The Maletsatsi Foundation

15/10/2026

This morning, as I drove a car full of children to school, I thought about the mechanics of winding back what we have built over the last six years.

As I wound my way through our estate, to the tiny school that we’ve now dropped off kids at for 12 years, I thought about just quitting all of it. About what it would feel like to just take back our property, reclaim our life, reduce the chaos and live the simplicity that could be our daily reality.

It was a strange lead up to the intrusive thoughts that consumed my mind… an invoice that needed paying, a petrol light flashing in the car I’d selected, an empty jar where dry goods should be. And they cumulation made me disproportionately anxious.

In reality, the full realm of the anxiety stated with a washing machine.
That broke.
And that feels insurmountable to fix.

A washing machine that works day and night. A washing machine whose inoperation makes my life infinitely more difficult logistically. A washing machine whose breakage means I’ll need to get up that much earlier and be in the laundry that much later, to achieve my ‘normal’ output for the day. A washing machine that broke in the middle of a crisis that I haven’t spoken about online… the food poisoning of 14 of us by a fast food restaurant on Saturday night that resulted in.. a LOT of washing for me.

I posted about that stupid washing machine yesterday- and we raised R800 towards repairing it. But more than that we raised a lot of internal question around my own capability and competence in this space that I’ve carved out as so much of my identity and the full account of all my waking hours, and many of my sleeping ones too. Because oddly the replies I got were questioning if the validity of the repair needs rather than being supportive of our breakdown panic.

It’s not really about the washing machine. I get that. But the deep questioning about the need for funds to do the things that feel so obvious and consume so much of my day eats at my soul more than I’d care to admit. I get that we need to be accountable for every cent we bring in. And we are.And I’m not fighting that. I get that we cannot just expect people to donate without account. But I also live this reality every single day.

I live the fact that we have given the entirety of our home over to a cause we believe in so deeply and passionately but that has quite literally voided our lives of any single iota of privacy.

I live the reality of the fact that breakages occur regularly because domestic appliances quite simply don’t cope with the level of everything we’re doing.

I live the realty of groceries that disappear in seconds. And bills that add up in ways that make my eyes water.

I live cooking for hours every single day so that every human we support is given the best possible nutrition. And standing for hours in a laundry to wash everything so that tha machines are nursed gently by me personally to ensure they get the longest life.

I live the reality of buying gas at commercial rates. And the fact that our electricity costs thousands and school fees are unavoidable. I live the R10k bill at a pharmacy on a Sunday because 14 kids got food poisoning from a fast food restaurant I TOOK THEM TO.

I live the reality of my decisions to make this my life every single day.
And I do not say any of this for sympathy or regret.
I know how very privileged I am.
But I stings hard when your entire life is dedicated to a cause that feels insurmountable to find on the best days.
I put my own money where my mouth is and I support the kids who we care for- not just physically but financially however it is quite simply impossible for two humans to bring in sufficient cash on their own in whatever jobs they are in to support 30 children and 20 odd adults each month.

So this morning I thought it would be better to just shut it all down and live a simple life because the pressure felt too much.

But I don’t have the luxury of considering this because I look in the faces of these humans every day and I KNOW that they deserve the world whether the washing machine is broken or my heart feels heavy and so I must go on.

And so through gritted teeth and bent knee I ask again- please support this work. Every single child is deserving of the opportunity of a childhood that enables them to be functioning adults. We have the power to intervene to make this possible for a few. You have the power to help us ensure that this is their reality.

We need donations. Today. Every day. Every month of every year. Whether I’m coping or whether I’m not. The children must eat. The staff must be paid (Lord they deserve it). The clothing must be washed. None of it is sexy. All of it contributes to making sure that kids are not just kept on life support until they ‘age out’- all of it ensures they’re given the best fighting chance of being the best possible adults alongside your children in years to come.

Banking Details:
The Maletsatsi Foundation NPC,
FNB 62865881314,
Cheque Account,
Branch Code: 210835,
Swift Code: FIRNZAJJ
Ref: Your email address

PayPal;

14/10/2026

If you’ve been around for any amount of time you know what a consistent demand the laundry in this home is. EVERY day I am processing around 200kgs of dirty washing.

Without my full wall of washing machines I am toast… already my first load goes in at around 5am and I am OFTEN still in the laundry after 10pm at night.

Yesterday, I arrived to a matching displaying an E50 error: I’ve become strangely proficient at fixing machines, E50 is the drive system and my quickest fix is to check the drive belt has t lo slipped off. But sadly it’s also a fault that generally means the lifespan of my machine is done.

It’s almost never economical for us to fix these machines- they’re domestic appliances not made for the type of us I put them through. They run almost 24 hours a day with no reprieve.

After testing near every single machine in the market, the Midea South Africa 10kg front loader has consistently been our best buy and we are DESPERATE to replace this now… otherwise I stand to quite simply drown in laundry.

takealot.com currently has them in special for R6999… donations towards this machine (and my sanity overall) are HUGELY appreciated. Donations are tax deductible.

The Maletsatsi Foundation (a registered Non Profit Company, Non Profit Organisation, Public Beneficiary Organisation with Level 1 BEE) details:

NPC Registration Number: 2020/257077/08
NPO Registration Number: 254-968.
PBO Reference Number: 930070879

Banking Details:
The Maletsatsi Foundation NPC,
FNB 62865881314,
Cheque Account,
Branch Code: 210835,
Swift Code: FIRNZAJJ
Ref: Your email address

11/10/2026

One if the things I find most challenging about parenting, in general, is the immediacy of it. Your plans hold no candle to a child’s needs at any time. And balancing one child’s ‘urgent’ needs against another’s is near impossible.

I often find that one child’s meltdown is intercepted by another’s very important question and so regularly find myself feeling that kind of overstimulation that makes your brain burn when trying to work out what to deal with first.

And somehow it’s always in the middle of doing something that I deem important that I’m forced to a standstill by a behaviours that needs urgent intervention. Like this afternoon, where a timeout was needed for a human who’d not made his best choice but I was quite literally in the middle of something I’d carved out an hour to get done (unpack the bus) and mid table coming out of the door I had to run to stop a bad choice….

And well now I’m sat on the floor overseeing a time out with a child who is technically ‘sitting’ in a time out but using his last inch of autonomy to make sure that I know he’s still somewhat in control and is in fact not quite going to ‘sit his bottom on the floor’ because he ‘is in charge of his body’.

for more expert parenting

11/10/2026

You want to know what Team Zonke is about? This. This right here is it. Rider 265- we are SO PROUD of you, what a phenomenal human you are. Team Zonke might be lighting up the podiums yellow, but we will ALWAYS be about doing the right thing long before we’re about winning.

The real winner of the race yesterday: the boy who chose to sacrifice his entire race for a person he didn’t know, quite simply because it was the right thing to do.

09/10/2026

Exciting things coming out of this ‘little’ team!

09/10/2026

08/10/2026

I remember the insult with which I came to the realisation, after our young son died, that the world keeps going no matter what.

The mundane has a way of maintaining momentum miraculously with banality and regularity. It doesn’t matter if your child is dying. Or if you’ve been assaulted and left for dead. Or if you husband just walked out the door. Or you lost the job that keeps the food in the table. At the same time, someone will be complaining about traffic lights or the taste of their coffee and your dog will need to go to the vet. If there’s a war waging across the way, it won’t change your need to file taxes. You’ll see images of children starving and scroll through to get shoes on your school going child. It is, quite simply, what it is. The world, it seems, has little regard for the tragedy you’re facing, no matter how catastrophic or life changing. Life keeps going on.

And it struck me this evening, after receiving an after hours call from a social worker reading to do a dangerous removal tomorrow, that sometimes it’s our own normal that keeps going while another person’s whole world is falling apart.

Today as I walked three little girls safely to my car, was this child being hurt? As I cooked the masses of dinner that were required to feed this army, was she in harms way? The answer is unknown- probably, yes, dangerous enough to need removal. Tomorrow. When the mundane is shifted to fit the removal in with our days.

And so I sleep tonight stressing about a child I’ve never met. Whose gender I don’t know and whose name I have never said. Tomorrow I’lll come crashing into their life. Without them wanting me- tomorrow if they survive the night, they’ll find themselves in our home.

Because the mundane needs fixing tonight. And so removal will happen tomorrow. When the sun is out. And the courts are open. And that’s just how it is.

Another mouth to feed. Another body to clothe. Another mind to educate. We can quite simply not do this without support. It costs an eye-watering amount of money to support our children - and funds are increasingly difficult to secure. Please donate today to support our children & those who were still waiting to hold.

06/10/2026

Behind me, a police officer sits slumped in a chair in the corner- chin to chest, cap pulled down. The occasional grunt as he jolts from his nap.

Next to him the clerks black stilettos lay haphazardly on the floor, her bare feet folded into the cold tiles. Her face reflects the light of her phone screen resting centimetres from her nose.

To my right, a bulging pregnant court official sits perched on a torn chair. Her role uncertain. Her exasperation obvious. Her body swaying in and out of consciousness.

The magistrate roars from behind the wooden board above which she is perched. Her unkempt hair whipping around her reddened face. As though a caricature she bangs a file down on the rickety counter top, a cloud of dust enveloping her overwhelmed desk.

In front of her, an unidentified young man perches behind unworking computers looks like his lifeblood is leaving his body.

“Lift your right hand” she beckons to the social worker to my right.
“Do you solemnly swear to….”

A torn poster flaps in the draft from the window that sits ajar behind the broken blinds that clatter against the dirty prefab walls.

Piles of cables hum yet seemly fail to ignite spark to any one of the devices attached to them. The air is heavy with fatigue. The room suffocating.

With the slumber party in full swing and bare feet planted firmly to the dirty floor, with torn posters flapping and tossed right hands floundering, the biggest decision of her life is made without her being present.

“Terminated”
“Adoptable”
“Unknown”
“Two years”

“FWAAAA-DOOOSH!” The stamp slams down with a might whack that wakes the sleeping audience.
Stilettos find awkward path back to swollen feet.
“Dismissed” she hollers.
And we leave with a flimsy piece of paper that holds the direction for the rest of her life.