Broken Women of the South

I was going about the mundane task of shredding lettuce for a salad when my mother launched into a tale with chilling nonchalance and a blasé air. A woman we all knew, a woman trained in law enforcement, a policewoman, had been killed in cold blood by her boyfriend. It no longer mattered that the woman had been married and her having a boyfriend had gained disfavour in our small community (because in a small town everyone knows everyone’s business).

Nobody knows why it happened but everyone knows what happened. The woman was nine months pregnant. Everyone had been having a lovely time speculating about whose baby it would be. Even though they judged her, and judged her harshly, nobody wished to see the woman dead. So on the day a keening cry was heard, emitted by her aged mother on a clear sunny afternoon, nobody laughed; nobody thought she deserved it; and many cried upon hearing the grisly tale.

It would be her young children’s testimony that would lead to the arrest of her boyfriend. It seems that the woman went missing for a few weeks; no one was alarmed as her lover was missing too and everyone added two and two together. The boyfriend came back, claiming to have been visiting family and asked where the woman was. That was when the alarm was raised. When police came asking questions, the children said it was the boyfriend whom they had last seen with the woman. Perhaps it is the compulsion, often cited in criminal modus operandi investigations, for the murderer to return to his crime scene that sent the boyfriend looking for the woman. In a matter of hours, the woman’s now decomposing body was discovered in a cane field. Her abdomen had been slit open, the child wrenched from her uterus and bludgeoned to death. There were signs of rape and stab wounds.

Each slice of my knife into the tomatoes made me visualise the murder of this woman. No matter what she had done, no matter her morals, she did not deserve to die like she did. And yet I carried on, ‘oohing’ and ‘aaaihing’ when appropriate while my mother regaled me with the horrifying story.

On Monday, a co-worker told us the story of how she found her children’s nanny stabbed, her eyes gouged out and raped the previous Saturday. Y co-worker had to identify the body when the community called her and asked to see whether or not the ‘victim’ was still alive. Despite this shocking experience, my co-worker was at work on Monday, although visibly sad, showing no signs of the emotional scarification one would expect from the encounter.

My mother, my co-worker and myself are products of a country that has become desensitised to violence. We are saddened yes, we grieve, but we are hardly ever shocked at the violence of crimes against women. We are no longer distraught when we hear stories like this, we are just fervently thankful it was not us. We are aware that nothing differentiates us from those who have fallen victim to such cruelty, except sheer dumb luck. We are powerless to protect ourselves pre-emptively, because when our turn comes the perpetrator might not need to break down windows or scale walls, it could be someone who has shared your bed and shown you what you thought to be love.

Indeed, our country is diseased.

Mama said I am fat

So the other day my mother kind of took me to the top of the tallest building in Dubia, let me chill there for a bit and enjoy the view, then she pushed me over the edge. I am still reeling.

Mom: You are so beautiful my child.

Me: Ooooh! Thank you!

Mom: Pity you are so fat.

Could the world stop just a minute? I would like to disembark for a bit.

My mom was not lying; but everyone hates hearing one of the worst things they think about themselves being confirmed by someone else. It’s like when you are on the verge of breaking up with a boyfriend and he breaks up with you first.

To be frank, I have been pretty OK with my weight. So, I'm not svelte with a thigh-gap and perky boobs, but I have the love of a great man, I have a job I like and I have a wonderful family. That seriously is all I want from life.

But recently, I have been feeling the pressure from EVERYWHERE. Random people comment on my weight, I HATE going clothes shopping because of the pitying look from sales girls and the plainly terrified looks from boutique owners.

My partner has been pretty cool about my weight seesaw. When I went on a health kick because I had to be fit for health purposes he bought me a bunch of exercise DVDs because I asked for them. I really did enjoy them. But then I got sick again and had to slack off the exercise; which meant I completely lost the plot and haven’t done any exercises in a long time.

So now (after my mom's brutality, the infrequency of cat calls from construction workers, the sensitivity to Tweets about “fat chicks, and the desire to stand happily in front of a mirror without grabbing hold of errant excess flash and squeezing it), I'm going to have to make a lifestyle change.

Ugh!

Vices

Cloaked in shame and reeking of despair she meandered home; head low, shoulders hunched against the elements, a bag clutched in her fisted hand. She would occasionally raise her head; a smile plastered on her face her eyes pools of untold stories of pain. Her strong voice would ring out in friendly laugh and greeting. Her neighbours must never found out.

The day at work been a dance on a fine line; unable to disrobe and show true self she dons on her daily uniform. The makeup to mask the sallow skin; around the eyes to give them life and her lipstick a bold statement, shouting for attention. Her clothes are meticulous chosen; loot at me, her breasts demand from behind a severe jacket which is buttoned up like a shield. The heart sighs behind the constraints it must bear. Nylon sheaths her once striking legs, giving an illusion of their former glory. Low-heeled shoes; I am hard working her stout feet say with each purposeful stomp. Her skirt below the knee, her mounds have forgotten the kiss of sunlight.

With each passing hour, with each person she helps she wonders; will this one see beyond the mask? Who will knock on my frozen door and offer a warm drink for my thirsting soul. All she fears and hopes is not seen. “How lovely she is,” they exclaim to each other.

“Always smiling,” another concurs.

“Never a hair out of place,” observes another admiringly.

“No!” She wants to scream, “You aren’t seeing me, look beyond the mask, see the human inside my shell.”  They never do, because she never does.

No matter, the day’s end is nigh, the cocoon of her home is near.

She leaves promptly, conflict ion her heart; straight home or past her beloved’s first? What sense was I to love that which harmed you? No home, there was plenty to do there. But what? Fold the laundry; read a book? Spend endless hours contemplating the emptiness? Drawing shapes from shadows cast by the furniture? No, better to have some company.

And so she walks the aisle, seeking her refuge. The cool breeze signals her arrival. In a practiced trance she rescues her favourite from the depths of its cold tomb. As she weaves her way home she imagines when she sits down and indulges. How her loneliness won’t seem to matter; how she will look beautiful when she gazes upon herself in the mirror. Those moments fill up her tank of tolerance so she may face tomorrow with the same bravado she has always shown.

She is a lonely a woman, she finds solace in a spoonful of ice-cream, pastry, anything that will taste like how she wishes she felt, happy

The Monsters We Live With

When a monster is in the backyard you cannot promise your children that they will be safe in your home. You cannot assure them that if they lock the gate then the bad people will stay away. You can’t fool them into thinking that danger comes from a stranger.

I lived with an uncle who attempted to rape my mentally handicapped cousin. I have never forgotten how my cousin looked the day after the attack. Three of her teeth were missing, her lip was busted up and she was limping.

He had broken her window and attempted to rape her. Were it not for the physical strength I now believe she was given to defend herself from those who would hurt her because they believed she was helpless, he would have succeeded. As it was, she hurled an electric generator at him while he was stripping naked, (I once tried to pick up that generator and it was a mission), slammed the door on his fingers and yelled for help.

The only other person at home was my grandfather, my uncle’s father. He was an old man suffering from cancer of the oesophagus, he witness the image of his youngest son poised erect above a child the entire family had raised and protected from harm from the day she was born. It never escaped my notice that my grandfather died two weeks after my uncle was sentenced to five years in prison for attempted rape, his father’s testimony having been paramount in securing his conviction.

“I heard noises, Mimi was calling ‘mkhulu, mkhulu’ I arrived him was standing above her, shaking his left hand (which had been slammed into the door) and holding his erect penis while she whimpered and cried beneath him.”

These words, translated to English, sound infinitely better than they are in Xhosa, our language. With these words, a father acknowledged in a court of law that his son had been a monster, his desires and appetites that of a monster. He admitted to having raised a person who would turn out to be worthless, therefore capable of acts that would lead others to question their own self-worth. When he uttered to those words, I like to believe he found release, not only at having told the truth and fought to protect his grandchild but rather, also having freed himself of guilt, that it was his child who was now the family’s mortal enemy. He felt relief at knowing that with his end fast approaching, his final gift to his family was to remove the monster from the backyard.

Two years into his sentence my uncle was granted parole into the custody of his eldest sister. I begged her not to accept, to refuse him his second chance but blood is thick and she allowed him to come home. He promised he had changed. And for a year he worked and kept on the straight and narrow, he contributed to the household and faint rumblings of “he’s really changed” began to surface.

And then:

“I walked in to the kitchen to check on Mbali who I had sent to pick up pitcher of juice five minutes prior and who wasn’t answering my calls for her. We had been sitting far from the house under the shadow of some trees as it was a very hot day and the juice had been cooling in the fridge. When she didn’t return within a reasonable time I went to look for her, convinced that like any other child she had been distracted by something else, like the TV. I walked in and saw him, pinning her to the refrigerator, a hand clamped on her mouth while another roamed in between her thighs which had been forced apart by his knee. I broke a vase on his head and attacked him until the other arrived and we called the police. She was 13 years old.”

Monsters are not only the strangers we caution our children against. Sometimes, we invite them to share our lives with us.

I Gave Him HIV; He Asked For It

She sits with her stomach protruding proudly, stretching the worn material of her tube top. One of her eyes is crinkled in a smoker’s squint, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“I didn’t really want another baby, but it happened!” she laughs raucously. I wonder if she has also been drinking.

“I didn’t find out till it was too late because of the drugs I take, they mess up your period and make you fat you know?”

“Drugs?” I ask, unable to conceal my shock. She’s smoking, taking drugs and possibly drinking while she was pregnant?

She laughs her outrageous laugh again and explains, “ARVs sisi. I’ve been on them for a year now.”

“So your boyfriend knows you’re HIV-positive? Is he also positive?”

“Well NOW he is. I don’t know about before but when I told him I was positive he said he was a real man, refused to use a condom.”

I look stupefied.

“Don’t look so shocked, so many men think you’re joking here if you are straight with them and tell them you’re positive. I’m not going to stop having sex just because they’re stupid.”

She is serious. She belongs to a group of friends who make no bones about being HIV-positive. They say; “It’s just like diabetes or cancer; you just have to take care of yourself.” I applaud them this mentality, in a world where many people still view being diagnosed HIV-positive is a “death sentence” they are amazingly forward-thinking.

All of them have been aware of their positive status for over five years. All of them are on the state ART (anti-retroviral treatment) programme. All of them are alcoholics. All of them have transitional sex.

They claim they tell their prey that they have HIV. They claim most of the men they sleep with refuse to wear condoms stating various reasons including;

-          Real men don’t wear condoms

-          Doesn’t she trust him?

-          Doesn’t the woman trust herself?

-          You’re just saying you’re positive because you want you avoid pregnancy, I’ll ejaculate “outside”.

-          I don’t enjoy it with a condom.

-          I’m too big for a condom.

-          I have HIV too so what does it matter?

-          I’m allergic to the lubricant on government condoms.

-          I can’t “feel” you when I wear a condom.

As these women talk to me, laughing all the while at my stupefied facial expressions, they almost convince me that the men who get infected by these women deserve their just desserts for their stupidity. I ask why don’t the women protect themselves from re-infection?

*explosions of mocking laughter*

Am I serious? If they tried to protect themselves by wearing female condoms (assuming they manage to find some as they claim female condoms are almost the Holy Grail) then the men would stop sleeping with them. Then they would have no alcohol, no places to sleep, no food, no sex no fun. The cycle is vicious. I cannot bear to listen to any more.

“The good thing about the father of this baby is that he is a TEACHER! So he’s rich!” the lively pregnant one laughs gleefully and lights up.

Grabbing the packet (mine) from which she has been pilfering day I make a beeline for a place where such madness is not so normal.

She Said No; A Rape

Hers is a typical rape story, isn’t amazing that the phrase “typical rape” story exists? A testament of the age we live in; and the abnormalities that have become the norm. Someone she knew, someone she would have allowed inside her house in the dead on night on a stormy night, turned on her. He was deaf to her screams of, NO! NO! NO! He did not care that she begged him to stop. And when it was over, he asked her if she had enjoyed herself; while she struggled to make the world stop, so she get off.

On her Matric Dance night she braved the farewell and after-party without a partner because her boyfriend (someone she had promised herself to) could not make it. It was a day to celebrate the end of her high school career, it was more important she commemorate the journey with friends than it was that she show up with a gorgeous boy on her arm. She intended to have a good time. She was a virgin.

“I was sitting and chatting with a guy friend when the friend who had brought asked us to organise a ride home. She had brought me and my best friend. The guy I was chatting to offered to drop us off. I was flattered that he was even talking to me – he was very good looking and well known in our neighbourhood, was a part time house music DJ and had no shortage of girls. We continued drinking together and I remember I was knocking back red Sambucas at his invitation. When we were ready to go home he asked me to walk to his bakkie with him as it was parked a bit far from the club; claiming he felt tipsy and wanted some fresh air before he got behind the wheel.

By the time we got to the bakkie I was feeling seriously woozy and it was only after we had driven off that I realised we were heading away from the club and not towards it. He told me he just wanted to take a short drive with the window open to sober up.

Looking back now I feel stupid but then I was just a short, fat girl with glasses; I was also wearing a floor length black dress that just about covered me like a sack – the last thing I thought was that someone like him could possibly be thinking of me in any way other than a friend.

He pulled up at a parking spot overlooking the beach and asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the beach. I said no – by this point, I was getting a bit uncomfortable but he assured me he was still trying to sober up and he just wanted to talk. Then he asked me for a kiss – at which I told him that I had a boyfriend.

So he said, “Why did you come with me then? Just give me a kiss and then we can go get your friend and go home.”

So I kissed him, because I thought that would placate him and he would take me home. I wanted to get away from him at this point. When he tried to push my dress up, I started pushing him away and saying “no”.

I can’t remember how many times I said to him, “Please do not do this”. It felt like forever and my throat was sore from shouting the following day – I fought so hard, he tore my stocking; I started trying to open the door to get out and run.

Then he leaned over me his 1.8m frame over my 1.52m (to me he was huge) and my efforts to fight him off were useless; I was like a moth swatting at a bear; he opened the glove compartment to show me a gun; he told me to shut up and stop screaming or he would have to use it.

I was sobbing and just kept saying, NO. NO. NO, thinking he would stop. I asked him to at least use a condom but it was like he had zoned out and he could not or would not hear anything I was saying.

Then he raped me.

After he was done, he asked me if I had enjoyed it and I said no. He seemed surprised, and then continued to try to have a conversation with me like there was nothing wrong. He said it had been great and we should get together again. He could not believe that I was a virgin when he saw the blood streaking down my legs.

I was crying by now and he just kept talking normally so I asked him to please drop me off at the club and I would find my own way home; by the time we got there, it was closed and my friend and her boyfriend were waiting outside. I was hysterical when I jumped out the van, I did not even wait for it to stop moving. My hair was a mess and the blood could be seen all over my legs, my stockings were ripped – I looked like hell.

My friend’s boyfriend was horrified, he wanted to go to the police station immediately but I was in no shape to do that. I was so shocked and hurt and ASHAMED. I just did not want anyone to know.

When my mom opened the door, took one look at me and started shouting and crying that we needed to go to the police station and asking if I had been raped. I was sobbing and hysterical, the last thing I needed was my mom panicking and shouting it out to the world. I ran into my room and into my shower with all my clothes on; I stayed on the shower floor for more than an hour; scrubbing the blood away and trying to clean myself.

I could not clean myself enough – the next day, I kept taking a shower. Oddly, my mom woke up the next day and never asked me about that night again; ever. It was like she decided she did not want to know.

For about a month afterwards, I did not want to brush my hair or get dressed – or make any attempts to look nice. I thought it was my fault for trying to look pretty and maybe if I made myself as unattractive as possible, it would never happen again.

I also fell pregnant. The man who raped me called me a few times, adding to my trauma. When I saw him with his friends they would stare at me. It felt like no matter where I went, if I turned around he would be standing there; watching me.

I could not stand the thought of a baby, I would have hated it, and so I had an abortion. I never told anyone. I thought I would tell my family once I had got over the shock, once I had dealt with the rape and the fact that I knowingly aborted a baby.

I did not want to lay any charges because I was convinced no one would believe me. I could scarcely believe it myself, it made no sense. Why would a good looking well educated boy from a good home do something so violent – and a boy who had girls throwing themselves at him?

Then a few months later, my mom, brother and I came home to find that my father had committed suicide – he had shot himself. There was no note. For a long time, I felt very guilty because a part of me thought he had somehow found out about the rape and was so ashamed of me that he killed himself. I later discovered he had financial difficulties.

However, there was no way that I was going to add to my family’s trauma after that. We were so ravaged and torn apart by my father’s suicide, it was a total shock to my family. I also broke up with my boyfriend because he wanted to get engaged and I did not know how to tell him I had been raped. I did not want to see any looks of revulsion or pity on that face I loved so much.

I think of that year as the worst year of my life and I know I made it through that year somehow – so I can handle anything that comes my way now.

It was a long time before she was able to date, to be intimate with men and to be happy. But she did it, drawing strength from a will to live, to triumph, and to never be the victim again. She still believes aborting the baby was the right decision. She is now a successful married and mother to a beautiful son.


Near that stretch of sandy beach, her innocence being ripped from her, she became his victim. To see her today and know what she has been through is testament of her power. Where some would break, she is a woman who has lived beyond her fear. I salute her.

A Blogger Challenge: 16 Days of Activism

I’m not a preachy blogger.

*snort*

Seriously.

Well I didn’t used to be, and I’m hoping I not one now also.

25 November 2010 is the beginning of 16 Days of Activism Against Gender Violence, this day itself being International Day Against Violence Against Women.

I challenge anyone who feels so inclined to use their blogs to create awareness and participate actively in the 16 Days of Activism by blogging about a real woman you know or have heard of that symbolizes women’s triumph against violence and abuse.

Perhaps I detract from the purpose of the project when I say that violence and abuse does not necessarily have to be “traditional” spousal abuse in which a woman is abused by a man. I challenge you to find that lesbian woman who was traumatized by her lover, that child whose own mother or teacher abused, the woman who rose above the humiliation of sexual harassment at work, the little girls suffering at the hands of bullies on our playground.

As South African woman let’s all stand together, just for 16 days, and barrage the ears of abuses with our words; via our avatars, tweets, blogs, Facebook status and wearing a white ribbon.

You did it for the world cup. :)

You may also participate here. I know I will!


PS: I got this post in early because I'd like those who are interested to invest some thought and time into at least one post! Ta.

Lessons in Life: A Series - Teenage Pregnancy on Budget

“I never planned this for myself,” she says throwing her baby over her shoulder carelessly. The chubby baby boy gurgles in pleasure as he is secured to his mother’s back with a towel. He will spend the best part of today there; nearly six hours of not crawling, not kicking his legs, not playing; just feeding breaks.

“I mean, I knew when I didn’t finish school I would not be likely to get a job that would make me rich, but I hoped that at least I could work for a white madam in Jo’burg, and make enough to take care of myself,” she smiles while she lays out her wares in tiny little towers; four onions for R5. I wouldn’t buy them; they’re too expensive; I can get the same from the supermarket for much less. But she has carved a niche for herself; she keeps people’s groceries while they shop around and when it is time to get into a taxi, they collect their things and have to pay her for her guardian duty. She rarely goes home with left overs.

While her dreams may not have been lofty or adventurous, at least she once dreamed. At 16-years-old she left school, pregnant with her first child. She could have continued to study but even though learners have the right to continue in their studies while pregnant, some teachers have made it their personal duty to make this impossible. They bait those up the duff with snide comments, puns and innuendo.

“Today we start the reproductive system everyone, So-and-So you can leave because you already know this part!” they snigger.

“I can’t say I blame teachers or anyone else for where I am, I am responsible, which is why I work this hard,” sitting down on the make-shift stool made of an empty paint drum and an old pillow, she lights her Cadac Skottel braai for the hot dogs she sells.

The baby on her back is her second, the first now in school. This 23-year-old single mom of two no longer has anyone else in her life. Her parents kicked her out over the second pregnancy. She then moved in with her boyfriend even though she was not sure he was the father of the baby and he beat her up.

“I know that it is wrong to sleep with many men and not condomise, but once you’ve been in my shoes for as long I’ve worn them, you find there is very little that you won’t do for some money,” she explains, a defiant slant in her words. Indeed, who am I to judge?

“My parents gave me and my daughter a place to live and food; everything else I had to work for. They refused to let me leave and look for work; they couldn’t look after my child even though they stay at home. It is through the social welfare grant that I have been able to do anything for the children,” she carries on.

Using the social grant she has managed to rent to a stall at the busy taxi rank, buy the skottel and start her business. She rents a dingy room in an unsavoury part of the little town and lives her life. She no longer dreams, she plans. She knows that you get nothing from doing nothing.

“Throwing me out was maybe the best thing my parents have done for me. Now I know how to take care of myself and my children.” Her voice is with pride. I decide to buy a hot dog, the sausage is cheap, the oil she uses is cheap but there is already a small queue of people wanting some.

As humble pie; it tastes delicious.

Dangerous Obsessions

Hurrying along the streets she clutches her bag close, head held high with false bravado, her mistress rests under her arm. She hustles to her car, careful that she doesn’t harm her precious cargo. She debates on when she will indulge in the comfort of her secret friend. Just one glass she promises herself; before or after dinner. When she wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, her empty bottles surrounding her, evidence at attempts of eating upended on her carpet, she vows; tomorrow, it’ll be just one glass.

Tip-toeing to the fridge, she has practised the dance of avoiding the creaking floorboards over time; given her girth, it is amazing she makes no noise. With cat-like stealth, she swings open her cave of comfort, her eyes scanning its contents. She selects and creeps back to the safety of her bathroom, where she will stand watching herself in the mirror; all the better to watch her shame. As the tears collect between her double chins, self-hatred welling in her ever-fattening body, she’ll promise herself; tomorrow, I’ll begin my diet.

I need to pick up some cosmetics tomorrow, she thinks idly while he plunges insistently inside her, groaning her name, lost in his lust. Her hips move in the practised old waltz of coupling, her mind adrift. She drags her thoughts away from the nearly depleted shower gel, and watches him. She ekes out a measure of comfort from watching his abandoned state; at least right now, he belonged to her. As he reaches his climax she prepares her act, the gift she gives him for the gifts he gives her. He is happy, triumphant and sated. A beautiful girl gives herself to him, whenever he wants her; without asking much in return. As he leaves, the night still long, silent and lonely ahead of her.

She moves with assurance among the men in the high-ceilinged boardrooms of corporate conglomerates. Her womanly curves smothered by straight suits and severe hair. She hides behind her notebook, clutched protectively to her chest, she’s tough as nails, she’s the office bitch, and she’s one of the boys. Sacrificing her femininity for her career; she’s made it. Until she goes home and takes off the war paint, and in the flimsy material of her nightwear, she remembers she is a woman. She craves to laugh and be ditzy at work because that is what girls do! She wishes her guard was not such armour; an unfriendly barrier keeping both the good and the bad at bay.

We all know these women, we have either been them, or we have seen them. They are our friends; refusing to believe that they become monsters after a few drinks, holding on to the excuse that they need to unwind while they slowly unravel. They are without direction, lonely and smothering a world of hurt with a bottle.

They are our sisters; sleeping with married men, afraid they will never find someone to call their own. They hate themselves and use their bodies for comfort from the unworthy, never believing they deserve so much more than they settle for.

The binge-eater could be you; weary of judgemental glances from your work colleagues as you pull out your take-away lunch, tired of the pitying looks from the sales women who shake their heads sadly at you when you ask for a plus size on a skirt you liked. It’s the tactless taxi drivers who shout irritably, “no fat people in the front seat!” that drive you to jump off at your stop and head home to you Twinkies. It’s the feeling of failure and lack of self-discipline that leads you to fill your mouth bulging with food as you watch yourself with loathing in the bathroom mirror. You want to hide it, hide from others, hide from yourself, but you cannot.

I have no words of wisdom for these women, as salvation comes in different formse3 for everyone; but I have the promise that if you want to be saved, you will be.