Growing Up with a Disability in Zimbabwe: What My Father Taught Me About Dignity

By Mufaro Namusi

My Father, My First Teacher

Growing up with a disability in Zimbabwe shaped my childhood and my sense of belonging.

Treatment eased the physical challenges when I turned 12, but the lessons stayed.

They guide how I see myself—and others—especially because my father also lives with a slight disability. Difference is not a deficit; it’s another way to belong.

My dad has always been my role model.

He refuses to let limits define him.

He is strong, supportive and wise.

Friends sometimes asked about his disability. Their questions were innocent but heavy. People often don’t know how to talk about disability, and those moments put a spotlight on our family.

Learning to Answer With Pride

I learned to answer honestly and with pride.

My dad’s disability is part of who he is. It does not measure his worth or cap his ability. Watching him live with humour and grit taught me resilience before I knew the word.

He nudges me to show up—by studying harder, volunteering, and speaking up for others.

Living with a difference was not easy.

Children notice fast. Some asked questions; others whispered. I had days I felt left out, moments when I wanted to blend in.

When treatment eased the physical barriers, the emotional ones did not vanish with them.

Two Childhoods, One Lesson

After treatment, I stood in an in-between space: freer in my body but still carrying memories that did not heal overnight.

It felt like two childhoods—the one before, marked by limits, and the one after, full of new possibilities. Even then, curiosity stayed.

I have learned curiosity is not always cruel; it often reflects what people have not been taught.

But constant explaining wears you down.

The Social Model—and Why Words Matter

Living in that in-between space pushed me to a simple idea: disability is not failure.

It is a different way to move through a world not built for everyone.

The social model of disability says the biggest barriers are in buildings, systems and attitudes, not in people.

Ramps, clear signage, captions, sign-language interpretation and flexible school policies do not “accommodate” us as a favour; they include us because we belong.

Words matter. Ask before you assume. Listen before you advise. “What do you prefer?” is kinder than “What happened to you?” See someone’s whole life—not just a diagnosis.

A Hope We Can Practice

Hope is practical. In Zimbabwe, schools can train teachers on inclusive education and anti-bullying.

Churches and youth groups can plan events with ramps, quiet spaces and accessible toilets.

Sports clubs can welcome adaptive play. Friends can stand up to jokes that punch down. Families can model dignity at home and teach children to ask respectful questions. Growing up with a disability in Zimbabwe taught me that strength is not the absence of struggle; it is showing up, learning and choosing to keep going.

I no longer hide the parts of my story that made me.

I carry my dad’s lessons and my own scars as reminders that difference is not a deficit; it is another way to belong.

My life is one story, stitched together by love, resilience and community.