It has taken me a long time to write this blog. I first attempted to write it 25 years ago, fuelled by hurt, anger, and hatred—anger at the men who had ‘fun’ at my expense, anger at my parents, and, yes, anger at God. I gave the draft to someone to proofread, but I never got it back. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time.
If, through my experiences, I can help anyone, even just one person, not to feel worthless or unwanted, I will be even happier than I am now.
I really believe in and live by the quote by C.S. Lewis. “You can’t go back and change the beginning but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
Deborah, Debbie, or just Debs is my full name. My name was probably inspired by the well-known actress Deborah Kerr. To the best of my knowledge, I had no relatives named Deborah, and I recall that my mother loved any films starring her. I might be wrong, but I don’t believe so!
As a child growing up hearing about God, I spent most of my young life wondering why He wasn’t present in mine. I questioned what I could have done so wrong to make Him see me as unworthy of His love and protection. I believed I didn’t matter to Him—or to anyone else—and that sense of unworthiness followed me into adulthood.
But before I delve into those feelings, let’s start at the beginning and try to understand who I was and where I came from.
My mother, a vibrant, beautiful young woman, lived in Livingstone, Zambia, when she met a tall, dark, and handsome railway shunter. Unfortunately, he was also a married man. But they fell in love, and for a time, nothing else mattered.
Doctors told my mother she could never have children because her uterus was twisted. She refused the surgery that might fix it, content to live her life surrounded by friends and music. She was vivacious, outgoing, and talented—a singer with a voice like an angel. She even joined a band while visiting Bulawayo and competed in rock ‘n’ roll dance contests, winning numerous trophies.
Somewhere along the way, she reconnected with my father, who eventually divorced his wife and married her. However, a sudden turn of events led to my birth. While on a picnic with friends, my mother tried a zipline, lost her grip, and fell, cracking her hip. Unbeknownst to her at the time, the fall also flipped her uterus into the correct position. A few months later, she discovered she was pregnant with me—a complete surprise.
My parents eventually married and had three more children: a son and two daughters.
I was born with blue eyes, blonde hair, and a skin or veil (also called a caul) covering my face. If you were superstitious, this signified that the child was destined for greatness, possessed a second sight, or was good luck!! My face was covered by this thin, translucent membrane, which is actually the result of a fragment of the amniotic sac remaining connected during birth. For those who practised superstition, this served as a symbol of good fortune. Some parents, like my mother, dried and preserved the caul for their good luck. My parents a “hefty” sum of money when they later sold mine to a sailor in Durban. Since a loaf of bread cost about 22 cents and a liter of gasoline cost about 30 cents back then, I’m not sure what was considered “hefty.”
From the stories, I was told that while some of the things that happened to me as a toddler were really upsetting, they also demonstrated to me that God has always been with me even when I doubted Him. There are stories of my parents being at a hotel or a similar establishment near to a highway when I was nine months old. I chose to walk since I was me—yes, I was walking at nine months old! I ended up in the middle of a busy highway, as the story goes. When my mother realized where I was, she lost her mind. Suddenly out of nowhere, a young man unexpectedly ducked between the cars, took hold of my arm, lifted me and sped me across the highway to the safety of my mother’s arms. This is according to the gospel of Mom. Another time a priest was called to perform my final rites while I was near deaths door, yet I’m here to share the story. Looking back, I am confident that God has always been by my side, watching over me as I strived to surpass the angels!
Joyful recollections of childhood? Have I got any? In addition to forming a gang when I was around six years old and planning “zone” battles, Railways against the “Hill” kids or No. 1 Colliery kids. The only pleasure I can recall is that these were hosted on the coal wastes known as dumps in Wankie, where we grew up.
Wankie was both the best and the worst place for me to grow up. It was the place I grew up very quickly and where I left my innocence behind.
“Wankie” is one of the spellings of the title that the Abananzwa tribe’s ruling chief had in the late 1800s for this little unique town. Other names for Wankie included “Wangi,” “Zanki,” and “Whangi.” Following independence, it was renamed “Hwange.” It was a small, unusual community that mined coal. Wankie was already hot when the sun rose, and it was still scorching when it set. There weren’t many tourists in Wankie; most tourists, including many Zimbabweans (then known as Rhodesians), drove right past it. An isolated stop that wasn’t worth the time they would have spent travelling between Victoria Falls, which is 100 km to the north, and Bulawayo, which is around 320 km to the south. The promise of wildlife in the surrounding game reserve or the sight of the Victoria Falls were the only things on the travellers’ minds. However, if you were five or six years old, it was a great area to grow up. It stoked my passion for nature, wildlife, and the great outdoors. Wankie was also the start of my then nightmares, now known as experiences !! That’s where my memories of abuse, hurt, and anger begin.
