We Died Waiting! Sithule Tshuma’s Victims’ Outry
17 July 2025
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We planted seeds in Zimbabwe, Bulawayo, KwaMthwakazi, with excitement and hopeful trembling hands,


Guided by dreams stitched together across continents—


Australia’s hope, South Africa’s heart,
The sweats of Zambia,
The prayers of mothers in Canada,
The whispers of sisters in the UK,
The grit of aunties in America.
We dreamed of harvests, not hunger.

We envisioned a farm produce market
Bristling with colour—mangos glistening, cabbages stacked like emerald crowns,
Children skipping past stalls heavy with abundance.
We saw butcheries humming with life, bakeries warm with rising dough.
We imagined oil drums filled with promise,
Trucks roaring toward prosperity across the African continent,
A bank of hope,
And a bus—painted with our flag—carrying our dreams into dawn.

We believed in building,
In unity,
In sisterhood stronger than blood.

But Sithule Tshuma—
With Karen Kumalo, Bridget Dube, Nompilo Moyo,
And Zibusiso Charles Ncube cloaked in shadows—
Did not build.
They hollowed our dreams with greed.
They danced in the dust of our devastation.

The farms vanished before harvest.
The market’s doors rusted shut before they ever opened.
The butcheries never smelled of meat.
The bakeries were tombs.
The oil dried to silence.
The trucks were never driven.
And the bus became a shrine to deceit.

We, more than 500 women,
Now carry only grief,
And receipts that prove nothing but betrayal.
They wear our stolen sacrifices—
Designer threads stitched from our tears,
Holiday selfies framed by the graves of our trust.

And Sithule,
Cruel and brazen,
Mocks our brokenness in Facebook captions,
Turns our pain into punchlines,
As though our lives were just her stepping stones.

But we mourn in silence no longer.

Some of your victims Sithule have gone—
Their hearts ruptured from betrayal,
Their homes darkened by the weight of debt.
They died believing they were building something true.
Their children now whisper to photos,
Asking why the future never came.

We did not give so that you could take.
We did not dream so that you could destroy.

You stole more than money—
You stole stories,
You ripped mothers from hope,
And carved wounds that time cannot soothe.

But we are not done.
We are not silenced.
We rise, loud and raw,
Voices trembling with fury and resolve.

One day—
Truth will call your names.
Justice will come collecting,
And legacy—our true legacy—will be restored.
Because we are the storm now.
And you will hear us.
——————————————————

To the victims who died waiting for restitution—
your graves speak louder than her laughter.
Justice has ears. And it is hears……

By NP a heartbroken victim