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When The Centre Breaks

"Pastor Chimombe says more churches should open their doors like this," Spiwe whispered, settling beside Zodwa. "He's been telling other pastors about our work."

"His nephew changed his perspective," Zodwa replied. "Sometimes that's all it takes—one child to open eyes."

The pastor had been surprisingly supportive after meeting their children. "God's special creations," he'd called them, without the usual subtext of testing or punishment. He'd even offered storage space for their materials.

By mid-morning, Zodwa couldn't ignore the headache that had been building since dawn. She'd attributed it to stress, to the constant worry about money since the divorce was finalized. But now her joints ached, and a shiver ran through her despite the warm day.

"You okay?" Fadzai asked during their snack break. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Zodwa attempted a smile. "Just tired. Rudo had nightmares again."

But as the children continued their activities—sensory play with rice and beans, sorting colored blocks, listening to Maidei read a simple story—Zodwa felt worse. Her skin burned, her head pounded, and the church hall seemed to tilt at odd angles.

"Maybe you should sit down," Tsitsi suggested, her nurse's training evident in her concerned gaze.

"I'm fine," Zodwa insisted. "We have too much to do."

She pushed through, helping Rudo with her blocks, while discussing the next day's schedule, and making notes about supplies they needed. But her handwriting wandered across the page, words blurring before her eyes.

It happened during the closing circle. They'd gathered the children to sing a simple goodbye song—one of the few activities Rudo would occasionally join in—when the room began to spin violently.

"I think I need to—" Zodwa began, then the floor rushed up to meet her.

Voices reached her through a fog. Nyasha was calling her name. Fadzai shouting for water. Rudo's sudden, piercing scream. Then darkness.

She woke to the familiar antiseptic smell of Parirenyatwa Hospital. Her mouth dry, her body impossibly heavy. A cannula in her arm fed clear fluid from an IV bag.

"Welcome back." Dr. Rwafa—the same doctor who had dismissed Rudo's autism—stood at her bedside, making notes on a chart.

"What happened?" Her voice sounded distant and unfamiliar.

"Severe malaria. Your temperature was 40 degrees Celsius when they brought you in. Why did you wait so long to seek treatment?"

"I didn't realize..." She struggled to focus. "How long have I been here?"

"Two days."

"Two days?" The realization hit like physical pain.

"Rudo," she gasped, trying to sit up. "My daughter—"

"Your friends brought her yesterday. Quite a commotion." His lips thinned with disapproval. "The nurses had to ask them to leave. The noise was disturbing other patients."

Of course, Rudo had melted down in the hospital, and of course, the staff hadn't understood.

"Where is she now? Who's taking care of her?" Panic rose in her throat.

"I wouldn't know, Mrs Mangena." Dr. Rwafa's disinterest was palpable. "You need to rest. The malaria was quite advanced. Another day without treatment could have been serious."

He left before she could ask more questions, the curtain swishing closed behind him.

A Mother's Absence, A

Child's Storm

Zodwa stared at the water-stained ceiling, tears sliding silently down her temples. Two days away from Rudo. Two days during which her daughter's carefully constructed routine had been shattered.

Who was caring for her? Was she eating? Sleeping? How many meltdowns had she endured without the one person who understood her needs?

She had no phone. No way to check. No way to know.

The weight of it crushed her chest more than any illness. For the first time, Zodwa confronted the terrifying truth: Rudo's entire existence balanced on her mother's precarious health. One crisis—one hospitalization—and everything fell apart.

A nurse entered, checking the IV. Zodwa grasped her wrist.

"Please, my daughter. Rudo. Do you know who's caring for her?"

The nurse looked confused, then understanding dawned. "Oh, the child who was here yesterday. The one who was... upset."

A diplomatic description of what had likely been a full meltdown.

"Several women brought her. They said they're taking turns until you're discharged."

Relief weakened Zodwa's grip. The mothers. Of course. The only ones who would understand.

"Do you have a phone I can use? Just for a minute?"

The nurse hesitated, then extracted a basic feature phone from her pocket.

"Make it quick. And no calls outside Harare. My credit is low."

Zodwa dialed Nyasha's number from memory, praying she would answer.

"Hello?" Nyasha's voice was tired but familiar.

"It's me," Zodwa said, tears threatening again. "How's Rudo?"

"Zodwa! Thank God. She's... managing. She's with Tsitsi right now. We've been taking shifts."

"Is she eating? Sleeping?"

"Some. Not much. She's asking for you in her way. Lots of meltdowns."

"I'm so sorry—"

"Don't. We're family now. That's what this is all about, right? Ubuntu."

Where Family Failed,

Sisterhood Rose

Zodwa fought to control her voice. "Did you call Mandla?"

A pause. "Yesterday. He said he'd come, but..." Another pause. "Work emergency."

Of course. Always an emergency when it involved Rudo.

"What about my mother?"

"Your brother Mike called this morning," Nyasha added. "Asked about you. Said they might come to Harare to see you, but your father isn't well enough to travel and your mother won't leave him."

Another convenient excuse. Her father's health had become the perfect shield against difficult situations. Zodwa wasn't even sure anymore how much of his illness was real and how much was family manipulation.

"No one from Gweru has visited you," Nyasha said carefully. "We've been taking shifts at the hospital too."

The unspoken truth hung between them—in a medical emergency, not even her blood family had shown up. Only these women, these mothers she'd known for mere months, had stepped into the gap.

"Did they say when I can leave?" Zodwa asked, desperate to change the subject from her absent family.

"The doctor says maybe tomorrow. If your fever stays down."

"I'm coming today. I need to sign whatever papers—"

"Zodwa, don't. Malaria is serious. Another day won't kill us."

But it might damage Rudo further. Every day of disruption made recovery harder.

"Just tell her I'm coming home. Keep showing her my picture."

"We are. We've been playing that song she likes. The one about elephants."

Zodwa closed her eyes, picturing her daughter rocking to the familiar tune, searching for her mother's face but only finding strangers—even if they were the kindest and most understanding strangers in the world, they were still not her mother.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

"Rest. We've got this."

The nurse reclaimed her phone, and Zodwa was alone again with the weight of her vulnerability. The precariousness of her life slammed into her with new clarity....more