I heard the sound of a broken engine while I was racking up the dead leafs in the backyard, so I quickly ran to the front. When I got there, I saw two ugly, light-skinned men who looked alike and had long beards sitting in the front of the van, and one of them was Sfiso Mbatha, my lost little sister’s boyfriend. They got out of the van, opened the back, and two thin, tall black girls came out carrying green plastic bags, and a woman who was lying on stretcher followed.

The woman was my once beautiful sister, Nomthandazo. She had left us fourteen years prior, right after she graduated. She had gone to Gauteng for a law internship, but she came back with Sfiso two years later and told us that she was getting married to him. She refused to see reason and decided to disown mother and I. We had locked the gate with a padlock, so Sfiso left Nomthandazo and the kids by the gate.

“Hey wena! What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, standing by the gate.

“I’ve played my part in their lives, so it’s your turn to take over,” Sfiso yelled back, and then sucked his teeth.

“Uphambene? What do you expect me to do? You sucked her dry, and now you want to bring her back here?” I said angrily while opening the gate roughly.

“Weh sisi! I’m not here to argue with you!” Sfiso responded.

“Take them with you!” I said while throwing stones at the van.

Instead of responding, Sfiso and the other man got into the car and drove away, leaving only dust behind. I did not know what to do or feel at that moment. I wanted to leave Nomthandazo and the two girl in the street so that Nomthandazo could slowly die in the scorching sun, but my conscience betrayed me and I took them in.

Thandi was so frail and worn out, that the autumn winds could fly with her. I then went to the kitchen and dished up my mouth-watering chicken curry and yellow rice for the two girls, and you could swear they had not eaten for days. I do not want to mention the dirty, torn polka dotted pink dresses they were wearing, and the shoes made of cardboard. Thoko, on the other hand, was lying helplessly on my brand new couch.

“Thank you aunty, I do not recall the last time we had a proper meal,” the one who looked younger said.

“Ooh! Thandi never cooks for you?” I asked, trying to act normal.

“We always have white bread with atchar, and things got worse when she got sick. Baba is always drunk, so we eat from the soup kitchen,” she responded.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’m Nosipho, and this is my little sister Thoko. I’m 14 and she’s 11,” she responded while putting the plate on the table.

“Did you take your mother to the clinic before you come here?” I asked, giving them each a glass of orange juice.

“Yes,” Thoko responded. “She has T.B, but she is not taking her treatment. She just drinks mqombothi with her friends.”

“Nyani? She drinks?” I asked in disbelief.

“You know nothing aunty,” Thoko said. “She used to bring in different men and do dirty things with them when baba was not around.”

“What did mama say to us about telling people our business?” Nosipho said, lashing out at her sister.

“It’s okay, you can trust me,” I said while forcing a smile.

“Everything changed when mama lost her job,” Nosipho said. “Baba started beating her, and she started drinking because of stress.”

“Did you attend any school?” I asked, staring at both of them.

“No,” Nosipho responded, looking at her mother. “I dropped out at grade 6 and Thoko dropped out at grade 2.”

While we were speaking, Nomthandazo suddenly ran out of breath. I thought she was trying to shut her daughters up, because she always kept secrets from us. I had no choice but to take her to the nearest hospital, so I dropped of the girls off at my mother’s house. She was surprised and demanded answers, but I did not have time to explain.

***

Tell us: What do you think needs to happen to parents who treat their children the way Nomthandazo treated her children?