Ndalwenhle
It's morning again. It's 7 a.m. when Nomonde arrives. I didn't expect her this early. I've just finished eating, the drip still in my arm. I still vomit sometimes after food, but today I've managed to keep something down. I can feel my death coming; my body is tired and can no longer fight.
She takes a seat on the empty chair. "Hi," she says.
"Hello," I reply.
Today she's wearing a black coat and grey pants; her braids are tied at the back. She does what she always does—pulls out her notebook, clicks the recorder on. "Can we start?" she asks.
I nod and get ready. This is the last time I have to do this, I tell myself.
The abuse continued. One time it became worse—too much even for a seven-year-old. I was only a child, but I knew too much. Every insult, every word— I heard it, I saw it, I lived it. What was meant to be a home, my safe place, became a place of horror.
The beatings went on. The shouting. The blaming. Sometimes she'd hear a rumour from the street and, without asking, beat me for it. I had no voice in that house. Nothing I said made anything right. The truth I told became a lie; the lies stayed lies.
By thirteen, in Grade Seven, the abuse had been going on for six years. Some days she seemed to change, to soften, but then it would start again—same thing, same rage. I was tired. So tired—mentally and spiritually. I was not okay. My life had dulled into survival.
One day I made a choice: I was done with her, done with that life. I prepared myself to leave so she could be left alone. I took the few clothes I owned and went to school, ready to never return to that hellhole. I loved her, after all—she was my mother—but not every mother deserves her child. I was a burden to her, and I chose to set her free even if it meant sleeping on the street.
At school I showed one of my teachers the scars on my back—maps of old violence. She listened. She hugged me. That warm hug was the first I had ever felt, and I cried. She spoke to an orphanage in town and told them I had no one. She did me a huge favour.
After that I changed schools and went to the orphanage. I don't know what happened with Nobahle. My previous teacher later told me neighbours had reported me missing, but Nobahle did nothing. In fact, she hosted a party—celebrated, maybe because she finally felt free.
What hurts most is that she loved other children, but not me. She didn't love her own son. It used to cut me to the bone. But in that orphanage I was free—at last.