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African Renaissance

The way out of apartheid South Africa

Abigail George

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Miss Gilbey taught Speech and Drama. Every Friday afternoon as the car speeded down the highway en route to her studio cum house I would learn a poem about ducks or gypsies parrot fashion. As my mother or father said the words out loud to me, I would recite them back verbatim. I was six years old fashioning a posh, whitey English accent with clipped tones that did not win me any friends back at the school I went to and especially on the playing field during break. I was six years old. I had not begun to straighten my hair yet to look like the blonde, horsy looking with long teeth, fair or dark, golden-haired, freckled, hockey and tennis playing children who had names like Miranda who joined me when I started going for lessons. She drilled, ‘Speak with expression, expression, expression into me.’

The first thing I noticed is that they weren’t self-conscious like me.

They were brimming with confidence, made friends easily while I had to battle with bullies who mocked me by imitating my voice that was beginning to change at the predominantly coloured school that I went to. The first time I went to Miss Gilbey’s studio I went with my mother who was taking elocution lessons but she stopped soon after taking me. I sat there, in a corner on a bench, my back against a cool wall, felt in my pocket for the candy my mother had given me and started licking away at a red lolly that tasted like cherry making what my mother told me afterwards in the car were ghastly sucking noises that perturbed the dear old Miss Gilbey.

Every now and then I would catch her looking at me and I would smile at her. She never smiled back. Her eyes felt like laser beams when they connected with mine. I felt them keenly. Only later on the way home with my mother scolding me for bringing that sweet inside with me would I realise that I had been very irritating like only a child could be; completely oblivious to what the grownups around her were thinking without being told that she had done something wrong. Later on when I had moved onto Sharon Rother’s, a past pupil of Miss Gilbey who had done her licentiate, Speech and Drama studio in Walmer, which was held in a room adjacent to a church, Miss Gilbey also moved on.

She moved all the way to Montagu with her sister who suffered from bad bouts of asthma. The air there would be good for her, I reckoned. Two women living on their own for most of their adult life; when did they ever come into contact with men, I wondered? In the aisles of a supermarket when they shopped for groceries going down a long list of perishable items? Did a man ever call Miss Gilbey ‘a good girl’ or ‘you’re a beauty, sweetheart’, wink at her, put his arm around her waist and walk with her for awhile while asking her what her name was (her name was Marjorie and I couldn’t ever imagine even if I tried very hard now that any man, even a brazen man or a boy could call her by her first name) and where she lived and would she like to get a bite to eat.

Perhaps some hot tea and a steak and kidney pie with gravy in a restaurant at a hotel. The English men I had been taught by were gentlemen. They were quiet intellectuals, academics, teachers, soft spoken lecturers at universities and introverted and bookish.

What did the life of a spinster feel like? What did the life of an unmarried woman who did not have to cook for a husband, a small child or children, who never hovered and cooed over a crib of a pretty new-born baby? What did a woman over fifty who was past the age of flirting, the cunning moves of seduction do for fun? Did she attend church, bible study with other young women; serve tea at the end of the Sunday morning service with crumpets and sandwiches made with fish; pilchards and sardines or cheese and tomato or egg with dollops of mayonnaise or chicken, wilting lettuce and mayonnaise, cakes, petit fours, biscuits made with coconut and almonds all laid out on tables with white table cloths?

Was that the appropriate behaviour for a woman her age, a lady? Had there ever been a man in her life? In the time I imagined when she was young had she ever corresponded with a young man writing letters filled with lover’s nonsense that only made sense to them, not to the outside world. Did they write about their unfolding passion, their wonder at their innocent love, the madness of the war, the burning houses, flames licking attics, bedrooms, roofs, charred flesh, bodies burnt beyond recognition?

Did they write in code, draw entwined hearts made out of paper? Did she ever seal the letter with a wet, crimson kiss that peeled off her lips or did she ever put her feet up in the afternoon and watch the soaps as a middle-aged woman or quiz shows as a girl?

Did they even have a television now in South Africa? I knew Miss Gilbey didn’t do that because she gave Speech and Drama lessons every afternoon during the week. I was the only coloured child amongst whites. But I didn’t, not for a long time, see myself as being the only coloured child amongst whites. I played with them because I was a child and when you are child words like racism and prejudice do not ring incessantly inside your head like say in the head of a representative of the local government, the president, his cabinet or a community leader who was voted into power by stalwarts, comrades, communists and people who believed in Biko’s Black Consciousness.

Had she ever gone swimming with friends when she was as old as I was when I first started coming to see her? Had she ever clutched her mother’s hand frightened of the road outside her house filled with screaming cars? What were her parents like? How did she come to live in South Africa? Did she grow up during the war; when bombs rained down from the black skies in England, was she ever stuck with other people, families robbed of their men in bomb shelters? Was she a liberal? She obviously didn’t believe in the politics of the day because she had taken my mother and then me on. So, in her own quiet and independent way she was rebelling against the government.

She was making a political statement. At thirty-one I imagine the woman, the child, the girl and then her middle-aged. Didn’t she ever want to be a wife? Growing up I thought as a very young girl, a child, that everyone wanted to be a wife but at thirty-one and the divorce rate globally so high, the only people getting hitched are those blinded by the alluring volcano that is love. They are not conscious of the other person’s imminent flaws yet, how arguments can erupt from seemingly nowhere, the cancer of talk of divorce in the interim wild in the air while you and the other person in the relationship is waiting to make up. They are not conscious yet of the fall out of an illness that will later on strike the family or an intense, lingering depression that manifests and steeps itself into the bones of either the wife or the husband or the small child whose homework is overlooked over the breakfast at the kitchen table while the parents of that small child or children, who wants the attention of both of the adults his or her features resemble while they are at war with each other over some petty, childish thing.

A thing like who had to take the garbage out, who didn’t come forward and help to make the unmade beds, the smears of toothpaste in the bathroom’s basin or whose turn was to wash the dirty dishes in the sink and put it in the dishwasher. Miss Gilbey must have died already in Montagu; perhaps in her sleep, in her bedroom. Perhaps she is buried there now. Who visits her grave, puts fresh cut flowers on it, clears away the old ones, throws the brown water out and puts clean water in the pots or jars or bottles? Even in death she is a mystery to me; these two lonely sisters in a world of light of their own making; their contemporaries with double chins, sagging bosoms, grandchildren, wearing too much make-up, wearing hats to church that bloomed roses, smelling of perfume.

Miss Gilbey had a solid air about her when I first met her. As if she knew she belonged in the world. She always had a pot of tea on her desk that she poured with poise, a jug of milk, a pretty cup and saucer with patterns of flowers on; very English, very proper, very old-fashioned. She sipped her tea as we recited our poems out loud correcting our enunciation, willing us to speak fluently, with emphasis, willing us to reach for that gold star she would stick in our books that we children pasted our poetry and monologues from the books of Winnie-the-pooh in. If she was satisfied with how our vowels sounded, how we articulated the poet’s language, how invested we were in executing the lull of the text, showing the full range of emotions that was expected of us as a spirited ghost or a highwayman we would see a gold star shining off the page, blinking up at us.

In the room filled with a breeze that felt as cool as a humming fridge (we didn’t have air conditioners in those days) as my voice bounced off the walls of the studio, as I watched the backs of the white children’s heads, tufts of dark or golden hair escaping from ponytails, still in their school uniforms or sport kit sniggering.

There was nothing, nothing said of the forced removals that took place in 1964 in South End in what was once a diverse and cosmopolitan suburb filled with Indians, Malays, Muslims, blacks, whites and coloureds living together harmoniously; religion, awash with their culture at times of thanksgiving and holiness and their loyalty, their faith in their different Gods and to each other were their pillars of strength.

There was nothing, nothing said of the unrest that was brewing in South Africa, the daily disdain and underlying aggression in chars as they faced their employer’s, men and women; comrades being picked up by the Special Branch or plainclothes policemen or police spies, being detained after being questioned, brought before a court of law, imprisoned on Robben Island. There was no talk of a coloured man called Georgie Botha’s apparent suicide in this room where my voice rose and rose and rose higher and higher making an imprint, burning it, a hole in the head of Marjorie Gilbey. In the heads of those privileged whites who also came to the studio. I wanted to achieve what they had.

All those gold stars stuck in their books. I didn’t mind the silver ones but gold spelled something marvellous; something magical.

Something accomplished wonderfully; magnificently. I never got red stars. Seeing a red star gave me a start, a headache started throbbing, butterflies in the pit of my stomach started to flit as if I had failed a test at school, got all the sums wrong, spelled the words incorrectly. You only got a red star when you hadn’t learnt all the words to the poem, stammered and needed prompting from Miss Gilbey. There was no talk of the Rivonia Treason Trial, George Bezos, what was in the newspapers about it, the stories that were running internationally and a man called Mandela.

There was no talk of coloured men like Dennis Brutus and the poet Arthur Nortje who was born in Port Elizabeth, in South End which was now a suburb where white people lived comfortably, well off behind their high walls, their dogs and electric fences. Nortje later won a scholarship to study literature at Jesus College at Oxford. It was on Dennis Brutus’s recommendation that he got that scholarship. But I was only six and didn’t know anything besides school and my family. I was just a colored girl, innocent and wide-eyed, six years old with skinned knees from playing amongst the teachers’ cars, wearing North Stars when I came to Marjorie Gilbey’s Studio for Speech and Drama.

A child bullied by the older kids from other standards, tormented by them as they stalked me speaking in high pitched, squeaky voices making me cry. Mandela was just a ghost of a man. The essence of the man never showed the outward shame of humiliation from his persecutors; the Afrikaner wardens who spoke English poorly at the prison on the island. He never showed pain or suffering. His spirit was the spirit of a child, unfettered. The work of his soul continued to live in the outside world, outside of Robben Island where he was imprisoned, living in his supporters, garnering more and more praise internationally.

There was nothing, nothing of men being found hanged in their cell, tortured with burning cigarettes, told to strip naked so that they could be searched or a detainee slipping on a bar of soap.

Abigail George is a feminist, poet and short story writer. She is the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants, one from the Centre for the Book and the Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council. She was born and raised in the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, the Eastern Cape of South Africa, educated there and in Swaziland and Johannesburg. She has written a novella, books of poetry, and collections of short stories. She is busy with her brother putting the final additions to a biography on her father’s life. Her work has recently been anthologised in the Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Anthology IV. Her work was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film.

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African Renaissance

The Fort: The Oliver Tambo University

Abigail George

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The main reason for this proposal is that many, if not all, my teachers at the South End High School received their education at the aforementioned university (Fort Hare). It is also remarkable that all the leaders, if not most that ran the African countries under colonial rule received their training at this university. Circumstances beyond their control made it necessary for them to travel from all over Africa to the university. The university is situated in a small town in the Eastern Cape of Alice. In childhood, our footsteps are created in the future. Africa’s hands are my hands, but my hands are also the world’s.

This proximity gave it the peace and tranquillity which was so essential for a university centre. The name of the university is taken from a stalwart of the ANC who travelled the world to obtain support, political and financial, for the African National Congress. He not only met with world leaders but also built up a network which served a significant role in the military wing of the Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK). Words cannot express the significant role that Oliver Tambo played in not only the African National Congress, but also the African Renaissance. The Fort is like the Harvard of America, (producing world class leaders).

The African Renaissance will now give a ripple of hope to millions across Africa, those living in exile abroad, and those living in a kind of self-imposed exile. Growing up, I sought the company of introverts like myself. The beginner is always the pioneer. The graduates of the Fort were/are still pioneering. Pioneers, men and woman ahead of their time. At the Fort there has been a history of rewards and accomplishments during the apartheid years, as well as post-apartheid. There is no turning back at some point in our lives. You either accept your destiny, or you don’t. It is not a question anymore of what will become of us, but our ignorance.

My teachers, says Dr Ambrose Cato George (leader, activist, community leader, visionary, educationalist, Inspector of Schools, author), who were trained at the University of Fort Hare included the following. Professor Dennis Brutus, Mr Frank Landman, Mrs Peterson, Mr Lionel Adrian, Boet Simon, Clive Accom, Helen Baillie, Lizette Baillie, Dudley Nagan, Siva Moodley, Arthur Renze, Sidney Jeggels, Graham Adams, Dr Billet, Ephane King, and Sarah Phillips.It is pioneers that will elevate the have nots to triumph. To forgive and to forget the origins of the smoke and the mirrors of past, not to live in the past is paramount.

Other graduates included such luminaries such as President Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, Commandant Oliver Tambo, Brigadier Chris Hani, Dr Robert Mugabe (President of Zimbabwe), the President of Tanzania, Kenneth Kaunda (President of Zambia), Patrice Lumumba (President of Congo), Kwame Nkrumah (President of Ghana), Reverend Allan Hendrickse (President of the Labour Party). Black headmasters from all the top high schools in South Africa were trained there during apartheid. We must use technology, make advances, educate ourselves about artificial intelligence. Nowhere is journey’s end.

The university was established through the co-operation between various religious denominations. They were the United Congregational Church of Southern Africa, the Presbyterian Church, the Anglican Church, and the Methodist Church. They consulted with one another, there were long discussions, debates, and educational discourses on the structure that the university would take. At this juncture it is necessary to point out that the university had originated from Adam’s Mission which was formed at Amanzimtoti in Natal. Follow that road, I say to all graduates, and it will lead you to all of your dreams, your goals. Passion.

There was a residence for each of the church groups.In charge of each residence was a warden of the church. The CU (Christian Union) was the main gathering hall for the students where all major functions and church services were held.Sports and Recreation played a major role in the lives of the students who attended the university. It was centred around rugby, soccer, cricket, and athletics. The sportsmen and sportswomen travelled all around the Eastern Cape to compete in the different areas like King Williams Town, Makhanda, Alice (those were the main areas). They also played netball and hockey. Aluta Continua!

It is interesting to note that although Rhodes University was very close to the Oliver Tambo University, there was very little contact between the two. With regard to the staff of the Fort, it consisted of Professors and Doctors from overseas. The principal at the time of writing was Professor Z.K. Matthews. Others included, Professors Webb, Galloway, and others.We are closing the doors on the past now, preparing for a reawakening in the education processes on the African continent. It is the beginning of a new world. The struggle continues, but victory is ours. It is this victory that is activating our faith, and inter-faith levels.

For without faith, there will be no progress, no perpetual growth, no resurrection of creativity, and imagination. The courses of study were a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Zoology, Botany, and Geology, and of course in the field of Humanities, such as, English, Afrikaans, African Languages, Biblical Studies, and Anthropology. The course for the Education diploma included History of Education, Psychology of Education, Method and Administration of Education. Also included was the methodology of the respective subject material. Position is not as important as your innermost kingdom.

The fact that Coloured and Black students could study together, learn each other’s culture, made it possible that the Fort Hare could become a centre of non-racialism. The first CANRAD. This aspect of the life at the Fort Hare very enriching for people like Henry Pearce. Henry was also a very good rugby player which made him an active member of Fort Hare’s rugby team. The females were active members of the hockey and netball teams, which made it possible for males and females to compete on a non-racial basis. However, the invaluable contribution that the Fort made to non-racialism came to an abrupt end. Hierarchies’-born.

With the passing of the Bantu Education Act of 1963. This also brought to an abrupt end of Coloured students receiving non-racial education. This made Henry Pearce bring an end to his ideas of a non-racial education for his entire family. He was very disappointed, and made immediate plans to leave the country. Henry applied for a passport to leave apartheid South Africa seek greener pastures in Australia. He however was not happy in Australia and came back to South Africa disillusioned, and having to send his children to Coloured (of mixed-race descent) schools. There is humanity in all of us. In our phoenix-bloodline. Rise!

However, his vision of education at the Fort Hare made it possible for him to become a successful subject advisor in the CAD (Coloured Affairs Department). Perceptions are adopted realities. The working-class experiment, the affirmative action experiment, social cohesion, mobilising the youth, the Renaissance. The working-class hero is something to be. There stands my mother, tarnished like seed, with the scent of wood on her painfully arthritic hands. There stands my father, a war veteran. There stands my slave ancestry, my Saint Helenian ancestry, my South African ancestry, my elders, and all the authority figures, units in my life.

And later Inspector of Schools where teachers were struggling with the transitioning period from apartheid to affirmative action. We will have two nations. The elder will serve the younger, the apprentice will surpass the master. Write down your future goals for this year, and encourage, encourage, whenever you can. I intend, as all pioneers, to leave a legacy. In my humble opinion, God’s mandate. People’s opinion about me does not matter. World leaders come under scrutiny, every decision that they make from their family, to their choice of life partner, to their world vision, holistic vision in other words. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

You think as a graduate you have achieved much knowledge, and yet, when you enter the workplace you find yourself on the bottom rung of the ladder. I think of the kitchen table wisdom of my mother, up nights with my flask of coffee, studying into the early hours of the morning, cramming for an examination, writing up assignments. I had deadlines to meet as a student. The proudest moment comes when you realise that all that toil and sweat was worth it. We all have what I like to call ‘mannequin envy (we want what we cannot have). I’ve been there myself. I entered the teaching profession because of another maverick-educationalist.

Neville Alexander was born in Cradock, in the Eastern Cape. The exact date of his birth is unknown. He attended the Roman Catholic School where he obtained distinctions in all 7 of the subjects which he sat for his matric examination. He won a scholarship to attend the University of Cape Town to do a Bachelor of Arts(Humanities). His major subjects were English and German. When he obtained his degree which distinction in English and German, he won a scholarship to do his Honours, and wrote a Master’s thesis on a literary figure in German. Neville, with this remarkable distinction won the Humboldt scholarship.

Later obtaining his Ph.D. degree Magnum Cum Laude at a German university. While Neville was studying for his doctoral degree in Germany, he made contact with liberation movements. Fidel Castro (leader of the Communist Party, in Cuba. He travelled extensively and met with, and was received by world leaders. One was Ben Bella (left-wing leader in Algeria). On his return to South Africa, he took up a teaching post at theLivingstone High School in Cape Town.He taught me humility was the name of the game. It is your responsibility, graduates, pioneers, to make informed decisions about your life. To believe in God.

Give further of yourself. Never hesitate to be kind. Do not become complacent in your faith and understanding. Each of us have an ability. We were not meant to be just consumer, manufacturer, wholesaler, client, and producer. Keep a healthy frame of mind. Do not become negative at any given point, or, moment in time. Give courage to the broken, and to the broken-hearted. Stay out of politics, and the political world if you must, but feed the hungry, and clothe the poor. Address veterans. Speak to them. Everyone is a born storyteller. Everyone has a story to tell. So, be a miracle-worker. Be angelic. Be apostolic.

The two mentors that I had in my life as a student at the University of the Western Cape (also known as Bush University) was both Neville Alexander and a man who later became known as advocate, stalwart, comrade, and fellow intelligentsia Fikile Bam. Alexander and Bam met at the CPSU (Cape Peninsula Students Union). Perhaps one day, daughter, they will say of me, that I was a kind of Hemingway-figure. When we lose in love, we must never lose the preparation for the next love, whatever that might be. In the early hours of the morning, I think of restoration as a turning point. History’s vigour as a jewel in the dust.

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African Renaissance

The Teenager and Suicide

Abigail George

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The escalation in the number of teenagers who have suicidal thoughts, attempt suicide and commit suicide has called for a reappraisal of this sad state of affairs. One of the saddest phenomena of the late eighties and nineties in America is the teenage “suicide cluster”. Groups which are acquainted with each other and who choose to commit suicide.

Often many reach stressful points in their school lives, underachieving or they become underachievers academically. They fail a standard like matric. There is a failure in getting admission to college, Technikon or university, being unable to get a job and their parents do not have the finances to see to their material and spiritual needs.

These young people come from affluent homes or less financially well of families, from homes with caring parents or form broken homes.

The majority of teenage suicides occur under the influence of alcohol or drugs. In some cases, young would-be suicides do not necessarily have all the symptoms of depression, but could instead be extremely angry, impulsive or reckless. In many cases parents, educators, and friends have no idea of how serious the suicidal intention is until the attempt has been made. The contagious nature of teenage suicide is fuelled by the mass media as people often mimic what they see on television.

Society has become more rootless in the last thirty years with family life becoming more fragile, and in many cases being non-existent. Teenagers have less and less support during the crisis period in their lives.

Recent studies indicate that between 44 to 66 percent of teenagers who attempt suicide come from broken homes. In many cases both parents are working and the teenager is alone at home most of the day.

In many families, there is the existence of severe conflict and there is a lack of communication with the teenager, in addition, the family may be in denial that problems exist in the family. In present day America as well as South Africa, there has been a decline of religious and ethical values. This leaves many teenagers with a spiritual and emotional emptiness. Further, in South Africa promiscuity, child abuse, paedophilia, violence, rape, HIV/Aids, sexually transmitted diseases, and the radio, television, internet and magazines have resulted in a decline in the existence of a personal value system and a value-based educational system. According to Freud, 80% of teenage suicides occur when a youngster is depressed, while the other 20% of teenagers’ attempts show impulse disorders, such as excessive anger and acting out. The latter group may threaten suicide in a manner to get their own way.

Most suicidal teenagers have suffered a major loss such as parental divorce, a death in the family, moving, breaking up with a girl (boy) friend, social humiliation or failure in school.

Lack of communication is often the essence of the teenage suicide event. Alarming research reports indicate that teenagers today spend an average of 14 minutes a week talking to their parents. While by the time the teenager matriculates he or she will have spent 15, 000 hours in front of the television.

The abuse of drugs and alcohol has also increased the teenage suicide rate. There is no doubt that alcohol and drugs contribute to the rapid increase in teenage suicide rate by lowering impulse control, increasing depression and impairing educational and social successes.

The pressures on our children, especially teenagers are tremendous. Are we only to pay heed when there are more teenage pregnancies, an increase in the incidence of HIV/Aids, greater stress and an inability to cope? Add to this the greater incidence of substance abuses such as alcohol and drug addiction, more suicide attempts, more successful suicides and the destruction of the fabric of the future for our children in a non-racial democratic South Africa.

The mental health of children and adults in any society is essential for its happiness and wellbeing. All South Africans must acquaint themselves with all aspects of depression so that they can play a role in fighting teenage suicide.

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African Renaissance

The forgotten world of female silence (around issues of mental cruelty and abandonment)

Abigail George

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I think of victims of abuse. Have I been a victim of abuse all of this time, all of these twenty years? Father says I have to go to work now. Not for the first time, I was the last solar runaway hiding under the sun. I would drink cinnamon milk. Imagining it to be the elixir of winter’s sure footing’s split personalities. Here is the news that still frightens me to death. My father’s death. My mum’s death. I feel little and lost and empty without the awareness of their love. It is Saturday. It erodes me to a small death. Breaks into my grateful light. Into this cocoon that guides me, that enters me. It has been a long, and boring day. There are angels that surround me now. I have fallen in love. Imagining the birds singing opera. I think of my life without books, without writing. It would have been no life. I think of survivors of abuse. Victims of abuse. How am I one of them paid in full, secure in the knowledge that I too will face death head-on one day. I have started to wear my hair like Woolf. Think of the hours of silence that pass me by. Itis much too late to have friends now. Sit around a table, give thanks, and partake of a meal in a fancy restaurant. I think of my first love. He is gone. He is gone. Like the blue in the sky, and the eyes of the cloud people who move like salmon in the air. I no longer wish to be centred in the bloom of youth. I am no longer perfect. Can’t get the stink out of this human stain. I feel so animal. I feel this trauma so electric.

Surrounded by a band of mercy, and older women whom I have disappointed. My sister is in Berlin for Christmas this year. Thinks she of me, does she miss me, is she proud of me, or is this goodbye? This is a prayer, an innocent prayer. This is a holy prayer. I think of the men in my life. They have all moved on by now. I am just messenger now. Poet. He has taken my sister away from me into the world of the Germans. Does he love her? Has he fallen in love with her? The world takes away everyone from me that I love. Give her back to me, Berlin. I love her so. But it has all come to me too late. So, I turn to prayer, and ask for the gorgeous price of health. The one I love is gone. Sister, and daughter walking on Rilke’s cobblestones. All I have are her songs. Listening to her music collection is like an input into her heart. I bless her. Let her remain vigilant, and loved, always, always. I take the sword and swallow it. I take the pain. My sister is dazzling and profound and urgent in her all of her requests and invitations towards the opposite sex. She is independent and wealthy. I am an artist. I struggle. I live in poverty. There’s a fragility to my happiness, and a frailty to madness. I think of all forms of violence. Think of taking my life again. Cannot see another way out.

My sister’s rescue dog Zooey rests her head on my knee. My sister is a sexual being, and there is something divine about this. About having this energy. She is both sensuous and loving, ardent and adored, thoughtful showcase and talent when it comes to choosing her lovers. I have none. I am not a sexual being. I am a meteor, pale fire in my eyes, I am acting, I am also fake, and monstrous in my behaviour with the ones I love. I am reductive. I am oppressor. It is my sister that I oppress. I only wish to emancipate myself through her. Live vicariously through, but that is no life to live whatsoever. I want to love, but I have left it too late in my life. I want to have cherished friendships in my life, but I am like spring. Here, and then gone again. I have fears. I have doubts. I have insecurities. I have anxieties. I am a triple threat to any man.

All I want is a kiss. All I want is a kiss. But then I will be done for. I got fat, then I got old. I got unattractive, lost the weight, and then became attractive. But what do I do with all of this newfound attention, and pleasure? I have fought pleasure all my life. It is not of my own doing. It came from childhood. Awkward chapters of childhood. All I ever wanted was to be beautiful. I thought that that would be enough. All I ever wanted was to be a sexual creature, a wife, and mother, a loving spouse, and supportive partner. I have failed miserably, miserably, miserably at being a woman. It is just so sad. And then I think of the origins of the Khoi in the Eastern Cape’s Kat River Settlement. Religion and doctrine, church and indoctrination, baptism and not being baptised. Accepted by Christ, and not being accepted by Christ. They are my origins too. I am Khoi. I am Krotoa.

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