Читать книгу Alive Again - Andre Eva Bosch - Страница 5

For as long as I can remember, my father had got drunk over weekends. Friday and Saturday nights were the worst. He would get home late after hanging out in the shebeen. His loud voice would wake me as he drunkenly called my mother from her bed, demanding food. On really bad nights I would hear his shouting go on and on while I lay shivering in bed.

“You’re a useless woman!” I would hear him shout on so many nights. “All you care about are your children and what they do at school. I will go to my other woman. She gives me what I want!”

Then the sound of a kitchen chair flung against the wall and the muffled sound of my mother’s pain. On those nights I wished my father would go and live with his other woman. I wished he would drink himself to death and leave us in peace. I wanted to run down the corridor and grab my father and push him out the kitchen door into the dark night. I wanted to lock the door so that he could never, ever come into our house again. Lying there, my fists in two hard balls, I wanted to run to the kitchen to help my mother.

But I had done it once, and it had made matters worse. My father had looked at me with his bloodshot eyes, smiled his crooked smile and said, “You think you are better than your father? You think you are going to be a lawyer one day? Girls are made to please their men. I, your father, will make sure you get married long before matric.”

And then my father had struck out, hitting me across my head so that I fell against the kitchen table. My mother forbade me to ever run to her rescue again.

So I would listen helplessly to my father’s cursing and shouting on those terrible nights and then, as soon as the house was quiet again and I was sure he had passed out on the couch, I would creep into my mother’s bed and lie down beside her.

“Is there blood, Ma?” I would whisper. If she said no, there was just a swollen patch of skin on her cheek where he had hit her, I would be relieved. No sign of blood was good news to us in those days.

“I’m scared. Scared of the Bad Boys,” I would whisper in the dark.

My mother would stroke my head. “Always be careful,” she would say, her voice thick with fear. “And always remember never ever to walk alone, especially after dark. Bad Boys like pretty girls. But you, Nandi, are my African princess. You will have a man one day who will respect you. And who will respect your dreams.”

* * *

I knew I was pretty. I could see myself in the mirror, after all. I had big, brown eyes with long eyelashes. My hair was thick and braided. I had high cheekbones. My skin was smooth and shiny. I had full lips. I was tall and slim. A shop assistant once said to me that I was one of the lucky few: “You can wear any old baggy shirt and you would still look like a model,” she had said.

I didn’t wear old baggy shirts. I didn’t have a lot of clothes, like some rich girls, but I loved wearing fashionable clothes. Who doesn’t? But whenever a Bad Boy watched me, I wished my skirt wasn’t so short. I wished I wasn’t wearing a tight-fitting top. When Bad Boys swaggered towards me in the street, whistling, calling, jeering, my palms sweated. I lowered my eyes. Struggled for breath. A brick hit me in the stomach. I made sure I got away, fast.

Who were the Bad Boys? They were boys, my mother told me, who disrespected girls. Who forced themselves onto girls. Boys who regarded girls as objects, as things. Cheap things. Things that could be thrown away. Thrown around. They were boys who used girls to satisfy their need to feel like big, powerful men. And every generation of KaNyamazane women had stories of the Bad Boys of their time.

Because my father had been a Bad Boy, my mother warned me against the Bad Boys of KaNyamazane from a very early age. I knew that a Bad Boy could shatter my dreams in the blink of an eye, just as my father had shattered my mother’s dream.

And so, another promise which I kept in my heart, in my Place of Promises, was that I would never, ever be with a Bad Boy.

My best friend at school, Maryke Malan, knew how I felt about boys. Maryke and I were exact opposites in every way. I was black, she was white. I had brown eyes, hers were green. My hair was frizzy and black and short, her hair was sleek and blond and long. I was tall and slim and never put on weight. She was short and always on a diet. I was serious; she was outgoing and a real party girl. I studied every day and my essays were always finished on time, even before time. Maryke often begged me at the last minute to help her get her work done.

But one thing we had in common was that Maryke and I both wanted to find a Special Boy. A Special Boy was the exact opposite of a Bad Boy. We even made a list of all the things a Special Boy was, and wasn’t. I showed Maryke my list: he was good looking, kind, funny, cute, clever, friendly to my friends, exciting, and he smelt clean and fresh. He wasn’t a flirt, a bully or a boy who drank or smoked, did drugs or dagga. He wasn’t the jealous kind, and he wasn’t the type who got nasty when a girl got better maths marks than he did. He wasn’t the kind who told his girlfriend what to wear or which friends to hang out with. And he definitely was not a player who cheated and lied.

“Your list is just the same as mine!” said Maryke. But she did have one thing I did not have on my list: he must be a good kisser.

“You have to put it on your list, Nandi,” she teased. “It’s high time you kissed a boy.”

I knew Maryke had kissed boys before. But I was funny that way. I believed in real love. I couldn’t understand how girls could kiss any old boy just because everyone else did it. I would keep my first kiss for a boy who was everything I dreamt of. Nothing less would do.

But although Maryke was a kisser, she and I knew enough about HIV to know that we were not ready for anything more than kissing. Going all the way was not for us, not after all we had heard about HIV and AIDS at school.

Maryke’s father was a doctor and he often came to school to talk to us about sexually transmitted diseases, HIV and AIDS. I liked Dr Malan. He was kind, and when my brothers or I were sick my mother always took us to see him when he consulted at the KaNyamazane Clinic on Wednesday afternoons. Between my mother and Dr Malan there was no chance I would sleep with a boy. My mother’s favourite line was, “You can become a lawyer or another HIV statistic, Nandi. It’s your choice.” Dr Malan always said, “Saying no to sex is the best AIDS cure I have ever heard of. The best way to ensure that you can follow your dreams.”

And so, when other girls spoke of going all the way with boys, I kept quiet and renewed my promise to myself, over and over again, that I would get to university and complete my law degree, come what may.

* * *

I loved having conversations with my favourite teacher, Mr Khumalo. Mr Khumalo was that same teacher who wore the Madiba shirts and whom my mother had met in the taxi so many years earlier, the one who said I should be a lawyer. During our conversations, he helped me decide what kind of lawyer I wanted to be one day. More than anything else, I wanted to protect women like my mother against men like my father. Mr Khumalo said it made sense – and I had hands-on experience. He said I should specialise in human rights law.

Mr Khumalo was not only my favourite teacher, he was also one of my greatest supporters. Because we didn’t have a computer at home, I would stay after school to do homework on the computers in the IT-class, and one afternoon he suggested I have a good look at the University of the Witwatersrand website.

“Not long before you’re in matric. Start now to focus your attention strongly on your dream. Wits has a great law faculty. Believe with passion that you will be studying there one day soon. I can see you there already, Nandi!” he said.

At that moment there was a little flutter in my tummy, as if a soft feather was tickling me on the inside. I knew for sure in that moment that my footpath was turning towards the rising sun.

Later that afternoon, going home in the taxi, I imagined the following scene:

I am a qualified lawyer. In my handbag I always carry my business cards in a white-and-gold holder. Nandile Dube, Human Rights Lawyer. Each time I hand a card to someone, I want to burst with happiness.

* * *

Soon after I turned fifteen, my dream of becoming a lawyer received an unexpected boost at school. I remember it well: it was a sunny spring morning in September. A lawyer all the way from Johannesburg, a certain Mr Bongani, had come to school to speak to us about our country’s constitution, and especially about youth rights in South Africa. Mr Khumalo had invited Mr Bongani to our school.

When Mr Bongani had finished his speech, he opened the floor for questions. My hand shot up.

“Please, sir, can you tell us a bit more about your career as a lawyer?”

Mr Bongani explained how tough the law courses at university were and how committed one had to be to see them through. He went on to say how rewarding it was to be a lawyer, how a legal practice could be a platform from which one could help others and also make great changes in society.

“Being a qualified lawyer empowers one to change lives,” Mr Bongani said. “There are many people in our country who do not have a voice. They are afraid to speak out and claim their human rights. Lawyers can make a huge difference to their lives. Let me add, though, that many lawyers are not ethical; they are more interested in money than people. I prefer to speak about lawyers who work with integrity, honesty and compassion.”

While he was speaking, Mr Khumalo, who was sitting on the stage facing us, caught my eye. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. I knew that smile of encouragement well; it always made me feel that he really took me seriously.

Maybe you also know what it is like when an adult you like and respect really, really believes in you? That warm feeling which lifts you up and gives you hope and a reason to pursue your dreams? That is how I felt in that moment. Like the sparkling sunlight which streamed through the windows of the school hall, Mr Khumalo’s acknowledgement flooded my whole body with a bright, warm, happy feeling.

Everything the lawyer said was music to my ears. Some learners yawned and one or two nodded off, but I was fired up. I had so much energy that I could have run a marathon, and won.

When the speech was over, Mr Khumalo called me aside and introduced me to Mr Bongani.

“Nandi is a promising student. She works hard and she’s determined to study law one day. She is one of our best debaters also,” Mr Khumalo enthused.

Mr Bongani, with a sincere expression in his eyes, said, “Our country needs good lawyers, and we need women in law. Keep your dream alive, Nandi. You sound like an ideal candidate for this career.” He gave me a tap of encouragement on my shoulder.

He turned to Mr Khumalo. “My son’s school in Johannesburg is planning a debating competition for high schools in February next year. I’ll be an adjudicator. We want to include learners from far and wide, and we would love to invite your school. Why don’t I help you arrange for Nandi to take part? In fact, your school could send your two top debaters.”

“Brilliant idea!” Mr Khumalo replied, beaming. “Nandi and her best friend, Maryke, are our top debaters. How does a visit to Johannesburg sound, Nandi?”

I almost jumped out of my skin with excitement. “Are you serious, sir?” I asked.

“Take it as done. And tell Maryke,” said Mr Khumalo, taking hold of Mr Bongani’s arm and heading off to the staffroom, loudly discussing the details of the debating competition.

I was good at debating. Mr Khumalo always said that all good debaters had one thing in common: they read a lot. And that is exactly what I did. I was a regular in the school library and I loved curling up on my bed, my nose in a book.

“Knowledge creates confidence,” was one of Mr Khumalo’s favourite expressions. And whenever I stood on stage, facing the audience, I felt as if the world was at my feet. And words came easily to me. My mother had been right – I was born talking.

I ran off to find Maryke to tell her about our good fortune. Being who she is, she immediately burst out with, “Boys! It’ll be raining boys!”

I laughed and hugged my friend. I was also excited about the boys we would meet, but I was even more excited about going to Johannesburg. Unlike Maryke, I had never been to the City of Gold. I had been as far as Middelburg once, for a debating competition, but never to Johannesburg. For me it was as good as going overseas, to New York or London. And Johannesburg was where the University of the Witwatersrand was.

Mpumalanga was home, but Johannesburg was my City of Dreams.