Womb Awakening
There was nothing I could do about it. They said that I was the only one who could carry all five fetuses. These fetuses inside me all have different mothers, and their fathers are to remain anonymous until they successfully make it to full term. Medical technology has come so far that one woman can carry multiple fetuses at once and all they need is a sterile platform to transplant it from one body to another. They chose my body to carry five fertilized eggs because I have been the most reliable host in the quadrant. In the past four years I have delivered eight babies. The doctors had to surgically expand my womb in order to hold these five, even though they were barely zygotes when the transplant happened. The surgery was four months ago, and since then they haven't released me from my isolated quarantine room. I am to stay here until I give birth, with the IV keeping me sedated and hydrated and the machine monitoring my heartrate. Dr. Menage keeps all the hosts restrained and monitored so he can make sure that we don't turn in our resignation early without the desired results.
When I signed up for this project, I thought I was going to be helping families who couldn't have their own children. I knew that pain, and I was willing to help women who couldn't have their own children. What I didn't realize was that I would become a vessel for as many pregnancies as possible, with no concern about success. At first, they did only one at a time. The goal was not that every child made it to full term. The goal is to stick as many fertilized eggs as possible into any suitable host and hope that at least half of them survived. They gradually tried for twins and triplets until I was unfortunately lucky enough to deliver a set of triplets last year. Now, only two months later, they have put five fetuses inside my womb in hopes that I will keep up my reputation of delivering every baby that I am given.
"Hi Maribelle, are you ready for your ultrasound?"
I remain silent as I see the nurse close the door behind her. I will not waste my time with pleasantries in this cell. She's going to do my ultrasound whether I am ready or not.
I see the withered old nurse come in, her eyes glossed over like she is in a trance. She hobbles over to my bedside to read the monitor, and even though my eyes are trained on her she never meets my gaze. My fists clench up beneath the restraints with rage as she hums a melody that seems slightly familiar. Is that Beethoven? This ancient woman is humming Beethoven while I'm tied down to this bed and drugged in this forsaken place just to have an unnatural number of babies come out of me eventually. It takes everything in me to not spit on her wrinkly face as she lifts my gown up to prepare for the ultrasound. She can barely squeeze the tube hard enough to get the cold gel onto my belly. She starts spreading the cold goo, but I don't really feel it. The numbing sensation has become a new normal with Dr. Menage and so many nurses invading my body every day. My belly is so swollen that I can't imagine how it's going to expand any more to accommodate the fetuses as they continue to grow. She bends over slowly to turn on the ultrasound machine on, and after a couple beeps, she brings the transducer up to eye level. She pulls her smudged glasses down and seems to examine the transducer to make sure that it's sterile.
She repositions the handheld reader and gives me the faintest smile as her hand drops hard onto my abdomen. The room is deadly quiet except for the unpleasant sound of sloshing gel. Once she gets a good position, she steadies her hand. I can't tell if her hand is shaking because she's nervous or because she's older than the fossils buried under this building. The sound gradually becomes louder, and I barely hear a constant thrum of heartbeats. They sound unsynchronized and scattered, like a herd of elephants trampling the ground on a distant television.
But I hear them. The nurse moves the beacon and marks each of the five distinct heartbeats on her chart. The sound from the ultrasound intertwines with the sound from my own heart monitor machine, creating a dissonant melody. I guess that is what six hearts beating together sounds like. For a moment, I am in pure astonishment at the five lives that are developing in my womb. And then, a rippling pain seizes my abdomen. Suddenly the room is blinding white with no more shapes or dimensions and my abdomen feels like a pot of boiling acid. I feel my whole body convulsing beneath the restraints and my vision becomes dark and watery. I feel wet, and I regrettably consider that I may have peed myself due to the extreme pain. The warm wetness just makes me scream as I soil myself with no control.
"Maribelle? Oh goodness... Maribelle, can you hear me?" The nurse inquires frantically.
My eyes roll into the back of my head, and I am no longer conscious of anything around me. I only feel the pain of my abdomen and the babies in me raging from suffocation.
Yes, there are five heartbeats in my womb right now. With mine, that made six heartbeats, like six gears turning to keep a machine running. Isn't it just a shame that my heart might give out before I can save the other five?
Let’s Release These....
Not Now Please
I’ve waited for hours and I can’t stop thinking maybe I shouldn’t have. It’s the beginning and the end all at once bringing excitement mixed with chest pains. Heartaches sound more accurate but I won’t touch those.
I push everything, everything that allows me to feel uneasy. Everything that makes me question. Everything that doesn’t have a clear voice. Your voice though I hear clearly and it’s telling me to wait. I don’t like that. I don’t like waiting.
One Please
My mind needs peace today. There is so much noise in there that it’s hard to stay focused on anything. So instead of trying to clear out the clutter, I close the door and watch whatever new Netflix TV series is popular; only to wake up the next day and have it start all over again. Maybe a moment of stillness just to let the voices in my mind resolve their conflict will help. Maybe a few deep breaths and the constant rotation will finally decide to stop. Maybe it will be replaced with a calm sway like a hammock or a slow dance.
Untitled
I thought I’d never write again. I’d admire the work of the real writers and move on from page to page, but god forbid I allow my true words to surface. I feel as though I don’t have the right to revisit the old me when it no longer serves. I gave everything up for something shapeless. For abstract considerations that I feel will make the grandest difference in this complex winner’s world stationed in the imagination. Odd that I want to be a writer but use every excuse to forgo the activity. Though it appears I’ve overcome, in a minute I can go back to the state of Bones that I’ve been in for the last two weeks. I want my contract to feel the same as it did moments earlier. Come back.
Strange Occurrence
The air touches more than the surface. Everything almost given remains hidden by land, one may be too tired to cross. A conversation un-had with emotions held at bay. Before name exchanging even existed. Before moments of awkwardness became attractive. Before the static sounded like music. Before numbers were man’s one true quest. The love that splits into twos never gets sent or picked up. Stopped by tumbleweeds and aggressive wind. Strangled by the absence of a body and one small reminder that a home phone sometimes never rings.
DARK
She was 5 when she had her first panic attack. She had been visiting her grandma in the village on a school holiday with her cousins. Tendeo, her younger brother, was too young. He was 3 years old, and could not stay away from his parents longer than a few hours, so he stayed home. Except for the language barrier, having come from the city where she mostly spoke English and not her vernacular language, she did enjoy rolling in the mud and chasing the chicken back to the coop at sundown as instructed by granny. Granny had a lot of visitors who would come in for a chat and a cup of tea. She would introduce her grandkids by referring to her children, “this one is Stella’s, her first one”, and the guest would either be Auntie or Uncle, Granny or Grandpa, depending on their age.
So when an Auntie approached Zolani and one of her cousins, Lezola, just outside the compound, they did not think much of it. When she suggested that they walk to her house for some samosas and soda, they blissfully and happily went with her. As they had their fill, the drug took effect and their reality got murky and foggy. The two young girls were locked in a dark, dump room for a day before they were found. When they were found, only Lezola was crying. Zolani’s tears were dried marks on her cheeks, as grandma lifted her off the floor, stiff as a corpse. “She is in shock, I will need to talk to her for some time as we head to the hospital”, urged the doctor who had rushed with the rest of the crowd to rescue the children.
Zolani became scared, almost everything gave her a fright. She was scared mostly of the dark, and almost everything that followed the darkness. So whenever darkness would start sipping into the world, she ran as fast as she could to avoid it, to feel safe in the light, preferably at home. Although she still went to therapy, some situations just overwhelmed her.
Zolani’s younger brother Tendeo, did not mind the darkness. In fact, he enjoyed playing outside after the sun set. He would tease Zolani and scare her by putting off the light, hiding in dark corners and jumping out screaming. This would upset Zolani, and more often than not invite punishment from his parents.
Since Tendeo did not understand the source of Zolani’s seemingly irrational fear, he kept doing it, he thought it was funny that his older sister fell for it every time.
One day, nearly a year since the kidnapping, the lights went out unexpectedly, a power outage that affected the entire neighborhood. Zolani, scared and out of breath ducked under the dining table where she and her family were having dinner. Tendeo, excited at this grand opportunity to scare her, climbed off his seat slowly and quietly. Following the sound of his sister’s whimpers, he felt his way to her under the table. Both parents had left the table looking for candles and torches. He took a long breath, got closer and then let out a bellow that was almost animal like. A thud, then Silence.
Confused, he let out a chuckle as he felt for her form in the dark, “Zo?” no response. Then he felt her stiff body, lying flat on the carpet. A cold sweat washed over him as he shook her, commanding a response, anything, but Zolani remained still. Panicked, probably for the first time, Tendeo called out, “mom, I think something is wrong with Zolani, she won’t speak to me”.
Both parents shuffled into the dining room, candles on hand, looking for both children. As the light showered the room and their vision adjusted to it, they saw Tendeo’s skinny body hovering over Zolani’s. Her figure lay motionless, lost in the realm of unconsciousness. Then blood.
It’s a Turn Down Day
It’s a Turn Down Day
May 13, 2024
If you have the chance
If you dare to dare
Take it and run as far as you can
For any direction you go
Beats not going at all
I stood on the bridge overlooking the ice floe. Seventy feet down, freezing cold water, and a pitch black night have all of the makings of a successful suicide. I contemplated my action as I weighed my options.
I am 14 years old with a bleak future. If past performance is indicative of future returns, I will be sadly disappointed. Such is my life.
The slow moving ice reminds me of the clouds in movies where the protagonist and antagonist both see different visions within. You would think the same clouds would only have one POV, but that would make for poor cinema.
Once again, I am disappointed with my lot in life.
What do I have to look forward to? Ending another sentence with a preposition?
It is not as if everyone hates me, or doesn’t understand what I understand. I didn’t ask to be born, but who gets this prenatal choice in the first place? I am told, by people whose life doesn’t seem so envious, that I have much to look forward to. These wizards of wit cite my first kiss, prom, graduation, college, marriage, having kids and seeing them grow, and retirement as examples. However, where I live, nobody has mastered these skills. Nobody fondly reminisces about each of these watershed moments. Shouldn’t someone, somewhere, set the gold standard for others to follow? Why hasn’t my school hired one of these people? That would be a class I might not ditch.
And yet, as I look down, the ice beckons me to follow its ordained path. Its siren song resonates in my mind, almost alluring, almost bewitching me to action.
All I need to accomplish is to not accomplish anything. Just let go. Just take that leap. Just trust that when I chose not to decide, I still will have made a choice. A final choice.
I find myself on the perimeter of my Venn diagram in the land of null set alternatives.
The floe looks comfortable, looks viable. It covers bank to bank, from upstream to downstream, as far as the eye can see. The cold air offers me nothing I don’t already have, which is not much. The combination of the two is almost overwhelming.
Then, I no longer think in terms of “almost”.
If anyone cares, let my tombstone read, “It's a Turn Down Day.”
And I dig it.
i can stop whenever i want to.
The clicking on my right. Long nails, dry skin. She always starts picking at her skin when she is on the phone.
Click. Click. Click.
Let's try this again. I press my fingers into the chords, pluck at the strings--
Click. Click. Click.
"What is the name of those actors in the..."
In the movie we saw two hours ago.
I stop altogether once again, "It was So and So."
"That's right, So and So were in the Movie we saw."
Trying again to pluck at the strings--
Click. Click. Click.
The cats scream at each other on top of the staircase.
Tummy recoils. Banging on the wall to scare them off because he hates the sound of the cats screaming, and I hate the sound of him barking at the cats to stop.
Click. Bang. Click.
He comes downstairs, stands in front of me, starts asking me to play So and So song.
I try to pluck at the strings, looking for the chords on my phone,
but he is asking for eye contact. He is still standing in front of me. Talking.
Telling me to sing. To play. But also to listen. To call on the cats. To play what he wants. To talk about rent. The incoming electricity bill. The war in Palestine.
But to--
Click. Click. Click.
The glass in the kitchen clangs against the counter, knives in my ears. The wind outside rattles the branches; an open oven that is much too hot.
Windows are still closed.
Click. Clang. Eye contact. "Go ahead and sing, it makes me happy when you play."
Click. Clang. The windows rattle from the heat.
Every time I inhale it feels like what comes in is chlorine. The air outside is the same as the air coming in. I can't tell anymore, am I--
Click. Clang. Windows rattle. Am I breathing? Click. Clang. Windows rattle.
Cats scream.
My phone screen lights up. Is he okay? Is something wrong? Why won't he talk to me like he did before--
Click. Clang. Windows. Cats. Phone. Guitar. She laughs much too loud, slaps her hand against her thigh, and he bears his teeth at her in irritation, claps his hands together and bangs the wall to scare the cats and I keep wondering what is my problem, what is going on, the rug is itchy and smells of mildew, my finger is bleeding, I want to throw up, I can't throw up, they will ask what is the matter with me and it will be worse, I can't throw up if I can't breathe, what if he dies and all he remembers is me being unkind, what if this is it, why is my mouth so dry, have I even changed when everything else has not, am I imagining that we are falling apart because--
stop talking, stop talking, stop talking,
I want to scream, my hands are numb.
I quietly finish the rest of my drink. Deep claustrophobic breath.
The shaking stops.
The world quiets down for
just a single moment,
and I do not know
how much longer
I can actually
go on.
Don’t not Look Down
There's no way.
I look right, sheer wall. I look left, same thing. With my last ounce of hope I turn around, and what I find is an overwhelming sense of confusion, as if I was expecting a magic escalator out of this canyon. Stomach free-falls to my knees. Heart starts pounding in my throat. Legs go limp and I collapse into the dirt, narrowly missing a cactus. What was once an inkling of hope has now deteriorated into full blown panic. With fists clenched I start to hyperventilate; breathing as fast as my heart is beating. This is it. This was my last mistake in this life. I should have never rappelled down here. Tears disappear into the sand as I continue to gasp for air. I stare at the sky, thinking it will be the last time I see that beautiful blue.
It's intensely hot in this desert, but I start feeling cold. The lack of oxygen from shallow breaths dwindles my fire inside. Despair helps to weaken the flame by attrition. But before it finally goes out, something inside tells me to check again.
"What?"
"CHECK AGAIN! How dare you give up so easily!" Like I just smacked myself in the face.
My breathing starts to return to normal, tears have stopped falling, and the pigment returns to my palms as I release my clenched fists. I dry my eyes to take another look at my cage, but these walls may as well be glass. My rope hangs down 200 feet but I don't have the strength or the tools to climb back up it. With rock climber's eyes I scan again, searching for any possible route up.
Aha! There's hope after all! Hidden within the shadowy side of the canyon, two walls meet perpendicular to each other. A dihedral, off-width crack, possibly big enough to be a chimney. I must investigate further.
"Ok, deep breath." My strength returns alongside the fire in my soul. "I will not go down without a fi-- FUCK!" As I place my hands at my sides to help myself stand up, my left hand, at full force, slams into the cactus I barely missed when I collapsed. "MOTHERFUCKER THAT HURTS." I scream at the top of my lungs, then seconds later echoed back from the walls. Yelling that loudly made me feel even better, like I forcefully expelled the despair. Mumbling more swear words to myself, I remove the cactus spines. Once more I try to stand up, this time mindfully aware of the cactus.
Hand now throbbing, I make my way toward the dihedral. The closer I get, the bigger the crack gets. This looks like a chimney... even better. I feel so small as I gaze directly up the wall, but luckily I am the perfect size to fit into this off-width chimney and stem-climb my way up, the way I imagine Santa Claus gets back to his sleigh. I take my time inspecting every inch of the route, and I notice the chimney gradually gets more narrow towards the top. From my view, it looks like the narrowest part at the top will be my biggest challenge.
Heart starts racing again in anticipation. There's a weight in my stomach urging me to keep my feet on the ground, but I don't listen to it. This is the only way I can continue living, the only way I can see my family again. I reach down to grab a handful of dirt and rub my hands together to dry my sweaty palms. I wear my pack over my chest and tighten the straps, then commence my ascent towards freedom.
I am grateful this side of the canyon is shaded because it's made the sandstone feel much cooler to the touch, helping my hands stay dry. The chimney itself mysteriously makes its own wind current, but it's cooling me off. The beginning of this climb is wide enough to stem climb. My back rests on one side of the wall, hands pressed upside down next to my hips, and my feet smear vertically on the other side. To my right, the canyon, to my left, the dark slot of the chimney. I start inching my way up. This will help me conserve the arm strength I will need at the top. This type of movement is like a vertical crab walk; I place one foot above the other, use the counter-pressure from my hands to elevate my body, and then repeat, alternating my feet. I must always keep at least one foot on the wall at all times, otherwise I would fall face-first into the wall, and then straight to the bottom. I continue this trend upwards, the distance between myself and the ground ever growing. I only have my will-power to cheer me on. My left hand still hurts, but not enough to deter me from my goal.
With my eyes strictly locked forward, only looking at my shoes, I refuse to look at how far up I've made it. Instead I look up, and I'm met with a joyous fear as I see the width of the crack begin to shrink. Well, that must mean I'm almost to the top! And without thinking, I immediately look down to see how far I've come. The dizzying height makes me lose my focus, my hands instantly perspire and slip out from under me. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest as I scream in terror. I use the back of my head and shoulders to stop myself from falling further. I may have slid only a foot, but the shock itself made it feel like I was on my way to the bottom. Now I'm wedged in an uncomfortable position, with my head aching from smacking the rock, and a racing pulse in my throat. My feet sit well above my body with my shoulder blades and head pressed firmly against the opposite wall as my only lifeline. I hold back the tears, wipe these sweaty palms on my pants, and take a deep breath. I look out to my right and find the bright side; the view is lovely from up here. And my adrenaline has spiked to levels never felt before, giving me the high I need to continue.
I don't know how far it is to the bottom, but it wouldn't matter. It's far enough to remember every bad decision I've ever made on the way down. After I calm myself and remember my goal, I reassess the situation. I need to get my body back perpendicular to my legs. The only way is to dig my elbows into the rock behind me because my hands can't get enough traction from this angle. I push away the looming terror of there being nothing but 150 feet of air below me, ending in solid rock, and I focus on the 50-plus feet I have left to go. I clench my teeth, and yell loudly in pain as I use all my strength to get myself back to position. I can't see them, but I'm sure my elbows are now bleeding, like I painted a petroglyph that no one will see. I am out of breath. I want nothing more than to rest, but I can feel my strength fading. I must use this adrenaline boost before it wears off.
As I continue upward, I can't help but think how surreal a feeling this is; wedged between two monstrous rocks yet feeling like I'm floating on air. Death just one more slip away. If I could actually float, it would solve several of my problems. My knees are now pushing into the pack on my chest. This is as far as I go with the crab walk. I look up, and I guesstimate there's about 30 more feet to go. 5 more body lengths, not bad! I'm so close I can almost taste it, but I still have a long way to go. I feel incredibly scared, but almost proud of myself for how far I've come. No sense stopping now. I put my left foot under my hip, and push my body upwards, essentially standing up. I look down at my right foot, and see the only part gripping the wall is the toe. A scary sight as the drop looms beyond. I slowly bring myself back down to sit on my calf, and from this position, I can bring my right foot up to a more comforting spot. I'll sit here for a second.
I put my pack on the correct way, and after about a minute, I stand up again. The wind now blowing harder than it did on the ground. If only I had wings then I could ride this updraft to the top. Wish I had a Red Bull... No, stop daydreaming. For another 10 feet, I alternate my feet up the walls until I get to a point that is too narrow for my head. Now I will have to lean out over the drop. I felt safer stemming up between the walls. I'll be very exposed now. I summon all my climbing knowledge and decide that lie-backing will be the best technique. I will have to reorient my body the other way and walk my feet up the wall that my back has been resting on this whole time. Then I have to let my body lie back towards the floor of the canyon, with only my hands keeping me from the backwards free fall. Sounds like freaking fun.
My left leg starts shaking uncontrollably, known to climbers as the "sewing machine leg," felt when fear of the height outweighs the focus you should have on your body. This is not the time to have sweaty hands either. I just continue making the most efficient moves I know how to make, and eventually I forget about the leg, and it stops shaking. I place my right hand above my right foot, hoping the sandstone absorbs most of the moisture. Then, I point my left foot upwards and place my left hand above it, matching what I'm doing on the other side. I summon my inner Spiderman and pray that my feet don't slip out from under me. This is my crux: The hardest part of this entire ascent. I hold my breath. My back is facing the valley below, and in a desperate act of faith, I simultaneously fall backwards into the other wall and move my right leg opposite. Success. I can breathe again. Now for the real leap of faith. I slowly shimmy my feet out towards my left, and I inch my body towards the edge with them. With my left hand, I press my palm firmly on the wall next to my face. I turn my body so that I can use my right hand to grip the 90 degree edge of the crack; fingers pointing inside. I start to lie my body over the free fall as the sun pleasantly greets my face. Then gracefully bring my left hand beside my right. No time to waste, this expends a lot of energy. I find my sync and walk up the wall in rhythmic fashion.
15 feet to go. 10 feet... 5 feet... uh oh. I can finally see the desert carrying off to the horizon, but I seem to be stuck in this position. My feet are standing where I need to grab to pull myself up and out of this godforsaken hole. GODDAMNIT. My hands are starting to feel weak. I can feel them about to slip off at any second. Fuck it... I pull myself forward, and with my only attempt I stretch for the top of the cliff. My shoes give way to gravity, and as I begin to fall, my right hand catches on the edge. My whole body hanging on by one hand. I throw my left hand beside it, and do the only pull-up I ever want to do again. I lay there, legs still dangling off the edge, and I start to weep. I made it. I wipe my eyes, slowly stand up, and aim both middle fingers at what was once my prison. The place that could very easily have claimed my life. I never want to see a canyon again.
Forgive my pain
I can't sleep mommy, I cant sleep.He yanks at my skirt with the persistance that locks hands with desperation. The night cradled my hunger underneath my eyes and my son continued. He pulled and moaned so much so that my eyes began to water. No tears fell I was too tired. They had arched my back,beaten my heart and stolen my voice. So I just sat- all night, only getting up once to carry poor Mandla to the bed. See the will of desperation can tire a young soul but it can never tire mine. If my soul was a solid, it would defy gravity,to fly way above all life and weep a wail so beautiful it could shatter the heavens.Listen.They did not break me, I broke myself before they could.My way of damage control but my son,my son Mandla...should not be bruised by my life.
The shock took hold of me that night,it did not humble me,scare me or defeat me but it commanded me. Commanded me to be,just be. If I could not stop time I would stop mine,even if it was just for a night. But that night was not just a night. We mother's fear night,and despise the day. Although our sons and our husband's are killed by day their souls are only taken by night as they dance like embers over their lifeless remains. Some women pray every night with their windows wide open, through sun and rain. In hopes that they can catch their lost ones soul once more and say goodbye. Others,well, they just go on,they are walking wells, so hollow inside,like someone dug out their heart,one can fall to their death inside their pain. I feel for them the most,because they hide behind smiles and sly comments.But If you listen closely you can hear a faint whine of a child whenever they laugh. Ah, they do not know we understand, so we all go along with the charade. It brings us some solace in knowing even the seemingly coping people are but posers trying to get through it all.
The year is 1976 and I am mother of 2 one living one dead. Hate sentenced my son on July 21st to death without trial. I know not what reason is anymore. Art does not bleed me as it once did,music does not move me as it once did and joy disgusts me.A anger as flew and built a nest on my beaten heart and saw it fit to call it home. I have allowed it.Some may say it has corrupted me but it is not sly like a snake it can not trick you. Anger does not slither it simmers and it burns within me,bright and silent. After last night,contemplating while rebelling against time I agreed to do what needs to be done.
I am going to write a letter to Mandla before I do it. He needs to understand why I did it and for that I must start from the beginning.
Beloved Mandla,
Though you are still too young to understand the words I am about to place down on this page, you shall when you are older.Before I begin you must know Mommy loves you with everything I have. I shall begin from where all great things ended for me to make it easier for you my love.
My days were once long and my nights short until your father trotted into my life. I was a maid since age 13,following the labor steps of my mother and hers before and so on. My mother took me first to the big house when I was 16. She always worked at Meneer Van Niekerks house for as long as I can remember. Now you must understand I grew up in a small little shack with one bedroom,no electricity on the outskirts of town with my mother. We were not as bad off as everyone else,we had a warm meal in us every night, a fire to keep us warm and a proper roof made out of slate with wood. We did not grow cold like our neighbour's whose three children died of pneumonia last winter. We were blessed, I thought then.
When we walked up to the house my stomach fell in while my mouth opened in astonishment. My mother snapped at me often when I reacted to the things they had.My amazement soon churned into jealousy as we walked up the long drive through,trees with feet of vibrant flowers all around. The scent of jasmine impeded my senses. When we went inside Mevrou Van Niekerk let us in. Her face was pale with a pasty texture and a consistent look of judgement on her face. I thought God has given them so much but has contorted and screwed their faces into ugly scowls for pay. This was debated when I met Mr Van Niekerk, a man with face that announces to gentle folk he is one of them. His calm deminure and soft spoken words were far different from other men I had seen.
We greeted and he came in to shake my hand. With a tight grip I smiled and stared directly into his eyes. This back then was a statement,a very dangerous statement. When you level with someone's eyes you imply you are their equal,and in his world we were seen as not even close. Instead of threatening me or putting me in my supposed place he held my hand. A look of what I thought for a second was pride was then glassed over by a chuckle and a pat of the hand.
My mother then led me out and instructed me to go sweep the upstairs balcony. Before I could ask where that was she slammed the door in my face.Although Just before it closed i caught Mr Van Niekerks concerned face which undoubtedly confused me a bit. While I pondered on the question I wandered upstairs, cleaned the balcony quick-quick then trudged down the long staircase. To be completely honest I got lost in that house more than once that day and so it was by no accident that I got lost again.Dazed and confused I wandered the seemingly never ending white tiled halls. I became frantic with the fear my mother would leave me in this white plastered mansion so I began to walk faster. Not stopping to take a break I went down every avenue until one bumped into a head.
A dark navy blue shorts, combed back brown hair and emerald eyes. His skin was tinged like honey under the sun ,it shone. At first he mumbled obscene insults my way but he stopped when he found the sincerity in my wild expression. He introduced himself as Wayne Abraham's. Not even a minute later a tall,well-built boy with the same shorts appeared from the room,his blond locks fell over his blue eyes and his smile seemed familiar.
The Hercules look-a-like brushed passed me and yelled down the hall at the emerald eyed boy. He did not move he just stood still and asked for my name. So I gave it to him ,little did I know I would give this man my life with the lick and slap of my tongue I formed Zuri.
He passed me while holding eye contact and then he followed the yellow headed boy. I stood their for a second before I trotted after them,like a lost puppy. They led me to an outside, tennis court with a green ground and white layered lines. I followed alongside the house till I reached the front where my mother was angrily waiting. I already knew I was in trouble but Mr Van Niekerk came out and said he understands many people get lost in the house first time around. A up and down jig of his shoulders with a laugh that eased me and surprisingly my mother, who laughed with him. She apologized and off we went.From long drive ways into dirt as narrow pathways,garbage at the feet of short trees and shacks all around made of glimmering scavenged material. A joke of a poor man's honor.
I returned to that mansion for over 2 years,wherein I encountered the blond headed and the emerald eyed boys frequently. I became close with them both as we all were young teens unaware of the true extremities hate can have on people.The blonded headed boy told me he was Jan Mr Van Niekerks son and Wayne Abraham's was his friend. We all played innocently shielded by the large world in ironically a mansion. Jan and I became very close but Wayne always kept his distance from me. Whenever I wasn't cleaning they came to bother me and sometimes they would deliberately make messes for me to clean. It was always Jan, he wanted me to clean his room while he just chatted with me. This annoyed me but Wayne helped me sometimes when he saw I was irritated.
When I turned 18 I told my mother I want to be something more. This was sparked in me by Tuesdays. Mr Van Niekerk would call me into his office and we would chat about many things:Philosophy,Mathematics,Morality but we never spoke about Politics. After a couple months he started lending me books and embarrassed I hid the fact I could not read. He eventually found out and started teaching me every Tuesday,I got homework and assignments. It was a welcomed exercise for something other than my body which was often sweeping and scrubbing the floors all day.
Your mother was a fast learner, I could read pretty well after 6months. We got really close,we even had debates about philosophy especially between Aristotle and Sigmund Freuds. We debated for weeks over wheather humans are innately evil or born good i always believed good back then. He would make us some tea with biscuits even after i insist on doing it for him,he always responds with i've got two hands dont i.
I enjoyed Tuesdays most of all. When I was 18 I came one day to him and told him that I want to be something more. Just like the first day we met,a glimmer of pride sparkled in his eye that was then glassed over by a chuckle. Hurt by this demeaning chuckle, I questioned his response and for the first time ever I felt small in his company. He clamped me like a car,prevented me from thinking I could go forward. Delicately as he could he put it,he said his world does not allow women or people like me to aspire. I threw all the debate skills and knowledge I had acquired through extensive reading and talks at him. Stunned by my clear cut argument he just sat their and whispered:Leave now.All I said was we were all equal.
So I left,as I went out Wayne stopped me by chasing me down the road. He wanted to know what I was doing at that moment,which I replied with a resound Nothing. He told me to join him as he was going to a meeting. Annoyed, I wanted to take my mind off the bigger things in my life and nurture a small thing rather. He took me to a meeting a gathering of people of all cultures in one place. I had never seen this before. I sat with a new kind of awe as I looked at all these young faces from all walks of life wanting something more.Daring it to come to fruition.
After this everything changed a fight sturred within me. A fight I found out lied dormant within for a while until Wyane like a cancer woke it. I joined him at many meetings and we grew closer,while he grew more radical. We began a relationship not to long after one which I later found out infuriated Jan. Wayne became more and more radical,soon holding his own meetings.
His meetings became a movement against the state. Freedom today not tomorrow was our famous chant. I supported Wayne and fell in love with him for his passion. We were never close but I always was fond of Wayne Abraham's when we were young. When I was 19 years old I fell pregnant with your older brother Silumko(a wise man). His name was befitting for when he came out he was already a little wise man wuth a inquisitive frown. My mother helped me raise Silu while Wayne often traveled the country encouraging others to take up arms. We disagreed on armed resistance I always believed peaceful protest can make a change until Silu.
Silu grew up to be a fine young boy, when he was 10 when Mr Van Niekerk visited my mother's house. We were still staying there as freedom fighters don't have salary,so I did work only here and their writing up pieces for newspapers as well as businesses. I at that point hadn't seen him for 10 years after our...fight. I was shocked to see him their,like a peacock among pigeons. Such a strange sight to see him sitting down on a broken bed in a small shack whilst wearing a tailored clean cut suit.
He spoke with me before Wayne came home,he warned me about the plans he heard about an attack. An attack that was planned by the state to kill Wayne and me as we were seen as threats against the regime. Wayne at the time concerned me he was becoming a bit violent with me and Silo over the past months.I did not know how to feel.
I was angry,because I have not seen Mr Van Niekerk for ten years and here he comes acting like a savior. So i asked him why he even cared?That's when he shared a concerned look with my mother,who nodded at him. That evening I found that Mr Van Niekerk was my father, that I was his only child. I asked how is this possible on the count of Jan's existence. To my surprise Jan was his wife's child from a previous relationship. He is the son of his best friend:Van Rooyen.
My mind that night could not take it all in, and this was exasperated to find out that my mother has been having a secret relationship with Mr Van Niekerk for 30 years now. They could not get married because of the immorality act that illegalised mixed marriages so they made a deal with his best friends wife. He will help raise Jan and protect her while he has his secret relationship with my mother. I did not know what to feel,what to think so I just sat.
Wayne barged in the door right then, with a gun and a look in the eye that scared our son. Silu came and sat by me While clinging onto me. Angry with a faint smell of Beer wafting from his breath ,Wayne approached my now father. All the hate and fear had eaten at his emerald eyes, it had become a dull Grey. He pointed the gun at my father and pulled the trigger once,twice then silence.
There was no bullets in his gun all it was filled with was a rage induced by oppressions grip.
That night I held Silu in my arms after I sent Wayne out. Now I don't know what happened to Wayne that night but later I heard he was ambushed and all our friends were shot dead by police but he ran away.My father allowed my mother,Silu and I in his house to stay but he did not allow Wayne to come visit or see us after the incident.Me and Wayne drifted apart for months.
There I reconnected with Jan who came home after spending mandatory time in the states army. He too was different but he was still the same in some regards. I shall not go into the details of how your father and me finally got into a relationship as its too personal my boy. But you were born not too long after we reconnected and fell in love. I needed him and he needed me and we both wanted you. Mandla,you gave us strength.
After you were born I heard Wayne was being hunted by the state for his 'terroristic acts' such as bombing communication lines. He came to us,disheveled and scared. We took him in but that same day the police came when I was out with you and Silo shopping. The police Shot dead your father, your grandfather and Silos father. When I came home I could not breath their bodies were riddled with bullets but Waynes was beaten to a pulp. Silo took you outside but I knew he saw.I knew he saw them and his father lying there.
A part of me still blames Wayne,why us?
I do not like to speak of that night because it was the turning point in my heart. Silo became radical like his father only a couple of years later,protesting and fighting until one fight on July 21st he was met with a bullet. This he could not fight. That was 2 days ago.
I have lost a man who I bonded with to topple a regime. I lost the father to my child,the blond headed man who loved me beautifully. I lost a father I never knew I had all along and now... I lost my beautiful boy,my wise son.
You are gonna hear many things about me son but I want you to know I tried. They took too much so they must suffer a lingering pain. I will take this bomb and plant it in that area with their long drive ways but I will sit still just there and be.
I loved you more than you can know. Remember only God can prosecute you so never judge another. Revenge is for the weak,and so I accept my defeat as the fickle do.I'm going to sleep now,and dream of you forever.
Love
Mom
ex anima
Dear mom,
First and foremost, I want to tell you that I love you. (Here is where you say “I love you more”). I love you more.
You have told me many times that I am the reason you were born. Quoting a movie, apparently, though I can’t find it when I look it up, so maybe you’re misquoting (which is even better - in that case, it is your own).
“She is the reason I was born.” - you?
I don’t know why I was born. It might be the same reason. You were born to be my mom and I was born to be your daughter. Did you know that women are born with all of their eggs? So, in a way, I was with you your whole life. Sometimes, I get sad because I cannot go back in time and hug you. I know you had sad times when you were a kid and I want to comfort you then but I was not born until you were 31. I like the idea that I was always with you.
I don’t think that I am your only purpose. While I do think that I am most of all your daughter (and dad’s daughter, and Eddie’s sister, etc.), there are other things about me. The same goes for you. You are a mother, a wife, a sister, an aunt (and you are good at all of those things), but also: you’re a great cook, you’re better than everyone at Boggle, you’re the most generous and kind person I have ever met, you are smart (especially at computer stuff that I don’t understand), you are fashionable (you don’t need my help even though you think you do). Most importantly, all animals love you (sometimes, I worry you will pick up a wild animal and bring it home and it would let you).
Sometimes you say mean things to yourself, particularly about your appearance, which not only makes me sad, but also has never made sense. For my whole life, I’ve wanted to look like you. I’ve only ever heard people say that you’re beautiful.
I know I say I want to die a lot (and, when I’m having panic attacks, I do feel that way. Thank you for taking me to endless doctors appointments for the last decade by the way), but I am grateful for my life. Remember when I said “I don’t believe things will ever get better”? You said “I’ll believe for you”. That was when I was in high school and I think about it all the time. I have actually told that to other people as well when they feel the same way. Things did get better, and then they got worse, but I hope they will get better again.
Thank you for giving me Eddie, too. And Mia. And Chilly (via Eddie).
Ex anima (I learned that from college. It means “from the heart/soul”),
GAEGBG
p. s. (this stands for postscript. i learned that in college),
i challenge you to a full game of rummy 500
In Blood
Dear Plexiglassfruit,
Of all the letters I may have sent, I have never written to my mother-- my real mother. I suppose I never believed that she was there, waiting, as recipient, and I'm not sure what I would have said, in years past, on paper.
My mother-in-law says she cannot imagine, as a mom, not being proud of me. She is very kind. There is pride, and Pride; and I have understood that for my mother I am on the cold inverse of the sentiment. Mother puzzles over me and makes comparisons. I tacitly admit the rationale. I make odd choices; everyone voicing an opinion, has told me as much.
Mother has graciously let it go after all, as notable, but uninteresting. We both know that I don't have anything to offer her--- I am useless as a backscratcher. There is simply nothing I can do for her, pragmatically. She has lived life as a sort of barter, with the eye on always coming up ahead. Having expected a man to take care of her, she has learned that money takes care of her. She steels herself to this state of affairs.
She told me a few years ago that, for Enlightenment, I am not ready.
(*My sister, yes; She has paid her dues, I suppose.)
I can only marvel at the confidence of the proclamation. I lay no claims, and wouldn't dare cast judgement... I guess I hadn't much thought about reaching Enlightenment, sitting out here in the dark peripheries of our misunderstandings. My childish hope was that we take care of each other.
If I were to write to my Mom, in abstraction of all that binds us in our interpersonal experience, I would write something she would likely dismiss as "dispassionate essay:"
Dear Mother,
Motherhood is not at all what I expected.
You cryptically said to me, a couple years in, when my child was almost three that "Now" I understand, and know. Truly, I do not. I rather sense some discrepancies in our perceptions and acknowledge the inaccuracy of my own viewpoints. The insinuation I feel is that, now, presumably I understand what it is to be pegged. Saddled. Of course, with affection and responsibility. Because that is the sentiment that I associate with our family reflection of child rearing-- The burden wrought.
And I observe the key differences that may or may not have been fully voiced. That motherhood "happens" in different ways. It has been expressed as lament, in our family circle, as the limitation of self. The facts remain, Mother, that you yourself said you were "not ready," and my sister though eager, was "surprised" by pregnancy. You've each countered that I was so reluctant and calculated as to "sap the Romance out of it"... well, certainly everyone's notion of such fantasy is varied. I have never doubted anyone's Love, in the short- or long-term.
I understand that having a child, or children, is tiring. The state of being on alert, all the time, is not necessarily shared by all parents though. I have learned this in watching the families of my preschool students. I also know it, from being left, so often unattended as a child, without adult supervision; under the care of my sister, two years older, and sometimes not even that. I understand the impulse that sometimes overwhelms and makes a parent want to withdraw. I have felt it.
For whatever it was that made you want to pull away, Mom, I am sorry.
I hope I never hit you, pinched you, scratched you, spit at you, demeaned you or otherwise made you feel faced with contempt. I am wracking my memory for any such incident and cannot remember. And I cannot think of a thing more heartbreaking, abusive and demoralizing. A form of domestic violence that has no legal recourse, the abuser being a minor and outside of the law.
So, as you have doubtlessly wondered: what then do I think of Motherhood? I have not found that being a parent is aww and diapers, sleepless nights, and adventures. That was understood. To be sure, I expected it to be, for lack of a better word, "work." I hoped for Motherhood, as an ideal; an opportunity I suppose. I was looking to be fully present, and now, have these constant questions: ...Have I done the right things? Where have I gone wrong? ...What can I do to make a correction for my apparent, yet undeciphered, errors? ...for surely, the evidence shows, if only in my own sight, that I am doing something not right... to have fears about my child.
Of all of this, naturally, you are unaware. You are not here; pictures sent show only smiles, and I have said nothing, except the underlying truth that yes, I am happy to be a Mom.
Perhaps it is of these misgivings that you speak of... when you say, "Now...you know."
M.
Mirror Mirror
A blue coat enveloped the decrepit house.Not even smiles of joy could tarnish the ever present gloom that rested in there.Living there is a family we have watched dutifully through the years.We do not get attached, our feelings are not the same as yours so when we felt something for them it was new. You must understand we are God's to them small but worshipped nonethless. Every morning,night and day they search within us but over the years we have dared to look back. When the small one began to walk and the tall one began to cry we did not understand. When the small one fell and screamed and the tall ones ran, we did not understand. When the small one smiled,laughed and shared with us her mind we finally did,understand. Fooled by this enigma we all felt something, like she was our kin,a caring beyond what we knew possible developed.So when things began to change we noticed.
No one expected him,no one does but we do.We know what he does at night when his family is gifted peace. We know what violence dances about when the warm cloak of night comforts him. See we never rest,our duty is to reflect and what we saw we cannot unsee.Everynight it traumatises us a new chip forms like a crack in us.Slowly breaking from the sight,it haunts us.
When she climbs into bed and sniffles into her stuffed baby giraffe at night we saw him. When a tall woman rests her head at exactly 9 :47 every night we see him. He waits patiently like a hunting snake. First he walks down the stairs barefooted in nothing but a loose trousers and top. He slithers into the kitchen with a eyes which hold great secrets,it weighed on him. Thirsty he always drinks a quarter cup of fresh orange juice .He never finishes it.
Eager he leaves the cup on the counter and hurries to his daughters room. He reaches her room and slowly with care he opens the door. He allows it to fling open wide. Strange,he never steps inside but just stares at her. The concept of time we cannot grasp but we have noticed it's power over the years. So we know now that he spends about 4 hours watching her. No movement,not even an itch he stands there with a look that we wish we never saw. So unwavering in its intent,so cold in its delivery but what really scares us is how determined it is that it's almost eerie.
After this he goes down stares into the basement in a rush. When he comes out a smirk is always plastered on his face.A look of relief or fulfillment one seems to disappear the next morning.He wakes up early and shakes her up.She always insists on taking her stuffed giraffe with her.It feels sinister when he grips her hand dragging her down stairs towards the basement.Her giraffe bashes it's head against the steps while the girl let's a tear escape.Everytime.
We do not know what goes down there in the basement but it is not right. When the sun creeps away and the girl hides under her covers she cries rivers. She always grabs at her tissue box next to her light when it overwhelms her. Her melancholia overtakes her,outruns her and it will drown her.To witness her tears every night is torture so we like knights shall fall on our swords to end our suffering and hopefully hers.
A plan has been devised one that needs to be conducted with stealth. See every night the tall one that sleeps beside him wanders to the bathroom at 2:50 am. She relieves herself then returns back into bed at 2:54am.This gives us a 4min gap to end him. One of us is situated above the bed where we have seen horrendous things occur. We shall all crack and break in protest to our dear little friends slow shattering.
Hopefully our shards shall penetrate those eyes that haunts her and all of us each night. Hopefully tall one will feel free and not cover up her scars with us. We are exact but we have studied them,appreciated them that it has softened our eye. So although we may never die, we will never see our dear friend again. Hopefully they will move out this house. It never suited them expect for him. It enfolded him,welcomed him in like and old friend. This houses suited the kind of secrets he held in his eyes. The house was not cluttered it was almost sterile void of feeling and life. Everything was so clean and put neatly together expect her. She was a little walking chaos and this always infuriated him. It also interested him to a point we wished someone threw a dark cloak over us all.
Sadly duty does command us and to not listen and reflect would be denying our very being. So when we all shatter into pieces we shall hold her close. We captured her broken heart and our broken shards will piece it back together. That baby giraffe will not have to bash its gentle head against those cold wooden steps again. Tears will not fall upon her pillow anymore. The tall one will not hide those blue marks by her arms. We will not have to see all this and more.
We will never know why there was so many of us in that house in the first place. A family with so much to hide next to us who reveals everything was odd.
There smiles did not fool us and he certainly did not.
We knew the day we saw him first when he hung us all around except the basement. When he stared into us just a little too long. Desperately he scoured us top to bottom for himself we wonder. Maybe he wanted to see if we could see what others could not.That dark blue coat that sits on him heavily.It was the way he smiled at us like there was something hiding crouched behind it.
He fit in well with the decrepit house...too well.