The events leading up to me starting therapy were simple; I just left work in the middle of compiling a failure report for a paper cable and flagged a taxi to Summerstrand, where I proceeded to watch a movie, take a walk by the beach, and think about the things that can break a young lady. The following week, I got in touch with a therapist from a township health care center and the ball was in my court. The therapist was black, bald, blasé, and brilliant and being a hyper intellectual twenty-two-year-old woman, we gelled.

Presently, I am walking from his office and mentally, I am on my way to forgiving my father. I forgive my mother every day. That’s when it becomes clear to me that I have fought both white and black domination, that I am the Mandela, Tutu, and Gandhi of my life. Speaking of Tutu and Mandela, I was baptized by the bishop in early ’98 at the Methodist church my grandmother was a member of , it shouldn’t matter that Sir Desmond was never a Methodist bishop. The case of Mandela is another story, for in the struggle days, I was a bubble with consciousness, this means I was cognizant air with a mandate to free Apartheid Huns- so it was during these times of seeking emancipation from the Boer that I was tasked by the gods to cause a distraction during Mandela’s arrest so he could escape to Malawi. Had I been successful, the Rivonia Trials would have gone on without him. While these events were unfolding, Summer Walker was a pineapple, but I was attuned to her future human self and her music, so I twerked to fourth baby mama long ago. I did mention that my mission failed, well, it was because a large Boer policeman swallowed me while cursing ‘kafir terrorist’ to Madiba. I became one with the cop’s intestines and suffice to say, Hendrik died of stomach ulcers a month later. Upon sensing my presence, Madiba told me, in his commanding and royal voice that I had tried and because of that, will be born to a poor mother and one day, become famous and wealthy. Fair enough, these are imaginary events.

Therapy, right? I go to sessions on Fridays and managed to wiggle out of going to work on these days. The lady from the laboratory who’s my team leader resisted at first, but I have always been able to worm myself out of anything because I speak and write well. I have never understood what separates Veeplas from Zwide and Zwide from Soweto because we are very squashed in what I regard as ‘pretenses’ of homes in the townships. All of this is on my mind when I spot a couple. It is barely 11am and they are drunk as Jesus at the last supper. A little boy who I predict to be aged three follows behind them, dragging a dirty toy truck with a flapping kite on its rear. The dustbin that’s near the couple looks like somebody just dug through it and I suspect the mangy truck is treasure that’s just been thrifted there. Why? They don’t look like typical beggars and beggars in the townships do not exist because we would never let that happen. We are far from losing our humanity to the point of letting our brothers sleep in the streets. 

I walk behind the arguing couple and pay attention to the little boy who seems forgotten. We play a game where I chase his truck with my backpack. Yes, I’m dragging my bag on the pavement. The couple then becomes aware of my presence and who we will call ‘Mama little family’ introduces herself. Life is strange because I find out she’s an avid reader and both of us consider ‘the idiot’ by Fyodor Dostoevsky our favorite book. ‘Papa little family’ then enters the picture. Like all men who have been blessed with a difficult woman they are failing to control, he can’t wait to complain. I sense he never had a father or other role models teach him how to deal with feminine chaos by ordering himself. If his being were polymeric chains, it would be found amorphous instead of crystalline. He launches on a tirade about how Mama little family is exceedingly flirtatious and when drunk, hardly hesitates to expose the couple’s dirty laundry to the public. 

He had never meant to live in a backyard shack with her family, where he sometimes strangles Mama little family, waking up the whole household of twenty people. He could not have foreseen that the college he attended for the better part of his twenties was bogus and he would never be a civil engineer. In fact, when he met Mama little family, he had had no intentions of moving from East London to Port Elizabeth.

I am too young for this and only God knows why it is easy for strangers to unburden themselves on me. Back in varsity, while escaping balancing chemical equations at my favorite bar, distraught fellow students would bamboozle me with their life stories while I tried to chase the bottom of my castle lite jug of beer. I presently decide to walk to the atm to withdraw taxi fare so, I says to me, let us do the work of the lord. I withdraw two notes worth hundred rands and give one to the little family. They thank me profusely to the point that I am embarrassed. They promise to buy cereal for the little boy. I know they are going to buy cheap alcohol. I am comforted by the thought that the little boy has grandparents and one with grandparents has a good thing for they will never go hungry. Mama little family and Papa little family pull me into a very tight hug. I kiss the little boy on the cheek and get on a taxi. You must picture my shock when I pocket my note to pay and realize it is gone. The hug. The tight hug. I crack a belly laugh and explain to the driver that as soon as we get to my street, my aunt will pay the fare.