Awake to a Fragile Future
What if the malaria had been worse? What if she had died? What would happen to Rudo?
Mandla had made his priorities clear. Her family didn't understand Rudo's needs. The state had no systems to support children like her.
Rudo would disappear into the cracks—institutionalized, medicated, hidden away. All the progress, all the understanding, all the adaptation to her unique neurology would vanish.
One mother's illness shouldn't jeopardize a child's entire future. But in this part of the world, for now, for a child like Rudo, it did!
The realization hardened something inside Zodwa—a determination beyond the personal, beyond even the small community they were building. They needed more. Systems. Support. Alternatives. Not just for Rudo, but for all children like her.
She dozed fitfully, fever dreams blending with planning. By morning, her temperature had normalized, though weakness still pervaded her limbs.
Dr. Rwafa made his rounds, surprised at her improvement. "Another day for observation," he recommended.
"I'm discharging myself," Zodwa replied, already sitting up despite the dizziness. "My daughter needs me."
"Mrs. Mangena, this is unwise. Your recovery—"
"My recovery will happen at home. Where's my paperwork?"
He frowned, then sighed. "You're taking a serious risk. But it's your decision. The nurse will bring discharge forms."
An hour later, paperwork signed "against medical advice", Zodwa waited for her ride. She'd called Fadzai, the only one with a car reliable enough for hospital pickups.
As soon as the nurse handed her back the phone and she powered it on, the messages came flooding in. The support group had created a separate chat just for updates on her condition.
Nyasha: How are we getting Zodwa home?
Fadzai: On my way to her now.
Tsitsi: Rudo just ate a little bread. Progress.
Chipo: My husband says we can't keep rotating children through our houses indefinitely. Legal issues.
Maidei: Tell your husband I personally spoke with a social worker. We're doing nothing wrong.
Spiwe: Pastor says Rudo can stay at the parsonage tonight if needed.
Fadzai: Not necessary. I'm bringing Z home in 30 minutes.
The network in action. Six women with their own challenges, their own children, their own struggles, stepping in without hesitation.
Fadzai arrived looking bothered but determined, her ancient Toyota puttering in the hospital driveway.
"Thank God you're up and walking," she greeted with visible relief. "You gave us quite a scare when you collapsed at the church."
"Thank you for doing this," Zodwa said, easing into the passenger seat. "For everything."
"Save it. You'd do the same." Fadzai pulled into traffic with her usual aggressive driving. "We're taking you straight to Tsitsi's, where Rudo is."
"I should go home first. Change clothes, get my—"
"Already handled. Nyasha packed a bag for you both. Chipo cleaned your kitchen—that woman cleans like crazy when she is worried. Maidei stocked up your fridge."
Tears welled again. "I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing. Just get better." Fadzai glanced sideways. "You scared us, you know. One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re collapsing ."
"I'm sorry for frightening everyone."
"Don't apologize for being sick," Fadzai said firmly. "We're just grateful you're recovering."
"What happened after I collapsed?"
"Chaos, honestly. While Nyasha called the ambulance, Maidei accidentally knocked over the juice she'd brought for the children."
"Oh no."
“It was actually helpful, in a strange way. Rudo had registered that something was wrong with you and was beginning to melt down, but the spilled juice became an immediate distraction. Her brain latched onto that sensation instead.”
Zodwa nodded. She'd seen this before—how Rudo's intense reaction to sensory experiences sometimes overrode everything else. What might seem like misplaced priorities to others was simply how her daughter processed overwhelming situations.
"That sounds like Rudo," she said, a small smile finding its way to her lips despite everything. "The world could be ending, but a wet sock would still be her biggest emergency."
Fadzai returned the smile, relieved to see a glimpse of the old Zodwa. "That's the one thing we can count on with our children—they're consistent in their own unique ways."
The moment of lightness faded quickly.
"How bad has it been? Really?"
Fadzai's smile faded. "Bad the first night. She wouldn't sleep. Screamed for hours. We took turns walking with her." She paused. "Mandla needs a good kick in the balls, by the way. Called once, asked if 'the child' was okay, then never showed."
"I'm surprised and not surprised at the same time," Zodwa said bitterly. "You'd think a medical emergency would be the one time he'd make an effort, at least show up for his daughter while her mother was hospitalized. Not for me but for his one and only child."
"That's what I told him," Fadzai admitted. I said, "Even fathers who've checked out still usually show up when their child's mother is in the hospital."
They drove in silence for a moment.
"You know what I realized while walking with Rudo at 3 AM?" Fadzai said suddenly. "We need better systems. If something happened to any of us—"
"I was thinking the same thing in the hospital."
"We need to get serious about registration. About documentation. About backup plans."
"And about making sure people know what to do if we can't direct them." Zodwa stared out the window at Harare passing by. "What if I hadn't woken up, Fadzai? What would happen to Rudo?"
"Don't talk like that."
"We have to. We have to plan for it. All of us do."
They pulled into Tsitsi's driveway, a modest house in Mabelreign with toys scattered across the yard—evidence of multiple children sharing the space.
"Welcome to autism central," Fadzai announced. "Population: seven extraordinary kids and six frazzled mothers desperately awaiting the seventh."
Inside, they found organized chaos. Takudzwa and Tadi were sorting stones by size on the veranda. Ruva was spinning in tight circles in the living room while Tatenda watched from behind a chair. Spiwe's son Tino was lining up toy cars along the skirting board. And Rudo—
Rudo sat curled in Tsitsi's lap, rocking and humming, her eyes fixed on the door as if waiting.
When she saw Zodwa, she went very still. Then, with a movement so fast it was almost a blur, she launched herself across the room.
Rudo Spoke, and So Did the Future
"Mama," she said clearly. "Mama here."
The words—so common for other children, and yet so rare for Rudo—struck Zodwa like a physical blow. She dropped to her knees, catching her daughter in trembling arms.
"Yes, baby. Mama's here. Mama's home."
For once, Rudo didn't resist the embrace, didn't pull away from the touch. She pressed her face into Zodwa's neck, inhaling deeply, recognizing her mother's scent in the way she recognized familiar rooms, routines, and safety.
"I think she missed you," Tsitsi said unnecessarily, wiping away tears.
"The feeling's mutual," Zodwa whispered into Rudo's hair.
When Rudo had calmed and the children were in the living room under the supervision of Tsitsi's teenage niece, Rumbi, they gathered in Tsitsi's kitchen. It was rare for them to meet without directly watching their children—a precious opportunity for uninterrupted adult conversation.
"We need to formalize," Nyasha said without preamble. "Not just for the classes and emergencies."
Legal registration," Maidei agreed. "My nephew's a lawyer. He says we need proper documentation to protect ourselves—and our children."
"What kind of organization are talking about?" Chipo asked quietly. "School? Support group? Charity?"
"All of it," Fadzai declared. "Why think small? We need a resource center. Emergency protocols. Training for caregivers."
"With what money?" Tsitsi inquired. "Registration costs. Lawyers cost. Space costs."
"We fundraise," Spiwe suggested. "My church would help."
"We start small," Nyasha countered. "Basic registration first. Then build."
Zodwa watched them planning, the weakness in her body contrasting with the new strength in her resolve. They were right. All of them. The time for informal arrangements had passed.
"We need a better name," she said suddenly. They turned to her, surprised. "Autism Ubuntu Network. AUN. It sounds like a side project. We need something that says what we are. What we're building." ...more
