Zambian brief (2025)

19/09/2025

I WAS ONLY 6 YEARS OLD WHEN MY STEPDAD R***D ME BUT I FINALLY GOT MY REVENGE 😥 💔

Part 1

I was six years old when the world I knew began to crumble. My name is Amara, and if you saw me then, you would have only seen a small girl with two missing front teeth and a laugh that came too easily. My mother, Thandi, was my whole world — a woman who stitched clothes for a living, scrubbed her hands raw to keep food on our table, and prayed with such faith that even the hardest days seemed bearable.

When she remarried, people said she was lucky. Mzwandile, the man who became my stepfather, was not just any man — he was a pastor. He wore pressed suits and spoke with a voice that made people sit straighter in their chairs. To everyone else, he was a man of God. To me, at first, he was “Baba,” the one who tucked in his shirt neatly, the one my mother trusted to lead prayers at night.

But monsters do not announce themselves when they enter a home. They creep in quietly, wearing the faces of men everyone respects.

The first night he came into my room, I remember the smell — cologne mixed with sweat, and something sharp in the air that didn’t belong. He sat at the edge of my small bed, where my dolls lay in a row. At first, I thought he had come to check if I was asleep. Then his hand reached for me.

I froze. I didn’t understand what was happening, only that something felt terribly wrong. His whisper was low, heavy, full of poison:

> “If you ever tell your mother, I will kill her. Do you hear me, Amara?”

I wanted to scream, but my throat locked. I wanted to run, but my body refused to move. I lay there, eyes wide, heart pounding against my ribs, while he touched me in ways that stole pieces of me I didn’t even know I had.

And when he left, the silence he left behind screamed louder than anything.

That was only the beginning.

He came again. And again. Always with the same threat — that if I spoke, my mother would die. At six, the world was simple: my mother was everything, and keeping her alive meant swallowing my pain in silence. So I did.

But silence is not empty. It is heavy. It drags behind you in the classroom when you try to write your name. It squeezes your throat when your friends laugh and you can’t join in. It follows you home at night, where even your dolls begin to look like witnesses who will never tell.

I was six years old, carrying a secret that made me feel a hundred years old.

---

Part 2

By the time I turned seven, the secret was already eating me alive.
I had learned how to smile when people looked, and how to disappear when no one noticed. But children can only hide so much. My teacher, Mrs. Dube, saw what others missed. She saw the way my hands shook when I held a pencil, how I flinched when someone brushed past me in the corridor, how my eyes seemed too old for the body they belonged to.

One afternoon, after class had ended and the other children had run out shouting with joy, she called me back.

“Amara,” she said gently, crouching so her eyes met mine. “Is everything alright at home?”

I wanted to say yes. My lips even parted to let the word out. But something in her voice cracked the wall I had built inside. Tears rushed to my eyes before I could stop them. I shook my head. She pulled me into her arms, and for the first time in months, I felt safe enough to sob.

Mrs. Dube wasted no time. She called my mother to the school the very next day. I remember sitting in the corner of the office, knees pulled to my chest, while my mother listened. Her face was tired, but when the teacher suggested I might be hurting, she turned to me with wide eyes.

“Amara, what’s wrong?” she asked.

I looked at her, and my chest burned. Should I risk her life by telling her? Should I keep protecting her and die silently inside? But then I remembered Mzwandile’s voice — “If you ever tell, I’ll kill her.” I wanted to believe my mother could be stronger than his threats.

So I whispered the words I had been choking on:

“Baba touches me. At night. He… he hurts me.”

The room fell silent. Mrs. Dube gasped. My mother froze.

At first, she shook her head violently.
“No, Amara. No. You mustn’t say that. He’s your father now. He’s… he’s a pastor! He would never do such a thing!”

Her disbelief hit me harder than his threats ever had. I cried harder, begging her to believe me. My voice cracked until the truth spilled out in broken sentences. Finally, after hours of pleading, the teacher suggested something: a test.

The test revealed everything. Every hidden wound. Every stolen innocence. The medical report spoke louder than my small, trembling voice ever could.

That night, the police came. They dragged Mzwandile out of our home, and for a moment, I thought the nightmare was over. I thought justice would finally put him away, and I would get my childhood back.

But the law does not work like a fairytale.

The case was opened, but soon cracks began to show. The church members whispered, insisting their pastor was being falsely accused. Evidence went missing. Witnesses backed out. And slowly, the strong case my teacher had fought for crumbled into dust.

One day, my mother came back from court with tears streaming down her face. She sat beside me on the bed and said the words I never wanted to hear:

“They released him. There wasn’t enough evidence.”

I wanted to scream. To pull my skin off. To vanish from a world that didn’t care that a six-year-old girl had been broken. But instead, I sat there in silence, staring at the wall while inside me something hardened.

The world had failed me. The justice system had failed me. And worst of all, my own mother chose silence because she couldn’t bear to believe her husband was a monster.

That was the day I stopped being a child.

Part 3 till the end in the comment section

19/09/2025

Ba Degree holder lelo bafikwako 🤣😂😂

19/09/2025

SHE WAS CAUGHT DRIVING AROUND WITH HER NIECE AND NEPHEW'S DEAD BODIES 😢💔

Part 1

The night was heavy with summer heat. The streets of Baltimore County were quiet, except for the hum of a police cruiser rolling slowly behind an old, dented Honda. The car’s license plate looked strange—crooked, with faded numbers that didn’t match the system.

Officer Daniels flicked on his lights.

“Pull over,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the car slowed to the side of the road.

The driver was a woman in her mid-thirties. Her name was Monique Harris, though the officer didn’t know that yet. She looked tired, with messy hair and sweat shining on her forehead.

“License and registration,” Daniels said.

She fumbled nervously. “I… I don’t have it. Not right now.”

The officer sighed. Another unregistered, uninsured vehicle. Probably another tow. But then something stronger than paperwork caught his attention—a smell. A smell that made his stomach turn. It drifted out from the back of the car, thick and unbearable, like rot and garbage left too long in the sun.

Daniels waved to his partner, Officer Greene. Together, they moved toward the trunk.

“Ma’am,” Greene said firmly, “step out of the vehicle.”

Monique froze. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to speak, but no sound came out.

Daniels inserted the key into the trunk. The lock clicked. He lifted the lid.

And there, in the dim yellow glow of the streetlight, lay a suitcase and a plastic tote. The smell hit them hard. Daniels gagged. He pulled on gloves and unzipped the suitcase.

Inside was a small body, curled in unnatural stillness. A child.

Greene quickly opened the tote—and there lay another.

Two children. Lifeless. Decomposed.

The officers staggered back, their eyes wide with horror. Daniels whispered hoarsely, “Dear God…”

And Monique, standing by the car, began to cry—low, broken sobs that seemed to come from the darkest place in her soul.

That night, Baltimore County discovered a secret that would shake the whole community.

---

Part 2

Two years earlier, in the spring of 2020, life had already grown dark for little Jada and Liam.

Jada was seven, small but full of energy. She loved to braid her doll’s hair and sing songs to herself when she thought no one was listening. Liam, just five, followed her everywhere. He carried a little red toy car in his pocket, rolling it along the motel walls and furniture, pretending it was racing on an endless track.

Their mother, Sharon, had handed the children over to her older sister, Monique Harris, when times got hard. Sharon thought she was giving them a safer life, a chance to be cared for while she found steady work. She trusted Monique, never imagining the storm that waited behind her sister’s tired eyes.

The motel room was cramped and smelled of old smoke. Its carpet was stained, and the wallpaper peeled at the edges. The three of them had been staying there for weeks.

One night, the children played too loudly. Jada laughed, her voice carrying through the thin walls. Liam knocked over a cup of soda, spilling it on the carpet.

Monique snapped.

Her voice turned sharp, her words bitter. She shouted at them to be quiet, to sit still, to stop making her life harder. But the children didn’t understand the depth of her anger.

In her rage, Monique struck Jada. Once. Twice. Again. The little girl stumbled backward, her head hitting the corner of the cheap motel dresser.

There was silence.

Jada crumpled to the floor. Her doll rolled out of her hand.

“Jada? Get up!” Liam cried, shaking her tiny shoulders. But Jada’s eyes had already dimmed, her body limp.

Monique froze. She hadn’t meant for it to go this far. She stood there, staring, her breath quick and shallow.

She didn’t call for help. She didn’t knock on a neighbor’s door. Instead, she pulled the child’s small body into a blanket, her hands shaking. She told Liam not to cry, not to speak, not to say a word.

That night, she placed Jada in a suitcase she had carried from home. She zipped it shut and slid it into the trunk of her car.

The silence after was heavier than the night itself.

And so began the long, terrible secret Monique Harris carried with her—one that would haunt her every mile she drove.

Part 3 till the end in the comment section

19/09/2025

It was awkward the first time it happened🍑🍆. I didn't know what to do, whether to stop or continue going. I slowed down to allow her to catch her breath. She signalled me to keep going So I kept going while she was on the phone talking as if nothing was happening.

She was on the phone when I gave out the last moan, signalling I’d reached. She was on the phone when I rolled over to the side of the bed. She was on the phone talking about a banana seller whose daughter was rude to her. I was watching her stroking her p***c while smiling uncontrollably. I was there wishing those smiles were due to my good performance.

I didn't talk about it because it was the first time. I thought it wasn't going to happen again until it did. I whispered, “Please don't pick up the call. Let's finish." She showed me the phone screen and said, "It's my dad. It could be something important."

When she started talking I stopped. I didn't want the strokes to affect the way she was talking to her dad. You know, it was her father she was talking to. If nothing at all, she gave birth to a woman I could love. That alone deserves respect from me. I was in while she was answering questions from her dad. The call lasted for about five minutes. By the time she said bye, ninshi nabupona kalee

She asked, "Why did you stop? I was signalling you to continue so why did you stop?"

We had a conversation. She told me we shouldn't allow calls to distract our beautiful moments. I told her, "That's why you don't have to pick them when they come." She told me I could go on and it wouldn't affect anything. "If it’s uncomfortable, I will tell you. It doesn't affect anything."

The man in me felt attacked. As in, all the ins and outs and speed don't matter? The energy and sweat for nought? What is she saying?"

Nothing has changed. She keeps picking up calls during twatwa. She talks just fine as if nothing is going on. She smiles. She wiggles. She talks about things that don't matter while I'm in and doing my thing. It makes me question myself. "Am I a man enough?" "Does she take me seriously or I miss the point while going in and out?".

She says it's alright but I doubt it. Has anybody experienced something of that sort before? A woman picks up calls while the action is going on. That's not even the problem. The problem is how she handles the calls as if nothing is happening to her. As if the fire I'm putting in her isn't firm.

19/09/2025

My husband was travelling so we decided to have a quick one before he leaves home. We have two kids. The first was out playing with his friends. He's ten. The second one was sleeping in his room.

We felt safe doing it without locking the door because it was going to be quick and also our young soldiers were out of sight. A minute into the action, our door flung open and our first child walked in calling my name. What pains me the most is the fact that I was holding a table. If we were doing it in bed it would been fine because that's the normal way.

Immediately he saw us, he shut the door and walked away. We both collapsed into the bed arguing who should go out first and talk to him. While arguing, my phone rang. It was a neighbour. She said, "I sent your son to call you for me but he came back to tell me you are busy. I'm wondering if he's telling the truth because he was morose."

We came out and had a round table discussion with him. We apologized to him and explained that we love each other so much that's why we would do such a thing. He didn't say a word or maintain eye contact.

My husband is gone and we are left alone. Truth be told, I've become shy around him. He's also not helping issues. He has lost his bubbly nature. He barely talks. He keeps to himself these days. Is that normal? How long before things come back to normal between us? Ama m’ayɛ basaa.

19/09/2025

Dear family and friends my sister Cleopatra nyimbili has gone missing and I'm reaching out for help she was last seen on 17 September at ShopRite Kitwe you can contact us on 0965515911🙏🙏🙏

19/09/2025

SHE KILLED HER TWO KIDS AND PUT THEM INSIDE A FREEZER FOR TWO YEARS 😭 💔

(Based on Mitchell Blair True story)

Part 1

Michelle was a 35-year-old single mother of four children: Ariana (17), Teenah (13), Ryan (9), and Karen (8). They all lived together in a small apartment. From the outside, it looked like a normal family. But inside, it was a house of fear.

Michelle was not a gentle mother. She was strict, quick to anger, and her children never felt safe around her. The smallest mistake—spilling food, making noise, or answering too slowly—could lead to a beating. She used anything she could find: cables, belts, or her hands.

The children learned to stay quiet, to move carefully, to hide their tears. But no matter how careful they were, they could never please her.

One day, Michelle accused her 13-year-old daughter, Teenah, of hurting Karen. She shouted at Karen, asking if Teenah had touched him in a bad way. Karen was terrified. He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. He didn’t know what answer would keep him safe.

Michelle didn’t want the truth—she wanted someone to blame.

That night, she turned her rage on Teenah. She beat her with the cable, again and again. Then she locked her in a dark room, giving her little food and water. Days turned into weeks. Teenah grew weaker and weaker.

Ariana tried to slip food under the door when her mother wasn’t looking. But it wasn’t enough.

One night, the beatings were too much. Teenah took her last breath.

Michelle stood over her daughter’s body, breathing hard. She didn’t call for help. She didn’t cry. Instead, she wrapped Teenah in a blanket, dragged her to the kitchen, and forced her into the deep freezer where food was kept.

When Ariana, Ryan, and Karen stared at her in horror, Michelle glared at them.
“Say one word,” she whispered, “and you will end up in there too.”

From that moment, the freezer was no longer for food. It was a grave.

And the children’s fear grew even darker.

---

Part 2

After Teenah’s death, the apartment became silent like a tomb. The children were too afraid to cry, too afraid to speak. The freezer hummed in the kitchen, holding their sister’s body.

Ariana had to keep up the lies. Before school every morning, Michelle made her repeat a script.
“If anyone asks, tell them Teenah went to stay with an aunt. Don’t forget. Don’t hesitate. Or you’re not going anywhere.”

Ariana learned to say it without mistakes. If she paused or looked unsure, Michelle would slap her.

At school, Ariana looked quiet and strange, but no one asked too many questions. No one knew what she carried inside. At night, she hugged Karen and Ryan, trying to comfort them. But nothing could erase the sound of Teenah’s screams still echoing in their minds.

Ryan began to change. He was only nine, but anger and fear grew inside him. Sometimes he asked Ariana, “Do you think she’s cold in there?” Ariana would hold him close and whisper, “Don’t think about it. Just sleep.”

But Michelle’s suspicion came again. She started watching Ryan, her eyes full of doubt. She accused him of touching Karen too. Ryan’s face turned pale. “No, Mama. I didn’t,” he begged. But she didn’t believe him.

She dragged him into the living room and began to beat him. Ariana screamed, “Stop! Please, stop!” But Michelle pushed her aside.

The beatings didn’t end after one night. Ryan was locked in the dark room, starved, dragged out only for more pain. His cries grew weaker every day until, finally, he stopped crying altogether.

Michelle stood over him when his small body gave up. She didn’t call for help. She didn’t bury him. Instead, she opened the freezer, pushed Teenah’s frozen body aside, and placed Ryan on top of her.

Two children now. Frozen together.

When Ariana and Karen saw, their mother pointed at the freezer and said coldly,
“Disobey me, and you’ll join them.”

The freezer had become a monster in their home. Every time Michelle took out meat to cook, Ariana and Karen shook with fear, knowing their brother and sister were lying just underneath.

And the silence in the house grew heavier than ever.

Part 3 in the comment section

19/09/2025

It's almost 3 years ever since Martha was told not to move 🥹💔 people they don't forget pano mmh 🤣

Rumours is that Martha has not moved

19/09/2025

‎2026 (CAF) FIFA WORLD CUP QUALIFIERS, GROUP C WRANGLES CONTINUE ⚽
‎
‎Fifa have opened investigation against Teboho Mokoena's case.
‎
‎If Fifa Deducts 3 Points and 3 Goals from Bafana Bafana 🇿🇦 this is how the group will look like.
‎
‎1. South Africa 🇿🇦 14 Points
‎2. Benin 🇧🇯 14 Points
‎3. Nigeria 🇳🇬 11 Points
‎4. Rwanda 🇷🇼 11 Points
‎5. Lesotho 🇱🇸 9 Points
‎6. Zimbabwe 🇿🇼 4 Points
‎
‎✅ Bafana Bafana will need to win all the last two matches against Rwanda and Zimbabwe to qualify
‎
‎✅ Benin will also need to beat Nigeria and Lesotho to qualify if South Africa drop Points.
‎
‎✅ Nigeria will need to beat Benin and Lesotho to qualify if South Africa drop Points.
‎
‎Funny enough South Africa needs to beat Rwanda to give Nigeria more chances and Nigeria needs to beat Benin to ensure South Africa takes the first spot.
‎
‎✅ South Africa may qualify as group leaders as the odds say
‎✅ while it's between Nigeria and Benin to fight for second spot not forgetting Rwanda in the mix.
‎
‎

19/09/2025

My boyfriend suggested that we have a three some with her male friend in order to save our relationship and that destroyed our relationship. 😥

Part 1

I was only a teenager when I met Sipho. He was older, charming, and the kind of guy every girl in the neighborhood wanted. Somehow, he chose me. At first, it felt like a fairytale. He was the first person to hold my hand, the first one to kiss me, and eventually… the one who broke my virginity. To me, that meant everything. He wasn’t just my boyfriend—he was my whole world. I couldn’t imagine loving or giving myself to any other man after him.

For years, I lived in that bubble. I forgave him whenever he acted cold. I defended him whenever my friends warned me about his behavior. “He loves me, you don’t understand,” I would say, convincing myself that the butterflies in my stomach were enough reason to hold on.

But things began to change. Sipho grew distant. He would go the entire day without checking up on me. Sometimes, I’d send message after message, only for him to leave me on read. My heart ached, and my mind couldn’t stop wondering: What did I do wrong? Was I no longer enough for him?

One evening, after days of silence from him, I gathered the courage to confront him. We sat in his room, the air tense between us. I looked him in the eye and asked, “Sipho, what is going on with us? You’re no longer the man I knew. Tell me, what must I do to save our relationship?”

He leaned back casually, scrolling on his phone, as if what I said didn’t shake me to the core. Then, without looking at me, he replied:
“Our relationship is boring now. We need to spice things up.”

His words hit me like cold water. Boring? After all I gave, after all I sacrificed for him? Before I could ask what he meant, he dropped a bombshell that left me speechless.
“We should have a threesome—with Sphe.”

I blinked, confused. Sphe? His male friend? Surely, I misheard. But no, he repeated it with a smirk on his face, as though he had been planning it for a while. My stomach churned.

“Are you out of your mind?” I snapped. “There’s no way I’d let two men—”

He cut me off sharply. “If you don’t do it, it’s over between us. I’m serious.”

For a moment, the room spun. Was this love? Was this what I had held onto so tightly all these years? He wasn’t even ashamed. In fact, he told me that Sphe had already agreed, which meant they had been discussing me behind my back. I felt betrayed, humiliated… but still, my heart refused to let go.

That night, I lay awake battling with myself. I hated the idea, but the thought of losing Sipho was unbearable. I told myself it would just be one night, one stupid act to “save” us. I was willing to risk my dignity for the man I thought I couldn’t live without.

And so, I agreed.

The date was set for the very next day.

---

Part 2

The next day felt like the longest day of my life. Every minute dragged by, and my mind wouldn’t stop racing. How am I supposed to look at Sphe like that? How do I even begin touching him? I felt dirty before it even happened, but I convinced myself that it was the only way to keep Sipho.

When evening came, I dressed simply, my hands trembling as I tied my shoelaces. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror for too long—I was ashamed of the girl staring back at me.

Sipho sent me the location, a quiet room at a guesthouse on the edge of town. My heart pounded the whole way there. By the time I arrived, my palms were sweaty, and my knees felt weak. I wanted to turn back, but Sipho’s words echoed in my head:
“If you don’t do it, it’s literally over between us.”

I knocked, and Sipho opened the door, grinning as if this was the best day of his life. Inside, Sphe was already waiting. He looked at me with an eagerness that made me shrink inside myself. It was clear—he had been ready for this.

Sipho wasted no time. “Let’s not be shy. Everyone undress,” he ordered, his tone sharp, like he was the director of a show he had been dying to see.

My body froze. I didn’t want to move. But then I saw Sphe pulling off his shirt without hesitation, and Sipho glaring at me with that familiar look—the look that said, Don’t embarrass me, or else.

So I did it. Piece by piece, I removed my clothes, my face burning with humiliation. I stood there, vulnerable, naked, wishing I could disappear.

And then, the moment Sphe touched me, something unexpected happened. My blood rushed like fire through my veins. My breath quickened, my body betrayed me. I hated it, but at the same time… I couldn’t deny the wave of desire that surged inside me.

Sipho sat back, watching with a sick satisfaction, but for me, the world around us blurred. For the first time, I felt something with someone who wasn’t Sipho. And it scared me.

When it was over, I rushed to the bathroom, avoiding everyone’s eyes. I stared at my reflection again, but this time… something was different. I didn’t just see shame. I saw confusion, curiosity, and a flicker of something I hadn’t expected—longing.

That night, I realized a dangerous truth: I wanted more of Sphe.

Sipho had thought he was “spicing things up.” But in trying to keep me, he had unknowingly planted the seed of his own downfall.

Part 3 till the end in the comment section 💖

-thandow

Zambian brief

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

19/09/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share