Zim GBC News | Masvingo Correspondent
HARARE – “To be honest, I am still stuck on Thursday (April 2), the day my family waved goodbye, heading to Zvishavane before proceeding to a church conference. My brother, this is where I am stuck. My life is revolving around that fateful day. I am telling myself that they will come back.”
These are the words of Mr Ronald Mujuru, a grieving husband and father still trapped in the haunting moment he last saw his family alive – more than a week after a horrific head-on collision along Masvingo Road claimed the lives of his wife and five children on the eve of the Easter holidays.
Lillian (40) and their five children – Nokutenda (15), Makanaka (13), Ronald Jnr (11), Rufaro Shalom (7) and little Kayden (3) – were killed instantly near Mvuma.
“I used to be with my family, and my life seemed to be heading towards a better future. On that Thursday, I prepared my heart for missing them for a while. But this is where my heart remains – waiting,” Mr Mujuru told reporters, sobbing.
“I need prayers to look beyond that expectation; beyond the belief that they would return after the conference.”
The last goodbye
Mr Mujuru said his last act before separating from his family was to check the condition of the vehicle his wife was using.
“I even asked why the vehicle was not properly cleaned,” he recalled. “My wife told me it was fine, because she wanted to drive while it was still daytime.”
He kissed her goodbye – a kiss he did not know would have to last a lifetime. He waved to his children, each face etched with Easter excitement. Then he watched as they drove off, the car shrinking into the distance until it became a speck, then nothing.
“My children used to ask me if my lecturers would beat me for failing to complete my homework, because we used to do assignments at the same table,” he said, his voice cracking. That table now holds only one set of books.
“I felt the pain of missing them the moment they drove off.”
Then came the call that would shatter his world. A police officer told him there had been an accident. But before he reached the scene, a relative called to offer condolences on the passing of his wife.
“I still do not understand how my family died,” Mr Mujuru said, his eyes hollow.
“The other driver was there. I spoke to him briefly, and then I blacked out.”
“I was working for my family. I wanted to support their dreams. They were brilliant.”
Dreams cruelly cut short
Just weeks before, the family had celebrated Ronald Jnr’s birthday on March 13. They were also preparing for Lillian’s birthday on May 3.
Lillian had been running a boutique in Harare. Her latest triumph: successfully processing her shop licence – her gift to her children’s future. That licence now sits in a drawer, untouched.
The family’s househelp, who asked not to be named, said:
“She was my mother, very supportive and responsible. She wanted to obtain a shop licence and that was her main concern.”
‘I lacked wisdom to inform my friend’
Mr Ronald Mavhurudza, Mr Mujuru’s best friend, had learned of the tragedy first.
“I was emotionally spent when I got the news. I lacked wisdom and strength to inform my friend. It shocked me,” he said.
“The death of a mother and all her five children stunned me. Even the fact that the whole Tynwald North community came together in one language to try to interpret this tragedy remains a mystery to me.”
Neighbour Mrs Monica Chamatowa described the Mujurus as loving and caring.
“Lillian was teaching her children good manners. She was kind and always checked on people’s children. I would not lose sleep if I travelled, because Lillian would regularly make sure my children were fine.”
Mr Lancelot Mushaikwa, a former landlord, said:
“The nation lost a productive and happy family.”
Little lives with big promise
Ronald Jnr was a promising footballer, jersey Number 10, described by coaches as a playmaker with soft feet and a fierce heart. His academy is organising a memorial tournament, and his jersey will never be worn again.
Makanaka won several medals for being overall winner in academics. Nokutenda was already talking about university.
As the sun sets over Tynwald North, Mr Mujuru still finds himself expecting the sound of little Kayden’s footsteps. He still saves a seat at the table where his five children once teased him about his lecturers.
For Mr Mujuru, time has not moved forward. It circles endlessly around a Thursday morning kiss, a goodbye and a car reversing out of the driveway.
“The clock on his wall ticks, but inside him, time stopped,” a neighbour said softly.
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