On Friday, 27 June 2008, I woke up with one thing in my mind: I had to go and have my left index finger painted red by the indelible ink at any cost. Not that I really wanted to vote, but that a cloud of fear hovered over my head.

The previous weeks, we had been brainwashed and bombarded with war rhetoric, plain threats to our very existence and promised fatal retribution, not only if Zanu PF's candidate Robert Mugabe did not win the presidential run off election but if the index finger was not bloody red, a sign that one has voted. Furthermore the ruling ZANU PF thugs, militia who seemed to be on drugs had demanded that we each write our ballot serial numbers and present to them after voting so that they can trace 'tyrants' and 'sellouts.'

At these meetings, which normally took the whole day and at times night vigils popularly known as "pungwes" we would be made to chant ZANU PF slogans, sing songs some of which are unpalatable and derogatory to the opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) leader Morgan Tsvangirai. We would be made to jog while denouncing the British who were said to have been on the verge of re-colonizing Zimbabwe.

It was nasty. For me, it was worse. Being a known freelance journalist in this high-density suburb, the militia demanded to know where I send my stories, for whom I write and the method of payment. They passed several comments to the effect that, to quote: "journalists were sell outs, selling Zimbabwe's sovereignty to the British and the Americans" everyday they passed through my home, demanding to know my whereabouts.

With this in mind, by about 1030hrs on polling day, I had circled almost all the polling stations in constituency hoping to get my name in the voters roll but to no avail. For about two to three hours I felt dejected worse still at the knowledge that my finger was still in its original human skin colour! Not red!
Finally after midday, one polling officer at another remote polling station, told me the good news that my name was in that particular polling station voters roll. I made noise with joy.

Just by the door to the polling station, five muscular red-eyed men stood demanding the ballot paper serial numbers. I timidly and humbly complied. Soon after I rushed back to a "base" closer to my home to register my ballot serial number all this to ensure my security. So were all the other old and young who were on the same queue with me.

There is no doubt in my mind that those who voted last week succumbed to the fear that was being preached unsolicited – just like me. ZANU PF meant business. The retribution that was being peddled and promised got many out of their homes.

The elections have come and gone but I still leave in fear. Several secret service agents have been to my home, clandestinely looking for someone not me. All these are tricks of monitoring my movements.

The night after the election, a group of these militia came singing and rounded up everyone at my home on the pretext that they were going to the polling station to wait for the results of the elections. The whole night my family and other neighbours were singing and chanting slogans denouncing the West, the British and with impunity journalists who were "sending pictures of victims of political violence" to the international community so as to ostracise Mugabe.

I eventually saw that my life was in danger and moved out, in hiding. I have been staying with well-wishers since Friday when I fled in the middle of the night. I am watching the situation from a distance only hoping that one day it shall come to end.

But my worst fears seemed confirmed on Monday 30 June when President Mugabe charged at a CNN reporter at the African Union summit. The unprintable words he uttered showed that he holds journalists in ridicule. We might be heading towards a serious media purge and this means I continue in hiding, maybe one week more, two week, three. Or even longer.

My colleagues, have their stories almost the same as mine. Journalists live in fear. If Mugabe can charge towards a journalist in a foreign land: what can stop his thugs from doing the same here in wretched Zimbabwe?

Also read Zvenyika Mugari's personal experience