When I look at Sihle’s photo I get tears in my eyes. I have left behind the village where I was raped, but I have also left behind my true love. Part of me didn’t want to move away from home and my family whom I love, but I want to forget the pain. I am away from those who matter most in my life. Telling Sihle that I was going to Cape Town to college was the hardest thing I have ever done.

When I had left home for the city it was like approaching a land that knew nothing of my arrival. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to change my life, but I had my studies to look forward to, and through them I would meet new people. As I got into the bus to Cape Town and waved Sihle goodbye, tears fell from my eyes.

I have been in Cape Town for a month now. Yes, I have made friends with a girl at college, Sandy, and her crew, but I still miss Sihle and my friends in the village. And I still have nightmares of the rape. I wake up crying and thrashing my arms as if I am trying to fight someone off me. But I can’t remember anything. Nothing that will count: no faces, no voices. I wish I could remember. Then I would know if my worst fear was true. The thought I have tried to bury deep down. Because you see, I think that my own brother, Sabelo, was there that night. But I won’t dwell on this in the daylight hours.

As I page through my photo album I stop at one special photo. This is one moment captured that I’ll never forget. It is a photograph of me and Sihle in happier times, sitting under the tree outside my house, on a sunny day.

My aunt, who I live with in Cape Town, leans towards me and rests her hand on my knee.

“It’s a beautiful photo. Why are you sad?” she asks me.

“This picture reminds me of the past.”

She sits next to me on the couch. I can feel the warmth and comfort of her body. “Let me see.”

I pass the album to her.

“Forgetting the ones we love often takes a long time but you’ll get through it,” she tries to comfort me, accompanying her words with a hug. “I know he is so far away. But are you still together?”

How can I explain to her that I couldn’t let Sihle touch me after the rape? How could we go on when it was like that? That’s why I had to leave the village.

“Yes Aunt, we are,” I tell her. It is not a good idea opening up to her about my love life. After all she’s older, close to Mama’s age, so she won’t understand. But I am wrong.

“There’s nothing to be shy of or ashamed about. I understand,” she says quietly.

She walks into her room and when she comes out she hands me a fifty rand note. “Quickly go to the shop and get us a loaf of brown bread and packet of sugar.”

I take the money then run to the shop. I am waiting in the queue when I hear a familiar voice behind me. It’s Sandy.

“Wow, you look stunning chommie! I like your dress.” I guess that she is softening me up for one of her crazy plans – she is full of them, since day one at college. And I am right. “Friday evening we are having a girls’ night out. You have to come.”

“I’ll see,” I hesitate, and then leave her in the shop.

“Auntie, guess what?” I say when I get back home.

“I hate guesses mna,” she laughs.

“Friday is a girls’ night out. I would like to go with my friends. Please?”

“It’s fine with me, but you know you’ll have to ask your uncle,” she says, looking at me closely. “I know you’re sad, Noni, and I don’t like it when you are sad. Maybe this will cheer you up. OK – never mind your uncle. You can go, but don’t keep me up all night waiting for your return.”

“Thanks, Auntie.” I give her a big hug.

Count me in grlfrnd

I send the SMS to Sandy.

In the days before Friday I try not to think about Sihle, or the village. Friday must just come, I think to myself.

“Awusemhle, you look beautiful – like you are going to a wedding,” Auntie says on Friday night when I have dressed up to go out.

“Like aunt, like niece!” I say to her with a smile.

I keep looking at the clock on the wall. It’s after six pm now. Where is Sandy?

Finally, Auntie lets her in through the front door.

“Yhey! Uyatshisa chommie,” Sandy says, looking me up and down.

“I want you in my doorway by ten o’clock tonight. Niyandiva?” Auntie says sternly to me.

“Crystal clear,” I agree. Sandy nods.

“Wait a bit Sandy – I can’t leave my phone behind.” Qhwaku! Qhwaku! Click! clack! I run to fetch my phone. I am back soon: “Masambe, chommie, let’s go friend. I got it.”

We leave excited. It feels good to forget about my troubles for a night.

Before we get to the tavern we hear the music pumping. At the Italian House there is such a vibe already.

“Tjo! Akusagcwele maan apha. It’s so full here,” I say on entering.

“Uyashiyeka chommie, ziyawa apha. You are old-fashioned friend; there’s a vibe here.”

“Chommie yizani ngapha!” we hear our girlfriends calling us.

“Evening ladies.” As I greet them I feel everyone’s eyes staring at me, including a young guy who is standing at the bar.

“Wow! You are stunning Nonyaniso,” Nosie and Zia say, making me spin around to show them. I’m wearing a long blue dress, black wedge high heels and a boy’s cut.”

“They are right. You look fabulous,” the guy at the bar says, coming over. I ignore him at first and turn to my friends.

“Thanks girls,” I tell them.

Life goes on, I tell myself after the first drink. I want to forget my other life in the village and drinking seems a quick way to get there.

After the second drink I start to dance. The young guy who complimented me is handsome, in a different way to Sihle. He is flash – designer clothes, smart watch. He is charming and I am getting drunk. I feel the music and close my eyes. He dances closer to me.

“Can I tell you something? Not here, somewhere quiet?” he whispers into my ear.

“OK.”

He leads me outside. The night is warm. People are drinking out on the street.

“Ever since you came in I’ve been watching you. You have taken my heart girl.”

“Hayibo, bhutiza. We don’t even know each other. How can you say a thing like that?” He offers me a sip from his drink. A bottle of Red Label whiskey, still in the box, is pressed between his arm and ribcage.

“No thank you,” I say and push the glass back towards him.

But Sandile has a way about him and I find myself giving him my digits before Sandy and I have to leave to get home.

“Une swagger lamfana ubume naye, that boy you were standing next to has swag,” Sandy laughs as we all walk down the street together.

“He looks a bit young though,” says Nosie, also laughing. “Still in high school, I bet…”

“Me, I like younger guys,” Sandy laughs again. “You can tell them what to do. Uyabona, you see? I like that. Better for you Nonyaniso. You don’t have a boyfriend and you’re sexy.”

I haven’t told them about Sihle. I haven’t told them how much I love him. I haven’t told them how I had to leave the village. How could I have stayed there and lived, every day, with people who know I was raped? I was ashamed. As if all that happened is my fault. These girls don’t know anything about my other life in the village.

Sandy walks with me until we get to the gate of my new home.

In a moment everything changes – from laughter and giggles with my friends to a pain I can’t bear. As I open the door, it hits me. I wasn’t expecting this.

I hear Sihle’s faraway voice in that moment, clear like the night sky. “Nonyaniso, only death will tear us apart I promise you. I’ll never break your heart.”

“What’s wrong Noni? Why are you crying?” Aunt worriedly asks.

“I thought that partying would help me forget him. But it has only made me miss him even more.”

The SMS from Sihle comes just past midnight. I can picture him lying on his bed, texting me.

Take care and know
I’ll never give up on us.

I think of my mother working in the vegetable garden. I think of my friends back in the village – how we used to sit and chat about boys together down by the river.

I remember the day of the rape. I went with Sihle to town, where he bought me new kit – a checked mini-skirt, black Sissy Boy top and Reebok sandals.

That evening at home I cooked early and packed the dishes away. In the late afternoon I went to Nosiviwe’s place to check on the party she was having. Then I went to Sihle’s place just to wait for the evening to come. All I could talk about to Sihle was Nosiviwe’s party. Sihle was trying to study for some summer course he was doing. Eventually he just turned to me and said, laughing, “Go back to the party.”

“Not without you.”

“Go, have some fun.”

That’s what he said. If only I had stayed with him and been safe in his arms and hadn’t run up the hill back to Nosiviwe’s party. If only…

* * *

Tell us what you think: Is Nosi right to blame herself?