Sihle Pasurayi (Undergraduate Student

Tribulations of the Broken

SIHLE PASURAYI Undergraduate Student

“As a consequence, the National Corona Virus Command Council has decided to enforce a nationwide lockdown for twenty-one days with effect from midnight on Thursday, 26 March”: President Cyril Ramaphosa’s voice filled the room. I was sitting in front of my uncle’s rather expensive television set as the president’s daunting words struck a dull fear in my heart. I felt overwhelmed by the news and thoughts began churning in my head. What would be the implications for my education? For my family? For me?

“Shit”: a loud expletive from my uncle, whose hoarse voice filled the room, bringing me back to the unpleasant reality. He is not one to mince his words. I lifted my head and looked in his direction. My uncle’s face revealed a total disbelief. My aunt, who hates foul language looked at him with shock. A smile crept onto my face. Uncle Sam and aunt Zoliswa are both beautiful people, and they represent everything that I admire - everything I would have wanted my parents to be. My attention turned back to the television, where a female reporter was now giving us more information about the virus. “COVID-19, that is the name given to the virus that is currently turning the world upside down she said. The respiratory virus has demanded attention, and it is getting the attention it wants. According to the National Institute for Communicable diseases the Corona virus can be found in both humans and animals. In humans, it is known to infect the nose, sinus or upper throat. The outbreak of the virus has quickly spread throughout the world, changing life as we know it; changes that would have seemed unimaginable. No one is safe, no amount of money, power, or respect could protect one from the virus”. I felt a wave of strong emotion and of panic. My uncle stood up and switched off the television. “All right”: he said: “Bed time!” I made my way slowly and reluctantly to my own room, which is ‘my safe place’. My room has been a sanctuary and I have called my uncle and aunt’s house a home for the

past twelve months. I threw myself onto the bed, hoping that I would be able to sleep.

I was just dropping off when the cell-phone rang. It has a harsh and unpleasant ringtone and I had been meaning to change it. “Hello”, I said. “You need to come home today. You cannot be a burden on your aunt and uncle at a time like this. I want you back in my house by 5pm today”. When I heard my father’s voice shouting on the other end of the phone, I felt both anger and disgust. “All right”, I mumbled and ended the call. I sat up in my bed and looked about the room. I would have to return to my parents’ house, which is a ‘hell-hole’. The Lord knows how much I hate going home. I only ever go there when I begin missing my mother.

I made my way back to the small RDP house my father calls ‘home’. It is not a home! I was welcomed by my mother, who looked beautiful and delicate. She had lost some weight since the last time I had seen her, about two weeks earlier. I looked into her beautiful eyes. I could see the misery. She smiled at me, and I noticed a new bruise on the right side of her face. Nothing had changed. My father would not ever change. I loathed him with my every fibre of my body. “Mom, why did I have to come back?” I whispered to her. “I’m sorry” she answered, “There was nothing I could do. Your father resents the fact that you have to stay with my sister and brother-in-law. It makes him feel inferior, and damages his ego”. My mother’s voice was soothing and gentle. “Why do you not want to leave Mom? Uncle Sam and Aunt Zoliswa have offered to take you in too. I begged her, with tears filling my eyes: “Please leave this man before he really hurts you”. “Shh!” she said, afraid he might hear: “He really loves me, Nomsa. I cannot leave him. I am his lifeline. I am the reason he breathes. You are still too young to understand these things. He is ashamed of our poverty and only allows you to stay with my sister because he cannot afford to give you transport money to go to school

on a daily basis”. I went through to the small living-room, a place which held memories of horror. The room held memories that would remain embedded in my soul, of my father beating my mother.

My father is the kind of man who lives and breathes for alcohol, it consumes his entire being. According to my mother, he started drinking alcohol when he was thirteen-years-old. She says it never really bothered her until he lost his job at the mines and could not afford to buy alcohol anymore. That is when the violence started. He took out his frustration by beating my mother. It became a routine. He would thrash her until she was badly hurt. I cannot find words to describe how I felt when I saw my mother lying on the floor, motionless, after having been beaten.

At present he takes on parttime jobs here and there. He doesn’t do anything productive with the money he makes. As soon as he is paid, he makes his way to the local tavern. With this new virus affecting our lives, I am not sure how things will pan out. I wonder how he is going to get money to buy alcohol, now that he is not allowed to go out and do odd jobs, and there is a new restriction against the buying and selling of alcohol that has been put in place by Minister Bheki Cele. My father is moody and irritable whenever he does not consume alcohol. It is very frightening living in a house with him.

The first few days of the lockdown have been dreadful. The atmosphere in the house is appalling. I hardly ever leave my room. My room is a bolthole, the only place where I can escape from my father; it is my safe space. The situation in the house has been very uncomfortable and volatile. My mother brings hot bowls of soup to my bedroom. She is a wonderful person! She is the reason I am working hard at school, so that I can earn a salary and get her out of this predicament. She is a good mother who prepares meals for me, sees that I have some pretty clothes and cares for me in every way. When I have had my supper and am ready to sleep she sings a lullaby which is my favourite hymn:

MWARI muri zura redu Rinopenya pauzuru Asi mweya ungaone Paunozofamba napo Mwari muri nhowo yedu Hatidzityi hondo dzedu Dzose dzinokundwa nemi Tigouya nokufara Munotipa ngoni dzenyu Munotipa noutsvene Munopa vanonamata Munopa makomborero Makomborero makuru Makomborero ewedenga Aripo avanofunga

Kuti anodiswa nemi.

I awake to the sound of someone screaming in agony. The sounds of screaming is filling the house. It is coming from my parents’ bedroom.

I think to myself: “Here we go again”. Suddenly the noise stops. I am so afraid I cannot move. I think that she may have passed out. I get slowly out of bed and make my way to my parents’ bedroom. I stop when I hear my father’s cries on the other side of the wall. I stand in front of the closed door for about two minutes, then I gather the courage to reach for the old rusty door handle. I twist the handle ever so slowly, then begin to push the door open. When the door is fully ajar, I make my way across the threshold. My father is sitting on the edge of the bed with a knife in his hands, covered in blood. My father looks up at me with tear-filled eyes. “What have you done?” I whisper. He looks away to avoid eye contact. I move across the room to where my father is seated. On the floor lies the lifeless corpse of my mother…