On a gloomy late Friday afternoon, Marita heard a light knock on her door. Upon opening her eyes she met the wide gaze of her colleague Sandra. Something in that gaze sent a chill shiver down her spine. Before long she had been told about the impending danger. So this was it, they were coming to the School for an all-night vigil, or “pungwe” as these things were called. She had heard of the murders, abductions, burnt villages, clashes between opposing rivals, and to her this was enough to signal imminent danger. “No, I will take no chances”, she vowed. She had another life to protect as well as her own.

Teachers were now prime targets. Rumour had it that they were labelled as a poison, accused of politicizing villagers under the guise of voter education. This was the height of political tension now reminiscent of the liberation war years, with villagers being forced to attend all-night political gatherings and sing and ululate and dance throughout the night, punctuated by slogans and teachings of the old dear leader. Amid hunger, this forced political orientation bred rising tension and hatred, and tore apart the once closely knit fabric of the social structure in the communities. The boys in blue, as they were called, were now a thorn in the flesh causing fear and despondency. The old, the young, even their domestic pets, now lived in fear. Deserted homes were now no-go areas.

Round about six in the evening, Marita, handbag in hand, a brown suitcase on her head, and her sleeping baby stapped to her back, sneaked out of her house. She met Sandra and some other colleagues at the MineSchool gate. “Will we make it?” asked Sandra. “I still want to live”, was Marita’s stark reply. Barely fifty metres from the gate they heard them coming, singing. Quietly, they lay flat in the shadow of the huge “hacha” tree, where Jairos, a male teacher, soon joined them. 

There were about twenty young men in all, singing in hoarse uncoordinated voices. “That must be the advance party”, remarked Jairos as he lay prostrate on the ground. No one replied, as they were too scared to talk. Marita prayed that her baby would not wake up and cry.

They crawled away, bellies to the ground, but as soon as they were a hundred metres away they rose and resumed their walk. Marita felt numb and speechless. Yes, she had remembered locking all the doors. Soon, it was getting pitch dark, and she guided them to follow the path towards Renje mountain. After all, it was dangerous to use the main road, for this was in the middle of political tension in the countryside.

But then, a new fear gripped her. The prospect of encounters with wild animals, ghosts, and other forms of avenging spirits of people killed during Zimbabwe’s liberation struggle made her heart leap with fright. In the deep forest, it was now dark and quiet. With her only child strapped to her back and the heavy load she carried, she moved on, urged by the desire to live. For two hours they moved in silence. At one moment she fell awkwardly, nearly breaking her leg, but in the dark she managed to retrieve her handbag. Up on her feet she walked on, ploughing through the thorny bushes. In the middle of the night they heard the eerie and spine-chilling sound of a laughing hyena…

It was now midnight. An owl flew past, and a distance away, the strange cry of a trapped animal could be heard. Marita held to the grass with her thin fingers, her heart in her mouth. Her body was very dry now, but felt soggy and powerless. To imagine that she was alive amazed her. Their legs were beginning to ache and give in, so they rested. The insects were festive and noisy, shrieking and chirping raucously. This made the night more intimidating; they sat huddled up close to the clumps of grass murmuring amongst themselves in hushed voices. Marita sat down in the undergrowth and breathed noisily through her mouth. She was now the one who muttered, “will we make it?”

Jairos knelt beside her, “Easy”, he said. “Don’t go on talking, try to save your breath. It will be alright. I’m sure we aren’t far from Zvishavane town now.”

Marita started to panic. “No, you’re wrong, the town must be many miles away, I can’t continue, go on without me,” she persisted.

“No, Marita, you can’t say that”, Sandra chided her. “How can we leave you here and go? And in such conditions?”

After an hour they resumed their walk. At around two o’clock they joined the main road once again. Now they felt safe, and a few kilometers away they could see the glow of floodlights. “That must be Zvishavane town, we are almost there”, remarked another male teacher, with a sign of relief.

Marita felt the heaviness of her feet, but also a huge sense of relief. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Was it fate that had led her this far in her life? In a sudden flashback she recalled that terrible car accident when she and her brother had been the only survivors. Now it was true again, she had been spared another life to live and an opportunity to recount her longest night, of torment, hardship and sheer determination to live once again.