Omphile Monchwe

The memory of the elders who came to tell me and my twin sister that our mother had passed away is as faint as wispy clouds in my mind. It was a school day, and the air was tight in the room, having just come from school we were oblivious to the heavy news behind their gloomy faces. The little girl in me could not fathom the extent to which my life would change as a result of her passing.

“Nobody will ever love you as much as your mother did.” These are my father’s words that remain deeply etched into the walls of my heart as a constant reminder that it is only a mother’s love that can flip through the intricate pieces that make up a person, seeing past the cover and loving every page as is. In the absence of mama and her love, a black hole of grief sat at the center of my heart, seemingly sucking away my life force.

Alas, life had to continue but much like a building missing a cornerstone I grappled at straws, trying to still remain upright. From the outside, the impact of her death on my identity was barely noticeable. I was always an A-student in my primary school days, right through middle school to high school. When I would fall short, my twin sister would be my successor, and we, the Monchwe twins, were regarded as the crème ’de la crème of our grade at each school we attended. My father relished in the pride he felt when they asked him “Ah, so you are their father?” and behind closed doors he would always ask, “A gona le mongwe gape yo o lo gaisitseng?”, wondering if we were still the best in class. More often than not I was the teacher’s favourite and the quiet girl in class who was always acing the tests and answering all the questions. That is all that everyone saw after all.

For a long time, I felt betrayed by my feelings, how could I not be happy when I was good at everything that I did? I concealed these doubts and then ugly feelings with my silence. I wanted to be seen for more than the red correct ticks on my scripts, than my ability to read fluently and write brilliant speeches. To be befriended for more than helping with homework and doing all the work in group assignments. But how could anyone know if all they saw was the cover painted miss goody-two-shoes? These are the kinds of things you do not mention to your schoolmates when you are a top achiever, you are then being ungrateful or else merely boasting about your feats. You bottle it up, dear, for as long as you can but you will explode at some point.

I was 14 years old and lived with my aunt, and like any other blossoming teenager, all I wanted was to fit in. I wanted to tweak and twist the pieces of me that stood out from the crowd. With the marijuana filling the air and my lungs puzzled by this new experience that I was walking them through. I felt out of place yet comfortable at the same time. With the knife-sharp bitterness of the alcohol at the back of my throat, I wasn’t that perfect anymore. I wasn’t the girl who thought that she was better than anyone else, the taste of rebellion was almost sweet. I did not fit into one description, but by doing so I squeezed myself into another and still failed to be myself.

I turned a new page; it was the beginning of yet another piece of me that would continue to inhabit the book of my life and yet be hidden away in its labyrinthine pages. Right before chapter 15, I met the grotesque monster that seemed like it had always been lurking in the shadows. Back then I did not know its name as it sucked away my desire to live and replaced it with hatred and loneliness. Long baths would be accompanied by holding my breath underwater to drown my sorrows, myself. Since I was known to be quiet no one took it as a sign of my light fading. Staying behind closed doors was not taken to be a cry for help as the jury had already decided that I was just a loner.

Depression was its name, and it thrived under the façade that I had put up, that everything was A-okay. The role of a perfect daughter was hauled in front of me yet again as I returned to stay with my father. The tipping point was not as climactic as you would imagine. My father simply stretched his iron hand and instructed that I quit playing netball. I was shattered, as this was one thing that I was doing for myself, that I loved. I sunk deeper as the monster pulled me into the shadows. I was still the perfect student though; nobody was outperforming me and that is what mattered.

One wrong decision led to another. Nobody noticed the battle scars on my arms as war raged on between me and the enemy. I was boiling inside like a volcano with pressure-filled bubbles in magma, I wanted to ready explode. At age 15 I fell pregnant, and my father shipped me off to stay with my relatives.

Little did he know that he was saving me, my salvation came in the form of a distant relative that made me believe that God is indeed a woman. “How are you?” I was asked as I received a warm embrace, and the question then took on a new meaning as I felt cherished for the first time in a long time. I felt safe and welcomed as I did not have to fit into any box or walk on a path that was predetermined for me, I was accepted with all my flaws. The war was far from over, but I won a battle.

The void left behind by my mother began to shrink. The empty space was filled with love, a gentle affection, as I became part of a new family structure. A small part of it still exists and I am tempted to agree with my father. However, I have come to realize that all I needed was for someone who would not conclude the contents of the book of my life by quickly skimming through its blurb and the preface, to see me for more than my academics, my imperfections, and my introversion. No one could ever replace mama, and no one needs to.