My Beloved Mother Maria

Chapter 3: My Biography



This is my biography, which is 

dedicated to the woman who brought me into this world: 

Maria, my beloved mother. 

I grew up in Africa, which was a difficult upbringing, 

but one that has provided me with so many reasons to 

appreciate the person who I have turned into. As a child, I 

did not value the beauty of my homeland, its wilderness, 

and the wild animals that roamed the land. 

This is Africa untamed; the land where I grew up. 

Africa is a beautiful continent, which has many tourist 

attractions, including the statue of David Livingstone by the 

Victoria Falls. The statue is situated by the river, which is 

full of crocodiles, and are known to eat humans who fall 

into the river. There is also a rainbow and a place where 

there is always water dripping down the stones of Mosi-oaTunya, which can be very slippery. There is also a game of 

rafting and sightseeing experiences like the helicopter rides 

over the Victoria Falls, where you can see the many animals 

roaming and even feeding. There are also nice fruits, which 

include sweet mangoes and watermelons. 

People are very friendly there, but also quite poor. 

Normally, they sell their crops when they have harvested or 

sell watermelons if there have been good rains. It's a place 

which is very nice, especially when it rains. This benefits 

the villagers, allowing the people to grow their own crops, 

such as maize, watermelons, etc. Growing up in that 

environment made me a stronger person. 

Mom, your voice echoes in my head all the time; when 

you said that at some point I will not find you there, now I 

know you were right. 

I used to be friendly with another girl in the village; we 

were inseparable. We used to go and fetch firewood from 

the forest. As girls, we did a lot of house chores but we did 

not live together. She lived in the next village; we used to 

do a lot of things together, and there were some boys who 

had shown some interest in us. We would look forward to

meeting up with them as they would help us fetch the water 

back to the village. We could fetch water even if others 

were not allowed to, as time had to be afforded to allow the 

cows to drink from the borehole. Collecting water required 

a lot of physical work, pushing the pump to bring gallons 

and gallons of the water out from the ground. For those that 

were fortunate this tedious chore was made easy when carts 

with 50l drums were pulled by donkeys. 

After completing all my chores there were times when 

I would look after the cows. It was important to make sure 

that the cows did not wander off into other people's fields, 

or else you could get into trouble. My father had donkeys 

and a cart that was used to carry maize that was already dry 

from the fields and bring it home. I used to walk to school 

with no shoes, which was more difficult when it was 

wintertime. The school was quite far from the village and 

we used to travel barefoot, even if it was cold. I used to 

walk with other children from the village even if we were 

in different classes to one another. Most of the time we 

would go to school feeling very hungry. Some children 

would have pocket money and go to the shop near the 

school grounds and buy a small packet of biscuits, which 

sometimes they would share. Other children would carry 

boiled maize, which they would carry to school and then 

hide in the bushes. It would be covered in ants by the time 

they returned to collect it. You would have to pick it up and 

then blow off the ants before eating it. My father would 

never allow me to take anything to school; if I did, I would 

be in so much trouble. 

In our village there was this man well known for 

sexually abusing his own children. Most of the villagers 

knew about this; it was a horrible thing to do, and nobody 

did anything about it. It was exceedingly difficult that he 

was allowed to get away with this, and he seemed to enjoy 

it, even though they were his children. 

At times we used to go and meet other children from 

the village and play when there was a full moon; we used 

to pretend we were adults. Sometimes there would be a fire 

and we would gather around it, but it was not in my village. 

While the adults were not supposed to know about this, they 

knew anyway. We were African children and we enjoyed 

being children. Kids play hide and seek, and this is what we 

did during the night; sit around the fire and pick up a piece 

of coal, moving it around and letting the others guess where 

it was, or play hide and seek. These were wonderful times 

and I wish I could go back to being young once again with 

no bills to pay. 

I loved my young carefree life as our basic care used 

natural resources around use such as using sticks as 

toothbrushes. We never had any toothpaste or toothbrushes, 

so we used to use a tree bug to brush our teeth. 

My father made me grow up too fast and made things 

ridiculously difficult, even unbearable for a long time. 

There was no remorse for what he did; he would just start 

shouting and this led to physical violence, which was 

mainly aimed towards me. He would be shouting and then 

he would lash out and start hitting me or my mother for no 

major reasons at all, and I really hated him for that. My 

father never showed his affection or love towards his 

children, but I could tell he loved my other siblings more 

than me. 

There were events that happened during his violence 

which are not easy to forget. Although my father was not a 

big man, there were times when he presented a man 

possessed, without being provoked by anything. I can say 

this with a clear conscience. 

His brutality and spitefulness were so severe that one 

cannot even imagine it. My father did little to deserve the 

family he had. I can recall one day an argument of some 

sort that had contributed to his anger. My father pinned my 

mother down on the floor. I was not sure when it started or 

what had started it, but he was sitting on her on the kitchen

floor with his hands around her throat. Fortunately, there 

were no pots on the fire, but there was still burning wood, 

as we used to leave the fire burning until the logs had 

burned completely to keep ourselves warm. 

I remember my father sitting on my mother when I 

walked into the kitchen and his eyes were blazing with 

anger. He was drunk at that particular time; I glanced at him 

and I saw his eyes bulging out of their sockets and blazing 

with fury. He had his hands around her throat, and she kept 

begging him to leave her alone. "You are hurting me, you 

are hurting me… can you not see you are hurting me?" She 

called out to him. I felt helpless as I watched him hold her 

down. I was a child after all, and this was exceedingly 

difficult. 

I remember just going to find anything to hit him with, 

but I could not find anything. As a child, I was very 

frightened of him due to his violence, and by now, my 

mother's arm right arm was pinned to the fire. He was 

sitting on her and she could not move. He was deliberately 

burning her. I heard my mother calling him, so I walked 

back to the kitchen with a log I had found outside. 

He glanced at me but I did not care. For the first time I 

was not scared of him; I knew something had to be done. I 

knew that once he got off my mother, he would turn on me. 

So many times I wished that she could leave him but she did 

not; she stood by us. 

This is not something you would ever want to see; the 

wounds were very deep. I hated him for it. I felt helpless. I 

turned around, tears running down my cheeks, and hit him 

as hard as I could, but he just looked at me with his blazing 

eyes full of anger. I was crying very loud. After doing that 

I ran to the fields as fast as I could. 

I do not know how others knew about this. I cannot 

remember whether we spoke about this, but there was so 

much anger and it frightened us so we met by the fields and 

tried to find a place to sleep. We found a place under the 

small bushes; we scrambled together using the same 

blankets for us to sleep. Thank the Lord we avoided the 

mosquitoes and the heavy rain. Only one of us needed to 

return to the village to get blankets for us to sleep. I cannot 

remember who did this, but we were all familiar with the 

field and had a name for it. If someone had mentioned the 

name of that field, you would know exactly where it was. 

One could just cross the road to get to the field. 

At night the sky was clear enough to see the stars and 

the Milky Way, which I used to see frequently. As I looked 

up, I felt very angry, thinking about the whereabouts of my 

mother and wondering if she had survived her ordeal. 

During the night it drizzled a little bit, and I don't think we 

slept at all. 

There were so many stars and even shooting stars that 

covered the night sky. There were no streetlights, only the 

moon and kerosene lamps to enable us to see. We would 

meet up with children from other villages to play during the 

night, which was fun. 

We could stay for a long time without going to fetch water 

from the borehole. This water was helpful as we used it to 

cook and do the dishes, wash clothes and have baths. When 

there was so much water these were happy times, and it was 

nice as the work was not so difficult to do. Happy times. But 

still, the thought of my abusive father lingered with me. 

There were times when we could stand outside when it 

was dark and have a bath. There was so much water due to 

the rains, which was extremely good for the crops and 

wildlife. That was village life. It was nice to be so carefree 

as children. We were happy, even sleeping together on the 

floor with my other siblings and sharing the same blankets; 

it was okay. It was girls. But they were younger than me. 

We could play in the rain running around naked; there was 

so much laughter, although my mother was against this, as 

she believed we could be struck by lightning. Now when 

look back, I think she was right; lightning can strike people. 

There were times when the fire was made in the kitchen 

due to heavy rains and then it would get very smokey 

inside. There were no windows, so we needed to open the 

kitchen door, but not for long. The fire used to catch up very 

quickly and in wintertime it could get very cold. During the 

summer months, the fire was mainly to cook food, as we 

did not have any stoves. When it rained it was easier, as we 

had gutters that could collect water; if I recall they would 

fill up very quickly. 

We used to look forward to the Christmas period; we had 

the luxury of getting new clothes and would scrub ourselves 

more than on other days. We were also told if we woke up 

early and made our trip to fetch water, we would see the sun 

dancing up in the sky. We were made to believe this, although 

we did not make a big issue as Christmas had finally arrived. 

During this time the music was deafening and the 

children from other villages used to come to my village to 

dance and eat. Village people would come to my village 

where they would be given food, and my mother used to 

prepare home-brewed beer for the adults. Everyone would 

be enjoying themselves and the adults would be sitting 

under the trees, drinking the beer that had been brewed by 

my beloved mother. My mother was a very kind and gentle 

soul. She was exceptionally clean and particular with 

everything. When I reflect, I know that I was incredibly 

lucky to have her as my mother. 

When it was hot, there were many flies, which often fell 

in jars of milk. Milk was difficult to get as we did not have 

too many cows, and the milk was left for the calves or to 

cook dry vegetables, which would have been picked from 

the fields and kept dry. I was not allowed to milk a cow, but 

of course, I could milk a goat. That was a privilege. At times 

I could pick up the cows' dung and mix this with water and 

smear it all over the kitchen floor. Once dry, I would sweep 

the floor clean using a grass sweeping broom, which used 

to be done once a week, usually on the weekend.

There were lots of wild fruits in the forest, for example, 

umkhemeswane, ubhunzu, umkojombo, unviyo, and 

amalolo, which were very nice. Even the caterpillars would 

eat them. As well as these African fruits, wild mushrooms 

grew in the forest, which were so easy to pick up. 

I learned how to swim when the rains came, and we 

would make little boats by using the reeds that would grow 

by the valley. Depending on how many there were of us, 

we used to urge each to get on the boat, and we had a lot of 

fun doing so. We were children, carefree, and we enjoyed 

each other's company. I knew which children came from 

which village and we were a very close-knit community; 

this included the older people as well, who we had so much 

respect for. We were not allowed to give older people direct 

eye contact; if you did, you were viewed as a child with no 

manners and your parents would be informed. 

There were scorpions and snakes, which I feared, but 

there were no lions nearby. At times we would get the 

opportunity of using clay to build cows, and then pretend 

that they were fighting each other; it was symbolic and fun, 

and regardless of being hungry, we still had a chance to play 

outside when it was raining. We could run around naked in 

the rain, although my mother was against this due to the risk 

of lightning. We smiled even though we could be struck by 

lightning. There was so much laughter. 

Once it had stopped raining and the sun came out, so 

would these strange pink and fluffy insects that were bigger 

than ticks and would crawl around. They didn't stay out for 

long, and it was a mystery to us all as to where they came 

from, although we suspected it was from the ground. They 

were so delicate. Once we tried to pick them up, but they 

just died in our hands and we were told not to touch them 

again, as they belonged to God. But they were so pretty; 

they looked like ticks and they used to disappear very 

quickly. "Izinja zikha nkulukhu." Presumably they got this 

name due to being so fragile.

But thoughts of my father never left me. He could go 

and travel with his scorecards to sell dry wood and 

watermelons, and he would stay away from the village 

when all was good. "Mamba eyenyukile umucakide 

bucelesile." In simple English, "When the cat is away the 

mice play."

When someone in authority is not present, those subor

dinate to that authority do whatever they want. If I leave 

my classroom for a moment and then I come back to find 

the place in chaos; when the cat's away, the mice will play. 

Without the correct supervision, children (or people) will 

do as they please—especially in disregarding or breaking 

the rules. For example, as soon as parents have left the 

house, then the children will invite all their friends over. 

That is how it was for us. Our father was never around. 

I had a friend from the village and we used to get along 

fine; we lived close to each other, we used to fetch water 

and play together, and we understood each other. Her 

parents believed that giving her an education was not 

necessary, therefore she was not given chance to go to 

school. Regardless of that, she was my friend. I found living 

in the village extremely hard, but when my father was not 

there it made things easier. Although we were not rich, we 

got by. I was good in school, although I struggled when it 

came to maths. I was a good runner, although it was 

difficult running on an empty stomach. I used to play 

netball and perform school plays, which I was particularly 

good at. I was mainly chosen for small dramatic plays in 

school. 

Doing jobs was necessary whether you liked it or not—

it had to be done. I remember when I used to go fetch water 

by carrying a 5-gallon container full of water on my head, 

which would be done over several trips, over quite a 

distance from the village. This worried some of my 

neighbours as I was only short, and it was a lot of weight 

for me to carry. 

I used to go to the bush and get a mud toothbrush stick 

to clean my teeth; I would chew the bud first, then spit out 

the bitter juice, and then clean my teeth. We did not have 

any toothbrushes or toothpaste, so we depended on that, 

which was very good. That was village life and we made 

ends meet, regardless of the situation. 

There was this plant called inkunzane, which was a 

perfect shampoo that we used to use to wash our hair. This 

would grow in the valley and only when we had good rains. 

We survived by ploughing, which is where most of our 

food came from. I could kill a chicken, a simple source of 

meat, yet it's something I don't think I could do now. 

Chicken eggs were not allowed to be eaten; if we dared 

touch those eggs, you knew there would be trouble. We 

needed the chicks to grow to be chickens for meat purposes. 

My father broke my heart so many times, and I found 

it so hard to forgive him. He believed I was not his child, 

and that hurt me so much. He showed his love for my other 

siblings, even though there were a few occasions when he 

would be violent with them. But he was very cruel, 

especially with me, which proved to be more than I could 

take. It was peaceful when he was not around; he would go 

to places to sell watermelons and logs for fires to make 

money. But on his return home, he would be drunk. 

We had maize which we used to grow in the fields, and 

at times when the corn was still soft, we could boil it and 

put it on the fire to have roasted corn, which was very nice. 

Early one morning I had a feeling my mother must have 

left home, so I decided to try and find her. I knew there and 

then that if I really wanted to find her, I needed to start 

early, as there would be wild animals moving around and I 

would not be able to track her footprints. In addition, there 

were no clear roads in the village, and it was also very 

sandy. It was easy to track her footprints because the ground 

was wet and she was not wearing any shoes. I followed her 

footprints to a nearby village and I saw her sitting on a stool.

I could see that her face was swollen; I could not bear 

looking at her, she was a mess. I was crying like a wounded 

animal and I was inconsolable. My mother was burnt by my 

father, the man well known for his violence and 

aggressions. My mother had been hurt by the man she loved 

and had followed him to Zimbabwe after she had fallen in 

love with him. He had been working in South Africa when 

they met, and from my understanding, they crossed the 

border illegally as my mother did not have any documents 

to travel. 

I never forgave him for what he did to my mother. I 

never wanted to know him thereafter. He had made me 

grow up very quickly, though. He believed that sending 

girls to school was a waste of his money, even though 

schools were free. He was still against the idea! He believed 

that boys should go to school instead, but the boys in the 

family let him down on several occasions. But my mind 

was with my mother and wondering where she was and 

whether she had survived; death was not on my mind yet, 

but I knew she was hurt, wherever she was. 

There was another episode when my father was angry 

towards me; he started shouting and I knew there was going 

to be trouble. So, I began to run towards the fields for 

refuge, running as fast as my little feet could take me. After 

a while I returned home, and my mother was sitting by the 

shed. She told me that when she saw him pick the 

knobkerry up and throw it towards me, she had closed her 

eyes thinking that her child was going to die. But when she 

opened her eyes, she knew the knobkerry had missed me, 

as she did not see me on the floor. Thank God she is alive, 

my mother had thought. My father had missed me. 

There was another time I remember when he had 

bought dried fish, and I was supposed to cook it, as I did the 

cooking for everyone. I was more grown up than my other 

siblings and it was one of my chores; I did the cooking by 

boiling the fish over the fire, but I did not know how to cook 

the dried fish. I was not a good cook, but those were one of 

the duties which I was supposed to do as a girl growing up. 

I served the fish for him, but he was drunk; he was 

asking me a lot of questions about the fish, and he was very 

angry as I did not cook it to his standard. So, he grabbed 

me, pinned me down and then knelt on my throat. He then 

beat me so hard and several times using a 'sjambok'. I was 

screaming, and my mother was not there. I could not move 

my neck for weeks on end. It was excruciating! That was 

how bad it was. I found it exceedingly difficult to forgive 

him for this particular incident. I helped a lot by cooking 

and going to fetch firewood, but during that time there were 

limitations to what I could do. I could not even go and fetch 

water or firewood; I became crippled because of that event. 

I could not even do the cooking. 

When the sniff was not available, he would send me to 

a nearby village to ask neighbours for it, as he knew who 

smoked this sniff. He would ask me to spit on the floor 

before I left and then run fast as I could—I had to be back 

home before the spit had dried. 

He was extraordinarily strong, and villagers feared him. 

He loved to drink, and he was very well known for his 

abusive behaviour. I remember my father used to hide his 

money in a hole he had dug in one of the rooms, but we 

were all aware of it. He also enjoyed gambling, and from 

my understanding he would win at times. My father was 

very kind to the villagers, sharing beer that mostly would 

have been made by my mother. 

I remember clearly when my father went to sell his 

firewood. He would sometimes buy some presents for us to 

bring home. It wasn't much, but one day he arrived home 

and asked where my sisters were. I knew of course, they 

were playing in the next village. Then I thought to myself, 

let somebody else get beaten for a change. He asked me to 

go and tell them that he had arrived home, so I went off to 

find them. I told them that he was very angry because they 

were not at home to greet him, and when they walked in, he 

was sitting on a stool, waiting for them. I remained outside 

and looked cautiously through the window to see what was 

happening, but remained vigilant, just in case he turned on 

me once again. But surprisingly he didn't do a thing, which 

shocked me. I was shocked because I came to the realisation 

that whatever wrong deeds my sisters did, they would never 

be punished like I had been. This realisation weighed 

heavily on my heart and was one of the contributing factors 

to moving out of that village. 

I left the village thinking I was going to get some 

respite, but this turned out not be the case. I was in a 

different environment living with my sister; it was hers, and 

I needed to dance to her music. I had no other alternatives 

but to live with her or otherwise go back to my abusive 

father. In Matedzi there were so many mangoes and they 

used to grow in people's houses, which belonged to the 

railways. If you were working for the railways, you were 

given a house to live in rent free. 

My sister's husband was one of them. Rhodesia (before 

after it was called Zimbabwe), was a genuinely nice place 

to live, and they managed to leave Matedzi and bought a 

house in Bulawayo. It was a big house with a servant 

cottage. When my mother came to visit, she would sleep on 

the floor in the servant cottage, but there were mosquitoes 

in there. After running away from my violent father, she 

was given a meal once a day, which was extremely difficult 

to watch. The house in Bulawayo was quite large, however, 

it had only one bathroom which we all had to share. The 

man whom my sister had married also had daughters from 

a previous marriage, who I got on well with. 

One Christmas we went to a place called Lucosy 

Matedzi where their friends lived. But little did I know what 

was about to happen. After being given some alcohol, I was 

raped. I then left the village and went to live with my older 

sister, hoping that I would be safe there. I was only thirteen 

or fourteen years old at that time, and the sexual assault had 

left me pregnant. I couldn't say anything, either, as the man 

who raped me was married with children. I can remember 

filling up a tub of hot water and soaking myself in it, not 

knowing what to do. I was very scared and confused. 

I struggled during the pregnancy with no support. I was 

selling beers for my sister during that time as their friend 

was the one who had raped me, but this was never to be 

spoken about. This man was married and had his own 

siblings, but I was told by my sister to keep my mouth shut 

for fear of having to return home to my father. 

I was a child who was supposed to bring another child 

into this world, and I did not get any help. I tried to make 

ends meet but it was extremely difficult. The guy who raped 

me did not want to know, presumably in fear of losing his 

wife. I had a son who had no father after he had rejected 

him. He knew the baby was his but he denied this, and 

finally we had to go to court in Harare for a blood test to 

prove it was his son. 

We had caught the same train, but he never came to say 

hello to his son, and I knew it would be a challenge to get 

child maintenance. I did not know the system at all, which 

was a disadvantage for me and my son. I could not say what 

had happened to me in fear that I might be sent back home 

to my abusive father. My first-born child was a boy, but I 

was only a child as well, and I could not look after him as a 

mother should. I regret that every single day. It would have 

been nice to say something about giving birth to my first 

child, but it was not to be. I had carried this pregnancy for 

nine months and my son was born by Caesarean section. 

It was extremely difficult having to live with my elder 

sister. I was given the cold shoulder if I didn't wake up to 

clean and cook breakfast. If I didn't contribute then there 

would be no food on the table, and I would be left to watch 

the children eat. This was how my elder sister was, and I had 

to do all her chores before doing anything else for myself.

I did a shorthand course for a month, but this did not 

go far. I only managed to pay for just two months. I was 

very ambitious; I wanted to do something with my life, 

although I did not have enough money to pay the fees for 

my education. Due to financial difficulties, I was forced 

to leave college and look for a job. My friend and I found 

work for a band, although we were not very good at 

singing. 

I washed clothes in the morning by hand as they did not 

have a washing machine, and then I would hang them 

outside to dry. When I finished the housework, I would 

prepare a full English breakfast and then there would be 

ironing to be done. 

During my time in the band, I met a man who became 

my boyfriend. I used to call him my husband, even though 

we were not married. He had taught me how to play the 

drums, but I was not very good at it. Little did I know he 

was going to be a violent man. 

We lived together in a rented flat in the city centre of 

Bulawayo. He used to work in Mpilo hospital. In the 

beginning, everything was going extremely well and 

nobody could separate us; he enjoyed karate as his sport and 

played drums in the band, and he used to do this after he 

finished work. 

We were inseparable, and he loved me. He would want 

me to escort him to his karate class, and he wanted to have 

children. However, during that time I was not able to get 

pregnant. I had a son whom he refused to acknowledge, as 

in Africa, a man cannot bring up another man's child, 

something which his family would have been opposed to. 

So, I had to leave my son with my elder sister. 

He was the breadwinner and he provided for us both. I 

would wash and iron his clothes. He did not speak fluent 

Ndebele, and at that time I could not speak Shona (his 

language), so I used to communicate with him in English, 

which I was particularly good at.

He decided that we would move back to Harare 

(Salisbury), which I agreed to. It was his homeland. I 

thought things would be okay because he was a good man, 

but all that was about to change. He would beat me and 

make it out to be my fault, yet later apologise for his 

actions. Then he would want to make love to me, which he 

would do without my consent. There were times when I 

could have run away from him and gone back to living with 

my sister, but then he would apologise, something which 

became a pattern in our lives together. 

As I did not have any money, or any savings of my own, 

I would forgive him and return to the flat. If I went to the 

shop to buy milk, he would follow me. We had lived in the 

flat for a year before moving to Harare. In the beginning 

everything was fine. We were living with his brother and 

his wife who had a daughter. Their marriage was not very 

stable, and his brother had a mistress and would often spend 

days away before returning home. They both wanted more 

children but that was not to be. 

My boyfriend got a job at Parirenyatwa Hospital, which 

was one of the biggest hospitals in Harare. We lived with 

his brother until I gave birth to my daughter by Caesarean 

section. We had our own bedroom and we stayed with them 

for more than two years, before he decided to find a place 

for us to live. It was a three-bedroom house; big enough to 

lease one of the rooms to a university graduate. The house 

had a big bathroom, a kitchen, a lounge, and a large garden, 

where I planted vegetables and flowers. Fast-forward two 

years later we had a son, delivered by Caesarian again. 

When things were good, they were good. I remember 

one day he took us to a drive-in to watch a movie, but 

children were not allowed in so we had to turn back. But on 

our way home, he said that he really wanted us to go and 

watch this movie, so he came up with a plan. He took a 

small blanket from the house and covered the children in 

the back seat of the car. I was sitting at the front; he decided 

he wanted the children to watch the movie, so he drove back 

to the drive-in, bought popcorn, and gave it to the children. 

The funny part was that nobody said a thing, so we were 

able to watch the movie and then go back home. 

But he started to womanize, making other women 

pregnant behind my back, coming home late, and he started 

to be abusive just like my father. I did not have any money, 

or any savings; after all, he was the breadwinner.

He hit me in front of my children, and he nearly left me 

for dead; in his own words, he told me he wanted to kill me, 

or for me to walk away from his house as a cripple, and he 

meant it. He used a sweeping broom to beat me. I fainted as 

my children were hiding in the wardrobe, and when I 

opened my eyes, I felt the warm feeling of my blood 

dripping down my face—even now I have a scar on my 

head. My elbows and knees were also affected by the 

beatings I took and at times I find it difficult to write about 

this as it feels like I am reliving the nightmare. To say how 

I got out alive was a miracle; when he was finished hitting 

me, he took his car and left. I did not know where he was 

going. I knew the time had come for me to leave and I 

would have to escape without my children. There was no 

other solution to it all. 

My body was numb and my face was swollen beyond 

recognition. The thought of leaving my children behind was 

at the back of my mind. I was in a lot of pain. However, I 

decided to stay a bit longer, to use a window of opportunity 

so that when he went to work, I would pack up and take the 

children with me, but this did not happen. 

I left the house although I had no idea where he had 

gone to. I wanted my children, and therefore I decided to 

hide next door in the chicken run. I could hear his car pull 

up, and all I could think about was my children and thinking 

of ways of taking them away from all this, regardless of the 

situation I was in. I remained next door, hiding in the 

chicken run, waiting for an opportunity to go back into the 

house and collect my belongings. I thought of my mother 

and how she would have remained with us, no matter how 

difficult the situation had become. 

After hiding in the chicken run for some time, I heard 

his car pull away, so I returned to the house, looking for my 

children. As soon as I approached the gates, the lady who 

was leasing a room advised me to leave, stating that it was 

not safe for me to remain on the premises. I took her advice, 

and she took me to her small house. I left without my 

children or any belongings. 

She took me to one of her relatives where I managed to 

get some sleep. The next day, I went to hospital, and when 

I got there, they did a scan to find out if I had any broken 

bones or skull damage. My body was badly beaten but it 

was only tissue damage. I remember leaving the hospital 

and a gentleman asked me what had happened. I lied and 

told him that I had been in a car accident. He was shocked 

and said, "You look so bad; did anyone survive?" I said no 

but knew that I had had no alternative but to leave him. 

I was not talking to anyone; all I wanted was to sleep. 

I was prescribed some painkillers which I picked up 

from the pharmacy with the little money that I had. When I 

returned to the accommodation, the lady squeezed some 

tomato juice to use as eye drops to get my eyes to clear. I 

slept afterwards. I was missing my children, but powerless 

to do anything about it. 

I stayed with her for a while, but I had a brother who 

was in the army, and I knew if I went to see him, he would 

be able to give me money to travel back to Bulawayo. So, I 

managed to travel to the army barracks. When I saw him, 

he took me to the local canteen to talk. I covered my head 

with a scarf as I didn't want an audience. He looked at me 

and immediately got angry. He asked me whether my 

husband was at home, but I was uncertain of his 

whereabouts. My brother Keith said that if he knew he was 

at home he would go and shoot him in cold blood. He was 

so angry, whereas I was numb, and all what I really wanted 

was my children. I knew it would be so difficult to get them, 

but they were my children and they needed me. I was done 

with crying. I had nothing, neither clothes nor underpants. 

I had left with nothing. 

My brother had said to me that this reminded him of 

Tina Turner and Ike: Tina finally managed to escape her 

abusive husband one night when he fell asleep, grabbing a 

toiletry bag and running, narrowly missing a truck as she 

dashed across a highway. With just 36 cents in her pocket, 

she pleaded with the owner of an inn to let her stay. She 

said: "I was running towards a new life." – Tina Turner. 

My brother lived in Harare and was a pilot in the army. 

With the money that he gave me I was able to board a train 

back to Bulawayo. I didn't have a job but knew that I had 

to look for some accommodation and raise enough money 

to be able to return to Harare and collect my children. The 

swelling had gone down and I felt better physically, so 

having reached Bulawayo, I started to search for various 

jobs and some accommodation. I managed to find a room 

to rent; it was very small, not at all clean, but finally I had 

a roof over my head. A place where I could stay without 

any violence or being used as a punch bag. 

I briefly lived with relatives, but it was not the same 

without my children. I missed them very much and not a 

day passed by without me wondering who was cooking for 

them, if had they had a bath and if they wearing clean 

clothes. 

I contacted the Bulawayo law courts. It was the only 

way to get my children back, and I did it. I travelled to the 

police station in Harare, and on arriving at the house 

where we lived, he was not there. I was informed that he 

had gone to his brother's house, so we drove there with 

the police, but we were informed that he was in prison and 

my children had been taken to his village in Rusape. I 

knew where his parents lived but his mother did not like 

me that much as I was from Matabeleland and he was from 

Harare. They had their cultural differences and their way 

of doing things was completely different from what I was 

used to. I needed to travel back to Bulawayo, which meant 

leaving my children in Harare. I had no choice but to 

leave, with the goal that I would return one day and collect 

them. I was determined to do so, but little did I know then 

that I was pregnant. 

He was in prison and refused to sign the court papers, 

denying that it was him they were looking for. I still had 

serious money issues and I would have to find a job 

somehow if I wanted to my children back. I would do 

whatever it took to make that happen. 

I wanted my children with me. I knew I was going to 

be difficult, and it was a journey I was willing to take. When 

I left the hospital, they told me to go and get pills from the 

pharmacy, but I did not have any or money to buy them so 

I returned to the house with an intent to get my children. He 

made me sleep in the spare bedroom. He still wanted to hit 

me; threats were made during this time claiming we wanted 

to kill me before I left him and I really thought he was going 

to do that. I was scared and a mess. I was already sleeping 

in the spare bedroom but I did not know what he was going 

to do next. My hope was that if he left for work I would get 

the children and leave. 

Another trip this time, and I was with my sister who 

volunteered to come, and my children were sent to his home 

village in Rusape to live with his parents as he was serving 

a jail sentence. I went to the Rusape police station with my 

late sister, who was over helpful, and tried to help me get 

my children when we attended the village. I was escorted 

by the Rusape policemen and found my daughter outside 

the village doing dishes; it was so cold, and we all sat in the 

village kitchen where my mother-in-law was with her 

husband. She started shouting at me with no reason, calling 

me nasty names under the sun.

My son became very restless, walking up and down whilst the police tried to talk 

to my in-laws, but when I set my eyes on my daughter, she 

was calm. 

My mother-in-law was not happy, she tried to refuse to 

give me my children and the police had to do their job. My 

father-in-law was silent at first and then said, "Wherever 

my grandchildren are going, I am also coming with them." 

He was allowed to travel with us in the police van and came 

to the police station with us. Nobody said anything in the 

police van, and I had my children and my late sister who 

travelled with me. I miss my sister so much; she passed 

away at such a young age and had a gentle soul. She was 

very kind. My mother-in-law had been abusive and directed 

a lot of foul language at me, blaming me for her son being 

in prison, and my sister didn't understand why I didn't say 

anything back to her. But all I wanted was to have my 

children back. 

When we left the village, my mother-in-law refused to 

give me my children's clothes, so we left with what they 

were wearing. At the police station, my father-in-law was 

told this was as far as he could come, and that I was taking 

the kids with me. We were so lucky; as soon as we got to 

the railway station, the train to Bulawayo was just about to 

leave, so we boarded the train with my kids with no shoes 

or jumpers on their backs. My daughter's hands were 

cracked through washing dishes in the cold weather; it was 

heart breaking, but I had comfort knowing that they were 

now with me. 

It was very cold on the train, so I took my jumper off 

and gave it to my daughter, and my son was given a jumper 

from my young sister. We were heading back to Bulawayo 

and I wanted to give them the best education, which I did 

not have. I wanted to empower them by providing them 

with a good school. Jobs were difficult to find, and life was 

hard.

We managed to keep them warm on the train, but it was 

very cold, and when we finally arrived at Bulawayo, we 

stayed with my other sister who had bought a house with 

reasonable room. But things did not go very well there. My 

kids were accused of breaking door handles, and not in a 

nice way; after all my children had gone through, that hurt 

me. My sister asked me to move to the servants' quarters, 

and memories came flooding back to when my other elder 

sister did the same to my mother. 

This place had a bad stench to it and I tried to clean it. 

There was no electricity and we had to use candles, but I 

had my children with me this time and had found them a 

primary school nearby. I had managed to secure a job, too, 

at a hotel, which was just walking distance from where we 

were staying. 

I believed my relatives would help in looking after the 

children, but I was wrong. My sister came back from 

Germany and decided to buy a big house and she wanted 

most of her siblings to come and live with her; fortunately, 

I was one of them, and my sister knew about my situation. 

There was a time when my sister did not have any 

accommodation, where she lived with me in this small 

rented room where I was living and she had arrived from 

overseas. She had encouraged me to go to Harare and bring 

the children with me, as now she had a big house, and 

everything would be okay. 

I know other people want their children to go through 

what they went through, which I find difficult to 

understand. I tried to make sure my children came first, and 

I knew they loved me, and I am a proud mother. It was not 

easy during this time to support them single-handedly. I 

didn't get support from anyone, I had to rely on myself to 

clothe and feed us. 

I was living with my children in Bulawayo where I got 

a job as a chambermaid in a very expensive hotel, which is 

where Morgan Freeman was staying while he was over in 

We managed to keep them warm on the train, but it was 

very cold, and when we finally arrived at Bulawayo, we 

stayed with my other sister who had bought a house with 

reasonable room. But things did not go very well there. My 

kids were accused of breaking door handles, and not in a 

nice way; after all my children had gone through, that hurt 

me. My sister asked me to move to the servants' quarters, 

and memories came flooding back to when my other elder 

sister did the same to my mother. 

This place had a bad stench to it and I tried to clean it. 

There was no electricity and we had to use candles, but I 

had my children with me this time and had found them a 

primary school nearby. I had managed to secure a job, too, 

at a hotel, which was just walking distance from where we 

were staying. 

I believed my relatives would help in looking after the 

children, but I was wrong. My sister came back from 

Germany and decided to buy a big house and she wanted 

most of her siblings to come and live with her; fortunately, 

I was one of them, and my sister knew about my situation. 

There was a time when my sister did not have any 

accommodation, where she lived with me in this small 

rented room where I was living and she had arrived from 

overseas. She had encouraged me to go to Harare and bring 

the children with me, as now she had a big house, and 

everything would be okay. 

I know other people want their children to go through 

what they went through, which I find difficult to 

understand. I tried to make sure my children came first, and 

I knew they loved me, and I am a proud mother. It was not 

easy during this time to support them single-handedly. I 

didn't get support from anyone, I had to rely on myself to 

clothe and feed us. 

I was living with my children in Bulawayo where I got 

a job as a chambermaid in a very expensive hotel, which is 

where Morgan Freeman was staying while he was over in 

Zimbabwe making a movie. He gave me a tip of ten dollars. 

I had seen him on TV, and I was ecstatic to see him and the 

crew. He was so nice to me, and he shook my hand. 

When they arrived from America, Warner Brothers 

booked into a hotel called Nesbitt Castle, which is one of 

the most expensive hotels in Bulawayo. I met with Keith, 

who also was travelling with Warner Brothers and was an 

artist for them. They used to leave early in the morning for 

castings and I used to clean his room and make his bed 

every day. He used to leave notes in our secret places and 

used to tell me what time they would come back after 

casting. 

Before they left, he asked me join him in America and 

I was willing to go but it turned out not to be as when 

Warner Brothers left, I did not hear from him. 

Although there were not many rooms, they needed to 

be spotlessly clean. We were allocated rooms to clean and 

these rooms were all given names; all the bedrooms had 

brass taps and they had to be cleaned thoroughly. It was 

hard and during that time we were not given any lunch. The 

money was not good. I had already heard that in South 

Africa there were better paying jobs, but I had to think of 

the children, and I worried about who was going to look 

after them when I was not there. The decision to go to South 

Africa was not an easy one. But I went anyway with the 

hope to raise more money.

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