In every village, there are rules, simple and very clear rules. The problem was that these rules came with no explanation whatsoever. And the number one of the most important rules was that Children do NOT crack Marula nuts.
They didn’t tell us why.
They didn’t negotiate.
They simply announced it like the weather forecast and expected full obedience.
But if there’s one thing adults shouldn’t do, it’s forbidding a child from enjoying something that grows freely everywhere like decorative confetti.
Marula nuts covered the village floor like nature was showing off.
Light brown, tempting and delicious.
I loved them.
And one day, love turned into ambition.
I’d watched both my grandmothers Xand Y crack them with the ease of professionals.
They held the nut with two fingers, lifted a stone, struck it once, and boom, open sesame.
I thought,
“This is simple. I’m simple. Let’s do this.” So, I collected a handful of nuts, positioned two rocks like a DIY cracking station, and prepared for greatness.
First attempt:
The nut shot out of my grip like it was trying to migrate.
Didn’t crack. Didn’t dent.
Second attempt:
Gentle. Focused but still nothing happened. So, I switched to the Grandma technique because l had seen it many times working.
Nut between my thumb and middle finger.
Stone held high.
And then,
DISASTER.
The stone came down, missed the nut and landed directly on my middle finger.
The nail flew and landed on the ground.
The pain bypassed my finger and went straight to the deepest part of my soul.
I didn’t even scream.
The pain was too busy screaming on my behalf.
Instinct kicked in.
I peed on it, yes urinated on my finger. (If you didn’t grow up in an African village, just accept this and keep reading.)
It stopped bleeding eventually, and I dragged myself under the nearest “ameva” tree and passed out like a tiny war veteran.
My mom came home later, found me asleep during the day, and immediately went into a monologue about how one day I’d sleep and miss the entire relocation of Zimbabwe.
She asked if I was okay.
I said “yes”.
Because admitting the truth meant punishment.
Night came.
My finger started throbbing like it had its own heart and was pumping just on the finger.
I woke my sisters.
Their sympathy was minimal.
“You know we are not supposed to crack Marula nuts,” they said, as if that solved anything.
Their bright solution?
Tie my hand to the headboard so the finger would stay elevated.
I lay there all night, hand in the air, regretting every decision I’d ever made.
The next morning was a struggle.
Bathing and dressing became a group project.
My siblings helped, mostly for entertainment.
At school, my teacher, Mr. Moyo, took one look and said,
“Sit down. We need Dettol.”
He left, returned with the first aid box, and began what felt like a surgical procedure.
He removed bits of blanket fibre stuck to the wound, lecturing me with every swipe.
The entire class gathered.
Some laughed.
Some stared.
One girl whispered, “Why would she even try?”
I ignored her. My finger was fighting for its life.
Mr. Moyo bandaged me up and announced that every three days we’d repeat this procedure. I was beaming with pride.
Mr Moyo had to take me home to explain and ask for forgiveness on my behalf for not telling my mother. I asked him how he would do this and he said he would explain everything, apologise on my behalf and ask her not to punish me.
In the village teachers were respected like royalty, I agreed. It was a good plan. I could see a flicker of irritation on my mother’s face when we arrived. I had already vowed to myself that I never touched a Marula nut again because l realised it was an art and l had been disrespectful.
I had skipped straight to action without technique or patience, classic childhood behaviour.
And the village?
It didn’t give sympathy.
You hurt yourself?
You still had chores.
If this happened today, someone would write a risk assessment.
Children’s services would appear.
My mom would get a formal warning.
The nut would be labelled a hazard.
Back then?
We healed.
We learned.
We moved on.
Part two of this story will follow
4 Lessons for Transformers
1. Skills look simple until you try them.
Watching an expert makes everything look easy, until you attempt it and almost lose a limb.
2. Some rules protect you, even when no one explains why.
Not every ‘don’t do that’ needs a lecture. Sometimes the consequence is the lecture.
3. Experience is a strict teacher.
Be patient and learn.
4. Mastery demands patience.
Whether cracking nuts, starting a business, or fixing life, you can’t skip the technique and jump straight to the outcome.
