I was eleven when I realized I was no longer really a child. Not because someone told me so, but because I found myself asking: “Who is going to take care of us now?” My name is Primrose Julius, and I come from Headlands, a rural community in Zimbabwe. Headlands is beautiful, with farms, mountains, and fertile farms. To a visitor, it might look like paradise. Behind that beauty, however, is another reality, one I know because I lived it. At seven, both my parents died, leaving my siblings and me in the care of our grandparents. They were pensioners who suddenly had a family to raise again. With little income, they did piecework and odd jobs on nearby farms, working long days just to put food on the table. Sometimes we went to bed hungry.
Poverty was part of our life, but we had something priceless: their love. Then my grandmother became seriously ill. She was diagnosed with high blood pressure and diabetes and needed regular check-ups and medication. The nearest clinic was far away. We had no car, transport was expensive, and she was too weak to walk the distance. Healthcare existed, but it was beyond our reach. I watched her health deteriorate until we lost her. My grandfather became our caregiver, but he was later diagnosed with prostate cancer. Again, poverty, distance, and limited healthcare stood between a loved one and treatment. Then we lost him too. In less than five years, the two people who had become our parents, protectors, and home were gone. That was when my childhood ended. At eleven, our family became a child-headed household. My brother was fourteen and officially considered the head, but we were all children trying to behave like adults. Every day brought questions about food, school, and survival. During rainy seasons, we walked without umbrellas. To keep food on the table, I worked in the fields doing piecework.
Then another elderly person in my life became seriously ill. There was nobody to cook for her, bathe her, or stay beside her. She would tell me, “You should go to school.” I loved school but leaving her alone felt impossible. Caring for her and helping my younger siblings became more urgent. At sixteen, I left the village for the city to stay with my aunt. My hope was stronger than fear: find work, send money home, and give my siblings a future. Housemaid positions brought repeated rejection because I was too young and inexperienced. Then an unexpected opportunity appeared: volunteering at an elderly home. It was unpaid, but it was a door. I walked to work because transport was unaffordable. When food hampers were donated, whatever could be spared was sent to my siblings. Small stipends became soap, bread, and school expenses. After exhausting days, I attended free adult literacy classes, learning while carrying the responsibility of an entire family. Somewhere along that journey, caring for older people stopped being simply a way to survive. Their vulnerability reminded me of my grandparents, and their need for dignity and companionship reminded me of everything my grandparents had lacked. A promise took shape: Someday I will build a home for older people in rural areas, so no child has to watch their grandparents suffer without care. After a year of volunteering, the elderly home offered me a permanent position. I trained as a caregiver and continued supporting my family. Slowly, the children began building their own futures. Their achievements showed me that sacrifice can create possibilities. Working with older people also taught me that they are not simply patients. They have personalities, humour, memories, opinions, and dreams. I remember an elderly couple arguing over chocolates, and another day when a husband hid a packet of meat in his adult diaper. Those moments taught me that elder care is not only about medicine; it is about patience, laughter, companionship, dignity, and humanity.
These experiences made it impossible to forget rural elders like those in Headlands. Many live far from clinics, struggle to afford transport and medication, and face loneliness or isolation because they are poor, sick, or disabled. Having experienced these barriers as a child, the need for change became deeply personal.
My grandparents were my first caregivers and my home. Their deaths revealed a painful reality: too many older people in rural communities are left without care when they need it most. Their suffering did not make me bitter; it made me determined. That determination led to the establishment of Vakweguri Elderly Care. In Shona, Vakweguri means “the elderly” and the name carries a promise: to transform grief into purpose, love into action, and a difficult childhood into a lifelong commitment to older people.
My story could have ended with survival, but survival alone was never enough. Today, my dream is to build age-friendly communities across Zimbabwe where older people are not forgotten because they are poor, sick, disabled, alone, or living in rural areas. These communities should bring healthcare closer to home and protect every person’s dignity. No older person should have to choose between food and medication, feel invisible, or be left without support. No child should have to become a caregiver simply because the adults they love cannot access the help they need.
The journey began with a little girl wondering who would care for her family. Today, that question has become a purpose: creating communities where generations care for one another. My grandparents gave me love when they had almost nothing else to give. Their lives taught me to care, and their deaths gave me a mission. When older people ask, “Who will stand with us as we grow older?” I want every community to answer, “We will.”
How we treat our elders today reflects the world we are creating for ourselves tomorrow.
Learn more about kanthari at: www.kanthari.org
And, SPREAD THE SPICE is coming up on 17th and 18th October 2026.
