Maid cries foul after son's exam fees vanishes

The soft swish of a mop echoes through a spacious Waterfalls home in Harare, each stroke a part of Sharon Nyemba's daily rhythm. At 45, Nyemba is a domestic worker and single mother whose calloused hands tell stories of years of sacrifice. But today, her movements are slower, her spirit heavy with sorrow. Her son, Kupakwashe Tengu, may miss his Ordinary Level exams — not because of a lack of ability, but because of US$150 that vanished in transit.

Nyemba, who hails from Chihera village in Betera, Buhera under Chief Nyashanu, had finally managed to save enough money over two months for her son's school registration and term fees. She carefully packed the cash inside a sock, hidden within a bag of groceries, and sent it home via a bus driver she trusted — someone she'd used several times before. The hope was that the groceries and the money would reach her family safely.

The groceries arrived. The money did not.

"My son and my daughter were crying on the phone," Nyemba recalled, her voice quivering. "They searched everywhere. Inside the mealie meal, under the sugar. There was no sign of the money."

The registration deadline was just days away - March 18. Nyemba had opted to send the money this way because it was cheaper. Sending money directly via the bus cost US$5, but a grocery bag cost only US$3. With limited funds, she made the choice many rural-based workers make: conceal the money and hope for the best.

This time, that hope crumbled.

Nyemba did not inform the driver about the money inside the groceries, fearing it might draw unwanted attention. And now, with no proof and no official tracking system, she has no recourse. The conductor denied any knowledge of the money.

"I feel like I failed him," she said, pausing her work, her eyes fixed on the neat garden outside. "Maybe I should have told the driver. Maybe I should have found another way."

Kupakwashe, a bright student with dreams beyond the confines of rural Buhera, has taken the loss hard. His mother's efforts are not lost on him, and the knowledge that her sacrifice was in vain weighs heavily.

There is, however, a sliver of hope. The Zimbabwe School Examinations Council has extended the registration deadline to May, giving Nyemba a second chance to gather the funds.

Her story highlights the broader, troubling reality faced by many rural Zimbabweans: a lack of access to reliable financial services. In villages like Nyashanu, mobile money systems such as EcoCash or Mukuru are practically non-existent. Where they do exist, the few agents available often run out of cash or charge exorbitant fees, forcing residents to accept groceries in lieu of cash.

"EcoCash is there in name only," explained Ward 20 councillor Alderman Felix Nangatidza. "Most people are forced to buy goods they don't need just to access their own money."

He called on financial service providers to extend proper coverage to remote areas. "This isn't just about convenience. It's about access to education, healthcare, and basic survival."

Doug Tait-Knight, CEO of Mukuru Zimbabwe Financial Services, acknowledged the gap, saying the company is working to expand into more remote regions.

"We're committed to reaching underserved areas," he said, "but we also have to conduct cost-benefit analyses. We can't operate in environments where we're constantly making losses."

Until these services are in place, many rural families remain tethered to a fragile system of trust, handing over cash-filled grocery bags at Harare's Mbare Musika terminus and hoping for the best.

"There are no receipts, no guarantees," said Takunda Timola, a fellow domestic worker from Buhera. "We trust the drivers. It's the only way we can send money home."

Nyemba's story is one of many — stories of hope tied to bus routes, stories of trust sometimes rewarded and sometimes betrayed. They speak to a wider economic divide and a financial system that still leaves too many behind.

As she resumes her mopping, Nyemba wipes away a tear. The fight for her son's future continues. And in a country where resilience is often the only currency that never devalues, she's determined to try again.