Online Reporter
Arron Nyamayaro
“To be honest, I am still stuck on Thursday (April 2), the day my family waved goodbye, heading to Zvishavane before proceeding to a church conference. My brother, this is where I am stuck. My life is revolving around that fateful day. I am telling myself that they will come back.”
These are the words of Mr Ronald Mujuru, a grieving husband and father still trapped in the haunting moment he last saw his family alive.
More than a week after a horrific head-on collision along Masvingo Road claimed the lives of his wife and five children on the eve of the Easter holidays, Mujuru remains frozen in time.
Lillian (40) and their five children — Nokutenda (15), Makanaka (13), Ronald Jnr (11), Rufaro Shalom (7) and little Kayden (3) — were killed instantly near Mvuma.
Nokutenda was a Form Three learner at Mishpach Christian Academy in Harare, while Makanaka was in Grade Seven, Ronald Jnr in Grade Six and Rufaro was in Grade Two at Haig Park Primary School.
“I used to be with my family, and my life seemed to be heading towards a better future. On that Thursday, I prepared my heart for missing them for a while. But this is where my heart remains — waiting.”
“I need prayers to look beyond that expectation; beyond the belief that they would return after the conference,” he added, sobbing.
The last goodbye
Mr Mujuru said his last act before separating with his family was to check the condition of the vehicle his family was using before it reversed out of the car park.
“I even asked why the vehicle was not properly cleaned,” he said. “My wife told me it was fine, because she wanted to drive while it was still daytime.”
He kissed her goodbye — a kiss he did not know would have to last a lifetime.
He waved to his children, each face etched with Easter excitement.
Then he watched as they drove off, the car shrinking into the distance until it became a speck, then nothing.
He returned to his study. The house fell silent. Too silent.
“My children used to ask me if my lecturers would beat me for failing to complete my homework, because we used to do assignments at the same table,” he recalled, his voice cracking.
That table now holds only one set of books.
“I felt the pain of missing them the moment they drove off.”
He tried to read but the words blurred. An inexplicable restlessness gnawed at him — a shadow of what was to come.
So he left to visit his friend and namesake, Mr Ronald Mavhurudza.
Then came the call that would shatter his world.
Their househelp phoned: Someone wanted to see him at home. Urgently.
“I tried in vain to get more details,” Mr Mujuru said.
“Later, I wondered if it could be robbers — maybe they had learnt about my family’s trip since it was the holiday period.”
Apparently, the person who wanted to talk to him was a police officer.
“He told me there had been an accident involving my family. He said they were in a stable condition and would be taken to hospital . . .”
Hope flickered.
Mr Mujuru sped towards Mvuma, his heart hammering, praying desperately.
But before he reached the accident scene, a relative called and offered condolences on the passing away of his wife.
The phone slipped from his hand. The world tilted. That single call did not just bring news — it ripped the ground from under his feet.
“I still do not understand how my family died,” Mr Mujuru said, his eyes hollow.
“The other driver was there. I spoke to him briefly, and then I blacked out.”
He added: “I was working for my family. I wanted to support their dreams. They were brilliant.”
Dreams cruelly cut short
Just weeks before, the Mujuru home had been alive with laughter.
The family had celebrated Ronald Jnr’s birthday on March 13 — balloons, cake, a boy beaming at the candles.
They were also preparing for Lillian’s birthday on May 3.
Lillian had been running a boutique in Harare with two employees.
She was a woman in motion — always planning, always dreaming.
Her latest triumph: successfully processing her shop licence.
It was her gift to her children’s future.
The family’s househelp, who asked not to be named, said Lillian was a hardworking woman who was constantly worried about growing her business.
“I received a call from the police asking how I was related to Lillian,” the househelp said.
“They told me they had found my phone number written somewhere in the vehicle they were searching. I referred them to Mr Mujuru. She was my mother, very supportive and responsible. She wanted to obtain a shop licence and that was her main concern.”
That licence now sits in a drawer, untouched.
A friend who could not find the words
Mr Mavhurudza — Mr Mujuru’s best friend — had learned of the tragedy before his friend did.
He carried the news like a live grenade.
“I was emotionally spent when I got the news. I lacked wisdom and strength to inform my friend. It shocked me,” he said.
How do you tell a man that his wife and all five of his children are gone?
There is no phrase for that. No gentle way. So Mavhurudza did the only thing he could: He passed the burden to Mr Mujuru’s father, hoping an elder might find words where he could not.
“The death of a mother and all her five children stunned me,” he said.
“Even the fact that the whole Tynwald North community, made up of people from various religions, came together in one language to try to interpret this tragedy remains a mystery to me.”
A neighbour, Mrs Monica Chamatowa, described the Mujuru family as loving and caring.
“We lost a loving family,” she said.
“Lillian was teaching her children good manners. She was kind and always checked on people’s children. I would not lose sleep if I travelled, because Lillian would regularly make sure my children were fine.
“I also want to thank the Tynwald North community for the support they gave. It showed how respected and loved the Mujuru family was in society,” Mrs Chamatowa said.
Mr Lancelot Mushaikwa, a one-time landlord of Mr Mujuru, said the nation had lost a productive family.
“I knew Lillian and Ronald when they were yet to be married. I could see that their affair was so promising and was happy when they got married. They were one of my tenants in Budiriro, before they moved to Chitungwiza and later to Tynwald North. Our relationship did not stop; we were supporting each other and, to me, the nation lost a productive and happy family,” said Mr Mushaikwa.
Little lives with big promise
Ronald Jnr was described as a promising footballer. He was attached to BN Academy at Madokero Complex and wore jersey Number 10. He was the playmaker, the one who made things happen. His coaches say he had soft feet and a fierce heart. Reports say the academy is organising a memorial football tournament for Ronald Jnr, and his jersey, Number 10, will be displayed, never to be worn again.
Makanaka won several medals for being the overall winner in academics.
She was the kind of child teachers remember. Her medals still hang where she left them, waiting for fingers that will never touch them again.
Nokutenda, the eldest, was already talking about university. Rufaro Shalom still believed in magic.
As the sun sets over Tynwald North, Mr Mujuru still finds himself expecting the sound of little Kayden’s footsteps — that particular pitter patter, fast and uneven, always ending with a small body crashing into his legs.
He still saves a seat at the table where his five children once teased him about his lecturers.
The memorial football tournament for Ronald Jnr will kick off soon.
Makanaka’s medals still hang where she left them. Lillian’s newly obtained shop licence sits in a drawer, never to be used.
For a community that has wrapped itself around a grieving husband, the tragedy remains incomprehensible. There are no answers, only arms that hold him up when his own fail.
For Mr Mujuru, time has not moved forward.
It circles endlessly around a Thursday morning kiss, a goodbye and a car reversing out of the driveway.
The clock on his wall ticks, but inside him, time stopped.
