My name is Thandi Promise Mashaba, I am 31 years old, a phenomenal woman and the founder of Focus Mamelodi Community NPO—a certified life coach and life coach for kids. I am fearfully and wonderfully made – a truth. I didn’t always believe in myself.

Growing up, life was not easy. From an early age, I was bullied because of things I couldn’t change: the colour of my skin and the depth of my voice. I was constantly mocked, ridiculed and made to feel like I didn’t belong. The bullying started in primary school and followed me into high school. I was called names and physically attacked. All this made me shrink inside. I struggled with my confidence. I constantly felt the need to defend myself or explain who I was. And because sometimes I fought back physically, I was often misunderstood and labelled as aggressive when in truth I was just trying to survive.

But everything began to change when I received salvation. That was my turning point. Through faith, I started doing inner work to heal my wounded inner child. I began to look at myself through a different lens- through the eyes of love, grace and peace.

I began to affirm myself with words like ‘I’m fearfully and wonderfully made’, knowing that I am not a mistake and that I have a purpose and a destiny to fulfill on this earth. Slowly, I started to believe it. I found my healing. I found my freedom. And with that healing came forgiveness- not just for me but for the people who hurt me, also for the parts of myself that I had rejected.

It was from this place of transformation that Focus Mamelodi Community NPO was born. I knew my story wasn’t just for me. I understood that through god’s grace, I could also help others see themselves beyond the limitations placed on them by society, bullies, or even their own insecurities.

Focus Mamelodi Community NPO became my way of mentoring and counseling teenagers and youth in my community, of telling them that no pain lasts forever, and that their identity is not defined by others but by the one who created them. Today, I embrace every part of who I am. I will never bleach my skin. I will never hide my voice. I no longer seek to fit in. I was born to stand out.

Message to the community:
To anyone going through bullying or struggling with self-acceptance, I want you to know this:
Do not change who you are for anyone
Do not silence your truth to make others comfortable, you are enough

Yes, the pain is real, but so is your power. When you forgive, you set yourself free. When
you speak life over yourself, you begin to rise. And when you believe in your worth, the
world cannot ignore your light.
Beauty isn’t defined by society or filtered by the world. True beauty is how you feel about
yourself- boldly, deeply, and unapologetically.

You can find me on these platforms
Email: thand.mashaba@gmail.com
Facebook: Thandi Thandy Thandie

The post I AM SATISFIED~ By Thandi appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Trees of life

The sweet smell of oranges
Their juices trickling and dribbling down our cheeks
Wetting our throats
Quenching our thirsts
Its nectar tickling our buds
Providing of needed vitamins and great health

Beautiful and majestic indigenous trees
Nourishing earth
Soothing the ozone layer
Giving us life
So we can breathe again
Engulfed in their shade
Toxic fumes tampered by their leaves

Let us restore
Replenish
Reignite
Rebuild
Preserve nature
One tree at a time

This earth is all we have
Let’s nourish it
And nurture it
For generations to come

For He gave it to us
To rule over it
And care for it

Let’s plant trees
The givers of life.

By: Busisiwe Ngwenya

Social handles:

FB & LinkedIn: Busi Ngwenya and on IG it’s ngwenya.busi

On X it’s @busilacoste

Instagram

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I spent my entire school career in a boarding school, where I was expected to look after myself from the tender age of 8, in Grade 2, until I graduated in Grade 12. I remember when I started boarding school during the second term of Grade 2 in the middle of winter, my shoes were stolen from my locker. When I told my mom, who was a domestic worker, that my shoes were stolen, she told me that she didn’t have the money to buy me another pair of shoes, so I had to attend school barefoot for the whole term. Then there was a time when my feet were cracked from walking barefoot and eventually bled, but I didn’t feel anything; only the other kids could see blood flowing from my feet, and they were the ones who showed me.

I never knew a mother’s love/attention since I started boarding school. l had to spend my holidays with a guardian, and I could feel a sense of not belonging there. If there is work to be done at home, no one else could do it besides me, starting from cooking, cleaning, laundry, and milking goats. I did not spend my holidays resting; I worked hard so that I could get a bar of soap and lotion for boarding school.

I had to do laundry for other girls in order for me to use their soap water to wash my own clothes, and iron their clothes so that I could iron mine because I did not have the privilege of getting full toiletries termly. I got old clothes from family members, especially from girls of family members where my mother was working. I never knew wearing store-bought underwear; only from the leftover fabric that my guardian was not using, she sewed some underwear or two.

Imagine a teenager who gets her period every month. Not having any sanitary towels to use, I had to use the mattress I was sleeping on. Every month, I would cut 3 or 4 pieces from the mattress, cover them with part of a t-shirt I cut up, and use that as a sanitary towel. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. When the bleeding was too heavy, I had to skip school for the day.

Coming home for the holidays, you will face a constant reminder that it’s not your home. Since I was the only one doing all the domestic work, after I mopped the floor and the other kids came from playing and they wanted to use the bathroom, and I told them that the floor was wet, I was constantly told that I should let them enter their house, I should remember that it is not our house… this reminder lives with me until today.

Whenever you want to do something or you have an idea and you are looking for validation or support from your guardian, there was always a negative comment and eventually a big NO! That caused me to start feeling that I am not good enough, or anything l do is not good enough, or I cannot be better than someone else.

I am fighting daily to be better and to know that I am good enough, but this childhood trauma is stuck with me, that it causes me to procrastinate or delay very important things I have to do in order to make my life better and that of my daughter. I know I am stronger than my past. And every day, I choose to fight for a better life-not just for me, but for my daughter. I may still carry the scars, but they remind me how far I have come. I am learning, step by step, to believe in myself. No one can take away my power. No one can erase the fact that I survived.

And now, I am trying to build something new… a life where my daughter will never know the pain I knew. She will grow up loved, supported, and sure of her worth. The little girl who walked barefoot, who sewed her own underwear, who made do with nothing, she is still inside me. But she is not broken. She is a warrior. And warriors keep rising. My story isn’t over yet. The best chapters are still ahead.

Written By: Jasana Uandia

Instagram: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

Facebook: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

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Postnatal care seems to go hand in hand with the familiar scent of Dettol, the warmth of pap, and the soft puff of dusting powder. But once a child is born, not every mother steps into celebration; some step into waiting rooms, where the air is heavy with exhaustion, debt, and quiet sacrifices. I saw a woman. She had just put to bed, I could tell. Her wrapper was a mess, tied halfway across her breasts like it had given up mid-twist. The wrapper was crooked too—one end stopped at her knees while the other trailed the floor behind her. She walked with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other like the pain hadn’t quite left her hips. Her face was stern. Flasks in one hand, a baby bag in the other. But there was no baby in sight. Just her, moving to and fro. Eventually, she sat across from me, untied her wrapper, and let her breasts hang loose, unbothered by who might be watching. From her bag, she brought out a small feeding bottle attached to a manual breast pump.

She clamped the device down hard onto her nipple. If she felt any pain or decided not to show it, I couldn’t even tell. She pressed and squeezed and pumped—each new clamp with a desperation stronger than the last. I saw it in how she constantly shifted on her seat, in how she took different positions—one time hunched over—and in how she flicked a trespassing braid off her chest. All I could do was will a spill of milk to gush into the bottle. Later, I prayed for just a trickle… just something.

It was hard not to look eager because I was unconsciously shifting towards the edge of my seat. I knew my brows were furrowed too. But nothing.

So I quickly ran the physiology of lactation in my head… I know all that is needed for the milk let-down reflex is touch reception; then afferents are passed to the higher centres, and subsequently, there’s a contraction of myoepithelial cells of the mammary alveoli, and milk flows in unforced rhythms.

But here, there’s more than touch reception—there’s pressure, cruel pressure, that I winced with each clamping. Still nothing. She then used both hands to press and knead the full mass of the breast like it owed her something. Still no milk, not even a drop. She switched to the other breast, but it was the same thing. I watched her body go from effort to resignation in minutes. Her face remained unreadable, but her hands told the story.

She tied her wrapper, this time properly, tightly above her breasts. Then she poured herself a cup of hot tea from her flask. I expected her to sip on it since I could see the steam rise furiously from the cup—but she didn’t. She gulped it all in one go. I don’t know what hit me more,
whether it was her silence or her desperation.

There was another woman. I first saw her while she was still pregnant, pacing up and down, hands pressed into the small of her back like she was trying to hold herself together. The next day, her stomach had deflated. I knew she had delivered.

I found her again, flanked by women in mismatched ìró and bùbá; and I caught my first glimpse of her baby—a girl, pink, wriggly cutie, perfect.

A little girl. So beautiful that she didn’t fit into the scenery the shrouding relatives painted. The baby was just in a class of her own, oblivious to the worry set deep in her mother’s eyes, to the endless stream of people passing by, to the mismatching of ìró and bùbá that all the women
donned like aso ebi, totally oblivious to the smell that is particular to the front of the maternity ward.

For the next two days, I saw the mother walk in and out of the maternity ward, baby in tow. But on the fourth day, something had changed. She was sitting on the bare floor near the neonatal unit, chatting with other women, her child at her breast. The baby’s pink had dulled. She still looked heavenly, but she was beginning to settle into the reality of her surroundings. Days passed. Then weeks. I watched them become permanent fixtures of the waiting room. It hit me then: hospital bills hadn’t been paid. She couldn’t remain in the ward anymore. Owó bed—bed fee—was piling.

She now slept on flattened biscuit cartons while the baby slept in a mosquito net cot. That initial worry on her face had hardened into despair. I watched her loneliness. I saw it in the way she walked—her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, footsteps slow, as though trying not to be noticed. I saw it in the three changes of clothes she rotated. In the way she asked a fellow waiting roomer for a sachet of water like it took everything in her to form the request. Also, I didn’t see any visitors around her again since the day after her delivery.

After three weeks, I got to see the baby’s face again. I saw her legs first, covered in reddish streaks and rashes. I was alarmed. Then, her face. She no longer looked like a newborn. Her eyes had already been lined with kohl, her stare jarring. How quickly she blended into the background weighed on my mind. I walked by faster that day—I needed to.

I wondered about the father. Then I got angry. At the situation. At the man. I don’t even know the full story, but in my head, I needed to pin the blame on someone. So I imagined him as a useless man, wasting his meagre earnings on burukutu. But when that made my chest feel too
tight, I changed the script. Maybe he was out there, struggling, trying to raise money. I let myself believe that too. But nothing worked really, so I muttered, “God abeg.”

One day, after five weeks, their corner was empty—they were gone. I missed the celebration and prayers I knew the other waiting roomers must have made at the news of their discharge, but I was relieved nonetheless.

There was another mother. She stood out—not because of herself, but because of her child. For four days, the waiting room had a new kind of brightness, and it was her child. The child was biracial—half Nigerian, half Asian. Her features were unmistakable: the curly long hair, the
small pink lips, the squinty eyes, and the flattened face. She couldn’t have been more than two years old, but she carried herself like someone who knew how much she stood out. She wore joy like it was her birthright, and she didn’t mind showing off her incomplete dentition at every given chance. She bounced around the room like it was a stage she was born for. Everyone gushed looking at her, and she returned the favour by giving high-fives and returning every smile with bigger ones—as if she knew that the waiting room needed lots of comic relief.

But her mother though… she looked like someone trying too hard and barely holding on. She was young—definitely in her twenties. She was bleached fair in complexion—you could tell because her knuckles, knees, and elbows had remained loyal to the essence of melanin. Yet, you
could clearly see that she was a beautiful woman. Her upper arm was tattooed with roses and some words that were already fading out.
The tattoo, though it had lost its shine, had become a different kind of artwork… one caught up in the meshwork of stretch marks that made their way out from her armpit. The sinewy stretch marks crawled across the ink. The bloom looked collapsed, and a rose stalk appeared to have been broken by the trespassing stretch marks.

Though rose tattoos are quite common, I wanted to hear the story behind this particular one. Maybe it’s partly because the tattoo looked like something entirely different or because this woman looked drawn and unkempt—a sharp contrast to her daughter.

Then it dawned on me—she’s trying so hard to keep her biracial kid on the pedestal. It showed in the way the girl was always dressed like she was ready to strut the runway. The fancy blouses, bouncy skirts, her curls styled differently each time, how each day came with different sneakers and crocs. The girl stood out. She didn’t fit the narrative of the room. She stood out too much. Just like a diamond in the rough… yet someone’s treasure.

The mother was making a sacrifice. She didn’t care how she looked. All her effort, all her money, all her attention went into that little girl. She wanted the world to see beauty where it hurt the most.

I never figured out why they were waiting roomers. I never knew their story. But for those four days, I watched a mother pour everything she had into making sure her child looked untouched by the weight of their reality. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about the joys of motherhood. But here, in the waiting room, those joys don’t always come wrapped in lullabies or pastel-coloured baby blankets. Sometimes, they look like a woman begging her breast to produce milk, while imploring a device determined to mock her. Sometimes, they look like biscuit
cartons and mosquito nets. And sometimes, they look like broken roses on bleached skin while a daughter spins in sparkly shoes.
Different mothers. Different stories.
Same waiting room. Same ache.
And still, somehow… same love.

By: Adeoluwa Deborah

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Imagine this… a wide, clear blue African sky above you with the horizon that disappears behind the green hills and mountains, in a village filled with old, interesting stories passed down through generations. This is where I come from. My roots are fixed deep in the red most fertile soil that helped me grow. There, time moved with the wind and the Sun, not the clock. Our elders talked in wise sayings and idioms, teaching us about life from their perspective… the only one they knew. Respect runs within our blood, it’s part of who we are. And at night, the stars shine so bright, that they feel close enough to touch. For 18 years my village was my world.

For years, I introduced myself with an apology. I thought my worth was tied to my struggles… the poverty that shadowed my childhood, the doubts that whispered I would never be more than where I came from. I wore my hardships like a name tag as if they were the only thing worth saying about me.

But life has a way of teaching you lessons when you least expect it. I remember one evening, as I sat by the fire with my mother, she told me an old Venda folktale about a baobab tree. “The baobab”, she said “stands tall not because it encounters no storms, but because its roots go deep. The wind may bend it, but it never breaks”  She looked at me, her eyes full of quiet knowing. “You, my child, are like that tree”

Something shifted inside me that night. I began to see my life differently. Yes, I came from a village where opportunities were scarce, where dreams often withered before they could bloom. But I also came from a place of immense beauty, where kindness and respect were a currency, where laughter was medicine, and where the land itself seemed to whisper, You belong here.

As a gentle reminder to myself, I started writing my thoughts, feelings, affirmations, and experiences in a journal… not to escape my story, or silence my voice, but to claim it. At first, my words were shaky and uncertain. But with every page, I grew stronger and became better and better. I wrote about the scent of rain on dry soil, the way my mother sang while cooking early in the morning, and the stubborn hope that clung to my bones even on the hardest days. Slowly, I realized that my voice mattered. Not despite my past, but because of it.

There was a moment… one I’ll never forget when I stood at a crossroads (before I knew what the word crossroads even meant). An opportunity came – an acceptance letter to study in the coastal city approximately 1600 km away from home, far from everything I ever knew. Fear and doubt nearly paralyzed me. What if I fail? What if they see a village girl and nothing more? And what if I am not good enough for that new world? But then I heard my mother’s voice: “The baobab does not fear the wind. It holds on to the hope of a better future.”

So, there I was, 19 years young, bravely journeying to the Southern coastal city by myself. I embarked on a journey that has forever changed my life. One that has made me a better person today. It wasn’t easy. There were days I felt like an outsider, days I questioned whether I deserved to be there over and over again. But I carried my roots with me… in my heart, in my words, in the quiet strength my family had planted in me. And that made all the difference. Today, when I speak, when I write, I do it for the little girl I once was – the one who thought her circumstances defined her. I do it for anyone who has ever felt too small, too unseen, too bound by where they come from.

Because here’s the truth… Your roots are your power. The struggles, the joys, the love, the losses, they don’t limit who you are. They prepare you. They give you a story no one else can tell. So let me reintroduce myself, not as someone who overcame her past, but as someone who honors it.

I am a Survivor, a Fighter. I am the voice of a village that taught me true strength. I am the dreams my ancestors whispered into the hollering wind. I am the product of my mother’s fasting prayers. I am proof that where you start does not decide where you finish. And if a girl from the poorest South African village outskirts can rise, so can you. Because the world isn’t waiting for you to be perfect. It’s waiting for you to be “brave”. It is time to reintroduce yourself.

Written By Mutshidzi Kwinda
Born and raised: in South Africa ����, Limpopo, Venda Tribe, Ubva Ha-Makhuvha

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You wake up, not because you want to, but because the light creeping through the curtains demands it. The weight of the night clings to you like a suffocating blanket, leaving you paralyzed, unable to shake the darkness that’s been following you for so long. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, wishing for something, anything, to make it stop. But nothing does. It never does.

The mirror shows you something you don’t recognize anymore. The person staring back seems like a stranger, someone far removed from who you thought you were. There’s a hollow emptiness in your chest, a gnawing ache that won’t go away no matter how many times you tell yourself that you should be better, should be more, should be worthy of love. But you’re not. So tears run down your chicks like a silent stream in the dark valley. You can’t even remember the last time you felt like you deserved anything good. You’ve made too many mistakes. You’ve hurt the one person ever close to you and so it feels like you’ve hurt the entire world. And that’s all you can see now; the wreckage of your choices, the face of those you’ve let down, and the unforgivable things you’ve said and done.

You can hear their voices, even now. The echoes of their disappointment, their anger, frustration, and their sadness. Like the boomerang, no matter how far you keep throwing them away, they always find their way back to haunt you, follow you like shadows that grow longer with each passing day. You try to silence them, but they only get louder. You wonder if they’re right. Maybe you’re just a failure, destined to disappoint. Maybe everyone was right to walk away. Maybe you’ve always been unworthy of the things you wanted… of the love they had to offer.

There are moments when you think back to the times you’ve had the brief glimpses of happiness, and you wonder why they couldn’t have lasted. Why did you let them slip through your fingers, why did you sabotage every good thing that ever came your way? You realize you are to blame for it all, that you’ve got to account for it all, and that no reason under the earth is going to make it make sense or justify it all; it was just pure evil. And so you feel so small. So invisible. You wonder why you even bother to keep going, why you haven’t just given in to the numbness that calls to you, that promises peace in the silence.

And yet, you still breathe; heavy breaths, as though from collapsed lungs and a slow beating heart. Even though you don’t think you deserve it, even though every breath feels like a burden. You can’t seem to stop yourself from waking up each day, from dragging yourself through the motions. It’s as if something deep inside of you, buried beneath the layers of shame and sorrow, refuses to let go. Maybe it’s hope, or maybe it’s just fear, fear of truly giving up.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep going like this. It’s hard to imagine a world where you find peace with yourself, where you can look in the mirror without feeling like you’re staring at a ghost. But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, there’s a tiny, fragile whisper. A part of you that still believes it’s possible to be more than this, to find redemption, to somehow

Be worthy again. You don’t know if you’ll ever reach that place, or if you even deserve to. But it’s there, and for now, that’s enough.

And so, you continue. Even though you don’t believe you’re worthy. Even though you feel the weight of regret like a heavy chain around your neck and feet. You keep going. Because, somewhere deep inside, there’s a small part of you that refuses to give up completely. Maybe that’s all you need to hold on to, for now.

By- Azwi-Hilton

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My name is Joy. I am a Nigerian woman, the second of five children. My family lived in the city and came from a lower-class. While my parents and siblings stayed in the city, I was raised by my grandmother in the village.

Growing up in the village, life was extremely harsh I had to help with farming and do small- scale trading to support myself. I believe my mom took me to live with my grandma, not to punish me or because she couldn’t take care of me but because she didn’t want my grandmother to live alone She wanted me to be her companion.

I completed both elementary and high school in the village. After graduation, I moved back to the city to live with my family. The transition was difficult. I struggled to communicate and connect with my peers, to adjust to urban life, and to fit into my family’s way of living after being away for so long. To continue my education, I worked hard at various low-paying jobs. My father was not supportive or involved, which made things harder. At times, I could have lost my way as a teenager and young adult, but by God's grace and through my mother’s encouragement, I stayed on the right path. I stayed focused on my dreams, refusing to give up or be distracted. Although it’s been years since I graduated and I haven’t yet landed my dream job, I discovered a skill that changed everything: hair and wig styling. I now earn a living through the hair and wig business. I’ve been paying my bills and even supporting my family by selling hair and installing wigs.

In 2018, I applied for an Empowerment Fund using my business idea. My pitch was selected, and I received a small grant to start my business. Like many others, I faced serious challenges during the COVID-19 pandemic, but I stayed determined. I’m not yet where I want to be, but I’m getting closer every day.

My hope is that every girl from a humble or difficult background never stops dreaming. Stay resilient. There will always be distractions and obstacles, but when you know your worth and stay true to your path, greater things are possible.

Written by: JOY EIKOJONWA

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If I knew today was the end of the world,
I wouldn’t have woken up.
I wouldn’t have forgotten to make my bed,
I wouldn’t have rushed out without kneeling to pray.
Instead, I scrolled on my phone till past eight,
I envied those I did not personally know.

If I knew the world was ending today,
I would have eaten more and taken a bath to wash away the buggy eyes on my face.
A result of staying up too late yesterday,
Trying to replace the hours for the job I hate.

If I knew the world was ending today,
I would have called to tell my parents,
“I’m sorry I never said thank you,”
Especially to my father,
Before he passed away.

I would have fulfilled the promise I made to myself ten years ago-
To travel the world and look fear straight in the face.
Because I’ve been so afraid
To live an authentic life,
To do the things I wanted to do.
But now that the day is coming to an end,
And the earth hasn’t shaken,
I haven’t felt any earthquakes,
And there’s a possibility of another day.
If I knew the world wasn’t ending today,
I will wake up early and remember to pray.

Maybe even start that hobby,
I’ve always said I would.
I will make my bed and take a warm shower.
I will eat so much food until I say,
” I thin I’ve had enough for today”
I will call my parents and thank them for all they did-
Maybe if I had done that before hearing the news of my father’s passing,
I would finally be at peace.

If I knew the world wasn’t ending today,
I will quit my job and use the money I’ve saved
To write beautiful poetry,
Then travel the world and visit all the places I’ve always wished to see.

Because I’m tired of saying I would have,
And I want to live a life of ” I will”

By LuSee

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“I began my journey as a dreamer—curious, passionate, and deeply rooted in the desire to uplift others. Even as a child, I was known for always advising my siblings, often misunderstood as being “too forward”. But my intentions were always anchored in love, wisdom beyond my years, and an innate drive to see people grow.

My love for self-development and speaking was ignited early on, shaped by the powerful words of Les Brown, whose quotes I devoured as a young reader. Yet, like many transformative journeys, mine wasn’t without obstacles. One defining moment in junior school was when I froze in front of the entire assembly while delivering a presentation. That moment of fear and vulnerability could have silenced me, but it became a turning point. Today, I face that memory with resilience, using it as fuel to become the confident speaker and motivator I continuously evolve into. I know I am more than my past traumas and fears. I am becoming the best version of myself daily.

My voice has found a home on Life On The Other Side of My Perspective, a podcast I host where I invite industry experts, speakers, and coaches to share stories that inspire personal and professional transformation. I am also a poet and writer whose journey was nurtured by teachers who believed in my talent early on. Their encouragement propelled me to pursue creative writing not just as a passion but as a tool for healing, first for myself and now for others.

Today, I am a Creative Writer for Instinctively Beyond Magazine and the proud author of Poetry From Within, published by Poetry Planet Publishing House. I am a dedicated writer, podcaster, poet, researcher, wellness, and transformational coach who uses her creative and professional platforms to contribute to personal and communal development. This collection earned me the Best Poet Award at the 5th OPHIR Awards for Writers 2025 in the Philippines. My journey as a creative writer and speaker continues to unfold with purpose.
Beyond writing and podcasting, I am deeply committed to community empowerment. I currently serve as the G100 Club Botswana Country Chair – Youth Engagement Wing, using my platform to engage and inspire the next generation of leaders.

My work spans storytelling, poetry, and holistic wellness, reflecting a commitment to meaningful engagement with individuals and communities.
My poetry was featured in international anthologies, and I collaborate with local artists to merge literary and visual arts. My upcoming booklet includes recent poems and selected works from my anthology contributions, complemented by commissioned digital artworks from local artists. I regularly perform at Travelodge Poetry Nights, held on the last Thursday of each month, using these opportunities to expand my craft through recitation. My recent feature in Tlhakakgolo Literary Journal and Poetry Journal (Nigeria) marks a growing presence within Botswana’s literary scene and a focus on local and international collaborations.

This work led to my nomination for the Founder of the Year Africa Awards 2024 in the Social Founder of the Year and Healthpreneur of the Year categories. I have been awarded Global 2024 under Healthpreneur of the Year. With more nominations surfacing, Social Founder Of The Year, Most Promising Founder of The Year, and Founder of The Year, under Founder of The Year Awards-Southern Africa 2025.

My recent nomination is for Best Young Poetry and Book Writer under the Youth In Business Awards in Tanzania. I have also been nominated for Leading Women in Africa and listed among the Top 30 Africa’s Leading Women 2025 by Crest Africa. On February 28th, 2025, I was honored with an introduction as a Botswana Country Chair for the G100 Club Wing under Youth Enterprise, Empowerment, and Leadership.

My journey is a testament to progress in motion—proof that greatness is not a destination but a continuous unfolding. Today, I stand not only as a voice of purpose but as a symbol of what is possible when we embrace who we are and pursue what we are meant to become.

I am greatness in progress—and we, as a global community, are rising together for greater impact.”

Written by: Ophadile

Instagram

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