I had just turned 17. A teenager always with a smile. Living at a residence on campus, coming all the way from KwaZulu-Natal. The cold weather in Pretoria meant I had to layer on all of my summer clothes. On this one occasion I was particularly nervous and excited to go to the Internet resource centre — at the time Facebook was the best thing after Mxit. It was always stuffy there, but on this very day I didn’t mind at all. I would put my paternal surname on the search option, and finally discover what had been kept from me all these years.

The one time I managed to get my mother to tell me something, was when I gathered up the courage to ask if I could see my father, and my mother’s response was, “He died.” At the time I was seven years old. One aunt would say, “Your father was a teacher but left his job to be a Sangoma!”Another aunt would tell me that, “Your father was a womaniser. He got your mother and her best friend pregnant around the same period.”

My mother had always provided for all my needs but the longing to know about my late father never left me. I still needed to know who he was, what he stood for and where he came from. So as soon as I searched for his surname I went through the profiles. With a short prayer in my heart I wrote a hearty message first to the female profile, telling her how I wanted to get in touch with the family of the man I had mentioned.

A few days later I logged in, and my message icon was highlighted. I opened it and felt a tear run down my cheek as I read the response. She said that she knew the man, he was her late father, and that he was married to her mother. She also added she had three siblings in her parents’ marriage and many more that kept on introducing themselves over the years. Thoughts rushed through my mind.

“He was married?!”

I was illegitimate, not even a love child. I then remembered, one of my aunts had told me a story of my father once beating up my mother in our home town, eNgcobo, to the point of my mother’s sandals being torn and that she had to go back home to my gran’s house bare-footed. I had brushed off this story, it was too depressing to be stored in my mind. Who would beat up a heavily pregnant woman?

I began to sweat, cry and became oblivious to the people around me. At that point nothing mattered, not even my crush. My life had been turned upside down by a Facebook response. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Why was it all kept from me? For 17 years of my life I had been a result of adultery, and I wasn’t made aware of it. “What a shame I was,” I thought to myself. I felt a sharp pain piercing my heart. I was heartbroken. I didn’t know whether I was of any worth. Did I even deserve to have the dreams and goals that I had?

I longed to meet my siblings, I wanted them to approve of me. I wanted to show them that I was a sister they had always needed. I replied and asked for her cell phone number. I wanted to make things right and put together the missing pieces. In my mind I was good enough if they approved of me. So I yearned for calls and invitations to visit, I wanted to be a part of my father’s family. I was looking in from outside, and it sure felt cold where I was. I thought the only warmth that would fill up the void I had was being a part of them.

I was introduced to my younger brother. He then asked me a question that woke me from my approval-seeking state of mind. He asked me, “Is your mother the reason why my mother always cried at night?” And he wanted a response to his question. At this moment I got a wakeup call. I realised that it was not my doing that made me an illegitimate child. I had my own story to tell. I may have been unwanted, but I am here now. My life is legit.

Tell us: Do you agree that your upbringing doesn’t have to determine your future?