Written by: Mutshidzi Kwinda
I grew up in a small, run-down house on the village outskirts of Thohoyandou, a town where hope often felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford. Money was always scarce. My mother, a single parent with no steady job, worked tirelessly, taking whatever odd jobs she could find, just to keep food on the table for our family of eight. No matter how hard she worked, it was never enough. The walls of our home felt like they were closing in on us, the weight of poverty pressing down every single day. But deep inside me, even as a child, there was a stubborn flame of hope. I refused to believe this was all life had for me.
School became my refuge. From the first grade, I clung to books like they were lifelines. Reading and journaling weren’t just hobbies, they were my escape, my way of dreaming beyond the four cracked walls of our house. At night, I’d lie on the thin traditional grass woven mats I shared with my siblings, staring up at the roof where the cracks stretched like spiderwebs, and whisper to myself, “I’m going to make it. I won’t stay here forever.” That dream wasn’t just a wish, it was a survival instinct. If I didn’t believe in something better, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive, if at all.
Years later, when I received that college scholarship, it felt like the universe had finally answered my prayers. I remember clutching that acceptance letter, my hands shaking, tears blurring my vision. A young Black woman from a family that barely scraped by, with no blueprint for success… I had done it. It was more than just an opportunity, it was a revolution. For the first time, I could taste freedom, from poverty, from the small-town limits, from the voices that whispered, “People like us don’t get to win.”
Graduating with my pharmacy degree was another milestone, another victory. I had chosen this path, because it promised stability, because I wanted to prove to myself and the world that I was capable of more than what my beginnings suggested. But reality hit hard. Every “entry-level” job demanded “experience” I didn’t have. The doors kept closing.
Now, in my late twenties, I’m still fighting. Some days, the exhaustion is so heavy I can barely move. The dream of building my mom a real home, of giving her the comfort she deserves, sometimes feels like it’s fading. And in my weakest moments, I wonder: Was I foolish to believe so much in myself? Does a comfortable life really exist?
But then, I remember.
I remember the little girl who read books by candlelight because the electricity was cut off. The little girl who walked miles to school under extreme weather conditions without shoes, determined to learn. The young woman who refused to let rejection letters define her. That fire inside me hasn’t died. It can’t die. Because this isn’t just my story, it’s the story of so many of us who keep pushing forward even when the world says “No”.
I won’t give up. I won’t lose hope. Not now. Not ever.
By: Mutshidzi
