My name is Margaret.
There was a time when I believed I would never see my firstborn son again.
Even now, whenever I tell my story, I struggle to hold back tears because no mother should ever experience the pain of not knowing whether her child is alive or dead.
My son was twenty-three years old when he left home after a disagreement. It began as a small argument over money and the company he was keeping. Angry words were exchanged, and before sunset he packed a small bag and walked away.
I thought he would return after a few days.
He never did.
His phone stopped going through.
His friends claimed they did not know where he was.
We reported the matter to the authorities, searched hospitals, and visited relatives in different towns. Every lead ended in disappointment.
Months became years.
Every time my phone rang, my heart raced.
Every young man I saw walking toward our gate made me think, “Maybe it is him.”
But it never was.
His younger siblings grew up asking questions I could not answer.
“Mother, do you think he is still alive?”
I would smile and tell them to keep praying, but when I was alone, I cried until I had no tears left.
One afternoon, an elderly woman from our village visited me. She found me sitting outside, staring at the road as I often did.
She encouraged me not to lose hope and suggested that I seek guidance from a traditional healer by name Dr Magongo, known for helping families find peace during difficult times.
I decided to go.
The healer welcomed me warmly and listened patiently as I shared every detail of my son’s disappearance.
He did not promise that he could magically bring my son home. Instead, he encouraged me to continue working with the authorities, remain open to any new information, and not allow grief to consume my life.
As part of a symbolic traditional ceremony, he used several cultural items.
A calabash of clean water symbolized hope and renewal.
Medicinal herbs were prepared according to local custom.
The gentle fragrance of burning traditional incense filled the room while prayers for peace, protection, and reconciliation were offered.
A white cloth was placed in my hands to remind me not to give up hope even during the darkest seasons.
Before I left, he told me something that has remained in my heart ever since.
“Do not stop looking, but do not stop living either.”
Those words changed me.
Instead of spending every day in despair, I started participating in community activities again.
I kept my phone on at all times.
I stayed in touch with relatives and continued asking anyone who might have information.
Nearly four years after my son disappeared, my phone rang one evening.
An unfamiliar voice asked, “Are you Margaret?”
My hands began to shake.
The caller said he was with my son.
He explained that my son had been working in another country after leaving home and had been too ashamed to contact us because he felt he had disappointed the family.
I collapsed into tears.
A week later, my son walked through our gate.
He looked older and thinner, but he was alive.
Neither of us spoke at first.
We simply hugged each other and cried.
No mother can describe what it feels like to hold a child she thought she had lost forever.
Today, my son is rebuilding his relationship with the family.
Looking back, I believe the traditional ceremony became a meaningful moment that helped me move from despair to hope. It did not replace practical efforts like staying in contact with authorities and relatives, but it gave me the emotional strength to keep believing.
Every evening when I see my son sitting with his younger brothers, laughing as if he never left, I silently thank God for another chance.
Life taught me that hope is sometimes the only thing that keeps us moving until tomorrow finally brings the answer we have been waiting for.
