Alive Again Read online

  Eventually Nobuntu got up to get firewood from outside. She stoked a fire in Gogo’s stove, lit candles and offered to make sandwiches and tea. Meekly Gogo thanked her, saying her legs felt too weak to stand. We had our sort-of supper in silence.

  Eventually Gogo spoke.

  “His father was also cruel,” she said, with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Your husband?” asked Nobuntu.

  Gogo nodded. “He always teased his two sons. Made them look stupid. Took them out of school in grade 7 to work for him. Told them education was for fancy boys, not for real men.”

  She turned to me. “Your father had a dream. He wanted to go to college. But his dream was beaten out of him by your grandfather.”

  “So that’s where it started. No wonder Nandi’s father became the man he is,” said Nobuntu.

  “Over the years I watched him turn from a laughing little boy who did well at school into a Bad Boy. It broke my heart,” said Gogo, looking distant and bewildered.

  It was so quiet in Gogo’s little house that I could hear my own heart pounding against my chest. The thought that my father had also once been young and full of dreams made my head spin. I felt thoroughly confused by a jumble of feelings.

  Nobuntu got up to light another candle. As she did so, she looked straight across the room at me.

  “How are you feeling, Nandi?”

  “I detest him. I hate what he’s done. But I also feel sorry for him,” I said.

  “Everyone has a good side. Look at how he still sends money home. But taking pity on him could result in yet further crimes. That’s the heartbreaking truth of the matter.” Nobuntu sighed deeply.

  “Mr Bongani says justice has to be served,” I said, remembering what Bheka had told me.

  Nobuntu nodded and Gogo started to cry. I pulled her close. In the silence of the night, no one spoke. There are times when one cannot find words for what is happening in one’s heart.

  Much later that night, when Nobuntu had left and Gogo had stumbled to bed, I was still sitting on the couch.

  The candles had burnt right down. I sat alone in the darkness. I stared at the full moon through the window. As I sat there gazing into nothingness, I became aware that something was different. That something felt different.

  In a flash I knew what was different: yes, I was feeling again!

  In an instant a longing, that old longing, for Bheka washed over me, like the soft, silver light of the moon.

  “I miss you, Bheka,” I whispered.

  I tiptoed to Gogo’s bedroom and took my journal from the drawer, lit a candle and wrote another poem:

  Almost, yes, almost alive again.

  Skin soft smooth shiny

  under fingertips.

  I feel the touch the tingle the tickle,

  the warmth of blood and breath,

  the strength of muscle and motion.

  Alive again.

  I am almost, almost alive again!

  * * *

  The following day, when the late August winds were at their worst and Gogo said we should keep the windows closed for the dust, I had another surprise visit from Lindiwe, who had come to the village again with her uncle. This time, I was happy to see her.

  “Sit down!” I said, after we had hugged and kissed. “You’re blowing in here like a happy reminder of a life I’d almost forgotten!”

  Gogo, who was scooping water from the water bucket into a pitcher, looked at me with eyebrows raised. I caught her glance. She was so surprised that she poured the water straight onto her clean floor.

  “Gogo!” I exclaimed, laughing.

  “Nandi is herself again,” muttered Gogo. “God be praised.”

  After mopping up the water, she put on her jersey and said she was going next door. Gogo always knew when it was right to leave.

  Alone with Lindiwe, I began chattering away. There was so much to tell her, so much to say about my journey out of that hole we both knew so well.

  “You’re my sister,” I said, after we had laughed and cried for what must have been at least an hour, in between sips of juice and bites of my mother’s gingerbread biscuits. “You give me hope. Thank you.”

  Lindiwe fell silent. She looked very serious.

  “There’s something else?” I asked nervously.

  She wasted no time.

  “Have you seen your boyfriend?” she asked.

  “I’ve been too scared. You know what it feels like. It hasn’t felt safe yet. He has tried. He came to visit. But I sent him away. He wants to see me, and I’m almost ready, but …” I muttered, not making much sense at all.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I never told you, but the boyfriend I had walked out on me after the rape. To this day he doesn’t speak to me. He looks at me as if I’m filthy. He tells his friends I’m a slut.”

  “Bheka would never do that!” I said, shocked.

  “So why let him slip through your fingers? Can’t you recognise true love when you find it?”

  Just then we heard a hoot outside. It was her uncle.

  “Phone him. Let him come. Before it’s too late. True love conquers all!” she called over her shoulder before jumping into her uncle’s car.

  Next morning I went into town with Nobuntu. I had a list of groceries to buy for Gogo because the week before he was arrested, my father had sent money again.

  But I did not have time to wonder about my cruel father’s one consistent kindness. I was thinking only about Lindiwe’s last words: Phone him. Let him come. Before it’s too late. True love conquers all!

  I had written a hundred SMSs to Bheka since then, and had deleted them all. My feelings changed all the time, from hot to cold, and back to hot. I longed for his warm hands, those searchlight eyes, but each time my finger hovered over the “send” button, one single, maddening thought held me back:

  How can I ever expect him to value me when I’ve been cheapened by rape?

  Nobuntu, from whom I could never hide my feelings, looked at me out of the corner of her eye as we stopped for coffee and a bite to eat.

  “Something bothering you? Are you thinking of Bheka?” she murmured.

  “You’re a mind-reader,” I grumbled, looking down at my rough hands, skin flaking, nails still bluntly cut even though Gogo had often handed me the nail file and her jar of green camphor cream.

  Nobuntu followed my glance and her eyes lingered on my hands, but she kept silent. She didn’t mention Bheka once during our meal. But after our coffee came, I looked up at her. She was pondering my face like someone plotting a strategy. I just knew she had something up her sleeve …

  Sure enough, she leant across our table and took hold of both my hands.

  “Girl, your gogo has given me some of your father’s money to spend on you. She feels it is high time for some nice clothes. She has noticed that you care very little about your appearance. You never even look in a mirror. Your hair needs help, to put it mildly, but you refuse to go to the best braider in the village. Your skin is dry. Your lips are chapped. And just look at your nails …”

  I pulled my hands away from her firm grasp.

  “Don’t forget that my looks got me raped,” I blurted out.

  The coffee, which had at first tasted sweet, suddenly turned to bitter medicine and I pushed the cup away from me. I got up to leave.

  “Can we go home now, please? I actually don’t care what I look like. These baggy jeans and my hoodie are perfect,” I muttered, looking down at my oversized clothes.

  Nobuntu urged me to take a seat again. Reluctantly I sat down, glaring at her. I was grateful that the café was half empty and that we were sitting in an alcove where no one could see us.

  After a loaded silence she asked if I was willing to give myself a gift which cost nothing. There was no need to go shopping for it either. She wanted to teach me something that would be of great help to me.

  “As long as it’s quick. I need
to get home,” I said, overcome once again by the desire to lie under a blanket and disappear into darkness.

  “Breathe, Nandi, breathe. Give me a chance,” she said.

  “Can we just do this? I want to go,” I said, irritated.

  “Close your eyes.” Her voice was firm.

  I knew exactly when Nobuntu was focused, in charge. There was no escaping her, so I closed my eyes.

  “Imagine that you, Nandi, are in the same room as yourself as a little girl. You can see her clearly. Open your arms wide, welcome little Nandi into your arms,” Nobuntu began.

  It was hard to focus. I protested a few times. I even jumped up and said I would wait for her in the car. But Nobuntu would not give up. She persevered until I had my eyes closed and I could clearly see little Nandi in my imagination.

  “I’m going to help you get in touch with that part of yourself which is scared and vulnerable,” she said.

  After I had glanced around a few times to make sure no one was looking, I relaxed and followed Nobuntu’s cues. I closed my eyes again until, eventually, little Nandi walked into my open arms and lay against me.

  While Nobuntu’s soft voice guided and encouraged me, I picked up little Nandi and took her into a beautiful bathroom, white, clean and shiny. I filled a tub with warm water. I added bubble bath smelling of roses. I softly scrubbed her dainty little feet. I washed her hair. I wrapped her beautiful little girl body in a fluffy towel. I trimmed her pink nails that looked like sea shells. I rubbed sweet-smelling oil into her smooth skin. I dressed her in the most beautiful little dress I could imagine, a pink dress with frills and ribbons. I braided her hair. Then I picked her up again and we sat in a soft, comfortable armchair. She leant against me in total trust. For a long time I sat with my arms enfolding little Nandi. I told her she was safe with me, totally, completely safe. It was a quiet, immensely restful feeling. I was so at ease that I was reluctant to open my eyes.

  When I eventually did open them, there was Nobuntu watching me expectantly.

  I smiled. I took a deep breath.

  “We can go shopping,” I said. “For my kind of clothes.”

  And then I excused myself to go outside to make an urgent phone call.

  Nobuntu smiled. I knew she could read my mind.

  * * *

  I wish I could say I was at ease when Bheka knocked on the door two days later.

  Sure, I was looking good, even I had to admit that. I had on new black jeans and a pretty, soft, girly top that Nobuntu had helped to select. It was green and scattered with pale-pink roses. It followed the contours of my body and showed off my curves. It revealed just a hint of the spaghetti straps of my new, pink lace bra. Dark-green pumps with light-green edging, pink lip gloss and braided hair completed the look.

  Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, I had filed my nails and rubbed Gogo’s camphor cream into my hands until they were shiny and soft.

  When I heard the knock on the door, I froze for a moment and almost, almost ran to the bedroom to fling Gogo’s night-shawl over my shoulders. But I breathed deeply, held my breath for a few seconds, then breathed out slowly, just as Nobuntu had taught me.

  “Nandi, it’s me,” the familiar voice said.

  With feather-tickles in my tummy, I slowly opened the door.

  Bheka stood dead quiet. I stood dead quiet. Our eyes met. Do all true lovers have a current of electricity that connects their eyes? I believe they do, because there was such a powerful flow of feeling from my eyes to his and back again, that we were both hypnotised and rooted to the spot.

  If a young boy had not come running down the street shouting, “Hey bra, cool car!” we would probably have stood like that forever. I noticed the car the boy was referring to: a shiny blue Polo parked in front of Gogo’s house.

  Bheka turned to it. “Do you like it?”

  “Yours?” I asked, surprised.

  “My eighteenth birthday present,” he said.

  “I like the colour,” I said, relieved that we could break the ice and recover from our love-induced hypnotic trance by focusing on the car.

  “Blue, like my letters,” said Bheka, turning to get his bag from the boot.

  My eyes followed the confident movements of his body. I immediately noticed he wasn’t using the crutch any more. And his searchlight eyes which had been so dim and sad during his previous visit on that bleak, icy weekend, were bright again. I ached to touch him, but I held back, welcomed him inside the house and sat next to him on the couch.

  He took something from his shirt pocket. A small, golden pouch.

  “For you,” he said.

  Trying hard to control the trembling of my hands, I undid the knot on the pouch and dropped the contents into my hand. It was a locket. A gold locket.

  “Open it,” urged Bheka.

  The locket opened into two heart-shaped halves. On one half our names were engraved. On the other was engraved True Love Conquers All.

  I gasped. Those were Lindiwe’s words!

  “You’re shocked?” Bheka sounded worried.

  I touched his cheek reassuringly and explained that Lindiwe had used those exact words after telling me how her boyfriend had turned his back on her when she had been at her most vulnerable.

  “Lindiwe said true love conquers all. Their love was just not the true kind.”

  “But ours is! Our love will conquer all, always,” said Bheka, fastening the locket around my neck.

  And then I cried. Actually, I sobbed, and laughed. I was pleased that Gogo had done one of her thoughtful disappearing tricks: she would have had the fright of her life if she had seen me lying on her couch, laughing and crying at the same time! I snuggled up to Bheka, feeling the warm safety of his body against mine.

  I cried until his shirt was as wet as if he had been standing in the middle of a Mpumalanga summer storm.

  13

  I could think of no one better than Bheka to drive me to the Mbombela Magistrate’s Court in his blue car for my first meeting with the public prosecutor. Driving down Long Tom Pass, a very good omen crossed my path.

  “Oh look, an eagle! Please stop at the nearest parking place,” I said, my eye fixed on the bird floating in the sky.

  Bheka stopped the car without question. I flung open the door. Bheka followed, and together we stood at the side of the road, gazing upwards.

  “Just look at that,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that my life is back on track,” I said.

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  So I told him about the eagle I had seen from the bus window on the way to Johannesburg. The way it had soared and floated, strong and free, had become symbolic of how I felt at that happy time in my life, I explained.

  “And now this eagle is telling me I’m back on track, once again following my dreams,” I said softly.

  In silence we watched the eagle soar effortlessly against the blue sky, held up high by wide, powerful wings, until it took off over the valleys of the lowveld which stretched out below us and faded into the horizon.

  “Fly, Nandi,” Bheka said, his warm hand softly holding mine.

  I was nervous when I walked into the office of the public prosecutor. I was expecting to meet a stern man with a matter-of-fact manner, a man who would never understand the pain I had experienced. My palms were sweating, my heart racing.

  But to my great relief I was welcomed by a young woman, Mrs Smith, with friendly blue eyes and a warm smile. She put me at ease straight away.

  “You’re almost sixteen, Nandi, but not quite. Because you’re still a minor, we will do everything possible to make your court appearance as easy as possible. First, the case will be held in camera. That means that no members of the public will be allowed into the courtroom. And secondly, you will not be in the courtroom yourself, not at any stage of the proceedings. That means you will never be in direct contact with your father or the alleged rapist,” she explained.

&nbs
p; I dried my palms on my jeans. My heartbeat slowed down. I tried to smile.

  “I’m glad to see that little smile!” she said. “Come, let me show you everything you need to know about your day in court. To make things easier.”

  She took me into the courtroom, which was empty. She explained who would be in the courtroom on the day, in addition to herself, of course: the regional magistrate, the accused (my father and the rapist), their attorneys (who would try to defend them) and a court stenographer in charge of the mechanical recording of court proceedings and administrative duties.

  Next, Mrs Smith took me up a flight of steps to a small room adjoining the court.

  “You will be sitting in here during the proceedings,” she explained.

  There were brightly coloured posters of flowers and a drawing of a fluffy little kitten on the wall. Children’s toys were piled up in baskets.

  We sat down on a couch with big, soft cushions.

  “This is the private room for minors,” she continued. “But you will not be alone. An intermediary, a woman called Mrs Lobi, will be with you all the time. You will like her – she’s a retired schoolteacher. She’s really kind and caring.”

  Mrs Lobi, so I was told, would have headphones on. She would hear everything going on in court, but I wouldn’t. She would be my go-between.

  “When it is time for you to tell your side of the story and to answer questions during the cross-examination, Mrs Lobi will relay the questions to you, and she’ll pass your testimony on to the courtroom,” said Mrs Smith. “That way, you won’t have to give evidence directly in court and you certainly won’t have to come face to face with the two men. Even though you will not be in direct contact with the court, you will be visible to everyone in the court through a closed-circuit TV system. Your facial expressions and your reactions will all add to the strength of your case. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said softly.

  Walking back to her office, she pointed to a few smaller rooms set apart from the main building, on the other side of a patch of lawn.