Ndalwenhle
I remember well. One day, I had broken her glass. I was four at the time. She shouted at first as I stood there near the sink, pieces of glass at my feet. She didn't seem to care much about me—only the broken glass.
As the years went by, she changed. She blamed me for every misfortune that happened in her life. She couldn't get a man to marry her, not like her sister who had married when I was just two years old. Every man who came into her life left, all because she had a child out of wedlock. She blamed that on me too.
If she got a warning at work for being late due to a hangover, she blamed me. Day after day, her anger grew. One day she even beat me with a wet towel, saying, "That glass was expensive—it cost more than your life."
That abuse became normal to me. I thought my mother was teaching me a lesson, that maybe everyone at their homes was treated like this. After all, she was my mom. She knew best—or so I thought.
Her life no longer carried rays of sunshine. Darkness had settled in her heart. She tortured herself with memories of the man she once loved. She stalked Nhlalo and his family on social platforms. His wife posted everything—the perfect family she had built with him. Nothing broke my mother more than looking at those pictures.
Some may say that was her way of healing. But what kind of healing is it when you bleed on others? When you move backward instead of forward? She wanted peace, but she was never the peace she longed for.
I thought things would change. I really did. But they only grew worse.
At five years old, when I started school, she still tried to do her duties as a mother. But when she lost her job, she became venom I had never seen before. Coming home to a mother who was not happy, who always blamed me—I was only a child, but she made sure I carried her burden.
When she was drunk, she would spit vile words:
"You ruined my life. I wish I had fed you to the dogs."
I would stand there in my school uniform, listening to her vent inside that shack. She had too much on her plate—she needed to find a job and provide for us. I tried to understand.
Within a month, she found work at a sewing factory. She left early and came back late. I stayed with a neighbor whose shack was right next to ours. That young woman would dish up food for me, wash my school uniform, and let me change into her children's clothes. I always thanked her.
Sometimes my mother forgot to fetch me, so the lady would walk me back home. People even asked her why she didn't just give me up for adoption. My mother's answer was always the same: "I thought I could raise him. But every time I look at his face, I get triggered."
So I was raised by the community, while she went for free therapy sessions at a nearby church. The therapist mother had committed suicide—pressured by the inability to provide for her child. They said she had hanged herself after giving her up for adoption. That image haunted her , and it's what drove her into the profession of helping others.
For a while, I thought things were changing. She left alcohol. She spoke to me kindly, without shouting or beatings. Seven months passed in peace.
But then grandmother died. She had suffered a heart attack.
We traveled to the village for the funeral. I shed tears as the casket went down. I knew she wasn't coming back. Even on TV, people never come back once they go into the ground. The loud screams of broken daughters filled the air.
My mother couldn't even stay another day after the funeral. She argued with her sister bitterly. I listened from behind a shut door, wanting to comfort them both. But instead, I heard vile words being exchanged.
Nobahle—my mother—blamed grandfather for her misfortunes. She blamed everyone for not understanding her pain. But how could we, when she refused to be listened to?
The sisters' bond broke that day. They swore never to be in each other's lives again. My mother was jealous. She felt she deserved someone to love and cherish her, but when that never came, she blamed witchcraft—said her sister was using it against her.
Deep down, though, she still loved the same man who broke her. I know she did. But she hated everything that came with him—including me.
After all, every feature on my body belonged to him.
We turned our back to a place—that was once her home. She swore never to return. The family was broken that day. The daughters became strangers. And me?
I could already feel more pain was yet to come.