Written by: Admin_SheEvo
I became my mother’s caregiver when I was just four years old.
My mother was from Opuwo, in the Kunene region of Namibia. When I was four, she became very ill. In our area, people strongly believed in witchcraft. They thought her sickness was caused by something supernatural, something that hospitals and doctors could not fix. She was stuck in bed for weeks, and she grew weaker every day.
One day, one of my mother’s nephews came to our village for a funeral. He saw how sick she was and knew she needed more than just medicine from a doctor. He suggested to my grandfather that he take my mother to live with him so she could get traditional treatment. My grandfather agreed, and the nephew said he would come back for her later.
Even after starting the traditional treatments, my mother’s health did not get better. On her good days, when she felt a little stronger, she would wash her clothes or give me a bath—things no one else would do for me. But those good days were rare.
The Journey to Find Help
One day, my mother decided we had to leave. She was very weak, but she took me with her to hitchhike to another village. This was where her own mother was from, and it was closer to the main road to Outjo, which made it easier to find a ride. We had no money, so we relied on the kindness of people we did not know.
We stayed in that village for a few days, waiting for a free ride. I remember one very hard day when my mother was so dizzy she could not stand. She asked me to cook porridge, a huge task for a four-year-old. As I struggled with the pot over the fire, an ostrich suddenly appeared and tried to eat our food. I was so scared that I ran into the house. When I looked back, the pot had tipped over, spilling our only meal. I cried from hunger and frustration.
Our luck changed when we were waiting near some stores. A woman who knew my mother came over and gave her N$10, which was a lot of money for us at the time. While they were talking, a car stopped.
The woman knew the driver and asked if he could give us a ride, explaining that we had no money. To
our surprise, he said yes.
Midnight in a Strange Town
The driver took us past Outjo all the way to Okakarara, the town nearest to where my mother’s nephew lived. We arrived at one in the morning with no place to sleep. The kind driver let us sleep in an old canopy outside his house. It was not much, but it kept us safe.
Early the next morning, we waited for the man to wake up. When he did, he asked my mother what we planned to do. She told him she was looking for her nephew who worked in the town. The man helped us find him, and soon my mother’s nephew came to take us to his home. At his house, we met another woman from my mother’s village. She was also there for traditional treatment for an illness. When she saw that my mother was much sicker than she was, this kind woman
washed our clothes and blankets and gave me a bath. I had not had one in days. She also cooked food for us. Our last meal had been breakfast the day before. Hunger was a constant part of our lives. Whenever I told my mother I was hungry, she would tell me, “Drink water” We accepted this without complaining.
The price of help
After three days, my mother’s nephew called the relative we were supposed to stay with, and that man came to get us. That was when our real struggle began. I now see it as a kind of modern slavery.
Even though my mother was sick, she was expected to do all the housework: laundry, cleaning, and cooking for her nephew and his family. The nephew did take her to a doctor and paid for her treatment, but in return, my mother had to work for him for free, with no end in sight.
The doctor found that my mother could not eat maize meal, the main food in our region. She could only have pasta, rice, meat, or milk. But the nephew said he would not regularly buy these more expensive foods. If there was no milk, she just did not eat. When there was milk, she would pour all of it into my porridge, leaving nothing for herself.
As my mother grew sicker from the hard work and lack of good food, I had to do even more. By the time I was six, I was washing her clothes and cooking for both of us.
School and Separation
When I turned seven, it was time for me to start school. My mother and I were sent to Okakarara to stay with her nephew’s son, who was the principal of the primary school I would attend.
Because my mother could not read or write, the only work she could find was as a domestic worker. She needed money for my school fees, so she took a job cleaning houses and looking after the children for one of my teachers. Her first full paycheck all went toward my education.
To earn more money and pay for the small outside room we lived in – which had only a toilet and no bathroom – my mother took on extra jobs. I helped by raking yards, and she washed clothes on weekends while working her main job during the week. We did all this just to have one meal a day and a roof over our heads. I slept on the floor of our little room and often got sick with the flu during the cold winters.
A Friend’s Kindness
I had a friend whose mother was also a teacher at my school. One day after school, she came home with me. When she saw how we lived, she told her mother. Her mother came to talk to me and asked if I would like to stay with their family on school days and come back to my mother on weekends. My mother agreed, hoping I would have a proper bed and regular meals. This only lasted for a month before the owner of our room became unhappy with the arrangement, and I had to go back to sleeping on the floor.
There were other small hurts, too. The principal, my mother’s nephew’s son, drove to school every morning with his wife and their two children. But he always left me behind. I had to take the bus to the very school where he was in charge. Even as a child, I wondered why he would not give me a ride, but I knew not to ask an adult such a question. This was our routine until the school year ended.
The Final Separation
During the December holidays, my mother’s nephew bought a farm and planned to move there in January. When the time came, they moved to the farm, and my mother went with them to continue her unpaid work. But there was no place for me there.
That is how I ended up being sent to boarding school, separated from the mother I had cared for since I was four years old.
To read Jasana’s emotional and inspiring story about her experiences at boarding school, click on the following link:
By: Jasana
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