These stories are desperately begging to be told

Written by Noluvuyo Mjoli

 I seek neither pity by sharing the following story.

My father died when I was 13 years old. My mother told me that she had died of TB. 8 years later my mother would die of the same “TB”. This is is a very sensitive issue I was battling with myself whether to share it or keep it hushed like how the society expects of me. The braver part of me won, I guess.

I have no clue on how to celebrate fathers’ day any longer. My uncle pretended to play the father-figure role for two year but he failed dismally. I won’t lie, I miss calling someone “tata ng’shodelwa wu sheleni la, awung’gcwalisele” or “tata uthe utata kabani ngiktshene ukuthi iPirates idliwe”. My father grieved and stopped eating if his team had lost. We all knew that and we made sure we stay out of his way when he was in that space. I miss that soul, I miss.

Last year, four weeks before my graduation, I lost my mother, approximately 8 years later after I lost my father. My mother had told me my father had died from TB. Now, my mother was not brave enough to tell that she too was sick. In fact she hid it all this time because in our black cultures, one does not speak openly about HIV to kids. These three things are never topic at home: 1. Sex, 2. Condoms, 3. HIV/ AIDS. My mother stopped taking treatment because she realised that she was getting better. All this time none of us knew that she was taking it, let alone that there was anything wrong with her. The society trains people to be ashamed of admitting that they are sick because that will automatically result in them being outcasts. To be labelled as the ‘other’ which people should stay away from.

I got the news that my mother was terribly sick a week before I wrote my final exams last year. During that week, two deaths had occurred at the same time both from my maternal and paternal family. My mother’s stress toppled as she heard these news. She was moved to a critical ward. I was so anxious that I borrowed money, (the money I am still yet paying even today) from my friend because I couldn’t take relying on family and friends who were comforting me with lies so that I don’t lose focus for my exams.

My mother was the prettiest thing I have ever seen lying there in her hospital bed. She smiled when she saw me and told me this is the best surprise she ever ever received in her life. I couldn’t hold my tears. I asked her where it was painful. She told me she did not have any pains but that her legs were numb. She still looked beautiful and what pleased me was that she was strong, unlike the news I have been getting on the phone.

I left KZN two days later to prepare for my first exam knowing that my mother is fine and that she will be discharged in no time. The last that time I talked with my mother was on the phone, she was telling me that she is getting better and that she might be out in no time. Six days later, she was reported late. I got this when I was going to sit for my first exam the next day at 8.  Close friends told me to go to the department because I couldn’t possibly write in that state. I ignored them and sat for the first paper.

My mother had been bragging about my graduation date since the year I was declared a final year student. As far as pride goes, all her colleagues knew that she was going to Cape Town for the first time in her life to see her first daughter graduate. She even bought tickets for the bus, and I am guessing the outfit as well. So it was a slap in the face that she never made it to that graduation.

Today, as a 21 year old, I have ceased to only live for myself. I live for those two that come after me. I work myself like a slave so that they won’t have to use socks as pads when they have run out of sanitary pads. My grandmother is a pensioner. Her pension covers mainly for food, water, electricity bills. My 16 year old sister lives with her, along with two of my younger cousins aged 11 years old as well as 6 years old. My only brother is twenty six but has been unemployed for the past four years. These people all live in the same house. My uncles and aunt send money to her now and then, voluntary not out of duty. Thus, it remains with me to ensure she has pocket money and money to toiletries especially sanitary pads. She is also undergoing counselling at the moment. My mother’s passing has both alienated and traumatised her. No level of money can take away her pain, but it would please me to know that she understands how much I am trying to be there for her.

My other sister is 18 years old. She is a first year Pharmacy student at the University of Western Cape. Her bursary is a mere R50 000 which only covers her tuition, (R35 000) and the rest goes to the rent as she lives off campus due to the inability to get residence. So I have a responsibility to cover her for the monthly expenses on food and toiletries. I myself as a student and a part time tutor (who only works two hours a week) do not earn much, in fact I can barely survive myself, yet I have to cover them up. I am not complaining about this, but it is tough, especially knowing that tutoring positions are temporary positions which alter from semester to semester. 

No, I do not fit the criteria of children-headed homes, nor do I fit to be called a mother, I am merely a child myself. Above all, I am a victim of the children who lose their parents through the pandemic of HIV/AIDS. Both my parents have died of it. I won’t get to the politics of HIV as a man made created virus for a special cause of ‘wiping people out’. What I rather wish to pass to our black communities is for us to stop alienating people so much.