08/11/2025
Silent Hymns, Loud Hearts
by Vicky Dube
The sun rises lazily over Ntabeni, spilling gold across the red soil and the small house behind the rusted iron gate. Inside, ten-year-old Sharon Gumede shares her world with her sister Cheryl, her brothers Shepard and Shelton, and the steady hum of survival.
From the outside, the home looks peaceful. The laughter of children, the smell of firewood smoke, and the barking of neighbor’s dogs fill the air. But inside, life feels heavier, quieter than anyone suspects.
Sharon is clever, the kind of child who always raises her hand in class. Her teacher, Mrs. Moyo, often says, “This one, she’ll be something great one day.” She means it. Sharon is noisy, playful, full of curiosity, but her mind works fast. She talks too much, laughs too loudly, and still gets the highest marks in class.
At break time, she sits with her best friend, Lillian, the girl from next door. Lillian’s family always has food, even when Sharon’s doesn’t. Sometimes Lillian brings two lunchboxes, one for herself and one for Sharon. Inside are thick slices of bread, a bit of peanut butter, and sometimes, on lucky days, boiled eggs. Sharon never forgets that kindness.
Home is different.Her father, Mr. Gumede, works as a correctional service officer. He is a man of discipline, respected in the community, and at church, he is known as Pastor Gumede. On Sundays, he stands tall behind the pulpit, his voice strong and commanding. People admire him. They say, “That family is blessed. That’s how a Christian home should be.”
Her mother, Mrs. Gumede, is the quiet strength of the house, a woman who keeps everything together even when her heart is breaking. To the outside world, she is the perfect pastor’s wife, prayerful, devoted, always dressed neatly, her children sitting straight beside her on the church bench. But behind closed doors, things are different.
Sometimes, after prayers, arguments begin. Low voices rise like wind through the walls. Her father’s voice is sharp and heavy. Her mother’s is soft, full of tears she refuses to shed. Sharon doesn’t understand, but she feels it, the sadness beneath the hymns.
And still, every night, before bed, they pray.
No matter how bad the day is, the family gathers for prayer. Mr. Gumede leads with a booming voice. Mrs. Gumede closes her eyes tightly, her hands trembling as she holds her Bible. The children kneel beside them, heads bowed, repeating the words night after night. Sharon likes it. Prayer makes her feel safe, as if God is listening just to her.
They are not rich, but they are not poor either. There is always something to eat, even if it is not much. They have a home, clean clothes, and hope that tomorrow will be better. Sharon loves playing outside after school, laughing with Cheryl, chasing after Shepard and Shelton. She is happy, noisy, curious, full of dreams.
But even happiness has cracks.When Mrs. Gumede goes to town, Esther, the aunt who stays with them, runs the house. She runs it like a drill sergeant. Clean, smart, meticulous, yes, but rough, harsh, and unforgiving. Any small mistake earns a sharp slap, a long lecture, or hours of standing in the sun. Sharon and her siblings never know when Esther’s temper will strike, and they learn quickly to keep their heads down.
“She likes order,” Cheryl whispers once, “but she doesn’t like us.”
Sharon understands. She likes Esther’s precision, her ability to keep the house running, but she fears her. Every day is a careful balance, do enough but never too much to draw attention.
One year, a cousin named Thandeka comes to stay, the daughter of Mrs. Gumede’s late sister. She is older, already in Grade 7, and Sharon admires her. But from the day she arrives, something shifts in the house. Her mother grows quieter, her father more distant. The laughter fades from the evenings. Sharon doesn’t understand why, but she feels the heaviness, as if the air itself has secrets.
Then there are the small moments that make childhood what it is. The laughter, the mischief, the tears. Sharon remembers the day her mother buys her a sun hat from town, pale yellow with a little bow on the side. She loves it. But Shepard, mischievous as always, snatches it one afternoon and tears it right through the top.
Sharon cries so hard that even Esther pauses, though only for a moment, shaking her head. “Boys always break what they don’t understand,” she mutters.
That night, Sharon places the torn hat under her pillow, whispering her first true prayer, not the one she says with her family, but one from deep inside.
“God, if You can hear me, please make our home happy again. I don’t like when Mama cries.”
The stars outside blink quietly, as if listening.
That night, faith is born, small, trembling, but real.
Silent Hymns, Loud Hearts – Chapter 2
I wake up to my mother’s cries, her voice shaking, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why do you like to embarrass me so much?” she wails. This has become our everyday life — shouting, anger, tears. My father’s boots slam against the floor. What is he even going for now? I do not understand, but I feel it pressing on my chest, heavy and suffocating.
I try to shrink into the corner, to disappear, but my anger flares instead. I shout back at my mother, even though I know I should not. Even though I know it will only make things worse. Aunt Esther stands in the corner, arms crossed, watching silently. She never intervenes. She does not care.
After the shouting fades, after the silence swallows the house, I am sent to do chores. I trudge along, fists clenched, heart burning. The rules, the punishments, the unfairness — it is all too much. It is always too much. The world at home is harsh, rigid, and I am learning that survival is about being tougher than anyone expects.
School offers a small relief. I excel in my lessons, answering every question, knowing the right words, the correct numbers. But sports… sports are a nightmare. I cannot run fast, cannot jump well. The other children laugh at me, teasing, pointing, calling me names. I do not respond. I bury myself in my books, imagining worlds where cruelty does not exist, where fairness is real and kindness is not a rare gift.
At break time, Lillian waits for me at the edge of the playground. She smiles and shares her lunch. That small kindness feels like a secret treasure. I clutch it close in my mind because at home, no one ever offers warmth or comfort without condition.
The book bus pulls up outside the school gate. My heart pounds. I love books more than almost anything. I imagine all the stories I could escape into, all the worlds I could explore. But the maid, always resentful and harsh, refuses to let me go. Instead, she sends my younger brother, Shepard. I watch him climb the steps, small and unsure, while I feel a mix of anger and helplessness.
When he returns, he is carrying a huge book filled with long, complicated words. My stomach twists with dread. I open it, reading the first lines. My tongue stumbles over words I do not know. My hands shake as the maid yells at me, scolding and punishing me for my inability to read perfectly. No playtime, no games with friends. Only humiliation and the sting of unfairness.
Later, as we sit by the pavement waiting for the next lesson, my torn shoes embarrass me more than anything else. My student teacher walks past, her eyes sharp and cold. Without warning, she kicks my shoes. I jump back, startled.
“Look at these shoes! They’re like a fish with its mouth wide open!” she sneers. “Just put your feet away before everyone sees!”
My cheeks burn with shame and anger. I want to shout, to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat. I press my feet together and glare at the ground. That was the day I learned that some people find pleasure in making others feel small — and that sometimes, all you can do is survive and hold your anger close, waiting for the moment you can rise above it.
That night, a new ordeal awaits. I sleep, exhausted, trying to forget the tension of the day, when a harsh voice shakes me awake. “Wake up! Wake up! You have wet the bed!” The maid shakes me roughly. I am embarrassed, ashamed, and angry all at once.
“You will stand there until the bed dries,” she orders. Hours pass. I shiver, tired and humiliated, and I stand. I focus on anything I can — counting the cracks in the wall, imagining the book bus outside, the hope of escape, the worlds I could explore in my books. I tell myself I will survive this, too.
Days pass, each blending into the next. Arguments, chores, punishments, and small acts of rebellion repeat like a rhythm. Aunt Esther’s discipline is precise but merciless. She notices everything. She scolds, she slaps, she demands perfection. I fight against it in little ways — speaking back, hiding books, sneaking small treats, defying my mother when I cannot contain my anger. My mother’s sadness sometimes sparks my fury, a wild combination of fear, grief, and a desperate desire to protect myself.
But even in the darkness, there are sparks of light. Lillian waits at the playground. Sometimes I climb the mango tree near the schoolyard and feel the wind on my face, imagining worlds where cruelty does not exist. Sometimes I read by candlelight, whispering the words as if the characters themselves will shield me from the world.
I am learning slowly that life is full of injustice, but it is also full of choices. I can scream or stay quiet, fight or submit. I begin to understand the first rules of survival: keep your mind sharp, your heart strong, and your anger contained, but never wasted.
One evening, after another argument, after another slap from Aunt Esther, I look at myself in the small mirror in my room. My hair is messy, my eyes bright and defiant. I clench my fists and whisper a promise to myself. I will grow stronger. I will not let the cruelty define me. I will find my own way, even if the world seems determined to break me.
Faith whispers quietly in my heart. I pray not for miracles, not for rescue, but for courage, for clarity, for the strength to endure. Somewhere in the shadows, I tell myself, I will shine. I will survive.
Silent Hymns, Loud Hearts – Chapter 3
Thandeka
Hi, my name is Thandeka. I am very light-skinned, very beautiful, very beautiful. And I am one person who holds both beauty and brains. I am intelligent, sharper than most people give me credit for.
My mother died when I was little, leaving me in the care of my aunt, Kimberly, Mrs. Gumede. Most of her sisters are young and careless; they hardly notice what happens around them. But I like them. They are easier to bear than the loud, controlling ones.
I cannot wait until I grow up, make my own money, and leave this place. I want freedom. I want to live by my own rules, without anyone deciding my every step. Without Aunt Esther.
Aunt Esther… she is the maid, and she has become something I cannot recognize. Once she was just a woman helping around the house, but now, she is sharp, cruel, and impossible to ignore. Her presence slices through the air like a knife. She terrifies some, annoys others, but I study her. I watch her, learn her moods, and wait for the right time to move without her noticing.
The house is strange. Some of the children are loud, some quiet. Some survive by hiding, others by fighting back. I like the ones who think for themselves, who refuse to bow to fear. There is a spark in them that reminds me I am not alone.
I see the tension everywhere the shouting, the cords, the anger. It shapes everyone around me, and yet I refuse to let it shape me. I will survive. I will learn. I will grow.
One day, I will leave this house. I will earn my own money. I will live freely, and maybe, just maybe, I will help those who deserve it along the way.
For now, I watch. I listen. I learn. I survive.
Silent Hymns, Loud Hearts – Chapter 4
Sharon
“Asambeni ngyalitshiya mina,” my mum says, already out the door. By the time we reach the car, we are gasping for breath. It is chaos, a mess of hurried footsteps, skirts, and voices.
“Why lifuna ukuvuswa every day, abafazi abadala abangangani?” my mum adds. At that moment, we are all below fifteen, and yet she calls us abafazi. Imagine.
We get to church. My mum moves through the crowd, slightly bending her knees, greeting the other women with warmth and familiarity. My dad greets in a soft, measured voice. Me and my siblings exchange knowing looks. We know him at home how different he can be behind closed doors.
Inside, the congregation hums with energy. A woman stands at the front, her voice clear and angelic. She sways, moving from one end of the hall to the other. Then she begins speaking in tongues, her words rising and falling like waves crashing on a shore. Heads bow, hands lift, voices respond. The energy is overwhelming, alive.
My father, Pastor Gumede, steps up to the pulpit. Sweat glistens on his forehead as he calls out, “Vuka! Phaphama! Nkulunkulu uyakubona konke!” His words roll through the congregation, echoing off the walls. People shout, clap, and cry out in worship. “Hallelujah! Pastor Gumede, the Word is powerful!” someone calls. My mother sings along, her voice rising above the rest, strong and commanding, almost like an angel herself.
After the sermon, the congregation swarms him, shaking his hand, praising his words. “Pastor Gumede, how are you?” “Praise God, Pastor!” The excitement follows us out into the sunlit streets.
By the time we return home, the peace of the morning still lingers in the air. But it does not last. Later in the evening, my mum asks my cousin to make tea. She runs to the kitchen, balancing the cups, kettle, and the treasured basin sugar, a wedding gift my mother has cherished for years.
Then it happens. She trips. The tray tips, cups clatter, tea spills, and the basin sugar cracks and scatters across the floor. My mum freezes for a heartbeat. Then all her anger bursts forth. She grabs a cord and beats my cousin relentlessly, her words sharp and cruel.
“Ungakanani ubuwula! Why are you so careless?” she shouts.
My cousin collapses, trembling and crying. My mum points to the door. “You sleep outside tonight! You have brought shame into this house!” My cousin stumbles out, shivering, head down. I follow a few steps behind, helpless, my chest tightening with fear and anger.
The next morning, I am called to the teacher’s office. Her voice is sharp, hands on her hips. “Sharon! Tell me, what happened yesterday? Why was your cousin sleeping outside?” I stammer, “I… I don’t know, ma’am…”
I whisper to my cousin behind closed doors, coaxing her to speak. Her eyes are red and swollen, but she nods reluctantly. “Ngiyaxolisa,” she says softly. The conversation is tense and humiliating. I feel panic twist in my stomach, but I cannot let the teacher call the police.
Even after it is over, the memory lingers. The shouting, the cord, the fear. I feel a tight knot of anger and helplessness in my chest. At night, I sit by the window, whispering quietly, “Nkosi, ngiphe amandla. Ngiphe amandla ukuhlala ngiqinile” “Lord, give me strength. Give me strength to remain strong.”
By the end of the week, I feel a spark of resolve growing inside me. Surviving this house means watching, learning, and holding onto myself in secret. The anger around me cannot touch the part of me I protect my voice, my spirit, my quiet strength.
