Returning Home: A Short Story

I pledged my life-long commitment to a man, nine years ago, proclaiming, "I do."
Today, I drive back home as a widowed mother, in a darkness as loathsome as death himself, with two precious little princesses, so still, in the backseat of my car.

I last saw my parents on Christmas; my circumstance was different then. My only battles were against the financial strain of mortgage payments, and the cost of ballet classes at the private studio in town, for Angel and Scarlet. They were asleep now, but when they awoken, the questioning would begin, again. "Where is daddy, mommy?" mentally, I could hear Scarlet ask gently.
"When will he come join us at Grammy's house?" Angela would frown, baring her now aged, six milk-teeth. I do not know where I will begin, in explaining his disappearance from their lives. My heart has not made sense of it yet: it refuses to.

Gerald was a real hero. Even the day we met, I had watched him solve a dispute, outside a vibrant cocktail bar at the beach, between two impetuous men, who had resolved to, "take it outside," when a casual conversation turned into a mindless debate. I could not interpret the movement of his lips, into words, but his body was relaxed and his face was calm. The men walked away from each other, defeat painted heavily on their faces. I had obviously forgotten that I was staring at him, because he now walked in my direction, with a kind, curious expression on his face. He was not too tall, he wore black Havaianas, red shorts folded at the knee, and a white v-necked vest, Che Guevara staring sternly at me, framed perfectly by Gerald's lean arms. As he approached, I noticed a scar on his chin, I could not begin to imagine the story behind it- he already seemed so courageous, selfless.
He spoke, saying, "Hi- Gerald," he smiled, nodded and extended his hand. His voice was like gentle thunder, in a mild storm. His teeth were white, and told the story of a boy who wore braces throughout his schooling career.

Eight months later, we were sitting in my parents' dining room. My mother was beaming, she was undeniably fond of him. At that moment, I was as happy as I imagined a newly wed bride would be, yet we had only spoken about marriage twice, and sometimes just in passing.

Twenty-seven months, two weeks and five days after meeting each other's families: he invited me to coffee at our favorite café. When I arrived, the place was empty. I was early, Gerald would probably come soon, and we would drive to another coffee spot. Waterfront was beautiful. Perhaps Myatt Café & Chocolatier, had closed business in preparation for a special event later. I turned around, walking towards my dirty, once white Opel hatchback. I heard Gerald call my name, I turned, again, only to see him beckoning me to come join him inside the little shop. It looked as though they had closed for an auspicious event as I had predicted. 

My heart began to dance.

The setup inside was whimsical. All the tables had been taken out, hidden elsewhere I assumed, except one, set in the center of the room. Gerald's guitar was in the newspaper corner, and Norah Jones sang, softly suggesting to come away with her, through the speakers mounted on the walls. Our table, had places set for two. The tease aroma of butternut, Danish feta and other lovely ingredients, led me to believe my favorite bruschetta was served, but hidden from my sight, by a glass jar, containing aged squares of paper- I looked in closer, curious. Every note, every little doodle and sometimes verse, that I had playfully written or drawn for him, was contained. I made a habit of leaving these little notes in his car; sometimes on his kitchen counter, or on his desk at the office.

He pulled my seat out for me, I sat, and he kneeled down beside me. At this, my heart did a dance I could not name: it was a strange fusion of the salsa, zulu dance and ballet.

"Love, we make a good team. I am okay alone, but I am better with you- see, you add to the quality of a person I am. The greatest things about us is, we're not just united in love, but we're purpose driven, by something greater than life itself. You are the essence of beauty. We are flawed, differently, and connect, more than just physically and mentally. This glass jar is yet a fraction full, with only my half of our memories shared, I want to add to this collection, together, for the rest of my life. 
Join me in the challenge of filling it, and marry me?"
Dumbstruck, I looked deeper into the jar, then back at him, and reached out my hands, exclaiming,
"YES!"

Nine years later, and our marriage had only grown better with time; like a bottle of wine left to age in the security of a wine cellar.

Now, after spending two days on the road, I had finally reached home. My mother welcomed me with the warmth I had always known as unique to her alone. Emotions tugged at my heart's strings, sadness against joy, brokenness against deep pining. My vision became blurred, and my cheeks began to heat up, tickled by a warm, trickling sensation, "Hi mom."
"Grammy!" Angel and Scarlet had woken and raced out the car, to greet their grandmother, whose face now shone with a joy so sincere and great, it squeezed my heart tightly within.

We walked into the house, lugging our suitcases behind us- Gerald always took care of tasks of this nature. I felt a deep pain in my chest. The reality of his death was only beginning to settle now. His absence from our lives, now made permanent, dawned on me. At that moment, something in the substance of my soul shattered, broke. It gave in like a single pillar, left to withstand the pressure, and weight, of a structure fit for the support of four counterparts. I fell to the ground, letting out a moan that slowly turned into cries of agony, heartfelt anguish. I had wanted so badly, to be a pillar of strength for my daughters, but I had reached my breaking point. I was home, my mother would take care of things: she always managed to solve problems as they presented themselves.

My bedroom had not been interfered with since I left for University. Its pastel green walls, brought back memories of a teenage girl who had her future planned, right to her funeral. My story was not going to end the way I had hoped. Gerald, my dream husband and more, was gone. He had been shot while helping a teenage boy into the back of an ambulance. The gangs were out that night, news about their initiation of hopeful new members had been broadcasted frequently on the radio. Gerald was caught in the crossfire: they shot at him for attempting to help a victim of their wild behavior.

The aroma of freshly baked bread, and cinnamon butternut soup, wafted into my old room, through the door which Scarlet had left open as she dropped her luggage off in a hurry. 
This would do. Being home always simplified even my most complex of situations. I would mourn, and then heal- right here, now as a widowed mother of two, and daughter.

Revolution Through The Eyes Of A Teenager.

South Africa, my country.

I was born here, I live here, and I bear the marks of my country's history; a history so rich, and well known, a few Americans could tell you the name of at least one of our presidents, with all the pleasant, vague conviction in their hearts- thank you Tata Mandela!

My parents keep reminding me of how far our country has come as a nation, a mass community.
There will always be the occasional racist individual, a whole town in some cases, but not much can be done for another person's ignorance, or insecurity.
In many ways, I am being taught to look past color, and see the content within.

South African history is a topic our government ensures we are all very familiar with.
For as long as I remember, we have been taught the dates of significant events, and given many 'bits' of information on the tragdey that once was, Apartheid- over and over.

I don't remember, not once, hearing about a white, indian, asian or colored person, in our history lessons that is, who faught actively in the struggle, for the equality of all men.
That kind of information is left in textbooks, on dusty library shelves, in schools, where the curious learner will go, to read in detail, the ins and outs of politics in that day.
As for the rest of the student population, as far as their concerned: Apartheid was for the black and white communities alone, and maybe just a little for the other races.

Now, I turn 18 next year, just in time to vote(if my calculations are correct), and for a while, I have been thinking about who I would vote for, if I was given the opportunity.

In grade 7, four years ago, I decided that the Democratic Alliance would win my vote: "hands down".
Hellen Zille just seemed to have it 'all together', it always seemed that, no other name appeared on the front page of my dad's newspapers as often as Jacob Zuma's did, with negative headlines, causing me to question why a whole nation would vote for the 'bad guy".
All he had afterall, was a few catchy songs/anthems and a good number of scandals to his name.

The news would show, just before our family soapie, Generations, telling news of children going to school under the shelter of trees branches; families waiting for many years for RDP(Reconstruction and Development Programme) houses they had registered for; corruption; sacks of money being spent on decorating the country for an event that wouldn't generate equal profit, etc.

How I disliked this president! He was 'unwise', and selfish: how could children not have their own desks like me?.. and air-conditioners in their classrooms as I did?

Today, I see tweets about Zuma declaring that caring for pets is unAfrican, when, what he really meant was, in my opinion:
For a person to care more about an animal than they do for a person, is unAfrican. Someone explained it this way: a person(Angelique) owns a dog, and has a maid(Zodwa). Zodwa earns whatever amount per month, and Chase(let's call the dog that) is probably consuming the same amount in food; baths at the dog parlour and check-ups at the vet. Spot feels sick, and needs to have an operation performed on him, costing ±R6000. Angelique, without thought, willingly swipes her debit card to save her dog's life, yet Zodwa, the woman who raised Angie's children, washes her underwear, sacrifices mornings to send her children off to school and feeds Spot, has to count months before she can say she has that amount of money to her name; or the simple scenario of a dog given the front seat in a bakkie, and a worker, put in the back.
That is unAfrican: to value animal life, over any human life, whatever the color.

The DA now governs the Western Cape. I have only made it to Cape Town, and boy, what a city!
The beaches are impeccably clean, there are very few/no potholes, I see people riding horses to the nearby store to get bread, and everything just seems all THAT much better- yet, when you fly in, there's a beautiful aerial sight, of lovely homes, each with a sparkling blue swimming pool, a car/two and a lush, green garden- a few minutes over, is a large block, of run-down shacks, little mounds of litter, a sense of abandonment and hostility- unkempt basketball courts, and patchy soccer fields.

But how?

I keep hearing the DA, pointing out all the faults of the ANC, but don't recall a time when news broke out, about things the DA is doing to improve the situation of the poorer majority in their province. Hellen, and Lindi may march occassionally with the masses, endorsing the image of a genderly and racially equal country.

When I see Cape Town, I don't think South Africa. In my head, it's better than that.
When I see little shacks though, and a large population, struggling to make ends meet, it makes me question how, "out of this world or country", rather, Cape Town is.
Their services are up to scratch, and they are highly efficient in the public's eyes, but to uSis' Aviwe, living in a shack in a Khayelitsha, with her 5 children, what is the DA?

It's a never ending struggle. 

The ANC, the party of my parents and grandparents, is no longer built on integrity, justice, passion and respect. Instead, it seems like a party of children on the playground, declaring, "every man for himself", and running off into their different corners and hiding places for 'den', never looking back to see who is 'on', and going to make sure the game is played. We find that certain sectors do better than others. It is as if, our ruling party is a team of players who constantly need to be reminded that there is no 'i' in team, and no justice in self gratification, before a nation you promised to have best interests politically for.

The DA, the party of my dreams, and the thought enemy of my elders, is riddle ridden.
They keep a good image, but under all the perfume, manicured nails and make-up, they hide a majority community of people(I said people), living like strangers or squatters, in their own land.

I want to know who to vote for. I wish these political parties would give me a reason to mark that x next to the formal portrait of either of their leaders.