Sindiswa was born in the township of Tembisa, Gauteng and had a very tough upbringing that no child chooses. Her story shows us that we do not choose the situation into which we are born; it chooses us but that with the calling that God bestows upon our lives, it can take one from the slums of the Earth to the Heavens before His Eyes. He sees our beauty in the way people may not and He chooses us to do the work we are called to do, to a door no man can close.

This is Sindiswa’s story…

Their marriage was a mess; they were always fighting. Every weekend my dad was drunk, and he would hit my mom. In 1998, they eventually divorced, and mom moved out and left us with our dad. Since then my dad got involved with women that treated us badly. I remember one incident where I innocently called one of his girlfriends’ “mother”. She got so mad at me and said in a condescending tone, “andingi mamakho wena!” (I am not your mother!).

We, my elder sister (aged 7), little brother (aged 4) and I (aged 6), were then sent to Eastern Cape to live with my dad’s family but we were never made to feel like we were part of the family. We had to fend for ourselves and our little brother, from changing his nappies to doing house chores. We were children but were not treated as children, being recipients of harsh words and treatment, and this had a profound effect on me. But, instead of things getting better, things just got worse.

Back home, in Tembisa, my dad remarried eight years after my parents’ divorce. In the time that we were sent to live with our paternal family, he never supported us. My grandmother, his own mother, took him to the Maintenance Court to seek financial support. But instead of owning up to his responsibilities, he resigned from his job, just so he could evade them. Each time my grandmother took him to court, he resigned from his job. Each time. She tried numerous times, but he refused to support us.  

He then summoned us back to Tembisa to live with him and his new wife, our stepmother. We were welcomed into a living hell but this time, it was only me and my brother. Even though my dad always had a drinking problem, this new life was to escalate into me doing things I never thought in my young mind, that I would ever do.   

While we were back at home, we were forced to eat pap and tomatoes while my dad, his wife and her child would dine out at restaurants. I became the domestic worker at home. I had to cook dinner, do everyone’s laundry, include cleaning their sheets filled with semen, and every housework chore one can think of, on an empty stomach. 

As I said, my dad had a drinking problem but this time, they decided to open a shebeen (a private house selling alcohol) and they made me the “shebeen girl”. I had to sell alcohol from Friday nights until Monday mornings. This decision, of theirs, opened our doors to shady characters and soon, we would have men sleeping over at our house. Strange men, lewd men, sick men. My stepmother invited them in and refused them to leave. She said people were going to kill them, with them being so drunk, and she made space for them to sleep on the floors, alongside me. I always slept on the floors but now, I had company.

Some memories of them are vague, other memories are clear. I recall one of them touching my neck. He kissed my neck and moved his hands between my thighs and said to me that he can do anything he wants with me and he will give me money … I used to share my sleeping space with those men.

As a girl, you want the love of your father, but my dad never loved me. He made it very clear that he did not love me and sometimes, he would hit me for no reason. His words towards me were always harsh but the words that I will never forget is him saying, “Mhla nda thenga umpu uzoba ngowo kuqala umntu endizo mdubula” (The day I buy a gun, you would be the first one I’d shoot) and he always reminded me that he would shoot me once he gets himself a gun.

Finally, 2008 arrived and he got the gun but he never followed through on his threat. In a twist of fate, the year he got the gun is the year I moved out and the year he died.

In April 2008, I moved in with my mom and a few months later, when I returned from a family visit to my aunt in Katlehong, my mom fell sick. She was bedridden and in a hopeless state. I greeted her, “molweni mama” but she didn’t respond. My sister replied and said, “uMama uyagula and akakwazi ukuthetha” (Mom is sick, and she cannot talk). I looked at my mom and she was crying. I didn’t know what to say to her, but I could see she was in pain.

In that moment, I recalled the complexity of our relationship, from the sense of abandonment I felt as a child to the woman suffering before my eyes. Mom could not talk nor walk, so my sister and I used to bathe her and take care of her. Her state was saddening because she could not even tell us when she needed to use the toilet. On the 16^th September 2008, I received a call in which my mom managed to muster her strength to tell me that she loves me and a day later, the 17^th September 2008, she died.

I was 17 years old at the time she died and shortly after her death; I told my sister that we need to go to dad to ask for food because we had nothing to eat. I begged him for food, but he responded, “Akho kutya apha hambani!” (There’s no food here, so leave!). He was so mad at me for asking and refused. Maybe if it was my sister asking for food, he would have given her. I was so worried because my sister had a two-year-old and we were all hungry. That night he came to our house, but I then ran to his aunt’s house. He followed me to his aunt, along with my stepmother, and wanted to hit me but his aunt told him not to. He then told me, “Uba ndingafa ungezi emngcwabeni wam ngoba nawe uba ufile asoze ndize” (If I die don’t come to my funeral because when you die, I won’t go to yours).  Those were his last words to me because on the 10^th November 2008, he died.

We had nowhere to go because when my mom was alive, she was renting and when she died, I asked my aunt if she could rent with us but a month later, she left to live with her biological dad and we had to make plans to move because we didn’t have money for rent. I remember so vividly the times I would knock on people’s doors to ask for a place to sleep. There were nights where I questioned the purpose of my existence.

In 2010, unbeknown to me at the time, the answer to my question was being answered. While I was on a visit in Eastern Cape, my grandmother told me about some young lady who was sick. I asked to go see her and when I got there, she was lying in her own faeces. I asked to bathe her and did that for two weeks. My cousin then asked me to come visit them in Cape Town. When I got there, her own cousin had tuberculosis (TB). I took care of her as well. I would bathe her and take her to the clinic for her checkups until she died in 2011.

In 2016, one of the grandmothers in my extended family, who was mentally ill, suffered from an epileptic fit. She was sick, vomiting and bedridden, in her own faeces. Nobody wanted to assist her, and I was told to call an ambulance. I then offered to bathe her, and this is how I started my career looking after the elderly and the disabled.  

In 2019, I established my non-profit organization called Wretched Woman’s Diary and decided to devote my time to bathing elderly people and people with different disabilities including mental limitations. I have made it my mission to identify the elderly, the frail and the chronically ill within my community and started this organization without any financial assistance or resources. I have taken it upon myself to provide home care visits and nursing care, where possible. I have personally experienced the hardships of taking care of an elderly woman on her death bed, to the extent of bathing her corpse.

Currently, I have four volunteers working for me and they are mainly responsible for dealing with the administrative aspect of Wretched Woman’s Diary which makes me solely responsible for nursing and caring for the victims of neglect. To date, the organization is caring for 10 elderly ladies, including 2 disabled children, on a daily basis.  They are vastly located in Gauteng but in some cases, my work has taken me to the Vaal, Pietermaritzburg and Mpumalanga.

As Wretched Woman’s Diary, we aim to alleviate the stigma against our senior citizens and the disabled, we aim to ensure perpetual care and assistance to the elderly, we aim to provide a safe and caring service to the elderly within their own homes and do away with social ills that are affecting our elders. The dire conditions which our elderly are faced with are disheartening; they are faced with feelings of rejection, loss and poverty and I am hoping to work in partnerships with other individuals and organizations that shares the same vision as I do because my dream is to extend my compassion and services to all provinces in South Africa, in the near future.

I am also studying towards becoming a qualified clinical psychologist with the dream of establishing care centres as far and as wide as I can go, to look after the elderly and individuals with different disabilities and limitations.

As much as I am still broken about my upbringing and have issues that I do not want to talk about, I finally found the purpose in my pain. All the years of hardship and suffering were what were needed to mould me into the person I am today. I can relate to the abandoned, to the neglected and to the rejected because I experienced abandonment, neglect and rejection. Today, I willingly go to sleep hungry, just to give someone else my plate of food, because I remember the little girl who was hungry, most days, and I would never want someone else to suffer the way I did.

If you are interested in learning more about Sindiswa or would like to get in contact with her, please reach out via her Facebook page, Wretched Woman’s Diary, or email her at sindiswamabindisa11@gmail.com