When Zizipho Majikijela speaks about hope, it is not an abstract idea. It is something she had to fight for.
Born and raised in the Eastern Cape village of Ntabayikhonjwa, South Africa, Zizipho spent her early childhood separated from her mother, who had moved to Cape Town in search of work.
“Life was not as sweet as honey,” she says, “but we survived.” Raised by her grandmother, she quickly became known as a bright child, skipping grades and astonishing teachers with her ability to read, write and absorb knowledge far beyond her years.
Yet behind this promise, Zizipho’s childhood was marked by unspeakable trauma.
At the age of five, she was repeatedly raped by an older neighbour. The abuse continued for two years. “I still remember that day as if it were yesterday,” she says. “What makes me not forget is the blood and the pain. That image stayed with me.”
When she moved to Cape Town at seven, hoping for safety, the violence simply changed form. “I really thought things would finally be fine,” she says of living with her mother. Instead, physical abuse followed, so severe that an aunt eventually intervened and took her in.
As a teenager, Zizipho returned to her mother’s home, where the situation worsened after her mother married. “My stepfather would tell us we were not his,” she recalls. “And my mother allowed it.” Some nights, Zizipho was forced to sleep outside. “I remember hearing TV shows playing while I was outside,” she says. “I had nowhere to go.”
She slept behind houses, under bridges, and sometimes inside rubbish bins to escape the cold. “I would put a small stone so that I wouldn’t suffocate,” she says. By day, she attended school and excelled academically. By night, she navigated homelessness in silence.
It was during high school that Zizipho experienced her first love. “The first day I went to register, I saw a beautiful girl, and I fell in love at first sight,” she says. It was also when she fully understood her sexuality. “I have always known who I am,” she explains. “My sexuality was never the issue.”
The problem was how the world responded to it.
Church spaces, she says, became places of judgment rather than refuge. “We are regarded as sinners and demons,” she says. “I got tired of being told how I must dress to belong.” Eventually, she left the church altogether, feeling excluded and unseen.
Workplaces proved no safer. Zizipho recounts resigning from jobs due to homophobic harassment. “I was asked, ‘Are you a man or a woman?’ and told this is not a place for people like me,” she says. “I had to walk away to protect myself.”
Homophobia followed her into her community, sometimes violently. In one incident, a man threatened her with a gun and attempted to rape her, telling her he would “take the gayness out” of her. She escaped by fighting back.
Years of rejection, abuse and fear led to deep depression and suicidal thoughts. “I wanted to die,” she says honestly. “I felt unwanted, unworthy, like I had no purpose.”
What helped her survive was movement and imagination. “One day I just woke up and decided to jog,” she says. “That’s when the suicidal thoughts started disappearing.” As she ran, she began to dream again. She imagined herself writing, speaking, creating. “My dreams became my rescuer,” she says. “Even in a dark room, there is always a space for light.”
Writing became her lifeline. Unable to speak about her trauma, she began to put it on paper. “Rape took a part of me,” she says. “It made me doubt myself.” Still, she kept writing.
Today, Zizipho is a writer with poems, scripts and screenplays, and the host of The Sessions Show, an online talk show that tackles mental health, trauma and healing. She dreams of taking the show to radio, of becoming a motivational speaker, and of creating spaces where both queer and straight people can speak honestly about pain.
Forgiveness, she says, has been essential to her healing. “I have forgiven my mother and my stepfather,” she says. “Holding grudges disturbs your peace.”
Despite everything, she refuses to allow her past to define her capacity for love. “I refused to become someone who causes pain,” she says. “I know what abuse does to a person.”
Now openly lesbian and proud, Zizipho is clear about what she wants society to understand. “We are treated as if we are not human beings,” she says. “But we bleed, we breathe, we dream, just like everyone else.”
To those walking a similar path, her message is direct and deeply compassionate. “You are still alive,” she says. “Don’t live as if you are already dead. Tomorrow is another day.”
Zizipho’s story is not just about survival. It is about reclaiming voice, dignity and possibility.
“Just because you were abused,” she says, “does not mean you should abuse too. The choice will always be yours.”
And every day, Zizipho chooses hope.
