Into Africa

When I got married to my husband John, never did I realise how incredibly challenging marriage would be. They don't tell you that when you get married. Through rose-tinted specs, you think it's all going to be fine. You don't think about things like money, faith, children, death. Well, you might, but never in a deep, meaningful, purposeful kind of way. You shrug all that off as you race after your spouse, thinking he's the most delicious creature to ever wander the earth. And he is; but living with him is not quite as delectable. And living with you isn't either, by the way. And so married life loses its flavour and for the next 30 years you walk arm in arm, and side by side; but often it's as enemies and not friends. You have to work to stay together and work to love one another; it's all hard work. Sometimes fun, sometimes easier; but always it's tough.

I got married to John at the age of 23, after a privileged life under the protection of my parents. They were wonderful, amazing parents - and still are. I had the stability every child should have. Was it perfect? Of course not; but I'm thankful for my upbringing because through those years of normalcy (relatively speaking) I learnt what normal and healthy should look like, and it's helped me to stop, think, and change direction when necessary in our lives. And it HAS been necessary - many, many times.

So, eight years ago, my husband's father tragically passed away. We had a home on a smallholding in the Champagne Valley of the Drakensberg at the time, but John worked in Mozambique most of the year, and we travelled with him, home schooling on the hoof. John's parents had moved in to our mountain property and were retired. Shortly after their move from the Free State to the Berg, John's contract in Moz ended and we were forced to return to South Africa. And forced to return to our Berg home, where now, John's parents were living. This caused immense trouble in the family. They didn't want us there, and we had nowhere to go. We assured them we'd be out of their way in no time; but they were not going to wait; and they left to stay with friends.

This broke the relationship between us and them - an already very tense relationship - and John and his father didn't speak for three months. In that time, his dad committed suicide. In the following months, the farm that I loved so much became a breeding ground for bitterness, and John 'persuaded' me to sign away the farm to a couple whom I knew would never honour the land. But more about that later. 

He couldn't wait to get away to Durban, where we'd found and bought a property in Zinkwazi on the north coast of KwaZulu-Natal. We didn't even pack up well. We threw what we had into a container, gave away stuff, hurriedly packed up our personals and disappeared into the sunset. Like criminals. That is exactly what I felt like the afternoon we left for our new 'home'. It was raining. We had a trailer full of homeschool materials and precious books. Everything got wet. When we arrived in Zinkwazi late that night, everything in the trailer was damaged and in that moment, as we parked our vehicle on the steep driveway outside the front door, I decided: I was never going to be happy in Zinkwazi. Never. And I wasn't.

Within a year or two, we were looking for property everywhere - Curry's Post, Lidgetton, the Kamberg, Mooi River. John could see my deep sorrow. I longed for home, for the mountains, for my old staff, whom I loved dearly. I loathed being in a small space, with the previous owner's horrid furniture. The house stank, with curtains at least a century old, and ancient chipboard cupboards. Honestly, I don't know what possessed John. 

We moved several times, keeping the house, but looking for a better place. We found none so returned to Zinkwazi, where I fell pregnant with our seventh child, a baby girl. It was such a wonderful surprise, such a shock, that it took the sting out of living in suburbia - for a time. But the little one was stillborn at home, and we all plunged into an indescribable grief; sorrow that only a parent who has lost a living child could relate to. 

That was in October 2021. In June the following year we escaped across the border with our children and six horses to live in a bush camp in southern Mozambique. We thought a fresh start would wipe the slate clean and help our hearts to heal. It didn't. John had accepted a job in Maputo, in the port there, as a marine pilot. The company though, didn't tell him that he wouldn't be paid until his working visa had been issued; and they didn't pay the bribe necessary for the visa to be issued. For five months, we lived off his pension payout from his previous company. Dwindling slowly, finances became tougher and tougher until there were none. At all. 

Over the months the local community, who didn't want white folk in their midst, turned up the pressure for grazing fees for the horses.