Once when I was a baby boy:
I stumble across life and I ask, is it fair of any soul to abuse, maim and waylaid his or her other half? The kingdom of lives - seventh heaven we are told belong to all of us - tall, tiny, short, shapeless, fair, fat, light, lean and what not. The primary figure I had an opportunity of laying my eyes on, the first, first time I began my journey in this world, was of a woman. In my memory box, I cannot raison d'être what was it like in the arable embryonic. Let me, for the sake of sanity; concern myself with all I remember, not the capricious. So began life and time by extension flew. I was dispatched to this place called planet earth unsoiled. I am told I had had no sin, save for the sin of my parents - if they had had any at all. I can take pride and tell the world that my folks were over the moon before I was born. Perhaps their exhilaration exempted them from the spoils of sin. You see they were rooting for a girl – I was suppose to join their line – up of four boys and complete their master plan. Their mood swing may have changed somewhat, when they were blessed with a boy. Anyway, it’s easier to just, stand in the middle of the road and profess my dad and mom to be saint. I am a happy go round and jolly fellow; I am perpetually a knot in sins by trying to be a saint. It sounds contemptuous and shallow for a folk, who don’t even know the difference between hard work and rest to proclaim he’s no sinner. Anyway, there you are, I am sinner of no delineation. I have a way of decapitate my spine in my quest to outdone myself. My background although not spruced with silverware was not hopeless. I settled for life in the middle road. I earnestly tried to survive the storms, feasted and joined the family of mankind. Enough of my concoction of contrived and unqualified genesis of self – ingratiation that borders on unfamiliarity.
Then, this woman, my mom, gave me inner strength, priceless love and joy.
What I would treasure for the rest of my life above all is the precious “gift of life” she gave to me so unstintingly. Through her I learnt to embrace and respect other folks. I cannot vividly reconstruct the event of the day, afternoon or night, when I made my grand entrance. For year now, for me, the issues of the exact time of my delivery evades my mind like an inconsequential theatrical myth. In my mind the consternation is captured in retrospect thanks to the many visuals I have seen on television about childbirth. To this end, I cannot fathom, why there’s so much violence perpetuated against mothers, children and women in general. When they gave so much in order for us to develop and be who we are. Let’s step aside and look at what is happening in our lives. Don’t we know of countless mothers, sisters, and young – girls whose screams engrave the wild waves of the Indian and Pacific Ocean? And leave energy of defilement of pain and anguish on each beautiful respective shore. Tell me if you have never seen a ferocious fellow ripping an unsuspecting lover in broad day light at a corner shop. In contemplation, in humming a honeyed tune of a social discourse I am going to pay homage to the many women who made me what I turned – up to be. And the many men’s I have encountered on my way, as I traverse this plain called mother earth. The boys who lifted me – up, when I was in limbo. To millions women across the divide, who continue to lug the cradle of love, care and support. Here’s in reading the jewel of your heart, that my vein of creativity honours you. I like you, I love you, I live with you harmoniously. My sharp sense of social commentary I learnt from your resilient spirit. One of my venerated girlfriends once said to me – “Zanele if woman could write their stories, capture their experiences and what they carry inside their breast. The poison infused on their bloodstream the debilitating scares of abuse in their system. Truth be told I bet you – you could at once realize that you are not as in touch with your feminine side, as you claim. To be honest the passage below, which you are about to encounter, encapsulate the little I know about women since caring to care. What our sisters, mothers, wives and children experience in their daily lives, in war settings, at homes and just about anywhere is of great concern to me. Lend me an ear and join me as my hand weaves a tapestry of hope for those in despair.
We learn to pronounce our first vowels a e i o u - a technique we continue to master throughout our lives - courtesy of women. Women derive a great deal of pleasure in tending to our young needs. They hone their offspring to be the best we can be in our respective fields - this comes naturally. Raising kids is taken as part of their God given duties. Our mothers take optimum care during the process of moulding, sculpting and shaping us. All in all, it’s amazing how women juggle their daily chores with the task of raising us. Women, witness our physical, spiritual and mental growth. You may ask, why has the writer developed such affinity – for women. If you have forgotten, I am born of a woman. Holds on, it’s true again that all of us are conceived after a male, had planted his seed inside a female. I have a dream; my dream is to see abuse of any magnitude erased from the face of mother earth. My love for humanity forces me to focus on another aspect of pandemic, which sublimely feeds into pockets and pockets of our social and moral fabric. It is an area of common concern for me that is pertinent and intertwined to our lives. For me it is located in the heart of love for humanity. From time immemorial I have stood against diabolic or patriarchal systems, for life is like a warm liatris wax that must massage us holistically irrespective of religion, creed or race. So, it is no misnomer for me, to take a middle route in my collage and focus on women. Maybe it’s my way of saluting the many women, from rural areas who tender to the frail and sick. The unemployed and frail grannies whose pensioning time is dedicated to taking care of their grandchildren, whilst their parents gasp for more air in the background. These old folks perform these rigorous tasks in the face of failing eyesight’s and general poor health. Women, even nurture our manhood never dreaming that we can become weapons of mass destruction against them some day. As infants we are in their power, helpless babes - even our private parts hold no secrets. Mothers become the point of reference for us as baby boys during our formative years. Why don’t we give respect to women, for they protect us like children even when we are adults, it’s a travesty of justice where reasons for violent and sick behaviour are impossible to unravel.
Clearly, the love and nurturing given to children and babies by women surpass all other relationships. Our mothers do whatever they have to do in the face of often excruciating circumstances; they bombard us with love and care. They religiously pamper us with all their selfless love. So let's take a serious look at what women have to endure, within a different environment, after raising us to be responsible citizens. In some situations women see their partners abdicating the responsibility of maintaining the blood of blood (children). Our moms and sisters hold us on their laps and rock us to sleep. At times, they proudly strap us on their backs, whilst performing punishing chores. As we take our naps, grow, play and scream, women guard us jealously, like proud and ferocious raptors. Women are prepared to put their lives on the line for the cause of our growth. Their eagle eyes and claws repel all forces – they propel us forward with energy and prayer. They're rooting for us every step of the way - to see us grow and become respected citizens. All they wish is a life full of bliss, prosperity and joy for their children.
By the way, women carry us for nine months - it’s not easy. They are expected to carry on with their daily routines and regimens. They are expected to run to work, look after other siblings, and cook tasty meals and clean up. At the same time, fools poke fun at them if they have more than two. Such ridicule is never aimed at or meant for men, no one asks them how many illegitimate children they have fathered? During the divine process called pregnancy the intimate compartment where our growth takes place receives so much battering. It is common for women to experience real aches, pains and other upheavals as nature takes its course. Yet they are expected to be cheerful, friendly and happy at all times and to dote on men folk who require endless attention to even their tiniest needs.
During labour a number of women give birth through caesarean section. Others come out of the maternity wards scarred for life, with neither support nor claim to the custody of the child. In such instances, the man prefers to take an easy route out (out of sight – out of mind). Some women have to go an extra mile to prove the paternity of their offspring. They become the scorn of society as they drag men to maternity courts. All sorts of accusations fly thick and fast. The commonest is that they are trying to amass wealth through devious means. It is these very same women who during the time of our nurturing smell of baby vomit, who change nappies, who clean noses and bums day in and day out, yet they personally face – up to left hooks and jabs. Their soft and tender hands subsidize our existence and map out our destiny. Our mothers keep us warm continuously from cradle to grave.
There are many issues I haven’t addressed, lest I be accused of being righteous. But these lines carry my outmost disgust on noticing the unabated abuse of children and women. I remembered a verse I read as a tiny youngster, it was not forced - feed on me. I was at school, it kept on visiting me, and each time I summoned enough courage to face my Maker at church. It read thus “Let he who doesn’t fornicate throw the first stone” This verse rattles my being. It sorts of offers an olive oil of a chance for all who care to change. It says don’t be judgmental, take it easy. Don’t condemn, start to examine your attitude to yourself and others. It’s one verse that radiates and rehabilitates me. Sometimes I hold roses with non - pricking thorns in my hands. To all of us who abuse financially, spiritual and physically, let’s look for an alternative outlet. Some of us, thanks to many a writers on abuse, our ink will from now henceforth drip with passion for the faint-hearted and children. Fortunately, I have been exposed to the harsh reality of life. I wish some men could wear a T-shirt emblazoned “Some men are more or less like babies” for emancipation of women does not mean competition, it sort of levels the playing field.
After examining the above issues, I don’t know what went wrong with some men folks. I look at some of the intricate web hanging like an encumbrance around human relationships. And what comes to mind is – What do you hold in your hands? Oh, the whole load of abuse impoverishes me. I am deeply distressed by the perpetual killings of women, girls and men. My whole environment at times feels as if it stinks of the body bags of many women killed by their partners. Some are killed literally, others by default as they fall for dinosaurs that are talented in projecting themselves as human.
In my attempt to understand mankind and his behaviour. I ask of myself, what wrong have I done to be exposed to this artillery. Perhaps the shock emanates from guilt. I have lost count, for instance of the voices of moderation that calls my bona fides into question. Well, it’s an honour for me to present this book to all of you. I had to endure many a sleepless nights during the preparation of this book. I had to forsaken some of my friends, wherever they are, they are still dear to me. My body has accommodated some kilograms – as I work non-stop. Benevolent as I am I took time to talk to many a people who believed in me. Nothing has prepared me for the handwork that was in store. To be frank, the body of work appearing herein was inspired by a million voices reverberating from North to South – West to East. One AIDS activist from South America in Guyana once remarked of my work and said – “You are such a gifted artists - Why are your subjects essentially sheathed by the African continent?” I then, explained to him that I have never been outside of AFRICA. In retrospection I then took a journey to the whole wide world through journals and books to all the frontiers of the global village. In all honestly, I have always been comfortable to dabble with issues I am comfortable with. Let me take the opportunities of thanking all people, who inspired me to produce this book. Some have passed on, other were tolerant enough, and they let me punctuate our discussion with me incessantly sketching in the background. Once again I would like to thank, the many contributors to this volume. I am immensely humbled by your openness, sincere and innate warmth. In the name of our Father, I want to confess. This is my confession – “Father, I am a man, I was borne of a woman, I don’t know what pointed me to the area HIV/AIDS. Muziwakhe Nhlabatsi, my mentor, teacher and my political commissar from the eighties, seem to think I have in my vein an expanse of empathy, compassion and care. Of course my little contribution in making people to accept HIV/AIDS is not in a form of medical intervention, research, prevention, Home Based Care etc. My intervention is a humanitarian one, its layers of ink. I wish to give the world lines of hope. May everybody continue to provide leadership in matters of AIDS prevention, care and support. If something touches you – the best you could do is to contribute towards changing the statuesque.
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