It all started when I was sexually abused when I was 11 years old

I am 28 years old and the firstborn in a family of 5. My life has always been a mystery. It started when I was 11 years old when my late uncle sexually abused me. My Mum brought her young brother with us. At the time, we lived in a two-roomed house. I was sleeping with my uncle in the living room. We never had a bed, but we used sofa cushions as a bed, so my little brother, uncle, and I slept together using the same blankets. Poor culture and ignorance, correct?

My uncle could take advantage of me in the night by playing with my private parts and rubbing his penis on me. I couldn’t say anything. I kept quiet because he threatened that he would beat me when Mum left the house. I was so angry and lost concentration on myself and at school. One day, I refused to sleep in the sitting room and insisted that I sleep with Mum. My Mum asked me why, but I couldn’t say. She refused as she thought I was childishly seeking attention. The next day after school, I went to my grandma’s place and didn’t return home.

While I was staying at my grandma’s place, my cousin and I were sent to get something from granny’s brother, who is far from her place. As we walked, we came across this man who said he knew me through a relative, although I didn’t know him. He greeted me and asked me about a relative, which made me trust that he knew me. He offered to escort my cousin and me, and we accepted. He suggested that my cousin go alone, and I would join her later as he needed help with something. Because I was young and naive, I agreed. I kept asking him where we were going. He kept saying Tifika manje manje (we will get there soon). Soon, we arrived at this unfinished house. He told me he wanted to pee and that I should wait for him by the door, which I did. He showed me a pack of biscuits and told me to take some. As I reached out to take one, he grabbed my hand and showed me a screwdriver, threatening to kill me if I screamed. The man had everything planned. I was raped mercilessly. I couldn’t scream. He took me back to where I had left my cousin with a biscuit in my hand. I was only 11. I was terrified because I had never gone through anything like that, and it shut me down. I never said a word to anyone until now.

Fast forward to when I was 15years old, my neighbour raped me. He was older than me; I think he was 25 by then, and he called me to go and play chess with him. We sat outside, and then he suggested we go inside as it was sunny. He was alone in the house. We went inside, and he locked the door, pulled me to the bedroom and took advantage of me. Afterwards, he released me as if nothing had happened and threatened to beat me if I opened my mouth.

In 2014, I got into a relationship with a guy. Because of the bad experiences I had had with sex, I could not have sex with him. He cheated on me with another girl and got her pregnant. It was okay for me as I despised sex. He told me that he didn’t want to continue with an ugly girl like me and that I embarrassed him in front of his friends. I let him go. This became a trend for some time, that guys, to a total number of 6, left me because of not having sex with them. I told myself not to date again and to concentrate on school.

In 2016, I finished school and decided to take up a job opening at one of the companies in the industrial area (Halla Industries). I met an older woman who became my friend. We went to work together and left the premises together. Her boyfriend was a soldier. One day, he came to pick her up from work to visit his farm in Kafue. My friend asked me to join them. It was a Saturday, and we arrived in Kafue around 3 pm. We started our journey home at about 6 pm and reached Lusaka at around 8 pm.

The man suggested that he drop his girlfriend first and me later. The girl insisted that he drop me first, but he refused. I was terrified because I knew something terrible was going to happen. He stopped to buy beer and cigarettes. When he returned, he asked me to sit in front of the car. I did. While driving, he started touching me. He drove to an abandoned place, stopped his car, dropped his car seats, removed my pants, and for two hours raped me carelessly. I couldn’t scream. He had a gun and told me that he was going to shoot me if I screamed. I just wanted to die as he did whatever he would have wanted to do with a woman. Finally, he decided to take me home, and when we reached my place, he raped me again before releasing me. He gave me k20 for a morning-after pill and warned me not to tell his girlfriend. Pointing a gun at me, he said if I did, he would shoot me and my entire family.

After this, I completely lost all sense of myself and any feelings of self-love. I hated myself and slept with any guy I called my boyfriend. In 2018, I was 22 and I met a guy who wanted to marry me. We had unprotected sex on several occasions, but to our surprise, I couldn’t fall pregnant. He said he was only going to marry me if I had a child with him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall pregnant. I figured my womb was disfigured because of an early exposure to sex. I went to the hospital, explained everything, did tests, and discovered that my intuition was correct. My womb was damaged. They suggested its removal, but I refused. Upon knowing that, the man fled.

In 2022, I met this angel of a man on an online dating site. He was gentle, God-fearing, loyal, caring, honest and all those things that describe a good man. I told him everything that had happened to me in the past and my condition of childbearing. Guess what? He didn’t care about that. He took me as I was, advised, prayed for me, and told me he would do anything to make me happy. He took me to a private hospital for checkups, and he was only a student at CBU. It was like sunrise for me.

I was so thankful to God that finally, he had wiped my tears away, not knowing what was ahead of me.

In November last year, he became ill and was taken to hospital; I went there to nurse him. They operated successfully, and he stayed in the ICU for three days and then succumbed to appendicitis. It has been 5months since he died. I feel useless. I don’t know what to think or do. I cry every night and day, asking God why it should always be me. Still, people from church and my late man’s relatives came on board, providing counseling, Prayers and words of encouragement. It has helped, but I have not recovered. Losing a loved one is so painful.
This is my story

By: Joyce

Joyce Kapapi on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok

Instagram

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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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My name is Valencia, and I’m an advocate for climate change from Lusaka, Zambia. In 2024, my family faced financial struggles that forced us to move to a shanty compound. It was during this time that a severe drought hit, and I witnessed firsthand how my community suffered. People walked long distances for water, food became scarce, and livelihoods were destroyed. It all traced back to one pressing issue: climate change.

What struck me most was how many in my community either lacked knowledge about climate change or were unaware of its devastating effects. Seeing their struggles… especially my aunt, a single mother who lost her baking business due to power outages and drought, broke my heart. But it also ignited a fire in me. I realized that ignorance wasn’t an option anymore someone had to step up.

So, I decided to act. I started by creating the Green Club at my school and took on the “Climate Education and Action for Youth” project. My goal? To empower young people with the knowledge and tools to become climate champions in their communities. With the support of school management and climate experts, we’re equipping students with education, training, and advocacy skills to drive real change.

In my community, there are many individuals who are not only uneducated but also unaware of environmental issues. This lack of knowledge makes them particularly vulnerable to the impacts of climate change. I believe that education is essential, and I am working to promote it to foster a better community. By empowering people with knowledge, I hope to inspire positive change and create a more sustainable future for everyone.

My passion for environmental conservation and climate action began last year when I witnessed the devastating effects of climate change in my community. Seeing the difficulties my community faced…such as walking long distances to collect water and struggling to find food was a wake-up call for me.

I realized that climate change was not a distant issue; it was a harsh reality affecting people’s lives. One experience that continues to move me is that of my aunt, a single mother raising three children. She ran a baking business that provided for her family, but after the drought and frequent power outages, she struggled to make ends meet. Witnessing her struggles and those of others in the community brought me to tears.

This experience made me understand that my community was suffering due to a lack of knowledge and awareness about climate change. It ignited a fire within me to take action. I began by educating myself about climate change, its causes, and its effects.

I then started advocating for climate action in my school and community, rallying my peers to join me in making a difference. As I continue on this journey, I am reminded that climate change is a ticking clock, and every second counts. I believe that sharing our stories and experiences is crucial for inspiring collective action and driving meaningful change.

By Valencia

IG: Valen_ciadiba @ClimatePresident

TikTok: Valencia_kan

The post Meet Valencia, An Advocate For Climate Change From Zambia appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

A Lady’s Dreary Dream
And there she was,
remorseful holding in what she couldn’t reveal.
She sat on a curb in a field of daffodils,
reminiscing his louche creepy charm.

The old man sat playing his golden saxophone mellifluous by the rill.
Her lotus dress reminded her of the nights they’d dance
And chance under the midnight blue sky,
it matched the sapphire in her eyes during the day.

And she vaguely thought to herself,
How a renege she made would have her sated about him.
Then the sky was louring and it started to pour,
She could only hear the euphony with cold and her mind, purposely silent.

By Francisca

Instagram

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Heavenly Father,
hear my weeping prayer.

I am a rotten apple,
a bad element,
of the holy and sacred equation.

Unloved,
unworthy,
undeserved, I am,

because of me planting demonic seeds,
and watering them,
in my lifeless and dead spiritual garden.

I saw unholy statutes,
that enticed me,
and I took a sip of sins,
and bad deeds.

In my time of deep darkness,
I always thought,
that You had given up on me.

Please forgive me.
Let Your blood,
spilled on the cross,
flush away my iniquities.

Your grace,
bestowed upon me,
is the only source of life,
that offered me renewed hope.

Create in me,
a new and refreshed heart, O God.

Revive a steadfast,
and contrite spirit within me.

Set my heart and mind free,
from the demonic meditations,
of pain and disappointment.

Help me to be still,
peaceful,
and content.

Forgive me,
Holy Spirit,
forgive me.

Paint away my transgressions,
with Your paintbrush of grace,
and mercy, O Lord.

Assist me,
Holy Spirit.

I feel so alone,
and this season of loneliness,
is hurting me deeply.

Yet, I feel serene sensations,
within my heart,

urging me to let go,
and trust You,
to transform my sinful nature,
and make me a new creation.

For You were always there for me,
even when I wasn’t there with You.

You gave me daily,
and bountiful reassurance,
of who You are.

Without me offering,
worldly sacrifices to You,

You remain a glorious,
and gracious God.

By Itebogeng

Diary Of a Black Christian Woman

Journal Of a Black Woman

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Meet Maria, a 19-year-old fighting for her future. Every morning for years, she walked two hours to school because her family couldn’t afford transport. Many would have quit – but Maria kept walking. She studied by candlelight when there was no electricity. She passed her exams when others said she couldn’t.

Now in university studying Education Science, her struggle continues. Some days she goes hungry. Some nights she cries from exhaustion. But every morning she gets up again – because she knows education is her way out.

Maria writes poems about her journey. Not fancy words, but raw truth about what it means to grow up poor and keep believing in yourself. Her message is simple:

“When the road is dark and your feet are bleeding, keep walking. Your future is worth every step.”

Her Poem: My Dream’s Weight

Through the storm
I walked
Two hours every day,
The sky wept, the sun blazed,
Through rain that soaked my soul,
And the heat that dried my dreams,
I walked.

The weight of my dream was heavier than the backpack I carried,
My feet blistered, my heart bruised,
Yet each step whispered:
“Keep going, don’t quit”

Four years in the struggle,
Learning in the shadow of hunger,
Tears hidden behind smiles,
A family’s love, but no silver spoon—
Still, I passed
A symbol of my fight,
A victory in a war I didn’t choose.

Now, in the university halls
I’m still walking,
Still fighting,
Still crying at night,
For the family I carry,
For the dreams I hold in my trembling hands.

The weight is still there,
But it doesn’t break me anymore.
The rain still falls,
The sun still burns,
But I’ve learned to dance in both.
Because after the storm,
There’s always a rainbow.

Written by Maria Phiri

Facebook: Maria Phiri

Instagram: Maria Phiri 

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Mama feared the river for what it took; I loved it for what it carried away.

The river knows my name. It has whispered it since I was a child, its voice curling through the reeds, dancing over the rocks, and sinking into the depths where secrets sleep. The current has seen me grow, mirrored my tears, and carried away the echoes of my mother’s sighs.

Mama never liked the river. She said it swallowed dreams. She said it reminded her of things she wanted to forget. But I loved it—how it moved, refused to be trapped, and could be gentle and fierce all at once. I wanted to be like that. But I was never the river.

I was the stillness before the storm, the quiet weight of unshed tears, the emptiness left by things unspoken. I carried Mama’s scars like a birthright and felt Papa’s absence like a ghost at my shoulder. I spent years trying to understand what it meant to be whole when parts of you were missing when memories of love came wrapped in sorrow.

Tonight, the river reflects the setting sun, a golden wound stretched across its surface. The wind is thick with the scent of rain. I stand at the edge, toes sinking into the damp earth, and listen. There are whispers in the water—whispers of the past. I close my eyes and let them come.

The first time I heard Mama cry, I was seven. It was deep in the night, and the house was wrapped in darkness, the kind that seeped into your bones, heavy and full of secrets. I had woken up to the sound of the wind rattling our tin roof, but it wasn’t the storm outside that unsettled me—it was the storm inside.

Her sobs were as if she was trying to hold them back, trying to swallow them whole. But pain has a way of finding cracks to slip through. I crept to her door, my tiny fingers grazing the wood, unsure whether to knock or turn back. “Go back to bed, child.” Her voice was hoarse, thick with the weight of things she never said. I obeyed, but sleep never found me again that night.

Years later, I would come to understand what those tears meant. I would see the faded bruises on her skin, which she tried to hide beneath long sleeves and quiet smiles. I would piece together the truth in hushed conversations between the women in the village, their voices laced with pity and anger. “That man was never good for her.” ,”He left her broken before he left for good.” Absent Papa. The man whose name I carried but whose presence I never felt. A ghost who lived in the spaces between my mother’s sorrow and my longing.

I used to imagine him as a hero, a traveler who had been called on some grand adventure, someone who would return one day, eyes full of stories and arms ready to hold me. But as I grew older, the illusion faded, replaced by the reality of his absence. And Mama never spoke of him, not directly—just warnings wrapped in bitter wisdom.

“Don’t go looking for ghosts, my child. You’ll only find emptiness.” But some ghosts never needed to be found. They lived inside you, shaping the way you loved, the way you feared, the way you learned to endure. The river was the only place I could breathe. When the weight of the house became too much, when Mama’s silence pressed too heavy on my chest, I would come here. I would sit on the rocks, legs dangling over the water, and let the wind tangle its fingers in my hair.

The river did not ask me to be strong. It did not demand explanations. It simply existed, moving forward, always forward. I envied that. I wanted to move forward, too, to leave behind the scars I had inherited, the unanswered questions, and the ache of never quite belonging to anyone. But moving on is never as easy as the river makes it seem. Because scars do not fade as you wish them to.

The first time I ran away, I was thirteen. It wasn’t a planned escape—just a sudden, desperate need to disappear. Mama had been distant that week, her face drawn tight, her eyes clouded with something I couldn’t name. I had tried to help, to ease the burden, but my efforts were met with a tired sigh and a weary glance. “You’re just a child,” she had whispered. But I wasn’t. Not really. Not any more. So I left.

I followed the river, tracing its winding path into the unknown. The forest swallowed me, its shadows stretching long in the fading light. I walked until my legs ached, until the trees blurred together, and I could no longer hear the voices of the village. It was the first time I truly felt alone.

The darkness was different here—not the familiar, suffocating kind of home, but something wilder, something ancient. The wind carried whispers, the rustling leaves forming words I could not understand. I sat beneath a tree, wrapping my arms around my knees, and listened. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. The river murmured secrets I was not yet ready to hear. And then—I cried.

I cried for the things I did not say, for the love I had not felt, for the weight of a fatherless childhood and a mother who could not let go of her pain long enough to see me. By the time the first light of dawn stretched across the sky, I had made a decision. I would not be like Mama. I would not let pain define me. I would not let loss anchor me in place. I would be the river. Moving forward, always forward. I returned home that morning barefoot and covered in dirt.

Mama was waiting at the door, her face unreadable. She did not ask where I had been and did not scold or punish me. Instead, she opened her arms. And for the first time in years, I allowed to be held. She smelled of wood smoke and rain, of something both familiar and distant. “I thought I lost you,” she whispered into my hair.

I wanted to tell her that she had lost me a long time ago, that I had been slipping away for years. But instead, I just closed my eyes and let the moment be enough. Because one day, I would leave for real. Not out of anger or sorrow, but because I had to. There was a world beyond this river, Mama’s sadness, and the echoes of an absent father. One day, I would find it. But for now, I stayed. For now, the river still knew my name. And I wasn’t ready to let it forget.

The post My Name Is Magdalyne, And This Is My Story appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Edutor: Mutshidzi Kwinda

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Many believe knowledge is power, but it might be according to someone’s situation. When studying, knowledge becomes a sense of fulfilment; it brings hope and enlightenment in relationships and pursues dreams regarding careers, while it might be scary when applied to understanding self-identity and personality. As I learn and encounter plenty of knowledge regarding psychology, social affairs and relationship attributes, it scares me how I see things differently. I have been able to understand quickly the reasons why people act and react in a certain way as they interact with one another. I observe, listen actively, and assess their body language.

The scary part is how I understand myself by navigating my emotions, making internalized self-conversations, and making fair judgements. Calculating how I tortured myself by consciously undermining my abilities, doubting my skills, being brutal towards myself, and constantly blaming myself by referring to my previous mistakes, hate, and hopelessness hurts me. I owe myself a sincere apology for the unpleasant treatment. I had been experiencing insomnia, restlessness, anxiety and not self-assured lately. I thought overworking and the pressure associated with meeting scheduled deadlines led to how I felt and took some days to rest, but nothing changed. As I was reading the articles, I discovered something shocking. Humans naturally portray our beliefs in our actions, consciously or unconsciously.

If one is traumatized and somehow does not manage to heal, the body and mind will keep on reacting in reflection to the past, believing that it is likely to happen again. The sad thing is, in the journey of growth and healing, we usually look on the outside, pointing out who did what, figuring out ways to forgive, forget and move on, leaving behind the things we did unto ourselves. We think that we have healed but eventually find ourselves in the same situations or even worse, while we swore not to repeat the same mistakes and even made strategies to overcome them. What is the reason behind this? We took care of the external matters, leaving internal conflicts unattended. As I went through the article, I felt triggered and began asking myself uncomfortable questions.

I aroused the matters which I constantly ran away from them in fear of getting hurt. I have been keeping up and embracing my self-worth, dignity, respect, clear boundaries, self-discipline, and faith. I felt pain for that person while noting my thoughts in the journal. I refer to her as “that” person because I felt shame for what I have been doing towards her as I realized that I would not consciously treat myself in such a way. Going through uncomfortable emotions was a gateway out of the suffering. Everyone needs someone to talk to, and sometimes all you need is a self sincerely talk. Distracting ourselves through movies, social activities, music, and whatever we feel is helpful is not enough to help deepen our wounds and fill the gaps within. Allowing ourselves to feel vulnerable is the best gift we may receive, thereby standing on behalf of ourselves fully. Being sorry, respectfully speaking to ourselves, and treating ourselves as we treat others lovingly is the next level of grace upon us. Love exists; it is easy to attract the other when we find it within.

By: Dativa Mugashe

Instagram: real_datty

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