Encounter With A Rhodesian Master Spy
14 April 2015
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It was on 28 January 1972 when my lovely mother, younger brother, Muparadzi and I arrived at Lusaka international airport. Our departure for Zambia had been delayed by over a month. From the time of our clandestine departure from our home village in Buhera district the travel itinerary had been changed a number of times. This was because my father, his younger brother, Augustus and their two Masinire cousins were high on the BSAP wanted list for involvement in political activities. Since 1962 when my father had spent two nights under police detention and  invasive monthly visits from Buhera police were routine at our homestead. The Mudzingwa family was under constant police surveillance. To evade detection my mother and the two of us had left the village secretly. It was easy. A story would be put out by my grandfather, Dakwa that my younger brother and I had accompanied our mother on a visit with her relatives.
We waited in Salisbury for the new arrangements. We were to travel on Zambian passports, by air and under pseudonyms. Because our given names Gandhi and Muparadzi were considered political I would assume the name Gallant Banda, my brother was to be Palanzi Banda. Meanwhile my mother, Catherine was to retain her first name. When my father had been detained by Buhera police the nature of the accusation was absurd and bordered on the ridiculous. But fascist regimes are always paranoid systems. Because my father had circulated a newspaper article on Ghana that showed Nkrumah as the President of independent Ghana he would be accused of possession of seditious material. To show seriousness after my father’s release from police detention an army helicopter had landed at our homestead to deliver the message that my father was now on Police surveillance (PI) because of his political activity.
Since uncle Zishiri worked as clinical assistant at Salisbury airport staying with him was the most convenient. When the new travel arrangements were in place he would see us through the airport. Uncle Zishiri’s sister who was married to uncle Job Masinire was dispatched from Lusaka with our passports and plane tickets.
Anticipating that Edgar Whitehead would hand over political power to the black majority in Rhodesia as Roy Wellensky had done in Zambia my father had in 1964 repatriated us back home. Eight years on, a storm was gathering over Rhodesia as the liberation movements upped armed confrontation with the racist regime. As usual my father was to be involved in the mobilization. In comparison with his cousin who had built his own house my father had secured rented city council accommodation. His rented accommodation was given as No 706 Matero Township. From there my father would operate his three commuter taxis before graduating into commuter minibus operations. From Matero Township I completed my primary education. My two younger siblings, Ishe and Takasuwa would were born there too. Politicized names never seemed to leave the family. After Kasamba primary school I would proceed to the famous Munali Secondary School. Incidentally Munali Secondary School is located east of Lusaka on the left side along the Great East Roadd just past the University of Zambia. That was the school that Zambia’s liberation icon Kenneth Kaunda had also been through.
At thirteen then and barely a year in town I hardly understood the intrigues of the modern life around me. Uncle, Job Maganhu Masinire and his family lived in a self-built area a further three kilometers west of where we stayed. His house bordered with the shanty compound called George. Further west of George compound was located Zapu’s Freedom Camp. I presume the shanty compound on whose outskirts lay Zapu’s Freedom Camp had sprung up on a one George’s farm. We never bothered to find out.
For his prestigious driving school business, Lusaka Modern Driving School, my uncle had secured offices in the city centre. Uncle’s house served as both residence and rudimentary workshop where he serviced and repaired his fleet of driving school vehicles and numerous commuter taxis. Overnight parking for uncle’s driving school vehicles, which consisted of Toyota corolla and two 3 tonne Bedford trucks, would be provided at my father’s residence. His two 7 ton Leyland haulage vehicles also parked there. In any case they were on routine business runs only during the agricultural harvesting season when the ferried produce from Mumbwa to the various marketing boards in Lusaka. The one was a ‘Clysdale’ while the other was a ‘Super Comet.’ Those were the brand names given by British Leyland. I bet the difference between the two vehicles was more in their engine capacities and shape. Their manufacturers will be best suited to differentiate between them anyway. As and when desired the haulage vehicles would be loaned for Zanu’s logistical needs.
North of George compound, across the main road running west from Matero Township lay Lilanda Township where Zapu and Zipra offices were based. Once as we played we had bumped into George Silundika there. On recognizing him we extended greetings in Shona. Surprised Mr Silundika responded and heartily invited us into the Zapu premises. Afraid because odd things were said to happen to Shona children there my friends and I nonetheless accepted. After a few verbal pleasantries he had introduced us to the legendary Nikita Mangena after which we left. We would never let our parents know that we had been there.
I do not quite remember his name but it was probably false anyway. He drove a jalopy. From the outside it had an immaculate polished look. A close approach to it gave off a characteristic blended fuel after combustion odor. The jalopy was just exciting to look at especially so that at the wheel was a white man. The plates were recognizable as those from Rhodesia. Those types of cars had by and large long since disappeared from Zambia’s roads. At independence Zambia was now trading with the French, Japanese and Italians. Cars plying the roads of Lusaka were mostly Peugeot, Fiat, Datsun and Toyota. Fiat had even established an assembly plant locally just thirty minute drive on the outskirts of town. Pricey but quality Germany brands were out of the reach even for the emerging middle class. American cars were just the stuff of the movies; very rare. Where you came across them then they were either remnants from the colonial era or personal imports.
For most Zambians this white man’s vehicle was some form of collector’s items. As for me, with exception of the BSAP Land Rovers that tormented our homestead back in the village I could only relate this vehicle type to the one that the local grocery store owner, Dan’s at Dorowa mine drove. Even on the odd occasion when I was allowed to go to the bi scope at the local township the movies were often those of the Wild West; on horseback and fighting the Red Indians. Few in the village knew cars by their brand names then. It was just a motor car.
The Rhodesian had approached my uncle’s workshop on the pretext that his vehicle had developed a fault for which he needed a look over. It was towards end of the working day around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. At that hour in a small ill-equipped repair workshop usually the mechanics would be dog tired and preparing to call it a day. Everything that they did, starting from lifting heavy engines, gearboxes and tyre changes was manual. The workshop equipment was more than rudimentary. Ordinarily it would have been difficult to motivate the workers at such an hour except for offering them a tip. However, because the workshop was in a home setting the mechanics first needed to seek permission from my uncle before looking the vehicle over. Uncle Job usually got home after dark and on very few occasions just before. The spymaster utilized that time to get cozy with the mechanics team.
The motor mechanics team was all Zambians. Incidentally the head mechanic, Zulu and his deputy, Chongwe had acquired their vehicle repair skills as workshop assistants, repairing tractors on Rhodesian farms. They claimed that occasionally they would be allowed to service their bosses and neighbours’ cars. They were therefore familiar with both the type of vehicle and the environment with regards how to chat up their former bosses. A considerable lot of chatting would happen in the process as they waited the arrival of my uncle. Perhaps to relax them and raise their expectations a few beers had been offered. Though naturally the mechanics team supported the liberation struggle they had no need to be on their guard.
Uncle spent his day time mostly in town with my father and friends. Routinely they would pitch up at the driving school offices in town before going off on some social or political errand. They would only return home around dusk after gallivanting. Back home in the village and here in Zambia my father and his cousin represented typical patriarchs. So the Rhodesian spymaster would have all the time he needed before uncle Job returned. When he did it was already getting dark. He was tired and therefore dismissively did not object to his mechanics looking the vehicle over. He must have presumed that the mechanics had been constrained by the home setting. The jalopy was too conspicuous just to drive in and out without being noticed. Otherwise the mechanics would have taken on the spymaster’s request as their own part time job. Unfortunately the workshop was not well lit and so it was agreed that the vehicle could be done first thing in the morning with assurances that the mechanics would have it fixed by midday. As the client only needed to get to the border before it closed ninety six miles to the border was less than two hours drive.
In the conversation that ensued when asked what had brought him into Zambia the Rhodesian spymaster had ready answer. He claimed that he was a member of the catholic clergy based in Salisbury. His visit was for the purpose of sharing a few things with fellow members of the clergy in Zambia. Except that where he was there was no through road to Kabwe he had hit the right node. Clergy were known to wander off their routes and appreciate surrounding environments time and again. That was natural. Most importantly Catholics in Rhodesia were known for their stance with regards the UDI crisis. Rhodesian authorities could not do anything to bring them to any harm for their beliefs. Naturally the Zambian authorities could not deny them entry either. On that uncle Muganhu would offer his erstwhile guest a free look over of the vehicle. Once repairs were successfully done on the morrow he could be on his way.
It was an amiable conversation to the extent that my uncle sought to extend hospitality by inviting his ‘guest’ to turn in for the night. The guest declined the hospitality saying he would take up a room in a hotel in the city centre. Sympathetic a vehicle was provided for him to be dropped in town. The same service would be made available the next morning ostensibly for him to oversee as his vehicle was being repaired. He professed that he would not be in a hurry and trusted the mechanics to do their job. If it was ok they could pick him up once substantial progress had been made on repairing it. Eleven o’clock was then agreed as his pick up time from his hotel. Members of the clergy were to be treated even better than other volunteers to the liberation effort.
In Lusaka telephones in the house were rare those days. Communication was by word of mouth. Uncle would pass by the house where we lived the first thing in the morning to inform my father about what had transpired. That is how the two worked all the time with regards the liberation effort. From early on my uncle’s driving school offices had been availed for most of the Dare Rechimurenga meetings. On that basis father and uncle would attend the meetings of Dare Rechimurenga and other Zanu leadership meetings. Much later during détente when Sithole would be released to travel to Lusaka he convened one of his meetings at the driving school offices. The two were inseparable in that regard.
Having briefed each other the two shot off in my uncle’s Peugeot 404 sedan registration No ES 1028 on their day’s routine. It sounded a bit strange though that the cleric had left all the better equipped garages in town in preference for my uncle. Perhaps as clergy he was just trying to save on his expense. Besides, there was nothing remiss about the demeanor of the man. The fellow was moderately dressed as would be expected of priests. His demeanor was equally befitting people of collar. Humble, soft spoken and appeared not in a particular hurry. He even appeared affectionate and if not gracious towards the mechanics by trusting them to look over his vehicle in his absence. A typical ‘Rhodesian’ would have acted otherwise – arrogant, boastful, talkative and abusive. He had mastered his art well.
Day two was something else. My younger brother and I had agreed to get together with our cousins at my uncle’s house. After a breakfast of corn flakes, bread, liver and tea we would be ok for food until the evening meal. My mother was exceptionally generous with us. She allowed us about forty Ngwee each time we went out playing at cousins’. That was provided if we came back with change we would be expected to give it back to her. A bun  by then cost less than one Ngwee. A drink was only five Ngwee while tinned fish seldom fetched beyond twenty. The world was in our pocket! To pass time we played soccer with friends kicking around a stuffed plastic paper ball. Then in between play we would occasionally go for a coke and bun. On some days we would opt for tinned pilchards or tuna sandwiched on the bun. If the local butchery had in store ham then we could opt for pressed beef sandwiches. It was part of the growing up. On the day the story of the cleric had spread through the community of friends. Among them was Collins Simbanegavi whose father had met his fate at the front as a guerilla. As we arrived at our cousins’ place they would notice the strange jalopy parked in the constricted yard. It was black in colour and imposingly huge. At the appointed time the mechanics had picked up the supposed cleric. They found him waiting at the hotel as agreed. We caught a glimpse of him as he arrived and off we went to play.
My cousins would relate to us what transpired just before their father arrived as we went off to play. We knew that once in the company of friends such issues should never be subject of discussion. My cousins had observed the guest take something out from the boot of the car that looked like a pistol. From the distance they had observed the spymaster demonstrating to the mechanics how the rod worked. It was too inconsequential for us to care much about. We just wanted to play. In any case previously we had witnessed guns and other supplies being cached in the makeshift workshop and yard many times before when they were en-route to the guerillas. Whenever Henry Hamadziripi, William Ndangana or Ernest Kadungure had appeared, which was not often, we had been warned never to say a word to anyone. Of course some of the times the visits were just routine and social. Even though we were aware of the routines that were taking place at the driving school offices at the city centre it was never our business to differentiate between what was a social call or otherwise. Discreetness had crept into the families. That was what it took to actively support guerillas. Since the old men had appeared to welcome this particular guest then we presumed it was the same routine process.
The mechanics appeared to have isolated the problem and fixed it. It was time for a road test. The spymaster would be accompanied by the head mechanic, Mr. Zulu on the test drive. Up to five kilometres was the recommended road test for the particular problem. They were gone for over thirty minutes. On coming back the motor mechanic would give his report. The vehicle was not sufficiently robust for the journey was the report. On that point the supposed cleric had decided to leave the car behind and travel back to Rhodesia without it. Late as it was he would need another night at the hotel. In order for him to find transport to take him to Salisbury when on the other side he requested for one additional favour. They would therefore wait for my uncle to return so that they could work out something together.
As usual uncle Masinire was only back after dark. When he got home the motor mechanics were there waiting with the report. They were a bit tipsy, which was not unusual when they had worked over time. The vehicle was declared too risky to traverse the treacherous inclines of the Zambezi escarpment on the Rhodesian side of the border. The alternative had to be worked out since the ‘clergyman’ needed to get to the border first thing in the morning in order to hitch a hike to Salisbury. His favour was granted. He surrendered all the vehicle papers to the head mechanic, Mr. Zulu for keeping. The long and short of it was the supposed man of the cloth would be availed an alternative vehicle and driver to take him to the border first thing in the morning. That vehicle would be borrowed from my father, Chinembiri aka Gen Ojukwu. Somehow my father had the best serviced and reliable vehicles at that moment. The cleric offered to do the fuel bill as well as generously pay for the wear and tear to and from the border. It was as good as a hire. The tasked driver started off with his trip at around four in the morning from the hotel. By the border opening time the driver and his fare were at the border post waiting. The two bade each other farewell and the spymaster was gone. Whatever his name was.
Things began to happen some two days after the departure of the erstwhile guest. One of the assistants, Pikani was arrested for possession of a magnum pistol in George township where he lived. It emerged that the gun had been given to him by the Rhodesian spymaster. On interrogation he was not the only one that he been rewarded with the generous gift of a revolver. The head mechanic had been presented with the most coveted gift of them all; a CZ pistol too. There was third beneficiary to the generosity of our erstwhile spymaster. Then the whole puzzle unraveled. The vehicle was otherwise in mint condition. The mechanics had been compromised with the auspicious bribe of guns and money to give a false report. By the same arrangement they would also keep the vehicle.
Because it was not the first time that the spymaster had crossed the border on tasks the Zambian intelligence had closed in on the spymaster even though they were still far from catching him. Zambian authorities were reluctant anyway when it came to dealing with Rhodesian subversive activities against the liberation movements. The spymaster had been on a daring mission targeting both Zapu and Zanu in Lusaka. This time around his task was specific and simple. With regards to Zanu it was to put the fear of devil in two critical individuals who according to their intelligence reports provided meeting venues for Dare Rechimurenga. Thus my uncle Maganhu Job Masinire and my father, Leornard Chinembiri Mudzingwa were target for the audacious spymaster drama.
The message was simple too; the Rhodesians are watching you. It was like reliving the helicopter landing experience at our Dorowa village homestead back in 1963.The spymaster’s mission had been accomplished with pin point accuracy. Unfortunately the two targeted individuals had grown a thick skin to care anymore. Service and sacrifice for the freedom of their fellow countrymen had become second nature to them. In any case after the assault on Altena farm in 1972 the horse had bolted. It was too late to close the gate to the pen. Internationally greater attention was irreversibly shifting towards Zanu. With it more material support would start to pour in as compared to the trickle before the launch of the assault on Centenary district. Soon the meeting place for the Dare would become insignificant to the struggle anyway.
The Rhodesians had also failed to account for another dimension. A few days later in retaliation Zambia would close its border with Rhodesia. Better still the Caetano dictatorship in Portugal would fall and Mozambique became independent. The war coordination would shift away from Zambia into Manica Province in Mozambique. With that the liberation war effort decisively intensified beyond expectations.
Bayethe!
Gandhi Mudzingwa

22 Replies to “Encounter With A Rhodesian Master Spy”

  1. It’s nostalgia. The story could have been written concisely for easy following coz it is mumbled out but one can make head and tail of the intention. What later happened to the car, the people allegedly given the said guns???? Who was the spymaster??
    Besides,

  2. It’s nostalgia. The story could have been written concisely for easy following coz it is mumbled out but one can make head and tail of the intention. What later happened to the car, the people allegedly given the said guns???? Who was the spymaster??
    Besides,

  3. It’s nostalgia. The story could have been written concisely for easy following coz it is mumbled out but one can make head and tail of the intention. What later happened to the car, the people allegedly given the said guns???? Who was the spymaster??
    Besides,

  4. An amateurish attempt to woo $$$ ‘fame’. This cringe-worthy attempt at nonfiction is hardly Nobel literature prize material. Puerile rubbish. No doubt the ”author” is today a zpuff criminal !!!!!!! Dreaming of what might have been, instead of the scumrade whore vets thorough hiding by the gallant sons o Rhodesia paradise. Chete

  5. An amateurish attempt to woo $$$ ‘fame’. This cringe-worthy attempt at nonfiction is hardly Nobel literature prize material. Puerile rubbish. No doubt the ”author” is today a zpuff criminal !!!!!!! Dreaming of what might have been, instead of the scumrade whore vets thorough hiding by the gallant sons o Rhodesia paradise. Chete

  6. An amateurish attempt to woo $$$ ‘fame’. This cringe-worthy attempt at nonfiction is hardly Nobel literature prize material. Puerile rubbish. No doubt the ”author” is today a zpuff criminal !!!!!!! Dreaming of what might have been, instead of the scumrade whore vets thorough hiding by the gallant sons o Rhodesia paradise. Chete

  7. And now we are still fighting for freedom and harassed for demanding our rights! We too two steps forward in 1980 but have since taken 20 steps backward!

  8. And now we are still fighting for freedom and harassed for demanding our rights! We too two steps forward in 1980 but have since taken 20 steps backward!

  9. And now we are still fighting for freedom and harassed for demanding our rights! We too two steps forward in 1980 but have since taken 20 steps backward!

  10. uri dissident chete iwe munhu and your story is too long to follow.Kan a kuti wakambotsvira mumba chete,dzakapesana chete.

  11. uri dissident chete iwe munhu and your story is too long to follow.Kan a kuti wakambotsvira mumba chete,dzakapesana chete.

  12. uri dissident chete iwe munhu and your story is too long to follow.Kan a kuti wakambotsvira mumba chete,dzakapesana chete.

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