The story of how my half brother, and his mother, were both brutally slaughtered in Rhodesia by black terrorists. Following the discovery of their bodies, my father tracked down those responsible and committed a massacre. I was born many years later, and named after my brother.
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My father was living with his wife and their newborn son in a farmhouse on his land, where they grew tobacco and raised cattle. He was in active duty, as this occurred during the height of a genocidal war which was being waged against the Anglo-Saxon tribe who built Rhodesia.
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Arriving home after a routine patrol of his patch, he immediately knew something was wrong. The front door had been smashed in, and there was an eerie silence. Without thinking, he immediately grabbed his rifle and ran into the house. Inside he discovered their butchered bodies.
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My brother had been lifted out of his crib and swung with such force against the bedroom door frame his skull had split open. His lifeless little body on the floor with his brain beside him. His mother was almost certainly forced to watch. He didn’t make it to his first birthday.
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The corpse of my father’s wife was “spread eagled” on their blood drenched bed. Her body was riddled with cuts and stab wounds, with clear signs of gang rape. Her breasts had been hacked off, and her bloody genitals had been sliced open and repeatedly stabbed with long blades.
My father was no ordinary soldier. By this point in the war, he had already been on two (failed) missions to assassinate Robert Mugabe, parachuting across the Mozambique border with his men. This was a targeted attack against his family, only possible with local assistance.
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He already had intelligence on subversive activities taking place on his patch. The local village was suspected of providing support to foreign terrorists. This was often the result of terrorists butchering black Rhodesians until fear drove them into complying with their demands.
He drove in a frenzy to the village, pushing his patrol vehicle to its limit. Upon arriving, he immediately started ordering locals to line up at gunpoint, with a deranged look in his eyes. They scattered in a panic. He opened fire indiscriminately. Bodies lined the street.
In the aftermath, he searched their properties and found AK-47s hidden inside grain sacks. They were guilty. As he waited for the authorities to arrive to arrest him, one of the survivors, the village witch doctor, followed him around casting a black magic curse on him.
The authorities released him on the condition he leave Rhodesia and never return, forfeiting his lands and property. Apparently the incident was a minor scandal at the time, with headlines in papers. He has no memory of the following 6 months, hitting the bottle hard.
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Back in South Africa he became a operative of BOSS (Bureau of State Security). Because of his extensive experiences in bush warfare and mounted combat, he was assigned to patrol and gather intelligence along the extensive South West Africa/Namibia border region.
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Years later, after my father remarried and I was born, he named me after my late brother, making me the fifth of our name. My brother was born a Rhodesian, and lives on in me. I’ve always felt his presence, and look forward to meeting him someday. Rhodesians never die.
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Rhodesians Never Die
My earliest childhood memory is of my father covered in blood when assassins came to kill him, and murder me like they did to my brother. We fled to the UK. And then later fled to the USA when ANC thugs tracked us down again. But that’s a story for another thread...
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