Tears falling off weary eyes. Sitting on a chair in the middle of a shelter composed of corrugated zinc. A place I call home. Holding a pen and a pad scribbling down reminiscences that won’t fade away like an indelible memento.

In a vocally nonchalant voice with ferocious accompaniment. I query myself: ‘ Why was I conceived from the onset if my life would’ve been inundated with unjust oppression?’ Four years ago till to date when the woman who brought life to me kicked the bucket.

A daunting transformation took its occurrence. From living a life that I considered marvellous to a lifestyle that is iniquitous, having to forsake my apartment in Cape Town, Khayelitsha. Stranded, uninhabited, in pursuit for greater heights in East London, Mdantsane. The first few months I arrived and settled was all fun and games. Being coddled like a spoilt brat receiving all sorts of pleasantries. In a blink of an eye , all that of that was deposited in life changes archives.

Shit started to really hit the fan. I fell victim to ill treatment and stigmatization of my dearly departed mother to the promised land that we are all gonna visit someday because none of us are immortal. Life is a perpetual metamorphosis that replicates its stages inwardly.

I recall one afternoon when I went to a pub to drown myself in alcohol, consuming beers excessively as a coping strategy to forget all my can of worms. Because I couldn’t take it anymore, to be shit on. I just wanted to jump off the bridge unwittingly, intoxicated. Thus it is onerous to have that kinda agility and ability to do it when you’re sober, supposedly an act of cowardice to do malice under the influence of alcohol. Becoming another statistic of the death toll due to binge drinking.

Down memory lane. This four roomed shanty, a place I call home. It has seen the worst of me, my miserable facial expressions and witnessed firsthand that very moment when I stood on the very same chair, with a rope in my right hand, hopelessly starring at the roof structure contemplating suicide.

Prior the disturbance of insolent cold winter winds fiercely forcing its presence through holes. For a moment I was infuriated by nature’s insolence. I slowly dethroned from the chair to the ground. Anguished, fuming with wrath, there were three of us now.
A resonant voice yet calm at the back of my head enunciating:
‘If you hung yourself today and perish, will your soul be at ease that your predicaments were unsolved? ‘