My Walk through Shame

By Sifelani Masamba

My Walk Through Shame will transport you to Unit M in Seke in the Harare Province of Zimbabwe, the dusty roads of Kenzamba, Regent House in Cape Town, the corridors of Red Cross Children's Hospital, right to the seat of the massive metal bird, Boeing enroute to Australia. You will most likely shed some tears, burst into laughter, feel your heart smiling and a surge of courage and inspiration building up while indulging Sifelani Masamba's story. You will definitely learn of how resilient the human spirit is or rather can be. 

 

My Walk Through Shame will really help you walk your own walk. The book will help you walk to places within yourself that you may be afraid, or feeling ashamed to visit alone. Sifelani is one talented writer whose storytelling ability transports you with images and get you glued up to every page because you never know what to expect, which makes his writing, seasoned with sacarsm and humour, therapeutic. Indeed sharing one's story is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller, but also for us who hear those stories and feel less alone because of it. 

Like Michelle Obama in Becoming said: Even when it's not pretty or perfect, even when it's more real than you want it to be. Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own. And My Walk Through Shame will empower you to own yours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sifelani Masamba
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780796109842

Book preview

My

WALK

THROUGH

SHAME

My Walk through Shame

Sifelani Masamba

––––––––

Copyright © 2023 Sifelani Masamba

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First published 2023

ISBN: 978-0-7961-0983-5

eISBN: 978-0-7961-0984-2

To the two souls whose love and affection towards me have always been expressed without measure – my girls;

Blessing, my first born who lived a short but meaningful life. Your indelible works, infectious smile and graceful conduct will remain to us priceless treasures.

Moreblessing, who now stands like a brand plucked from the fire. It is your presence that encourages me to summon the courage and energy to approach each new day and every new challenge with increasing willingness.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

Introduction

A milk and honey genesis

Chapter 1

Unwanted change

Chapter 2

Our survival

Chapter 3

The way we lived

Chapter 4

Understanding mom

Chapter 5

Settling into new hardships

Chapter 6

In pursuit of fortune

Chapter 7

Fading hope

Chapter 8

Daddy out of the blue

Chapter 9

Finally, out of Nyaunde

Chapter 10

Kenzamba, a better school

Chapter 11

How daddy watered my spirit

Chapter 12

My first experience in high school

Chapter 13

Trying to discover myself, alone

Chapter 14

My brief stay in Gokwe

Chapter 15

Resettling in Kenzamba

Chapter 16

School again

Chapter 17

Living with grandma

Chapter 18

Living with daddy

Chapter 19

Losing my father

Chapter 20

Earning my first income

Chapter 21

Losing Mom

Chapter 22

A new era without mom

Chapter 23

Finding a church

Chapter 24

Getting arrested

Chapter 25

Losing Actor

Chapter 26

Under the mine/ Girl crush

Chapter 27

Without a plan

Chapter 28

Ill – prepared

Chapter 29

Lessons from Zambia

Chapter 30

Meeting Obert

Chapter 31

Going to Gaborone blindly

Chapter 32

When I least expected it

Chapter 33

Settling in Cape Town

Chapter 34

No glamour in our start

Chapter 35

Partnering in business

Chapter 36

Moreblessing

Chapter 37

A new set of battles

Chapter 38

A perfect storm

Chapter 39

My quest to know

Chapter 40

Marriage fails

Chapter 41

When little kids become your greatest teachers

Chapter 42

A challenge like I never thought

Chapter 43

A passion from the past

Chapter 44

The chapter I hate to write

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Foreword

When our mutual friend Aaron connected me with Sifelani to help review his manuscript and provide publishing guidance to him, I thought as an ardent reader, it would take me a couple of days to read the book since I’m the kind that struggles to read the book and put it away to continue the next day – it haunts me to get to the last page in few sittings. With My Walk Through Shame I couldn’t. As an empath, I found myself feeling every emotion and experience embodied in Sifelani’s journey; I was transported to Unit M in the Harare Province of Zimbabwe, the dusty roads of Kenzamba, Regent House in Cape Town, the corridors of Red Cross Children’s  Hospital, right to the seat of the massive metal bird, Boeing enroute to Australia. There were tears that were shed, laughter bursted into, smiling hearts experienced, and a surge of courage and inspiration felt. I saw how resilient the human spirit is or rather can be.

My Walk Through Shame, will really help you walk your own walk. The book will help you walk to places within yourself that you may be afraid or feeling ashamed to visit alone. Sifelani is one talented writer whose storytelling ability transports you with images and get you glued up to every page because you never know what to expect, which makes his writing, seasoned with sarcasm and humour, therapeutic. Indeed, sharing one’s story is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller, but also for us who hear those stories and feel less alone because of it. Like Michelle Obama in Becoming said: Even when it’s not pretty or perfect, even when it’s more real than you want it to be. Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own. And My Walk Through Shame will empower you to own yours.

-  Kgadi Mmanakana

Competitive Advantage Strategist, Speaker, and Author

Polokwane, South Africa

27 August 2023

Prologue

When I was a kid, there was a time I had no clue that food grows from the ground. From the time I became aware of my existence, I lived in the city and knew no other life, and my world was painted sorely in the marvels of the vibrant charming city life. My childish thoughts and actions where shaped by the world around me. It was that setting that planted in me a misconception that food comes from supermarket shelves.

Then, when I least suspected it, while I was still in the tender bloom of my existence, life gently spewed us out of the vibrancy of our familiar city surroundings and before I knew it, I found myself living in the rural area where we grew our own food and ate of the ground, and from the ground.

Despite that sudden change, our home remained a place where peace and love seemed supreme, and my parents where my world. Outside of my small world, nothing mattered and I never cared to worry.

Then life turned a sour page to usher us into another scripted chapter in which there was a radical turn of events. My parents parted ways and life threw us further into what felt like a valley, further away from civilization, and from that moment we found ourselves in a place where we wouldn’t dare to dream. As we became aware of our surroundings, it became a taboo to envision or dream of a day out of the abyss. We found ourselves living far from civilization that I remember the coming and going of the bus being the only thing within reach that reminded us of a civilised society beyond our rustic realms.

Even though we could see the jumbo jet flying high in the sky above leaving a trail of cloud like smoke that stained the sky. It was hard from our point of view to imagine fellow human beings sitting in it, talking, eating while journeying to attend life affairs. I remember how it felt otherworldly to be ambitious, let alone daring to dream of a day we could be among the throngs seated and taking a trip in a jumbo jet, or picture myself traveling the world or dreaming with eyes open.

We grew up grinding in poverty, a life of fruitless toil in which fortune refused to work in our favour, our surroundings forbade us to dream or plan. Nonetheless we taught ourselves to view our glass as half full and cultivate attributes that have helped us crawl out of the bottomless pit to a world of possibilities.

From our humbling setting, we drew invaluable lessons that became tools useful to navigate life path which as ever, had been fraught with peril and adventure.

At every stage in my journey, it seemed like odds of a supernatural nature and the universe itself have been conspiring against me, throwing all sorts of obstacles. So, I learned to fight and overcome feelings of shame and despair. Even now, I haven’t won accolades, but I can’t help to celebrate every small stride especially in this life jungle in which I have been a nomad from the time my parents divorced.

Introduction

A milk and honey genesis

My preschool memories feel like a secret portal to a distant planet that isn't plagued by Earth's troubles. Oh how I long to journey back and be there in person and re-live those unforgettable moments. Unfortunately, that ability to wind back the clock is beyond me. Nevertheless, I still cherish with unbridled excitement the joy and those fond recollections of our time in Seke, the place where my wheel of life began to swing.

I have longed with no success to remember more beyond Seke. Despite my inability to recollect beyond my early years in unit M when I was just four years old, I treasure the simple pleasures of playing barefoot in the warm sunshine and hearing the laughter of my mom and fellow stay-at-home ladies gossiping over the fence to satisfy their curiosity in what I now feel was their rat race routine. The prominent sweet scent of blossoming flowers from our avocado and peach trees is forever rooted in my mind, a reminder of the innocence of my childhood spent in Seke.

All my recollections cannot go beyond this point and telling my life story takes off with my reminiscences of living at house 17248 in unit M, in Seke Chitungwiza.  A house like all the typical government-built structures consisting of two rooms built of cement blocks. Inside, we had the infamous water system squat pan toilet, a concreted earthenware bowl in the floor that required you to squat as if you were using a pit latrine. Additionally, we had a high-level cistern that was raised to allow gravity to provide the necessary water pressure for flushing. At that time, we had no issues with this setup, as it was considered the best available option.

Our country Zimbabwe was still young, fresh from the liberation war that led to independence from the British a few years back. Young our country was, yet there were significant advances in the urban, like the availability of constant supply of electricity running in cables housed in conduits pinned to wall surfaces. Not forgetting the perennial supply of water running in pressurized galvanized steel pipes, ready to supply clean water at the slightest turn of the tap.

The house stood proudly on the corner, just two streets away from the main tarred road that marked the boundary between housing units and St. Aidens Primary School. As far as I was concerned, all of my memories of life on this planet began at this very house. It was the moment when I became aware of my existence, and everything that came before it was a hazy, distant dream that I could only rely on my parents to recount for me. They told me stories of our previous homes, like the one in Chegutu, which was still referred to by its colonial name of Hartley, or Gatoma, which was their colonial name for Kadoma. But to me, those places remained nothing more than fantastical imaginings, existing only in the stories my parents shared with me. Nonetheless, I cherished those stories and held onto them tightly, as they were a link to a past that I could only imagine, but never truly experience.

At that time, both of my older sisters were already attending St. Aidens School, while I spent most of my days at home with my mom and my aunt, Perisa. Auntie Perisa (Priscila) was my only childhood friend, my confidante, and my partner in crime. She would often take me to visit her friends who lived just two streets away from our humble abode. However, during these visits, I never touched any food or drink, as my mother had taught me to be cautious about accepting things from strangers. But one day, after much convincing from my beloved aunt, I finally gave in and ate something. I felt assured that my best friend and confidante would keep it a secret. However, upon leaving her friend's house, she made a complete fool of me by threatening to report me to my mom. I felt utterly scared and tricked, so I protested, vowing to tell Mommy the real story. From that moment on, my auntie bestowed upon me a special nickname - Mandikwatisa. She was the only one who called me that until she passed away.

While my auntie was my only trusted confidant, my trust towards her had limits. I would not allow her to bathe me, neither would I undress while she looked on. The only person who had the privilege of bathing me was none other than my mom. This only made sense, as she had been doing it since the day I was born. When we lived with Auntie, I knew she had kids, two boys, but I was too young to ask why her kids, Augustine and Truther were not with her. Above everything, we lived with no problems. Most of the time it was mainly Mom, Auntie, myself, my two elder sisters and my little sister who was still nursing. Daddy would return every month's end or holiday because he was an employee in civil construction.

Many relatives had not acquired houses in the city, my parents being among the few privileged that got from the government rent-to-buy houses. Our house did not only become a haven for our family, but relatives would come and go, some spending days, some weeks depending on what programs they had. Life seemed good and promising.

People looked progressive, many already expanding their houses and beautifying their homes. I don’t think my parents felt any pressure because things looked promising especially to people that had jobs like my dad. Urban life looked promising and attractive, the environment in the city offered relaxation and tranquillity, the kind that is still felt in countries considered developed. The streets were nicely tarred and clean, and from end to end there was no sign of garbage. People never knew sewer drainage could get clogged and overflow. Words like overpopulated, potholes, and load shedding among others were never uttered even from the lips of the most educated or eloquent person.

Life in the city was nothing short of inviting, with its distinct charm setting it apart from any rural setting. The city nights were a spectacle to behold, with bright tower lights illuminating the streets from end to end.

For any forward-thinking student in a rural school, the desire to one day make it to the city and live a life of ease was almost palpable. The city promised endless opportunities and possibilities, and the overwhelming majority dreamed of being a part of it. As for me, until that stage in life, all I had known was city life, nonetheless, mom had always sung a beautiful chorus about another form of life in the rural area, an idea well sold to me that I longed to find my way to go and see the experience.

So, one day we packed our bags and headed to Guruve, and I never knew we were not coming back, and I never figured we were drifting into trouble.

Chapter 1

Unwanted change

It all started unexpectedly on a clear, sunny morning. I was just a young and well-fed boy, feeling content and blissful in our home, surrounded by a loving family. I never saw any lack in wants or needs, and I always supposed my glass as half full. However, one day, change paid us a sudden visit, and in the blink of an eye, our peaceful morning was turned into chaos.

Change had been stealthily lurking in the shadows until that day when it caught us completely off guard. Our father had arrived the previous evening, arriving when we were all asleep. So, upon waking up we anticipated a great day like the previous times, alas! The morning decided to set a different tone for our day, and in one day, our familiar surroundings transformed from a place of peace, joy, and happiness to one of uncertainty and fear.

I was now six, still trying to make sense of life, but the memories of that day have remained ever vivid in my mind. My dad was dear to me, I felt strong about him with a constant longing to see more of him because he stayed away because of work. Dad lived away from home most of the time because of the nature of his work, however, he made it definite to often come home at each month's end or at any given time.

In my judgment, which was perhaps the judgment of a small mind, all was flawless, and I felt satisfied, neither I nor my siblings sensed any danger out there, and never was I bothered to imagine an impending doom like a thick dark cloud hanging over our little family loaded and threatening to rain trouble, again no signs of any sort of trouble, not even the type that hides in the dark closet.

Forgive my ignorance which perhaps was a result of me being too minor to care or imagine the closed doors concealing any form of trouble, I had all the things I desired at my disposal. I mean, at that early age, worry never existed in my life curriculum, there was no room for it because my mother cared and made sure I was well clean and fed, while dad showered me with all kinds whenever he came home. My father possibly spoiled me somewhat during those early years.

From the faintest recollections of my childhood, while we lived in Seke unit M, I was still the only boy surrounded by girls. Daddy probably out of ignorance cultivated in me an inclination towards sweet things, and it got me into trouble so many times when Mom would return home to find me sitting with a pan full of sugar after a failed attempt to make sweets. Not forgetting also how Mom made sure to hide condensed milk, not only from me. Condensed milk was the biggest temptation for any kid to resist, but I was found at the forefront of it. All these and more were the things that meant the world to me.

Besides these little spoils, I had toys also, not so many of them, but only one at a time, as I could not have more than one or play with one for too long.

From these early days, one thing became clear, I began to exhibit a curious mentality, I could feel restless until I open that toy or break it apart to see what was inside it, and why it worked the way it did. This annoyed my parents, especially my father to the point where he stopped buying toys for me.

All things around our home according to my small mind made my life delightful. The only problem that interrupted my joy now and then was a terrible headache that used to hammer me to the point of bleeding profusely through the nose, it was a worry for Mom, and the same problem continued up until I was around 15-16 but eventually vanished.

We lived alright with less to no complaints and worries. Little did I know a day was coming in which settings would take a radical turn.

My guess then and now was, and still is; mom would have known things were descending to the steep, but I feel like she never foresaw the house she was building brick upon brick with much determination coming to a crash.

Because of the telling signs that were so obvious to her, she intelligently devised a way to prepare and trick us into the future, and I think she did a sterling job making sure what awaited us ahead would never stress us. Honestly, Mom had a clever way of preparing us for difficult times, this was not the first time she pre-programmed us into this kind of thing.

I remember how she used the same method when we were still in Seke Chitungwiza, Mom knew she was preparing to go and live in Guruve, so she sang praises about the goodness of life in Guruve and I for one could not wait to get there and live the experience.

Now we were living in Guruve rural where most of our relatives also lived. Our beloved home was nowhere near glamorous, only two simple small standalone structures, the bedroom in rectangular shape and a round hut kitchen, all built of backed farm brick with a thatched roof overhead. However, humble it was, yet it appealed to me as the best home ever. It’s an impression that makes me agree that a home is more than just a building.

On that memorable day, my father asked me to run an errand in Kuraini, a nearby family compound where most of our relatives lived, he sent me to call his brother. Raini or Lane was a quick 15-minute walk. It was on my return when I sensed unmistakable signs of trouble, filling the whole atmosphere, instantly, a chill washed over me as I tried to make sense of the commotion.

The dark clouds that had been hovering over our seemingly perfect family finally let loose, unleashing a storm of epic proportions. The joy, peace, and happiness that we had treasured for so long were suddenly overwhelmed by invisible giants that seemed determined to just swallow everything in whole.

For as long as I could remember, my world had been filled with nothing but love, happiness, and peace. But on this day, I was introduced to a side of life that I had never known before - a world without the warmth and affection of my father. Before our very eyes, the love that had once held our family together was replaced by an epic silence, leaving us all to wonder if our lives would ever be the same again. What a way to be unleashed into a new life, a stark reminder to me how even the most perfect of families could be torn apart in an instant.

Just like that, my parents were separated, and we were all left aghast. I only came to understand the ultimate reason for my parent’s separation when I went to Granny that same afternoon. Daddy had brought with him another woman, a fat one, sitting there, making sure my mom and the kids, five of us, immediately embark on a new journey like one we never anticipated. Surprisingly, my grandma seemed cool about it, that left Mom alienated.

Now that I am old, I understand that Mom soaked in so much from the days in Seke, and if I am right, her outburst on that day can be justified. I mean, she left city life for rural and decided to work with her own hands, and now Daddy was so daring to come and flaunt a new girlfriend before our mother.

So, to pave way for Daddy’s new chapter, Mommy had no choice but to play the matriarchal role and lead us into a nomadic life journey, thus leaving Daddy to enjoy a new season of bliss in love. What a powerful woman Daddy’s new love turned out to be, not giving care that six souls were now entering a journey into the unknown.

A journey that would ultimately strip us of dignity and cause us to appear less human but a team of strong workers. But as less human and vulnerable as we appeared before many, yet we saw ourselves at par with those that felt superior. A walk through shame. Nonetheless, a walk, a slow one though, and there was not another walk to talk, hence we braved the journey and began to inch through the journey of shame, daring to ride the many obstacles awaiting us in the way.

From that point onwards, it dawned on me that avoiding this shame walk was not an option, trying to avoid shame land would have been equal to denying self of destiny. Until and unless I walk it, the land of promise would remain with its green meadows and rivers of pleasure on the distant horizon.

That day, with its unforgettable events, marked the beginning of our never-ending troubles that seemed insurmountable, but we neither cared nor worry about the dangers and obstacles that lay ahead. Sometimes, I reminisce and glance back, while other times my thoughts focus ahead. One thing I've learned is that life constantly asks questions, and it never falls short of them. Even when I give my all, life doesn't relent. Therefore, I've stopped trying to provide answers.

Life is full of mysterious twists and turns, and you can't find the answers to life's relentless questions. Instead, when life bombarded us with questions. We in turn end up with countless unanswered questions that require simple yet profound answers.

Is life simply a vapour, a mist that dissipates into nothingness? Or a mystery at work from date of birth to date of death? Perhaps it's a persistent sickness whose only cure is death? Perhaps, life is an angry bull called Dilemma, with two deadly horns and we are trapped and tossed in between the horns with no escape in sight. Whichever way I chose, and whichever theory I chose to believe.

The quest for the simple answers or the desire to see the piecing together of the puzzle that makes life worth living, whichever way I choose, every single, simple meaningful thing that makes life beautiful remains elusive. And it seems like the more I walk further, the more I realize there’s no need to keep searching behind closed doors when trouble is always staring me in the eye with a menacing grin, trouble big enough to take us through the year and beyond.

So, let me leave the more subliminal anxieties that lurk within me. I mean, why bother searching the inner room, when dilemma knows how to sniff me and locate me?

The events of that unforgettable day were so brief but bitter. Soon we were getting ready to leave. To me in particular, when we left Guruve for Sachuru, it felt like we were going to be better off, after all, mom’s brothers according to the many good stories were so rich, they had many heads of cows from which they milked not less than 20L a day. That to me sounded like a lot of milk, having been used to the 500ml of sterilised milk, I could only picture what it can be like to have 20L milk every day. That sounded promising for a start. I couldn’t wait to leave; I had my picture of the adventure ahead.

Our leaving was so sudden. These dramas took place a few days before school commenced. I saw my classmates and never informed them I was leaving in a day; they were older than me, and in fighting, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I had always played second best to all of them, but not on this day when I knew they would not be seeing me in a very long time, if not at all. I stood there while arrogantly speaking to the two guys.

Next, I picked up a large rock and charged at them, they looked in between terrified and perplexed, of course they had all the reasons to get astounded, this was the first time they had ever seen me exhibiting such levels of arrogance. They knew me as that timid boy who at any point was willing to lose an argument for the sake of peace, now it was my time to unleash the rudeness within me as a means of revenge to my bullish friends. That day they found no answer to my insolence but only ran away, nonetheless shouting from a distance, giving a promise to deal with me on the first day of school.

I don’t know what my fate would have been. Imagine if for some reason, probably a reconciliation between my parents, or a change for any reason, imagine if we had stayed. So, after this, I prayed for leaving without failure. But I surely did not know what I was praying for. Thank goodness there was no turning back, all was set, everything packed and only waiting for the next morning to say bye to Guruve.

Then the excitement, the exuberance of a 6-year-old who had just registered a journey in his mind kicked in. The mere thought of embarking on a journey through town would leave me positively giddy with excitement. I can still recall the Goosebumps that would run down my arms, and the flutter of butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated the adventure ahead. Sometimes, my anticipation would even manifest in vivid overnight hallucinations, where the sound of an approaching bus would ring in my ears with such clarity that I would awaken from my slumber to listen more closely. Despite the fact that the night was still young and there was no actual bus in sight, I was often plagued by these auditory hallucinations that seemed all too real.

I certainly cannot be the only one who can relate to this experience, a lot of my fellas who had the privilege of living in an area where the bus is the prominent vehicle that passes by can share this experience. It was not necessarily that longing to be in the bus and watch the trees rushing backwards that brought about that appetite for travelling. But it was mainly this thing, a major one that kept us on our toes, pushing our anxiety levels to the limits, nothing other than the longing for a cold Coke accompanied by that candy coated in pink cream, the candy was commonplace on many bus terminus around Zimbabwe.

That candy cake remains legendary for causing the young and the old to salivate just by looking at it. Even bees could not help but gather around that candy for its cream to the point of making people uncomfortable because of their numbers. I don’t know of any person who did not love the combination of Coke and candy. It was indeed difficult for anyone to overcome the ever-inviting candy. So, who were we not to love pink creamed candy?

In our hearts, we considered it a crime against humanity for any parent to fail to buy their kids pink creamed Candy. It felt like a sad day seeing the candy man waving it over and over while you salivate. Even the coke was so strong and felt like it could resuscitate the fainted, but surprisingly it invited you back for more, it had the sharp sensational taste that felt like a thousand needles hitting against your tongue and mouth causing your tears to fill your eyes on the first sip. It also had that long-lasting tingling after-effect that calls for your return.

Ah, those were the days of the family-size bottle, how surprising that a family could share a 1.5L and be satisfied. Nowadays you probably need a barrel to keep everyone happy. Those things caused us less sleep and made the clock tick so slowly all night, we were children and doing things only children do.

Finally, after a long night, dawn was upon us, while it was still dark, Mom had the previous day arranged and hired an Ox-drawn cart to ferry the portable things of her belongings and all our clothing, arriving early at Mudhindo to catch the first-morning bus. Everything happened so quick, soon we were on the bus, looking through the windows hoping to see someone we knew, but there was no familiar face to wave goodbye to.

Then, the bus began to move slowly, gradually picking speed, past Nyanhunzi which is only a kilometre from Mudhindo, I kept watching through the window, the maize fields, the round thatched red-brick huts, even the houses closer to the road in Nyanhunzi Hwadaya where our cousins, Abedi and Collins lived, I saw all these objects and structures rushing back towards Mudhindo, I was later told the trees were not running, it’s called an optical illusion.

Soon there were no more fields, neither were there any houses to see, but only green little trees and tall grass rushing back, this time all rushing much faster as our bus picked more speed. Before we knew it, we were descending towards a low area approaching Mukuvadze bridge in the Mavare river, then past the bridge, I could hear the change of sound and a slight pushback against my seat as the driver threw the bus into a lower gear to go past a steady incline, climbing Mukuvadze incline into a narrow-tarred road, setting the bus towards Rafingora through the many commercial farms whose impressive tobacco, Maize and wheat fields also rushed backwards towards Mudhindo as the bus reached travelling speed, tearing away from the second home we ever knew.

While the bus was carrying us from one trouble to the unknown, one could not fail to take notice of the conductor of the bus wearing a strong brown leather bag shoulder crossed by its strong leather belt to have it rested on his right hip while he executed his duty of collecting money and recording in a duplicated ticket book. The man looked conscious of the movements and shaking that required him to keep steadying himself to remain standing. He comfortably staggered nonstop time and again to keep to terms with the movements as he continually collects money while writing in the ticket book making sure every passenger got served. We were truly on our way; it was goodbye to Guruve as we went off to live at our Mom’s ancestral home.

The following morning we awoke to a new life, a new environment, in a semi-primitive location, surrounded by all new faces, many of the elderly knew us by names and they all seemed excited at our appearance on the scene, probably because they assumed we were only visiting. Once we began to settle, we looked forward to all the goodness Mom used to sing. But, despite the glamorization and romanticizing of the adventure that lay ahead, the experiences that awaited us were far from fairy tales, life was waiting with open jaws and a bucket full of misery.

How foolish I expected to swim through the sea of life expecting an easy and quick swim to the shore. Experience is truly the best teacher, the Sea gets rougher and angry, and there is a pushback against every forward effort, swells become high and boisterous, threatening to send you crushing to the bottom of the sea. To make it to the shore, you have to keep making strokes, one after the other, a stroke of hope followed by a kick of faith and belief. In many cases in life, perception is the guy that carries you to leave you mid-ocean and you have to find your way to the shore

Chapter 2

Our survival

The upbringing of my siblings and I was branded by such hardships. For some reason or no reason, almost all the things that we touched turned out sour, and for that reason, our meals were almost exclusively sour things. Sour things for a meal could be an underestimation, there were many days, evenings, and mornings when our hunt failed us and we would wish to have sour things, those days I vividly recall were many, all these things and many, we learned to normalize. Normalizing such was good for us so that we could accept our situation, live within our means, and not bother anyone. It’s not like we did not wish for the finer things of life or daydream about them, we, like all sane persons, had it in our hearts and our wishes to someday sit down and enjoy the goodness that life affords, but while we normalized it, we tried to tread between the balance in order for us to not be content and settle in mediocrity.

Each new day we woke up with hope and enthusiasm to keep trying, but, for one reason or the other, things did not go according to our wishes despite the hard work and effort of our mom. So, we did what was good for us, we minded our business, and we minded it so well. Despite all the problems that kept hammering us, there were surprising, yet laudable, decent attributes that can be credited to the whole family, but mostly to Mom for the way she brought us up.

We never had gloomy moments in our family. Secondly, we were not known in society for the wrong reasons, never in a single day was there an ill report, and never was one of us caught stealing or gate-crashing dinner meals. Mom had a way and a secret – she modelled us without sitting down to lecture us. Without sitting us down in the lecture room she taught us to see value in ourselves and return dignity even when we sat crammed up and entangled in poverty and meaninglessness. I really wouldn’t mind tapping into her gift, hopefully, I have such attributes. I don’t know.

Without any formal education, Mom was able to model us into knowing the way to live in dignity, how to behave when we visit, and most importantly we were taught how to maintain correct body language when we had visitors at home. It was a punishable offense to linger around and become a distraction while visitors were eating or talking. We were discouraged to look visitors in the face especially while they ate. Hence, we preferred to play outside until they get done eating, she also taught us how we should not look strangers in the eye when travelling on the bus, especially while someone was eating. For this reason, it became natural for me to shy away from making eye contact, and you know this habit became a struggle to overcome, the time I began to meet with people from the