Growing up, I was an only child, but my parents didn’t spare me. They didn’t think twice about punishing me when I was being naughty. But my father was always fair. He was nothing like our neighbour, Tat’uMfene, who beat his children. My father never raised his hand to my mother or to me.

We never went to bed with empty stomachs, either. My father drove taxis to make ends meet. And even though we did not have much, I had never seen my mother leave the house for work, because my father wanted her to stay at home and look after me. Even after I was old enough to look after myself she stayed home –  though by the time I was 16, she had opened a small spaza shop in front of our house. She enjoyed running it and it brought in some extra much-needed cash.

By Grade 12, my school textbooks were my closest friends and, thanks to them, I was a top achiever at school. Because of this, and the fact that I wasn’t interested in how I looked, the other girls in my class didn’t want to be friends with me. I didn’t try to wear make-up at school, and my hair was either relaxed or cornrowed. I wore skirts that reached below my knees. So I wasn’t one of the popular girls: the girls looked down at me and called me S’dudla because of my weight. And the boys? Oh! I was the girl they never wanted to be seen with, for fear of being a laughing stock.

It had always been like this for me, since primary school. I remember in Grade 5, I was sitting in the front row reading a magazine near my class teacher’s desk. It was the second period and Miss Khosi was busy marking our books. We had just written a test that I was confident I was going to get top marks for, when a boy began crying at the back of the classroom. His friends were laughing at him, mocking him.

“Quiet! Stop making a noise,” the teacher reprimanded them. “Sipho, why are you crying?” Miss Khosi’s voice was high-pitched with anger.

“It’s … It’s Zola and Asanda, Miss. They are saying Zizipho is my girlfriend,” Sipho said, wiping his tears and flashing me a dirty look. My classmates turned to me. They couldn’t stop themselves from laughing. My heart was torn into pieces and I couldn’t hide it. The embarrassment that I felt was written on my face.

“I said Quiet! Zola and Asanda, come forward,” Miss Khosi said, fetching her cane from the cupboard. Corporal punishment was no longer allowed in schools so teachers who still practiced it hid their canes from the principal.

“But Miss, Sipho teased us first,” Asanda complained as Miss Khosi gave them lashes on their palms.

I bore the brunt of the boys’ jokes in class. They were at my expense. Whenever they teased each other about girls it was about me.

During lunch break, on my way to the tuck shop, I heard Sipho whispering to another boy, from a different class. Their voices were loud enough for me to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“There she is, mfethu,” Sipho said to his friend. I presumed he was talking about me so I slowed down so I could listen to them.

“You can’t be serious! Did they really say she is your girlfriend?” his friend snickered.

Yeah, I was right, they were talking about me. I was so hurt I felt like screaming my pain away.

“This is not funny, mfethu. Come on, look at her. She looks like MaGogo but without a doek,” Sipho said angrily. His friend laughed even louder, then covered his mouth with his hand when he noticed me looking in their direction.  I tried not to show how it hurt but it shattered my confidence.

“Mama, am I ugly?” I asked my mom when I came home after school.

“No, no, my child. You are the most beautiful daughter any mother could ever ask for.” My mother pulled me close and hugged me warmly. “Where is that coming from?” she asked.

“Nowhere, Mama. I just wanted to hear you say that.”

For those moments when she held me I felt loved and cherished and beautiful.

***

Tell us: Have you felt your confidence shatter because of something someone said? Did you find a way to feel better – and how?