During my graduation ceremony, my aunt gave a touching testimony that left the audience speechless. Her voice was steady, yet every word carried years of pain, strength, and endurance.
“Thank God you are growing up in a country that values education for all its children,” she began. “When I completed primary school, my father did not allow me to attend secondary school.
He ordered me to stay home and help my mother with the household chores so that my younger brother, who was in primary four, could focus on his studies. My mother and I were expected to handle all the family responsibilities,” she recalled.
Raised in the countryside, my aunt was eventually married off to a wealthy man chosen by her father, a decision rooted in an old pact of friendship between the two families.
‘At the age of 19, I became a wife and soon a mother,” she continued. “I gave birth to seven girls before finally having a son. My husband was never pleased with the number of daughters we had. He often reminded me that giving birth to girls benefits the husband’s family more than the wife’s, as women invest their energy and loyalty into caring for their husbands and children’.
My role was limited to cooking, washing the dishes, feeding the children, caring for the sick, and keeping the house clean every single day.”
As she spoke, her words revealed the quiet weight of expectations and judgments she had carried for years, shaped by traditions that valued her less simply because she was a woman. Her voice did not rise, yet the weight of those responsibilities and the absence of choice filled the room.
“My husband controlled all the family resources. He decided on how much to invest in income-generating activities, how much to spend on alcohol and often on other women, what household items to buy, and every major decision that affected the family’s well-being. My primary responsibilities were to cook the food, wash the dishes, feed the kids, take care of the sick and keep our house clean every day’’, she reiterated.
As a Christian, I shaped my life around the teaching of the Bible, she continued, particularly Ephesians 5:22-24, which calls on wives to submit to their husbands as the church submits to Christ.
Those words guided everything I did. On several occasions, my husband physically abused me and threatened to kill me when he was heavily drunk. My fellow believers often told me that I had to endure this violence to preserve the marriage and raise my children, echoing the saying that in my mother tongue “niko zubakwa’’ (This is how households are made).
My aunt concluded her testimony by revealing the hardships that cut even deeper she faced as a disabled woman living with HIV.
“I had a car accident at the age of 37,” she said. “My husband’s family urged him to abandon me and find a healthier and younger partner, and he did. But the challenges didn’t end there. When I turned 40, things became worse.
“After nearly a year of illness, my husband and I were both tested and found HIV positive. He died two years later. When the time came to bury him, I was denied the right to go to the cemetery because of the church rules that forbid women from doing so,” she concluded.
Her story reveals how gender norms, religious expectations, economic dependence, disability and illness intersect to silence women and undermine their dignity.
These are not isolated struggles but reflections of systemic inequalities that persist across societies.
Her journey is a stark reminder that injustice is often endured quietly, yet each of us has a role in challenging the norms that allow it to continue.
Addressing the violation of human rights and injustices endured by many is not just a duty. It is the foundation of a just and compassionate society.
We do not need grand stages to make a difference; every small act of awareness, support, or courage carries profound meaning. Each of us holds the power to restore dignity, to speak for those silenced and to take a stand for justice. Not someday but in every moment, where we are.
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