(revisited 2019)
At the end of each workday in Marondera I would cycle the short distance to my home, No 6 Ashweld Court. After chaining my bike under the stairs and ascending three flights I entered my spacious and sparsely furnished home. Living on a development worker’s allowance, I was not one of the wealthier UN or European development worker set but I was sufficiently self-conscious about the relatively luxury of my home compared to the densely packed shacks of the Africa township nearby. In December 1992, three months into my two year stint in Zimbabwe I held the naive idealism of a novice development worker and abhorred the concept of a maid. As an Australian unused to having ‘help’, I equated the practice with exploitation and apartheid. However, contemplating the expansive parquet floors that would need regular polishing my commitment to such values quickly wavered. As I considered washing sheets, towels and clothes in the bath, trudging them down three flights of stairs to the communal clotheslines, lingering to prevent theft and hopeful the rains would hold off long enough for my clothes to dry, I soon began to toy with the idea of a maid.
The previous tenant, an Australian physiotherapist, had employed a robust mother of four, Angelina, and pleaded with me to take on the youngest daughter, Gladys. Conscious that the money earned for four hours cleaning would feed the whole family, my principles relaxed further. Surely employing a domestic worker, part of the second largest workforce in the country, was more community service than exploitation of the poor, wasn’t it? And so managing my initial disquiet, I relented and retained Gladys for a half day of each week.
I first encountered Gladys on a Friday afternoon in January. Storms brewed in the distance, threatening to cut the power and transform the back lane to a red gushing river, as I rushed home and scurried up the back stairs. Not long after an apologetic knock interrupted my thoughts. Gladys demurely entered, greeting in her humble childlike manner, eyes downcast, shoulders stooped and hand outstretched for the ritual Shona (one of the prominent tribes of Zimbabwe) greeting. At 5’2” Gladys stood a little taller than me, dark chocolate skin, slim with well-toned muscles, African frizz closely cropped, and an enormous smile from which large white teeth exploded. Her pert young breasts fiercely defied the constraints of her worn shirt. Poverty bedecked her — the absence of adornments, clothes tired and much loved by previous owners. Her chapped feet, white under soles tattooed with red soil, moved freely in the flip-flops inside my flat until, weary, she slipped on precious plastic shoes that could offer little comfort on the half hour walk home.
My initial conversational inquiries evoked short careful responses. As the enquiries progressed I, in my brusque Australian manner, quickly and somewhat insensitively introduced the topic of payment. As I was immediately doubling Gladys’s income, a wondrous look of disbelief and joy spread over her burdened face. It was at that moment, unspoken and somewhat unconsciously that Gladys’s fate and my own became bound.
Gladys’s weekly routine consisted of daily treks to school in Nyameni township followed by the long return trip home to Dombotombo, Gladys would complete the domestic tasks for her small household — Angelina, sister Pamela and herself. And on Friday afternoons she would divert from this regular route to clean my flat.
After preparing herself a simple meal of sadza ne muriwo — the staple cornmeal thick porridge with vegetables — Gladys would then, bent over double, scrub and wring out my washing to an inch of life itself. Loading damp sheets and towels into a plastic bucket she would descend the three flights of stairs, diligently pegging each item in the unreliable January sun. As the summer heat worked on the washing, Gladys, worked on worn knees polishing the parquet floors from the back room towards the kitchen, proudly removing all traces of my previous week’s comings and goings, creating a blank slate for the days to come. Soon after 4pm I, returning from work at the nearby Marondera Hospital, would enter while Gladys, weather permitting, painstakingly folded the last of the ironing. It is bemusing to reflect how rapidly I became accustomed to domestic help, I would be quite peeved if rain interrupted the order of things, with ironed damp washing transforming my flat into a Chinese laundry.
On that first Friday in January when thunderclouds grew dense and rain was imminent, I insisted in driving Gladys home. This was not a typical offer from an employer I soon learned, and so began the semi-ritualistic drive to Angelina’s township home, often en route to a weekend in Harare but sometimes, just a drive to save Gladys a long tiresome walk and an escape from rain or heat.
The inequalities in our relationship were profound. I was thirty, Gladys was fifteen. I was white and had travelled the world. Gladys was black, from a rural township and barely familiar with Harare. I was educated, Gladys was struggling to complete Form One — childhood and education had been interrupted many times in Gladys’s fifteen years. Gladys brought her homework, I assisted her. I made cakes, Gladys ate them. And despite the hardship that punctuated her life Gladys exuded a sense of hope for the unfolding of a future beyond her experience. The differences, rather than distancing, were disarming and incrementally a unique relationship evolved, one that neither of us was prepared for.
Gladys became an extension of my family as gifts, clothes and queries of her wellbeing floated over the seas from Australia. And I slowly became an extension of her family visiting for a quick cup of tea as I dropped her off. I would pull the car up on the verge outside the huddle of rooms that housed a cluster of families. Gladys would disembark from the front seat — not a common practice, the local whites preferring their “girl” to sit in the backseat. Walking down the narrow path between the tightly crammed dwellings, passing neighbours as they washed dinner plates in a communal trough greeting with deference and curiosity this odd female murungu — a white person who blatantly entered an unfamiliar world.
Sitting uncomfortably on the only furniture, a double bed, in the spotless one roomed abode where Angelina, Gladys and Pamela survived, Gladys would carry herself with dignity as she poured hot water over tealeaves and stirred the pot. Taking a cup of tea was a mark of respect and honour to the host. Kneeling before me and clapping cupped hands, the traditional gesture of offering and thanks, Gladys handed me a steaming cup of black sugarless tea, an anomaly for the sweet-toothed Africans — further evidence of my eccentricity.
Months passed. Our routine became comfortable and comforting as cold damp June days descended upon Marondera. Overseas visitors stayed and developed their own unique bond with Gladys, now a prominent feature in my life. Tokens of friendship — cakes and clothes from me and meals of sadza ne muriwo prepared with appreciation by Gladys — cemented our relationship. She would regularly rearrange the flat without consultation, leaving me bemused by her sense of comfort in my home. News of Gladys’s family would be shared: Molly, her sister, whose baby died of a “headache”; her aunt murdered — events that seemed so commonplace to Gladys, causing only a brief interruption to the daily routine.
The rhythm of our relationship was soon to alter. As time progressed I noticed that Gladys was filling out, formerly loose shirts now tight over her midriff, her face fuller. Gladys quietly rebuked my observations, attributing blame to all the cakes I baked. Her innocence was beguiling. A life of school, work and a double bed she shared with her mother and sister enabled me to contentedly maintain the myth that she was just putting on weight, filling out as she approached her sixteenth birthday.
Gladys also cleaned for Katherine, my Zimbabwean colleague, in the flat below. One day venturing my concerns, Katherine passed on the observation of a male Shona neighbour who could purportedly detect pregnancy at a mere glance, confirming my fears. What next? During our regular workouts at the gym where Katherine gave me an unending education into Shona culture I learned of the intricate and bewildering customs that restricted addressing Gladys’s predicament directly. The rich labyrinth of Shona family ties precluded direct conversation of such matters with all but designated family. Shona law, preventing Gladys and Angelina discussing her pregnancy directly, the intermediary task allotted a paternal aunt. Yet Gladys’s aunt was unsympathetic and unapproachable. Katherine was prohibited from talking to Angelina by Shona law so I as the murungu could possibly intervene.
Frequently passing Angelina on my afternoon jog, usually exchanging a distant wave, one day I stopped to share my concerns. In the ubiquitous Shona way we talked around the topic, conveying what needed to be said without uttering the words — concern for Gladys’s “health”. Angelina commented that she could not afford the doctor’s fee and suppressing a semblance of pride accepted my assistance. In this simple manner, somewhat unknowingly, certainly naively, I somehow became entrusted with Gladys’s future wellbeing.
Returning from my jog, gently knocking at Katherine’s door, I entered. Gladys stood by the sink completing the last chores for the day. She paused, the broad smile displayed with her lips no longer reaching her eyes, those dark brown eyes now devoid of optimism and hope. Gladys averted her gaze as I spoke of the concern Angelina and I shared for her health. My gentle queries were deftly batted away. Persisting, tact dissolving as a sense of urgency propelled me I badgered Gladys with questions. For some reason it seemed pertinent that Gladys herself announce the pregnancy. But my perseverance had the opposite effect. Gladys shrank, shame and fear engulfing her, collapsing upon the floor in tears of despair. For seven months Gladys had silently navigated the pregnancy alone. Anguish and disgrace engulfing her, the confines of poverty, culture and innocence prevented her from reaching out.
Eventually I elicited the tale, piece by shattered piece. Queries as to the father and the circumstances surrounding the events filled me with dread. Gladys’s hinted that the act had not been consensual. But shame and naiveté clouded the truth. Young and vulnerable she was incapable of making an informed choice. Standing in Katherine’s kitchen I realized Gladys’s future was cemented at fifteen years of age. She would be banished to the family of an unwilling father, to become mother and servant. This frail unassuming girl had for a brief time dreamed of a different life, one of choices and opportunity. But now Gladys was now embarking upon a far different journey, uncertain and lonely.
Unprepared to allow her hopes and dreams to be vanquished by one youthful mistake I took a step that may have irrevocably sealed Gladys’s fate. The boy had disowned her yet Angelina was insistent that Gladys go to his family. Perhaps it was her destiny to live there where she would have a place of value as an amai, a mother and wife. Instead I asserted my authority as the murungu and imposed my values, empowering Gladys to live as she chose.
Soon after a baby was born. Gladys became mother to little Lisa, my namesake, in a lasting gesture of gratitude. Little Lisa was healthy and happy, Gladys a loving, selfless and proud mother. Yet culture had to be accommodated and consequences enforced — Gladys and Lisa were banished to an uncle’s distant farm for three months. Long tiring days, up at dawn to collect firewood with the newborn Lisa swathed securely on her back, deftly making a fire and boiling water for her cousin’s breakfast then cleaning the dishes before eating a small meal herself. Washed clothes were then strewn over rocks to dry in the harsh sun before Gladys departed to toil in the severe fields of Mutoko. When the evening meal was completed, dishes done, Gladys wearily covered herself and Lisa with a thin blanket against the swarming mosquitoes to embrace sleep for a few hours before dawn brought a new day and repetitive cycle.
Without consultation an array of Gladys’s sisters (who were of an entirely different character) were deployed to be my maid. Things started to go missing, work was left undone, I was never sure who would come and when. Fed up, I insisted Angelina bring Gladys back home. Surely her three months of banishment was up! Eventually Gladys returned exuding a new maturity beyond her years and with it a sense of accomplishment, direction and determination. No longer a musikana, a girl, she was a new woman at a mere sixteen years of age.
Over time Gladys adapted to my forthright Australian ways, becoming almost imperceptibly outgoing in my company. Simplicity belied her studied wisdom of this naive Australian. We fell into the rhythm of our shared yet divergent life, where, over the years, we experienced parallel stories that at times converged yet ultimately shattered into distant remote paths.
Through Gladys’s life, and that of other Shona women, I became intimately acquainted with the life of a woman in Zimbabwe. For Gladys, struggling to improve her lot, roadblocks awaited at every turn as as the woes weighed her down she would dump them on me, an act born of necessity and naively, albeit willingly, I took on the role of rescuer.
Two years after we first met I moved to Harare and with sadness Gladys was left behind in Marondera. Skilfully Gladys sought assistance for a seamstress course. I was glad to help, setting her up with a life skill and, maybe, some independence in a patriarchal society was an easy decision. But by now Angelina had become incensed with my meddling and refused to allow Gladys to do the course. Alas, Angelina had not bargained on the maturity motherhood had instilled in Gladys, who rejected her mother’s authority and moved to an aunt’s in Mbare, one of the largest and more perilous high-density suburbs of Harare.
Gladys ultimately enrolled in a different sewing course with my financial support and we stayed in touch via infrequent visits to my new home, a bedsit in Tivoli Gardens on Herbert Chitepo Road. Bemoaning my failure to secure a domestic worker, espousing the horrors of having to do my own washing and parquet floors, Gladys calmly suggested she could continue to clean for me. Once the logistics were resolved, Gladys and I sat sipping tea in contentment. Life could, more or less, go on as we had known it.
Some days Gladys and I had the luxury of seeing each other rather than communicating via notes. Observing Gladys clean with religious fervour, I would sit idle and we would chat. Gladys began to disclose more of her family troubles. Her life seemed like the sea to me — moments of calm interlaced with rippled currents that eventually mounted into tidal waves of turbulent anguish.
One Friday evening dropping Gladys off in Dombotombo, the township in Marondera, an overseas visitor and I were enlisted to visit Gladys’s uncle as he lay in a darkened room on a narrow cot, cheeks sunken, eyes pleading, his body a skeletal bag of bones held together with taut skin absent of any fat, his breathing rasping and irregular. We stood helplessly in the room uncomprehending of what custom demanded, of what the family desired from us. With discomfort, inexpert in the imminence of death and nascent with any religious requirements, we had only sympathy to offer. Backing out of the room we departed for Harare, trying to simultaneously decipher and dismiss the enormity of the AIDS pandemic in Zimbabwe. Gladys’s uncle died the next day.
Death was a constant in Zimbabwe, ubiquitous and ever present. Katherine’s mother, Ambuya (grandmother), bemoaning the losses in her community, the daily funerals and families torn apart, reflected that it must be the same in Australia. My reply, “I’ve only been to a few funerals in my life” of elderly grandparents. Death in Australia did not bear the familiarity that seemed to have in Zimbabwe.
While I would encounter my own turbulent seas in landlocked Zimbabwe my life as an independent white Australian woman was a piece of cake compared to the trials of the black African woman. Take Angelina for example. I first met Angelina during her period of religious conversion, alcohol and the life associated with it banished in favour of an evangelic god. A tall robust woman with a commanding presence, she towered above me. She had a way that made it impossible for me to refuse her. One day she demanded Gladys and I pray, as she lay ill in bed. Her bouts of illness did not bode well in Zimbabwe. A common turn of phrase in the media was “so and so died of a short illness (or a long illness)” — euphemisms for AIDS. Reluctant and hypocritical, I bowed my head and joined Gladys in evangelical prayer. I didn’t know what good the prayers of a nonbeliever would be but perhaps their god would be more tolerant than ministers of the church. Troubled, Angelina wept through our prayers and I felt tainted by the fear permeating the room, the fear of death and for Gladys. Thankfully Angelina survived so it’s possible the feeble prayers of a non-believer joined with Gladys’s heartfelt words were heard after all.
On weekdays Angelina had attended a collective-of-sorts for abused women. Denied the cocoon of family, women banished as unworthy by their husbands’ family were frequently disenfranchised from their own family. If full payment of lobola, the bride price, had occurred the disposed of wife was relegated to poverty, forced into isolation and oblivion. To my western ears the concept of lobola seemed alien, misunderstanding its traditional place in Shona culture. In its pure form the intricate and complex process of lobola, paid by the prospective son-in-law’s family was a “thank you” for bringing up the beautiful daughter-soon-to-be-wife. A second upfront instalment, the roora, represented rights over any future children born to his betrothed. The western translation “bride price” seems a misnomer — lobola in its traditional form was a symbolic gesture between families, a sign of responsibilities. A payment made over a lifetime, the protracted process insured the husband’s rights (would his wife fulfil her obligations and provide children?) and also offered insurance for the bride’s family, explained by the Shona proverb, The son-in-law is like a fruit tree: one never finishes eating from it. With the last payment perpetually outstanding the son-in-law was forever in the family’s debt.
When divorce did occur, the wife’s family was bound to provide protection and defend the daughter from abuse. Bemusing to western ears, the husband was not bound by fidelity, other than to inform his wife of his exploits. Yet failing to satisfy his wife’s desire was considered neglect, and neglect, in any form, was grounds for divorce.
With time and westernization of Shona culture, the essence of lobola seemed diluted — the token animal now replaced by consumer items and money. By 1994, lobola had morphed from the traditional one cow to Z$10,000 (a significant sum at that time). A woman abandoned by a cheating or abusive husband was no longer welcomed back into her family’s fold. Husbands, taking a lover, did not provide for the new partner who had no status other than “the other woman”, no longer protected by the status of second wife. To me it seemed that urbanization brought poverty and a bastardization of traditional values, relegating women such as Angelina to fend for themselves and their children.
An hour-long walk to the women’s collective and back every day, long hours spent sewing for a meagre income meant Pamela, Gladys’s older intellectually disabled sister was left to her own devices after school. An ever smiling, probably eager teenager, she was vulnerable to her sexuality and intellectual impairment. Gladys, the carer and protector, left Marondera and soon after Pamela was sexually abused by a group of local boys. Angelina could do little with the discovery. Complaints fell on deaf ears. Pamela was disabled, after all. Securing a maid to care for Pamela or sending her to live with a sister were possible solutions but these would not deny the fact that Angelina had little choice. She must live with the knowledge that she had been unable to protect her daughter.
With distance from family and her newly secured independence Gladys began to live with a sense of freedom. Yet the seas continued to mount and threaten to wash her away. Gladys told the story of her father, who passed away when she was seven, and the distant indistinct memories of him that occasionally floated through in her mind. One day, visiting her family’s ku musha she was confronted with shocking and confusing news. Always aware she had a different father to Pamela and her other sisters, Gladys discovered that Angelina was not her mother but instead her father’s sister. No longer a mother but an aunt, sisters now cousins. Gladys’s own mother had died in childbirth along with Gladys’s twin. Sitting in my wicker chair with the warm winter sun streaming into the bedsit I contemplated what a blow this must be. I had begun to explore my own adoption around that time and discovered the ocean of emotions below the calm surface of what had been my life till then. At sixteen, alone in Harare, Gladys was left to just accept this information and get on with it.
Through our conversations Gladys alluded to an array of tribulations. Life at her aunt’s house had become abusive and the promised care for little Lisa — withheld for some unknown wrong — threatened Gladys’s plans to be an independent woman. Without childcare she could not continue the sewing course. Her initial solution was to send Lisa to live with her sister in Chitungwiza, a common arrangement in Zimbabwe where family members frequently interchanged roles within an intricate cultural arrangement whereby uncles were designated as brothers or husbands, cousins were sisters, a complex arrangement that traditionally offered strong boundaries and protection. The widow married her brother-in-law who in turn cared for her and the children, a true social security system non reliant on governments and bureaucracy.
One afternoon Gladys arrived, revealing marks on eighteen-month-old Lisa’s small back, evidence of recent beatings inflicted by Gladys’s older sister. More than the sanctioned cultural practice of corporal punishment seemed at play. It was increasingly clear that the support and attention my distant Australian family and I lavished on Gladys and Lisa was met with resentment, jealously and frustration. But ever pragmatic, Gladys soon solved the dilemma and more of the labyrinth of Zimbabwean society was revealed to me. Now the maid was to employ a maid who might employ a maid who had a maid, and so on.
With cunning and resourcefulness, Gladys secured accommodation along with another teen mother — Gladys, providing accommodation for all while her newfound friend provided childcare. The only obstacle was money to cover the initial costs. Careful to avoid blatant handouts and dependency, I employed Gladys two days a week, an unnecessary luxury in my small bedsit. This along with extra work with friends of mine enabled Gladys to become the breadwinner for her new household and with this the novel experience in her turbulent life — the joys of a best friend.
Months passed. I would inquire about Gladys’s sewing course. She offered reassurance, gave embroidered wall hangings as proof and life meandered along calmly and surely, routine again structuring our lives. Most weeks Gladys and I communicated via notes and all seemed to be going well. But Gladys’s guardian angel seemed to take frequent holidays. As Gladys struggled to attend the sewing course, work, pay rent and feed four, keep little Lisa safe and to make sense of her life, Gladys’s new and only friend turned on her. One evening Gladys went home to discover the locks changed. Rushing back to my flat, to me her problem solver, frantic and confused, with little Lisa safe, we strategized a plan. With no money and no legal standing Gladys’s ‘friend’ had little recourse and crumbled when confronted by the landlord. Gladys regained her home and possessions, minus her child carer and first best friend. It was a profound defeat for Gladys, her courageous efforts at independence slashed, her trust and confidence thrashed. I sometimes wonder if this was the crucial turning point in Gladys’s life.
Returning to her aunt’s house, Lisa was sent to live with another sister and the drudgery of life continued without the smiles and warmth of her baby to buoy her. I moved to a one bedroom flat at Kellar Court on Prince Edward Road and Gladys followed. While her love was unwavering, around this time Gladys’s actions became less reliable.
A distance seemed to be growing between us. Gladys relayed her health problems. Discovering she was taking paracetamol, I offered to pay for medical care. Verbally complying Gladys never acted upon the offer. Slowly, suspicion surfaced. I flagged the idea with Memory, a young friend, “I wonder if Gladys is pregnant again?” All of fourteen at the time, Memory answered with a woman’s worldly wisdom, “Of course she is!”
About to embark on a trip back home to Australia I decided there was little I could do — it could wait. When Gladys arrived for work on the day of my departure she seemed to have forgotten that I was leaving for a month. Looking at her in disbelief I stood, drained, unable to deal with any more of her dilemmas.
For security reasons I’d asked Gladys to continue with her weekly routine as well as asking a friend to pop in irregularly — the combined comings and goings a deterrent to any would-be thieves. Back in Harare a month later I discovered that Gladys had not stuck to the agreement. Caught out, Gladys told her first lie. Asked about her sewing course Gladys admitted that she had failed, yet assumed I would pay for another course. But I was incrementally toughening up. “You’ve learnt enough to sew and start a business,” I stated. “I’ll help you buy a sewing machine” — an offer Gladys never took up. Weeks went by, but no Gladys. No phone-call to alert or reassure me and I had no way to contact her. Had I morphed into a “Zimbabwean” (or God forbid, Rhodesian — the archetypal racist stuck in the pre-independence era of white supremacy) as my laundry needs and parquet floors began to take equal prominence with Gladys’s wellbeing?
As the inevitability of facing Gladys’s next pregnancy loomed I began to consider going home for good. False claims about my character had been raised with Immigration. On this particular morning I paced the flat as I awaited a lift with my organisation’s country rep. The interview would define my future in Zimbabwe. Gladys entered, our interaction became cold and cautious, an unspoken impasse before us, as my own state of distress clouded my reasoning. Erroneously I chose that morning to tackle the elephant in the room. My words no longer supportive and encouraging, I lashed out, demanding of Gladys an honesty she could not give whether by her own immaturity and personal experiences, or lack of. Dismissive of cultural sensitivities I was in no state to tolerate, I probed and prodded, firm in my resolve that THIS time Gladys would tell the truth. But the words I needed to hear remained elusive.
My impatience insistent, I spat out the accusing words, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, the verbal response absent — her silent answer reverberated the walls of my kitchen. My own immaturity and personal experiences, or lack of, rendered me an attacking disappointed parent at a time when Gladys needed love and a soft place to fall. Instead I lectured — “Who’s the father? What does he do? Does he have a job? Is he going to take responsibility?” — I was no longer willing to stand up for Gladys who was proving incapable of standing alone. My questions assaulted her further. “Did you use condoms?” Gladys’s feeble reply: “Yes.” But relentless I continued, “Well, how did you get pregnant? Did you use them all the time? Do you know what they’re for? Does he drink?” sounding more and more like a parent until Gladys could offer no sensible response, her assertions that the father would adhere to his responsibilities echoed weakly in my ears.
I demanded reassurances so Gladys gave them, her efforts listless and ineffective but sufficient for me to renege on an unspoken promise to always be there. Then I offered the final blow. “Gladys, I can’t employ you anymore. You’ve become unreliable. I need someone I can trust.”
The image is burned in my brain for eternity — Gladys’s body slowly collapsing in upon itself, her wail echoing throughout the flat as she crumbled into foetal position on the floor, her groans and moans, “Nooooooooooooo”, following me as I moved from room to room in an effort to escape the attack I was unfurling upon her. “I’m not saying I can’t help you anymore,” I helplessly offered, “I just can’t employ you anymore.” But we both knew this marked the end of an era, neither of us sure what would become of our tattered relationship.
I became insistent that Gladys pick herself up, my own anxieties building as the appointment with immigration loomed. My meagre efforts to console Gladys were pathetic displays of my own distress.
“I have a lot going on myself, Gladys, I just can’t deal with this right now. Come back on Wednesday and we’ll talk more,” I placated.
Tears streamed down her face; I suppressed a desire to comfort, unable to contemplate what I’d done to this lost young woman. Gladys, a defeated soul, clung to the handrail as she left in despair and I locked the door behind her. But when the new maid came with regularity and efficiency, my relief was palpable.
Gladys never returned the next Wednesday afternoon. My memory of that time is vague. Perhaps guilt and discomfort has clouded my recolections to assuage my sense of self. What I do recall is meeting Gladys while working at the Children’s Rehabilitation Unit at Harare Central Hospital soon after her second baby was born, much earlier than the designated date. Had that been another lie or was the baby girl born perilously early? My words cold and harsh as Gladys stood in front of me, her lies and dependence exhausting. Did that in itself reflect my naiveté and arrogance, that I could bestow care and assistance at my will, that when it all seemed too much for me I could withdraw my support, if not totally, at least in part? After years of reflection the only rationale I can offer is that my own emotional resources were depleted — I had to rally for myself. Cold comfort for Gladys.
While the interview with immigration turned out okay, the experience crystallized my need to head home. When I told Gladys I would be leaving Zimbabwe in a few months, I kept my tone casual and cool, averting the emotional dance the news would evoke. Distraught, Gladys stood downcast as I reiterated my earlier offer, “That doesn’t mean I can’t still help you, Gladys.”
March, April, May. June arrived and it was time to commence the momentous tasks of dealing with Zimbabwean bureaucracy, and packing. Gladys’s second little girl, Patience, became ill. In the ubiquitous Shona way the exact nature of her ill health remained a vague inference. I was left to ponder the worst, AIDS, and the obvious implications for Gladys. At that time the AIDS statistics were growing exponentially. Human frailty, cultural pressures, the preponderance of the disease seemed to render her death inevitable.
When the baby died, I offered money for the funeral. Coffins, the last offering of respect for the lost soul, were omnipresent in Zimbabwe, and expensive. A frequent cause of tension in families was who would pay for the funeral. Imagine a mother’s despair, unable to provide this last vestige of love and reverence to her child. But my charity was acutely coupled with sadness as I pondered when the time would come to fund Gladys’s funeral.
As the day of my departure inched closer, Gladys and I arranged a final meeting. Returning at the designated time I discovered a note from Gladys, who’d come and waited … at the wrong time. Whose error? The unconscious is a powerful force between us. Whose mind led Gladys and I to avoid the painful process of parting. Cognizant of the subtle change from what I had naively perceived as a mutual relationship to one of dependence, I was wary of the ongoing and unending responsibility for Gladys and her children. I was ashamed of my growing judgment of her choices and my wavering tolerance and compassion.
Gladys and I never met again.
I travelled to Australia leaving a pile of stamped addressed aerograms with her to ensure ongoing contact. On finally reaching the shores of Australia, Mum and Dad showed me the first of many letters:
October 1996
Dear Mum
It’s nice to talk to you mum, it’s me Gladys calling from Zim. How are you treating the good and bad times of life over that green land of yours? Hope you are doing quite well. How is Lisa? Please note my new address and will you pass it to her.
Life has been too miserable for the past months. Lines of disapointment had already grow on my face and my smile no longer enchant with it openness and freshness, it had become cool and too wise of things I never should have learned. After I loose my job with Lisa I loose my lovely daughter again I will never forget.
Little Lisa is doing well and I am with her. She is very clever and never forget what she is taught. She can read small words she can count one to ten. She can pray half prayer of Our Father. She has good manners too. She is so wonderful that if things goes on well next year she will going to Pre-School.
Will you please pass my greetings to Madeline, Alison, dad and others, not forgetting Lisa. Although things had been so bad between us, our friendships our communicating, although I know so badly that she cannot accept me as her friend once again I can’t take my mind of her. I am missing her so deeply. She was more than a friend a boss to me. Looking forward to hearing from you.
God Bless you
Love,
Gladys
One look from my mother was enough to make me recognize my responsibilities, and so began a written exchange, letters including gifts and money.
January 1997
Dear Lisa
Happy Year and Happy Birthday to you. It’s a pleasure to have this precious opportunity to jot you one in reply to your respond. Thank you so much for writing and for the precious gifts that I received a week before Xmas. They are nice and they fit us all. We thank you so much.
Well, I hope you are all fine and that the holiday was okay with you and that it did you a lot of refreshment. Are you working and the same job that you did here? I am sure that it is wonderful to be home again with your family. I sometimes imagine you all sitted around the fire at evenings and dad making tea for you all. I still remember him making tea for us at your flat when they visited. He is a nice man. Here life is just half orange and half lemon. Sometimes good sometimes bad. I have decided to be here in Bulawayo far away from others so that I can have much of refreshment as I can. To breathe the new air, to try to forget about the past year. To have a new life and start all over again I didn’t like all that happened last year it was the force of the situation. I want to live a clean life with my daughter. I want ’97 to be a great year to show how much I regret. To forget and do my best for I cannot promise because I don’t know what the future holds, but this is my wish why I came here. Yes I am learning Ndebele (the language in Matebeleland) and speaking a little of it.
I am still asking you to forgive me in everything that I have done wrong. Please forgive me. I know that I was wrong when I didn’t tell you the truth. Yes I trusted you for you were the one that could stand with me. You were my best friend and I know that no matter how bad it was you could have made it better. I was tongue tied I couldn’t say a word.
Well Lisa I thank you so much for being my friend. May you please keep on writing for you letters are my great comforters. I love you so much that I want our friendship to be new and strong. Little Lisa is very well. Say hallo to Madeline, Alison (my nieces) mum, dad, Philip (my brother-in-law) and your sister.
It’s too late and I am feeling sleepy. I have been busy all day and I am tired. Its nice to talk to you. Meet you in the next mail. Stay cool but don’t freeze okay.
Take care.
love Gladys
March 1997
My dear, dear Lisa,
I am so greatful to have this precious time to talk to you I. Thank you so much for the clothes and shoes you sent us. The clothes are just perfect for both of us. I am very warm and comfortable in shoes. I really like them. Thanx to mum and dad too. It’s winter and very very cold so I’m always warm and safe.
Little Lisa had fever and was in hospital for two weeks. But she really is doing better now, and I’m happy for that. I am working in a cotton wool shop in town from 7am to 1pm, from 1.30pm till late. I work as a domestic worker. I am staying with Lisa that’s why I have to work like this. I’m provided with her transport to pre-school and our accommodation Lisa enjoys schooling so much that she is my courage. She keeps me going.
The ones I’m working for will be leaving for America in August. I really don’t know what to do after that. Going home will never do me any good because things had been so bad between me and mum. Since I had Patience my late daughter things seems not to be the same again, between us. I know that it was I who turned things this way but still I couldn’t let Tichaona marry me. I want to be away from her, while I tries so hard to be closer with her again. I love mum very much that I never wished to be like this. I still want her in my life very much. I hurt and disappointed her. I feel lonely and dirty. I don’t know how I can make her look at me with love and compasion as she used to do. I miss her love and guidence. I used to phone but she receives my phone calls without interest. She is a lovely mother but I mess things for my self. I can’t send Lisa there. I know I must carry this burden on my own but I really in need of your advise. What can I do Lisa, August is around the corner.
Thank you Lisa for being my friend. I’m sorry to bother you with my problems, but I really thank you for listening. I’m so thankful for everything you always do for me and Little Lisa, most of all thanx for your love.
We will be happy to meet you again. Please save money so that you will be able to come. I love you so much.
Lots of love from,
Gladys and Lisa
April 1997
Dear Lisa
It’s wonderful to have this precious opportunity to talk to you. How are you? I hope you are fit and strong. I am sorry for a late response to you postcards. Thank you for writing. I heard that you are enjoying your new job, that’s wonderful, mine is always busy waking up at 4.30 and going to bed at 10.00 or 11.00. It’s hard and boring but I will to do my best so that I will stay here as long as I can.
It’s nice to hear that Madeline and Alison are both doing well. I am sure Alison is as clever as Lisa for she always come home singing, counting and dancing. She is bright, I tell you. She is mixing her words when talking Ndebele Shona and English. Their teacher use both languages for others. I hope she will continue doing well.
It’s time that there have been heavy rains here, and it is still raining. Some farmers are not happy about the rains because it’s now destroying their plants. Even my sisters wrote saying school children can’t cross rivers to go to school. So it’s getting worse, and I am sure it will be very cold this year. Hope we won’t freez.
Your letters are my comforters please do write. Looking forward to hear from you. Pass my love to mum and dad, Madeline and Alison. Tell the girls to keep the good work up.
Thank you all for loving me
Lots of love from,
Gladys and Lisa
September 1997
My Dear Lisa
It’s always wonderful to read your letters you make me feel good. When life is bad and discouraging your letters are me great comforts. Thanks for your advise I understand it all so well.
I’m home now. It was a big welcome when I came home. Mum was happy that I couldn’t believe it. It was so nice to feel at home and wanted again. Lisa is now attending Gatehouse preschool so I am going to stay here. I’m looking for a job. Things are fine with mum and everyone else. Its seems as if everyone missed us so much. You can just imagine how I’m feeling.
Thankx dear for your advise (to go home to her family).
Is mum and dad back? Did you find a flat for yourself? I wish you luck. Nice to hear about you enjoying Madeline and Alison’s company.
Pass my tender regards to mum, dad, Madeline and Alison, also your sister and Philip not forgetting yourself. Love from Mum, Lisa, Pamela and Angela.
lots of love
Gladys
June 1998
Dear Lisa
I firstly apologize for not communicating for so long. When I come from Bulawayo I found out that mum was seriously ill. I then decide to stay home with her and Lisa. When things were worse that she couldn’t go to work her sister took her. In October I then decide to get married to Thomas whom I saw only for a week and did not love him deeply. Mum wanted me to settle down. So I get married. She enjoyed that day. She gave me a big hug. In January she took all her things to Harare because she couldn’t pay rent. I remain in Marondera with Lisa and Pamela. On April 30 I had a premature baby boy [going by time lines Gladys’s husband clearly not the father] whom she [Angelina] named Kudakwashe. On May 14th mum died. I was in hospital I couldn’t attend her funeral. Without mum, Lisa, things will never be the same again. It’s hurting. It’s a blow.
I will look after Pamela and Lisa, I have to manage, won’t I.
Thank you so much for the parcel. Thanx for writing too. My aunt didn’t say a word about you when we met, at mum’s memorial day. [I had visited Zimbabwe in May 1998 and tried to contact Gladys via her aunt and other addresses and phone numbers but they never connected.]
I will try to save my marriage although I don’t love the man. Well I thanks again for everything.
Write soon.
love
Gladys, Lisa and Pamela
March 1999
Dearest Lisa,
I hope you are doing well. How is your mum and dad and the whole family. So many days I have tried to write but couldn’t concentrate, I’m sorry. Things are not well down here. Kudakwashe is always in and out of hospital [her new baby son]. I always have terrible side pain. Lisa, she is doing her Grade 1. Pamela also at school. Things are very expensive everything going up. I always wish I had a job. And Thomas, oh he is doing his best.
Can you help me Lisa please that is if you can. I need some money to buy a stand [land] in the rural areas, in Seke. I can go and live there with the children while Tommy works in Marondera. Things will be better that way. Schooling, in the rural area, the fees are better, and they don’t bother you with uniform. I can do the gardening so I won’t be worried ‘what’s cooking’’. Tommy will do the building, what we can’t afford are the building materials. Can you help us? We will so thankful. If you can help with Z$5000 we will be so grateful. My account is 99975754535 Central Africa Building Society, Marondera branch.
Say hello to everyone, bye for now.
Gladys
Preoccupied with the purchase of my first home, moving in with all the expenses that entailed, I had not been as consistent with my letters. I was also consulting Zimbabwean friends about how best to support Gladys and Lisa, trusting their knowledge of culture and law, and marry these with my own “development” principles.
June 1999
Dearest Mum and Dad Dyer
I hope you are all doing well. Is it winter time there? Here it’s warm during the day but very cold at night. Kids are suffering from flu because in the morning sometimes rains. How’s Lisa, Madeline and Alison? Hope they are still kicking. Is Alison going to school? Lisa is doing her grade one, and she is doing well. Very bright I can say.
I wrote two letters to Lisa but I didn’t receive a reply. Is she there? I wrote asking if she can help me with some money so that I can go and live in the rural area. In town things are getting more and more harder. Everything is going up nearly every day. Rents, electricity changes water charges food and school fees, they are all very expensive that we cannot afford. In rural area there will be no rents electricity and water charges school fees are cheaper I can do gardening and also ploughing. But we don’t have is money for the building. Since Thomas is a builder he can build the house. We will be so grateful if Lisa can help. There are also stands with one room and a toilet worth Z$15000 here in Marondera but I can’t ask for that much plus live in town is getting harder. We will be very much grateful if you reply.
With love
Gladys
Part of me was annoyed that Gladys had drawn my parents into the exchange. I had begun to consider setting up a trust for Lisa and that any purchase of land would be held for her. But the news of Kudakwashe’s illness along with her previous child’s death heralded a growing fear that Gladys was herself HIV positive and I was loathe to fund a property that would, at Gladys’s demise, fall into the hands of Thomas, a man I did not know, who might discard Lisa at a whim. I was in a dilemma. My trust had been defeated in the past and I was wary.
July 1999
Dear Lisa
How wonderful to hear from you and to hear that you are in your new home. I’m sure you are happy.
Well Lisa, I do understand your letter and what you mean about a trust for Lisa. Teddie (Lisa’s father) knows very well that I am married. While I was in hospital last year he was informed but he didn’t respond. He is also married. Little Lisa is using my surname, Teddie didn’t say a word about it. I believe he has nothing to do with her. And also I wasn’t married to him. If there’s a law guiding everything I see no problem in a Trust I believe.
Thomas my husband have agreed to stay with Lisa when we got married and be just like a father we decided to tell her when she was older. So if you can do anything for her I will be so greatful and thankful.
Nice to hear about Madeline and Alison. That’s wonderful. Pass my love to mum and dad, and it’s winter time, stay cool. Thomas writes below.
Love,
From Gladys and Family.
Dear Lisa
I am happy to introduce myself to you. My name is Thomas. I was born in a family of six. I am aged 28. My parents devorced in 1978. I then stayed with my father who died in 1983.
Now would like you to know I grew up almost the same way as Lisa is growing. Someone volunteered to look after the family. I tell you he was good to the family. So I see no reason why I should say no to my wife. Your idea is great. As long as you make sure everything is legalised, I will be happy to work with you.
With that I pen off here not forgetting to greet you.
Yours faithfully
Thomas.
After much deliberation I realized I could not burden Zimbabwean friends with overseeing a trust. I accepted a friend’s plain advice — reiterating the UN motto, “Educate the girl child”. I would fund all expenses related to Lisa’s education, a solution I could abide. I clearly stipulated my conditions to Gladys — invoices for school fees, uniforms and book shop should be sent directly to me to be paid, receipts and Lisa’s report cards forwarded to me. But alas best laid plans! Money was sent. I received nothing in return. Reluctant to judge I supposed that the money sent for education was needed to feed the family instead. Yet there was a seed of disquiet sitting in my belly. What if the money was poured into a husband’s drinking habit, fuelling domestic abuse, providing for another wife, putting Gladys and Lisa at even greater risk. I would never know. All I knew was that I could not refuse Gladys.
August 1999
Dear Lisa,
How wonderful to talk to you again. Thank you for the birthday card and the letter. That was kind of you to remember 23rd birthday which was calm and comforting with Little Lisa singing happy birthday mama, that was wonderful. I enjoy every minute with her.
I also want to give more thanks to you. I never thought you would so much love to offer me such a help paying Lisa’s expenses. I’m so happy that I can’t even say but thanks to you. I will write and give you all the details for next year because this year we have paid. Lisa may I borrow you some money, I promise to pay back. I want to sew bedspreads and sell them I know for sure that I can do this, I can’t just stay home and do nothing in these days. Life is getting hard so I have to do something. Truly speaking Lisa, please I beg you to try me and I won’t disappoint you. Not now. If you may borrow me Z$3000 it will be fine for a start. I promise you I will do great. I am desparate and I swear I pay back.
Give my love to mum and dad, and all your family. How is the weather? Here it’s chilly and sunny in the afternoon but very cold in evenings and mornings. Is your flat on the last floor? How big is it? Isn’t it cold I heard you saying something about rain. Is it rain season there? Is your flat like the one you stayed in Marondera or the last one in Harare? If like that well its a nice one. Stay well.
Love
Gladys and family
March 2000
Dear Lisa
Thank you so much for Lisa’s school fees and other expenses. May the living God bless you always. It wasn’t difficult to change the cheque, I was surprised to see and know how much your money is valued than ours. Thank you.
Kudakwashe died on the 16th of Feb. My mother in law was saying that I’m the cause of his death, she says I’m HIV positive. I cannot explain how painful it was although I was very sick during his pregnace. Although I proved to her and other relatives that I was treated TB with all my cards and tablets that were leftover, they couldn’t let me stay with my husband. My uncle was very angry with so my sisters packed my clothes. I’m again staying with my uncle. Lucky that I had paid Lisa’s school fees for only one term. We have left her in Marondera with my sister. They will come when the schools are closed. I have banked Z$2000 and then used Z$200 on Kudakwashe’s funeral. Will I ever make it in life? I sometimes think that death is also best for me. It’s painful to know that I’m starting again.
Then on a scrap of paper in the aerogramme:
I’m sorry Lisa at the Post office they didn’t allow to post anything in this envelope. I will send you the receipts in my next mail. Thank you.
Gladys’s letter marked the futility of my efforts. What had I enabled? Would Gladys’s life been different if I had not interfered at that first juncture, the first pregnancy? If Gladys and Teddie had been forced to marry would she have remained safe?
Gladys’s frantic letters told of her desperation, distress and most profoundly of her denial. Her husband’s family accused her of carrying the demonic HIV and as was the new cultural norm, threatened to abandon her at a time of utmost vulnerability. I offered paltry reassurances, my own heart heavy. That path of hope and optimism we had both envisaged six years earlier at Ashweld Court had long since become as fanciful as the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz. This new ominous path was heartbreaking. Her son had died and I paid for the funeral sending a substantial sum besides.
That was the last communication I ever had from Gladys. I presume Gladys has died, that she has “passed” , that she is “late” as they say in Zimbabwe.
Friends have since commented, “What happened to Little Lisa?” — their queries stirring disquiet deep within. My lack of ongoing involvement with Lisa is a dilemma I struggle with. After Gladys’s presumed death I could have searched and offered support, funding boarding school, a common occurrence in Zimbabwe. Yet without a mother Lisa would be reliant on her aunts for love, her sense of belonging, for family. These are things I could never offer, never successfully supplant. When in Zimbabwe my financial and moral support had at times alienated Gladys from her family, evoking jealousy and retaliation. I decided with much internal conflict that the most respectful option was to allow little Lisa’s life to take its course within the family she had been born into. I frequently reflect on my choices and their impact upon Gladys’s and little Lisa’s lives. Guilt, shame, disappointment, overwhelming responsibility and hopelessness dominate my feelings. I cling onto the scraps of Gladys’s letters that offer some reassurance — that despite her dire circumstances she felt loved and thought of. While it was not enough in the end I encouraged Gladys to find family again. At the very end she would not have been alone. I don’t know why the family did not make contact or ask for support for Little Lisa. Enough money had been sent to ensure communication continued. I can only suppose it all became too despairing, that perhaps they had given up on me.
I learnt many valuable lessons from Gladys, how intricately one person’s life can be interwoven with another’s, how one person’s decisions impact upon the course of another’s life, and that some cultural voids cannot be filled. Gladys and I met and grew together during tumultuous times in our lives. I faced my own life-changing events during four years living in another culture, challenges that perhaps limited my capacity to be the pillar of strength I had initially, naively positioned myself to be. Eventually though, I simply lost faith in Gladys’s capacity to make better choices for herself.
I wrote this story in 2011. A Shona friend, now an Australian citizen but relocated to Johannesburg, and I were chatting yesterday about the need in Zimbabwe and the emotional challenges it evokes even today. As for my other friends with family in developing countries, the dilemmas of ‘helping’ and ‘empowering’ never seem to have a simple solution. I decided to revisit the story of Gladys, and 24 years since I left Zimbabwe I am still conflicted about my choices. All I can do is accept that that is the person I was at that time. And now? I am a little wiser about the inequalities of relationships, power imbalances, and how desperation challenges character in ways I will hopefully never know.
