Priscilla Musonda has no idea how she survived such a hard life, but she knows why. The survivor of a lifetime of sexual abuse, she has grown to serve as a beacon for other child victims. In Stolen Childhood, she shares chilling, detailed accou
Stolen Childhood
The Three CsBy Priscilla MusondaiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Priscilla Musonda
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-0521-2Contents
1 Darkest Childhood...................................................................12 Scarred for Life....................................................................173 Three Days of Freedom...............................................................224 Back to My Abuser...................................................................265 Third Wife, the Nurse...............................................................316 Forbidden Pregnancy.................................................................407 Shattered Dream.....................................................................508 Immoral Being.......................................................................659 From Sexual Abuse to Destitution....................................................7210 Mother's Betrayal, Justice Denied..................................................8311 Women Who Risked Their Lives.......................................................8912 Confrontation with My Killers......................................................9613 Abusive Relationship...............................................................10114 How I Met My Husband...............................................................11815 Poverty: a Disease.................................................................13116 The Promised Land..................................................................14817 Memories of the Abused Mind........................................................16118 Natasha's Death a Blow.............................................................17319 The Test of Time...................................................................18220 The Three Cs: Cause, Compassion & Commitment.......................................21021 The Priscilla Schaufelberger Home of Abused Foundation (PSHAF).....................240Acknowledgements......................................................................245
Chapter One
Darkest Childhood
One fateful day, a week before Christmas, my mother (if that was who she really was) gave birth to a beautiful girl whom she never loved, protected, or cared for. And she didn't give her a chance to grow up like any other child either.
Born on 18 December 1959 in Twapia, in the north-central region of Zambia, I am the firstborn in a family of eight—seven girls and one boy. My mother told me that I was born in a clinic, but I have no birth certificate.
I remember that my parents rented a small house, which was next door to a main house where the landlord lived. I was not allowed to play with the landlord's children. Opposite our house, lived the choir master from the Watchtower Church, which was nearby, just down the straight gravel road. We were also a stone's throw to Twapia Main, where the bus station and the market were. My father started abusing me in that house.
As every infant and growing child does, I deserved motherly love, but what I received was a death sentence, which crushed my life like a tsunami. Why didn't she just give me away? Why did she steal my beauty? What did I do wrong to her? Was she even my mother? I remember her words—they still sound fresh, echoing in my ears. I was about four or five.
Mum said, "Don't tell other people, your Mbuya–grandma, friends, or your teachers at the welfare centre"—this is now called a nursery school, but that was its name when I attended—"what happens at home". Mum's exact words were these: "Yonse amayanda yalikwata umutenge fingi fichitika mukati kamitenge ku baice [Every house is covered with a roof, and under the roof so many things happen to the children]".
I didn't understand what she was trying to tell me or the effect and meaning of those dangerous words. But I do now, and I still remember them. My childhood was stolen at five. That was when my father started abusing me.
I remember the house very well. We had two rooms: a bedroom and a sitting room. The sitting room was used for everything. Food was kept in the bedroom. My mother cooked outside because there was no kitchen. We hardly had any furniture—in the bedroom there was a single spring bed, which made noise ... At that time, I had never seen a double bed. The tiny house was made out of bricks from soil. Now such small houses are built for farm workers and found in villages all over Zambia.
I remember Mbuya said she didn't need to use chitupa (a pass) anymore, because "Kaunda mwaume alitulubula [Kaunda was a man and had freed us]" from being a British colony.
Zambia got its independence from Britain in 1964. Dr Kenneth David Kaunda had fought for Zambia's independence and became Zambia's first president. But I did not catch that Mbuya meant that he was a hero when she said Kaunda is man. Was it his gender? I thought, Mbuya is now very old and has lost her sense ... All along she hasn't known that Dr Kaunda is a man?
But what she had meant was that he had freed us from the bondage of colonial rule. That is the memory I have about freedom. It was difficult for me to understand because of her indirect talking. I had to think hard to understand her sometimes. It bothered me a lot.
Zambia is a landlocked country located between the Republic of Congo and Zimbabwe to the north and south, respectively; with Tanzania, Malawi and Mozambique to the east; and on the western border, Angola, Botswana and Namibia. Ndola is the third largest town in Zambia on the Congo border, three hundred kilometres north of the capital city, Lusaka. Twapia is a township outside of the city of Ndola, and is situated about six kilometres off the Dual Carriage Way towards Kitwe. We lived in the same area as my mother's family.
In Zambia, my mother's sisters are not called aunties; they are all considered my mothers too, just as the children of my mother's sisters are also considered my sisters and brothers. On the other hand, the children of Mum's brothers are cousins, and my aunties are the wives of my mother's brothers. That's how our big families are structured in Zambia.
When I was five years old, I went to the welfare centre—the nursery school—where we received milk and buns. It was already normal for me to sleep with my parents but not to tell what they did with me during the night. On one particular day, I was at Grandma's (Mbuya's) house with cousin Maybin, the son of Uncle Enock. On this fateful day, which I will not forget as long as I live, Mum came and picked me up from Mbuya, and we went straight home to bed.
What you are about to learn may turn out to be a wakeup call for you. I believe most people can remember what happened to them at the ages of three to five, though in my case, my parents might have thought I wouldn't remember. I cannot remember it all, but I recall that on the way home, Mum said that what was going to happen that day, that night, I had to keep as a secret. She said she loved me very much. At that time, I was her only child.
For me to believe that she was my mother, she said: "Suck my breast". I tried to refuse, because it was not right at five years old to suck from her breast. It was dark; she pulled me near to her chest. I could feel her breast was out of her dress, and she said: "Do it". I sucked, but there was no milk. "You see, only your mother can do that to you. Don't tell anyone that you sucked my breasts; keep it as a secret".
Children do...
