Breaking the silence: Why I refuse “kupfunda mvura” anymore

I recently had a difficult conversation with someone, and I’m fairly certain they now view me as a rebel because of the things I said. What I did is considered taboo where I come from—me, a young woman, confronting an older African man in authority and speaking out about the harsh realities I’ve been subjected to by him and others. The tension between us is probably palpable, and I’m certain our interactions will never be the same. Still, I don’t regret anything I said. I spoke my truth, and though it was difficult, it needed to be said.

In my culture, the expectation is that you absorb everything quietly, without questioning. If you do speak out, you’re often seen as difficult, angry, or unmanageable. If that’s what it takes for me to be taken seriously, then I’ll gladly be labeled as difficult, rather than accept things that don’t serve me.

In almost every aspect of life—whether it’s relationships, friendships, the workplace, or even family—you’re taught to keep quiet and not express your opinions. My grandmother’s generation calls it “kupfunda mvura,” a Shona phrase that loosely translates to filling your mouth with water and holding it in, so you can’t speak and avoid making waves. From a young age, you’re taught this in order to be considered ‘a good girl.’

But here’s the thing—we rarely stop to consider what happens when silence harms us. When it leaves us with unresolved emotions, bitterness, and resentment. That’s when healthy boundaries become necessary. Boundaries are not just about protecting yourself from others; they’re about protecting your overall well-being. By speaking up, I’m not just challenging authority; I’m setting boundaries—asserting that my feelings, experiences, and voice are valid. It’s about demanding the respect that everyone deserves, including myself.

Otherwise, what’s the point of being a ‘good girl’ who is silenced, bitter, and resentful of the status quo? Isn’t it better to address things openly, express your feelings, and move forward?

Speaking out comes with its own weight. It’s not easy, especially when you understand the potential consequences. But in that moment, staying silent feels like denying your own reality, and I believe that’s far worse. Silence will eventually take its toll on you—both mentally and emotionally—and corrode your spirit. It’s a weight too heavy to carry, and I’m not willing to bear it all for the sake of conformity. No one should have to.

Every time I speak up, a part of me feels a sense of relief, knowing that I’m living in a time where, even though it’s still frowned upon, I can do so with more confidence than the generations before me. Perhaps, on some level, I’m also speaking for those who couldn’t speak up before me—those silenced by fear or societal pressures—and even for those today who are still unable to express themselves for whatever reason. I hope, in whatever small way, my voice can make a difference, however fleeting or unnoticed it may seem.

There’s also this belief that if you speak up, you lose your femininity. This perception wrongly equates femininity with weakness and fragility. I can embrace my femininity and still be assertive—these two qualities are not mutually exclusive. Assertiveness should never be seen as a declaration of war. Of course, there are moments when silence is necessary, and I’m not referring to those times. I’m speaking of instances when speaking up is not only necessary but essential.

Ultimately, speaking up isn’t just about defying societal norms or challenging authority—it’s about reclaiming our right to be heard, respected, and valued. It’s about breaking free from the culture of silence that has long entangled us. The simple act of standing up for oneself, even when it’s difficult, is a step toward a future where we can live authentically, without the fear of being silenced. I have no aspirations to be remembered as a woman who conformed to her own detriment, quietly accepting the status quo at the cost of her truth. If nothing else, I hope my words make a small difference—not just for me, but for those who still feel unheard.