I woke up to the beeping sounds of the hospital machines and the smell of surgical spirits mixed with the smell of antibiotics. I can never forget the smell of pills. I nursed my mom on her death bed for seven whole months, the longest seven months of my life. I still remember her last words.

“Make me proud Enzo, live up to your name Enzo’kuhle.”

I sigh at the thought of it, how was I to live up to my name with everything that happened after she passed on, having to face the world on my own. I tried lifting my head and I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I opened my eyes and I realised I was definitely not where I thought I was.

I tried sitting and felt my body literally fail me. I felt pains all over my body, okay Enzo, you are definitely in hospital and badly injured but what happened to me. I couldn’t recall anything besides going to my boyfriend’s place. As much as I was in denial I knew deep down that this was no accident, it was him, again, it’s been going on for a year now. I just never thought I would end up in hospital, he always promised to never do it again and typical Enzo, always believed him.

I was now in tears, how the hell did I end up here? Why didn’t I leave the first time he hit me? Why didn’t I open a case; what change was I hoping for? I mean I am the same woman who participated in the #enoughisenough and #NotoGBV movements. Then how come I’m here waiting to die and be the next #justicefor… I kept quiet for a whole year, my friends didn’t know the type of guy he was, the type of guy I know, the guy who blames them.

Social media called us ‘couple goals,’ we had a strong front, our Instagram pages on point, portraying the happiest couple ever. Our baecations and everything in between were always perfect. The matching outfits and the ‘his and hers’ custom made t-shirts proved otherwise.

My thoughts were disturbed by a doctor who introduced himself as doctor Ndlovu. He explained I was brought in by an elderly couple that did not want to disclose their names but I already knew who they were, Mr and Mrs Hendricks. The only people who knew the real Mbuso. They had asked me countless times to at least leave his ass if I do not have the guts to open a case.

The doctor further explained that if they had not intervened, I wouldn’t be alive and recovering. He told me that I had fractured ribs, a dislocated kneecap and my neck muscles got strained from being strangled and that I have bruises all over my body. I cried. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That bastard wanted to kill me this time. ‘This time neh,’ if I left him long ago, I wouldn’t be here.
The doctor told me that it was hospital protocol to lay charges and the police were already
outside to take a statement. He asked if I was willing. I guess this shows how many women came by and were not ‘willing’ to give statements. At this moment I remembered my mom’s words again, “Live up to your name Enzo’kuhle.”

I may have disappointed her many times, I may have not lived up to my name but it ends today, Mbuso is a serial abuser, his mom told me and his neighbours confirmed it, but it stops with me.

Suddenly I got the courage and my memory came back, I remembered every detail of the events that led me here, from him dragging me from the car to his apartment and beating me up till I was unconscious and I was ready and ‘willing’ to break my silence.

#notogenderbasedviolence
#breakthesilence

Tell us: What did you learn from this story?