Suddenly, 1980 sets in. The war torn trees began to heal the grass which had been trampled upon by many feet of soldiers who fought to liberate a people. The green grass stepped on seveally by civilian helpers who were in transit every second to relay messages to required destinations, or by soldiers who fought to retain colonisation, and betrayers who callously collaborated with the obstinacy of the people’s enemy. The grass, which had stubbornly resisted yet desperately bowed to the buzzing Alouette helicopters flying low dropping Rhodesian forces in war zones, started healing. Wild animals in the mountains had for a very long time been subject to the incongruous crack of rattling gunfire, whistling bombs and unforgiving machine guns, now 1980 too was their year.
Senzeni heard the silent breathing of women who participated in the liberation struggle, of the determination that took them into war frontiers, into the thick of battles, the blood, the warzone shouts, the deafening rumbles of bombs, gunfire, empty metal drums rolling off and about. She remembered the skulls of unfortunate comrades both female and male. They could not escape the obstinate accuracy of snipers who slowly eliminated those among the national liberation fighters. Fighters who had little training or somehow those who passionately joined the struggle to see their Zimbabwe become independent.