Sunday, May 10, 2009

DIE HOENDERHERDER

Tussen hierdie vier mure leef die vrou in die dwangbaadjie. Kyk die mure se vuilwit. Bleek om die kiewe. Die gebou is siek. Mure om prente teen te plak of fotos van familielede. Mure om hande teen te bliksem as jy wil. Mure wat binne hou, wat buite hou. Vuilwitmure van die hospitaalplek.

Die vrou bal ‘n vuis na bo en skree: “Lank leef die waansin! Lank leef ons, hier, nou, altyd, eenders, anders, te rond vir die square gat waarin hul ons wil druk”
. Sy lag skielik uitbundig, gooi haar arms bo haar kop uit en tol in die rondte. Sy lag rukkerig, soos ‘n kar wat lank laas gestart is en nou sukkel om aan die gang te kom. Haar lag maak bang. Die ander mense in hul pajamas skuif ongemaklik rond op hul beddens. Party staan nuuskierig nader.
“Julle fokken klomp zombies!” skree die vrou. “Pille pik, pille pik… pik pik pik, dis ook al wat julle doen…. Pik pilletjies, palmpies vol pilletjies.”
Sy trek haar skouers op in vlerke en beweeg haar kop vorentoe en agtertoe: “Pille pik… pille pik pik pik… dom etters, arme dom etters.”
“Kyk die hoender,” skree ‘n ou tannie wat lank reeds verby seniel gaan draai het, sy is nou bloot entertaining.
“Noem my Jan Hoender,” se die vrou uitbundig… “Weet julle wie is Jan Hoender?” Sy kyk rond en vra weer: “Weet julle wie ek is?” Die mense kyk weg, haar oe wip en tol in haar kop soos sy deur die saal na almal kyk. “Ek ken van hoenders, ek verstaan hoenders, ek is die hoenderherder! En julle is my hoenders… verstaan julle?”
Die vrou gaan staan by haar bed. Bo die bed op die naambordjie is haar dokter se naam geskryf en haar eie daaronder. Sy vee haar eie naam met die mou van haar pers pajama-top af. Dan skryf sy met ‘n koukie: Die Hoenderherder se leplek. Sy staan effe terug en skud haar kop tevrede. Sy klim op haar bed en staan regop daarop. Die ander pasiente trek ‘n halfmaan om haar bed. “Kom my hoendertjies, kom… ek is jul herder, ek sal jul versorg…” Sy tower ‘n boksie smarties uit haar bedkassie se laai uit: “Oe, pilletjies, pilletjies, my hoendertjies, kom pik pik!” Die pasiente staan nader, hou hande uit. Een vir een gee sy elkeen ‘n smartie. Soos ‘n nagmaal waar brood en wyn gegee word om liggaam en siel weer aanmekaar te weef, so deel sy haar unieke pilletjies uit vir die pasiente. “Sit op jou tong, dink een gelukkige gedagte en jy sal vlerke groei wat hoog kan vlieg, my dierbare hoender,” se sy vir die verwarde rooikop vrou met die naels stomp afgekou tot in die lewe. Daar is ‘n tiener in swart geklee met spykerhare wat die lug instaan. Sy roep hom nader. “Kom, kom, haantjie – kom pik ‘n pilletjie vir die pyn.” Hy bly ‘n ent weg van die bed en vreemde vrou daarop staan. Sy spring van die bed af en gaan staan voor hom. “The gift of life and death. The KNOWLEDGE. Eet aan hierdie boom van wysheid en he die kennis van goed en kwaad, sodat jy altyd kan weet…” Hy kyk in haar oe en hou sy hand versigtig uit. Sy gooi ‘n pers en ‘n groen smartie in sy hand. “Jy het meer nodig as die ander. Die pers is ‘n pil vir addelikes. Die groen is ‘n pil wat mens na aan die natuur hou, sodat jy altyd sal weet wie jy is. Voete op vaste grond. Toe, vat, drink dit.” Die tiener sit die twee smarties op sy tong en maak sy oe toe wanneer hy daaraan suig. Skielik beweeg die pasiente almal weg van haar bed af en gaan terug na hul eie. Die saal word swaar. Die mure kry krake en bewe onseker. Die herder van die hoenders gaan staan reg voor die stoornis. ‘n Nurse in ‘n wit uniform en kwaai deurskynende blou oe. “Wat gaan hier aan? Almal van julle, kry julleself reg, groepsterapie is oor tien minute. En almal moet daar wees, niemand word verskoon nie. Dis hospitaalreels.”

Wanneer die nurse weg is, gaan staan die herder in die middel van die saal. “My hoendertjies,” se sy “ons sal maar moet gaan. Onthou net: jy mag as jy wil, maar jy hoef nie…anders bly daar niks van jou oor nie. So as jy nie lus het om deur ‘n seer-deel-sessie te gaan nie, hou jou bek. Bly stil. Se net niks. Capice?”
Die ander pasiente knik koppe en beaam.
“Nou goed, kom ons kry ons in orde vir groepsterapie… jippie, juig al wat leef!” Sy staan voor die spieel bo die wasbak. Met oogpotlood omkring sy haar oe diep swart, sy sit skelrooi lipstiffie aan haar lippe. Dan bind sy ‘n bandana met ‘n geel sonneblom motief op om haar bos krulhare vas. Sy het ‘n pers pajamatop aan en ‘n oranje sweetpakbroek. Aan haar voete is skaapvelpantoffels. “Kom, mooiding,” se sy vir haarself in die spieel. “Ons gaan bietjie groepsterapie hou.”


2.

Sy sit oorkant ‘n sielkundige in ‘n alternatiewe soort spreekkamer met ‘n diep wegsinkbank wat al deurgesit is. ‘n Bank met pers-bont lappe op en kussinkies.
“Ag, ek dra die plekke aan my soos ‘n jas, al die plekke waar ek al was… plekke soos hierdie en plekke waar die vlaktes jou naam kreet en bossies weerlose dinge fluister in die wind… maar ek verwag nie dat jy moet verstaan nie. Jy is van buite en kom dan in. Soos ‘n penis wat slegs ‘n besoeker is en sy desperate semen agterlaat in die hoop dat iets sal groei daaruit. Ek, aan die ander kant, is hier binne, ek bly hier…ek ontvang jou woorde, jou invloede en besluit dan self wat om daarmee te maak. Dis in elk geval wat ek van terapie dink. Dis soos seks. En die shrink is ‘n stywe piel wat saad wil stort in my kop.”
“So, jy sou dus se dat al die inrigtings waar jy was nie ‘n negatiewe effek op jou gehad het nie?” Die shrink kyk skerp na haar. “Want ek kan aflei uit jou skryfwerk dat dit tog ‘n effek gehad het, jy bring dit baie keer in, asof jy dit moet uitkry…”
“Alles moet uit, een of ander tyd. Wat geskryf staan, het bestaansreg. Dit gee wat gebeur het die reg om ‘n effek te he. Ek skryf om al my realiteite te herskep. Niks hoef regtig te wees in mens se onthoue presies soos dit was nie, tyd verander dit. Dit word nuutgeskep in my skryfwerk, ek is alleen-skepper, amper soos ‘n god van die woord. OF wag, eerder ‘n god-in-konstante-wording!”
Die hoenderherder voel die beweging in haar brein. Sy voel die tinteling van gedagtes wat beweeg en plek soek om uit te kom. Sy geniet dit om met die shrink te praat. Daar is iets wat haar vry maak om hier te praat. Sy hoor haar woorde soos musiek in ‘n vreemde taal wat wanneer dit gespreek word, skielik sin maak. Ah, soos ‘n charismatiese christen wat in tale kan bid en iemand anders staan op en vertaal dit. Die shrink as klankbord word die noodwendige vertaler.
“Eintlik,” se sy,”gaan dit alles daaroor om die waan sinvol te bedryf… met of sonder pille, verkieslik daarsonder, sodat mens se kop skoon kan wees.”
“Ek dink nie jy moet jou pille los nie,” se die shrink.
“Ek het nie gese ek gaan my pille los nie… wel, ek het reeds, een soort van hulle… maar kyk na my, ek is fine daarsonder. Ek sien nie gesigte nie, ek het nie ouditiewe of visuele stoornisse nie…”
“Dink jy jy hoort hier, in hierdie plek?” vra die shrink.
“Natuurlik, dis beslis waar ek nou hoort, moenie my huis toe stuur nie, ek is nog nie gereed nie, asseblief.” Skielik lyk die hoenderherder beangs. “Ek is goed vir die ander mense hier, ek doen eintlik jou werk, ek versorg hulle wanneer daar niemand anders is nie… die mense hier het my nodig.”

Saturday, May 2, 2009

SCATTERS FROM THE PLAINS, (FLarde - vertaling)

SCATTERS FROM THE PLAINS

The Social Worker

I grew up behind the counter of Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers where we sold everything possible thing. This is my first memory: Cockroaches scurrying over the cement floor, the smell of dust, incense, oil and pap & tshotlho cooking on the gas stove.


MAMA MINOTO is an incredibly fat woman. It becomes dark inside my brother’s Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers as she enters through the double doors as if a thick thundercloud just moved in front of the sun, blocking out the light. She sways from one plump leg to the other until she comes to a stand still under the fan dangling from the roof, hands on her hips so that her arm pits can cool down under the breeze.

Then she eyes the butchery with two sharp chicken eyes that jump in her head, not missing anything. She greets loudly: “Dumelang Bagaetsho!” and indicates to Liesbet behind the big saw to hand her a glass of water from the fridge. Her voice is husky but it carries far on the dusky wind so that the customers outside return the greeting: “A Gae”.

She sinks into a plastic chair and fills it like a bundle of wet laundry into a washing machine. A mixture of tits, fat and spirit. She empties the glass of water with one gulp, holding the glass in front of her for more. Liesbet hastens to fill it up again. Her chin drips, water clinging to the bits of sticky beard there. Then she searches in her bodice and produces a male handkerchief from its depths. She wipes her face clockwise from left to right: from ear to ear. She lifts her head and wipes away the sweat in the folds under her chin.

Suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time, she turns towards me: “Ah, Mosadiotsile! Wa reng?” I pull up my shoulders, shake my head: “Stille hela, Mma Minoto.”

“Always nothing to say, you. Always stille hela” She stretches her dress over her knees, resting her hands on them, arms arched, head slightly bent down, forming a perfect O. She turns to my direction and the chair turns with her, indicates with her head to the fridge where the chicken feet are kept: “Ke batlha run-aways. Lots, ten bags. And I want my special price, okay?”

I feel like fooling around with her. I know she can handle it and besides, she’s the only fun-person I know around here. “The run-aways took to the road, they’re gone.” I continue to build small heaps of one cents, five cents and ten cents on the counter.
“O makgag,” she says. “I could have been your grandma. One does not play jokes on old people.” She gets up and checks the fridge. “You’re a liar! There are lots and lots of minoto in here, Sadi! Look at all the chicken feet, look! You must not lie to me, auk!”
“How many packets do you want to buy today?” I ask. She bends down, leaning with her body into the fridge, “All, I will take them all and I want ten packets of chicken spice with it - the five-bob type – I will not pay seventy cents for a packet; I’m a special customer.”

We count the packs of chicken feet and chicken spices one by one, together. Mama Minoto gives me a handkerchief with one rand, fifty and twenty cent coins bound in it. I take it out and start to count, putting them in stacks and then I hand her the change. She peeks into the box: “Where is my tambuti? You know I get tobacco for free when I buy the chicken feet… and I do not have to ask for it. I can see you do not work here, you know nothing of how it works in here. I want your brother, I do business much better with him!”
“When my brother comes back, I am going to ask him about this tobacco business between the two of you…”
“It is my pasella, because I only buy here. Give my tambuti so that I can go.”
I hand her the tobacco and check my watch. It is nearly two o’clock, my lunch break is over. “You must go back to your office, give me a lift to the crossing on the road to Mmagabue,” orders Mama Minoto. I take my keys and bag and we drive to the clinic, at the crossing where the taxi’s usually stop to pick up hikers, I drop her off: Mama Minoto and the ten packets of chicken feet.

AUGUST 2000
The wind blows her into my office. Papers and files scatter all over the place so that I have to stretch out my arms to stop them from blowing away, out of the social work office, to who-knows-where. Then I look up. She stares directly into my eyes: “The old man is dead,” she says, “last night.”
I do not say anything. Silence fills the whole room. Even the tap at the back of my office stops dripping. The noises outside fade away. The silence hangs above us like a dust cloud. As if we are keeping a secret, as if the wind blew the secret into the office and left it here so that we have to do something with it. And we are silent – Mama Minoto, the child at her side and I.
“I came to ask for a box. We must give him a proper funeral. He must rest. I do not want him to come and haunt us. I do not want him to bother us anymore.” Only then does she sit down, but the child still stands at her side. Quiet, silent.
:Hoseame, Mma. It is okay, I will get the papers ready for a Pauper’s Funeral. I will write the report. You and the family can fetch the coffin on Friday at Phatsimo, at the mortuary there.”
“What family? You listen, but you here nothing. It is I who came to ask for the coffin. His family? They left him to die like a dog. You know that.”

I search for a Pauper’s Funeral Form and grab a pen, I write:

Family name: Dipeko / Tlhale
Address: House no. A23, Magabue Village, Ganyesa District
Circumstances surrounding death: Mr. Dipeko was sick for a long period and died at home.
I ask her: “How did he die? What happened?”
“The evil in his heart burned him to death…”
“How did he die?” I ask again. I take the piece of paper I was writing on and shows it to her: “ I must write, see, here… I must give a reason…”
“He had to die. Everybody dies… eventually. It was time. I already told you – the evil in his heart burned him to death.”

I continue filling in the form:
Socio-economic circumstances: The applicant is a foster mother and receives a monthly grant for the foster child. She sells chicken feet as an extra means of income. Family members are unwilling to assist and no financial assistance can be expected from them.

Recommendation: In the light of the above it is recommended that a coffin be provided to Ms Tlhale so that a community member / neighbour can be buried.

“Emmapele, Mma. I am quickly going to find someone to sign this form so that we can get the coffin, okay?” I take the form and leave the office to find someone somewhere with the authority to sign a piece of paper to provide a “box” to a man whose evil heart burned him to death.
Back at my office I affirm to Mama Minoto that she can fetch the coffin on Friday. She gets up from the chair, takes her “kierie” in the hand, then rests her other hand on the table, finds her shaky legs and stands steady before me. When did she grow so old? “Kealeboga,” says Mama Minoto and presses her hand against her heart. “Thank you.”
“Hoseame, it is my job Ma Minoto, I must help you.”

She rests her hands upon the child’s shoulder and turns around to walk out of my office. He takes her hand and they walk away I see the child’s hands. They are roughly bandaged in old pieces of cloth. “Wait a bit, Mma! What happened to the child’s hands?”
“He played with fire… children, you know how they are…”
“You must take him to the clinic Mma. Wait, let me write you a letter for the doctor.”
I write fast, a short message for Ivan, the Cuban doctor, to have a look at the child’s hands. I put it in an envelope and hand it to her. She takes it and turns to go. “Wait, Mma Minoto, I want you to come back later on when it is a bit quieter here: we must talk.”

They are already waiting under the trees in front of my office when I return from lunch. I open the door and invite them in. Ma Minoto walks in front, hand on the “kierie”, but still upright and strong. She sits on a chair opposite my desk and I move my chair around the desk so that there is nothing between us. I sit right opposite her with the child standing next to her. He seems to be looking at me, but he is also not looking at me. Maybe he is looking at something that is peering over my shoulder?
“Mama Minoto, we must talk about these things please. Boang.”
She wipes the sweat from her brow, plays with the handkerchief in her lap. I wait. She cleans her throat, puts her hand on the childs head. Then she takes his chin in her hands and turns his face to her. She smiles and then only does she look at me.
“How long do you know me?” she asks.
“Since last year some time,” I answer, “longer than a year.”
“And you sat at my house and drank coffee with me?”
“Eboe, yes”
“And you helped me so that I can take care of the child. You came to my yard and looked at my house and you made a report for court. We went to the magistrate together?”
“Yes.”
“You were stupid when you came here. You knew nothing of my people or my language. But you wanted to help. The first time I came to your office you were reading Tswana words from pieces of paper. I helped you with setswana and I gave you a Tswana name. A new name.”
“Eboe Ma, I know.”
“Now you must listen. I am going to tell you. You must listen so that you can know. I want you to know about the child, Kabelo, and of myself. If I die, then you must make sure that the child is taken care of. Do you hear me?”
I try to read her eyes, see the movement there, so that I can understand where all this is going, but it is muddy waters.
“Boang Mma, I want to hear,” is all I say.
I listen while she talks, with the child first next to her, then at her feet, curled up in a deep sleep. Her voice is an old frog, croacking out sound, a frog in a leathery skin. A frog that seems to be quietly resting, but then the tongue jumps out at irritating thoughts passing by like flies. She catches them, holds them tight and then tells the story so that her thoughts form a whole in my mind of the important things she is telling me. So that I look away. Far away, past Mama Minoto, past the Silence-is-Violence poster on the wall in my office, past the outside buildings, past the scrapyard outside Ganyesa, down the dust road, past trees dying in the draught up the road to Mmagabue where all of this took place.
When Mama Minoto leaves my office, some time after tjaila, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Suddenly my eyes are so tired from looking deeply into human beings. I get up from my chair, phones the mortuary at the the hospital to make sure they will have a coffin available for the old man who died. Then I lock my office door.
I walk.
I walk past the Social Security offices where there is still some pension applicants hanging around under the trees, where there are mothers with little babies sucking their breasts. I walk past the clinic, out the gates in the general direction of the Frylinks’ shop.
I walk with my heart beating unrythmically to the residue sound of Mama Minoto’s croacking voice. I walk with my thoughts like I used to walk the dog on Sundays as a child, in the veldt on our farm, where he used get crazily happy and run ahead of me, only to turn around to see if I am still following him. So I walk with my thoughts barking in my head.


Mama Minoto
The chicken feet woman

This morning, with the first sun light over the plains, I knew that I would be the one to go and tell. That I would be the one to go and ask for a box in which to put away Oneboy Dipeko – as far and deeply away as possible. I saw it in the manner that the family sent the children with coffee to my place. It was sweet with lots of milk, not even goat’s milk, but fresh cow milk. I saw in their dog eyes and in the way they eagerly asked if the coffee was strong and sweet enough and if I liked it. I knew it, even though no one asked me.

So I went over to their houses and told them: “We must put him to the ground. We must give him a proper funeral. I will go. I am taking the child with.” They were just sitting there in the kitchen, black ACE coffee in their cups, probably without sugar. I could see how my words were going bitterly into their heads, but it fell sweet on their stomachs. How sweet to know that it does not have to be one of them. It was Mmaserame who took the ten rand note from her bodice and gave it to me: “Go buy Tshotlho at Mmawethu Butchery for you and the child. Go talk to the man there and ask him for meat for the funeral on Saturday. Tell him I will pay him after pension day…”
“Hoseame,” I said, as if we always talked like this to each other.

I woke Kabelo so that I could clean him for the trip we were going to undertake. I sent one of the children with a bucket to go and fetch water and I told another to start the fire, so that I can warm the water. I did my morning things one by one like any other morning. When the water was hot and ready, I washed Kabelo. I took the green Sunlight Soap and rubbed in on his head and body and the left-over water I poured over him. Thereafter I took off the bandages and cleaned his hands gently, rubbing Fryer’s Balm on the wounds. He did not try to stop me even though I knew it hurt. I then took some vaseline and polished his body until he shone like a star: nobody could say I do not take proper care of this child.

Kabelo waited in silence while I cleaned and readied myself for the road. Old Oneboy Dipeko used to say that the child has the silence of a thief. His footsteps are so soft he does not leave prints… that child, Oneboy used to say, is a majero with evil in him. Then he would shake his head and point at Kabelo: “Look at his eyes, bonna, he is already a tsotsi. I used to keep quiet, one cannot fight with a box Kalahari beer. Beer hears nothing.

I do my morning things as usual, but the whole time I am thinking: “What am going to tell the social worker?” And the whole time I am humming in my head: “Didi Mala, Bana…” Rest easy, child.

We took the old foot path, carved out by the hoofs of goat, sheep and cattle. We walked slowly, the child and I. The child, breaking away, out of our togetherness to run ahead, then turning around, waiting for my crooked legs to come.

Along the road we found people on a donkey cart, also on their way to Ganyesa. They greet me: “Dumelang, Mma.” And we greet back. They ask me if the old man still IS and I say “no, he no longer is. He passed, last night.” Then came their good mannered tears and the question always asked when someone dies: “What happened?” I answered, because I must, it is good manners: “He returned to ash. He went back to his forefathers.” And they shook their heads, sigh, promise to come on Saturdag for the funeral and the food.

As we were walking on a great wind came and threw sand in my mouth and I had to swallow it. All the death buried in the earth, was suddenly in my mouth so that my innards turned and twisted. I had to hide behind a bush to relief myself of the stabbing pain in my stomach. I could smell the sour knowledge of all I knew on my body’s odour. I first stopped at the outside toilets at the clinic where the social worker’s offices are. I made sure that I would be free to talk. In my head I repeated the words that I wanted to say, over and over again.

The child was outside busy drawing pictures in the sand with a piece of wood, as if this was his yard, he seemed peaceful. I took him by the arm and dragged him up: “Listen to me,” I said “you keep your hands away from people’s eyes. You must stand like this,” and I showed him how to keep his hands behind his back. “You stand like this all the time.”

Everything went well in the social worker’s office, but then she called us back. I sat there with my hands in my lap like dead things, whilest the words were flowing from my gut, whilest my stomach burned and turned harshly in me.

I told her:
About the old man and the child’s mother and the ghost dog that barked and bit at my ankles all the time. And her eyes looked away more and more until they became the dust of an August windstorm.

Kabelo
The foster child

I remember the day I came into being. My father’s voice screaming over the plains, bumping against trees and killing anything that came in it’s way, so that I can still hear it in me today: the death of all words. And the singular scream of my mother.

I do not talk. I do not laugh and I never cry. Not like I have seen the other children do. I just am. Since the beginning I have always been here, amongst the rest, but not part of them. Everybody knows of me, because I do not talk. Because I always sit under the Thorn tree at Mama Minoto’s house and I just look. Then they ask: “What are you looking at, child? I just look away then, to the plains, over the plains, into the depth of the plains.

I am the broken branch of my family tree. They are the dogs that piss against the bark and lie in the shade of the tree.

Malome Oneboy taught me that I am a murderer. I killed my mother. Mama Minoto says I was born in-spite-of. I had to be, therefore I am. Oneboy says I killed my mother because I just had to get out that night at Phatsimo Hospital. I tore her up and she bled to death. I am her blood, her madi. Mama Minoto says I must live, so that Mosadiomuntle, my mother,’s death can be paid for. Paid for with madi – blood and money and all the power that flows in and out of one.
We are walking the footpath that we always walk when we go to Ganyesa to the white woman that the people call “Mosadiotsile”. I follow the water on the road that shines in the sunlight and I run with my nose in the wind. I listen to the words in Mama Minoto’s head and I can feel her innards shake, while she is tasting words and spitting them out in the sand.

The wind is angry and throws us full of sand. I run away and swing my arms in the wind, whilest Mama Minoto lingers behind a bush. I turn around and wait for her and when she is next to me, I take her hand and lead her on the foot path. She does not talk today. Usually when we walk somewhere she talks a lot and tells me about my mother. The she says: “ Kabelo, my child, your mama was a beautiful woman. That is why she was given the name Mosadiomuntle. She had round cheeks and a mouth as red as a tomato. Her skin shone in the sun and her feet were flat and big and we knew that she would have lots of sons one day...” Then she becomes quiet and looks at me, rubs my head and says: “Like you, sons like you.”
But today she does not talk. She thinks all the words but they die on her tongue. And I can taste how she is tasting the ground in which we will put Malome Oneboy now that he is dead.
We greet the people we meet along the road and she tells them how Oneboy had to burn to become ashes again. So that they can know that he is now one of the forefathers. We walk to the social worker’s office and Mama Minoto shows me how to stand and go stand right next to her, hiding my hands. I watch as the social worker writes and I do not understand what she says, but I can feel the fear in Mama Minoto as we go to the doctor at the clinic.

He does not ask any questions. Hy looks at my hands and cleans them and gives us things to rub on the wounds. Mama Minoto thanks him and we walk back to the social worker’s office.

Suddenly the words take hold of Mama Minoto and I watch as she talks and talks, her mouth goes dry but she does not stop talking. I see the social worker’s eyes piercing right through the walls and I wonder what she sees. I become tired and lie down at Mama Minoto’s feet, my head on her shoes and I listen, even though I do not hear, how her voice becomes softer and softer and then disappears.
The social worker

I was born on a rainy day in the autumn of 1972, fifteen minutes after my brother. I was a surprise. My mother says she always heard two heart beats, but there were no proof that we would be twins. The wind came up and pulled at the trees on the hospital grounds. Berries and leaves were blowing all over the place. That was when I was born, feet first. That was not my first or last birth.

When one writes down a history, you are forced to fabricate. There is always another history, a subconscious one that mingles in between the lines of the one that is written. It cannot be forced into a specific time frame. I have strangers for forefathers and strangers that will come after me, a history that also becomes part of mine, even if I do not recall it or do not want to make it mine. It is there. It flows in mine and forms an eternity. It is a life history that begins in the middle somewhere and moves backwards and forwards. I can only make out parts thereof, I can write down short moments thereof, the rest is mere speculation. There will always be a secret, obscure story hidden away. Therefore I steal from other’s histories, pull the curtain away and peeks outside, make of the outside what I want to make of it. I make it mine, just because I can.

In my third year at university the lecturer asked us: “What are you doing here?” and moved along the benches and gave us pieces of paper on which to write what we were doing there. We had to write: “Why am I here?” and then give an anwer.
I wrote: “I am here, because I did not go to the movies.”
We were sitting in the cafeteria before class, my friends and I. Kastel came with the suggestion: “Let’s go to the movies.”
“I can’t” I said, “I have class now.”
“Come on, girl, you are not going to miss anything, that I can assure you,” she pleaded with me.
“What’s showing?” I wanted to know.
“Don’t know, but there is showing a lot of movies at Cresta and we can even go to Rosebank to watch an art movie if you like…”
“No, we are going to Cresta, I want to do shopping as well,” replied Rachell.
“You’ll have to make up your mind, the next classes start in five minutes. The movies start in half an hour. Class or movies?” Kastell wanted to know. “There isn’t much of a choice. If you think logically about it,” she added.
“Tell her something that will make up her mind, Kastel,” The others said.
“First have a cigarette, then you can decide,” said Kastel and gave me one. It’s an old trick – let the person smoke until the time has passed and it is too late to attend class.
“I feel like an action movie, with kicking, shooting and fighting,” said Rachel. “I feel so aggro lately.”
“So, you are going to bunk class?”
“Off course!”
Kastel had Rachel convinced to bunk class with the first mentioning of a movie, any alternative to attending class will do.
Rachel’s aggression was a burning desire for retribution. She kept the fire burning with any possible reason to be angry at the world. There is always a reason to be angry: imagined injustices to yourself, your friends, mankind. The cafeteria’s food that is bad, the text books that are too expensive, lectureres who do not know what they are talking about. We live in a country that feeds off injustices, anger and revenge. Why should she be different?

TO BE CONTINUED....