Written by: Admin_SheEvo
I was 12 when my world crumbled. It happened suddenly, without warning, like a storm that had been gathering silently in the distance. My father married a second wife, and my mother, his partner of so many years, found out about it the same way I did—when my father went to pay lobola.
I will never forget that moment. I was playing with my cousins when one of them told me that our fathers were attending my father’s lobola ceremony for another wife. I couldn’t bear the thought of my jovial mother preparing a meal that morning for my father, unaware of what was happening. My mother was in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared my father’s breakfast, when I delivered the worst news of her lifetime.
When my stepmother arrived, she was shy and barely looked up. But the pride on my father’s face told the entire story. He had taken another wife without telling my mother a single word about it. I watched as my mother’s world shattered in front of me. Her lips trembled, her hands shook, and I could see the life drain from her eyes. She didn’t scream or argue; she simply welcomed her with a plain smile. That night, I saw my mother cry as I had never seen her before—deep, heartbreaking sobs that echoed in my chest and left me feeling helpless and angry all at once.
The worst part was the blame. Relatives said it was her fault. They whispered that she had “failed” as a wife because she had only given birth to daughters. I overheard my aunts mocking her openly: “What kind of woman can’t give her husband a son?” “Kuzvara majekanhembe”—those words were cruel, cutting deeper than anyone realised. My mother had always been kind and hard-working, pouring her heart into our family, but none of that seemed to matter now.
She wasn’t just betrayed by her husband; she was abandoned by the very community that should have supported her. My father carried on with his new wife, while my mother was left to bear the weight of the shame they thrust upon her. Day by day, I watched her spirit fade.
And yet, she endured—for me and my sisters. She held her head high even when it was clear she was breaking inside. I became her silent witness, the one who saw her cry in the dark and the one who held her hand when the pain became overwhelming. I was just a child, but in those moments, I sure vowed to be strong for her and to fight for her dignity, even when the world refused to.
Looking back now, that experience shaped me in ways I am only beginning to understand. It taught me about injustice, the impossible burdens women carry, and resilience. My mother’s quiet strength gave me the courage to find my voice. Today, I fight for women and girls who feel unseen and unheard, who are forced to endure pain and blame for things they cannot control.
My mother didn’t deserve what happened to her. No woman does. While the scars of that time will never fully heal, I carry her strength with me. Her pain fuels my purpose, reminding me every day that we must challenge the systems and cultures that allow this to happen. To every girl or woman who has ever felt invisible or unworthy, please know this: you are enough. You have always been enough. And your voice matters, even when the world tries to silence you.
Written by Priscilla Mafa
