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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:

Growing Up In A Boarding School By Jasana Uandia

By: Jasana

Instagram: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

Facebook: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

The post My Mother’s Caregiver ~By Jasana Uandia appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Meet Hilda Madonsela, the founder of Ekuphumuleni Home Of Peace, located at Orange Farm, Gauteng.

Hilda is a woman who makes a difference every day – and at She Evolves, we call people like Hilda “Changemakers” because they are the few people who work hard everyday to serve their communities. Hilda is a single mom of five, but despite all the many other responsibilities at home, she still finds time to help others in her community.

When our changemakers met her through our 1000 Stories, 100 1000 Trees project, she planted a tree and named it Stefanie, after one of the children she has cared for over the years. That tree is more than just a plant, it’s a symbol of hope for her and her community.

Hilda started an NGO in 2020 called Peace Daycare Centre. What began as a small daycare has grown into a safe place for children and families in need. She helps lost kids, feeds hungry families, and gives shelter to mothers and children affected by Gender Based Violence (GBV). She doesn’t have much, but she always shares what she can.

Now, she’s working on something even bigger, an orphanage centre for children with no one to care for them. She bought land opposite her home in Orange Farm and has followed the formal process and protocols by reaching out to the Social Development Office and the SAPS which is the police department at Orange Farm. But, like every other NGOs, she needs assistance to continue building the centre.

Hilda doesn’t ask for much in return. She just wants to see kids in her community thrive. That’s why the Stefanie tree matters, in many ways, it is a tree of hope… as it grows, we pray and hope that the centre/orphanage will also be growing with it.

If you’d like to support her, anything helps, clothes, food, school supplies, or even just sharing her story. Together, we can help Hilda keep changing lives through Ekuphumuleni Home Of Peace centre.

Because when people like Hilda plant seeds of kindness, whole communities grow stronger. To hear more about her story, please watch the clip below or reach out to her.

Facebook and Instagram: Ekuphumeleni Home Of Peace Or Neo Esther 

The post Meet Hilda Madonsela, The Founder Of Ekuphumuleni Home Of Peace appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Alice was the first woman
who told me I am beautiful.

We sat across from each other,
and she looked at me and asked,
“Do you know you are beautiful?”
Before I could answer Alice, she
she smiled and said,
“You are beautiful.
Don’t let anyone else make you feel otherwise.
Especially boys.
If they make you doubt it or question yourself,
remember,
You are beautiful, and I told you so.
If they want to use this as a compliment to undress you,
Remember,
my lips said it first.
You don’t need their affirmation.”

Alice then leaned in and asked,
“Now, has any boy told you so yet?”
I laughed.
Alice gave me a knowing look.
She said,
“Now, here is where you draw the line”.
And she started an education.

I don’t know if Alice still remembers her words,
but I do.
I am beautiful,
because my grandmother said so.

From: JustSam 

Facebook: Just Sam

LinkedIn: Yvonnie Kunkeyani

Instagram: Yvonnie_93

The post Alice’s Words~ By Yvonnie S. Kunkeyani appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Hello! My name is Babirye Bridget. I’m 20 years old and from Uganda. I come from a family of three boys and one girl, raised by a single mother. She worked so hard—taking on multiple jobs just to feed us, send us to school, and keep a roof over our heads.

Growing up, especially in primary school, I was fearless. I would stand in front of my class, completely confident, speaking without hesitation. It didn’t matter if the students were older or younger—I said what I needed to say and walked away, unbothered by anyone’s opinion.

But in secondary school, everything changed. I was bullied badly because of my weight, and my confidence disappeared. I felt small and broken. That’s when my journey with God truly began—especially in 2023. He listened when no one else did. He never judged me, only welcomed me with open arms.

Today, I still love speaking in front of people, even though my accent isn’t “perfect” and my teeth need braces. But I don’t care! I am beautiful—with my natural melanin skin and my proud African hair.

Lesson: Life may knock you down, but with faith and self-love, you can rise again—unshaken and unapologetically  YOU.

By: Miss B

Instagram: Babiryebtidget522

@missb

The post Unapologetically Me ~By Miss Bridget appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Martha Nambisa. I was born and raised in the Vaal Triangle, Sharpeville. I am 35 years old and have three kids.

My eldest daughter is 18, yes! She’s immensely grown, and the responsibilities have forced her to age quickly.

My first child was still at school when I fell pregnant. Baby daddy did agree to be responsible for it, but upon the birth of the child, he only assisted me financially for the first year of the child, and then he vanished.

The other 2 have the same dad, but unfortunately, their dad is late. Their dad passed during the chaotic riots in Sharpeville, and till today, we don’t know his killers. It was one morning, very hot, and I felt like a different hit on the day. We woke up to the typical day, which began with the chores, and before we knew it, there were people screaming and whistling, and guys had to go and represent their homes. Only if I knew that this was the last time I saw him.

He went out with his object because everyone had something in hand. They went to the side of the big shop where they were protesting. Police were already on standby, ready to mitigate and cool off the anger. Still, with the slate they had and the few among the crowd were raving in rage because of what the politicians told them for their selfish reasons, both the protesters and the police could not come to an agreement. Fights began, it was very chaotic, and before we could make sense of one, one boy came home running with the bad news: my man had died on the scene.

Till today, I haven’t had peace within. I still feel like justice should have been served.  I tried counseling, but it does not help; maybe it’s too early to heal, but with all the sessions that I have attended, my wound is still open and bleeds every chance I get.

I am unemployed. I live off social grants for my 2 kids because the elder one has reached the age and was cut off. My elder daughter does part-time jobs at Shoprite only when they need a reliever for the day, especially on holidays. It is nothing much she earns, but the little we get goes a long way.

I have been through a lot emotionally. I hope I’ll finally reach peace and a breakthrough to give my kids the better lives they deserve.

The post A Proud Mother of 3 beautiful kids appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

I am a female, bold and bright all day long
I sweat and still go on
I pull up and show up in my hood
The compliments from my peers sometimes overwhelm
Reality strikes and weighs on my shoulders
It is the pressure that comes with a compliment

I go to my hood with pride
I always look forward to seeing where all of my success started
Where my current derives from
I feel and I am touched by the circumstances, yet
The reality strikes and weighs on my shoulders
It is the pressure that comes with a compliment

My home town Is my home
Not only my mama’s house but the entire hood carries me
My peers show long appreciation
Elders give love and expectations
Drilled into being a role model
Striking a balance between being me and still rolling for those who look up to me
The reality strikes and weighs on my shoulders
It is the pressure that comes with a compliment

I do charity work
I show up and bring change
I get compliments, and the bar is raised higher
I am just a little one who wants to be treated like every young one in my hood
This instant respect, even from elders, is overwhelming
The reality strikes and weighs on my shoulders
It is the pressure that comes with a compliment

I am a female, bold and bright all day long
I pull up and show up in my hood
The compliments from my peers sometimes overwhelm
The reality strikes and weighs on my shoulders
It is the pressure that comes with a compliment

BY-Nonny

The post Poem: The Pressure that comes with compliments appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Caged by my culture
A custom in my society
A girl to stay at home and be taught to take care of a home
While a boy child goes to school to be educated

This culture should be eliminated,
Women and girls’ dreams are shattered,
Nowhere to run, no one to run to,
I must follow a certain path to adulthood, they say.

Myself and other young girls are at risk of getting a fistula.
They are destroying my life,
I go through trauma, my father sees me as a potential wife,
Forcing me into marriage, even if I am against it.

Who will be my voice and
The voice of other girls in my community?
I have dreams and ambitions,
But they see me differently, a brainless machine
I cry for my future, but my voice falls on deaf ears.
Who will be our source of light?
Will things remain the same forever?

I have determination,
I will be a voice for many,
I will be a light,
I will achieve my dreams,
Although they are like bad spirits.
I was chased from my home,
I became a night runner,
But I am not shaken, I have a strong foundation.

What I went through is all in the past,
With reinforcement, I shall return home,
And with all I am, I shall fight for the voiceless.
Some norms shall be eliminated from my culture,
Girls will go to school and we shall not be treated as fools,
We shall abolish FGM and early marriages,
Our girls shall shine TOO,
They shall achieve their dreams.
I build a strong foundation,
A foundation to stand for generations to come.
And it shall never be shaken.

Instagram: Vivien_yaddah 

Youtube: Vivien Gatwiri

The post Caged By My Culture: Vivien’s Story Through Poetry. appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Mrs. S, and I am married to my husband, Mr. S. I am a 37-year-old coloured woman. I was born and raised in Cape Town but moved to Johannesburg in 2010 during the World Cup. I am the oldest of four sisters. My mom passed away after I got married, and even though I was old enough, it was a difficult time for me. My dad is still alive, but he hasn’t been very involved in our lives since we were kids. He has now moved to an informal settlement in Cape Flats with a girlfriend who is around our age, and things have gone from bad to worse.

2010 was a turning point for me. I came to Joburg for a job opportunity that I got during the World Cup, and I have been living here ever since. I met my husband in late 2010, and things moved very quickly towards marriage. Little did I know that it was the start of a lifetime of troubles. I am married to an abuser, a narcissist, and a very selfish person. We have one son, who is 12 years old. I have stayed in this marriage for the sake of my son, even though many people have urged me to leave. I find it hard to leave because I love him so much, and financially, he provides the lifestyle that I have become accustomed to, albeit with abuse. His mother supports his behaviour and gives reasons why he should keep treating me this way.

I studied office administration and have had a few contract opportunities, but I haven’t been able to secure a permanent position. I am financially dependent on him, and despite his abusive behaviour, he does have a positive side. He has improved my life materially, but he is a narcissist, and everything revolves around him. I have become more of a servant to him because it’s his way or the highway.

I joined an organization for gender-based violence, and it has helped me to heal and understand that I am indeed in an abusive relationship. The counselling sessions have been helpful, and I am slowly regaining my confidence and strength to leave this relationship while I am still alive.

I have chosen to remain anonymous, but I hope that my story reaches many and helps enlighten others. Abuse is real, and women must stand firm and lead the way.

The post “I am married to an abuser, a narcissist, and a very selfish person” appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

I have dedicated my life to helping people understand childhood trauma, redefine their perception of behaviour, and make tangible changes in their approaches. There’s truth and growth in pain, but only if it is brought out into the open. This is my story. I have often avoided my past, but I am constantly aware of how it informs my future. I have learned about how trauma and adversity can manifest in adulthood through my own experiences, which support much of my work. I have shared snippets of my experiences with my partner to illustrate how children might feel, but I kept them at arm’s length. They are interwoven into my soul, and sharing them feels like losing control over them, which is scary. I worry about being seen differently or weaker. Many times, I thought it wasn’t fair to share my story, as others have had it worse. But I’m slowly realizing that stories are powerful agents for change, and I want to cultivate change.

Everyone’s experiences, big or small, are relevant and worthy of being shared. We must be brave enough to talk about the tough stuff to normalize difficult feelings and teach children that their experiences matter. Our stories shape our perception of the world, our beliefs, and our behaviours. They mould us and stay with us. It’s time to share mine. I grew up in an environment of neglect, emotional abuse, and violence. From a young age, I was familiar with fear and anxiety. On the outside, everything seemed idyllic, but behind closed doors, I carried a painful secret. My parents fought daily, creating a constant presence of tension. The emotional turmoil filled our house, and I often felt like I was walking on eggshells. The pressure to take sides in their arguments caused me emotional stress and anger.

I adored my dad, who inspired me to be my best self. He was charismatic, loving, and kind, but he was also an alcoholic and abusive. He struggled with his own past, having grown up with adversity and feeling unloved and unworthy. His experiences overshadowed his life, and despite creating a beautiful life for us, he was plagued by his past. I grew up with two identities: my wonderful, loving self and my scary self, which nobody knew about. We didn’t tell anyone what went on inside our house. As I got older, I resented the life we had to live. To cope, I immersed myself in TV, writing, and drawing. Writing became my sanctuary, a place to release my pain and confusion. But the constant flip between good and bad days was torture.

The emotional toll of my parents’ fighting left me feeling insecure and anxious. My father’s illness worsened, and despite everything, I still loved and looked up to him. His illness and our family dynamics strained my relationship with my mother. I felt isolated and unloved, and my mother’s scolding only made it worse. In the absence of safety within my family, I found solace in writing. However, my struggles with gastric ulcers and surgery deepened my pain. Despite my transformation into a cold-hearted
individual, I longed for love and understanding. My journey to reconnect with my family and heal from my trauma has taught me the power of resilience, love, and seeking help when needed. I have decided to reconnect with my family, especially my father. I believe that people can change and redeem themselves. I am living in the present, making the most of my life by opening myself up to the world and allowing myself to be vulnerable. I have learned to embrace kindness and empathy again, and I choose to share my story to inspire others to find their own light amidst the darkness.

I was diagnosed with gastric ulcers and experienced complications. Surgery was suggested, but it scared me. During this time, I realized my mother’s love and care. I shared my family problems with Father Mwango, our school chaplain, who brought me closer to God. My transformation into a cold-hearted individual was gradual. I became detached, suppressing feelings of empathy or compassion. I adopted a cynical outlook, expecting the worst from people. I never imagined having so much hatred for my father. I started praying for his death, believing our family would be better off without him.

Interactions with others became transactional. I focused on self-preservation and personal gain, refusing to let anyone get too close. My once vibrant spirit turned cold and distant. Despite my transformation, I longed to experience warmth and love again. 2022 was my most depressing year. I lost interest in everything I loved. I found solace in drinking alcohol. I felt comfortable being alone. The pain inflicted was excruciating, leaving a lasting impact on my heart. I felt like everyone was manipulative and deceitful. I began to withdraw emotionally as a defence mechanism. Interactions with others became transactional. My once vibrant spirit had turned cold and distant.

I was either going to commit suicide or murder. The thought of committing suicide dominated. One day, I noticed a fire in the kitchen and ignored it. I didn’t care about the fire or the people in the house. My parents saved us, but my mother’s anger made me feel she didn’t care about me. Deep down, I still longed to experience warmth and love. I sat my mother down and explained how my sleep was affected. She told me to visit Bishop Chulu. He made me realize I had been depressed. I started finding ways to escape depression. I engaged in church activities and went to a conference. Seeing people singing and dancing was exciting. I felt like I hadn’t been happy in ages.

My parents divorced, which I supported, but it made me insecure about my family relationship. I developed a fear of abandonment. My brother and I hated each other because he sided with my father, and I sided with my mother. Parents serve as role models for their children’s behavior and relationships. Witnessing conflict aggression between my parents, I internalized those patterns and exhibited similar behaviors in my relationships. I struggled with expressing my needs and resolving conflicts constructively. My trust and intimacy were affected. I struggled to trust my partner’s intentions, leading to difficulties in forming deep emotional connections. One day, I met someone who forced me to confront my cold-heartedness. My companion friend noticed my withdrawn demeanor and reached out with kindness and understanding. His selflessness and compassion touched a chord deep within my soul. I realized my cold- heartedness had not protected me from pain; it had only isolated me further. Embracing vulnerability and reconnecting with my humanity, I embarked on a journey of self-reflection and healing.

With consistent support from loved ones, I learned coping mechanisms to manage my anxiety and build a network of trusted individuals. My journey taught me the power of seeking help when needed. Everyone needs help, and it shouldn’t be a big deal to seek or offer help. Our aim should be to love people regardless. People can change and redeem themselves. I am free to move on, and I won’t let people hold me in a prison where I can’t move on. My life is important, and I choose to make the most of it.

Sharing this story is not easy, but it is important to express how deeply the constant fighting affected me. I hope that by sharing this, we can begin to have open and honest conversations about our family dynamics. My story serves as a reminder that every child deserves a safe and nurturing environment. Let us create a better world, advocating for the rights of vulnerable children and raising awareness about the impact of childhood trauma. Appearance can be deceiving; we must approach others with empathy and understanding, creating inclusive environments where everyone feels safe and included.

The post Blessing Musonda’s Childhood Trauma appeared first on Sheevolves.world.