That hot Saturday afternoon, Denford did not dare leave the safety of his four-cornered hut. Since morning he had kept his eyes wide open, peering through the keyhole. Occasionally, he would recall the previous night’s hot pursuit in the dense forest. Somehow, they had lost track of him. As he felt the heat of the afternoon inside his asbestos-roofed hut, he kept a firm grip on his six- pound hammer. Quietly, with bated breathe, he listened to the deep, husky and threatening voice, “Today you will die, you sellout”.

Denford remembered the voice, the menacing voice of the “Drake the Butcher”. It was the most feared voice in Gadzikwa village. Drake had arrived on a cold Friday evening with his three companions dressed in blue fatigues, with rough black boots on their feet. They had never been seen before in the village, and they were armed and dangerous. Drake’s mission was to reorient the elderly and the young to follow the teachings of the dear leader. He called on them to respect, cherish and protect the land as their heritage.

However, two consecutive years of drought had diminished all chances of the clarion call to use the land being effective in supporting the dear leader. “Hold on to your land, my people”, the leader had pleaded with a clenched fist during his last visit; but quietly, in their small poor huts, the villagers called him other names in whispers. Now depending on wild fruits for survival, they no longer wanted to be used and dumped.

When Denford had first arrived at Gadzikwa he had taken a few days to survey and gauge the mood of the villagers. At last he felt at home, and with confidence brought the people a message of change. “Do not be afraid, change is coming”, he assured them. “Peace, hope and freedom to speak and retain our dignity is what makes us men among men”, he reminded them. Denford held meetings at night over several weeks and the people would disperse and come again, but there were people in his audience that night who had another agenda.

Denford heard them say, “There he goes, quick, or we will lose him in the dark”. For four days they followed him and, when almost about to give up hope, an informer pointed to his hut. Like wolves smelling blood, the heavily armed men approached Denford’s hut. Drake the Butcher kicked the wooden door hard with his thick boots. It cracked, but remained firm. Denford’s heart was pounding now as he stared death in the face, but he held on to his hammer with his sweating palms.

In something like a scene from a movie, Drake jumped and landed on top of the hut, breaking the asbestos sheets with the soles of his boots. They cracked open, and Drake lost his balance, falling awkwardly and almost hurting himself with his bayonet. Denford let fly with his hammer and hit Drake on the head. The heavy impact cracked his skull open, Drake bellowed once, running about wildly, hitting the wall before falling to the ground and lying still.

Outside, the other three men were alarmed and, fearing for their lives, they sprayed bullets in panic. Denford took cover by the door, but this was not his day. A volley of bullets caught him in the belly, ripping his stomach apart. In shock he looked down at his intestines spilling out, and the whole world was running rings around him. There was a sick feeling in his head and he collapsed in slow motion and lay still, his blood-spattered hammer next to him on the floor of his hut.

Quietly, from the refuge of their huts, the villagers came out one after another. The brave few stepped through the rubble, shaking their heads in horror as they could not believe their eyes. It was a callous and brutal murder, one that would stay in their memories for a long time.