Phoenix Rising: The Journey to Ascension

By Noma Ndlovu

This book is about growing up in an affluent abusive household. It is also about the narcissist relationships I encountered throughout my life as a result of not healing childhood trauma. This book is medicine for my soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887517520

Book preview

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Phoenix Rising

The Journey to Ascension

Noma Ndlovu

ISBN 979-8-88751-751-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88751-752-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Noma Ndlovu

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 without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

Act 1

Epilogue

About the Author

Introduction

This is my story from happiness to sadness, from the joy to pain. They say, A family that prays together stays together. In my family, religion was used as a weapon! When we look at most family dynamics, the matriarch and patriarch roles are to nurture their children to make sure the next generation surpasses the previous generation. My household can be compared to the Russian and Ukraine conflict. One parent could be considered as Russia maintaining dominance, the other parent would be considered Ukraine. They kept up appearances with the outside world. My parents were the power couple to the obscured eye. The house of secrets was a house of illusions, secrets, and ghosts from the past.

In the beginning, there were two people who were manifesting bright futures to lift up from poverty to prosperity. They were teachers who came from impoverished communities in the rural areas. They lived through the harsh realities of colonialism during a time when they weren't free on their own homeland. They knew if they didn't change their circumstances, they were going to be destined to a life of poverty.

My father was gifted with intelligence by God; he was also very driven to change his outcome. My mother was raised by God-fearing and loving parents. My grandparents were respected in their rural community. They were educated people who were raising twelve children on my grandfather's teaching salary from a missionary school in the rural areas. Two people from two different backgrounds—one Kalanga, the other Ndebele. God chose these two people to work together to change the world and make it a better place as Michael Jackson sang.

Nothing is by coincidence. I believe every family has a chosen one. My parents were God's chosen ones of their time. God chose them to achieve his goals here on earth. Now that I'm older, I realize that God gives us the blueprint, but the outcome is ultimately up to us. Many are called, few are chosen. Some who are chosen go astray while others follow God's path to the light.

My mother and father met at a missionary school as teachers. Based on the wedding photos, it appears that they seemed to be in love, but now, I question whether it was love or a marriage of convenience. Our perception of images we see as children changes when we become adults. As children, we are oblivious of the ugly realities of life until we are taught. When I looked at images as a child, all I saw was love, but when I look at the photos as a middle-aged woman, I see illusions, secrets, and heartbreak. It was about status and keeping up with the Joneses. They were a match made in heaven as far as their abilities to succeed in life. Educational excellence was the name of the game for my parents.

In 1967, my father was awarded a scholarship to study for his PhD at New York University. This was the beginning of their journey to success. People associate abundance with money—you can live in a huge house full of fortunes and feel like the loneliest person on earth. I can't really blame my parents for their ideologies; it was very cultural due to the lack of mentality back in the day. I mean, think about it. It's very hard to not worship money when you see your colonizers enjoying the fruits of your labor. It's very hard not to want to have status when you were forced to serve and struggle to feed your family.

My people were farmers—that's how they made their money to take care of their families. In 1968, Carlton, Amelia, and their two kids packed their bags and moved away to the land of milk and honey. The family of four arrived in New York City and temporarily moved into a motel, taking a risk in the pursuit of happiness. They looked over the waters at the Statue of Liberty and began their journey of living Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech. They were finally in a place where they could achieve dreams they were denied in their homeland, a country in the continent of Africa.

I've always wondered what that adrenaline rush felt like knowing they were in a city that people only dreamed about. My parents knew that in order to achieve their end goals, it would need dedication, hard work, and teamwork. My mom was a stay-at-home mom while my father started his studies for a PhD in African studies. Back in the day, you were going nowhere without higher education, and the goal was to achieve to take back their knowledge to their homeland. Dad's determination to elevate from poverty to prosperity started at a young age. He travelled long distances from his village to attend school.

Act 1

The family of four moved in an apartment building on Clinton Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. I was born on August 16, 1969, in Kings County Hospital, Brooklyn, New York. My name in my language means sunshine, and I believe all our names were given with intention and purpose. I was too young to remember living in Brooklyn. I only have one memory of sticking my finger in an electrical outlet and getting electrocuted. My memories only go back to when Dad completed his PhD, and we moved to 600 Fulton Avenue in Hempstead, Long Island, New York, the building of yellow terraces; the zip code was 11550. Dad was hired as a professor at Hofstra University, which was so convenient because it was down the block from our apartment building. The seventies were the days when Sesame Street was the babysitter, the teacher, and the entertainment for most children. I have very vivid memories of being completely enthralled and sitting directly in front of the TV. Once I heard that key in the door, I always snapped out of my Sesame Street spell and ran toward the door, screaming, Daddy! Daddy! Daddy's home. I was a daddy's little girl, and I wore it like a badge of honor.

Now that I'm older, I'm recognizing that our family relationships weren't healthy, and this isn't out of the norm because a lot of families are really good at hiding family secrets behind closed doors. Because I was the youngest child, I was always known as the tag along. I was also the tattle teller because I was like a tape recorder and played back everything I heard and saw. I became my parent's eyes and ears when my parents weren't around, and my siblings tortured me for it. When my siblings didn't want to watch me to tag with them, they would put me in a stroller, then put me in the elevator, press the first floor, and run down the stairs to meet the elevator. My sister had this friend who would turn her eye inside like a zombie to torment me. Honestly, the friend looked like the living dead when she turned her eye inside out. It wasn't funny back then, but now, I recognize that this isn't outside of the norm—this is normal sibling rivalry.

In the seventies, we were coming out of the remnants of the civil right movement, and even though Blacks were free to move into the neighborhood of their choice, it didn't mean that everyone was on board with that idea. There were still subtle hints of racism for every house sold sign that went up, a house for sale sign always followed. It was even evident the way they made black dolls that always had big wide eyes and hair as hard as a Brillo pad.

My favorite doll's name was Judy. She was richly chocolate with large almond-shaped eyes. I always believed Black is beautiful, so I thought Judy was a beautiful doll, and one day wanted to look just like Judy. Some people would have considered Judy unattractive because in the seventies, light skinned was a symbol of beauty. Whenever I felt lonely, Judy was my friend who I confided in; Judy was my imaginary friend. One day, my older sister got mad at me and tossed Judy out the window. I'm not even sure that it was because of something I did; I believe it was because I only existed. The dolls were purposely made in such a way to keep us in a state of believing