They Killed Me Before They Buried Her by Pearl Amiri

A True Story Of Childhood Trauma, Emotional Abuse, Family Betrayal And Finding Strength

They tried to silence her. But her voice refused to die.

They Killed Me Before They Buried Her is a powerful memoir of survival, abuse, family betrayal, and emotional healing. Pearl Amiri shares the unforgettable story of Thuso Scott a young girl growing up in South Africa, fighting to be seen in a world that tried to erase her.

Born into trauma, raised in silence, and forced to survive unthinkable emotional wounds, Thuso’s journey is one of pain, resilience, and self-discovery. As she confronts childhood abuse, abandonment, and deep family dysfunction, she begins to uncover her truth and finds the courage to rise.This is not just a memoir about trauma. It’s a story of strength, mental health, generational scars, and the quiet rebellion of reclaiming your voice.

If you’re drawn to:

• Memoirs about childhood trauma
• True stories of abuse and survival
• Books about mental health, healing, and resilience
• Stories of overcoming adversity in toxic families
• Empowering narratives by Black women

This is the book you’ll still be thinking about long after the final page.

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Excerpt from They Killed Me Before They Buried Her © Copyright 2025 Pearl Amiri

Introduction

“Even in my darkest moments, I’ve learned that life has a way of returning what was taken, sometimes in unexpected forms.”

My name is Thuso Scott. I grew up in the small township of Langa in Cape Town, South Africa, raised in a single-parent household by my mother and my grandmother who was like a second mother to me alongside my three older brothers: Thabo, Sizwe, and John. I’m the last born.

My childhood was full of chaos, love, and unanswered questions. My mother lived with her boyfriend, so I spent most of my time with my grandmother. I slept beside her at night, and during the day, my mother would step in. My grandmother filled in the gaps, nurturing me when my mom couldn’t. She was my safe place.

Each of my brothers had a different kind of presence in my life. John, the third child, was rebellious, always getting into trouble, constantly gone, and deeply involved in gangster activities. We didn’t spend much time together, but we had our teasing moments at night. With Sizwe, the second born, it was different. He was spoiled and stayed indoors playing games or eating. Despite his ways, he had a soft spot for me. He’d make me food when I was hungry and sometimes brought me toys after trips to Pinelands. Our bond was quiet but real.

Thabo, the eldest, had moved out and lived with his girlfriend Zukiswa. I barely knew him; he didn’t make much effort to be part of my life. Sometimes I visited their home to see his kids Jack, Siya, and a baby girl named Flower but he felt more like a neighbor than a brother.

We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. My mom was the backbone of our family working endlessly to give us everything we needed. I was spoiled. If I wanted something, she made sure I had it. She hid her struggles so well that I never saw her break. She was determined to protect me from poverty, even if it meant carrying the weight of the world alone.

When I lost her at age ten, my world fell apart. I had no mother figure to teach me how to grow into a woman. My grandmother stepped in again until she, too, passed away. With her gone, I was truly lost—directionless and drowning in grief.

My father is from the Democratic Republic of Congo. I know little about him, only his name. He wasn’t part of my life, even when my mother was alive. I heard rumors that he didn’t want me because I couldn’t speak English. I still don’t know if that was true. After my mom died, he tried to take me to Congo, but my family refused. I haven’t heard from him since.

Losing both my mother and grandmother left me heartbroken, hopeless, and full of fear. For years, I carried that pain in silence. I listened to everyone else’s stories, believing mine didn’t matter. I was afraid to share my truth, afraid of being judged, of being called weak, or worse, being seen as less because of my illness or trauma. I was scared to be vulnerable.

But a close friend reminded me that my story could matter to someone else. Maybe, in sharing it, I’d not only free myself but also reach others who have walked similar paths.

So here I am.
Ready to let go.
Ready to heal.
Ready to be heard.