"I and my children were beaten and kicked out of our house by the
brothers-in-law. We live by begging, in continual fear"
Widow's Stories
In many countries in Africa, it is considered a ‘crime’ for a woman to lose her husband, and she is blamed for his death. Because of this, widows are humiliated, deprived of their homes and children and punished for the death of their husband... Women are subjected to inhumane, obscene and heinous treatments because they committed the ‘crime’ of allowing death to take their husbands. These stories demonstrate that in these societies it is the duty of the wives to ensure that their husbands do not fall ill, are not attacked by armed robbers or do not get killed by motor accidents.
Mary's Story ( from WIDEN)
Other stories have shown widows with some resources, but Mary, a mother of 9 children and a 40 year old widow of 8 years is in a piteous state... She lives in dire poverty in a ramshackle hut with her 9 children, all of whom are badly malnourished. Mary is not faring well, she is dressed in rags, and she and her youngest baby are suffering from skin infections.
I was in class three in secondary school when I became pregnant for my husband
at the age of 16. He was a shoe mender, and because of my choice of this man,
coupled with the fact that I was pregnant, my father - a senior civil servant
- disowned me. So I moved into his one-room thatched house and became a baby
production machine as my husband refused any method of family planning. At
the age of 32, I was already nursing my ninth baby.
Even in his lifetime, we could barely make ends meet. The house rent was always
in arrears, we never had enough to eat, the children were not at school, and
all I had for clothing were rags. I watched daily as my life was slowly wasting
away; there was no future for me and my children as my husband was addicted
to alcohol and Indian hemp. As if these problems were not enough, one day he
went into a drunken stupor and never came out of it. He died a wretched man,
leaving behind an equally wretched and unhappy family. Despite the fact that
his people knew about his addiction to Indian hemp and alcohol, they still
accused me of killing him; it was too funny when they asked me to bring his
bankbook1 However, after the burial, his brothers came and packed his clothes,
the bed, the old and torn mattress and even his bathroom slippers and took
them away.
We owed three months rent when he died, and after the burial, the landlord evicted us. We live in this hut which is all I can afford now. There is no end to our suffering as most days we go without food. My children and I are all in rags, and we live here at the mercy of the elements of life, to me, death would be a welcome relief.
Mary ended her story with tears streaming down her cheeks.