1

May you find yourself in the pages of this

Story.
 3

Contents
Copyright ....................................................................................................................................................... 4
Acknowledgements....................................................................................................................................... 5
The White Jacket ........................................................................................................................................... 6

Thandwa’s Story................................................................................................................................... 13

Balungile’s Story ................................................................................................................................... 26

Acwengile’s story.................................................................................................................................. 34

Langelihle’s story.................................................................................................................................. 43
About the Writer ......................................................................................................................................... 49
 4

Copyright
All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form by any means, electric, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise
without written permission from the author. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any means without written permission.

©Lizole Jalajala, 2022.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
 5

Acknowledgements

To My family and close friends: Thank you for your undying support and pushing me to
be the best version of myself.

To Asive Vukaphi and Lisa Mjojeli: You ladies are the best people I’ve ever met. Thank
you for sharing your stories with the world so that people like me get to learn and be
inspired. I wrote this book with your stories in mind.

To Thembelihle Zwane: Your beloved mzukulu is out here writing because you pushed
her when she didn’t think she could do this writing thing. Thank you for always being
there.

To Tebello Monyago: Late night texts of me being frustrated about a plot hole and a
whole of other things; you always listened and gave sound advice. Thank you so much.

Ultimately, to my readers and everyone unmentioned: You are the reason I keep doing
this. Your love and support keeps me going, you are highly appreciated. From me to
you to everybody: much love.

TRIGGER WARNING!!!

The story has graphic descriptions of child abuse. Mentions of rape, victim
blaming, and suicide. It may trigger a lot of emotions. Proceed with caution.
 6

The White Jacket

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. The young

woman dressed in a white coat standing by my bedside has a smile

of pity that I have grown to not be offended by. My breath hitches and
I pull it painfully from my lungs and cough dryly.

I am not in heaven and I am not in hell either; I survived, yet again.

And this time, my lungs are paying the price.

I feel a warm hand rubbing my backside while trying to restrain

me to the bed. There’s a funny smell around the room, one I liken to
the pine gel mother used to clean the house with. It crimples my

stomach and I feel a vomit coming up. My hands quickly sweat up as

I try to jump from the bed screaming in pain, the warm hand still
restrains me on the bed and the fight to free myself and run
continues. I can’t seem to move anything, my body jerks from one
side to the other and my chest heaves up and down as my respiratory

system shuts down. The excruciating pain pushes me to kick and

then it finally dawns that they have me chained in this bed. My wrist
and ankles are tied… There’s no escaping this time.

I lay down with tears causing a waterfall from the sides of my yes.
The warm liquid leaves my nose as I suddenly feel the numbness
 7

overcoming my whole body, from the soles of my feet all the way to
the top of my skull. This is my euphoria, I am no longer in pain.

A comfortable silence sat in the room while my breathing recovered

and I exhaled warmly from my mouth. My heart leaped with an

overwhelming sense of peace and floating. The woman in a white

coat placed the empty needle to the silver tray and removed her

gloves. I no longer feel the warm hands over the numbness.

The room spins in a slow circular motion as my eyelid meet. A flash

of colors filled up the sky creating a spin in synch with the circles of
numbness overcoming me. Whatever that was in the needle, I want

more of it. Never had such a joy feeling announced its existence to
me before, it is a stranger that I hug warmly and whisper for it to
make itself at home. The stranger has spread its wings and squeezed
the misery out of me while driving the cloud of euphoria. I cling tightly

on it back and let it fly away with me.

The beeping monitors pull me away from the stranger’s sound of

flapping wings, it slowly fades away. A feeling that we’ve reached the

destination overcomes my body and my eyes widen. I am still

chained to the bed.

“Hello, Thandwa.”
 8

Her melodic voice causes my lips to curl up and my eyes sit on her
beautiful round face with plumy lips. Her dreadlocks are tied in a
ponytail and her brown eyes are hiding behind the bold frame of her
spectacles. Nevertheless, she is a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

“How are you feeling?” She asks again holding a huge tablet
typing and swiping. “I feel like I’m floating in a soft cloud among the

stars,” I answer and she nods and taps on the tablet again before
placing it down and pulling the chair and sits beside me. “Do you
know where you are?” Her voice is full of concern as she sits back on
the chair. “I reckon the hospital?” I rhetorically ask and she confirms
by slightly inclining her head up and down.

“You overdosed and drowned in the bath tub. Your friends found you
in time and called the paramedics. You were at the academic hospital
initially and then they transferred you here yesterday night as your

case is mental. You are in those cuffs because you have a history of
escaping, harming yourself and the people around you.”

“Which hospital is this?”

“D.H Rhadebe memorial psychiatric hospital”

My breath hitches again, she notices and immediately tells me to

breathe slowly and calm down. My eyes burn with tears and I feel the

warm liquid leaving my nose, I swallow the heavy air and painfully
 9

gasp. My chest heaves and I scream while shaking, pulling and

kicking with all I can to get out of the bed.

“Let me go!!”

I cry, scream and fight. I cannot be here! They took the wrong person.
My heart bulk up and beats knocks against my ribcage in a thud only

I can feel. She pulls the needle again and within a minute; my

stranger with wings is driving with me from cloud to cloud. The

numbness, the spinning, the colours… I am hugging the stranger

tightly again and whispering for it to comfortably make itself at home.
It’s a euphoric feeling.

A WEEK LATER

The trees swiftly moaned in response to the breeziness of the wind. I

sat down in the huge couch in this wooden floor room in the 10th floor
of the hospital. The wall is white with high ceilings and big windows
that feed the view of the forest that goes on unending. The hospital is

situated in a mountainous valley where you can see the highway from
a far distance and hardly see any cars during the day except for the
ambulance, food and medicine trucks coming in every day. It is like a

maximum security prison filled with people in white clothes.

I got admitted as a patient a week ago and today is the first time we

are doing group therapy. I feel nothing about it but I am anxious of

 10

baring myself naked in front of strangers. I am a code blue; which

means I get easily irritated and agitated that I don’t share my room
with anyone but me. That has caused me to be behind making friends
or socializing with others in here. Maybe it is good that they are

strangers; I can tell them my story without leaving any details

because it is not like they will use it against me. We will probably
never see each other again.

They all walk in and there’s three of them, a girl and two boys. They
greet and thereafter make themselves comfortable.

The doctor finally walks in and closes the door. She happily greets all

of us and sits on her chair facing us. She does the nutty gritty of
checking everyone in her little tablet,

“We are all here. To some of you who don’t know my name; I am Dr.
Tshiwo and will be facilitating this group session. I am a clinical
psychologist and for today’s session we will be introducing each other

and thereafter answer the question, “Why are you here and how did
you get here”. Please feel free to get up, walk around the room or lay

down and elevate your legs. However position makes you feel totally
in control and comfortable. Please do remember that being 100%

honest, you are helping us help you so we are able to prescribe the

right medicine and give the correct diagnoses. Mental disorders vary
and can relate to each other most times which in some cases would
 11

lead to a misdiagnoses because the patient was not totally honest

with us. I plead with you to be fully honest and open so that whatever
treatment we facilitate, it can work in your favour so you can get out
of here ready and able to mentally cope with the rest of the world. I

need you to also remember that this is a safe space and no one will

do anything to you without your consent or awareness.”

She smiles and then hides her eyes behind bold spectacles as she
scans the room. I cross my legs and then lay down using the pillows
to support my back. If I am going to be recalling my past; comfort is a
need.

“So we will start with Thandwa on the left and go all around
ending with Langelihle,”

I am going first. Okay.

“Thandwa please take a deep breath for me and then take it away.”
“Mhh-huh”

I reply before inhaling deeply and let it out slowly. My eyelids shut

again as I open the shelves of information to my brain.

“Good morning everyone. My name is Thandwa, I am 20 years old in

my 3rd year of University. I have tried to commit suicide six times and

I failed each time with my last three landing me at a hospital.”

I pull my breath from the depth of my lungs and exhale slowly.

 12

“Tell us your story Thandwa.”

She says as I transport myself to the day that changed everything for
me…
 13

Thandwa’s Story.
“I could still smell death after so many years. The strong odor of
a gas leak which turned into a furnace in a matter of minutes that
overwhelmed the house, burning to ashes every living soul in there.

The people that were my family - they burnt down to ashes that day

and I became the lonely orphan kid people felt pity for as she had
survived such a tragic thing. I survived but they died with the secrets,

they died knowing and having done nothing of the abuse and that
forever haunts me. They died but I did too while they were living and
they never cared.

I had just turned 10 when he called me in his room to show me

something. I didn’t suspect anything, I mean this man was my uncle

and had taken care of since I was still in diapers. He knew me, what I
like and don’t like, my fears, strength and weaknesses. He knew me
from inside out and I trusted him fully… he was my hero once upon a

time and a person I ran to when my mother wanted to punish me; he

always stood up for me.

This sunny day in December, he called me to his room and I

excitedly walked inside. He instructed that I close the door and walk
to the other side of the bed where he sat facing the window. I can still

taste the cherry flavored lollipop I had with me. It was sweet and
sugary with a bit of sourness.
 14

I walked over and he had his penis out. Holding it with both his
hands and for a second I froze. I froze not because I had an idea of
how wrong it was but because it was my first time seeing an older
man’s penis and it was fully erect. My lollipop dropped from my mouth

to the floor along with my happy childhood and innocence.

That sunny day in December, he took every innocent and pure thing I

knew and left me with confusion and questions that I should never
have had as a 10 year old.

The first day he told me to touch it. Feel it and brush it like I would a
teddy bear. He forced me to it. I felt it in me that it was not normal but

I was 10, I was very young and shouldn’t have been battling between
what is right and wrong with an adult 4 times my age.

The bastard fed me his penis. Telling me to lick it like the lollipop and
that I was a now a big girl and this is what all uncles of big girls do to
them. He silenced me by a packet of chips and sweets with toys. It

didn’t feel right, it didn’t sit well with me that I told my mother.

I told her what uncle had done to me and she slapped my cheeks
making me swear to never repeat what I just said to anybody. She

said to me uncle was helping me become a big girl and big girls do

not tell what happens in the bedroom with anyone.

 15

I still cry for my innocence, I still cry for my purity and I still cry for the
curiosity of trying to understand how trees are able to grow tall and
strong. I yearn for that instead all I ever had were confusing feelings
about what uncle had done to me in his room. Mother said to me I

took his sweets and chips and by that, I am not in any position to

think what he did to me was wrong.

I didn’t cry for young Thandwa but I know she began fading from
there. The young bright girl who couldn’t wait to go out and play with
her friends was no longer there. She began staying in the house,
watching TV and trying whatever games were indoors to keep herself
away from her friends who were still young, pure and innocent.

It started as a once in a while. Once in a month, once in three months

and thereafter it became a weekend thing. He would walk into my
room at night and lie next to me while fondling and touching me

inappropriately. He would then feed me his penis and after spewing

his sperms, he’d leave chocolates and toys.

I had turned twelve when he forced himself inside me. Thandwa died

that day as he violated my vagina that I bled the bed. That excited
him, the excruciating pain I felt was nothing.

I couldn’t get out of bed the next day, my legs had felt numb and the
pain was unbearable. I cried and cried but I felt unheard. My screams
and jolting from the pain fell on deaf ears… It was not until I started
 16

experiencing seizures that the rest of the family knew that whatever I
was going through was painful.

I shouted and told them what had happened. That dear uncle had
forced himself inside of me, silencing me with his hand. I noticed that

they only bowed their heads in shame and the only thing they said
was that a family meeting will be called and ‘we will talk it out’. The

only thing they said was, “Pharais had to stop this thing now. It is
enough.”

And that is how the family ‘dealt’ with it. Brutal rape had been
reduced to a thing that he had to stop. It was not reported to the

police, simply swept under the rag like it didn’t matter.

He didn’t stop. He continued a month later and threatened to kill me if

I dare mention it to anyone. He now bought clothes, shoes. They all
could not make up for what he was continuously doing to me.

It went on until I turned 14. It was a sunny day in December again

and the whole family was in. I hated every day of my life, waking up
had become a chore. Brushing my teeth or even taking care of myself
was hard.

I didn’t have a will to leave anymore. My mind was still trying to

register what was happening with me, trying to make sense along

with my changing body due to puberty.

 17

The night of the sunny December, I had walked to the neighborhood

park and they were doing a ceremony to light up Christmas lights. I
had sneaked out of the house and attended that.

I returned to a house smelling of gas leak. I walked to my bedroom

for my hoodie and then walked out of the house with the odor getting
stronger by the minute. I was taking a walk, I was trying to clear my

mind – I was actually running away from the predator in the house
that was probably searching for me. I sat by the park watching the
lights. I laid my head on the bench at the park and I fell asleep
without knowing.

I was awakened by a strong smell of fire and sirens of the firefighter

truck.

The house burnt down to ashes along with everyone in it. I could still
taste that smoke of burnt bodied, the odor so strong in my nose still
after so many years.

I didn’t cry for any of them. Like I didn’t cry for the young Thandwa. I
was an orphan, I was the child whose house burnt down because of a
gas leak. There was not even a burial… what was there to bury?

Bones and ashes? Nothing was spared. The firefighters came too

late.
 18

I was sent away to live with a distant relative. My parent’s estate was
enough to care for me until death but I was still a minor, and needed
to be under a guidance which was appointed and she was my angel
with white wings.

She took care of me, loved me, was patient with me and made sure
that I understand what it means to be a confident young woman. I

had demons she didn’t know about nor anybody because I had let
them drown in the deep river that lies within me. I was able to live as
a teenager for a while. I erased 10-14 years and made up new
memories to compensate for that time. I packed it all in a suitcase
and let it sink down the river.

Like every object that is thrown into the river, it eventually flows to the
sea and Mother Nature vomits it in her days of cleaning.

Well, Mother Nature vomited my suitcase of trauma during my

sophomore year in university. It landed on a lap of my sociology

professor and it was re-opened in his office.

That Monday morning I had a consult with the Professor, there had
been rumours and accusations surrounding him and how he treats

his female students, how he sexually abuses them through

performing his power as a professor and thereafter sleeps with them.

I thought he wouldn’t try that with me, I was a straight A student, I
was smart.
 19

He began by brushing my thighs and I remember every bone of my

being freezing as childhood memories flashed vividly in my brain.
Mother nature had spit the suitcase of trauma and it was wide open
staring me in the face as I tried to make sense of what this old man

was doing.

I was so shocked. I yelled and asked what was he doing and he – I

guess acted as if I was making this shit up. He told me nothing

happened, he said to me I should book into the Uni’s counselling
center because I was hallucinating and it was not helping that my
grades were dropping. He told me to visit him in his home office just
off-campus as he’d be taking a leave to rest for a month.

He had made it look like it was all in my head, like I was the one
making it up. I can’t explain the brilliance of that man’s manipulation
but it was psychological and it showed that he had done a thorough

background research on me. I ended up apologizing because I didn’t

even know what was real and what wasn’t.

I knocked in his home office 2-weeks later. I remembered his touch

against my thighs over my jeans as we sat across the table drinking

coffee. His hand was warm - too warm like it was heating up while he

was holding me. Brushing it up and down as he explained the

concepts of what may be causing my hallucination.

 20

I again asked him to stop touching me and that’s when he stood up

from his chair to walk to my side. He locked the door, I panicked
because I don’t do well with closed spaces but he calmed me down.
He assured me that I was safe and not in danger.

He told me my reality was altered and what I think wasn’t really what
was happening and he has the power and will to help me find my way

back. He blamed my childhood, referencing the fire that burnt my

entire family and using the fact that I never received therapy to be the
root of the problem. He didn’t know about the rape and the abuse. He
never mentioned it but I thought he knew as he bottled it up as
‘childhood trauma’. It was like he had an idea but he didn’t know the
deep details of everything.

Even so, he messed me up so bad. Using every theory in the

psychology textbook to back up his claims. He was the professor

after all and I conformed as one does when a person in position of

power tells you to. And that is when he went far... Touching me, while

saying things that completely hypnotized me.

I stood still as he unzipped my jeans and began fondling with my

vagina. He fingered my vagina, I was confused, it felt like I had left

my body and I was watching this man from a separate view violating

my body and doing things I didn’t feel but I was watching.

 21

I never consented to the sex that followed. How would I consent in a

body that didn’t feel like mine? I felt nothing. No penetration, not his
breath or heaving, I was watching from a third body as he growled
and groaned and the office table creaking and making sounds as if it

could break any second. I didn’t feel anything but I saw it all, I was

watching it from a third view. I saw him carrying my body to the

bedroom that he entered through one of his doors in the office.

I can still smell the fresh wall paint of that room and how the air
breezed through the window as he laid me there. I don’t remember
much after.

I know that I woke up naked in the comfy bed that smelt like jasmine.
It was a different room from the initial one, the duvet fluffy against my
skin, the mattress soft. Someone had bathed me and didn’t bother to
dress me up. I sat up and looked around the room, the wall paint was

a faint shade of turquoise with bits of white and a humongous window

that fed the view of the city that extends to the beach and the lights.

So, I was still at the professor’s house but what exactly had
happened? I had no idea.

As if my thoughts were being echoed loud, a woman with beautiful

chubby cheeks walked in with a tray of food. She was dressed fairly

classy and modern. I would later find that she is the spouse of the
professor.
 22

I asked her what had happened and she told me I had a

psychological breakdown while talking with the professor and they
then asked the house helpers to help me rest. They are the ones who
took off my clothes and bathed me in a bathtub full of whatever

essential oils and aromatherapy bull they believed in. she said I had

consented in writing that I would undergo that kind of therapy.

Deep in me I knew that it was bullshit but I was confused. They

messed me up, and I didn’t even believe the fuck I was thinking.

I left their house 3-days later and being haunted by dreams of my

version of things. I had been violated and this time they fucked my

brain first.

I confronted the professor after he returned from his month sabbatical

but it never went well. It ended with me receiving a letter from student
affairs that the school was forcing me to a take a week of recess on
high recommendation of my professor who was concerned that my

marks were dropping at alarming rates.

The bastard had raped me and thereafter acted as if nothing

happened. Nothing fucks up a person more than psychology. It is

dirty and brutal as it may help.

 23

I began drinking and sleeping with every boy from the male
residence. I became the known weekend special, the girl who will
break your bed one weekend and the next she has moved on.

I managed to get to third year but I was fucked, the nightmares never

stopped and I didn’t know what was real and what I had made up in
my brain.

I found that I actually was pregnant and counting back my days, it

was near the 3-days spent at the professor’s house. That is when I
knew that I didn’t make shit up, he violated me. I reported it to the
university but I’m black and female immediately after, and he is a

white man with a clear reputation. Of course it was swept under the
rug faster than a speed of light and all because I had a reputation of
being a ‘weekend girl’ and I only wanted to accuse the man, because
I wanted to prostitute myself for money and good grades.

I was mad, angry, infuriated. Another man had gotten away with

violating me and thereafter making me feel like crap. I was

demonised, lecturers looking at me differently in class and I don’t

want to mention the students. The professor was beloved.

I had tried to commit suicide in those horrifying weeks but I’d survive.

The last one ended with me in the hospital and losing the pregnancy.
The University did not even propose a DNA because I was the black
 24

low-life hood hoe wanting to trap a distinguished professor. DNA was

never entertained.

That is how I ended up in a bathtub filled with water letting myself

drown. It felt good I won’t lie, finally I was slowly heading to peace

and nowhere would anyone second guess me and not believe me. I
don’t believe in heaven nor God but I do believe in something greater,

something beyond death and that is rebirth. I would come back to this
earth but as someone different. As someone who is not Thandwa
maybe I wouldn’t even be black and would be a different race and
I’ve always wondered what it felt like to be something different from
black.’’ Thandwa exhales and gets up from the couch to grab a bottle
of water. “That’s all. That’s how I ended up here.” She tells the

therapist who nod and jots down notes before raising her head and
addressing the group.

“Thank you Thandwa for sharing your story with the group.” She
glances down her register and ticks then looks around for the next

person,

“Balungile, Please share your story with us.”

He looks around the room first and then walks to the bean bag at the

corner, throws himself on it and rests his head on the palm of his
hands as he counts the lines of the high ceiling.
 25

“Alright, let me take you back,” He says and his mind travels back to
his childhood.
 26

Balungile’s Story
“She was the most beautiful woman on earth – my mother. Intombi
ecikiziweyo like a lily flower by the pond. She was gorgeous, down to
earth and full of nothing but kindness and love. She was raised well

and made sure we never lacked anything, the first graduate in her

family and the first person in our area to build grandmother a big
house. See, she didn’t grew up well off but she knew the world was

limitless and she was unstoppable.

Unfortunately, in science there’s a law that says unlike charges

attract and like charges repel. She met my father; I don’t know their
story and it not for me to tell but they fell in love and got married.
They had us, the kids… life was pretty good you’d think. It was never

good, things changed after they tied the knot. My father started
drinking non-stop and gambling his money until pockets were empty.

He got fired from the law firm and they bought him out which
led to him spiraling out of control. Abuse, it began emotionally,

psychologically. He made my mother feel bad for progressing with

her life and began denying me paternity. He accused my mother of

cheating on him and then trapping him into a marriage he never

wanted, he told my mom that he would have been better off in life

without her. He started accusing her of witchcraft whenever mother

 27

would question what he did with money and why was he drinking
tirelessly.

Things got more out of control after the death of his mother, he began
hitting her. He would get drunk, come home late in the night with a

bunch of young women, beat my mother into a pulp and then sleep
with those young women on their bed as she took the spare bedroom

or sometimes slept in her car. He became broke and got in more debt
that he sold everything valuable in the house until the house itself.
The money from the house was sent to his account, my mother filed
for divorce. He didn’t fight anything and we moved to another house
in the upper area of our neighborhood. My younger sisters and I were
still schooling, so she didn’t want to move us to another city.

We lived in peace for a while. We got to bond with our mother

and experience her undying love. Falling into a routine until this one

day he came knocking on the door. The house money was gone now,
he was down and out and didn’t even have food to eat… he

apologized and then lured her into thinking he has changed and
would be a good man. My mother took him in, I mean – he was the

father at the end of the day and he knew my mother was a good
woman. She was a good woman who was also naïve and stupid.

While we visited Grandmother this one weekend, I felt it that

something was not okay. Mom was hiding something and whatever it
 28

was would not end well. She kissed me and my sisters goodbye and
went back to her house after dropping us off at grandma’s place.

We heard a loud thud of a knock in the late evening of the

windy Sunday, my heart dropped to my stomach. I walked out of the

room and went to open the door, it was the police; my father had
murdered mom in cold blood and he was on the run. I couldn’t believe

what I was hearing.

I walked out to grandmother’s garage, pulled a bicycle and cycled all

the way up north to my mom’s place. The scene was beyond my 15
year old brain and eyes could see. There were blinding lights of the

police and paramedics, the neighbors were wearing gowns

surrounding the yard. I used the back entrance to the house and I
was welcomed by a blood bath, her body was lying next to the fridge
with her intestines on the floor, her eyes were still open but her head

was oozing out blood from the holes caused by the knife that stabbed
her.

The neighbors say they were woken up by ear piercing screams and

loud voices in the house. They decided to call the police but arrived
late. She was brutally killed and the killer was on the loose. He took

all her money and jewelry, all credit cards and everything he could

shove in his pocket. He fooled her, played her and then killed her in
cold blood with no remorse or thinking that she was the same woman
 29

he married, the one who gave him children. My grandmother never

survived that whole ordeal she got a panic attack and died on the
spot.

I blame my mom for it though, she allowed it to happen. She

should’ve known better than to stick by a low-life who was my father.

She was a corporate lawyer, successful in her own right but chose to

stay with a douchebag. Were men so uninterested in her that she

chose such a life? She chose to be this way? I hate her even in
death. I despise her for the life she lived and she has messed me up
for the future. After her death, we lived with a family relative who was
strict – too strict for my liking but she took care of us.

They say men do not cry, I didn’t cry when her casket slowly went
down. I didn’t cry as the last spade poured the last red soil over her. I
didn’t cry as they poured bags of cement creating a way for her

tombstone. I was there, I was watching it all. I placed the flowers on

the ceramic bed with all the hate I had in me. She could’ve done

better.

In high-school I met a girl. She reminded me of my mother and I

hated her at first until I fell deeply in love. Was it really love or was I

just looking for my mother and thought I found her in Rea? I wouldn’t

be able to answer that but I was drawn to her it was an obsession.

 30

I would beat up any boy who dares mess with her in school. She liked
that, the protective boyfriend who doesn’t want her around anybody
else but him. Her friends said all things about me, that I was an angry
boy and I should stay away from Rea but who the fuck are they to tell

me what to do? They are nothing, just weak girls planting a face of

being strong. Rea was a virgin but not me, I had been with girls
before, I had fuck girls and left them and I was fairly experienced.

She made me wait until after high school before she could give it to
me and when she did, it was all I could think about.

We had decided to enroll in the same university, I lived off-campus as

she was at an on-campus res. She would visit me and we would hang
out. I still didn’t want any of the girls at our Uni. I wanted Rea only

and she knew that… I had sex with her for the first time on a stormy
Friday night. That is when I got addicted to her and we did it
everywhere. I had never felt such warmth in one person, the way she

withers under me and clamps her vaginal walls tight around me made
me feel possessed. I didn’t want any guy friend around her, in fact, no
friends at all and she must hang out with me. Her weekends

belonged to me and except when she is busy with an assignment or

has gone home.

I guess she began seeing that I was nothing. That bitch began to
taste other dicks and decided to drop me. Who the fuck she is to drop
 31

me? The same fucker who gave her a taste to a dick? She was being
a stray and needed me to put her back into her lane. And how else to
do that? You discipline a girl. It was not abuse because it is not like I
was hitting her until she bled, a few slaps here and there... when she

is denying me sex, take it by force because how dare she denies me

something I introduced to her. She grew scared of me and I know I

fucked up. I know I fucked up but I did not care because I thought she

wouldn’t leave me. My own mother didn’t leave my dad until she died
in his hands and who was she to have the guts to do that? Rea was
nothing and I owned every piece of her. I thought I did.

I tasted alcohol and it added to the list of addictions. Drink and come
back to fuck Rea. Drink and return to be with Rea. Nothing was

wrong with that. I thought nothing was wrong until I beat her up to a
point where she miscarried. I didn’t know she was pregnant… that is
when the intervention began.

I was served with a restraining order and Rea transferred to another

University because I was a danger to her. I went further into alcohol

and drinking my sorrows away. Did I know what was wrong with me?

No, I didn’t and I still don’t but what I am aware of is that I am not a
normal human being.

I fell into an obsession with Rea because everything she did

reminded me of my mother. It reminded me of a woman I hated but is
 32

it hate? Maybe it is anger that accumulated throughout the years

because I though she could’ve handled the situation with my dad
better.

I almost died of alcohol poisoning. I woke up in the hospital hearing

that I’ve been there for weeks. My system was shutting down
because of the amount of alcohol in it. I was lucky to have made it… I

knew there and then that I wanted help... I needed help. I knew that I
suffered from post trauma that dates back to when I was 15. I am 21
now and I understand that everything I did to Rea was wrong. I tried
getting ahold of her with no success… I think about her a lot. I think
about how I broke her and ripped her apart. I think a lot about what
kind of a monster I was to her and that alone just kills my spirit. That

is why I am here. I voluntarily chose to come to this hospital because

I know just how messed up my life is.

I want to do better. I want to deal with everything… I want a chance at

this life thing again without being haunted by my childhood. That is

why I am here.”

The room fell into utter silence, Thandwa moved back to the sofa and
the doctor finally looked up from her notes and glanced over to

Balungile.

“Thank you for sharing your story with the group. Acwengile, it is your
turn which will make Langa the last one.”
 33

Balungile is still facing the ceiling as Acwengile crosses her legs and
place the pillow on her lap and looks around the room. The therapist
gives her a nod of assurance and she breathes in an out before
clearing her throat.
 34

Acwengile’s story
“My grandparents were strict Christians, you couldn’t tell them
otherwise. If you disagreed with their beliefs then you would have to
leave their house. I mean, what kind of a devil were you to not adhere

to any of the principles of the household. We had to strictly wear

dresses and skirts – no trousers. A girl wearing trousers was

possessed and should be taken to the church, she was an

abomination against the word of God. If you were questioning why

they choose this belief, you would be called a devil’s child.

My grandpa was a cheater but even in that; my grandma saw nothing

wrong. Those girls were obviously unmannered and throwing
themselves to him, he did nothing wrong, he was only tempted by

devil workers and he would need prayers so he can see the way
again. My mom had me while she was 15, she was sent to live in
Cape Town with relatives. When I was a year older, my grandmother

took me back to live in the township with them. They lied to church
members and the community that my uncle’s girlfriend left me at his
doorstep and of course; there was no way he as a man would be able

to raise a girl child, my grandmother offered to raise me. She became

a hero in the community for having such humanity.

It was okay, I was a good child until puberty hit. No one talked to me
about the changes in my body, how my hips would widen and I would
 35

grow taller with breast being firm and that I would get my periods.
When I got my first period at 13, I was terrified to speak about it to my
grandma, I told lady Violet. She would come by the house and clean
for us; grandma was getting old and there were things she couldn’t

properly do and so; lady Violet would come to the rescue and help

her.

She is the one who found me curled up in my bed and then

gave me girl talk. She said to me my mother was supposed to give
me that talk because my grandmother is old and she probably forgot
about some of the things that regard puberty. She bought me a pack
of pads and tampons, showed me how to use them, how to take care
of myself now that I was menstruating. She didn’t demonise the

experience for me, I was comfortable with her and asked her
everything that was confusing me about being a teenager.

It is a pity that when my grandma saw the tampons and forced to tell
her who bought those demons in her house; Lady Violet never set

foot in the house again. She was fired… all because of tampons my
grandma thought were demonic and were the work of Satan.

I grew thicker and had a more rounded butt and full breast. I was

voluptuous by the time I turned 15, I was growing and beginning to

see the world more. I began not wanting to go to church, refusing it

entirely because I was tired of hearing the same binaries and how the
 36

world belongs to men and women must submit to that bullshit. I knew
there was more to the world than just Christianity as I began reading
novels and journals surrounding the world and the many beliefs
around it. I came to conclude that we are all just trying to make sense

of the world. Whether we believe in Jesus or Ancestors or whatever

mythology we make out, we are all trying to understand what it

means to be human and our purpose here.

I remember my first experience with the backroom. The backroom is

not a nice place, it is where you feel your soul living your body. I had
lied to grandma about attending a whole night prayer at our church. I
was actually going to a house party and I had worn jeans for the first
time and they looked good on me, I was feeling myself with a crop

top. The only mistake I did was get heavily drunk until I couldn’t
pronounce my name or let alone a few ABCs, the people I got drunk
with dropped me right at my grandmother’s house and I still have

scars to prove that. She was old but that cane sat right through my
bones until I passed out from the beating. I woke up in the bathroom
with a bucket full of vomit next to me. My grandma was right next to

the bed and everything came crashing again like children who can’t

wait to tell their mother who broke the plate while she was at work. I
was beaten again, I was beaten until I couldn’t move a limb. I know a
 37

cane like I know the back of my hand, that was no longer discipline
but abuse and as old as she was; she was really strong.

I cried until there were no more tears left to cry. I was accused of
opening my legs wide for men and I wanted to be like the bitch my

mother was. I knew then that my grandmother was an evil miserable

bitch who hid behind the bible, what she was doing to me: beating me

with a cane is exactly what she would’ve like to do on those girls

sleeping with grandpa and taking all the money. She was angry and
forced to be okay because of the challenges placed upon her.
Because as a woman of god, at least according to her; you are not
allowed to cry be sad and most of all; be angry. They denied
themselves human emotions because of that bull they fed each other

in those Thursday meetings they held.

I was forced to stay in the backroom for 7-days, praying 5 times a day

and denied food. They called it a forced fasting, I was un-pure and
needed to live there for 7 days, drink water and pray to remove the

sins I had. According to them, I was full of sin and nothing could help
but be closed up there with no food or access to light. By the time the

7th day arrived, I could barely walk. I fainted and spent another week
at the hospital because of low energy and dehydration.

By the time I was 17 years old, I began cutting myself. My thighs

would be filled with red marks and some fading green… no one would
 38

see my thighs except me. I was the girl in long skirts and dresses, no
short skirts or trouser and no tight clothing because that would mean I
am tempting the married man with my body. I got a belly piercing the
minute I left for University. I felt a significant amount of peace and

freedom to do whatever I like and be whoever I want.

I pierced my nipples, my nose and my tongue. I wore jeans, miniskirts

and felt liberated. I felt free…. Even when I was called early in the
morning to be told that my grandmother died in her sleep and my
grandpa was nowhere to be seen, I did not cry. I said okay and felt
like the shackles were broken and I was flying high with no one to
stop me. I have always been an A student, I never got anything less
than a 75% in all my modules and I was a regular in being at the

dean’s list for academic merit. That freedom allowed me to fly to

horizons that I did not know were there. I was free at last – at least I
thought.

When I turned 20, I met this old white man who was a PhD candidate

at our university in the same faculty as I.

“You are too intelligent for your age, are you sure you just turned 20?”
he asked… That was the validation I didn’t know I was looking for, he

gave it to me. It was a rainy Thursday afternoon and he was giving

me a lift back to my residence. We ended up not going to my

residence because he said there was something he needed at his
 39

place first because he would return to campus and my residence was

in upper campus. It made sense that we pass by his place for the files
first.

I noticed that he lived in a bachelor flat, he was unmarried and a neat

freak. He had recently turned 47 a day before my birthday. We were

star mates and we bond over that. Instead of taking the files and

going back, we had a cup of coffee and spent the whole afternoon
chatting. He kept validating me like he knew which words to say to
me and he was saying the right ones. The ones I needed to hear…
The ones I longed to hear from my mother, from my family… the child
in me felt seen and heard and I was drawn to him.

After that afternoon we began hanging out more and he was allowing
me to help him with his research. Throwing ideas here and there and
showing him why he wouldn’t want to go with a certain angle in the

research; he was kind, gentle and constantly assuring me that

whatever is on my brain, it matters and is valid. He told me that I

should never dim my light for others to shine at my expense. We had

the first kiss under the sound of rain and storms in the city.

With each thunder I jumped feeling scared and he held the kiss while

holding me tight in his hold. I moved back and looked around as

things felt heated. I mean, I was a virgin. Yes, I’ve made out with both
girls and boys but we never went all the way.
 40

“Cwenga, are you okay?” He asked announcing my name ever so

perfectly. I nodded and he shook his head. “I know you, remember?
You are not okay. Am I making you uncomfortable?” I chuckled. “No, I
just…. I just never went all the way with a man and I don’t want you

expecting anything of me,”

He gasped as I told him that. He was in disbelief and stood up the

bed and walked to the window. I sat there playing with my fingers
until he returned and held my chin to look at him his blue eyes teary
and he was smiling.

“You don’t know how precious you are Cwenga. Not a lot of girls your

age keep themselves especially these days. Let me help you

experience this for the first time. Allow me sweet one,”

He said with his voice making me blush and then 10 minutes later my
nails were digging in his back screaming as he pushed himself inside
of me. He kept assuring me that I was okay and then began moving

in and out until he came hard. That night he held me tight in his arms
not wanting to let go.

He pushed the duvet open exposing my marked thighs and some of

the faded scars left by the cane. I tried to pull it over but he had

already seen it all. He asked and at first, I downplayed it and that is

when he pulled the rest of the duvet and had me straddle him… I
then talked and told him everything that by the time we were done, I
 41

was bawling my eyes out and he held me in his arms. I tasted his
anger as he sweetly kissed me. His tears wet my shoulders and we
consoled each other. We bonded like we had never before and the
next weekend I visited him, he made love to me in the sweetest way

possible. I felt a rushing climax and my body withered under him. He

confessed his love to me then and we fell into a romantic relationship.

I loved him. I loved him because of the way he received me. He was
the sweetest thing, Jamie was his name and his family lived in
London but he moved to South Africa when he turned 29. His family
being his mother and cats, his father died while he was young. I met
Charlene when Jamie took me to London, she was first concerned
about the age gap but as she saw how madly in love we were about

each other; she supported it.

I was happy with him, he came into my world and just turned it to its

bright side. I finally laughed until my jaw was painful. I was happy, I
was loved.

Jamie proposed the night of both our graduation. Him with Dr. of

philosophy and me with a master’s degree. It had been four years in

our love and we were still going strong.

Unfortunately, I lost my husband the night of our wedding. We got

involved in a car accident, I survived but he did not and that was…
that was the end of my happy season. I fell into depression and went
 42

back to cutting myself. I couldn’t function in a world without Jamie, I

don’t exist without him by my side. I might have went on too deep
because the next thing I know, I was blinded by a hospital light and
irritated by beeping machines.

I was then told that I am going to be transported here because my

case was mental. That is all.”

Acwengile closed her story and wiped the tears off her face. Talking

about Jamie’s death still get her choking and crying. She laid on the
couch and hugged the pillow.

“You didn’t mention your mother, how is she?” the therapist asked
and she shrugged.

“She still won’t say who my dad is. We have tried to establish a form
of relationship after my grandmother’s death but she’s already missed
out on a lot and I don’t care about her.”
“Mhhh-hh” The therapist says as she nods and thereafter turns to

face Langelihle. He chuckles and the therapist nods.

“Langelihle, close this session for us please.”

“Okay,” He says with a deep voice as he fixes the way he is sitting.

 43

Langelihle’s story
“I’m gay. Well, that sounds more like a confession to myself than
anybody else. I’ve known that I am different since I was a little boy. I
was different because my femininity is more dominant that the

needed masculinity, I’ve always been one to like soft, feathery and

pink. I don’t like the rough toys and playing in the mud driving bricks
as cars, I’ve been one to care for myself and where I stayed, that

meant you were not a boy enough.

My father was a traditionalist, a man who thought women belonged in

the kitchen and man at work. He was a patriarch of note and
someone you wouldn’t dare speak to openly about your sexuality. My
dad was toxic and he became worse when he got injured at work. It

claimed his one leg and left the other with 3 toes instead of five, it
was pretty bad for him that he walked – that would be an insult – he
was wheeled in a wheelchair and I don’t remember my dad being a

walking man even though I was 7 when his leg got amputated and
spent months in the hospital due to the injury. But still, the memory of
him walking is foggy.

My mother is a different story, she was a working woman who came

home at 5pm to cook for the cripple of a husband and then help me

with homework. She was this pillar and strong supporter of the home
but here is the thing; she never took bull from my father. He learnt to
 44

respect her quite quickly because she’d take me and older sister to
our Aunt’s house and we would all spend the weekend there leaving
him to fend for himself. I mean, if he was being a jerk to people who
helped care for him then clearly he can find a way to fend for himself.

He learnt the lesson quite quickly and slowly became tolerable and
respectful to us around the house. He then learnt how to do minor

things for himself and be a family member. He accepted the fact that
he can never run around outside with both legs… he got his situation
but still; never stopped being a douchebag.

When I turned 17 and began embracing my gayness, that is when

things between him and I began heating up. I wasn’t the golden boy
he needed, I was me…I was Langelihle. When I told them that I didn’t
want to go to initiation school, that’s where I knew he was just a wolf
in a sheep’s clothing. I was forced to go to initiation school, he

threatened me and I eventually gave in to his threat because I was 17

and scared and thinking my life began and ended with him.

Mother was always a supportive darling, she knew I was gay and was

supportive of me. She knew my first boyfriend and the kind of clothes
to buy for me. He took me to counseling when I was confused about

my sexuality, it was not to reassure the constant “You are straight”

but it validated that I am a gay boy in the black township of South

Africa.
 45

Everybody called me ‘mofi’, the bullying came but nothing works

when you are so sure of yourself and what you want, the counseling
helped me but weirdly, my father’s words crippled me. His rejection
and pure disgust caused me search for other ways to receive his

validation. I loved him and I needed him to understand how I am

different and I am no less of a man just because I’m gay. I needed

him by my side, I needed him to fight for me and not cheer on the

man who beat me up only because I refuse to wipe the makeup.

I wanted him to understand that being gay does not equate to being a
spineless person, I needed him to see me for who I am not what I do
in the bedroom or how I present myself. He died with that hate in him,
he died not having told me he was proud of me like a child would. But

I killed him anyway, I ended his life because I couldn’t take the
constant bullying anymore… I murdered him and I am proud of that
because my life began to be clear after his death.

It was a cold stormy night around winter last year, we were all

sleeping and hugging our blankets so we could be warm, I mean, it

was just another cold winter night.

I heard the wooden floor creaking at the weight of the wheelchair

coming towards my room, it was just after midnight and I was still

texting a friend I met at Uni. See, at this point I was the radical gay
guy from the city, I had my piercings and black nail polish and I was
 46

unapologetic about who I am. As I turned to the side, a knock on the

door came and I got up and went to open. I had seen him mad
before, I had seen him furious but the man I was looking at that night
had the face of the devil. Immediately my bones chilled and I look him

up and down with confusion visible in my face.

“Tata,” I said with my tone full of questions. I backed up as he

wheeled in and closed the door behind him.

“You are a disgrace kwedini!” He shouted and I laughed. I mean,

what else do you do in such a situation; you laugh and that pissed
him off because I felt a sjambok meeting my arms. He hit me again, I

tried running but as soon as I did that the door flew open and men I
didn’t know walked in. I felt the piercing screams of my mother then
as the door banged closed in her face. One man stood at the door as
the other two came to restrain me.

They pushed me to the bed and beat me up. I cried and cried, trying

to apologize for something I never did. My piercings were pulled

painfully and as they restrained me on the bed, the man who I called

my father beat me up with a sjambok non-stop. It is like the anger of

years he held in him was coming out on me and he didn’t care about

it.

As mother finally fought her way inside, she saw what my father did
and defeat was heavy in her tone. It turns out; this is what my
 47

grandfather did to him when he was a little boy, mom married him so
that he could appease his father… my father knew in his heart of
hearts that he was not straight. He knew this life he had built for him
was a lie and it maddened him that I chose to rebel and live the life

he would’ve wanted for himself.

I spent weeks in the hospital recovering. Coming out of that, I began

to resent him. I began to hate him with everything inside of me and

that is when on spring, I poisoned his food and he died like the dog
he was. I laughed hard as he choked and his face changed to a color
green across the table.

It was me and him that night, everyone had gone to attend the party
next door and it was him and I at dinner time. I poisoned him and he
died. I didn’t cry, I didn’t grieve but I knew as I watched him take a trip
to hell, he was pulling young Lange with him. I was a changed person

now.

“I killed him. I poisoned his food and watched him die,” my exact
words to the police when they asked what had happened, I was

laughing, I was not in pain. My lawyer claimed that I was mentally

unstable, she said I was a danger to myself and society. That is how I

ended up here because the psych that evaluated me saw bipolar and

other disorders I can’t recall. That’s my story; I’m here because the
court ordered it.”
 48

All eyes locked into him as he leaned back and smiled. The
therapist wrote on her paper and then removed her glasses with a
smile on her face.

“Thank you all for sharing your stories. This was a fruitful session, I

will pass these along for valuation and we will be back here in two
weeks for another one. May you all go ahead and have dinner. Thank

you,” The therapist said as she walked out of the room leaving them
sitting there.

“We are all fucked up. And I thought I was the worst,” Thandwa
mentioned out loud and the group laughed.

“I think that is the main point of this group session. We all

thought in our own individual spaces we have it the hardest,”

Balungile chips in.

“Y’all are fucked up even more by trying to put trauma on a

scale. The fact remains, we are going through shit because of our

crappy brains.” Acwenga mentions as she walks out of the room. The
rest agrees and they all get up down to have their dinner. Another
day at D.H Rhadebe memorial psychiatric hospital.

THE END (for now)

 49

About the Writer

Lizole Jalajala is a South African writer who began writing at the age of 15. She
believes that when we read, we become better people. She shares her work through a
Facebook page and has no officially published work yet.

Other work by her:

I am in love with a Sangoma

The Number Nineteen

Black and White

A trip Abroad

Visit her writer page on Facebook: Written by Lizole Jalajala

Email: lizolejalajala@gmail.com
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