By Sally Nyakanyanga
The afternoon sun at the recent autism seminar in Harare cast long shadows across the benches where Netsai Mutero sat, her two children tucked closely at her side.
At 38, Mutero carries a quiet exhaustion that many mothers would recognise, yet her burden is uniquely heavy. “The weight I carry, only a mother can endure,” she says softly.
For Mutero, life isn’t measured in years, but in the twelve-year “silent struggle” of her daughter.
The Razor’s Edge of Mystery
It began when Mutero’s daughter reached the age of four without speaking a word. In many Zimbabwean communities, developmental delays are rarely viewed through a medical lens first. Instead, they are shrouded in myth.
Believing the silence was caused by a physical “tongue-tie”—a common cultural belief known as ndimi—Mutero turned to a faith healer.
“I was instructed to buy razor blades for her to undergo the process of cutting it,” she recalls. But the blades brought no voice, only more questions.
The struggle followed them to school. In Early Childhood Development (ECD), her daughter couldn’t read nor write. The school’s response was a confusing “back-and-forth”: moving her from mainstream classes to units for the hearing impaired, and eventually to a “slow learner” stream.
“I wanted my child to talk,” Mutero says. “They were teaching her sign language, and she started emulating the behaviours of others—screaming and experiencing extreme meltdowns. I just wanted her to be part of the world I knew.”
A Continent-Wide Crisis
Mutero’s “diagnostic odyssey” is a reflection of a massive gap in African healthcare. While the World Health Organisation (WHO) estimates that 1 in 100 children globally has autism, data from the African Journal of Paediatrics suggests that in sub-Saharan Africa, the average age of diagnosis is often over 8 years old—years past the critical window for early intervention.
In Zimbabwe, a shortage of speech therapists and neurologists means that for many, a diagnosis is a luxury they cannot afford.
The Turning Point: From “Demonised” to Diagnosed
The breakthrough finally arrived last year when a team of assessors visited her daughter’s school. They referred Mutero to Harare Hospital, where the “unspoken ache” was finally given a name: Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).
With the name came a new kind of support, led by fathers like Elton Muchemwa, founder of the Glenis Centre for Autism. Muchemwa knows the sting of stigma personally.
“As fathers, we are the foundation of the home,” Muchemwa asserts. “Acceptance without action is mere awareness. We need to stand up for our kids,” he said.
Radical Solidarity
Mutero is no longer walking this labyrinth alone. Through Mothers of Special Heroes (MOSH), founded by Chantelle Shangare, she has found a community built on “solidarity.”
“No family should walk this journey alone,” Shangare says. “We are creating a world where every mother of a special hero knows they are never alone.”
This community is more than just a support group; it is a shield. At the seminar, South African social worker Sonja Eksteem shared a chilling statistic: neurodivergent children are up to 3 times more likely to experience maltreatment or abuse than neurotypical children.
“We must stop ‘managing behaviour’ and start ‘investigating distress,'” Eksteem urged. For a child who cannot speak, a meltdown isn’t “bad behaviour”—it is a cry for help in a world that is too loud, too bright, or too confusing.
The Path Forward
For Mutero, the “joys of motherhood” are now found in the small, hard-won victories. Though her daughter currently refuses to go to school, Mutero isn’t giving up.
Her hope is fuelled by the knowledge that there is a movement growing in Zimbabwe—one that moves beyond the “back-and-forth” of a broken system toward a future where every child has a place to learn, play, and truly belong.
The journey from the razor blade to the hospital clinic was long, but Mutsa has finally found her voice—and she is using it to fight for her daughter’s
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