"Ours must always be a story of hope. Of citizens who, knowing how ruthless & repressive this regime is, chose courage over inaction."
As I was about to part ways with my phone to enter police
detention, I sent Cee Musandu, my communications director, this message. She
had asked me what she should say. We have been the best of friends since 2016
when we joined #ThisFlag, a citizens' movement that challenged the poverty,
injustice and corruption prevailing under then President Robert Mugabe. The
idea was to inspire an engaged citizenry that held the Government to account.
Many amazing and awful things had happened over the last
four years but nothing had prepared us for the week that was to come.
It started on the Sunday morning. Two plainclothes police
officers in an unmarked vehicle knocked on our gate and asked to see me. When
asked what the issue was, they said it was in connection with tweets I had
posted protesting police brutality. I had gone to the shops to buy some meds
and supplies for the continued lockdown. They left.
As soon as I received the news, my heart sank. Courage does
not mean you aren't afraid. It means you act in spite of your fear. Hopewell
Chin'ono and Job Sikhala had been arrested by the Police days earlier on
similar charges. "Go seek refuge at a friend's house," my little
brother suggested. I explained to him that you never run away from the Police.
I quickly went back home, assuming that they'd come back. I telephoned David
Drury, my old boss, mentor and trusted lawyer of choice. He advised me to stay
put and wait for their return. I waited for what seemed like an eternity. Upon
nightfall, Mr Drury said that because the police had not come back, we would
have to attend upon Harare Central Police Station first thing in the morning.
At 9am on Monday morning, we were at the Police Station. We
waited for an hour before being attended to. They would not immediately confirm
or deny whether or why they wanted me pursuant to their visit the day before.
Eventually, they confirmed that I was under arrest for my tweets. By 10.50am, I
had signed my warned and cautioned statement. The docket was complete. We
figured we would immediately go to court as we were in good time. To our
surprise, the detective inspector came in with a detention order and told us to
hurry up as we were "behind time." She had been ordered to hurry up
and take me to the cells. Mr Drury appealed with them to take us to court to
avoid unnecessary and potentially unlawful pre-trial detention. (This was the
first of many appeals he would make to police, prison and court officers in the
ensuing seven days.) The officer refused and offered no explanation or reasons
to explain why I had to be jailed if the matter was ripe for court.
I was thrown into the all familiar lice-infested police
cell with a drop toilet. The proverbial puddle of urine from last time and all
the times before greeted me. Rather, it slapped my face. I was barefoot, having
signed my shoes in upon entry as per procedure. There was no sanitizer, no
facility to flush the loo, no sink and tap, no toilet paper and no sanitary
bin. The blankets smelt of old urine. I shared the cell with six other ladies,
most of whom were detained for breaching lockdown regulations. And there was
Lisa, an alleged armed robber with whom I would make further contact in days to
come. We talked, sighed and laughed then fell asleep on their concrete beds and
covered ourselves in stained blankets that smelt of a mix of urine, human and
dirt.
The next day, I was bundled into the back of a small police
truck escorted by nine police officers who breathed on each other and breathed
on me. Some wore masks and some wore them incorrectly.
An application was made to challenge my placement on remand
on the ground that the Constitutional Court had declared the sections under
which I was charged void and on the ground that the initial remand form was
insufficient. The Magistrate postponed the handing down of his ruling to
Friday. It was Tuesday. I was to be detained at Chikurubi Prison in the
meantime.
As I walked up the prison truck in the rain, I slipped and
fell. I quickly got back up because, since I was a child, my mother had taught
me to get up immediately after a fall, dust myself up and keep going. Mr Drury
got into the truck to check if I was OK. He brought with him my bucket of
supplies - assembled in haste by my siblings. It had all the good stuff -
chocolate, candy, nuts, reading material and toiletries most of which I would
soon learn were forbidden "inside".
When we arrived, they told us to eat. Dinner was old sadza
and watery beans. I politely declined - partly because I was in no state to eat
but mostly because of the rule of caution that I had dished out to many a
client when I was on the lawyering end of such an ordeal. The events of the
previous two days had frozen my legal brain as I watched constitutional rights
bludgeoned and the Supreme Law rendered a lifeless museum piece. I resolved
that the only way to make it through this ordeal was to embrace it, follow all
orders including the illegal ones and then just make the most of it.
"Behave with beauty and dignity at all times," is the best advice I
received that week. We knelt before the prison wardens whom we called
"Mbuya". We had to kneel when talking to them. That was the rule.
They took our details then stripped us of all clothing and
our bras then handed us our green prison garb. I had a whole prison number -
38/21. My reading material (a YOU magazine and a Newsday newspaper) were taken
away for "censoring." I never got the newspaper back.
We were placed in an isolation cell with no window. Covid
positive inmates were housed in the cell next to us. We shared a
"toilet" outside lock up time. We were locked in our cell and a 5
litre plastic container with the top cut off was placed in the corner of the
room for us to relieve ourselves that night. The next morning, we were moved to
another section. It was a mix of remand prisoners and convicted inmates.
Convicted inmates wore yellow. The concrete floor was our mattress. We had to
make our beds out of old, dirty, torn, smelly blankets stamped
"Parirenyatwa Hospital."
Breakfast was watery porridge and a smidgen of peanut butter with some
sugar which inmates had to eat with their fingers because spoons are forbidden.
We went round the room sharing the charges that had brought
us in. Curious, I saved my story till last. Murder, murder, murder, murder,
armed robbery, theft, armed robbery, lockdown, curfew, lockdown then
"tweeting." They laughed. So did I. One of the inmates in our section
was Chipo* who, four years earlier, had axed a man to death in Gutu and started
"eating his brain." She would walk into our cell and pick an inmate
up then place her down again. She would rummage through the bin for food, chase
rats "to eat" and sometimes snatch people's food. It was evident to
even an untrained medical eye that she had no mental capacity to commit a
crime.
We were ordered to go and weed the garden. No distinction
was drawn between those who were "in with labour", those on remand
and a person in my position who was challenging the very placement on remand. I
chose happiness and took it as an opportunity to get some much-needed exercise.
When the hoe was passed to me, they said "Fadzie, scrape don't dig. This
is weeding."
I made many friends because humanity is wired towards
positivity. People in distress tend to make the most of tough situations. We
are united by our basic human instincts that want dignity, freedom, community
and progress. I helped many fill out their bail application forms and dished
out legal advice on available defences to many who requested it. I encouraged
those who had done bad things to live right as soon as they got out. Story
after story made me reflect on my own personal circumstances and feel grateful
for God's many mercies.
Mr Drury, Andrea Dracos, Emma Drury, my fellow advocates
from Chambers, Harrison Nkomo, Rose Hanzi and Tino from ZLHR all came to visit
me. I lived for those visits. Sometimes, I'd stand lifeless at the window of my
cell staring at the gate in anticipation that someone would show up. Mr Drury
showed up everyday - a lawyer of immense distinction, integrity and honour who
had taught me the ABC's of court litigation, legal drafting and client
management as we fought several land and human rights cases over a decade ago
when I was a junior lawyer at Gollop and Blank. He was now plying his trade on
me. Yet he went beyond the call of duty in offering legal and psychological
support. I was confused as to how it had got to this but at the same time,
reassured that I was in extremely capable hands. I nearly shed a tear when he
pledged his own title deeds as he moved my bail application. "Your
worship, I know her and can vouch for her. I'm prepared to put my head on the
block because I know she won't abscond."
"Please tell my mom to stop crying," I repeatedly
said to everyone who visited. My parents, brothers and sisters are gladiators.
Family is life. I'm grateful for a powerful network of friends and people who
cared enough to offer much-needed solidarity.
Every day at lock-up time, I sat at my window and watched
the skyline change from blue to a beautiful golden-peachy hue. The quiet beauty
of the setting sun descending below the horizon was a peaceful reminder that
the whole thing would eventually end. At least I hoped. I had mentally prepared
for this to go on for weeks.
After seven interminable nights of incarceration, the court
granted bail. I stepped out of the prison truck and knelt before the prison
wardens one last time, crying internal tears of joy that the sun had finally
set on this ordeal. I also remain hopeful that one day, the sun will set on
injustice and repression. Until then, I will
always choose courage over inaction.
I will never stop imagining that Zimbabwe will one day be
free.
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