I want to believe that my daughters resemble me during my childhood Cries Without Tears - The Journey Begins (Chapter-2)
'I was only 9 years when I escaped the country to Swaziland with the help of my elder brother Vicente.
This happened immediately after I witnessed the abduction of my aunt Leah by the rebels. That night, there were the only two of us in her house in the far rural area of Maracuene.
I was so fortunate that no one, amongst the hundreds and hundreds members of the rebels who surrounded our house spotted me on my hiding place. I was hiding in the inside-built maize storage.
I could see every thing which was happening through an opening from a small distance. The rebel members were so scary and wild. They uttered all sorts of vulgar words; calling a spade by its real name.
I watched helplessly as they were roughly pulling my old aunt accross the house and forcing her to carry some of her belongings she kept.
I layed quietly on my belly on top of the dry maize. Everything was quiet coming from my side; even mice had taken a break. I could hear noise coming from the other side of where I was, accompanied by gun shots and big footsteps; which included cattle and goats footseps. These were proberbly stolen cattle and goats.
Wailing sounds of women were heard for a minute and silenced by a gun shot; someone had been killed.
In a short while, everything was quiet and you could hear some crawling insects. Even though, I couldn't move out of where I was because I was still not certain whether they were all gone or not.
It was until the next morning, when I heard voices outside the house. neighbours were shouting the name of my aunt, 'Leah!'.
Some were wailing and some claping their hands in amazement. It was yet another story to tell; the painful story of the rebels.
I moved out of the storage and came outside the house to the surprise of all.
'How did you survive, where is your aunt?' They asked.
I looked at them, and deep down my heart I knew that my aunt was never to be seen again. I was the one left behind to tell the story; the lifetime story; the story of loss.
That was my first-hand experience of war in my life. It was immediately after that experience I found myself in Swaziland with the help of my brother. He managed to cross with me over the fence, but had no means of taking care of me.
I stayed in Big Bend in a house that belonged to a family friend. He had his own children and by me staying with him meant it was an extra burden for the family.
Life was not easy. At my age, I had to wake up every morning; sit by the road side and wait for moving trucks and tractors carrying sugar canes. That means, sugar canes falling from the moving vehicle meant I had something to chew. I stood the whole day eating sugar cane and lying by the roadside. I had to survive that way for atleast three months.
It was not long, my father joined me in Big Bend from Mozambique. He had escaped death in the hands of the government. He was accused of helping his son in law who was a senior commander of the army into Swaziland.
My father wanted to settle in Swaziland, and Big Bend was not a right place for him. He took me with him to Mbabane, the capital city of Swaziland.
He was very old. That was towards the end of 1985. My father was 73 years old and I knew he was not going to live that long.
In 1986 January, I started my first grade at John Wesley primary school in Mbabane. I was 10 years old and I was the eldest in class. Pupils of my age were doing their fifth grade.
I was a joke in class because of my age. Children and some teachers laughed at me and cracking jokes about my nationality, and the way I prounounced some words in their language. Some teachers would force me to read the local "Siswati Language book" with the aim of laughing at me when I wrongly call out some words.
They called me by names, "Shangane lenja or Shangane lekunuka."
This means I am a type of smelling Shangaan and a dog. "Shangaan" being my nationality.
Every day I would tell my father about the harssment at school and he would say, "My boy, nothing comes easy. Be proud of your nationality. One day you will go back home, a wise man."
My father prioritise education.He normally said it was a tool to conquer lives' challenges.
I loved school inspite of all those harasments and I was doing well and coming up top in class. By this time, my mother and young sister Busie, had joined us in Swaziland. My sister had also started with her schooling too. She also went through the same experience of harasment.
Due to my good perfomance, some teachers who were good to me, like Mrs. Hlatjwako who was the headteacher and Mrs. Dludlu, promoted me to upper levels within a year. I did not dissapoint them. I always excelled.
In 1987, my father became very sick. He was bedridden. He could not talk or move himself. He had difficulties in eating.We had to help him move to the toilet or clean up his mess around him.
This was another difficult time in my life. I had to play a big brother and make my mother and my sister strong. My mother was unemployed and had no means to support her family and her sick husband.
My mother collected bread leftovers by the local bakery to feed on her family. Sometimes she would go to local restaurants and collect some leftovers and she would bring them home for us to eat.
Everyday she would collect empty boxes to use as sleeping mat for my father who wet himself each and every day. Life was not easy for my family. The Salvation Army church would sometimes help, but the family needs were beyond what they could offer.
I also helped my mother by collecting empty bottles and sell to the local liquor shop. The few coins we got my mother would by something to eat for that day.
Seeing the hardship we were in, I looked for a job as a garden boy to help pay my school fees and that of my young brother and nephew, and also buy school uniform. I had to work after school and earn as little as R40.00 in a month. It was worth it.
My father, Vicente Mododweni Mondlane passed away on September 1988 in Mbabane hospital. He was buried in a family cemetery by our house in Mbabane. His funeral was attended mainly by his children and the Mozambican nationals.
I watched his coffin lowered slowly through an opening which had a cave at the bottom, and the coffin was shoved to the right side and closed by a traditional mat before soil was put.
"It was a wrong grave." I thought. When my father was alive he had pointed a tree opposite, as a place he would have loved to be buried. Nevertheless I was the younget and had no say.
What a life my father had lived; a life of many wives and children that had come to nothing. He died a poor man.
Now we were left only with our mother who had no means of making an income for us in order to survive. What happened to the rest of his wives? No one could tell.
This happened immediately after I witnessed the abduction of my aunt Leah by the rebels. That night, there were the only two of us in her house in the far rural area of Maracuene.
I was so fortunate that no one, amongst the hundreds and hundreds members of the rebels who surrounded our house spotted me on my hiding place. I was hiding in the inside-built maize storage.
I could see every thing which was happening through an opening from a small distance. The rebel members were so scary and wild. They uttered all sorts of vulgar words; calling a spade by its real name.
I watched helplessly as they were roughly pulling my old aunt accross the house and forcing her to carry some of her belongings she kept.
I layed quietly on my belly on top of the dry maize. Everything was quiet coming from my side; even mice had taken a break. I could hear noise coming from the other side of where I was, accompanied by gun shots and big footsteps; which included cattle and goats footseps. These were proberbly stolen cattle and goats.
Wailing sounds of women were heard for a minute and silenced by a gun shot; someone had been killed.
In a short while, everything was quiet and you could hear some crawling insects. Even though, I couldn't move out of where I was because I was still not certain whether they were all gone or not.
It was until the next morning, when I heard voices outside the house. neighbours were shouting the name of my aunt, 'Leah!'.
Some were wailing and some claping their hands in amazement. It was yet another story to tell; the painful story of the rebels.
I moved out of the storage and came outside the house to the surprise of all.
'How did you survive, where is your aunt?' They asked.
I looked at them, and deep down my heart I knew that my aunt was never to be seen again. I was the one left behind to tell the story; the lifetime story; the story of loss.
That was my first-hand experience of war in my life. It was immediately after that experience I found myself in Swaziland with the help of my brother. He managed to cross with me over the fence, but had no means of taking care of me.
I stayed in Big Bend in a house that belonged to a family friend. He had his own children and by me staying with him meant it was an extra burden for the family.
Life was not easy. At my age, I had to wake up every morning; sit by the road side and wait for moving trucks and tractors carrying sugar canes. That means, sugar canes falling from the moving vehicle meant I had something to chew. I stood the whole day eating sugar cane and lying by the roadside. I had to survive that way for atleast three months.
It was not long, my father joined me in Big Bend from Mozambique. He had escaped death in the hands of the government. He was accused of helping his son in law who was a senior commander of the army into Swaziland.
My father wanted to settle in Swaziland, and Big Bend was not a right place for him. He took me with him to Mbabane, the capital city of Swaziland.
He was very old. That was towards the end of 1985. My father was 73 years old and I knew he was not going to live that long.
In 1986 January, I started my first grade at John Wesley primary school in Mbabane. I was 10 years old and I was the eldest in class. Pupils of my age were doing their fifth grade.
I was a joke in class because of my age. Children and some teachers laughed at me and cracking jokes about my nationality, and the way I prounounced some words in their language. Some teachers would force me to read the local "Siswati Language book" with the aim of laughing at me when I wrongly call out some words.
They called me by names, "Shangane lenja or Shangane lekunuka."
This means I am a type of smelling Shangaan and a dog. "Shangaan" being my nationality.
Every day I would tell my father about the harssment at school and he would say, "My boy, nothing comes easy. Be proud of your nationality. One day you will go back home, a wise man."
My father prioritise education.He normally said it was a tool to conquer lives' challenges.
I loved school inspite of all those harasments and I was doing well and coming up top in class. By this time, my mother and young sister Busie, had joined us in Swaziland. My sister had also started with her schooling too. She also went through the same experience of harasment.
Due to my good perfomance, some teachers who were good to me, like Mrs. Hlatjwako who was the headteacher and Mrs. Dludlu, promoted me to upper levels within a year. I did not dissapoint them. I always excelled.
In 1987, my father became very sick. He was bedridden. He could not talk or move himself. He had difficulties in eating.We had to help him move to the toilet or clean up his mess around him.
This was another difficult time in my life. I had to play a big brother and make my mother and my sister strong. My mother was unemployed and had no means to support her family and her sick husband.
My mother collected bread leftovers by the local bakery to feed on her family. Sometimes she would go to local restaurants and collect some leftovers and she would bring them home for us to eat.
Everyday she would collect empty boxes to use as sleeping mat for my father who wet himself each and every day. Life was not easy for my family. The Salvation Army church would sometimes help, but the family needs were beyond what they could offer.
I also helped my mother by collecting empty bottles and sell to the local liquor shop. The few coins we got my mother would by something to eat for that day.
Seeing the hardship we were in, I looked for a job as a garden boy to help pay my school fees and that of my young brother and nephew, and also buy school uniform. I had to work after school and earn as little as R40.00 in a month. It was worth it.
My father, Vicente Mododweni Mondlane passed away on September 1988 in Mbabane hospital. He was buried in a family cemetery by our house in Mbabane. His funeral was attended mainly by his children and the Mozambican nationals.
I watched his coffin lowered slowly through an opening which had a cave at the bottom, and the coffin was shoved to the right side and closed by a traditional mat before soil was put.
"It was a wrong grave." I thought. When my father was alive he had pointed a tree opposite, as a place he would have loved to be buried. Nevertheless I was the younget and had no say.
What a life my father had lived; a life of many wives and children that had come to nothing. He died a poor man.
Now we were left only with our mother who had no means of making an income for us in order to survive. What happened to the rest of his wives? No one could tell.
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