Samboy Mutoko

Samboy Mutoko

Today is Friday. There are many Fridays since the advent of time. Thousands and thousands of Fridays have passed on without any sincere reminder to connect me back but his Friday; I remembered something, it is Samboy Mutoko.

The mountains in Chimanimani often called the “Himalayas” stood daring to the cirrus clouds that swept in through from the Mozambican windward side. That was in 1978, Rhodesia, when the war of armed struggle against colonisation in Zimbabwe almost reached its pinnacle. In the thickets of these mountains, there lied a secret gold mine owned by some Russians. The mine was concealed to the effect that one would almost miss any activity going in there daily while the owners continued to go about their explorations. One may not know whether the ownership of such a mine had anything to do with the Rhodies or not but it is highly likely that the 20th century scramble for the second rand in Rhodesia meant that it must have been an individual and secret enterprise not a collective one. Although the African man at the moment was busy fighting for his freedom, somebody somewhere was also busy accumulating wealth in that war torn country. And someone, the son of a peasant was working for the Russians, helping with navigation as he knew the area and its heavenly terrain. Samboy?

The mine was concealed within the pine tree plantations that stretched from Ngangu over to Skyline and into the higher ranges of Chimanimani mountains. A number of saw mills owned by British timber companies would be seen from an isometric view where ever patches of cut down trees would be manifest. Sometimes, the roaring rumble of chain saws would be so deafening from patch to patch as if they were in some mechanical debate to the extent that all nature was turned into some industrial hubbub for a couple of hours or so.

But now, 1978 was a year that was popularly known as the year of “Gukurahundi” which means the year of clearing the chaff. That entailed a consolidated mass rising would soon pursue the dream of dream with or without direct or indirect opportunities. This was a political mantra that motivated the sons and daughters of Zimbabwe to fight against the colonial government of Ian Smith. The Russian miners probably knew that their enterprise be soon at stake and its glory was subsequently going to sink into history. Sooner or later the few black workers whom they employed would inherit that treasure, perhaps. Would Samboy Mutoko, one of the trusted black workers at the secret Russian mine claim that glory? He knew all the security details concerning the passwords that gave access to the nucleus of the mine, the security installations and the beacon lights for the secret aerodrome where a Cessna 337 would come to collect gold every fort night and fly back into the skies perhaps to Beira or even Moscow. Who knew? Some learned black workers from British plantations would suggest that entrepreneurs from apartheid South Africa would come and meet the Russians for a few moments then suddenly get into aircraft and return back.

The Russian mine had a complicated security system by then. The gigantic pine tree that formed the plantations provided an intuitive sanctuary to the mine. It had a masonry dura wall that was cocooned by some lush green climbing flowers that rendered the whole walls to appear like they were in a net if one took a distant vista. Atop the six-meter wall, there was a four strand barbed wire whose barbs were eager to tear any careless bee or fly that would fly into this mine without due scrutiny of the barbs’ sharpness. To the Eastern side of the mine yard, there was a visible white wind vane which had no cardinal inscriptions on it. Then inside these strong masonry walls existed a pack of vicious dogs that never barked. They only growled with some profound eagerness to show their mighty whenever they sensed a threat. However, among all the workers, Samboy Mutoko had a cordial relationship with them.

And on that Friday, guerrillas had for the past week engaged in a conversation of gunfire with the Rhodesian forces in the valleys of Chimanimani mountains. The rattle and crack of gunfire orchestrated a chorus of an unprecedented war in Chimanimani and the Russians thoughtfully felt they had to leave. To leave the mine and its filthy wealthy? Was Samboy Mutoko going to inherit the gold? Some of it processed and hidden? Perhaps the other black workers would or the guerrilla fighters. The Russians had to leave. Subsequently, they planned on to resettle to Beira in Mozambique and their evacuation required at least 72 hours because rumours were rife that the guerrilla commander was interested in that particular mine.

Therefore, at six o’clock in the morning one a Friday, light showers began to pour steadily with the drizzle filling up every space in nature reducing visibility. The gentle roar of an approaching aircraft informed that the Cessna 337 was landing on the runway. Shortly, there was another roar and this time it had irregular whirls of its rotor blades as it struggled to land on the windy aerodrome that morning. Samboy Mutoko appeared with a pack of aggressive obedient dogs. The Russians quickly climbed in after they secured their trunks. Then, Samboy Mutoko remained outside, talking earnestly to one of the Russian bosses, it was a lengthy conversation in that short space of time. The boss suddenly took out a brown envelope that had a red cross on its back, unsealed but inflated that whatever that was inside was thicker. It was a little black book. As the Cessna 337 disappeared into the thick clouds, the helicopter buzzed off leaving Samboy with a wide countenance that was charged with emotion. Was it a bible? The Russian boss had given him the wrong envelope, he intended to give Samboy a bible, to his Surprise, the little black book had secret codes about some coordinates where a reserve trunk of gold was hidden in a bunker. Samboy?