I was not caught unaware when they stormed into the house, armed, and demanded that I follow them. My husband warned me. He told me they would come. He told me that if I do not comply he would lose me too, and he could not bear that. I was furious. I wanted to call him out for his cowardice, scream at him for allowing this injustice to go unpunished. I only stood up and left the room. I did not speak. I could not speak. But I could not bear to look at his face.
I am staring at them now, staring down the barrel of the gun that is pointed at me. Any wrong word, I die. I want to join my daughter but I will not leave the man I love alone. I will not do it. So instead I pick at the soft material of my dress. I insisted on black because I am mourning. The camera rolls and I read the words displayed for me. I open my mouth to speak but the words will not come out.
It was a sunny day when it happened. The sun was very bright. I did not want to be walking along Jason Moyo in the heat but I had to. I strapped my baby tightly onto my back and carried an umbrella to shield her from the sun's scorching glare. I left the car up street. I would only be down at first street long enough to collect whatever papers Baba Chenge needed. In a few minutes, I had the envelope tucked safely in the crevice under my armpit. There was a commotion down the street. People, men and women were screaming and throwing fists in the air. They sang a song, a ghetto anthem, one I knew well. I had to evacuate, to flee the battle cry that often preceded blood and death. I would not be a part of it. I had to shield my child from the ghetto anthem.
A large old woman hands me a glass of cold water. I take one sip of the water and set it on the floor. The water is not treated, not clean. She glares at the glass before muttering something to the visibly irritated gunman. Another man walks into this room where we are, visibly angry. His eyes seek me out and once I am located, walk purposely towards me. I look away from him and stare down into my lap. The man is speaking to me, wearing a strained smile. I do not respond to him. He explains, feigning a patience that he does not possess, how this is a service to my country, to prevent pandemonium and uprising from the people. He claims it is to maintain the peace that we pride ourselves in as Zimbabweans. I will not engage in his foolish talk. Do not bite the hand that feeds you. That is the warning he has given me. I know he speaks of my husband, and that the same regiment that silences the ghetto anthem is the same regiment that pays him. I know that I live on blood-stained money.
There was pandemonium, as though God had unleashed chaos on First Street. The angst, frustration, pain and bitterness mounting over 38 years broke the floodgates and rushed out in the form of that powerful ghetto anthem. Armed forces moved with the swiftness and finesse of a toddler who has just discovered walking, barraging over stalls, stomping on the fruit laid out along the sidewalks, with no sympathy for the livelihoods of people hinged on those tomatoes. I felt a large hand grab me and push me into the street. I wrestled the man. It all happened so fast. The sleeve of my dress tore. My baby would not stop crying. It all happened so fast, the chilling tip of that baton touched my neck. I felt my baby recoil, forced downwards. I felt it again, at my side on my buttocks. I barely heard the crack of a bullet over the cries of agony coming from the crowd. My hands moved swiftly, quickly to the knot tying my baby to me. I pulled her off my back into my arms. I felt the heat leave her body and the shudders of a spirit wrestling to escape the body. I begged God. I asked him not to let her die here in my arms, here along Jason Moyo. God was not looking. God could not hear me.
"You killed my child," I screamed at the officer, a thin lanky man whose eyes widened in horror at my words. He glanced around quickly, trying to find an escape out of the crowd that was quickly gathering around us.
"Auraya mwana wangu," I chanted over and over again with my child clutched tightly to my chest. I could not stop saying it. Someone ushered me to the sidewalk where I sat, still rocking my baby. Baba Chenge appeared had ushered me to his car. We would go to the hospital. She would make it. That is what he said as he sped past traffic to get to the closest hospital. But I knew, even as he did, that our beautiful Chengeto was gone.
The longer I stare at the screen, the more see it all unfold before my very eyes. I cannot be silent any longer; I cannot bite my tongue and let all these people walk all over it.
"I cannot do it," I tell the man with the greasy smile. "I lost something. Your men stole something from me that they can never return. My life is not a game of politics. My child will not be involved in the deception of a nation. You steal from us. We are silent. You lie to us. We do not say a word. You silence us, hush our ghetto anthems. We say nothing but you will not kill us and watch us die silently. Our silence is only for so long. You can only stifle us for so long, but we will find our voice. The story of Mai Chengeto is the story of a woman bidding her time. She may be silent now. But she will not be silent forever. We will not be silent forever.
The End.