What I Hold In My Hands

Kangaka kahalila, kangaka gazini.

So much crying, so much blood...

*~*------------------♥------------------*~*

There's a part of my parent's life that I haven't spoken of.
This part is comprised of their background,
or family.

My father's family was non-existent:
He was an orphan, and had been sent through many foster
homes, only to be cast out in the street.
He caught a break when a local man noticed
his extreme like of math and politics,
landing him a job as a financial help agent.
He slowly progressed until he became an
insurance agent.

My mother's family was rich an important.
When I say that, I'm sure you'd imagine them sharing
their possessions with their own daughter and their
grandchildren.

Nope.
We never got a thing.
Which makes sense as to why they would not
care for my brother or myself.
They were ashamed that their daughter married a man with
no important background,
and left her out of their life and will.
Kuli and I were utterly alone.

We spent several more days in my neighbors home,
until finally, someone came for us.
This time, a younger man.
This man offered us a place to stay,
in an orphanage of course.
I was to travel there with a group of other
orphaned children, along with my brother.
With no where else to go, we gathered up our things to
be sent away,
for however many miles the trip would take.

As Kuli and I sat on the bus,
bouncing over the pitted roads with many other
children towards the plane that would take us to our
destination, I reached into the bag I had,
removing several of the items I had brought with me:
A brush
a hair ribbon
a picture of my parents
some mints
a pen
a pad of paper
some other office supplies
and a wallet with all the money
I could find in my house.

All the other items were to be given to my
mother's side of the family,
as stated in her will.

Yet as I dug to the bottom of the bag,
I found what I had thought was forgotten:
My camera.

I flicked the switch, turning it on so
I could scan through the pictures held in it's memory.
Ah, the good days,
when I could laugh and sing,
my smiles captured in still life.

Something fell to my lap that instant.
I looked down to see a note.
It read:
"Mudiwa, look at the last picture.
Never get rid of it.
Stand tall.
Live free and proud.
Never forgive,
never forget."

As I read the note, my hand unconsciously flipped through
the pictures to the last one.
The last picture my camera had taken.
A picture that I wasn't even responsible for,
even though my blood stained the camera's screen.

I still have that picture to this day.
The hand of sorrow that left it's mark on my neighbor's wall.
That hand, the hand of a child,
the hand that swung out at the news of it's creators' demise.

So I sang to Kuli the rest of the way to the orphanage,
my eyes never leaving the picture I held in my hands.

*~*------------------♥------------------*~*

Innocence and Blood Covered Walls

Mina vuya ukuba yena, nini chadwazwa.
I speak to him when no one listens...

*~*-------------------♥--------------------*~*

My mother and father had been gone for 3 days
as I slept in my neighbors home.
My knees began to scab over, becoming unbearably
itchy, and sometimes even infected.
But I did not care.
I had no strength or will to move as my brother
crawled around on the floor,
smiling and giggling as always,
unaware that his parents were no where to be found.

On the fourth day of my stay, a young woman came
to the door, asking to see me.
My neighbor was skeptical at first, asking what
I could possibly need to be seen for.
I could hear this through the door.

Silence.
Utter silence.

The woman was soon at my door,
knocking in a "cute" fashion and odd rhythm.
It reminded me slightly of "Shave and a Hair Cut".
I rose to answer the door, my knees
cracking open as I hobbled to answer,
grabbing a towel to dab at the blood.

As the woman entered the room, she
helped me to my bed, telling me that
"it would be easier to say if I was somewhere
where I could unleash my feelings without consequence"
And so she talked to me.
She talked to me about the fate of my parents.

They had been taken by the Durban Police force,
for suspected involvement in the riots
and anti apartheid revolutions that were spreading
through town faster than a cold in my school.
They had been sent to stay in a holding cell for 2 days,
until 4 officers came to see them.

They were questioned for what seemed like an eternity,
and my father was beaten when he refused to answer.
My mother cried, for hours, after they took my father
to the infirmary due to the excessive blows to the head.

He did not make it to the next morning,
as the bashes to his head shut down the part of his
brain that allowed him to breathe.

Upon hearing this news,
my mother, defiant to the end,
took the sash that she had tied around her
waist, and slung it over the metal pipes
that ran through her holding cell.

They found her the morning that young woman
came to my neighbor's home.

It did no good to have me sitting on the bed.

The scream the wretched from my throat
was choked and cracked,
echoing through the house and outwards
for what probably spanned for several miles.
I did not cry, I sobbed.
I beat my hands into the walls,
scrapping my skin across the bleach white surface.

The young woman who was with me could not bear to watch,
and left the room, only to be replaced with my neighbor.
She sat there with me and cradled me in her arms,
as if I was her own child, soothing me with
kind words and bringing my brother to sit with me.

His expression saddened when he saw my blood covered
hands and my tear streaked face.
But that did not keep him down for long...

"...Mu.. Mudi. Mudi!"
I was stunned.
That rich clear voice,
so pure and innocent.
Where had it come from?
Who was speaking to me?
I looked at my neighbor in confusion,
but her attention was elsewhere.

On my brother.

I slowly turned my gaze to him,
eyes wide in astonishment.
Had he really said my name?
Had he REALLY spoken to me?

"Mudi... why... why cry?"
He stared up at me with that little smile,
that never seemed to leave that face,
his teeth lining up in little rows
as his eyes sparkled.

I sat there, too amazed to speak.
Slowly, I reached my arms out, bringing him to my chest.
I held him there as my tears began to flow.
He let out little protest,
nuzzling into my stomach and reaching as
far as he could with his small arms around my waist.

Those words,
those pure and innocent words...
They had brought me back once more.
They had given me hope.

*~*-------------------♥--------------------*~*

They've Come to Take Away My Sanity...

Uma mi umndeni sithela, dwa yena mamathekela mina.

When my family disappeared, only he smiled for me.

*~*---♥--- *~*

My day started like any other:
Putting my brother on my back to take him
to the daycare center, while I packed up my bag
to walk to school, as always.
I made breakfast for my parents, leaving the
plates of eggs and bacon sitting on the table
as I walked out the door.

The day was clear and warm, the sun smiling down
on my face as if to say "Good morning to you, young child."
Ku-Ku laughed as I skipped down the road, our
walk taking its time as we wound our way through the streets
when we got towards town.
As usual the inspectors were there to see our passes,
and to make sure we were headed where we were supposed to.

Each of my people had a badge or pass to say what we
could and could not do.
We were instructed to show our badges to the
men at their stations when we were asked.
As we passed our passes through their machines,
I always marveled at the way the people went
about their business, looking down on us like animals.
We were no different than them, were we?
The only difference was skin deep,
yet these men saw us as if we were a totally different life form.
A very nonthreatening life form.
A worthless one.

As we made our way to the daycare,
Ku-Ku shouted in his normal toddler laugh,
kicking his legs in amusement.
It was then that I saw my friend Rulimau,
Walking with his younger sister.

This was a picture of his pass that I took during
one of our many boring class assignments.

Our passes weren't in the best condition,
as you can see, but we still go through the day.

Like any normal day, we went through our classes:
Math,
Science,
Sewing and Cooking for the girls,
Gym,
Reading,
and Foreign Language (We either learned English or Belgian)
I always found that class to be boring, useless.

The day ended, and I went to pick Kuli
up from his room, placing him on my back in his
sling once more, bringing him home along our normal
route, stopping every so often to smell the flowers
or have a drink at the fountain.

When I came home, I knew something was wrong.
As I walked up the driveway, my mother's precious garden was
trampled,
the glass window that I would sit in to paint was shattered,
a smell of burning fabric tainted the air.

I brought Kuli to the neighbors, who were too
terrified to tell me what had happened. Instead, the woman who lived there
took Kuli in her arms, placing him on her couch as she finally told me of men
that stormed the house, running back out with my mother
and father, their faces bloodied and broken, tears streaming
from my mother's eyes.

My Knees grew weak,
My ears began to ring,
my eyes watered and stung.
And still I ran.

I bolted out the door, nearly colliding with some onlooking people,
who had come to stare at the slowly burning home.

*~*~*--------------------------------------------------------*~*~*

Inside was a mess, a total wreck.
The carpet was stained with blood and dirt
from muddy boot tracks the ran through the room.
The plants were knocked over.
All the artwork and pictures of my family were strewn across the room.
My kitchen, my room, the basement.
All were the same.
As if a tornado had wiped out my home.
But all the possession were there.
These were not burglars.
The only thing missing were my mother and father.


The scrambled eggs I had taken time to make,
and the bacon that I had burnt 3 of my fingers cooking,
lay undisturbed in the center of the kitchen table.
It was the eye of the chaos that had unfolded,
and was completely unharmed.
I could not say the same for my mental stability,
or for my knees as I fell to the floor, slicing them open on broken
shards of glass as I screamed in pain.
I did not scream for the glass embedding itself in my flesh.
I screamed for the tearing of my heart in two,
for the loss of my parents, so near and dear.

I could have sworn my broken heart lay among those shards.

I walked silently back to my neighbors home,
to find Kuli standing,
for the first time on his own,
looking at me for the first time without a smile.
His face gradually warmed as he saw me,
a small grin creeping onto his lips.

Only he could smile for me,
and only he could make the beating of my broken heart begin once more.

This First Day Of The End Of My Life

Momotheka el mina, ami ncane imbasa...

Smile for me, my little star.

*~*------------♥-------------*~*

When people see their home, it gives them comfort.

A place to unwind, to relax, and be themselves.

To me, my home was heaven, and no one would ever take

that away from me, no way, no how.

My mother, Natsu Zayiiti, was a small and rather large woman,

as she had grown up in a rather wealthy family,

but was looked down upon by her older siblings and even her parents.

To make sure that she was not the same to me, she doted

on me, hand and foot, and literally spoon mouthfuls of food down

my throat when I wasn't hungry.

Good ol' umama.

My father on the other hand,

was a very successful business man,

who had several ties to important companies, as well as the government.

My father only concentrated on money,

politics, and new changes in the South African economy.

He did have some time to stop and chat with his wife,

maybe even buy a present for his daughter

and two year old son, my bother, Kuli.

But most of the time, his eyes were glued to a newspaper

or the television in our family room, watching the recent

news.

My baby brother, Little Kuli, or Ku-Ku, as I called him,

was an energetic sac of fat that rolled around in his bed,

crawling behind me if he was set on the floor.

I almost thought of him more as a puppy than I did a brother.

He'd curl up in my lap and doze off while I did the homework

from my school classes.

His favorite thing to do with me on warm nights was go out

side to the back yard, where we'd sit on a blanket and watch the stars.

He was always staring at them, as if these small clusters of

light were the most interesting thing to do in his life.

Then again, there was nothing else he could do at 2 year old.

Sometimes, I would grow jealous of that little fuzzyball,

as Father only looked at him with a smile, pride glowing in his eyes.

When he looked at me, all I saw was the same face he gave my mother,

a face that said: You may be part of my family, but you will amount to nothing.

I would pout outside in the dark as he crawled around in the grass,

chasing after lizards and fireflies.

Then he'd see me sitting there, and crawl silently over,

using my knees to balance himself as he stood,

looking at me with a stupid smile.

But that stupid smile was all I needed to snap me out of whatever

jealousy I was feeling.

That smile was my light in a field of darkness,

no matter how stupid it was.

I suppose that's how I survived the horror that was to come the next day.

*~*------------♥-------------*~*

Welcome to My World

Ukufa enzeka uku el shiya umntwana.

Death comes to abandoned children.

Yet we survived...
*~*-------------------♥--------------------*~*

Have you ever heard the sound of a girl scream as her mother is wretched from her arms?
It is a sound that no one should ever hear in their life time,
as it is shrill and saturated in tears.
It takes the soul from your body and tears it in two,
into sanity and oblivion,
neither functional without the other.

In my tribe, there is a word for sadness,
but this word can not express these feelings of pain.
I feel depression, hopelessness, and sheer hatred for the
white umqwayizis who claim their superiority.

Americans can complain as they wish about higher prices for fuel and foods,
about being poor or loosing a job, even about the hassles they must go through
in order to make their constant divorces final.
To me, these Americans feel nothing like I do, like the rest of the world does.

To you American people, I have but one question to ask:
How would your life progress should you lose everything that you hold dear?
How would you, so snug and warm in your beds, feel to being cast out in the cold
with no one to care for you, and no one to hold you in your times of sorrow.
Only those who have been cast out into the streets, left for dead, and have had to fend for themselves for most of their miserable lives
can feel the same way that I do.

Usizi.
That is the Zulu word of sadness,
the word of my people.
But my words are different, more meaningful.
Mine emulate death, destruction,
and lack of hope.


What is this suffering that can not be described in words,
and can only be shown in spite?
Why do I hate the whites with such a fiery passion?
You want to hear my story, do you?

I thought you'd never ask.

*~*-------------------♥--------------------*~*