NDALAKWANJI

Ndalakwanji is my name, given to me by my grandmother, and has been made a reality question to me through my Father

How is that so you may ask, but this ink on paper reveals it all it has the answer

These finger imprints on my biceps are a frequent reminder of my father’s grip as he forced me to the floor when mother was not around.

These lines that fall down my cheeks are the gullies that were formed when tears caressed their surface endlessly because of my pain.

My body became dead to physical hurt but the pain in my heart was like a dagger endlessly piercing it because of every moment that father took away my innocence.

The thought that the only man I was supposed to look up to and trust was the man who betrayed my symbol of womanity cremated my heart.

Father created an intermittent path to my heart for all men as his example blurred my judgment of all males. 

Every romantic approach from men felt like a snare from the beast of revelations just to abuse me and play fathers role again. 

I was traumatized, too sick to be healed, abused past my threshold, hurt and wounded beyond recover and mutilated beyond recognition. 

Father took away more than my innocence he, took away my self-confidence, my womanity, my pride, my joy, my husband’s right to a virgin and my path to a normal life.

Thoughts to commit suicide made settlement within my grey matter and execution was judgment at the tip of my hands, my father’s belt that he shamelessly took off in my sight would effectively hung me up the ceiling.

But the world had to know first like titanic before its fall, so I told mother, I told mother, I told mother, but mother…

Mother looked at me in tears as if in agreement but her mouth betrayed her facial expression as her lips moved to say my claim was false and with her hands emphasizing a point chased me out to my room.

Mother despite knowing the truth, acted ignorant for fear of abomination, ankhoswe and marriage loss and not forgetting this deadly Malawian phrase that says banja ndikupilila.

With mother placing the final seal on my self-given death sentence I reached for a rope and creatively and artistically prepared my death instrument which was to make headlines the next day as I put my head on the lines. 

Before I could fully support my body on the rope by the neck my stomach made a call that was meant to be answered by my mouth and I vomited the content and at that moment I knew there was life in me but unlike other pregnant women I wasn’t content.

Ndalakwanji is my name, given to me by my grandmother, and has been made a reality question to me through my father.

I am 9 months pregnant, in a hospital ward, and am thinking about one thing.

How will I tell my unborn child that my father is its father and grandfather, which makes me its sister and mother and, makes my mother its grandmother and older mother, which makes her my co-wife to my father and her husband?

#STOP-GIRLS AND WOMEN ABUSE

By Steven Mwangala

HER MOTHER, MY MOTHER AND I

If I have heard her talk about a woman she adores then it’s her mother, the woman whose love, I never doubted. Maybe it’s because the last time I saw her I was 5 and she was on her death bed, or because her last words on that bed were to my mother and she said, “Promise me you will take care of Vanessa.” I have learnt I am strong, unique and it’s just right that I am a woman, and I am beginning to learn I got it from a line of women who didn’t get a chance to know and believe they are strong, unique and are being women right. 

Her Mother and mine

She got divorced when my mother was in 3^rd grade. Her husband was very abusive and she was brave enough to let go of a marriage in a culture that prioritizes marriage, where divorce signifies failure and it’s a shame. My grandmother left and took her daughter with her. She would work and raise her child in a safe and loving environment. Later, she remarried a man who not only became her husband but also her daughter’s father. He adopted her daughter and loved her like his own. They became a complete family bounded by love and a commitment to love. 

Her Daughter, My Mother

She was not poor. She had parents who provided everything. She ate chicken and rice on more days than just Christmas. She lived in a house that had electricity, running water, a telephone, a yard in Malawian suburbs. Her parents had connections with people in high places and her parents were so hardworking, they lacked not, they were religious and grounded in their beliefs. She felt proud, she was beautiful well still is, she was young and she thought she had it all. She was on top of the world and when a handsome, charming young man who was every girls dream in the neighborhood showed interest in her, she gave herself away. He became my father, and my mother became a part of the statistics (teen pregnancies in Malawi). She was in 9^th grade and she dropped out of school.

Her Mother, My Grandmother

She decided to keep her unlike most parents in my culture who disown their girls when they get pregnant. She told her not to get married, unlike the norm that pushes young girls to get married once they are pregnant. She encouraged her to keep the pregnancy, unlike most who get rid of it to save themselves from the shame and inconvenience of having an unplanned child. And when I was born, she committed to raising her baby while sending my mother back to school. In my mother’s words, “keep the pregnancy, I will take care of the baby…said my mother. And When my baby was born, my parents sent me back to school and they took care of my baby well, sometimes they didn’t even let people think it was my baby, they would say she is theirs.”

My Mother, Me

She went back to school, Form 2 (Grade 10), having learnt a huge lesson and she worked so hard got done with her high school and went ahead to teachers training college and became a teacher. 2 years after high school, her mother died, and I was 5. Her parents were the only parents I knew, I thought my mum was my sister but life had changed and she had to take care of me now. She and my father got married and a year later they took me in. 

Me

My brother was born right then and made me a big sister before my parents could baby me. I was so obnoxious, a very clever and extra active kid who got spanked almost every day in order to behave. Always talked a lot, played a lot and prayed a lot. There was never a dull moment with me, such a charmer and loved taking care of everybody’s children. I had a reputation. Had all these young men tell me I would be Miss Malawi when I grow up and some say they were waiting to marry me when I grow up and I thought I was the coolest kid around. I didn’t love learning but I loved winning. I never hated being top or the center of attraction. 

My Mother

In her words...“When I started raising my daughter, I started knowing what parenthood is. I knew what I had passed through, I did not want her to go through that, and what my parents had been through, I did not want to go through that. So, I tried hard to correct my child whenever she was wrong. My daughter was too clever so I knew that this cleverness would lead us into trouble. So, when I needed to talk to her, I would and where she needed spanking I did. Even the bible says., “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.” Proverbs 24:13. Above all, I prayed for her. I would say, God, do not allow my daughter to go through what I have, I prayed this over and over. This is what I did and still do and I think it’s what has gotten us this far”.

Me

I didn’t mind the spanking, I hated the words that came with it. I became bitter but I respected my mum especially seeing everything she was sacrificing to make sure I got everything I needed to stay in school, and make me more than she ever was. Every morning she woke up to heat water for my bath, she had breakfast ready for me, and packed my lunch. She knew the subjects I was not good at and found teachers and resources to help me. She did small business (selling water, popcorn, homemade ice pops) to bridge the gap between what we had and what we didn’t so that life happens for me. She fed me enough rice, fries and chicken to make me dislike Nsima which she now forces me to like. Seeing my mum survive abuse just for my brother and I made me realize, I did not want to go through what she was going through and the drive to have something better going on for me so that I rescue her, my brother, me and other girls like me. 

My Mother and I

My mother wishes her mother was alive to see the young woman I am, I wish my grandmother was alive to see how strong, enduring and committed her daughter is. So many times, I have been stuck on what could have been, what has failed that I am blinded to what is, what has been achieved. I am learning from experience and from words not said. My mother learnt to love from her mother, and to fight and endure. I have learnt to live, love, fight and endure, from my mother. I have learnt to REBEL, from my grandmother and she will never see this but my mother , has and my children, will. These are my great women who should know they are great.