Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Tariro (Publishd Afrika)
Tariro (Publishd Afrika)
Tariro (Publishd Afrika)
Accordin
g to the d
octors Ta
riro was b
rought int
o the hos
pital two
weeks ag
o. Her leg
s
were brok
en beyon
d repair.
A plastur
e was hol
ding the l
ast remai
ns of her l
eft mince
d
butchery
hand and
her right
hand clas
ped a blo
od soaked
diary. Hal
f of her fa
ce had
been mar
ooned by
iron shrap
nel in the
midst of t
he traged
y. She wa
s the sole
survivor
on the da
y of the tr
agedy but
today she
breathed
her last. I
am happy
she died,
heaven
was her o
nly chill-
spot and
peaceful
place. Th
at leaves
me to rem
inisce at t
he life of
my daugh
ter who di
ed full of
grief.
She was b
orn on a s
tormy nig
ht, Augus
t 17. The
clouds we
re pregna
nt and thi
s was
symbolic
of a great
soul she
would gr
ow up to
be. We na
med her
Tariro.
My daug
hter
was the ki
nd of joy
that came
to heal m
y wounds
after scar
s that wer
e left by h
er
father, an
evil spirit
who put
me in the
Intensive
Care Unit
everyday.
Tariro wa
s once
my smile
keeper bu
t the giga
ntic jaws
of death c
aught up
with her.
My daug
hter was
an Africa
n teenage
r who dep
icted the s
truggles t
hat every
teenager f
aces unde
r the
forces of
demandin
g parents
who expe
ct her to l
ive up to t
heir value
s. She ha
d good
days and
mostly ba
d ones to
o. The go
od days w
ere broug
ht by my
mythical t
houghts
clinging o
nto the dr
eam of be
coming th
e next Tsi
tsi Danga
rembgwa.
"You do
not see an
open win
dow with
academic
s in this t
ype of a c
ountry",
Tariro‟s
father sai
d to her o
nce. How
ever deep
down Tar
iro knew
her father
was partl
y correct
because li
fe in a co
untry wit
hin the da
rk depths
of Africa
was not li
fe. It was
just a life
in a place
where pol
itical crie
s and the
economic
crisis sur
ge. Keepi
ng her he
ad above
the water
seemed to
be difficu
lt when s
he was in
the middl
e of the P
acific Oc
ean.
Girls Tari
ro’s age
were livin
g lavish li
ves by sle
eping aro
und
with old
men but
Tariro ke
pt her hea
d high, bu
rning the
midnight
lamp stud
ying.
What was
my daugh
ter's drivi
ng force?
Competiti
on was on
ce part of
her value
s but it va
nished th
e day a lo
cal
ophthalm
ologist fr
om Harar
e diagnos
ed Tariro
with an e
ye conditi
on called
Keratoco
nus. From
that day,
she never
pictured h
erself wit
hin the co
unsel of l
eaders.
Her estee
m becam
e shattere
d. Who w
ould want
to follow
a partially
blind lead
er?
Seems lik
e every st
raw she h
eld onto
was crum
bling. Wh
y couldn't
Tariro, m
y
daughter,
just let he
rself dro
wn in the
deep wate
rs?
Academic
s were the
only plan
"A" withi
n Tariro‟
s radar.
Without t
he value
of
excellenc
e, plan "A
" became
worthless
. Plan "B"
had been
decided b
y her fath
er, he
was to ma
rry Tariro
off to an
old man i
f ever Pla
n "A" fail
ed. Accor
ding to T
ariro‟s
father, ou
r daughte
r had to b
e made re
ady for su
ch a marri
age throu
gh female
genital
mutilatio
n [FGM].
***
“It is just a prick to safeguard your virginity and appease the gods,” Sangoma assured
Tariro, “the might of the gods will bless the holy matrimony you are about to enter.”
Her fate had been sealed. Like a sacred spring, blood gushed out between her legs,
and that night she drowned in the pool of her own blood. All because of her father's
firm doctrine; Tariro would not live to see dawn. Tariro‟s father stood nodding
approvingly to the Sangoma's incarnations as he rubbed herbs onto my
daughter‟s womanhood and showcased prowess in knifing skills. The herbs gave
Tariro a burning sensation followed by excruciating pain from the cutting rusty razor
blades. Why couldn’t they just let Tariro rest in peace?
That night, Tariro reminisced about her dreams and goals for the last time. I audibly
heard my sniffles as the pain of being a mother crept up my emotions. I stared in
horror at my only daughter lying on a blood-soaked leopard hide. The Sangoma
scrapped pounds of flesh and he grabbed a thorn to start sewing parts of
Tariro‟s womanhood for a quick recovery. The razor blade was partially blunt and his
bony fingers scurried in the dark for a knife. Flies buzzed around Tariro‟s womanhood
and kept on distracting the Sangoma. My insolent husband seemed more content with
the procedure yet the Sangoma was now dismayed. Why cling to an ancient tradition
at the expense of your own daughter? Anxiety was killing me, wondering what it is
like on the other side because there is nothing left for Tariro in this Motherland.
Traditional cycles ought to be cut. My devil husband had made our only daughter a
victim of the ancient primitive tradition. Why?
“Devil!” Sangoma cursed at his old dog as it licked blood off the surgery kitchen
knife. He threw the pounds of flesh scraped from Tariro‟s womahood to send off the
dog. In the final touches, the kitchen knife dissected the womanhood. On this fateful
night Tariro was supposed to bear farewell to us in a way that would haunt
everyone eternally but she survived. Fate had almost answered my wishes of Tariro
dying so that she rests in peace.
Whenever I opened my eyes I saw my daughter’s broken dreams and shattered hopes.
It was hard to live a life knowing that one day from here she would be changing an
old man‟s diapers and warming his cracked patch of skin. Fast forward, Tariro was
married off to an old man. Life had been throwing punches at my daughter. Her life
was like an unbreakable cycle that repeated itself over and over again. I was
unfortunate to see it with my own two eyes when I visited my daughter. My two week
stay at my daughter’s house was hell on earth. Tariro‟s home was a kickboxing arena.
Like father, like son, my son-in-law was a treacherous devil.
***
“These are just the aftermath of teen menace”, Tariro always said when l asked the
reason behind her missing front two canines and a fragmented molar. The gaps in her
mouth never hid the nightingale smile as her laughter boomed across the house.
Luckily the mask was ever present to refugee the goal posts in her mouth. Out of the
blue, the heavy footsteps opened a new chapter. With the official closing of beer halls,
it was no surprise to see Tariro‟s husband get drunk with tea. As soon as my son-in-
law's hefty body got in the picture, our mood changed like a chameleon‟s colors. His
tobacco stained teeth make him look like a monster out of a horror movie. When he
caught a glance at Tariro, his fists yearned for a punching bag. “Why is my sadza not
yet ready?” He asked looking for petty issues to evoke a fight.
Tariro‟s tears scourged the pretty black skin. Her make- up the following day was
intensive just to hide from the world a shame of a man she cares for. Was there
another hell for my daughter in the after- life since she already was in one? Like
father, like son! My daughter and l shared the same fate. We were human punching
bags. The broken nose and stuffy face showed an ugly woman Tariro had become.
Her vintage teen photos showed she was once a lovely testimony to the infinite artistic
capabilities of Mother Nature. Welcome to the life of my daughter, a sixteen year old
who is bashed by a mad son in law. This is not a great environment for a pregnant
Tariro. Her skeletal figure bulldozes a swollen belly, maybe carrying a triplet
pregnancy. The devil of a man she is married to is not concerned about her health. He
just sees a punching bag and a baby-making machine. Consequences of a child
marriage.
One time the doctors outlined the odds of Tariro waking up from a coma. She had
been escaping jaws of death after every head injury operation but this time it would
not be possible.My mad son-in-law was just waiting for my daughter to wake up and
continue his fighting scheme. Was l wrong for congratulating Tariro for finally
making it towards death? The world did not deserve her and heaven was Tariro‟s only
chillspot. Please bear with me, as an old woman, l could not man up to the six feet old
goliath who pounced on my lovely daughter. The only choice was to cower in the
corner and sober mercilessly. Was there another hell for Tariro, my daughter, in the
afterlife since she was already in one?
***
I have reminisced through the memory lane remembering all the moments my
daughter, Tariro had. I look at her corpse in the hospital mortuary and tears well up
my eyes. Out of the blue, Doctor Manyama hands me a tattered diary believed to be
Tariro‟s. It is the same diary I gaver her as a gift a day before she was married off to
the devil. Deadman tells no tales. Fortunately, Tariro‟s diary lives to tell the tales of
the Cyclone Idai horrors and the Higherlife Foundation men, women she kept
murmuring about.
Sunday 24 March 2019
Do you see the twenty meters dee
p debris? Higherlife Foundation r
escue team
retrieved me from underneath the
re. They found me on the brink o
f death. Twenty-
four hours before this photo was t
aken we were a happy family of s
even. A normal
family with a red modern house
made from farmhouse bricks. Th
e rain came and
everything became history.
If only we knew this was our last
supper. We retired to sleep under
the eyes of the
angel of death, pregnant dark clo
uds. Little did l know it was the l
ast time giving my
five daughters sweet lullabies an
d hearing their laughs boom acro
ss the house. The joy
in our village would be robbed an
d replaced with grief. In the midd
le of the night, ear-
splitting lightning and screams a
woke the village. The house wall
s were shaking and
swerving like a reed in a thunders
torm. Abruptly, the roof was swa
llowed by the
cyclone. That is when the drama
began.
I still vividly see the gruesome de
ath of my devil husband and dau
ghters. The walls
crushed on their minute figures.
My devil husband died holding m
y petticoat tightly.
Squash! A quick death, no groans
or screams of pain. That was the
last of them. It
was raining rock boulders. Rock
boulders were tossing around. Th
ere was
pandemonium everywhere. The
water current was carrying cars, c
attle, and houses. I
ran around madly looking for the
remains of my daughters. Rock b
oulders landed on
a helpless me. That was the last
of me. I heard the shattering soun
d of bones in my
legs as they were ground into dus
t by the boulders. Could l escape
death by a
whisker?
I remember waking up from a co
mma. It was my first time hearin
g the name,
Higherlife Foundation. Around th
e camp, people were murmuring
„Higherlife
Foundation‟. Their men and wo
men in blue were clasping hands
tightly, whispering
prayers for the wounded and dea
d bodies on the ground. The trau
matic memories of
the Cyclone Idai's aftermath hove
red over the camp. We were forc
ed to bury the dead
in makeshift coffins. Some peopl
e never found their loved ones.
Would their bones be
recollected from the mixed debris
in the mass graves? It was horrifi
c. Human remains
and cattle carcasses flowing in th
e current, rubble from smashed h
omes, and stone
boulders were a reminder. Water
supplies and food were scarce. O
ut of the blue,
Higherlife Foundation brought its calvary. Trucks loaded with blankets, food, and
water supplies flooded the camp.
I remember the moment. The moment l caught a glimpse of the distant five corpses.
Five dismantled torsos lay on the ground. I could recognize the tattered clothes my
daughters wore from last night hanging onto the shattered bones. The men and women
in blue comforted me. I had peace of mind; my family was going to get a proper burial
from Higherlife. Higherlife Foundation, a stitch in time saved nine. A helicopter
arrived in the nick of time and whisked us, the wounded to the hospital. From the sky,
what was once a massacre and death zone had been rekindled with hope. Bones were
scattered and mixed up over mother earth. The men and women in blue scurried over
the mountains and beneath the debris looking for survivors and retrieving our beloved
remains.
By opening this diary, you opened fresh wounds. Wounds that will haunt and torment
survivors. You will find them still living in makeshift pole and dagger shelters even
though Higherlife Foundation channeled funds towards Cyclone Idai victims.
Whoever finds this, these are my last words. Thank Higherlife Foundation on my
behalf. Thank Higherlife Foundation for the lives they saved and for trying their best
to save my priceless life. Their relentless efforts saved multitudes. Higherlife
Foundation, a philanthropic giving you made enabled me to achieve peace of mind on
my deathbed.
Higherlife Foundation, you could not be here to see the smile they put on my
butchered face but they showed a different meaning of philanthropic giving. There is
more to the money and donations. We will flourish in their love and compassion. They
would sing lullabies for us in the makeshift tents, drying the tears off our cheeks.
Feeding the infants who had been robbed of their mothers by the floods. If ever l die,
my spirit will hover over the Higherlife Foundation men and women in blue.
Mom if ever you read this, do know I have finally made it into a peaceful place. I
cannot wait for you to join me. I cannot wait for the day you will be united with your
five granddaughters. I will surely tell God to forgive my father and husband for they
did not know what they were doing.
Diary by Tariro
Tariro’s last dying wish trembles in the core of my heart. In her last breaths she
remembers not the devil husband or female genital mutilation that pounced on her bu
t
love. A stitch in time saved nine. A small act of giving made a soul attain peace of
mind as it breathed its last. She is one of the many victims who are grateful for the
higher love from a Christian-based organization in the midst of such horrors.
Philanthropic giving, transforming lives.
Since time the wise men of Africa have been blubbering that youth just like Tariro ar
e
the future of Africa. I have shown them the other side of the lives of the so-called “
Future of Africa" that hinders their progress and positive impact. Wake up and smell
the coffee. My daughter Tariro underwent female genital mutilation, butchered like
a
cow at an abattoir during the process. She was married off to the devil and bore him
five daughters. Today she has finally rested in peace and lost everything in life.
Tariro, a tale of hope to the girl child.
***