The Hidden Pain: A stolen innocence

By Thando Eland

Raised in the sweltering savannas of Zimbabwe, Thando leads a typical life for a middle-class African girl. She attends school and church. She loves American television shows and American music. Thando lives in a happy household with a wonderful family, and has never wanted for love.
But Thando holds a dark secret in her heart. For most of her life, God has hidden away these memories, locked them inside her until the day she was strong enough to bear them again...
A true story of loss and hardship, of hope and rebirth. After years of abuse at the hands of men she should have been able to trust, Thando uses her bleak history to bring hope and healing to others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thando Eland
• Release date: Jul 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311636713

Thando Eland

Thando Eland is the author of the memoir The Hidden Pain. She credits her inspiration for writing this book with a strong belief that despite what one has gone through, there is always hope for the future. Thando was born and raised in Zimbabwe. She embarked on a journey to pursue her education in the United States, graduating with a Bachelor's of Science in Computer Information Technology from Purdue University and a Master's in Business Administration from Anderson University, both in Indiana. She is currently working as an IT Professional.Based in Virginia, where she lives with her husband and two kids, Thando loves world travel and is always looking for new opportunities for cross-cultural personal enrichment.

Book preview

Author’s Notes

I am writing under a pseudonym.

Writing this book has been very therapeutic for me. Getting everything out on a paper has helped me heal and release emotions and fears which I held so deeply for so long.

I pray that this book brings hope and healing to those who have gone through similar experiences and give them the courage to speak up. I hope to bring more awareness to all of us at large to better understand the largely silent but devastating epidemic of child abuse.

Dedicated to my wonderful readers. I pray that this book finds the right hands.

Table of Contents

Author’s Notes

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

An Open Letter to My Daughter

About the Author

Prologue

There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you. ~Maya Angelou

In 2009, my memories returned to me.

Anger, abuse, alcoholism. These things can all be passed from generation to generation like genetic diseases. The women in my Bible study sat at the dining room table, discussing our latest read. Anita was speaking, her copy of Experiencing God clutched to her chest. My father’s father was abusive towards his children and his wife. To this day, I have uncles who refuse to learn to clean or cook because it is 'a woman’s work,' She shook her head, her eyes sad. They look down on their wives and children, as their father looked down on them.

The women in the circle nodded, each with thoughtful or pained expressions. I studied Anita as she spoke. I could feel the presence of God in her words, almost as though He were speaking through her. There was resounding truth in what she said and it pressed against the inside of my skull, like the beginnings of a migraine. The pressure of it was nearly unbearable.

Our Bible study always took place at Jackie’s house. Jackie was a wealthy woman; she was one of the few of us with a home large enough for our weekly gatherings. The house was solid brick, decorated with high-quality, beautiful furniture and artwork. The living room where we sat was dappled with floral prints and forest green accents. The high brick fireplace stood at the far end of the room. The entire back wall was an alternating brick pattern that went all the way up to the second floor. The high ceilings made the space feel open, bright and friendly. Six of us sat together, spread out in a circle on couches and chairs, discussing Experiencing God with open hearts. I was always thankful that Jackie opened up her home so readily; these meetings would have been crowded and uncomfortable in any of our houses.

There was a small section of Experiencing God that mentioned openly discussing problems with family to prevent them from defining future generations. We all knew speaking of problems would not eliminate them, but acknowledging them was a powerful first step. We had gone off on a tangent, each of us speaking in turn about our own experiences.

Talking of their abuses, their heartaches, and their broken dreams seemed to heal them; I watched as Anita, beautiful and strong, stood a little taller as she retold the story of her father's father. He had been abusive to her as a child, beating her for the smallest infractions. Just speaking of these things to other women was a balm over her remembered hurts.

The cure for this lies in our own hands, and in our own mouths, Anita proclaimed, pressing her hand to her chest, over her heart. We must always remember, and we must speak of these things. In silence, they fester and grow. When we talk openly about them, they have a chance to heal, and a chance to be changed.

We must remember, I thought, running my fingers over the dark burgundy cover of my book, and we must speak of these things. I stared at my hands, remaining silent. I had no similar experiences to share.

Or did I? Somehow, that thought seemed wrong. Had nothing bad ever happened in my childhood? I pondered the thought. There was something, and it was teasing the edges of my mind.

In a rush, every memory that had been suppressed came rushing back to me. I nearly cried out under the rush of images. Under the flood of them, I became mute and deaf. Memories of unwanted touches filled my mind. Men’s hands in the dark, and the burn of my own tears. More tears than I cared to remember.

Like so many times before, I kept my mouth closed. The feeling of pressing my lips together to keep thoughts inside was so heart-achingly familiar, I knew this wasn't the first time I'd had to force all of these words to stay inside.

The memories were sudden, intense, and perfectly clear. I could remember every painful detail of my childhood that had remained hidden for so long. We must remember, and we must speak of these things.

Suddenly, the meeting was over. Half an hour had passed by and I could not remember anything that had been said after Anita's speech. I shook myself free of the memories as the women moved all at once to pick up their books and began saying goodbye. Anita came up to me as I stood, my knees a little shaky. Are you alright? You look ill. Anita looked genuinely concerned, her thick arching brows knitting together.

I nodded and forced my mouth to smile, even though the gesture felt forged. I'm just a little tired, I lied, wanting to leave. I needed to be alone with my thoughts. I hurried out of Jackie's, claiming a prior engagement that needed tending to. All the women waved as I pushed out the door. I pulled out my keys with shaking fingers, nearly dropping them. I got into my car and I sat in the driver's seat for a moment to catch my breath. I felt as though something was pressing against my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribcage, my blood like a tribal drum through my veins. I felt heavier somehow, as though the memories themselves had weight, a weight I was no longer used to carrying.

I knew that I could no longer keep silent, that my lips could no longer hold in the words of my abuse. My mouth could no longer contain them. My heart could not keep them inside. My shoulders could not bear this weight alone, as they had in my childhood.

My story must be told.

Until lions learn to write, hunters will tell their history for them. ~African Proverb

Chapter 1

I was born in Bulawayo, the second largest city in Zimbabwe. The city is a beacon of nearly-Westernized culture in the heart of the savannahs of Africa. We all learned English as a second language. European sports played on our television sets and American songs sang from our radios. We grew up watching television shows like Family Matters and WWF wrestling.

My family lived in a small, semi-detached house on a busy street in Luveve, a suburb northwest of Bulawayo. The ubiquitous mopane trees rose from the dry, dusty ground with twisted branches and leaves like serrated blades. In the spring, the mopane trees that lined the streets bloomed in brilliant reds and yellows, standing tall next to clusters of city buildings. Our town was dusty, beautiful, bright, and busy.

The monsoon rains would tear through the dust and the sand every summer, and then the whole country was bone dry for the rest of the year. Most of the little sprigs of plants that flowered during the wet season would die away, leaving only the heartiest of plants to thrive in the dust. The twisted mopane, whose long roots were experts at dragging water from far below the surface, were ever-present. Lawns were difficult and expensive to keep up, so most houses stood surrounded only by reddish sand and brown dust instead of green grass.

Most of Bulawayo is a beautiful, peaceful place. Although the world sees Africa as a starving, broken thing full of wars and hunger, it is not completely so. At least, not where I come from. We’ve had our wars, our battling tribes, and the blood of our ancestors once stained the red sands of Bulawayo a deep black. But my city is mostly peaceful, modern, and prosperous now.

I grew up in a middle class family. My father was a laboratory technician and my mother was a seamstress. My mother had never been able to finish high school; her family was poor and unable to pay for the school fees. Although she was never formally trained, my mother could create a wedding gown that would make a bride weep with joy. Between my father’s steady income and my mother's skills, we had enough. Even with six children, my family prospered in Bulawayo. We were privileged enough to afford hired help and a car and a house big enough for all of us. We were never short on food, and never short on space. Also, we were never short on love.

Our yard boasted an array of fruit trees among the hard-packed dirt; the guavas hung heavy and green, dripping from the branches. We grew lemon, mango, and banana trees. They all stood like sentinels over the dusty yard inside of a tall silver wire fence, closing off the fruit from passers-by. The