I going to fly away from the cocked gun which was pointed at me? This time adrenaline brought only fear. With just one instruction, I threw my books away and sat down. The matter had escalated beyond resistance. Beyond a few songs and dance at NC6. It had grown bigger than Geology and Ideology. With my face buried in my palms, I kept convincing myself that I was not a rebel. I remembered only one incident when I was mistakenly punished for being a rebel in an otherwise impeccable record.