The next day I gathered my luggage and boarded a train to Chicualacuala towards the Rhodesian (today Zimbabwe) border. I crossed the border to South Rhodesia. In Bulawayo a local man accommodated me. I was not the only guest in his home.
There was another resident from Mozambique, who had been there for a few days already. His destination was Tanzania, via Zambia. Our host was happy to have us in his house, and told everyone that he had visitors. The white Rhodesian police became suspicious and we decided to leave. He took us to the nearest bus stop, but on our way, we met an armed white policeman.
He wanted to know where we were from. The man who had accommodated us told him that we were from Pafure. Pafure was in Rhodesia near the border to Mozambique. The policeman refused to accept that and said that we were from Mozambique. We tried to deny it but he persisted that the people from Pafure did not look like us. He ordered us to lie down with our hands on our heads and wait for the police patrol van. Our host was told to leave. After a long wait the van finally arrived. The policeman informed his two colleagues that we were from Mozambique, and that we were trying to escape to Tanzania. The two men did ot even ask questions and ordered us to get into the van.
Two armed policemen accompanied us in the back of the van. I asked them, ‘Are you holding me at gunpoint out of fear that I might escape?’ They said, ‘Yes.’ I assured them that I was harmless, not a criminal. I explained that I escaped from Mozambique in order to study inAmerica, and that the Portuguese government wanted to prevent me from doing so. I assured them that it was safe to put their guns down.
They did as I asked . We drove to the Bulawayo police station where the police questioned us. I explained that I was from Mozambique, trying to find my way to America to further my studies, and that the Portuguese government would not allow me to do so. My friend also told his story. The white policeman who questioned us said in Portuguese, ‘Where on earth have you ever heard of black people’s education?’ I was annoyed but I didn’t say anything. We were ordered
to go into the police station cells.
Three weeks later, we were deported back to Mozambique. On arrival, I was rearrested and didn’t know the whereabouts of the friend I was with. I was kept in a holding cell for a week. That marked the beginning of my life of imprisonment.
I was released to await trial. The news about my arrest spread like wild fire. Pictures of me were plastered on all the border posts into Mozambique.
I could not wait for the trial date because I was not sure what would happen to me if I was found guilty. I had no other choice, but to climb the fence to Swaziland.
I asked a friend of mine, by the name of Carlos Chipe, to take my luggage to here I was going to cross to Swaziland. I appeared to leave home as a simple man who was going to return soon. I didn’t want the PIDE to be suspicious of me. I jumped the border to Swaziland through Namaacha. It was a sad moment when I left Carlos standing there. He wished me well and waved his hand. When I jumped the fence, it was still dark. I waited near the road under a tree. While waiting, I remembered that there was a certain man called Mr. Machava, who was a well known pastor. He used to come to Namaacha Catholic Seminary when I was still a student. I heard that his house was situated in the Lomahasha area.
I waited until people started moving around. Swaziland was a very quiet place scattered with mountains and dusty gravel roads. The first person I spoke to was a lady who was in traditional Swazi attire. I greeted her and she was quick to respond in Shangaan. I felt relieved and asked for directions to Pastor Machava. She asked if I was escaping from the Portuguese and I confirmed. She felt sorry for me and directed me to Pastor Machava’s place.
It was not far, near a secondary school called Lomahasha Central. I went to the school and knocked at one of the houses. I asked where Pastor Machava could be found. They started laughing – maybe it was the way I was speaking, and took me to Pastor Machava’s house. Pastor Machava was not available, and they informed me that he would be back in a week’s time. Explaining my situation, his wife felt sorry for me and welcomed me into their house. I was given a room and stayed there for four days. Mrs.
Machava was concerned, for I couldn’t eat the food she cooked. I tried, but I would vomit because I was not used to the ground mealies with curds. When her husband arrived she quickly introduced me to him. She told him that I was from the seminary, from those who wore white gowns. She told her husband that I had not eaten a thing since I arrived. She pleaded with him to take me to Mbabane (Capital of Swaziland) where I could get something to eat which would
agree with my system.
Pastor Machava was so kind. The only thing he asked for was petrol money. I had a little bit of money in my pocket, which was enough for us to reach Mbabane.
We drove along the dusty gravel roads of Swaziland, through mountains and valleys. Pastor Machava pointed out the farms of the English people living in Swaziland. It was a long, dusty journey to Bremersdorp (today Manzini), the first town from Lomahasha towards Mbabane. In Bremersdorp, we stopped at one of the petrol stations to fill the tank with petrol. Pastor Machava bought something to eat, but I didn’t want anything. I was eager to reach our destination. I was eager to meet J.J Nxuku, who Pastor Machava was telling me about.
I immediately noticed the size of the town. It was very small and I did not see many whites for at least 30 minutes. We took another road. We had not far to go this time, according to Pastor Machava and reached Mbabane within 50 minutes. Pastor Machava drove towards a well known location in Mbabane, called Msunduza. He was taking me to a man called, J.J Nxuku, the leader of the Mchubaphambili Political Movement in Swaziland.
Pastor Machava introduced me to Mr. Nxuku, who welcomed me into his house. Pastor Machava seemed to know Mr. Nxuku very well, for they started talking like old friends. Pastor Machavadidn’t stay too long, then left without me. Mr. Nxuku’s place was surrounded by mountains and valleys.
The houses were built with stick and mud. It was such a small tranquil place. Mr. Nxuku was known in Swaziland as J.J Nxuku. That day he had just returned from the Justice Department, where he presented a letter, demanding the release of the black Swazis who were accused, by the British government, of something they didn’t do. Mr. Nxuku was very friendly and showed me his house. He said that he was happy to meet a man from Mozambique, who was involved in the struggle. According to him it was the right time to fight the enemy from all corners of the continent. He told me about his ties with Nkhwame Nkrumah of Ghana, and the rest of the freedom fighters in Africa.
He offered me one of the rooms behind his house. J.J Nxuku wanted me to join the struggle against the British in Swaziland. It was a novel idea, but my struggle was against the Portuguese and his was against the British. One thing we had in common was to be able to live freely in Africa. I told J.J Nxuku that my main aim was to get educated, and have the same knowledge the whites had. To me, education was the best weapon against the whites. I recalled the advice I had received from my former teacher, Padré Freitas in Missãu de Santa Maria de Mocodoene catholic school, when I was in Grade 4. J.J Nxuku understood and admitted that education
was good, but he emphasised that, while some were educating themselves, the rest must fight for freedom.
I had a close relationship with J.J Nxuku. He tried several times to contact Nkhwame Nkrumah in Ghana, so that he could help me to go overseas. He did not succeed, which is why he wanted me to join the struggle in Swaziland. I accompanied Mr. Nxuku wherever he went. He introduced me to many politicians.
Some of the politicians were Prince Dumisa and Ambrose Zwane from the Ngwane National Liberation Congress (NNLC). I became friends with many Swazi activists, but I didn’t forget that my goal was to go to America to study. I was sure that Dr. Eduardo Mondlane was still waiting for me. However, I was not sure whether the scholarship was still valid or not. One day, a man called Mr. Zondi came to J.J Nxuku’s house. He was accompanied by a girl called Thandani. J.J Nxuku introduced us. Mr. Zondi was a South African who was connected to the ANC. Therefore, he was also involved in helping the ANC freedom fighters to cross the border to other countries. Thandani was one of those who had escaped from South Africa with the help of Zondi. Zondi did not stay long, and when he left Thandani stayed behind. J.J. Nxuku wanted me to date Thandani, but I was not keen. I suspected that it was maybe J.J Nxuku’s way of trying to keep me in Swaziland, so that I could get rid of the idea of going overseas to study. I had a good relationship with Thandani but not to the extent that I could marry her. I was not interested in ladies at that stage, for I knew that I had to accomplish my goal. My calling was to liberate my country, even if politics sometimes bored me.
It was very nice to be with J.J Nxuku, but he was always in trouble with the British police. I remembered the day his car was burnt. He used to park his car in front of my doorstep. At midnight, I saw a bright light outside. I went outside and saw J.J Nxuku’s car burning. I rushed to knock at his door shouting, ‘Yasha moto!’ I could barely pronounce any word in Swazi but I had to try. By the time he woke up, the car and my room were burnt to cinders. Fortunately, my documents were in J.J Nxuku’s house.
J.J Nxuku said that the enemy was doing this to weaken him. I decided to take my documents and rather hide them with J.J Nxuku’s friend, Mr. Dlamini, who lived across the street. I had nowhere to stay, and slept outside. I decided against it and fetched my documents from Mr. Dlamini to keep with me in a briefcase.
That same night, his house was also burnt to the ground. I started personalising the situation and saw it as an attack against me. The news of my disappearance from Mozambique had reached Swaziland. PIDE was searching high and low for me and I knew I was not safe in Swaziland. When J.J Nxuku’s house was burnt to the ground, the British police who investigated the incident asked who I was. J.J Nxuku told them that I was from Mozambique.
One policeman asked whether I was the one who had escaped from Mozambique. J.J Nxuku quickly told him that I was a relative who was working in Mozambique. He didn’t reveal that we were friends, and so managed to get rid of the police.
A few months later I decided to leave Swaziland in order to find my way to America. I felt no longer comfortable living in J.J Nxuku’s house because Swaziland was very close to Mozambique. I really appreciated the way the Swazi people treated me. They treated me with love and respect. The one thing I remember about the Swazi people is that they have a great appetite for meat. One day, J.J.
Nxuku travelled with me to the far eastern part of Swaziland in the Lubumbo region, towards the Lavumisa border. When we arrived, we found his friend asleep, unaware of our arrival. He had no money, so I had to buy a chicken, which we were going to braai. After I had prepared the chicken, J.J Nxuku sent me to the shop to buy some spices. When I came back, I found that they had eaten the whole chicken. I was so angry. J.J Nxuku told me never to leave when there is meat to eat. That day they gave me the chicken feet, for that was all that was left over. That incident always reminds me of my friends in Swaziland.
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