Bernice Puleng Mosala bernicemosala@gmail.com +27 72 248 8841 Manuscript for HALFBREEDS by Bernice Puleng Mosala.
© Bernice Puleng Mosala Part I. “History is what is it. It knows what it did.” – Danez Smith.
I. To look at my reflection is to see the world staring back at me: every expectation, every shortcoming, every socially acceptable aspect of myself right there for the world to judge me in the confides of my own head. Big Brother isn’t watching me, I have become Big Brother watching myself, arresting myself for being myself forcing my body to contort and comply with the manmade order, but despite my efforts, all that I see is a halfbreed staring back at me. I have made a home of this house of mirrors. I watch as my gaze grows ferocious as it grows teeth and an appetite for flesh. The brute beast that is halfyou, halfme, halfwe: all of us who make up society, we constitute the chorus line, screaming in a synchronized routine for a degree of betterment that we cannot achieve. The cellulite, the wrinkles, the depth of my complexion: they are all souvenirs of my inferiority the cause of being 34 and unwanted. I shut my eyes to their existence but the knowledge of imperfection prevails: a taunting that beats at the drum of my ears, to the sound of the chorus line calling me to be slimmer, prettier, whiter. “Shut up,” I scream back a response to the earsplitting judgement. Tears begin to make wells of my eyes, obscuring the hatred, but even through the aquahaze I see hints of it: black like sin, black like bad dreams, black like every bad thing. I am Sara Baartman, wearing concealer and a waisttrainer, just so that I can sit at the table with the civilised as they talk of the parasites: black on the outside, animal on the inside. “Uneducated swine,” He said. My mind presses rewind on the evening replays the events starting at the dinner table. Harrison is 10 minutes late for our date. Something about a taxi driver bumping into the back of his BMW. “And who the hell do you think is going to have to pay for it?” He says “It’s not like the guy can contribute to the repair, or to the betterment of society for that matter.” He sneers. I instantly start to feel sick. It is that detached feeling that rushes over my body before I engage in any sort of confrontation. “How many people were in the taxi?” I ask, fixing my
eyes on the unused spoon in front of me, wishing that I was small enough that it could keep me afloat. It seems that I’ve ordered hot soup as my starter. “I don’t care. Did you hear what I said? Do you want to see the crater that the idiot carved into my car?” He reaches for his iPhone X, hands trembling with rage. “16 people fit into a mini bus.” He doesn’t hear me, instead he swipes through the pictures of his fender bender, showing me the minor indent. “Without that taxi driver, 16 people would be left stranded, forced to walk several kilometres to their homes to their kids, after spending 10 hours on their feet.” He stares blankly at me. I force myself to continue, despite the feverish heat that has risen to my head. “Just because someone cuts you off in traffic, doesn’t mean that you can insult their entire existence. That man keeps the economy going just as you do. He drove recklessly and for that he should be sorry but that taxi driver… he means something to those 16 people who are trying to feed and put their children through school.” Harrison gives me that condescending fake laugh that makes my insides churn. “You’ve never taken a taxi in your life. Don’t pretend that you understand what that means. Don’t put on that highandmighty ‘I know what it means to be black’ act, because you don’t, Charlotte.” I look into the shadowy depths of my skin. I look into the bright blue skies that constitute his eyes. “I have to go,” I say. My mind is already so far away. It has crossed over the threshold of time, moving into a territory that is labelled ‘whites only.’ I am afraid that if I stay here too long, a law abiding man with a baton will beat me until I am so drenched in my own blood that I forget what I am fighting for. “Don’t… Leave. You know what I mean. I’m not insulting you. It’s a privilege to not have to live like that.” “I have to go,” I repeat, rising from my seat and reaching for my bag, as well as my will to fight. Exasperated, he lies back in his seat. “Next time tell me if you’re going to be in one of these moods so that I don’t rush over here just to be ridiculed.” He shakes his head at the incredulity of the situation, “You do realise that the only reason I got hit tonight was so that I could be here with you? And you’re just going to leave without a second thought.” He isn’t really looking at me, he is looking around me, just like the night when he asked for my number.
We were both waiting for our Uber’s to pick us up outside the convention centre “That was an incredible talk you gave. Are you as good at oneonone discussions?” He asked in his charming way. I don’t remember what I said in response, only how good it felt to be wanted. I’ve always wondered if his lack of eye contact is a product of subconscious disgust or if I am just being paranoid. “There won’t be a next time.” “Charlotte, don’t you dare.” He gives me that damn laugh again, “Not tonight. Not over something as silly as this.” I turn away from him, walking towards the glass doors of the restaurant and the engulfing darkness beyond them. I look at myself. I think about how lucky I was to have someone like Harrison, who believed me to be more than just a black girl. How stupid I am to have given it all up over one remark. How much I want to call him, apologize for my outburst, beg him to forgive me. I could still have the white picket fence: him and I and 2.5 coloured children the epitome despite my imperfection. I am desperately trying to ward off an inward collapse. I unlatch myself from the reverie of Harrison, reaching for my salvation: a small bottle of skin lightening cream that I slather on my face in layers, hoping to obscure my blackness with the white paste, but the consistency isn’t thick enough; the processing time isn’t ever quick enough. I can still see patches of ugly darkness through the beautiful white mask. I run my manicured fingers down the disappointment of my skin several times, capturing the cream and flinging it at the mirror in a blind rage. “I, Charlotte René, am black,” I say halfheartedly at my reflection, which is obscured by the white residue of my anger. I don’t take taxis and I don’t work a minimum wage job, but why should that define blackness? I still have to face the degradation of the work place: only respected if I show up with a 10 inch weave and with eloquent speech. Only accepted when I emulate whiteness. I am a mimicry, a mockery: not quite white but not quite black. A half breed. I hate this thing that society has made me into: a product of constant selfsurveillance so that I do not fulfil the prophecy of my skin. What would they say if I couldn’t afford the private
school or the concealer or the weave? I would become a part of the 80% of South Africans who apparently exists to wash shirts and windows and dishes. “That’s not what black means…” I whisper, but Harrison is not here to hear me. I did not say all that I wanted to say to him: how the only reason I stayed with him for the past two months was because I was in disbelief that a blondehaired, blueeyed man – the epitome of the patriarchy, could find me, something on the other end of societies beauty spectrum, attractive. Or how I have been ridiculed for not being black enough since preschool, when my classmates discovered that my tongue only knew the vernacular of the colonisers. Or how repulsed I am at the idea that it will always be easier for me to navigate the world, not because of anything I have done, but because my parents paid for the advantage. I didn’t do anything to attain this privilege: it was just the luck of the draw. Or how I could never regret my relation to blackness because it’s more than than mere pigment. It’s the ability to rise up despite slavery, despite segregation, despite negative opinions. I feel so proud to be associated with the vast majority of people who choose an honest day’s work instead of entitled belligerence, regardless of how much a situation calls for it. Or how the world has constantly reminded me of my lack of whiteness through media and through magazines. I am a child reaching for the white doll, a teenager reaching for an emulation of the white woman’s hair, an adult reaching for the white man who will give me the 2.5 coloured children, so that I can bear something that the world loathes less. They want less of my blackness. They want less of me. This is what blackness has become postapartheid: raising halfbreeds who are forced to live the solitary life of disidentity because it isn’t just a skin colour, it’s a role that we ascribe to secondclass citizens within this play that we call ‘life’. “You’ve taken enough from me.” I crumble; I cave and tuck myself into bed. Tomorrow I will put myself back together again. Slather my face in whatever is left of my skin lightening cream, restructure my countenance with contour and concealer, cover my mouth in longwear lipstick and smile because I am privileged to afford the stage makeup that typecasts me as a middleclass black person instead of an updated, Africanised version of Jimcrow. He sneered, “It’s not like he is contributing anything to the betterment of society.”
I reach for my phone. I look past the lack of communication that Harrison extended to me while I mourned his absence hereafter. “What you said to me wasn’t a silly little thing. Black is problematic because you perceive it as such, but you don’t get to strip me of my blackness. You do not get to tell me who I am. Not anymore.” The text message goes through. I watch as the ticks turn blue, not caring what his reply is, only that I had the courage to say something that mattered to me instead of accepting the lines that were given to me by society when I was cast as the “good nigger.” II. There was nothing about Grace Muhande that made her spectacular. In fact, her deflated demeanour instantly insinuated that she was a spectator: always watching, never watched. She wore thick spectacles that sat on the bridge of her broad nose and an expression of boredom. I wouldn’t have spotted her within the crowd of students if I wasn’t looking, but I was. I catch a glimpse of her inky complexion as I am led into a large lecture hall on the campus of phycology at the University of Cape Town. The head of faculty, a petit, ravenhaired woman, introduces me as I step up to the podium where 107 blank eyes blink in my direction for a fraction of a second, before they return their interest to more engrossing matters. As often as I am invited to stand before stages, I am never quite comfortable. I too am a spectator, dressed to assume the role of the spectacle, panicking internally, pleading that the audience does not see beneath my façade: the manicure, the makeup, the manufactured physical form. “This is Dr. Charlotte René. She’ll be your guest lecturer for this session. She specializes in dream analysis and we’re incredibly privileged to have her speak on this topic. She is the founder of the “Dream Navigation Device,” otherwise known as the “DND,” which revolutionised the way Dream Analysts are able to understand and interpret the subconscious. Please give her a warm welcome and your undivided attention. The ravenhaired woman moves streamlike offstage, leaving me to captivate the malleable minds of the first year phycology students. A lethargic applause rings out into the open air. I clear my throat loudly, drawing attention to myself. I too am not spectacular. That is, of course, until I speak. To be a welleducated black female in South Africa is to be perceived as an antithesis. In the back of every colonised mind is the hesitation to accept the contrast of black intellect. The nasality of my speech is something that I am congratulated on on a
regular basis. It sounds of submission and successful subjugation. It reduces the sceptical nature that is attached to my black body. After all, indoctrination is the European man’s favoured relaxant. “I Have a Dream,” I use my voice as an instrument, inducing the auditorium of youthful eyes that I am worth their attention. I continue, “One of the most memorable speeches delivered by Martin Luther King Jr. on the 28th of August, 1963. A speech about black hands, reaching for white hands, calling each other to join the assembly line of equality. Among the great evils of segregation, he visualised an abstract theory of freedom among racially divided lands. Within the confides of his mind, he perceived egalitarianism in Philadelphia, Colorado, Mississippi, California, Georgia and Tennessee, despite the opposing reality. It all started with a dream. If you, among many, dismiss dream analysis as being little more than guess work, then you have an outdated view of what the subject has become. The reason I created the DND is because I wanted a greater level of insight into my clients’ subconscious minds. I didn’t want to have to interpret my patients dreams through skewed audio recollections. I didn’t want to have to base my diagnoses on things that people where or where not telling me things that people could forget or invent or withhold for whatever reason. I wanted to see the full spectrum of what they experience while they slept. The Dream Navigation Device is a hightech piece of artificial intelligence that projects a person’s dream state into virtual reality googles so that therapists can observe the progression of dreams in real time. It may sound complicated but it’s a rather simple concept. By connecting a HDMIlike cable, composed of a sort of synthesised vein system, to a brains visual centre, the wearer of the connected VR headset has access to a livestream of a person’s subconscious mind. A fairhaired boy in the third row raises his hand hesitantly. I nod in his direction, indicating that his question is welcome. “Is the connection procedure painful?” He asks, a hint of horror branding his expression. “Not really. We attach the synthesised vein system to the posterior pole of the occipital lobe, which is at the back of the head, using syringe needle skull penetration. The process is so quick that you don’t necessarily feel it. I worked with a Neuroscientist, Dr. Ianne Cardoso, to ensure that the user wouldn’t have to be injected with aesthetic which often alters the subconscious state. It’s designed so that the patient feels optimum comfort from connection
to disconnection, and so that the therapist has full access to the patient’s mind without any blind spots. Another hand shoots into the air. “Is the dreamer aware that someone is watching them?” “No, the therapist is merely a spectator in a projection of the dreamer’s mind.” A new voice flings a question in my direction. “Isn’t that… Unethical?” “Why? It’s only authorised to be used by qualified phycologists and even so, the dreams can only be seen, not altered.” “Well, it’s an invasion of privacy, isn’t it?” “That’s like saying that a person telling a therapist their problems is an invasion of privacy. As long as the patient consents, it’s an ethical procedure that makes the interpretation of dreams more of an accurate science. It enables a higherdegree of psychological success because the analyst has a higher degree of understanding of that which occurs inside one’s mind.” “And what about the therapist: to what degree does the livesimulation become too traumatic to perceive? There are some people who have potent nightmares and subconscious recollections that could surely derail the mind of anyone who has full consciousness while processing them.” “There’s a lack of emotional attachment that buffers the viewer from the dreams. It’s almost like watching a movie. In some instances, it could be like watching a tragic or frightening film. Regardless, as a viewer, I can always take off my VR headset. I exist as a thirdparty within an external subconscious with a full awareness that I am not the dream or the dreamer. That being said, in particularly potent dreams, my mood often is affected. Sometimes, my jaw tenses or I start to sweat or I find myself in tears. Sometimes, I feel joy rise in my chest and escape through my mouth in a very real wave of euphoria as I witness a particularly joyous vision. Empathy isn’t difficult when you’re sitting in the mind of someone else, but I always recommend that psychologists shouldn’t enter the minds of patients with similar traumas. A rape survivor shouldn’t try enter the subconscious of another rape survivor because their dreams could be triggering. That’s not a rule that is always followed. It depends on the psychologist and what they think they can handle. More eager hands rise. I answer each question as meticulously as our timeframe allows. After several minutes, the head of faculty indicates that I can only take one more question. I look in Grace’s direction. She wears the same bored expression, but her eyes stretch a little
wider and her body tilts forward. I have her attention, yet, she does not put her hand up, instead it is the hand of a greeneyed boy with sharp, attractive features. I think to myself: a member of society who is more readily affirmed. I frown internally at my own generalisation. Although there is truth in the statement, what it lacks is the knowledge of the individual’s life. One thing that I have learned from peering into the subconscious minds of other people is that we all harbour societies unattainable standards in various ways – we all struggle under its weight. I point in his direction, spurring on his curiosity. He asks, “What kind of things have you seen through the device?” “I sign nondisclosures with my patients so I can’t tell you exactly what lurks beneath the surface, but what I can say is that whatever a person fears, wants, accepts, hates: it all belongs in this realm which isn’t confined to the limitations of reality. Sometimes what I witness is technicolour, other times it is black and white. Sometimes a dream is drenched in sound, other times it is deafeningly silent: almost like walking through solitary confinement. I see the dead, I see murder, I see birth, I see rebirth. I see people for who they truly are. Not their external personas or their skin tones or their religions, but the combination and contradiction of their souls begging to be seen.” The class is silent. They are probably engrossed by the imaginings of what their own heads might look like. “I’d like to end this talk off by saying that the world needs more dream phycologists. Sometimes we are so quick to prescribe medication to patients based on our professional, yet still limited, perspectives, but through the Dream Navigation Device, we can test the effects that various medications actually have on the subconscious minds’ of patients, making misdiagnoses less prevalent which means that people can have more control of their own lives. There is a world beneath the world that we know that controls us. Imagine a planet of people who are more able to manage their lives because they are more able to understand their own minds. Half the battle is understanding, the other half of it is what they decide to do with the knowledge that they are given. As future psychologists, it is important for you to hear this: you cannot save people, you can only equip them to save themselves. As soon as I leave the lecture hall, I set off looking for her. I find Grace near the parking lot, sucking smoke into her lungs and releasing it into the open air. My pace is slow as I approach her, not wanting to scare her off by admitting that she was exactly what I need. “I hope I didn’t bore you in there. You didn’t really engage in any discussions.”
She exhales, creating a barrier of smoke between us. “Disengagement isn’t the same as disinterest,” she answers shortly. The smoke clears to reveal her oval face, framed by her spectacles and her longbeaded braids. Her dark, disassociated eyes squint in discomfort. The only reason she isn’t leaving is because she still has half a cigarette left to smoke. Her body is much larger than mine and her skin much darker in comparison. Still, I wonder if she sees a glimpse of herself in me, the way I see a youthful me in her. “Why’d you pick psychology?” I ask her. “I don’t know. I just did.” Her lack of commitment to my conversational advance is disheartening but if she really didn’t want to speak to me, she would just toss her half smoked cigarette on the tar, make up an excuse and walk away. Her presence is a good sign but I know that I am running out of time. She ashes her cigarette. I decide to cut the small talk and tell her what I want. “I have a theory,” I say. She stares at me straightfaced. She doesn’t grant me the privilege of seeing what she looks like beyond her cool facade. “I think that being the only black girl in a room like that affects ones mental health to some degree.” She lets the cigarette dangle from her full lips. She inhales. I watch as the tube of tobacco ignites momentarily. It looks like a red traffic light. Despite my superstitious need to stop myself, I continue to speak, “It’s all really damaging; that ‘you have to work ten times harder than every other person in the room’ mentality, you know?” She receives my question as rhetorical. “There are also cultural barriers and, more prominently, misconceptions spurred on by subconscious stereotypes. As black people, we internalise a lot of that… Those feelings of being unworthy because of society’s definition of blackness.” She lets her cigarettes drop from her lips. I half expect her to leave without saying a word, but instead she asks me, “What do you know about being black? You look coloured to me. You have pretty, light skin, I can’t see your hair beneath that weave but I assume that it’s the type of kinky that actually complies with a comb and your accent isn’t quite…” She trails off. “My father was white race. I say ‘was’ but I don’t know if he is alive or not. He’s never really existed to me. He didn’t want to raise a family tainted by blackness, he just thought it would be fun to fool around with one but he couldn’t actually bring my mother home. That rejection comes with its own set of complexes. And then there’s the complex of not being accepted by either side of the race line because society says that “lightness is a synonym for betterment.”
I’ve never said that but as black people, we internalise what the world says of us. We’ve been called nigger for so long, that we adopt it and refine it as something beautiful: Négritude, but sometimes we forget to include every shade of blackness. Sometimes we think, ‘She is light, she has it easier’ and yes, I admit, I am more readily accepted because of it, but I’m also rejected by the people that I call my people because I don’t fit into their celebration of blackness.” “Do you want me to feel sorry for you?” “I don’t necessarily mind what you feel for me.” This isn’t completely true. I want her to like me but I don’t want her to see how desperate I am. Not yet. “What I’m asking you to do is to treat me as an individual, who is trying to connect with you based on our similarities instead of our differences, and in reaching out in this way, I’m hoping that the race problem is repaired in some small way.” “Shouldn’t you be speaking to some white kid then?” “The problem often doesn’t exist to them. They’ve already removed themselves from the Apartheid despite the fact that the after effects of it still affect more than 30 000 people. I could go to them, explain to them that the physical segregation that once existed by law, which still exists as a repercussion, has begun to move upon the soil of people: controlling our bodies through indoctrination. I’d have to convince them that the “unicorn” of racial privilege exists, and then I’d have to deal with their egos, showing them how their avoidance of guilt is more important to them than black lives. I’d rather deal with the issues that black people face which would spur on a revolution of worldly ideals that white people would either have to accept or choose alienation.” “It sounds like an easy out for the white kid while I’m expected to orchestrate an entire revolution. Don’t you think that contradicts your whole, ‘we shouldn’t have to work ten times as hard’ theory?” She lifts her thick eyebrows, challenging me. I smile. Her constant questioning of the world and of people is encouraging. It symbolises discontent – its symbolises an innate want for the revolution I am proposing. “I’m not asking you to work 10 times as hard as white people in order to fit into their society, I’m asking you to work 10 times as hard at loving yourself, unlearning the internalised prejudices and becoming so comfortable in your individuality that you inspire others to do the same removing your need to constantly define yourself. All people deserve to be themselves beyond societal definitions.”
“Is that why you wear that weave? For individualities sake? Because you sound and look like a white sympathiser to me.” “When the world brands you as a halfbreed, you become an empathizer of all races but you also see the destructive patterns that they all adopt. I’ve lived on the outskirts long enough to recognise that black pride is only a temporary answer. If we want equality real equality, then we need to create a new system that exists beyond definitions.” I reach into my bag to retrieve a business card with my name and number. “I know what mental issues come from being the only black person in any given room: depression, anxiety, dissociative identity disorder. If you ever need some help, give me a call.” I hand her my card. She looks down at it without making a move to take it.” “I’m a bursary student. I don’t have the kind of money that you charge for a session,” she says without looking up at me, her braids obscuring her face. “I don’t want money. I want to change the way things work.” I take a deep breath, knowing that it is time to show my desperation. “After creating the Dream Navigation Device, I thought that I would be happy, but looking around those rooms of achievement, I realised that no one really looked like me. And the people I was with, they never let me forget it. They kept on commenting on how lucky I was or how brave I was to go beyond the limitations of my race. They didn’t mean anything bad by their comments but the fact that they still believed that stuff on some unconscious level hurts. The fact that I believe that stuff on some unconscious level hurts. I want to use the DND to eradicate racial prejudices starting with the people it affects most. Starting with you.” “What if it doesn’t work? What if this is just how it’s supposed to be?” Grace lets her guard down. Her eyes are a pull of sorrow that I am sinking into. I can tell that she truly believes what she says. “I’m sure someone asked a similar question during slavery. Several freedom fighters must have contemplated the same thing during the Apartheid. They had doubts. The whole world was telling them that they were wrong, but imagine if they listened? Imagine where you and I would be if they accepted the status quo? I firmly believe that discontent is supposed to move people towards something better.” My speech is met by her silence. “Give me a call if you’re willing to give the treatment a try.” Wishing her well, I move towards my car. It is an old Honda that requires a fiveminute waiting period so that the engine can adequately warm up. Before I proceed towards my
empty house, I catch a glimpse of Grace in the rearview mirror. She stands exactly where I left her, staring down at my card with a confused expression on her face. As fate would have it, I am just as uncertain as she is about the situation. I continue watching her as she retrieves a lighter from her back pocket, which she uses to set my business card on fire. She puts another cigarette in her mouth and breathes in, letting the flames of my life’s work ignite her chosen vice. I receive a message from an unknown number at 8pm on Wednesday night. “I need help.” It reads without any context or description. I text back in a perplexed state. “Who is this?” “Grace,” the message says. It’s been two weeks since I saw the arsonist last, as I pulled out of the parking lot concluding that I would need to find another subject. My phone illuminates as I receive another message. “I’m been kicked out of my residency and I don’t really know where to go. You’re the last person I wanted to ask. I’ve been trying to find a place to stay all day. Please. I need help. Just for the night.” I take a moment before I reply, contemplating the consequences that saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’ might have on both her and I. I text her my address as I hurriedly clean my apartment. My mess isn’t a problem until I invite someone else into my space. There is a collection of tissues littering the couch, the residue of allergies, and a deconstructed monument of essays on negritude replace my hard wood floors. I have let the topic control my life. The only people I have talked to in the past week are Aimé Césaire, Léopold Sédar Senghor, Frantz Fanon and those are fairly one sided conversations: they talk and I listen, agreeing or contradicting their viewpoints in the confines of notebooks. I make a routine of picking up plates that I deposit into the dishwasher and gathering discarded items of clothing that I toss into the washing machine. I have no intention of actually cleaning the items, just putting them out of the way so that it looks like I have my life in order. After 15minutes, the bell rings. I make sure that my headwrap is covering my hair tightly before opening the door. Stepping aside, I let Grace enter into my space. We cross the threshold into the living room. “Would you like some tea?” I ask. She replies by shaking her head. Placing her hands lightly on various objects in the room, she tests the weight of what it means to be here.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” She shakes her head again, letting the silence stretch out before she says, “I’m not hungry.” “You don’t have to be polite. I haven’t eaten either. I can put something on for us.” Her voice stops me as I enter into the kitchen. “It’s OK. I’m vegetarian and I don’t want to impose.” I smile at her. “Unfortunately, I’ll be the one imposing. I’m a vegan. Are we done with the excuses?” She nods, stretching her mouth in my direction. It’s almost a smile. She meets me in the kitchen as I chop up vegetables and put them into a pot. “The only thing I really know how to make is soup. You’re welcome to help.” I hand her a clean knife. She stands beside me, carefully carving the vegetables into what I hope will become a edible meal. I’m not the most accomplished cook. “Why’d you get kicked out,” I ask, catching her off guard.” “It’s stupid. I turned my phone off for the weekend and a friend got worried. He asked my landlady to open my room but she declined. He said that I had a history of attempted suicides and that opening the door would be the difference between life and death. They opened my room and I was fine but my landlady didn’t really like the drama associated with the situation so she asked me to leave. My family is back in Johannesburg and I don’t have any friends who aren’t students so you’re the only one I could come to.” She recounts the events in a monotone monologue. “I saw you burn my business card, you know?” She looks either amused or embarrassed. I can’t tell the difference through her braids, as she keeps her head tilted downward, focusing on the task at hand. “That was only after I put your number in my phone. I would have lost that little piece of paper anyway.” “That little piece of paper is expensive,” I rebuke her, attempting to mend my bruised ego, then I turn to her. “Are you OK?” “Sure,” She says, focusing on dicing a couple of carrots. “Does this mean I have to be your test subject?” “Only if you want to. Look at me,” I wait for her eyes to meet mine. “I don’t really live with anyone and I have a limited amount of obligations so you’re welcome to stay here for a while but we need some ground rules. You need to respect my space and you need to respect me.” “OK,” she says, biting her lower lip. Her mascara is smudged and she looks tired. I carry on, “That means no attempted suicides. I can’t come home to your limb body. Ever.”
“As a phycologist, you should know that if I wanted to kill myself, I would do it despite haphazardly laid out ground rules.” She contemplates my countenance as she challenges me. My voice grows soft. I hope that she can distinguish the sincerity that I am trying to extend to her. “As a person, I know that silly things keep us alive. Your word is your bond is your life. I expect you to keep it.” She shifts her focus. “I would like to be a part of your project. It would be nice to not feel… Suffocated all the time.” She says, tossing the last carrots into the pot. I turn the stove top on and let the vegetables simmer in water and vegetable stock. Turning to face me again, her eyes grow expectant. She needs something else to keep her busy. “Would you like to see my office?” “Sure.” She isn’t one to waste words. I already start to wonder how expressive her subconscious is. I lead her into my study. It’s the only consistently clean part of my house. In the centre of the room is a reclined chair. The Dream Navigation Device rests on it. To the right is my desk, a book written by Steve Biko has been left, face down on a laptop. There are papers around it which are stacked and pilled systematically. There is a window just above the desk and book shelf by the door. It is a minimal room: the walls are a pale yellow but there are no paintings or carpets to distract my patients. Grace walks towards the device. She touches the incision needle, trails her fingers along the cables, then picks up the VR googles. “Can I see inside your head?” She asks. I pretend to think about her proposal, “No.” The words come out sternly but kindly. “Would you like to see inside mine?” She enquires nervously. “Maybe later. I think it’s best if you settle in for tonight.” “You don’t have to be polite,” She makes a quotation out of what I said to her earlier in the night. “Fine.” I pick up the DND and indicate that she should sit. She lies back, allowing her hands to rest on her stomach. I crouch down, moving behind the head of the chair, connecting the needle end of the device. I push a button and the needle shots into the back of her skull. “Is it in?” She asks, hearing the sound of the equipment attach to her. “Ahhuh,” I mumble, returning into her line of sit. She stares up at me, expectantly.
“Now we just have to get you to fall asleep. I normally read to my patients and if that doesn’t work we use homeopathic sleeping pills but that’s more of a last resort. It’s better if you fall asleep organically.” I lead her into my study. It’s the only consistently clean part of my house. In the centre of the room is a reclined chair. The Dream Navigation Device rests on it. To the right is my desk. A book written by Steve Biko has been left, face down on my laptop. Papers surround it but they are stacked and piled systematically. There is a window just above my desk and a heavily stacked book shelf by the door. It is a minimal room: the walls are a pale yellow but despite the light pop of colour, there are no paintings or carpets to distract my patients. Grace walks towards the device. She touches the incision needle, trails her fingers along the cables and then picks up the VR googles. “Can I see inside your head?” She makes her request. I pretend to think about her proposal, “No.” The words come out sternly but kindly. “Would you like to see inside mine?” She enquires, slightly nervous. “Maybe later. I think it’s best if you settle in for tonight.” “You don’t have to be polite,” She makes a quotation out of what I said to her earlier in the night. “Fine.” I shrug, picking up the DND. I make a motion with my hand, inviting her to sit down. She lies back, allowing her hands to rest on her stomach. I crouch down, moving behind the head of the chair, connecting the needle end of the device. I push a button and the needle shoots into the back of her skull. “Is it in?” She asks, hearing the sound of the equipment attach to her head but not entirely feeling it. “Ahhuh,” I mumble, returning to her line of sight. She stares up at me, waiting for the next instruction. “Now we just have to get you to fall asleep. I normally read to my patients and if that doesn’t work we use homeopathic sleeping pills but that’s more of a last resort. It’s better if you fall asleep organically.” “What are you going to read?” “I have a bookshelf full of choices. What’s your favourite genre?”
Her body is still as she shifts her gaze, staring up at the ceiling. “Do you have anything… More personal? I mean, you’re about to take a field trip through my subconscious.” I have a hard drive full of academically acclaimed articles, written by me, stored on my hard drive but I don’t think that is what she is asking to hear. “Give me a moment.” I rummage through the doors of my desk to retrieve an old journal. I have stacks of them from various intervals of my existence. Writing has always been my escape. I page through the tortured handwriting, looking for something that I could share with her. “There’s a poem in here that I wrote when I was in my final year of my undergraduate degree.” “You write poetry?” She questions me, a little surprised. “Not anymore. Ready?” She nods. “Sleep well,” I say before reading the piece aloud. As I speak, dust particles rise from the pages, catching the light at random intervals. The past can sometimes become such a beautiful thing, I think to myself. “Mama, I was 22 when I realised that you Did not know all that I thought you knew. For years, I thought you knew everything That there was to know, but at 22, I grew to know that you had no knowledge Of a great number of things. It was not your intention to be deceptive But I was deceived by your palms of protection, Stretching great lengths to find out what You did not know, because I did not know You did it all for me: Learned how to hem skirts, And scrapes and sunken spirit. You found me, With my face in a toilet bowl at 2am, Homeremedyhands slowly healing me, Slowly showing me, without showing me
The homework that you did so that I could Complete my homework; sitting at the dining room Table. Pen in hand until dark, until done. With the precision of an artist, you wove a basket For my third grade project out of coloured paper. It still basks in my closet, holding strayed things together. That was the same year that I came home, heart shattered. Do you recall the way you mended my splitting centre? That was the last time that I would fit perfectly into your lap. But not the last time that you would hold me together. You the seamstress, clutching your trusty needle and thread. Sowing rows of Indian hair onto my head To make me look beautiful and then you, The sales woman who convinced the sales woman To do my make up for free. Every matric dance photo is An ode to your ingenuity. You the magician, who somehow kept the lights on when The bills weren’t paid. Showed us how to make a bath of A shallow red basin when the bills really weren’t paid. You, The realtor who sold our Cape Town home to pay for high school. The accountant who somehow made a little Go a long way. No spreadsheets needed. You did not attend university but you made sure that You had a degree of knowledge on how to get me Into college, and here I am, after four years of varsity Sitting at the dinner table, pen in hand, eyes looking Into your eyes, tears in mine, because I don’t know how I’m going
To make it through this time, And you, with your worn hands Nurture me, as I realise for the first time that everything You knew, you learned in order to teach me. And now, I am 22 and sleepdeprived and not knowing, but I know That it is my turn to find out what I do not know, because mama, If there is one thing that you have taught me, it is that you have taught me Too much for me to not find out what I presently do not know And my finding out is an ode to your ingenuity.” My mind is so consumed by nostalgia that I do not recognise the peaceful rise and fall of Grace’s chest as she falls asleep. I read and then reread the poem, catching hints of my mother’s musky scent among the words. In the second stanza I catch a glint in her eyes. In the seventh, I take hold of her hands, unwilling to let go. A snore escapes Graces nasal cavity, startling me and unlatching me from homesickness. I reach for the VR headset and I connect to the external stream of Grace’s unconscious mind. From a distance, I can see cabinets upon cabinets of suppressed memories, but I cannot access any of them. I can only see what Grace chooses to see. The first dream that I enter into is an assault of light. We are in an olden day kitchen. The cupboards are not white, they are luminous. There is a gas stove in the centre but the room is empty despite the cupboards which grow emerald mould. Grace is a baby, screaming at the top of her lungs. She is hungry. I should have insisted that we ate before entering her dream state. Someone comes into the room, a woman who holds the same body shape as her. Her face is obscured by the blinding light of the scene. She picks Grace up, rocks her back and forth. There is singing. “Thula, thula wena,” the lady sings sweetly, tossing Grace in the air. She lets out an uninhibited squeal that is customary of children. Once the lady sees that the baby is quiet, she rushes toward the oven, opening it violently and throwing Grace into the fire. Grace starts to grow in size. As she ages, she thumps on the oven door, calling out but she cannot be heard over the singing that turns into a deafening chant “Thula, thula wena. Thula, thula wena.” Grace lets the voices guide her into the flames, she disintegrates until she finds herself in a new scene.
The country is war torn. Soldiers carry guns but the people are happy. The mothers gossip, the men make circles, gambling with dice. The children are playing. Grace joins them. There is a sense of euphoria as she hops between taut ropes which circle the dusty legs of the children. They wear shabby clothes and their faces are dirty but there is so much joy. “England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales. Inside, outside, inside, on!” She jumps higher than she has ever jumped, landing on the meticulously braided rope. Her victory is met by the sound of a helicopter, drawing nearer. The people with their dark complexion scurry into a line. Females on the right, males on the left. They lower their heads, not wanting to be seen. The people lower to their stomachs as a man exits the helicopter. Even the soldiers are deathly afraid of this man who wears a cleancut blazer, medals lining his breast pockets. They glass their guns tightly. The man’s biggest achievement is the fear that he ignites in the hearts of his people. Grace, although one of the subjects lying terrified on the floor, switches bodies with the dictator. She looks down at the people in disgust. He looks over at one of the guards, commanding them to gun down the subjects who aren’t lying flat enough. He shouts out in a foreign tongue: “either listen to instructions or die. You are such burned ugly things. It is by great mercy that I keep you alive.” The dictators skin is just as black as his subjects but he does not see past his loathing. He isn’t one of them, he is decisively better. The gun man shoots, the mirror breaks, and Grace finds herself bleeding.