DUMISANI KUFARUWENGA

This is where it happened.
The building was called Livingstone Hostel. Its Western wing. The place was Fletcher High School in Gweru, then a boys only school.
It was in the mid eighties when Fletcher was still Fletcher, and when a stern Headmaster called Chivarange Chimombe ruled the roost.
Twas the period when boys could have hope and could believe in future prospects which now don’t exist.
But I digress.
This is how it happened.
A boy, who will be described in this piece as Destroyer confronted another boy called Chopper. Chopper is not his real name.
Destroyer said:
“Why are you going around saying you beat me up?”
Chopper said: “Because it’s true.
I beat you up at the upper field a
few days ago.”
And the fight started.
Destroyer had the advantage of age, because Chopper was a year behind him. But Chopper was an athlete. He played basketball and tennis and was as crooked as they come. And the boys loved him. And at the same time hated his guts.
The boys wanted Chopper to win and to lose. Either result suited them.
To them, the fight was not about Destroyer, it was about Chopper. They formed a ring around the two protagonists, tense with excitement, their veins full of the adrenaline of malice and hate.
And the fighters flew at each other with senseless rage, smashing each other with a barrage of bloody blows.
The onlookers marvelled at the bloodletting with malicious delight. With malevolent glee.
This is it!
This is what their parents and the school authorities warned them against, and they were in its midst, and were themselves accomplices in the evil act itself; violence. It was irresistible.
“Kill him! Kill him!
They yelled at no one in particular, all too happy that either or both fighters could die. And Chopper threw a vicious left swing at Destroyer, strong enough to slaughter a horse. But Destroyer ducked under the blow in the nick of time and flew head first at Chopper’s abdomen and the two fighters fell underneath a nearby bed, like an apple cart upset.
Despite themselves, the onlookers cheered and jeered with delight.
The bed under which the fighters fell was overturned, and the spectators could see Chopper sitting astride Destroyer, holding Destroyer’s head, banging and smashing his face against the floor, spilling blood.
Even the vociferous crowd of spectators who adored bloodletting was petrified.
More petrified were they of the fact that Destroyer had the humiliating look of defeat on his face, the look of a man utterly destroyed, pleading for rescue and mercy.
Even to them, this was inhuman and degrading. But no one moved and the bloodletting persisted.
Until a long distance runner called John Ndlovu strode up to the fighters and tore them apart with quiet dignity and authority.
And the fighters did not resist and went their separate ways.
And the crowd of onlookers disappeared, with none of them willing to stomach and acknowledge the guilt of being a participant in the orgy of brutal violence.
And I was there when it happened.