Alive Again Read online

  These women also became Gogo’s “spies”, always looking out for my father’s bakkie, ready and willing to warn us in time if he should show up in the village.

  I knew my rapist was behind bars, but I woke up night after night imagining someone was breaking in to Gogo’s house. Nobuntu seemed to have thought of everything. On the first night this happened, Gogo got out a bottle of lavender oil. Nobuntu had instructed her to massage the oil into my hands and feet whenever I felt scared. Much later I understood that trauma victims heal faster when they are lovingly touched by people they trust.

  How safe I felt on those nights when Gogo massaged my feet and hands by the light of a candle, singing soft praises to God. Later we would sit side by side in bed drinking warm milk sweetened by honey the honey-sellers found in the koppies near the village. And then Gogo would blow out the candle and I would nestle against her soft old body until the pale winter sun woke us.

  * * *

  The first time I left the village was to have a repeat HIV test done in town. Nobuntu treated me to a milkshake afterwards to celebrate my negative status. But even though my test results were a huge relief, I felt uneasy out in the world. I wanted to get back to Gogo’s safe little house, warmed up by the wood stove in the kitchen, as quickly as I possibly could.

  When I got back home, I was greeted by a surprise visitor: Lindiwe was standing in the kitchen talking to Gogo. They both stopped abruptly when I appeared. Lindiwe gave me a big hug, explaining that she had caught a lift with her uncle, who was visiting some relatives in Gogo’s village.

  “Tea’s ready. Give Lindiwe something to eat. I’m going out,” said Gogo.

  She and Lindiwe exchanged glances as if they shared a secret. I knew they had been talking about me and that Gogo was leaving us alone, hoping Lindiwe would talk some sense into me, to help me recover.

  At first I felt uncomfortable. I did not want to talk about what had happened. But here was a girl who had survived rape, so it seemed inevitable that we would talk about it.

  To cover up my awkwardness, I commented on how good Lindiwe looked, and it was true. She looked different. On the Kruger Park weekend I had noticed that she wasn’t as shy and withdrawn as usual; but now Lindiwe looked really happy. And prettier than ever.

  Her hair caught my eye. It was braided in a shoulder-length style with a fringe.

  “I like your hair,” I said. “You’ve changed.”

  “I’m taking care of myself again,” she said. “And it’s all because of Mr Khumalo. He saved my life. He noticed I was always sad and asked me why. At first I was too shy to tell him, but I trusted him so I told him about that terrible night.”

  “And then?” I asked, amazed at the change in her.

  “He arranged for me to see a rape counsellor. Her name is Petunia. For the first time, someone understands. Someone is on my side. Someone believes in me.”

  “What about your parents? Didn’t they help you?” I asked.

  “My mother died a few years ago. And my father left me to grow up with my aunt. When I told her, she blamed me for being loose. She locked me up at night. She allowed me out only to go to school. She didn’t let me go to the police to report the rape. She said they would just laugh at me and it would bring shame on her, and on the family.”

  “Oh, that’s horr–” I started, but Lindiwe interrupted me.

  “Remember when I visited you after the hospital? Pleaded with you to open up to everyone who wanted to help you? It was because I never had that kind of support. Grab it, Nandi! Mr Khumalo told me that a famous poet once said that no man is an island; we all need one another. Sometimes we need other people to help us believe in ourselves again. Come back to school. Your old life is waiting for you,” she urged.

  * * *

  Despite Lindiwe’s words, my old life still felt unreal. Even when Maryke paid me a visit, I felt far removed from the news she brought of friends, movies, the Dare To Be Different Club, tests, school.

  I knew school had started again, and I was missing out on work, but I didn’t care. My mother had sent a letter with Maryke, saying that my father rarely came home from Tzaneen. He sent money with friends, but he never even phoned. That was why she could send things to me – he didn’t even know that she knew where I was.

  My mother also sent along some of my clothes, and an ice-cream container full of my favourite home-baked ginger biscuits. And my cellphone and charger. There were lots of messages and SMSs, many from Bheka. I didn’t bother to open them. In a way, I was glad that Gogo’s house didn’t have electricity and that I had to ask Nobuntu to charge my phone every now and again. A flat battery was the perfect excuse when I wanted to ignore Bheka.

  At this point, I often felt as if my footpath consisted of one hairpin bend after the other, each turning back on itself, so that I regularly found myself back where I had started – in that dead darkness, which at other times I thought I had left behind forever.

  One day Nobuntu brought me a journal in which I could write down my feelings. She said it would help me to understand that the healing journey required patience. If I wrote down my feelings, I would be able to track my progress, and see for myself that I was getting ahead, even though it didn’t always feel like it.

  My first entry in that journal was a poem:

  Dead. She is dead.

  She eats, works,

  sleepwalking,

  sleepstumbling.

  Dead body,

  body not hers,

  body thrown away,

  a used something

  a used nothing

  lying limp lost

  on faraway forgotten

  rotten rubbish heap.

  Dead.

  Nandi is dead.

  11

  Bheka started phoning after he got no replies to his SMSs. I answered some of his calls. He begged me, repeatedly, to allow him to visit. Nobuntu tried to persuade me to allow him to come. With great care she tried to help me open the door to my old life, but I had closed it.

  I firmly believed that Bheka was lying when he said he still loved me. How could anyone love me? I had brought it all on myself. I had worn clothes that complemented my curves, short skirts that showed my long, shapely legs. It had been my own fault.

  Nobuntu said over and over that it was common for rape victims to feel riddled with guilt and shame. And that it was only by standing up proudly and believing in myself that I would heal.

  “You’re a talented, beautiful girl with a brilliant future ahead of you. You have a whole team of people around you who believe in you. Open your heart to yourself, sweetheart,” she said so many times. But I knew she was just saying those things to make me feel better. And Bheka just wanted to visit because he felt it was his duty.

  Then, towards the beginning of August, Nobuntu suggested again that I invite Bheka to visit. It took her an entire day to convince me.

  Finally I agreed, without any enthusiasm at all.

  Then I had to ask Gogo if a boy from Johannesburg could visit me. When she raised her eyebrows, Nobuntu assured her that it was not a Bad Boy I was talking about. And because Gogo trusted Nobuntu with her life, she gave her permission.

  He arrived on a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon. The previous night there had been snow on Mount Anderson, the highest peak in our province, sending the temperature plummeting. I was busy helping Gogo peel potatoes in our cosy warm kitchen when we heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house.

  Footsteps. A knock at the door. A familiar voice. It just had to be him.

  And then, “Nandi!”

  I dropped the knife and a half-peeled potato on the table.

  Gogo gasped. “Who is it, child?”

  “The Johannesburg boy,” I stammered. I glanced down at my baggy hoodie, which almost reached my knees. I licked my lips, chapped and dry.

  Hands sweating, I opened the door slowly.

  The first thing I noticed was that his searchlight eyes were dim. He looked tired.
And then I noticed the crutch. I had never before seen him use a crutch to get by.

  “Close the door. Don’t let the cold in,” said Gogo, shuffling towards the door to meet the stranger.

  I introduced them. I noticed how Bheka took Gogo’s hands in his, how he took time to greet her in the traditional, formal way. But I immediately heard the flat note in his voice. Where was the full, strong river of his voice, I thought: it sounded thin, like a trickle in the dust. I stood aside while he chatted to Gogo, heart beating. Conflicting thoughts, a struggle between head and heart, raged inside me.

  “Offer your friend something to drink,” said Gogo before excusing herself, muttering something about needing to visit a sick friend. But I knew she was giving me time alone with Bheka.

  No sooner had the door closed behind Gogo than Bheka leant his crutch against the wall and took me in his arms. I leant against him for a short while, my body rigid. And then I wriggled out of his embrace.

  “Sit down,” I said, pointing to the couch. My arms, aching to hold him but paralysed with fear at the same time, hung down limply.

  There was a strained silence between us as I made tea; my hands trembled as I poured. When I sat down beside him on Gogo’s faded green couch, I felt as if he were on the other side of the world.

  Bheka broke the silence. “My father has offered to assist you in any way he can with the legal side of things. He is an expert in cases such as these. A champion for women’s rights. He’ll help you, you can be sure of that.”

  “I haven’t even thought about that,” I whispered. “I don’t even want to think that far ahead.”

  A long silence followed.

  “Why did you come, Bheka?” I asked. “How can you even think that things will be the same? I have been raped! Can’t you understand? I am the victim of a rape and my life has come to an end.” My voice was as cold as the snow on Mount Anderson.

  Bheka stayed the night, sleeping on the couch. He left early the next morning, after a breakfast of Gogo’s lijingi porridge, milk and sugar.

  While we waited for a taxi to town, where Bheka’s bus would be leaving for Johannesburg, his father phoned. Mr Bongani asked for my permission to be in touch with the detective, my mother and Nobuntu. I agreed, and gave him their contact numbers. The next moment, a taxi came screaming down the street in a cloud of dust. Bheka held me in a close embrace before waving it down.

  “Please consider my father’s offer,” he said tenderly. “He says the law must take its course. Justice has to be served.”

  Out there in the cold of the street, we didn’t even say goodbye. I watched him struggle into the taxi with his crutch. He pressed his face against the taxi window and looked at me intently as I stood there, feeling lost, chilled to the bone and confused.

  Then the taxi sped off and I shook the dust from my clothes.

  Back indoors, Gogo was getting ready for church.

  “Come with me,” she said as only Gogo could. “You need to get out.”

  I shook my head and plopped down onto the bed, slipping again into the old, comforting darkness.

  12

  All journeys have turning points. I reached mine two weeks after Bheka’s visit.

  “I want us to talk about the court case,” Nobuntu said one cold but sunny Monday afternoon.

  The snow on Mount Anderson had melted and we were sitting sipping coffee in Gogo’s tiny, neatly swept backyard, on two plastic chairs we had carried out from the lounge. Gogo was inside, cleaning the windows.

  “I can’t face it,” I said, looking away.

  “Look at me, girl. Bheka’s father phoned me a short while ago. He’s been in touch with the detective who is handling your case. A court date has been set. You’re needed at the Mbombela Magistrate’s Court for an urgent interview with the public prosecutor. Everything hinges on you now. If you delay, the case will be withdrawn.”

  I felt sick. I put my coffee down on the ground. My hands were cold as ice. I tucked them into the pockets of my hoodie.

  “Silence will destroy your dreams. Speaking out will rebuild them.” Nobuntu’s voice was strong, firm.

  A small part of me knew that I would have to face the court case, but I had become addicted to escaping into the dead darkness. Gogo’s little house was where I was safe. Nobuntu was my shield against the world. And besides, what if I did go back home and my father shot my family dead, as he had threatened to?

  “My father. He’ll kill us,” I said.

  Nobuntu was silent for a long time; I felt as if she was hiding something from me, but I wasn’t sure.

  Eventually she spoke.

  “There’s something else Mr Bongani told me. Your father’s been arrested, Nandi.”

  “What?” I gasped. “Did something happen to my mother, my brothers? Has my father –?”

  “No, no,” Nobuntu interrupted me, quickly pulling up her chair so that our knees were touching. “Give me your hands,” she said gently.

  Slowly I drew my hands out of my pockets. She held them tightly so I could feel their warmth.

  “You’re acting strangely, Nobuntu. What’s going on?”

  “Your father paid the rapist to attack you, sweetheart.”

  I pulled my hands from her grip.

  Bent over.

  Covered my face with ice-cold hands. Pressed my fingernails into my skin.

  Longed for the dead darkness. Longed to fall headlong into the black hole of forgetfulness.

  But, suddenly, I heard Lindiwe again, sitting beside my bed at home during that first week of my nightmare: Don’t sink as deep as I did, Nandi. Trust me, it’s really hard to climb out of that hole.

  With superhuman effort I lifted my face from my hands.

  “How does Mr Bongani know that?”

  “The detective told him. Your friend Zanele was the one who discovered it.”

  “How?” I began to shiver.

  “On Saturday night Zanele woke up when her brother came home drunk from the shebeen. He passed out on the floor, and when she investigated she saw that his cellphone had fallen out of his pocket. Something made Zanele look at his SMSs, and there was one from Old Man Dube, saying: Coming home Monday. You’ll get your money. Zanele knew immediately that something was wrong – why was her brother getting money from your father? There were several messages between them, so she scrolled up. And then she read it …”

  “What?” My teeth chattered.

  “The SMS sent the morning after the rape. This is not word for word, but it said more or less this: You must be my eyes and ears. If you hear anything, tell me and I’ll disappear. But Scar would be a fool to talk. He knows I always mean what I say. He’ll get a knife in his back, inside prison or out. He got his money for the job up front, so he must shut his big mouth. Not my fault he was caught.”

  Nobuntu took a deep breath.

  “So Zanele wasted no time,” she continued. “Early yesterday morning the phone was in the hands of the detective. The police were waiting when your father arrived home this morning. He was arrested, and Zanele’s brother has run away from home.”

  A sudden, sharp pain catapulted me out of my chair and onto my feet. A knife right through my heart. My father had hurt me so often, betrayed me more times than I could remember. But this betrayal was the deepest cut of all.

  I ran into Gogo’s house, and Nobuntu followed. Right there in the lounge that smelt of the methylated spirits Gogo was using on the windows, I let out a scream. Gogo came in from the bedroom, cloth in hand, eyes as wide as plates.

  While I screamed and punched the air with my fists, I saw again the face of my rapist. Clearly, as if watching a movie, I saw how I had walked straight into the enemy’s lair that night. An innocent victim, a young girl with a dream, caught in a matter of seconds in the sickening, dark grip of a nightmare.

  Standing on Gogo’s threadbare carpet, I felt again the searing pain between my legs. The unspeakable shock when I had realised what was happening. I remembered how I had fo
ught the monster with all my might, but how helpless I had been against his brute strength. His claws gripping into my skin, the smell of beer and cigarettes and unwashed clothes, bloodshot eyes so close to my own, the scar I could see in the dim light of a streetlamp …

  Nobuntu was there to catch me when I fell on the floor, screaming, “I hate him! I hate my father! I hate all men!”

  “Anger is good!” said Nobuntu, kneeling beside me. “Anger tells me you are waking up, fighting back!”

  Yes, anger was good.

  And suddenly my screaming stopped. I took a deep breath. I stood up from the floor and looked first at Gogo and then at Nobuntu. Quietly, and with the kind of confidence I always had during a debate when I knew my point of view would win over the audience, I said, “Tell Bheka’s father I am willing to do whatever it takes to bring my father and that monster to justice.”

  At that very moment my mother phoned. “The police called me. Your father was taken to jail this morning. I don’t know why.”

  “Because he paid the rapist to do it,” I said.

  There was a stifled shout and then a groan on the other end of the line.

  “Be strong, Ma. He and the rapist will face the full might of the law. I will not rest until they do. I’m coming home. They can’t hurt us any more. It is time to tell my side of the story.”

  Nobuntu clapped her hands.

  “When a girl gets that never-mess-with-me-ever-again kind of look on her face, I know she’s turned the corner,” she said.

  Nobuntu stayed all afternoon. There wasn’t a lot of talking going on in Gogo’s lounge. Mostly, we sat in silence, all thinking our own thoughts. Nobuntu sat pensively on a white plastic chair, Gogo sat close to me on the green couch. She looked very, very old. When night started to fall, we continued to sit in the dark. We didn’t even bother to close the curtains. After a while, moonlight stole into the room.