Ndalwenhle
She wasn't coping after we came to Durban. She was a woman with many problems piling up, one after another, on her shoulders. I was there. We didn't celebrate any birthdays—especially mine. It triggered her.
When I was seven, we had already moved to a block house. She still paid rent. I think there were days when I also triggered her pain more. I remember well a specific day. A teacher had given us papers to make cards for our fathers. Father's Day was around the corner. I didn't understand anything. I was in Grade 2. I looked at other kids smiling ear to ear, ready to write something, their colours and pencils prepared. For the first time, my mind was blank.
The teacher had seen that something was wrong. She came to my desk and asked. I told her that I didn't have a father—never seen him, never heard of him. I had never pronounced that word before. After all, who would I call by that name?
She smiled faintly and said, "No problem. It doesn't have to be a father, but any man who played a father figure in your life."
I told her there was none.
She looked surprised, but quickly masked it with that smile and said I should write about my mother. I had wanted to cry. I told her that I didn't know anything about her, only the fact that my existence brought her nothing but pain. She hated me, but I loved her. My tears flowed the minute I said those words. The look of pity in her eyes didn't help. She took me outside to calm me down. She still had that look of pity and sadness. I didn't blame her then—after all, I also pitied myself.
It was not easy when every time she saw my face, she saw the man who had betrayed her love.
I went back to the classroom after that encounter. I buried that moment and that day. But more was coming.
A parents' meeting at school was requested. I gave my mother that letter. I knew she wasn't going to go, but she surprised me when she arrived. I was happy. After all, most of the parents were present. They held the meeting, but that teacher had requested my mother to the side. I guessed they had signed forms to state who's parent belonged to which child. They talked for a while before they went their separate ways.
The day continued as usual until it was time to go home. I walked fast that day. I was happy as other kids were complimenting my mother's beauty, saying she looked as if she was my sister. I was smiling all the way. I wished I had walked slowly that day, not hurried, because what I got at home was not what I had expected.
The door was open. She was sitting on the bed. As I got in, I greeted her with a smile. Little did I know what was coming. She closed the door. I can still remember her face—angry. The first word I said was, "I'm sorry."
There in a corner, I squashed myself into the wall. I remembered that face well. The belt she was holding. I swear, I didn't know what I had done. Fear was instilled deep inside me.
The first thing she said was, "What did you tell people?" as she came nearer.
There in that corner, tears threatened to come out. I was confused. I remember begging her not to beat me up. I begged and apologized. I said I never told anyone anything.
She said, "Then why is your teacher asking me about you?"
Then, a seven-year-old me was already silently crying, with no words to reply. She spat venom. She said I was ungrateful. Why was I shedding tears for a man who had never done anything for me?
I had never cried for that man. I never did. In fact, I hated him for all my misfortune, for hurting my mother.
I apologized that day, but my cries never moved her. She beat me. I screamed from every sting of the belt as it came down on my body. Each sting of the belt was accompanied by her words. She said I was playing a victim card. Why did I cry for that man? Why? Why was I badmouthing her parenting skills? Now I was making her a bad person.
After that beating, my body was numb. My hands were wounded from blocking the belt from hitting my face. I was broken.
From that day onwards, I never shed another tear. Never said anything to anyone. That day, something broke inside me. A newborn was created.
And silence became my name.