Part 8 - The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 The center was crumbling

I began my first job at a school in Bedford View. I was living in Parkhurst and was happy. I was teaching the four year old group at a private school. It was a nice enough school. These were the years just before the fall of Apartheid in our country. Our school was full of children whose parents were ANC exiles or rich black business people who were not able to send their children to government schools…. Yet.  The taxis would arrive in the morning full of sleepy little children who had traveled all the way across town from Soweto. They were a great bunch of kids.

These were very dangerous times in South Africa. The government had unleashed their last attempt to crush ‘The Blacks” as they tried to cling what remained of white rule. While teaching at this school Chris Hani was murdered. I thought our country would burn that day. The children at school replayed the funeral in the sandpit. They buried each other over and over, taking turns and singing freedom songs. Hamba Kahle Chris Hani.

I met my very first black friend while teaching at that school. Her name was Thembeka and she was lovely. We struck up a friendship immediately. She was beautiful and knew a thing or two about life and working at the school. She used to say to me “I hate whites” and I would turn to her and we would laugh.

I also met Princess at this school. She was a beautiful woman who had two children. She lived in Alexander Township which is situated right in the middle of wealthy suburbia. She was like the sunshine in that school. On a day I began to notice that Princess’ sun shone no more. Something was wrong. Something indeed was very, very wrong. I begged her to tell me. Her pain and sadness was clear to us and very worrying.

What had transpired was this. One cold and dark evening, as she made her way home under a bridge near her home, Princess had encountered a bunch of young thugs. They had raped her. She was pregnant by this rape.

I had tried to take her “the purple Doctor’” who could help with “this sort of thing” but she was too far pregnant. The little boy was stillborn and nothing more was every said about it. Princess showed me the death certificate without a word.

The youths who had raped her still hung about her neighbourhood. Her husband had abandoned her.

 At the same time.....

These were glorious days for me because I was in love. For real. In my last year of studying I had been introduced to a lovely man. His name was Doug.  Everything about Doug was special and good. He had a keen mind and was on the same political wave length as I was except he put his money where his mouth was. He was part of the beginnings of the first ANC branch in his local , rich, white are of Sandton. In those early beginnings , just after the ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela had walked free, times were so full. Full of hope and expectation. South Africa our beloved country had so much to look forward to. There was to be a new beginning.  Little did I know that I was to experience a new beginning too.