The somber abusive story of Tarisai
Fathering isn’t the sole responsibility of biological fathers but anyone willing to fill in the shoes.
They say sexual abuse happens at the hands of known perpetrators and I’m one of them. Deep in the rustic Mt Darwin, my wish has always been to have a normal life which any girl would have.
It wasn’t so for me. Every child, I, think needs both parents to be there when growing up and divorces or separations can have a huge mental toll especially on the child. I wouldn’t know from my mother’s side why she left my father but what happened, happened.
Once upon a time I had a voluptuous body. I was chubby for my age and with breasts perking up, I never thought my step father want to womanise and dehumanize me. I remember this one day of many encounters when my mother had gone to the market to sell her wares. I was washing my clothes and my step father called me into the house. He said he wanted the bedroom cleaned. Unassuming, I went in. He forced himself on me repeatedly.
Im 17 now and running away from home was either circumstantial or through feel, either way. Being abused sexually, physically and ultimately more painfully emotionally and a number of times was what made me flee from my home. In numerous attempts, I tried to warn my mother about the wicked man she married after leaving my father. Sadly this fell on deaf ears in the name of love. So blinded was she because of her love for this man who seemingly cared for her. Fathering wasn’t his strong suit.
Weighing the options of living with an abusive step father who rarely provided for no one but my mother and this fine man who promised to marry me, I eloped. He had however revealed to me he was married but could take on another wife. It was the best choice at the time. This makes me wonder at times that there are two types of forced marriages. One of being forced by circumstances with the other being that of physical coercion, you know being dragged into a marriage you don’t want usually to an old man.
I left for this married man in the hope of a better future but it never rained but poured for me. Living in a polygamous setting is something I wouldn’t advise to any young girl especially in Mt Darwin. Because he didn’t pay any roora, the treatment I get in this marriage is not desirable. The husband’s wife gangs up with the in-laws in my ill-treatment worsening my plight. I have a child now and I cant go back home.
I have since thinned out losing weight father than an anorexic person due to the stress Im enduring at this place.
My name is Tarisai Hambakwe (not real name) and this is my somber story
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Painful tale of a Grade 6 orphan
Born Lucia Tanyaradzwa, losing both my parents was the most difficult experience in my life. First was my mother who passed on when I was three. My father joined her in death when I had just started my Grade 5.
I was left in the care of my grandmother who had many other grandchildren to take care of. Most of my uncle and aunts had passed on as well or were in South Africa searching for the elusive green pastures.
My grandmother due to remittances from her children managed to take us to school and due to our traditions, the males are given the privilege to have their education prioritised. Because the money from the diaspora dwindled, this left my grandmother no choice but to stop sending me to school.
I have since stopped schooling and Im 14 now when I should be in Grade 6. In my culture it appears marriage is the only way out of the misery. I have a child and married. My husband is into many trades such as thatching other peoples huts, at times he gets fancy jobs as painting. I cannot sit home given the earnings are still meagre for us as child rearing has its own demands.
The husband is also abusive sadly and there are many times I want to leave. Its because of my child that I want to stay. When he comes home drunk at night, he beats me up and then apologises when I tell his relatives. When I threaten to leave he apologises and I feel sorry for him which makes me want to stay.
My husband being a drunk doesn’t bring enough money home to take care of the child.
Life is unbearable in these parts of the land but could be more if it hadn’t been for organisations such as Women Space which come to our aid with other projects assuring us of better livelhoods where we can take care of our children.
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Runyararo
My name is Runyararo. I am a 60-year-old woman.
I had a child out of wedlock in the 1980s, in my early 20s. My parents were angry and said I had set a bad example for my younger sister. I had been in a relationship with a man whose family had high expectations for him, and those expectations did not include me. When they found out I was pregnant, they fast-tracked a scholarship for him outside the country and he left. I never saw him again. I was devastated but there was nothing I could do.
I thought at least I would have my child, but this was not to be. Once I had weaned my son, my ex-boyfriend’s family came, negotiated with my father and took my son away, saying they could give him a better future than I could. I had no say in the matter.
My father thought I stood a better chance of finding a husband if I presented myself as childless. He insisted that I move to Harare to live with my uncle and his family, for a fresh start. I lived with them for two years, did a secretarial course, found a job, and began to enjoy life again. At work I met a man who wanted to marry me even though he knew I had had a child. My status in my family was restored. I was no longer an embarrassment. I had redeemed myself.
What my family did not know was that my new husband was a nasty, angry drunk. They only saw him as the sweetest, most loving husband. The beatings started within a few months of our marriage. At first it was slaps across the face if he didn’t like what I cooked or how I ironed his shirts. I didn’t tell anyone, and told myself that, as my husband, he had the right to discipline me. I knew that my mother went through the same thing. There were no scars; no one therefore ever needed to know.
As time went on, the beatings got worse. I was constantly on edge when he was home. He progressed from beating me with his hands to using whatever he could grab. Sometimes it would be belts, pots, or sticks, anything. I always explained away all my wounds and bruises. Sometimes I simply said I had absent-mindedly walked into a door. Somehow, I knew how to excuse his actions without second thought. In that period, I was blessed with three sons. Somehow, I stayed for them. I blamed myself for all things wrong in my life.
It was when my husband came home one night, late as usual, that the starkness of my reality hit me in the face. It wasn’t the lateness, nor his drunken state, but the parcel he was endearingly clinging onto. Without saying a word, he proceeded to the bedroom and gently laid down the parcel, a seemingly sharp axe prior to hopping into bed. I realized that this was more than a warning; a threat to my very existence. My heart leapt. If I did not act, I would be doomed, and have no one to blame. I wondered who to confide in. I became resolute that leaving the marital home was my only positive option. Perhaps skipping the country even. My mother did not agree. Only when I showed her the axe, and explained that it had become a daily ritual for my husband to religiously wipe it, stretch it in my direction prior to placing it on its permanent position under the bed that she conceded to my plan. She had always insisted that I stay for my children, just as she had stayed for us. Had we not benefited from having two parents under one roof?
My scars were too many. They were multi-layered. Physical, emotional and psychological. I hardly slept and behaved like the proverbial hare – always ready to run. Because I had shielded him so, I had had excuses for all the drama and pain endured, it was no longer easy to open up. Everybody looked at me with envy, as my husband had a way of charming the world. My community respected him. But I had an axe not just to respect, but to fear, lest it be raised at me. The beatings had increased steadily over time. It was time for me to slip off. I had never needed a passport. Luckily, in those days, applying for a passport was not the nightmare it is today. After three months, I had my travel document and slipped off to England. I did not need a visa. My hope was that my children would follow. My husband was to have none of that. He would not release the 3, 6 and 8 year old boys onto a plane to a mother who had run away from him. He insisted on his revenge. That if I really wanted the children, I had to come and face him. How could I? The physical barrier did not deter me from communicating with my children. I sent money and did all I could remotely. But nothing replaces a physical relationship. We all shared the anticipation that when they turned 18, they would seek their own passports and join me. Inevitably, time came for the boys to join me. But we had lost out on time. I yearned for years that I could have helped them navigate life. It was not easy.
With an alcoholic father, they had literally lost sense of value for a lot of life’s niceties. They had gotten themselves into drugs and alcohol too. And England was not a place to want to instill Zimbabwean values to young adults. Though they have decided to get on with their lives in ways that aggrieve me, I am still very grateful that they are with me. I am grateful that I am able to reflect on my life and give thanks that I escaped in the manner in which I did, and am alive to share my story. Gender Based Violence destroys families, destroys the rubric of life and hurts, not just the victim, but those around them – my children have been scarred for life. I am far from my homeland, and I am alone but grateful to be alive.
