Against all odds - Matilda Masenda
My mother, Matilda Milka Masenda was born in 1935 to Martha and Ben. She was one of those sweetest people you have ever met. She knew no stranger. Her first line of communication was her smile. The smile would be followed by her soft by firm voice.
In 2015, my siblings and I decided to each write a letter to Mom for Mother’s Day. We wanted to let her know how amazing she was. We did not want to wait until she was gone to tell the world how phenomenal she was. Today, I celebrate her by sharing a little piece of her with all of you.
My Grandfather was a son of economic immigrants. My great great grandparents were South African but the following generations dispersed in search of work. My great grandfather immigrated to Malawi and My grandfather would end up in Zimbabwe as a railroad worker. After settling in Zimbabwe, Grandpa married a Zimbabwean woman, Marita and together they had 4 children: Ben Munjodzi, Rachel, Matilda (My Mom) and Rosemary. As an immigrant, life in Zimbabwe was tough for my grandparents. They were a peasant farmers with not much else.
My Mom’s Early Years
As a young girl, Mom was very smart, musical, and athletic. She joined the school choir, and she was one of the lead singers. She was also the best goal shooter for her school’s netball team. Their team was the best in the region. She was such a netball star the school blocked her from going to another school so she could play for them and get the championship one more year. She did not go far with the singing as the group had to travel far for competitions and she could not afford to. She chose to concentrate on netball.
For Standard 3, Matilda and her Brother Peter Munjodzi had to go to boarding school in Musami. Being poor, the family could not afford school trunks, so grandma found 2 old trunks and painted them black on the same day that the kids were going away. Mom recalls boarding an open truck with her brother with freshly painted trunks and everyone complaining about the stinking wet paint. The driver briefly stopped in Chihota for a bio break. While the passengers sat patiently at the back of the open truck, a young man was using a sling to get fruits from a tall “hute” – syzygium cordatum, waterberry tree and he missed the mark and hit my Mom’s right eye. She would end up hospitalized for 2 months, only to join class at the boarding school with 1 month to go before the break.
When she arrived home, she was devastated to learn that she would not be returning to Musami to finish Standard 3. Her parents could not afford tuition for both kids. Uncle Peter continued with school and fulfilled his dream of becoming a policeman. Mom stayed at home and helped on the farm. She later took a job in Fendere, Penalonga near Mutare as a maid. She did not stay long as the home the white family owned was haunted by the ghost of the husband who had died. She recalled that the ghost was so active no one could sleep at night.
Back at her parent’s home, she met a friend Regina Masenda. Regina had two brothers, Martin and Cyril who was working in South Africa. Mom was quite popular in the area because of her talents. Regina had great admiration for her, and she wished Matilda could marry one of her brothers. Mom was introduced to the younger brother Martin. Martin fell in love with Matilda and they would soon marry. Unfortunately, Martin fell ill and passed away soon after. As was the tradition, the family had to find another husband for the young bride. My Aunt Regina sent a telegram to her brother Cyril who was in South Africa and she begged him to return home.
Cyril Mupfuuri Masenda left the Wenera mines and came back to Zimbabwe to mourn his brother and to marry his brother’s widow. Cyril and Matilda were joined in holy matrimony until death separated them about seventy years later. Mom and Dad had seven girls. Having daughters in a culture that valued boys more than girls was a nightmare for Mom. Mom was ridiculed and blamed for not bearing a son for my father. She lived with this guilt for many years. In 2004, while visiting me in the US, I sat down with them and explained genetics to them. I shared about XX and XY chromosomes and so on. I vividly remember Mom looking at Dad and saying “did you hear that? It was not my fault that we had daughters only”. Dad just smiled as he always did and responded, “I never said it was your fault”.
I could feel Mom’s sense of relief, almost like exoneration after many years of being blamed for “not bearing a son”. Her feelings play into the dynamics of gender roles and cultural determinants of African women’s pressures and desire to please the patriarchal norms.
Surviving in a culture where women were invisible in the economic context
After getting married, Mom and Dad moved to Harare. Life is Harare was tough for both but more so for Mom. There were a few jobs a woman could do those days. Mom’s first jobs was sorting tobacco at the tobacco factory in Lyton around 1964. She would ride her bike with my sister Anna on her back, spend the whole day working with her baby on the back and then ride home the same way. She would continue this trajectory while pregnant. In 1965, she gave birth to my sister Clare while she was ironing, alone. She would cut the umbilical cord and do all that was needed to do alone.
Around 1970, she found an opportunity at Strattford shipping company. She won the tender to saw tarp/tents to cover commercial goods on trucks. For years, she sold thousands of these tents for Strattfords for pennies on the dollar. She recruited other women to help her meet the demand.
By 1970, Mom and Dad decided that life in Harare was tough. They got a farm in Chivhu in chief Chiguma’s territory near Kwenda. Mom would become a master farmer and life was good on the farm. Her main crop was Malawian rice in addition to the traditional Zimbabwean crops. I remember Mom sending us fresh farm produce on a regular basis.
The only drawback was that we became victim of the historic separation of families that resulted from migrant labour systems. This separation still exists today but to a lesser extent.
Migrant labour systems and the effects of war on families
My parents farm was beautifully located in the shadows of two interlocking mountains. During sunrise, there was a perpetual murkiness that was brought by the florid orange rays shining on the morning mist. At dusk, the silhouette made the mountains look like creepy giants yet mystical and magical. The soil in the area was so fertile you could grow anything. The closest neighbor was a couple miles away.
Being the entrepreneurial spirit that she was, Mom would employ neighbors to make up for the lack of farm equipment. She would also master battering. She was an exceptional self-taught baker. Some of her recipes included “chimodho”, a pastry made from flour, water, sugar, eggs and baked in a cast iron over ashes. Corn bread made on gigantic “mususu” – terminalia sericea leaves and placed on hot charcoal. The flavors from the leaves would infuse into the bread. Another one I remember was cornbread mix, wrapped in fresh corn leaves and thrown civil in boiling water. She won many baking competitions.
By the end of 1973, the brutal Zimbabwe civil war was intensifying. Mom was at the farm with my sisters while Dad, my sisters Stella and Josephine and I, were in the city. At the peak, 1974 to 1978, land mines were planted on all roads, and all access was cut off. Our family was completely separated for four years. Mom had to make it as a single mother with nothing to live on but the land. In Matilda style, she did very well. She became an expert farmer and managed to sustain her family. Having daughters around the dissidents was one of the hardest things she remembers. She had to hide my sisters many times to shield them from the ruthless crimes of war including rape, finger chopping, public beheading for those who were deemed traitors and much more. She was lucky to have endured whippings, some of the physical scars of which she had for many years to come.
When the war crimes were intensifying, she learned that the area where my grandparents were was not as impacted. She decided to take my sisters there. One cold night, she woke up in the middle of the night and walked 5 hours through dark forests to take my sisters to safety. She made the trip back stealthily to avoid punishment, even death. When I asked her if she was at all scared, she shared that fear was not a choice as death was imminent. When you are a mother bear, you do all you can to shield your cubs. Two of my sisters ended up staying with grandparents safely until the war was over. As a house divided three way, we would go for months without knowing how the others were doing, or whether they were alive at all.
Risking everything for his candle
Dad gave Mom the nickname “Kanjera” meaning candle because he said she was so beautiful she lit the room like a bright candle. The separation caused by war was unbearable. Instead of just sitting back and waiting for the war the end, Dad was looking for ways to go and save his family. One time, he used public transport as far as he could and tried walking through forests and farms the rest of the way. He was caught and thrown in jail and was gone for a few days leaving my sister Josephine and I worried and in the dark. When the news reached Mom, she knew Dad had gotten so close which meant the road to freedom was within reach.
She made the decision to leave everything she had worked hard for; livestock, farm equipment and other sentimental items she had won at competitions. She snuck out in the middle of the night and headed for freedom with her kids. She knew she was never going to come back as the traumas and wounds of war were too deep. For a long time, I was angry that war had not only taken her away from me, but it had scarred her. Sometimes we talked about going back to claim our farm but neither one of them had the zeal nor desire to do it. Mom often wondered if anyone ever settled on her beautiful farm and what they did with all her belongings that she left.
Recovery post war time
Mom quickly adapted to city life and she found ways to keep herself busy. She got involved in politics and soon became the chair of the local constituency and then the congress. She was a well respected and charismatic leader. She also stepped into leadership roles at the church. Always seeking knowledge, she enrolled in a night school at my school and enrolled for home economics courses at Nhamburiko college. She revived her love of singing by joining the Roman Catholic Church choir and would sing for many years to come.
In her fifties, she joined the newly formed volunteer police force. I have memories of her patrolling the streets in Highfields in her gray police uniform complete with the hat and baton. How I wish I had taken a photo of her in that uniform. When she checked that box, she quickly sought a new challenge. She went to her City Councillor Nyandoro and asked for an appointment at one of the community daycares. She would work at this community centre in Glen Norah until she retired.
Women in the community did not look favorably to all the things Mom was doing. Women were not expected to step up nor challenge the status quo. As a young girl, I admired the tenacity, courage and drive that Mom had. She is the reason I found my voice as woman. She is the reason I have modeled the way forward for my daughter. I am forever thankful.
Empowerment Through Education
One thing that Mom and Dad valued was education. They made sure they would go without shoes or food to get their kids were in school, a gesture that my sisters and I appreciated very much. In 1989, I left Zimbabwe to pursue education in the US. I remember the jubilation and the joy Mom had at my farewell party and when we were at the airport. My dream from day one was to have my Mom and Dad visit the US. In 1997, Mom and Dad boarded the plane and headed to Oklahoma. We would take them to Nasa, San Antonio, Corpus Christi. Mom and Dad loved a good life so we would always spoil them by booking top notch hotels everywhere we went. On other trips, my husband and I took them to Washington DC and Virginia, Tennessee, California, and Las Vegas. In 2016, Dad had passed so Mom made her first trip to Canada alone.
In 2018, when I informed her that I was going to run for Council, she was beyond excited. She was my biggest cheerleader and my biggest supporter even though we were oceans apart. Up until she passed, our calls always ended with her reminding me that the people elected me and that I need to always make decisions not for me, but for the people. Her wish was to make another trip to Canada and sit in the City of Coquitlam Council Chambers and see her daughter in action. She was supposed to come in April of 2020, thanks to the pandemic, that wish was permanently deferred.
Memories
The years during which I was separated from Mom were critical years for me as a child. I had formed a bond with Dad. I felt that I did not really know my Mom. How beautiful was it, that God gave me a chance when Mom visited in 2016? During this visit, I realized that Mom had lived most of her life in Dad’s shadows. We had many late-night talks, hot tub talks, patio talks, and long walks. It was like I was getting to know my Mom for the first time. I apologized for not getting to know her sooner.
To date, I share things about Mom with my siblings that they never heard of before. The detailed family tree is one of those gems that she gave me. African history is often oral. If not captured, it dies with the storyteller. How thankful I am for the time we spent together, for all the stories she shared.
During my last visit with her in January of 2020, we reminisced on some old stories like the neighbor she once had who practiced witchcraft and was very jealous of everything Mom did. On several occasions, she tried to poison Mom by giving her poisoned meat. The first time Mom gave the meat to her dog and the dog died a few hours later. Many a times, Mom would wake up with mysterious items tied around the house or under the door mat. Through it all, her faith in God and prayers were her protection.
We also talked about trusting to a fault. One time she was not feeling well, while walking from the Doctor’s office. A gentleman introduced himself as an apostle so he offered to walk her home so he could pray for her. When they got home, he asked her to kneel, and he put a sheet over her head. He sent the maid and the two kids out of the house. With Mom kneeling and expecting the healing prayers, he got into her purse and stole her wallet and left her on her knees.
Musical: Mom and I shared the love for singing and dancing. I have many a video where we would sing together in harmony, dance together in unison while wearing our bigger than life smiles. We were the richest in the world, not with money but with love and gratitude for life as we knew it.
She taught me to never regret a day in my life, to not only experience everyday but cherish each day, good or bad. To her, tomorrow was not worth worrying about, her answer was always, if it is God’s will, we will see another day. Well, on Jan 21 and 7:30, she was called to glory and she answered. Remembering my African Queen by sharing her story surely fills my cup.
Written by Trish Mandewo
