WHEN THE TERRACE JUDGES THE PITCH

It is easy to comment from the terrace. It is harder to play on the pitch. That is what one man wrote in the group at 10:06 in the morning, after days of us all trying to be judges, counsellors, pastors and prophets about a marriage none of us lived in. 

“Nyaya dzemudzimba dzonetsa hadzo kuita simple conclusion from a distant. Kuuraya ndokwakashata. Kusiya partially or fully hakuzi that bad hako,” he wrote. Killing is evil, leaving is not. But have we ever thought that some couples have tried everything until leaving is the last option? Another one answered him, “Chakafukidza dzimba idzi, matenga.” What covers these houses is the roof. We see the roof. We do not see what happens under it.

For the past week my phone has not stopped. The story of Dr. Martin Muduva and Lyliosa Chirara has split us into two villages. One village says, he was a good man who never defaced his wife to the world. The other village says, his marriage was overcrowded. “Mmmmh marriage ya Engineer was overcrowded. The male friends, the brothers, the women friends doing press statements and the second wife yooih,” wrote a woman who has been watching this closely. “Everyone had a share in his marriage. For someone that smart it only bags to prove he painted the wife blue black, she had nowhere else to go, no one to cry or run to, the whole world against her.”

I am a woman and that line stayed with me. Nowhere to go. No one to cry to. Because when we read the first reports, we heard about a WhatsApp status. A Roora Day picture that broke a woman. But when we listened longer, we heard about something more suffocating than one picture. A marriage that became public property.

I have covered gender-based violence before, but this week taught me that GBV is not always a slap. Sometimes it is isolation. Sometimes it is shame. “Remember nyadzi dzokundarufu,” one woman wrote. Shame that follows you to death. Lyliosa was a nurse. She was used to pain. But who nurses the nurse when her own house is sick? If, as alleged, her husband told people she was not educated enough, if her hustle was dismissed, if she found out about a second lobola on status like a stranger, then the hurt was not just about polygamy. It was about being erased from a story she helped write.

And then there are the friends who clapped. The brothers who escorted. The friends who did press statements at funerals. We love to say “I respect a man who tries his best not to go public about his marriage troubles. It’s part of protecting your spouse.” That is true. Dr. Muduva, from what we know, never went on social media to insult his wife. He kept a good public image. But protection is not just silence outside. Protection is also safety inside. You can protect her image to the world and still wound her spirit at home. That is the tragedy of men, as one participant called it, “make believe.” On the terrace we look good. On the pitch we are bleeding.

One man confessed, “Ndakambogara neumwe airova mukadzi. One day ndakazama kubata yuwiiiii. The biggest mistake ever. Ndini ndakatozobva ipapo.” Another gave a story that humbled all of us: a workmate came to his workplace to borrow a phone because his own phone had died, he called his wife. Moments later the wife called back shouting, accusing him of reporting that she had gone to a lover. He did not know she had a lover, he did not know she had lied about being at work, he did not know the husband was using his phone to prove he was at her workplace. “That lady ukamuona waiti havanoyi mai Maria. I lost respect for that woman but I also learnt a big lesson.” The lesson is we never know. We never know the whole story.

That is why this second week of conversations has changed tone. At first we were quick to say “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned” or “Men need sex, 1500 sperm per second.” Now we are asking quieter questions. Is leaving really failure? Is staying together for children, for society, for peace, sometimes more violent than separating? The old Shona saying says, “chakafukidza dzimba idzi, matenga.” But some roofs are leaking. Some roofs need to be removed.

The experts I spoke to this morning said the same thing. They said the WhatsApp thread is a classic case of what happens when a marriage becomes overcrowded. Friends, brothers, sisters-in-law, second wives, neighbours, all with opinions, all with shares, all clapping while the house burns. They said we need to understand that GBV affects men and women differently, but the root is the same: power used wrongly. When a man is told he can have another wife because his first wife is “uneducated,” that is power. When a woman is told to accept because “that is our culture,” that is power. When a woman is left with no one to cry to because everyone has taken the other side, that is isolation, and isolation kills long before an axe does.

We keep saying we need stronger and more accessible support services. We do. We need community counselling hubs where couples can go before issues explode. We need men’s groups that teach that protecting your wife is not just protecting her reputation outside, but protecting her heart inside. We need women’s safe spaces where a nurse can say “I am hurting” without being called jealous. We need to teach our children that divorce is not death. That leaving partially or fully is not as bad as killing. As that man wrote at 09:30, “Kuuraya ndokwakashata. Kusiya partially or fully hakuzi that bad hako.”

I am tired. I am tired of writing RIP for people who should have had a safe exit. Dr. Martin Muduva was brilliant. Lyliosa Chirara healed people. Their children now know two villages for funerals, Hwedza and Buhera, and a house in Dzivarasekwa that everyone has an opinion about but no one wants to live in.

If you are reading this from the terrace, come down. If your marriage is overcrowded, clear the room. Send the friends home. Send the brothers home. Let two people talk. And if talking fails, let two people walk away alive. Because it is easier to comment from the terrace than to play on the pitch, and on that pitch this week, two people lost their lives.

Rest in peace, Dr. Martin Muduva. Rest in peace, Lyliosa Chirara. May your children find a quieter house to grow in.