I grew up in a family of five children—one sister, one big brother, and two younger brothers—with me being the third eldest. My mother and father were married in a wonderful ceremony; there are even photographs to bear witness that this really happened.
In my early school years, my father decided to go to Scotland to study nursing. At that time, nursing was considered a noble profession; my mother herself was already a nurse in the maternity ward. The plan was that once he completed his studies, he would either bring the whole family abroad or return to what was then Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe).
It was 1967 when my dad left for Scotland. He enrolled in a nursing school, excited to train for his new career. However, something unexpected occurred. As I understand it, my mother—facing a dire situation as the sole caregiver for all the children—wrote to the principal (or matron) of his training school. In her letter, she explained that her husband was studying abroad while she was left to care for the family on her own. This letter shocked the school authorities, and they decided to expel my father. They argued that he should return to his country to look after his wife and children rather than remain abroad enjoying a comfortable life as a student and, by extension, a father in name only.
The story goes on to say that my father became very angry about being dismissed. He was thrown out of the school because of my mother’s request, and in his anger he declared that he would never return to our home country—that my mother would have to raise us on her own. I do not have concrete proof of everything that transpired, but what I do know is that my father never came back. Consequently, my mother was left to raise five children on her own.
It’s almost comical in hindsight that, while living abroad, my dad would take pictures of his new car or the places he lived and post them to my mother. She would remind us, “Your father is there abroad—he will make it work eventually.” Meanwhile, my mother reassured us with her constant presence; she worked as a maternity nurse at one of Harare’s major hospitals, Harare Hospital.
During that time, my uncle—my mother’s brother—took in my big brother, my sister, and me. He lived in a rural area and already had a large family (he had eight children at that point, with another born later), but he still accommodated us. We attended school in that village and lived together as one extended family. I was too young to understand everything that was happening, but my uncle and aunt were loving, and we gradually embraced life as part of their family. Naturally, as little children, we had our occasional squabbles and competed for attention, but that was simply part of growing up.
My mother insisted that we go to school, working tirelessly to ensure we had food on the table. Beyond that, she encouraged us to go to church and took us to Sunday school—even when her nursing shifts forced her to work nights. Thanks to her determination, we grew up with the comfort of knowing we were cared for and loved.
It was painful, though, to see other children accompanied by their fathers, holding hands as they went to school. I began to long for a father who cared in that way. I wished I had a father who loved me the way other children experienced—a feeling entirely foreign to me because my own dad was absent.
Still, we continued attending church and began making new friends. We met other role models—stable families that worshipped together—and sometimes kind strangers would speak to us, welcome us, joke with us, or share insights into profound ideas. Even our teachers served as role models. Every prize-giving ceremony, when our teachers donned their academic gowns, motivated me to study and achieve something in school. I soon realized that with education and proper qualifications, one could find a job and live a decent life. That became my dream, along with the hope that someday my dad would return and take us to a prosperous country far away. However, as time passed, that dream began to fade because it just wasn’t happening.
The absence of my father left a deep mark on me. I became very absent-minded and struggled to concentrate in school. I recall that when I was in grade four, I performed poorly, and my mother insisted that I repeat the year. I had started school at the early age of five, which meant my classmates were typically a year older than I was. Repeating the grade helped align me with the correct age group—it was as though a bubble had popped, allowing me to finally understand, focus, and even come to love school. I developed a keen interest in practical subjects such as gardening and woodwork.
Another challenge arose, as my mother found it increasingly difficult to cope with the cost of living and sending us to school. In her struggle to manage the cost of living and sending us to school, she enrolled my sister, my big brother, and me in a farm school. At this school, we not only studied but also worked on the farm, tending to cattle. The farm was owned by a wealthy white man who employed many workers, and the school catered for the children of these employees. It was a primary school, offering education from Grade 1 through Grade 7, and students were prepared for national exams to transition to mainstream secondary schools.
During this time, my brother and I grew closer. He was very protective of me, as was my sister. The three of us often sat together, fostering a sense of belonging and unity despite the circumstances. However, when my sister completed Grade 7, she was sent to a boarding school, leaving just my brother and me behind.
I disliked the rural environment and the farm lifestyle. One day, while my brother and I were eating wild berries from a tree, I climbed a branch that wasn’t sturdy enough to hold my weight. It snapped, and I fell to the ground, losing consciousness. When I regained awareness the following morning, I felt a
pain in my back. This accident became a turning point for me—I decided to run away from the farm school and return to my mother in Harare.
I embarked on the journey on foot, hiding in the bushes whenever I saw a vehicle. Eventually, I reached a railway station in Milford and took a train to Harare. Once there, I walked back home and hid in the kitchen, not wanting to reveal myself. The next morning, my little brother found me, and my mother was shocked to see me home. When I explained my accident, she took me to the hospital for a checkup. The doctors discovered a fracture in my lower back, but they assured us it would heal naturally due to my young age. This was my first life-threatening accident, but by God’s grace, I survived.
I persuaded my mother to transfer me to a primary school in Highfield, close to where we lived. There, I began adjusting to city life, making new friends, and settling into a new routine. My brother eventually finished primary school at the farm and joined us in the city for secondary education. By the time I completed Grade 7, I transitioned to a nearby secondary school.