The scars that raised me: A story of survival, faith and justice

The scars that raised me_episode 5 and 6

Chapter 5

Days began to lose their names. Morning, afternoon, night—they all tasted the same. Fear had become routine, and silence my daily language. I learned quickly that in this house, survival depended on how small I could make myself.

I woke before dawn and slept after midnight. The house demanded work, not presence. I cleaned rooms that never felt clean enough, cooked meals I never tasted, and waited for instructions that came like commands to a soldier without rank. My body moved, but my spirit watched from a distance, protecting itself the only way it knew how.

Sometimes I would stand by the window and look at the road beyond the gate. People passed by, living their lives, laughing, dreaming. They had no idea a girl was slowly disappearing behind these walls. Or maybe they did—and chose not to see.

At night, when the house finally rested, I returned to myself. I spoke to my mother then.

Mother, if you can hear me, give me your strength. You carried pain quietly. Teach me how.

And to my grandmother, I whispered promises into the dark:

I am still here. I did not forget you. I am surviving for you.

Faith became my rebellion. I had nothing else to hold onto, so I held onto God with trembling hands. Some prayers were spoken. Others were only tears soaking into my pillow. But every night, no matter how broken I felt, I ended the same way:

I am still alive.

That thought alone was a victory. Roger believed obedience meant defeat. He never understood that silence was not surrender—it was strategy. I watched. I listened. I learned the patterns of his anger, the rhythms of the house, the moments when the world loosened its grip just enough for me to breathe.

In those moments, hope whispered. It did not shout. It did not promise escape. It only said: Endure.

And so I did. I remembered the girl I once was—the one who dreamed of becoming a lawyer, of standing for the poor, of giving voice to those buried under injustice. That girl was bruised, but she was not dead. She lived quietly inside me, waiting. Waiting for a c***k. Waiting for light. Waiting for the day survival would turn into resistance.

I did not know when that day would come. But I knew this:

They had taken my childhood. They had taken my freedom. They had taken my voice. But my soul—my soul was still mine.

Chapter 6

The situation at home had changed slightly, but my mind was still with my grandmother. Roger stopped buying food regularly at home, spending long stretches away on so-called business trips. His absence brought a fragile sort of freedom—a chance to breathe, a brief reminder that I was still alive.

“What do you want?” he barked one day when I tried to ask about something.

I couldn’t even finish the question. His harsh tone shut me down before I could speak.

After those cold and ruthless interactions, he would hang up the phone without a word.

I wished the days would flush away like lightning, until God finally remembered my name.

Meanwhile, I searched tirelessly for work to support myself and my family. I went from house to house, taking on small jobs: cleaning gardens, washing clothes, ironing, cooking. Every cent I earned was sent back home to my grandparents and father. Even in this harshness, I clung to my dream, refusing to let it die.

Then something unexpected happened. One afternoon, I received a letter from my grandmother. My hands trembled as I opened it.

Dear Bahle,

The rains have been gone for too long. We only see them a few times, like tears of a witch. Your father is now well. My child, I fail to sleep at night wondering how you are keeping, Magwe omuhle. Keep your faith as I told you when you were young—umdali uzosibonisa indlela. I pray for you every night.

Yours faithfully, Grandma.

Tears filled my eyes. I felt a wave of relief. God had answered my prayers, even if only for a moment.

The next day, I met Mrs. Radebe, a lady I worked for. She listened to my story and was determined to help me continue my education. She searched for bursaries on my behalf, and by the grace of God and the compassion of the bursary committee, I was accepted back to school. My future was being rebuilt.

A police case had once been opened for my forced marriage, but it had been put on hold. The law said it had to respect parents’ wishes, even if they were cruel. But opportunity had not slept. I received the bursary and returned to law school—my dream revived.

I had found a reason to keep going. Not for revenge. Not for pity. But for justice—for every girl whose voice had been buried under culture, fear, and silence.