One Dead Zimbo Walking

Foreword

Zimbabweans are the honest and hardworking citizens. They should not to be confused with Zimbos. Zimbabweans are hosts to the parasitic Zimbos. What Zimbos do is rob Zimbabweans blind. They are a law unto themselves.

Some Zimbos go a notch up and become politicians, earning the trust of the poor Zimbabweans and then plundering Zimbabwe’s resources. There is no code of honour among Zimbos. Even family members and close relatives are not spared. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.

PROLOGUE

Corruption is a way of life in Zimbabwe. And it has its price. His family butchered and his son abducted, Fungai had been on the run for the past two weeks. Dressed in disguise as best as he could, he got out of a taxi and headed for the British embassy building in the northern suburb of Mount Pleasant, in Harare. And he knew for sure, if his whereabouts ever became known, he’d be dead before the sun rose.

Inside the embassy building, Fungai was led into an office.

‘Take a chair,’ the British military attaché, Colonel Lawrence, said.

Fungai sat on the hard chair, pulled the wig from his head and peeled off the fake beard. The look of surprise on Colonel Lawrence’s face stunned the two officers by the door. The Colonel quickly composed himself.

‘Vice President Gondo wants me dead. And after today, the state will want me dead too. I’m a dead man walking,’ Fungai said.

‘Why?’ the Colonel asked.

‘I stole the Vice President’s bribe money. Two million dollars. And I have documents that implicate him in corruption of the highest order,’ Fungai said.

‘Why don’t you turn yourself in to the authorities and appeal to the President?’

‘I can’t. If I do that, I will be walking to my death. The government authorities are all corrupt, including the president himself. Please help me. I need to get out of the country.’

‘Why would the United Kingdom risk a diplomatic row helping you?’

‘I have information that is crucial for the United Kingdom’s interests,’ Fungai said.

From his rucksack, Fungai pulled out three A4 size documents. On the header and footer these documents were stamped Top Secret. He handed them to Col Lawrence. The Colonel perused the documents. After a couple of minutes, he lifted his head.

‘I see here a blueprint of your government’s plans to covertly boost the War Compensation Fund and War Victims Fund with British taxpayers’ money. The new Labour government and Prime Minister Tony Blair will be pissed off with this,’ the Colonel said.

‘Colonel, we are talking of billions of pounds of your taxpayers’ money to be used to pay off Zimbabwe’s ex combatants pretending to use the money to fund the Land Resettlement Scheme. If you read further, you’ll see that a secret plan to take by force white-owned farmlands is in place, should the new Labour government fail to honour its responsibilities in relation to the Lancaster Agreement,’ Fungai said.

‘Do you have any more information on this?’ the Colonel asked, his eyes back on the documents in his hands.

‘Yes, I do. Some of it is on these floppy disks and some of it I’ve hidden in places only I know. I can give it all to you,’ Fungai replied.

‘If we were to help you, where do you want to go? South Africa?’

‘Not far enough. I want to get to London and apply for asylum.’

CHAPTER 1

Friday 24 October 1997 Harare, Zimbabwe

October is the time of death. Across Zimbabwe, the mournful heat, audible yet soundless, scorches everything in its path. Plants. Animals. People. When November comes, it brings hope. Hope for the rain to cleanse Zimbabwe and give it rebirth.

The name Zimbabwe means the house of stone. And those living in the house of stone, their hearts have become hearts of stone. Their morals stone cold.

The land of Zimbabwe has always seen bloodshed and deaths. Going back in time to the fifteenth century Munhumutapa Empire with its massive stone buildings, bloodshed built that empire. Present day Zimbabwe with crumbling infrastructure was born of bloodshed from the Chimurenga bush wars.

When the house of stone was colonised by the British in the 1890s’, they named it Rhodesia, after Cecil Rhodes, a corrupt and scheming businessman who deceived the illiterate Ndebele king by asking him to put his mark on an exclusive mining concession document. The curse of greed and manipulation was carried by the wind to a unilateral declaration of independence from Great Britain in the sixties, which strengthened the perpetual domination of blacks by the white minority government. This curse brought with it bush wars and deaths. Lots of deaths. Then in 1979, like a chameleon, the curse disguised itself as a new name, Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, under a stooge prime minister.

People saw through the disguise, the curse of greed and manipulation took the original name of the land, Zimbabwe, in 1980. The land was now under a majority black government, a final declaration of independence from Great Britain, and everyone jumped for joy. The curse was now lifted. So they thought.

It wasn’t long before the curse showed its ugly head again. The Gukurahundi massacres. Gukurahundi in Shona language means ‘the rain that washes away the chaff’. In this cleansing, thousands upon thousands of innocent Ndebele-speaking people were killed in a government-driven effort to stamp out banditry. A new breed of leadership was born. A hungry breed. Power and personal wealth was what mattered to them then and now. Back to square one.

There’s an old Zimbabwean saying: corrupted over a year but died within a day. For Fungai Moyo, Lady Luck was smiling, and he was on a roll. Over the years he had risen to the post of Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Trade in the government of Zimbabwe. This position had been his ticket to rub shoulders with the jet-setting senior government ministers. He had seen it all: the clandestine meetings and midnight calls, buying off officials, rigging contracts; he had negotiated with secret networks of fixers and middlemen on how much chioko muhomwe was to be given to the powerful few in order to get work. From these bribes, Fungai always added his share. Over the years, he had negotiated millions of dollars’ worth of bribes. When the tender for building the new terminal at Harare International Airport was awarded, Fungai, under instruction, had arm-twisted the tender board’s decision and had the tender given to a small European company. This company was prepared to pay big chioko muhomwe. Since he was lower down on the food chain, Fungai’s share had been only two hundred thousand dollars. Further up the food chain, the senior ministers pocketed more than a million each. The powerful few, from President down to senior ministers, loved him. It was business as usual for him, but over the last few months Fungai had a change of heart. He thought of the fate of his father, who had once been their loyal follower. How they made him a scapegoat to cover their corruption. These were dangerous people. Mobsters wearing official government robes. Worse than the mafia or yakuza. I’m tired of being a paper shuffler and pen pusher to these mobsters. I can’t just keep taking part in drowning this country in deeper and deeper shit. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve got to clean up.

Throughout the country, there was a rise in social unrest, and opposition parties were getting stronger; all was a result of the poor governance and high levels of corruption of which he was a part. Fungai wanted out. Over the year, he made copies of all these shady deals and kept them safe; not in his office but in different safe boxes across the city of Harare. This would be his surety, just in case.

He was thinking ahead, so he thought. If ever there was a change of government, he would not be around to be implicated in corruption charges. But not before one last big heist. After that, he would clear his conscience and live an honest, responsible life, way out of reach.

A few weeks later he sealed his big heist, wiring two million dollars into an offshore account. With this money, he planned to take his family out of the country and buy them a villa and a yacht in the Caribbean and live a very comfortable life.

The two million wasn’t his in the first place. It was Vice President Gondo’s share of bribes from a consortium of Chinese companies, Wing Yang, to allow the consortium access to proceeds of annual culling herds of elephant, thus giving the Chinese access to hundreds of elephant tusks to ship back to China. Wing Yang paid him bribes in excess of three million dollars to use his influence to get the mining concessions.

Fungai knew that Vice President Gondo was a ruthless, corrupt and very dangerous man. Even just to look him in the face brought fear. His face was disfigured from a bout of smallpox when he was a child, piercing black eyes ringed with dark circles like those of a black mamba. When Gondo was defeated by the opposition party in the parliamentaries in his Nyamaropa constituency, he had his opponent shot. Every lead had Gondo’s handiwork all over it. The agents involved in the actual shooting were pardoned by the President. Gondo had joined the liberation war when he was a teenager. As a teenager in the struggle, Gondo hated being humiliated in any way. Small-built as he was, Gondo came out on top. He had no fear of the consequences of his actions. Lack of formal education was no barrier to Gondo. Through sheer determination to get to the top, he impressed his seniors and slowly rose to being administrative secretary. It was during the liberation struggle that Gondo learnt that coercive tactics and the politics of intimidation and fear worked well to get people to comply. A political impasse was easily resolved by assassination.

What had driven Fungai to steal from such a man was not only that this was an easy opportunity, but also he hated the man. There had been talk many years ago that Fungai’s parents, who perished in a road traffic accident, were set up after his father was implicated in a scandal. Someone high up on the pecking order knew the whole story. It might as well have been Gondo. So Fungai came to the surprising conclusion that there was no shame in stealing from Gondo. The hard part was planning a quick getaway once the money was in his offshore account.

Fungai had dealt with Wing Yang before. Last year, Wing Yang was granted gold mining concessions in Chegutu. The paperwork for this deal was fast-tracked, and Fungai remembered being commended for a job well done when both the Vice President and the President got their hands greased.

Fungai Moyo was forty-two. Everything about him oozed class, from his short-trimmed hair to his sunglasses, Rolex watch and classic Brioni suit. His face was sculptured and his cheekbones well defined. It was a pleasant-looking face, which never gave the impression that he had done it all; racketeering, kickbacks, bribes.

Fungai’s dark brown skin was radiant, clear and healthy, a sign of a good upbringing. He stood six foot two and enjoyed a regular fitness routine. Three times a week, he worked out at his exclusive local gym.

Driving down Fifth Street in his government-issued Mercedes Benz CLK Sports Coupe, Fungai listened to soft jazz on Radio One. He was happy, ridiculously happy now that his scheme had worked and, soon, he would be out of the country.

He whistled a tune as he parked the Mercedes in the car park of the Mkwati Building. Mkwati, an eighty-metre tall building stood on the corner of Livingstone Avenue and Fifth Street. It had twenty-one floors and housed government ministries, including the Ministry of Trade where Fungai worked.

He locked his car and glanced up at the sky. There was not a single cloud. The wind was calm, and the temperatures were soaring. October was always the hottest month of the year.

Fungai adjusted his Ray Ban glasses. Briefcase in hand, he strolled towards the Mkwati building’s entrance. The security guard stood to attention as Fungai passed through the gates.

In his office on the third floor, Fungai loosened his tie and took off his jacket. He sat behind his desk. The clock on the wall showed almost half past three. He wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.

He glanced at the heap of files on his desk. From the pending tray, he picked up the Memorandum of Understanding and signed it. Just then, his secretary came in, a cup of tea in her hand.

‘A brew for you, Sir. Five Roses. One sugar,’ she said, placing the cup next to him.

‘Thank you, Sue.’

‘You’re welcome, Sir,’ she said, smiling courteously, and continued, ‘Two gentlemen from the Ministry of State Security came looking for you about an hour ago. They didn’t leave their names.’

‘What did they want?’ Fungai asked. A slow, cold feeling crawled down his back.

‘They didn’t say. When I told them you were out, they immediately left,’ she replied, before returning to her office.

Susan had worked for him for the past five years. She was a beautiful thirty-one-year-old unmarried woman. She hardly wore any make up on. Her thick wavy and curly black hair was swept to one side giving her the look of a classy, stylish and sophisticated lady.

Fungai looked at his hands. They were trembling as he lifted the cup of tea and took a sip. Immediately he spat it back into the cup. ‘Disgusting!’ he said, but not loud enough for Susan to hear. He pushed the cup away.

His breathing and heartbeat started to rise. He could feel a cold sweat building up under his armpits.

The first thing that came to his mind was the money. Two million dollars. Then another thought crept into his mind. What would happen to me and my family? The thought made him feel nauseous and light-headed. He glanced around in undisguised anxiety and felt an inexplicable sense of remorse.

He walked over to the big steel combination safe, entered the combination and unlocked it. He pulled out the sensitive documents that he had stolen from Gondo’s office the other day. He sucked between his teeth and put the documents in his briefcase, thinking he should have burnt them yesterday. He had to take them out and burn them before these state agents came back.

In a hurry to get out, he bumped into Susan as she came out of her office.

‘Is everything alright? You don’t look okay, Sir,’ she said.

‘Nothing to worry about. I just got some stuff I need to sort now. I won’t be back in the office today, if anybody ask,’ Fungai replied.

Fungai stepped out of the Mkwati building into the blazing October sun. A hot wind blew dust onto his face as he headed towards the car park. He looked behind. Satisfied no-one was following, he continued towards his car.

Words of advice from his late father flashed into his mind, floating like a leaf on a shallow-flowing stream. It is never wrong to steal from thieves, but their wrath is of the worst kind. It is prudent to always cover your tracks well.

Fungai’s father, Cephas, had also served in President Gamu’s regime. To get somewhere in life, rally with the winners and shout the ruling party slogans. Their meaninglessness matters. They are the keys that open the gates to riches.

But his father had made one futile mistake. He did not know when to walk away. He had been made scapegoat in the 1988 Willowvale scandal, where he was accused of breaking price control regulations when he resold Toyota Cressida cars at black market prices. After his dismissal, his health went downhill, and within a year he and Fungai’s mum passed away in a road traffic accident.

Fungai’s mobile phone rang. His hands fumbled in his pockets, retrieving his Ericsson T29S. He flipped open its flap and answered the call from his ex-wife, Norah.

Fungai’s relationship with Norah ended disastrously when she found out about his affair. That was ten years ago. Over the years, with his looks, Fungai had no shortage of admirers. He played the field and had no serious relationships.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Norah asked, taking a deep breath to control her anger. ‘You know I’ve already paid for the flights and accommodation to Victoria Falls for the weekend. Now you’re telling me Tanaka is staying for the whole weekend because you’ve decided to have a party at your house. Now what about my money for the flights and the accommodation? You’re happy to see it go down the drain? What a selfish man you are!’

‘Don’t be overdramatic. You can always ask for refunds.’

‘Refunds? And if they refuse?’ she asked.

‘I’ll pay you back every cent. Listen, I’m busy now. Can I call you later?’ Fungai asked.

‘Talking to you is like talking to the wall. Now you listen to me. I’m coming over to your house and picking up my son this evening. Tanaka can do without your party. And I’ll make sure that ridiculous overseas trip you have in mind will never happen.’

‘Norah! Don’t threaten me. You’ll live to regret it. You left me and I’m still looking after you well. You have a beautiful house, a car, and a big monthly pay-out. Be grateful.’

In anger, Fungai slapped back the Ericsson flap, disconnecting her.

Fungai was now by the car. He took out his keys, unlocked the car and got in. Placing the briefcase on the passenger seat, he fastened the seatbelt and started the car.

A brief glance into the rear-view mirror revealed a flash of movement from the back seat. Fungai turned his head to look, shock and disbelief instantly paralysing him. The man in the back seat immediately poked him in the ribcage with a gun.

‘Drive. Nice and easy. Or I’ll pull the trigger. At this point-blank range, all your insides will explode, and you’ll die a very painful death, my friend. Pass that briefcase to me,’ he ordered.

Fungai passed the briefcase. Glancing at the gun, he noticed it was Browning pistol with a silencer screwed to its muzzle. He could be shot in this car park and no one would ever hear a sound. To cooperate was his only way to buying time.

As he pulled out of the car park, Fungai could feel the cold muzzle of the Browning still poking him. From his days as an infantry officer in the Zimbabwean army, Fungai knew his assailant was not an amateur.

‘Who are you? And what do you want?’ Fungai asked.

‘Shut the fuck up. Turn left after the traffic light. Lomagundi road,’ the man said.

Lomagundi road was wide. There was hardly any traffic on it. Fungai knew this road well.

‘We don’t want to attract attention, do we? Speed up,’ the man snarled, his voice raised.

Fungai accelerated, and soon the car was doing seventy. Taking a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, Fungai’s eyes met the man’s red and maniacal eyes. The man now held the gun to the back of Fungai’s head.

‘You make one stupid move, I’ll blow your brains out,’ he warned.

‘You have my briefcase. What more do you want? Is it money?’ Fungai asked.

‘You ask one more question, you’ll be sorry.’

Glancing on the side view mirror, Fungai saw a red Mondeo closing in from behind. He spotted two men in the car. The Mondeo’s driver was distinct: broad-shouldered man wearing a red jacket. The driver seemed to be muttering something. Perhaps he had noticed something was wrong. Instantly Fungai knew or guessed that the men in that car were the cavalry to him. It was now or never. He was quite sure the maniac in the back seat was not going to let him walk away alive.

Fungai stomped hard on the brakes. Tyres squealed. The car swerved, almost did a ninety-degree turn. It jerked to a sudden stop, hurling the assailant in the rear seat to crash into the back of Fungai’s head. The impact knocked both men out.

CHAPTER 2

Sometime in 1986 Silobela, Midlands

To the western fringes of the Midlands of Zimbabwe lay the village of Silobela, an area sometimes referred to as the ‘cursed land’. This village had suffered persistent droughts over the years. Since 1980, when Zimbabwe gained its independence from Britain, no meaningful development had ever taken place in Silobela.

Thembi, a sixteen-year old girl, lived with her parents in Silobela. Their home consisted of three thatched mud huts. On the edge of their homestead was a cattle pen but there were no cattle in it. There was no electricity or running water at their homestead. It was Thembi’s duty to go to the communal borehole a kilometre away to fetch water for cooking and washing. It was also her duty to sweep the dusty yard every morning before she walked to Ruya School, which was about ten kilometres away. It was routine for her to walk to school and back, then help her mother with any other chores that needed doing.

Because of the drought, businessmen came from Harare and other big cities, offering as little as two bags of maize for each cow. Thembi’s parents sold all their cattle to buy maize. Maize was the staple food for ordinary Zimbabweans. A few years earlier, a government minister had come to Silobela to campaign for the constituency. This man had promised government handouts to alleviate the suffering caused by drought. But soon after casting their votes for this man, the people of Silobela were once again forgotten.

By 1986, Thembi’s parents had become desperately poor. With no cattle or grain to sell, they could not afford her school fees, let alone pay for her to do her O-levels. Thembi was forced out of school. She spent most of her time roaming at the growth point, hoping for an opportunity for a job in one of the grocer shops there. Nothing came her way. Most of her days, she helped her poor parents to gather wild fruits to sell at the growth point. Through all this suffering, Thembi hoped and prayed that one day she would be able to continue with her education and live a better life.

One day Thembi visited her auntie, Yeukai, at her homestead, a few kilometres away. She found Yeukai, sitting outside under the shade of a mopane tree. Yeukai had once worked for Fungai Moyo’s parents as a house maid. She looked Thembi up and down and could see her lips were parched from thirst and hunger.

‘Good to see you, Thembi. Before you sit down, go in the kitchen, help yourself to a piece of bread. I made some earlier on.’

‘Thanks, auntie.’

Thembi came back eating the piece of lumpy bread made from a mixture of wheat and maize flour. She took a sip of water as she ate, helping the bread go down.

‘I need to get a job. Please help me,’