It’s a gloomy day in Matatiele. Clouds hang heavy and low, matching the mood. It’s the school holidays, but the streets are quiet. No kids playing, no laughter drifting through the air. Just silence.
Across the country, people are protesting. South Africans have taken to the streets to demand justice for Cwecwe — the seven-year-old girl from Matatiele who was allegedly raped. In Johannesburg, Cape Town and Durban her name echoes in chants and cardboard signs.
But here in her hometown, it’s business as usual. No marches. No placards. No outrage. Matatiele is a remote rural town tucked away in the foothills of the Eastern Cape, a four-hour drive from Durban. It’s a place of winding gravel roads, scattered homesteads and a haunting beauty that masks the harshness of daily life.
My search for Cwecwe begins at the local library. There I meet two women who describe a town where rape is common in almost every household. Before I find the girl who’s made headline, I meet an older woman who shares her harrowing story with me.
“I was raped for Rizlas and R240,” says Virginia*, 64. To get to Virginia’s house, we walked down a narrow gravel road, flanked by overgrown bushes.
She’s lived in Matatiele her whole life. But nothing could have prepared the pensioner for what happened that Friday night.
It was just after 8:30pm on February 16, 2024 when she heard a knock at her door. A man outside claimed to be Moeketsi. Virginia knew Moeketsi — his voice, his tone — and she could tell immediately that the voice calling her name didn’t belong to him.
Before she could react, her door was kicked down.
Three men stormed in, clad in white gumboots, grey blankets and blue balaclavas, details that are etched in her memory. One had a rope. Virginia tried to hide behind her bed, but they found her. They dragged her out, tied her hands behind her back and demanded money. She only had R240 in cash from the week’s umqombothi sales. She makes traditional beer to supplement her pensioner’s grant.
It wasn’t enough.
“The tallest one told the others to take off my panty. He asked where the key to the other room was. While the two men took turns to rape me, the other man went searching for money and valuables in the other room. They took my Dawn body lotion, Sunlight soap and a pack of Rizlas,” she says.
They left her bleeding, broken and humiliated. But not before one of them fetched a bucket of water and forced her to wash.
By 11:30pm they were gone.
Virginia’s voice breaks when she speaks about the police. “There’s no progress in my case. Nothing. It’s like it never even happened.”
Silence fills the cold room as tears stream down Virginia’s face. Her hands tremble as she pulls a black and white checkered blanket tighter over her head, wiping away her tears.
A few streets away, is Nomvula*, 48, a former restaurant chef who was based in Durban. Inside her living room the heavy scent of the dust-clad walls mixes with the stale air of abandonment. She lost her job during Covid and decided to return to her hometown of Matatiele in January 2022 to rebuild her life. Ten months after returning home, she was raped in front of her children.
“It was a night I’ll never forget,” she begins. Her voice cracks, the memory of October 2022 still too fresh, too painful. “There was load-shedding, and I was lying in bed with my two children, one nine, the other seven. I heard a knock on the door, followed by loud banging.”
She told her children to hide under the blanket. Three men broke into her house. They too wore balaclavas and blankets. One kept watch outside, one had a gun, one ripped off her clothes. They tore into her life in the worst way possible, but it wasn’t just her that suffered. Her children, still young enough to be protected by the innocence of childhood, were forced to witness it all. Frozen in terror, unable to shield their mother from the brutality unfolding before their eyes.
“I screamed for help but no one came. The only thing on my mind at that time was my children. After raping me in my house, they dragged me to the veld, where they continued to rape me for hours. It was from 10pm until around 4am. I kept thinking about my children. What would happen to them if I didn’t make it out of this?” Nomvula says.
When they were done, they walked her back home, one man pushing and shoving her along the way. It wasn’t enough. They raped her again once they reached the house. When they were done, they forced her to bathe.
“I’m not okay. I can’t sleep. I have nightmares. The darkness haunts me. It’s worse when there’s no electricity. We live in fear and even our children are scared. It’s school holidays now but you won’t see them playing outside,” she says.
She speaks of the trauma, of how her children, too young to understand the complexities of violence, are left with scars that no one can see. Nomvula’s voice hardens. She has no patience for the indifference that surrounds her.
“People in the community don’t know the impact of rape, they think it’s something that’s supposed to happen. That’s how normal it is here,” Nomvula says.
Even children aren't safe. A six-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl were reportedly raped at their school. A few houses away from the primary school where these incidents took place, I meet the six-year-old boy's grandmother. He’s wearing a bright green jacket, denim shorts and sandals as he walks in rain puddles to greet me. His brown eyes are filled with anger and pain, a reflection of a trauma no child should ever endure. He hesitates to greet me before offering a high-five and quickly walks away after his small hand briefly meets mine. His grandmother tells me he came home limping and silent. It took days before he spoke. “He carries a knife in his schoolbag now,” she says. “He says he wants to protect himself.” His classmates ridiculed him, not realising he was raped.
“The boy asked to go to the bathroom, I was told that he was gone for over two hours. When he came back he was walking strangely, limping and crying. His classmates laughed at him and said he soiled himself. Two other children in his class told the teacher the boy soiled himself and the principal sent the boy home,” the granny says.
Only weeks later, during a community march for another child rape survivor, did she learn about the Thuthuzela Care Centre. The child was examined. The trauma confirmed. The suspect was arrested — months later. But even then, police allegedly joked that “maybe he didn’t use his penis”.
The boy, once playful and full of life, now lashes out at his siblings.
“The suspect used to buy the boy sweets and chips. I know the suspect, he used to go to school with my daughter and he would come and visit here, so I know him. I was shocked and hurt to hear what he did. He said to my grandson: ‘Don’t tell gogo or else I won’t buy you any more sweets,’” the granny says.
Every woman I spoke to knows someone who’s been raped. Most know more than one. These stories aren’t rare in Matatiele. The stories are whispered over washing lines, behind locked gates, over cups of tea that go cold before they’re finished. Cwecwe’s story may have made headlines, but in Matatiele, it’s one of many — her case cracked open a silence that’s been weighing on this town for years.
“Cwecwe’s case helped ours because before our cases were being ignored. My grandson’s case was reported at the same time as Cwecwe’s but now we are also getting the attention we need. Cwecwe made our case to be known so I am happy,” the granny says.
Despite the outcry, many survivors and their families still feel forgotten — as though their pain is just background noise in a country that’s stopped listening.
On the streets, as the rain falls steadily, men are wrapped in colourful woollen Basotho blankets, their bright orange and blue hues standing out against the grey skies. It’s a common sight here, but for the women, it’s a triggering sight.
“We feel ignored. Our cases don’t matter to anyone. No one listens to us. We are invisible. It’s been almost three years, and still no justice. I live in fear of every man with a blanket and a balaclava, I’m scared,” Nomvula says.
In Matatiele, where the mist clings to the mountains and smoke rises from open fires and shisanyamas, the silence is unsettling — even the dogs don't bark, and the laughter of children is missing from the streets. Time moves slowly here, and justice even slower. And until it comes, it’s the women and children who will carry the weight of being seen — but never truly heard.
* Not their real names. Their names have been changed to protect their identities
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