Well i would like to believe that we are born pure , uninfluenced by the thoughts and expectations the world has for us . Free from the the politics of class , without stain from the horrors of the universe and for those few moments that we lay against our mother's bosom no damage has penetrated our skull and fused our brain. So then , if truly I habour the fear of love within me that would be because of what the world around me has presented to me on a platter for my mind to feed on.
Raised in a small town called Butterworth and deep inside that town is a village called Tanga which would obviously be pronounced in a thick eloquent xhosa accent , which has departed my tongue . Choir practice after school was every girl's field of fun in the village - I always thought that singing was a gift that everypne possessed and so if fame had to be obtained through singing , we would all be famous . It all depended on how you let the audience hear your voice. Vuyokazi( Vovo) ; my older sister was more like a mother to all of us.If we ever needed to communicate anything with my parents then she was the mouthpiece. Everyone rushed to the choir hall, I stood outside waiting for my sisters ( Amahle and Vovo ) . Before Icould say anything as always Amahle had been quick to complain about how difficult the maths paper was and how she would rather play soccer with the boys than scream for two hours without purpose. Thirty minutes had passed and Vovo was still out of sight.
Going home we spot a women - face to the soil enriched with cow faeces lying in front of our gate with bruises ,clothings drenched in blood with stains of mud - unconscious , as we approach her to my astonishment Vovo is that woman . She is put into the rusty wheelbarrow with chips of green paint , wheels clunking as she is taken from the gate to the mud house , a candle is lit screwing it into a coca cola bottle to keep it steady . As my mother uses hot waterto press against her purplish flesh and swollen face a man approaches the door taking of his hat and putting it against his chest . He says he was herding his cows and he saw the lieutenant . Vovo begins murmuring with a a tear slowly dropping from her left cheek slowly drying into her ear as the herder tries to explain what had occured.The lieutenant was seen stomping on her with his black, chunky hardy shoes pulling her with her braided extensions tying her hands to the handle behind the bakkie. He stepped into the van as it dragged her acrossthe very rocky gravel road. She waas heard screaming and crying all together till she eventually had no scream left in her.He mentioned that Vovo was lucky that the drive was not far from home ; if not , she would not have made it alive. At that moment I was puzzled . He watced all of this happen and his only human contribution was to narrate the story to us. To make matters even more complicated was my mother thanking the herder , Iwas taken aback.
to be continued the story is only about to get more intriguing ....
STAI LEGGENDO
Philophobia the fear of love my defence from affection
Storie breviWe are taken into the story of a young girl from the Eastern Cape raised in a family of domestic violence with her father as a mine worker and her mother as a teacher . Her sisters and friends are also a predicament of abuse and violence from their...
