My Work

Darker Tones

Black and white African child

It was the beginning of the school year in Gaborone; the girls were finally in standard seven. Kenalemang and Sheila were excited because this was the last year of their primary schooling. They were in the same school after Kenalemang was transferred from her old school. Sheila was an average student but Kenalemang was exceptional. Her former teachers were confident that she was going to get straight A’s for her Primary School Leaving Examination. Kenalemang was thrilled to start at a new school where no one knew her parents had died and what they died of. Children were so cruel.

Mmamane Dimakatso had bought Kenalemang’s new school uniform but because of budgetary constraints, she had to choose between paying for Sheila to do her hair or buying Kenalemang new school shoes. Mmamane Dimakatso chose the former. Sheila was favoured because she was Mmamane Dimakatso’s only child and Kenalemang was her dead sister’s orphaned child. The girls’ first day of school went swimmingly for Sheila who was coming back to her old friends and familiar surroundings; Kenalemang’s day was a little less pleasant. As she walked into her new class, a lanky boy at the back of the class asked her what her shoes were saying. Kenalemang stood at the front of the class confused by the question. Her shoes had not made a sound. Kenalemang looked at him as a sly smile spread across his face.

“My shoes aren’t saying anything.” Kenalemang replied indignantly.

“My sister, are you sure?” The boy asked with a cunning smirk

Kenalemang nodded her head in the affirmative. She suddenly felt self conscious. Her shoes were not new but they were still as sturdy and stylish as the day they were bought.

“If you’re sure, walk out and walk back in.”

Kenalemang walked out and walked back into the classroom. A dozen pair of eyes watched.  As she walked in the second time, the class erupted in laughter.

“Her shoes are talking! Talking shoes on the first day!”

The glue that kept Kenalemang’s shoe and its sole together had worn out and every time she walked her the sole of her shoe would separate from the shoe itself. This imitated the mouth movements of a person talking. Kenalemang’s shoes were talking. The embarrassment sunk in as she walked to an empty desk and sat down whilst everyone in the class laughed. The whole day they laughed. Sheila laughed too. Children were so cruel.

Standard seven represented the culmination of your primary schooling. Sheila struggled, as did the rest of their class but Kenalemang never faltered. When Kenalemang aced her PSLE exams, all Mmamane Dimakatso said was that at least she was good for something. There was no reward, no present, no new clothes or a party or even a cake. Kenalemang didn’t mind. She had fast realised that she was not going to be celebrated living under Mmamane Dimakatso’s roof.

Every Motswana child struggles to sleep on the twenty fourth of December. Christmas eve means an array of different things for different families all over the world; in Botswana you were sure of three things: Christmas clothes, a seven colour plate and a lot of meat. Homemade ginger beer quenched the young and old helping to combat the sweltering heat. Kenalemang and Sheila had giggled undercovers all night; the two cousins talked excitedly about all the food they would eat, the games they would play with their other cousins and how they’d be trying to get at least P10 from Malome Shakes because he was the rich uncle and he liked to spoil all his nieces and nephews. Kenalemang had been living with Mmamane Dimakatso, her aunt, and her daughter Sheila, for about two years. It wasn’t the same as being at home but Kenalemang had no home anymore. Her mother had died first then a few months later, her father had passed away. Before death had stained her life, she was a carefree 11-year-old who loved Cartoon Network and the tomato flavoured Jiggies snacks. Now she carried the grief everywhere she went. A little sadness was perched on her shoulder, always nagging her, reminding her that she had no parents. Christmas used to be a magical time when Kenalemang had parents; her mother would bake and cook enough food for the village and the village would come. This would be the first Christmas without her mother to fuss over her and make her wear a pretty dress that would be dirty by days’ end. There were no expectations for this Christmas. It would be fun because they’d be going to celebrate at Nkuku’s but Kenalemang knew that the fuzzy feeling that came with Christmas would never ever come back. The morning came and Mmamane Dimakatso had laid out some clothes for the girls to wear. For Shiela, it was a beautiful chiffon dress as well as new pair of shoes. For Kenalemang it was Sheila’s old church dress, no shoes. Mmamane Dimakatso fussed over Shiela and made sure her daughter looked regal. Time was taken with Sheila’s hair; her caramel complexion glistened underneath all the Vaseline that was lathered on her skin. Kenalemang smoothed Vaseline on her own cocoa-toned skin; she pulled her hair into a bun on top of her head and put on Sheila’s old shoes. When they reached Nkuku’s house, the festivities were in full swing. Nkuku was at the back of the house and when her Sheila and Kenalemang saw her, they ran toward her, throwing themselves at their grandmother. The older woman was happy to see her grandchildren. She took each of them by the hand and lead them to her bedroom when she pulled two plastic bags full of goodies from beneath her bed. Toys, books and the second set of new clothes for Sheila for Christmas. Sheila beamed. Kenalemang was half naked as she thanked her grandmother. Maybe her Christmas may just be magical after all.

It slipped. Kenalemang doesn’t know how but the glass slipped from her wet fingers and crashed into the floor, shattering dramatically. Kenalemang paused; she held her breathe hoping Mmamane Dimakatso didn’t hear the glass breaking. Then from the other room Kenalemang heard,

“Thuba hela! Break everything! You want to leave me without any nice glasses akere? It’s not enough that I took you in when your parents died. This is how you thank me? By breaking everything? I should have known by your dark skin that Satan sent you…”

Kenalemang quickly knelt down to pick up the pieces of broken glass. Mmamane Dimakatso’s sililoquy went on in the other room. Unprompted, Mmamane Dimakatso went onto describe the curse that fell upon darker skinned people, how they never get anything right. Kenalemang drowned her out with thoughts of what her mother used to sing as she bathed her. The words echoed loud in her mind and hardened her resolve.

How wonderful that I have seen, the dark skin of a queen. How wonderful that I have seen, the dark skin of a queen.

Over and over the words drummed around in her mind. Kenalemang held onto the words but she clenched her jaw in frustration. A piece of glass cut into the webbing between her index and her thumb. Kenalemang swept the the broken pieces of glass out of the kitchen door and resumed her daily chores of washing dishes. Sheila and Mmamane Dimakatso sat watching Generations on SABC 1. Kenalemang watched them through the crack of kitchen door.

“… her mother wasn’t even dark! My sister? My sister was as light as me and you Sheila but it was the sins of that one’s father that made her dark. An omen I tell you…”

Mmamane Dimakatso went on and on about how dark skin was cursed and how fortunate they were to be lighter. Sheila smiled contentedly knowing she was free from the dark skin curse. Kenalemang finished in the kitchen, said goodnight and went straight to bed. She lay face down in her bed, pushing her mouth into the mattress to muffle her pained wailing.

Sheila walked into their shared bedroom. Kenalemang had switched off the lights; Sheila switched them on again and sat on her bed. Kenalemang turned to face Sheila.

“Please turn off the lights, I am trying to sleep.” Kenalemang asked.

“Yeah yeah, ema pele. I’m looking for my shoes.” Sheila stated.

Kenalemang rolled her eyes at Sheila’s selfishness. She could look for her shoes in the morning. It was not a pressing matter. Sheila had walked into the house with her school shoes on so they were in their bedroom somewhere.

“Ao Sheila don’t be like that. I need to sleep; I’ll help you look tomorrow.” Kenalemang pleaded.

“You can help me look now.” Sheila suggested and knelt down and looked under Kenalemang’s bed.

Kenalemang rarely ever got angry. But after everything her aunt her said to her, she was livid. She hopped out of bed and switched the lights off. Sheila stood in the middle of the room with her mouth agape.

“Mxm! Mama is right. Dark skinned people do a have a curse. They’re stupid. You’re stupid Kenalemang!” Sheila whispered furiously.

Kenalemang cried silently. She would not let Sheila know that her words had hurt. Kenalemang had thought that Sheila would be on her side because they were best friends but Sheila had said that Mmamane Dimakatso was right about what she had said about her. This pained Kenalemang greatly. Her only ally was now an enemy. Kenalemang felt very alone but exhaustion rescued her from her despair and she drifted off into the oblivion of sleep.

“…Unfortunately we’re going to have to downsize. This affects your entire department. We’re going to have to let you go…”

Mmamane Dimakatso read the letter for the third time and sat down at her desk. The stress came like a freight train and knocked the wind from her lungs. Her breathing became labored. The air seemed thinner. Mmamane Dimakatso sat down in her office chair and took a couple of deep breaths. She held the letter in front of her eyes but the letters swam about the page. Quickly she reached for a coke in the bar fridge next to her desk and drank it. The lightheadedness subsided but the shock from the letter did not. Mmamane Dimakatso was in her late fifties. Finding a job now would be close to impossible. The last qualification she had acquired was a certificate for basic accounting but she had no formal schooling, she had no degree. Mmamane Dimakatso’s husband had left years ago and all she had was herself and her girls. When her sister died she had left nothing behind and Mmamane Dimakatso was left with the burden of taking on Kenalemang’s care without any financial assistance from anyone. Working at Botswana Housing Corporation had supported her and her daughter for the last eight years.

“Please find the time to visit the Human Resources department so as to discuss your exit package and pension pay out arrangements.”

Sheila and Kenalemang were only eleven years old. Mmamane Dimakatso still had five more years of schooling to put them through before she could take a step back and hope that the government of Botswana awarded them the scholarship money for tertiary education. It was a dark day and Mmamane Dimakatso didn’t know what she was going to do. She had a mortgage and no other skills or sources of income. Yet, things would get darker still.

            Kenalemang opened the fridge once again. The contents had not magically changed. There was half an onion and some tomato paste. There was nothing else. In the pantry there was only maize meal and a can of baked beans. Kenalemang was the resident cook, Sheila only helped her when she was in a good mood. Today, Sheila was enthralled in an episode of The Queen and had no time to worry about what was to be eaten. Kenalemang chopped the onion and fried it then added the baked beans and tomato paste to make gravy. Then she made paletŝhe with the maize meal and waited for her aunt to get home. When Mmamane Dimakatso walked in, she didn’t even eat. The girls looked at one another in confusion. Kenalemang dished for herself and Sheila and cleaned up after they were finished. Mmamane Dimakatso never emerged from her room again that evening.

Mmamane Dimakatso got the news of Nkuku’s stroke by telephone from the hospital. Nkuku had been cleaning the yard when she collapsed. Neighbors had rushed her to Princess Marina Referral Hospital. It was only there that they had called Mmamane Dimakatso. She had left the girls watching TV to rush to her mother’s bedside. Kenalemang’s mother had passed away just over a year ago and Mmamane Dimakatso was not ready to face death again; her sister’s death had thrust a lot of responsibility upon her and Nkuku’s death was sure to do the same. After transferring Nkuku to Gaborone Private Hospital, she sat the girls down to explain what had happened. It was a minor stroke and the doctor’s expected Nkuku to make a full recovery. Kenalemang took it the hardest. She cried when she saw her grandmother in the hospital for the first time. Mmamane Dimakatso had put her mother on her medical aid but now she struggled to make the payments. There was no money and the hospital had charged an extra twelve thousand for Nkuku’s stay there. The older woman told her daughter to take her back to Princess Marina where her care would be cheaper. Mmamane Dimakatso was drowning in debt in order to make ends meet but she also wanted to afford her mother the best care possible. And so she paid, heavily. Kenalemang could not sleep. She thought that if she did, she would wake up to the news of her grandmother’s passing. Death affects you like that. When your mother and father die within a short period of time, you end up thinking everyone you love is going to follow the same fate. Nkuku was discharged after two weeks and went to live with her daughter and two nieces.

Kenalemang’s chores stayed the same. Clean the house, cook the meals and wash the laundry. Nkuku noticed that Sheila wasn’t expected to do anything.

“Ngwanake why are you spoiling Sheila? She should help Kenalemang with the housework.” Nkuku commented to Mmamane Dimakatso one evening.

“Oh Mama don’t worry, she does. You just haven’t noticed.” Mmamane Dimakatso lied.

The older woman had no energy to press further on the matter. Food was scarce. Things were tough for a while. Mmamane Dimakatso couldn’t afford to have her mother stay with them but she was insistent, at least until Nkuku got better. Kenalemang enjoyed every moment of Nkuku’s stay; they stood side by side in the kitchen, cooking the day’s meals as Mmamane Dimakatso and Sheila watched soapies. Nkuku would take the time to soothe Kenalemang’s ache for her parents by telling her stories of her mother when she was younger. Nkuku brought the memory of Kenalemang’s mother back so vividly. The kitchen became Kenalemang’s favorite room; she could make a delicious meal out of the bare necessities. One day Mmamane Dimakatso took Nkuku to Julia Molefe clinic for a doctor’s appointment. The clinic usually took hours to attend to patients, they were severely understaffed. Kenalemang and Sheila played outside in the dusty yard, barefoot. They climbed trees and built mud houses. The girls forgot their chores and threw themselves into unencumbered fun.  It was only at three that Kenalemang started to cook. Abandoning her cousin, Kenalemang began her daily chores by boiling water for the rice. After putting the rice on the stove, Kenalemang took a quick bath. The heat of the stove had been too high and the stench of burning rice meandered throughout the house. The smell met Mmamane Dimakatso at the door and she became enraged.

“Kenalemang! Come here right now!”

Kenalemang heard her aunt screaming her name. She rushed to the living room still in ignorance of her misdeed.

“Kenalemang, go and fetch a stick right now! I’m going to teach you a lesson about wasting food.”

The young girl scurried away to break of a small branch from the hedge that was intertwined with the fence. This was a ritual countless Batswana children knew: going to forage for the stick that was going to mete out your punishment. The bush smelt fresh and painful as she let it dance between her fingers; she picked a medium sized branch.

“I-I’m sorry Mmamane. I-I wanted to bath b-because we were playing outside…” Kenalemang stuttered trying to save herself. Sheila watched it all unfold but couldn’t save her cousin. Nkuku stood back, allowing her daughter’s anger toward Kenalemang to fester.

“Heela ngwanyana o montsho! Don’t waste my time, bring that stick here let me show you how I feel when you waste food.” Mmamane Dimakatso shrieked.

Mmamane Dimakatso grabbed the stick from Kenalemang’s small hands and brought it against her fragile frame. Mmamane Dimakatso’s hand would raise up as far up in the air as she could then it would descend in the direction of Kenalemang’s body. Kenalemang felt the whipping from every angle; she yelped and screamed, bolting about the house. Mmamane Dimakatso was quick and agile, she blocked the young girl at every turn. The stick licked Dimakatso’s skin across her back as she tried to escape outside. Her foot caught on the carpet and she fell forward hitting the corner of the coffee table as she went down. Kenalemang lost consciousness and everything faded to black. Mmamane Dimakatso held the stick in the air, unsure of it’s fate as its’ target lay still on the ground; she lowered her hand slowly. Nkuku came closer to see if Kenalemang was alright. Turning her over slowly, Nkuku cradled Kenalemang in her arms. Three pairs of eyes saw the slow and steady ooze of blood from a gash in Kenalemang’s forehead. She bled. The blood stained Nkuku’s clothes and the carpet. The smell of burning rice went unnoticed. No one had switched the stove off. The sight of blood and the smell of burnt rice played on the senses of those who came to help. Disaster enveloped the and constricted their sense of safety. The rice was burnt and in a way, so was Kenalemang.

Kenalemang came to slowly. First one eye opened then the other. Her body felt stiff so she tried to stretch, a mistake she quickly regretted. Her skin was on fire, the beaten skin screaming at the movement of the muscle beneath it. Moving her head had awoken a demon of a headache that was steadily dragging her to hell. Wincing and whimpering she got out bed and walked slowly to the toilet. When she walked back into the room, Nkuku was walking in. When Kenalemang saw her, her eyes watered.

“Nkuku what happened?” Kenalemang asked

Nkuku sat down and said, “Ngwanake, your aunt was not treating you well. I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I wish you would have told me.”

“I don’t remember how I got here Nkuku.”

The older woman recounted what had happened. Kenalemang held her forehead and felt her bandaged head. That’s why everything hurt. That’s why her heart hurt. Nkuku sat and explained that Kenalemang would no longer have to live with Mmamane Dimakatso. Elation vibrated through Kenalemang’s being and for the first time in a long time, she was happy.

I look forward to right now

I look forward to right now and revel in the memories of the present.

Every second of every moment tastes like the sweet nectar of life’s pleasures.

Many have woken up dead never to rouse to the future of their past.

I look forward to making every present moment last.

As an expectant mother carrying the very seed that perpetuates life anticipates right now,

I anticipate this very time.

As her belly swells she relives every instant before it has come to fruition.

It’s almost a déjà vu you never knew as you embody life’s intuition.

I foresee a time in the present moment when everything is alright.

When happiness and content consummate a reality you cannot fathom even as it happens.

A time foretold in the now that is inconceivable even to fortune tellers.

Propelled forth by the actuality of destiny’s propellers.

I look forward to right now and the present tense of my past participle.

To act as a verb even when I exemplify a proper noun.

To remain in the moment of the current and commemorate each waking instant.

I stay in the past and reside in a future where, always, I look forward to right now.

Red Waterfalls

My dress was bunched around my waist and I lay exposed to this brawny man of West African descent. He had the typical features of a man from that area of Africa, strong
presence of nose, coffee skin tone and a head that was flat at the back. He was what we would call a ‘lekwerekwere’.

“I’m going to put…” he thrust his fingers roughly into me, “… four inside.”

I shut my eyes tightly, grimacing at his sudden invasion of my body. He didn’t bother to use
any form of lubrication nor did he have any gloves on.

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“Why don’t you girls wash down here?”

I cringed inside. I had “washed down there” that very morning, and it was only just before noon. He had a sour expression on his face and started mumbling in his mother tongue. I felt as if he was berating me for his own pleasure. I felt he tormented me because my desperation disabled my defenses. Irony was at play: he knelt before me but I was at his mercy. I had lain down on the bed with my bottom on the edge and my legs spread open. He had told me to hold my ankles as he slapped my inner thighs whilst commanding me to open my legs wider. 

My dress was bunched around my waist and I lay exposed to this brawny man of West African descent. He had the typical features of a man from that area of Africa, strong presence of nose, coffee skin tone and a head that was flat at the back. He was what we would call a ‘lekwerekwere’. 

“I’m going to put…” he thrust his fingers roughly into me, “… four inside.” 

I shut my eyes tightly, grimacing at his sudden invasion of my body. He didn’t bother to use any form of lubrication nor did he have any gloves on. One of his fingers hand a hang nail and it scratched my insides on the way in and on the way out. I drowned out his comments by reassuring myself that this would all be over soon. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not feel him pressing the abortion pills against my cervix. When he finished, I quickly made myself decent, trying to recover what little dignity I had left. I had felt so exposed, so vulnerable. He handed me the rest of the pills and told me to put them under my tongue and not to swallow them. 

“In four to six hours the fetus will pass, make sure you have bucket. Toilet is not safe, it will block.” The man instructed. 

Timidly, naively, I asked, “Will it hurt?” 

“Pain? No pain. It’s like your menses. Buy pads, you will bleed a lot. “

I felt better. It was done. I wanted to get through this without having to think about what I was doing. I was operating on autopilot; whatever I had just done, could not be undone. He offered me a lift back to the bus rank. As much as I wanted to get away from him, I wasn’t familiar with Mafikeng. I got into his car and he drove me back to the bus rank. I still couldn’t believe I had crossed borders to terminate my pregnancy. But, I had to. I couldn’t keep it, I just couldn’t. He parked next to Shoprite and only then did I notice the gun in the center console. Panic acquainted itself with me and took a firm hold of my throat, my mouth went dry; I hadn’t noticed the gun before. I realized that the situation was more dangerous than I had first perceived. 

I hadn’t gotten the money easy. One thousand and five hundred Rand. I had borrowed various amounts from various people and I really had no idea how I was going to pay them all back. The person who had gotten me in this situation denied that he could have ever knocked me up. I don’t know why I was surprised at all because I always knew that Tshepo was a piece of shit. I couldn’t have the father of my baby be the president of the ‘scum of the earth club’ so my options were pretty clear even before the second line appeared on the pregnancy test. As I gave the man his money, he told me I would need pills to clean my womb and they would cost an extra five hundred Rand. 

“Five hundred Rand? But we agreed on the price yesterday? I don’t have any more money.” I said, dread rising in my chest. The gun was right there. I felt so foolish; I had thought this would be so easy. It was naive of me to think a man performing backstreet abortions would honor his word after our transaction was done. This man was clearly a criminal and I had found him on Facebook. It was stupid of me to think this would happen the way he had said it would. 

He clenched his jaw in annoyance, looked straight ahead and said, “Young girl, I’m not asking your money, I’m telling what needs to be done. I don’t want to fight, give me the money. I will give you the pills.” 

Casually, he dropped his arm and his hand rested right next to the center console, the same center console that housed a firearm, a firearm that could kill me. I didn’t know if that was done deliberately to scare me or if he was just resting his arm. Either way, the effect was the same. I sat there silently, paralyzed by fear and wondering how he expected me to answer. I had no more money aside from my transport money and I was not about to volunteer that to him. 

“I can be nice man; I can be very bad man. I’m choosing to be nice man. Ok? Just give me the phone.” 

I was a little lost at what he meant. What phone, where? Then it dawned on me that he meant my phone. In effect, it seemed, he was robbing me. Instinctively, I wrapped my fingers tighter around my cell phone. I felt so defeated. He was lying about the pills costing that much but at this point, why even fight him? You can’t dictate the terms of an illegal abortion. I debated screaming and running away but I didn’t know how fast his reflexes were. What if he shot me and left me in the street to die? I also had no idea how crooked this guy was. Even if I could get to the Police, who says they wouldn’t be in on it as well. It also was not lost on me that I could not go to the police because I was an accessory to a crime. Momentarily, I wondered how I had gotten myself here. I was a fish attempting to swim out of water, forcing my gills to imitate lungs. It’s no wonder I couldn’t breathe. 

I asked to at least keep my memory card and sim, he refused me both. I pleaded with him, gently coaxing. I turned and I begged him, silently, as tears fell from my eyes. I was trying my best not to cause a scene. I was afraid to upset this man. He turned to look at me, with obvious impatience; I gave in. I handed him my phone and he told me to wait in the car; he got out and ran across the road to a pharmacy. I barely breathed, let alone moved, in the time he was gone; it seemed like only a hours. He came back and threw a packet, with a dozen pink pills, on my lap. I guessed that that was my cue to leave. He gave no instructions on how they were to be taken but I was expecting too much, I didn’t even know what they were. Getting out of his vehicle was a liberation I was unprepared for. My legs were shaky and I could hear my heart beating in my ears. Nausea took over and I was sick on the side of the road, leaning against a traffic light. I didn’t care what people thought, I had survived the first part of this ordeal. He drove away the instant I closed the passenger side door, content with another easy target successfully robbed. I walked towards the bus rank without looking back. As I walked, every step was synchronized with rapid blinking and swallowing. It took the strength of the universe not to break down in the middle of the street. Fear turned into relief and then into panic. I concentrated so hard on not crying that I almost missed the turn into the bus rank. I got into the mini bus, paid my fare and tried to forget what had just happened. The rest of the trip went by in an uneventful blur. 

I had thought I would be home by four but instead I got there two hours later. The entire trip was punctuated by prayers to a higher power that I make it home before I started bleeding. I was fearful that I would just start hemorrhaging in public and my shame would be laid bare for all to see. A friend of mine once told me a story I deemed to be quite sad. There was a girl who had gone for an abortion somewhere far from her home. On her way back, she had started bleeding. Blood soaked right through her jeans and it became quite obvious what was happening. She was taunted mercilessly by the bus drivers and the public. Only one person showed her some empathy. A woman selling tomatoes gave her her sarong to wrap around herself and put the girl in a taxi she had paid for in full. Nobody wants to understand the plight of the girl who has to take this route. Judgment is instant, and there is no room for compassion. 

I got home in time for a meal that was meant to be prepared by me. I dreaded the idea of sitting with my family and making small talk around the table. I was afraid my sins of the day would start to show all too soon. I complained that I was feeling unwell. My mother eyed me suspiciously but let me go to bed; if I had any siblings, they would have eyed me suspiciously as well. It was 18:43 when I drifted off into the nothingness of sleep. The day had left me emotionally drained yet I conjured up a horrifying dream. Faceless men bombarded my room and pinned me to the bed, they demanded I confess what I had done. As I was confessing, I was suddenly dead center in a stadium and I stood naked with a fetus dangling between my legs, attached at the cord. Everyone chanted in unison “dead, dead, dead” as if I was unaware that my baby was dead. I looked down and it opened its eyes to look into mine. Its eyes were as red as sin and as black as evil.

I woke up in a cold sweat with a sharp pain in my lower abdomen. I looked at the time, it was 22:24. Even though I had just woken up form a nightmare, it was only now that the nightmare was beginning. The house was eerily quiet. The moonlight shone through gaps in the curtain, attempting to illuminate my misdeeds but they remained shrouded by the darkness of night. I rushed to get a bucket, a few refuse bags and rags of clothing that were used for cleaning. I crouched on the floor leaning on the edge of my bed, preparing myself for whatever was to happen next. The man assured me there would be no pain and so I anticipated none except  heavy menstrual cramps. And boy were they heavy. I took deep breaths and tried to remain calm. I stood up and took a few steps as the pain slashed its way through me. I stifled a shriek and knelt on the floor. Movement seemed to help so I knew to remain in motion; I swung my hips back and forth, silently screaming, quietly wailing. The clock said 22:38. 

The gravity of my situation hit me, the pain sobering my spirit. Everyone sees those ads for abortion clinics, posters on public toilets, promotional ads on Facebook. I have read the statistics, heard the stories yet I could have never foreseen that it would be me too. I rocked back and forth trying to alleviate the pain but nothing seemed to help. It was the middle of winter but I was covered in sweat. Was I about to die? My body seemed under duress and I could never describe the trepidation that had taken a hold of me. Time crept along slowly, allowing the pain to have its way with me. Nobody told me that a chemical abortion was giving birth, that those little pills they shove inside you are simply inducing labor. 

Suddenly I felt a downward pressure and I knew it was time. I squatted over the bucket and instinctively pushed; my mind went blank and my body took over. There was an unexpected surge of blood. I then felt overly stretched, it was a peculiar sensation. All of a sudden I was relieved and I heard a soft thump. Then nothing. I stayed squatted over that bucket for what seemed like several eternities. I assumed the worst was over. As I tried to get up, I felt as if something was dangling between my legs. I looked. A perfectly formed, tiny little boy hung from a cord still attached to the depths of me. I shouldn’t have looked because that image haunts me in my dreams and even when I am awake. The image of the child I killed has never left me. I squatted over the bucket again and reached between my legs. Gently, I tugged at the cord; another surge. All the pain dissipated; a sickening sense of relief came over me. 

I stayed semi-squatted, semi-seated on that bucket, trying to compose myself. I felt a cool sticky substance at my heel and realised that the bucket was leaking. It was then that I almost fell apart. I told myself to keep it together just a little while longer. All that was left for me to do was to clean it all up. I put the refuse bag over the bucket and tipped the bucket upside down. This poured all contents into the bag. I stripped naked and threw my clothes in there as well. I didn’t need clothes stained with blood soaked memories. I quickly wiped all around the bucket and threw that rag in the refuse bag. I tied up that bag and put it in another refuse bag. I put all of that in the bucket and hid it in my closet for disposal the next day. I was a complete mess. I cleaned myself up as best I could and crawled back into bed; attempting to rest. The time was 23:11. Sleep eluded me but I surrendered my sight to the dark world that exists behind my eyelids. I kept thinking about how I had a dead child in my wardrobe. Would I be found out when I went to throw it away? Would it haunt me for the rest of my life? What if this rendered me infertile for all my days to come? Everything I had feared would go wrong did. My dream came back to me and I grasped how prophetic it was. 

What was done was done and I was fortunate enough to have lived through it. I don’t know how but I had managed to survive an ordeal interspersed with debilitating fear. Early in the morning, after my mother had left for work, I gathered all the garbage in the yard. I would need some rubbish to hide it under, to serve as camouflage, so it is harder to discover. The Skip where people dump their rubbish was a few minutes away from my house. I gathered all six of the refuse bags, three in each hand, a dead fetus in my left, and walked towards the Skip. I grabbed the bags two by two and made sure to throw them in the center of the Skip, among all the other refuse bags so that my sin was truly concealed. A sense of relief washed over me again. I turned my back on what I had thrown away and walked back home. 

I Do Not Weep

I do not weep for generations past

I weep for traditions that for long won’t last

It seems the future is bleak

The young have morals far too weak

 

I don’t not fear for a childhood that was

I fear for the childhood that makes no fuss

To play outside and climb up trees

But instead is brainwashed by the digital images it sees

 

The world is turning on itself and we are to blame

Using religion to kill in His name

I do not cry for the time we once had

I cry for the violence that makes humanity sad

 

Times ahead are grim at best

Girls ballooned with implants in their chest

I do not regret the natural beauty we used to hail

I regret the plastic look that seems to prevail

 

I do not beg for handouts or charity

I beg for a better world of clarity

So my children can know the reality that was mine

Maybe send them there or give them a sign

 

The future ahead I did not fear

Until it was close, its repulsiveness far too clear

Wishing upon wish that it was not so near

But alas, the future is here

 

I do not weep for generations past

I weep for traditions that for long won’t last

Peace and tranquillity have all died

And to a constant fright, I am tied

 

The world is shallow and the disaster is deep

And for that, I weep and weep.

Philophobia

Love is not a utopian ideal to which I subscribe

My scars are too many for hope to survive

I threw myself away in a ditch of despair

He hurt me so bad and didn’t even care

The pain that tore through me, are you even aware

So I took it upon myself to wrap up my heart

Wrapped tight and secure, no one would know where to start

To hurt again in a world so dark

Is not a journey to which I will embark

He hurt me so bad and left an indelible mark

See not my sadness for I am ok

I am not weak for I was not made that way

I hate that I was swept up in the rapture

And exposed my fragile heart for capture

My blood vessels over love will never rupture

I gave

I loathe the day I set eyes on you and foolishly gave you the inner most part of me

Like a child who eagerly shared, I gave and gave

I haemorrhaged emotion and sacrifice and gave and gave

Foolishly, I gave and gave

Just the other day I wondered why I felt so hollow

As if I do not have a centre, a core or a soul

How come morbid thoughts echo inside me as if I am an empty vessel

You have hulled me

I realised too late that I gave too much

I gave and I gave