It is a scorching hot summer day, Ayize suggests we go to our favourite hangout spot by the river to play. We immediately race each other without warning to see who is the fastest, although we both know and she would never admit that I am faster. I have always been competitive. Ayize pulls me by the back of my dress so she can try to outrun me, however, her plan backfires and we both almost fall giggling uncontrollably from the gut. As we draw closer and closer to the river still running and occasionally hiding from each other behind big trunks of big trees, the sound of a beaten drum grows over walls and streams as it becomes louder and clearer, instantly grabbing our attention. We look at each other mischievously and nod as we both seem to be thinking the same thing.

We leave the stream behind and walk towards the direction where the drums are sounding and our search leads us to a jovial event.

“It is at the Vilakazi homestead,” I say.

 

We can easily pass as extended family, I convince myself as we intrude. We sneak into the yard from the back through a broken fence not too far from the kraal where the main event seems to be taking place and we observe from a distance at first. A group of young girls that seem to be our age are singing and dancing in beautiful harmony. They are barefoot and unapologetically flaunting their bare upper bodies only covered in colourful beads around their necks. They are also wearing short beaded skirts and bracelets around their ankles that make a harmonious sound when they step as they dance. Their dress code represents youth and pride in their own virginity. We would be amongst these girls if we were invited to this event.

 

We try to blend ourselves into the crowd of people so we don’t draw unnecessary attention to ourselves by looking lost. We see a young girl that could possibly be younger than us, dressed so beautifully as a Zulu bride. I am intrigued by her tears, she looks unhappy yet her attire is usually worn to publicly acknowledge a celebratory day. An older woman spots us and chases us away immediately,

“Mantombazane (Girls), move away from here!” She yells.

We are redirected to where the rest of the children are playing. And since we did not come here for that we decide to leave and go back to the river.

“I got you!” I say, trying not to expose my excitement

“…did you really think I would not find you at such an obvious hiding spot?” I go on to ask Ayize.

“I made it easy for you on purpose Yibanathi, you know I can hide like a chameleon if I wanted to,” Ayize snaps back and we both laugh still out of breath from all the running.

We finally make a stop at a big rock where we comfortably place our bums and slightly burn from all the heat it holds. We take in the beautiful view of endlessly tall trees and the hills that seem to go on forever into the distant sky. There is a fresh-water stream hitting against the rocks surrounding the river not too far from where we are sitting.

We listen to the sound of water rushing downstream to a destination unknown to me.

“Isn’t this just beautiful, Ayize?” I ask as I turn to look at her looking into the distance. I stretch my leg out to see if I can reach the water, but I almost fall.

“I will leave you in the dirty water if you ever fall in, Yibanathi. Do you hear me?!” Ayize exclaims with conviction in her voice and a part of me believes her so I keep a safe distance.

In a moment I think about how much I take after my father’s love for nature. He can go fishing the whole day only to return home without catching a single fish, but the look on his face would always be one of fulfilment as if to say his goal was achieved regardless. I often wonder if it is ever really about fishing or just about enjoying time alone, away from everything and everyone.

 

“I hate summer, I could hardly sleep last night and I was even scared to go to the toilet in case I bumped into a snake,” Ayize says while scratching her pitch-black, short and coarse hair with her small fair-complexioned hand.

“Summer is beautiful,” I object.

“My feet do not freeze as they do through winter. And walking to school is more bearable.”

“How is walking in the blaze of a summer sun bearable, Yibanathi?”

“It beats walking in the cold with your body icing up,” I snap and shortly realise that there is no point arguing whether the horizon looks better with beautiful green grass and trees full of life or with dull nakedness with its rich colour eaten away by cold and endless nights.

Our play-time is shorter and we are never allowed to wander about after sunset, especially now that we are teenagers and starting to be noticeable. My parents want me back in the house by five in winter while they allow me a little over an hour more during the summer months.

Ayize makes funny faces at me and pulls at my beautifully brushed, shoulder-length natural hair, causing me to fall as she gets a head start and she runs.

“Hai Ayize, I am going to get you and show you.”

I get up just as quick and chase after her. We play around a bit more while enjoying the nature surrounding us and the freedom of being young with limited responsibilities. While at it, I notice a group of older boys just behind an old burned down rondavel not belonging to anyone in particular. I quickly call out to Ayize so we may make our way back home.

“What is the matter, Yibanathi?” She asks concerned and equally annoyed.

“We have to go home now, look behind that rondavel,” I say pointing towards it. “…there are older boys.”

Ayize seems to not be bothered,

“But they are far, Yibanathi, and they are minding their own business. We are only 14 years old, what could they possibly do to us?”

“My grandmother always says - intombi ayina minyaka (a girl child is ageless),” I jump in to make my point as Ayize does not see the seriousness of it.

“Ok, you have spoilt all our fun, let us go then,” Ayize says irritated but somewhat understanding that we are no longer safe by ourselves here.

“I will show you I am not a fun spoiler,“ I say and we both find a way to giggle as we walk away leaving the river behind. We enter into our village and part ways as I go home and Ayize to hers. We agree to meet again later.

“Yibanathi!” My mother shouts as she sees me enter the yard. “…where have you been, do you think life is all about games and running around? It is time you have more chores to do in the house. You cannot afford to be lazy, my girl.” She does not give me a moment to say anything. And, usually, once she starts she never stops. “…girls cannot afford the luxury of being lazy, who will marry you if you continue in this manner?”

“But I don’t want to get marr…” I am cut short by the firm look in my mother’s eyes which warns me to shut my mouth. Her finger sharply points at me and I get shivers down my spine.

 

“I am sorry mama,” I immediately submit. I wait for her to tell me what she needs me to do.

“Your father will be back from work soon. I need you to fetch some water from the river so that I can warm it up to soak his feet. Take that green bucket from the cooking rondavel and fill it up for me.” And just like that we are done discussing my views around laziness and marriage and we go on with the day.

“Ok mama, I will wait for Ayize to finish her chores so she may accompany me,” I say not realising how urgent the instruction is.

“Now Yibanathi!” She says cheekily.

“Mama, I saw older boys hanging by the river earlier,” I say looking down.

“I am sure they are gone by now. Go on Yibanathi,” she says sternly and I immediately stop questioning her authority.

“Ok mama.”

 

I get the bucket from the small rondavel in which we cook our meals. We also have three other mud houses for sleeping with two bedrooms each. Our yard is very spacious with a big vegetable garden on one side and many goats and cows as you go further in on the other side. I live in one of the mud houses with my parents and younger sister, Ulu, which is short for Uluthando. She is eight years old and we share a bedroom. The other two houses are reserved for our guests. Usually, our extended family loves to come over for a visit from time to time. One person in particular who visits frequently is my uncle, Malume Bhekumuzi. He is my father’s older brother. My father always says my uncle refuses to grow up, but he always seems to enjoy his company much to my mother's annoyance as my uncle often disappears with my father during the day only to come back very late in the evening both barely standing straight with slurred speech singing every song you can think of.

I pass by Ayize’s house to try my luck and see if she cannot come with me to the river again. Our homes are next to each other although we still need to walk a good fifteen minutes or so from my front door to hers. Our yards are far apart, but we have grown used to the distance.

 

“Ayize!” I shout out for her as I stand outside her gate totally ignoring my mother’s instruction to go alone.

I stand by her gate and continue to shout her name a few more times, a familiar voice responds behind me.

“Yibanathi?”

I slowly turn my head around to see who is calling me even though I know this voice so well. A whip goes across my face instantly sending a painful sensation across my entire body. As I try to comprehend what is happening two more slaps follow and I manage to escape now crying.

“Did I not say NOW?” My mother yells evidently upset.

I face down and pick up my bucket from the floor. I am relieved no one is present to witness this, especially Ayize, because I would be more embarrassed. I carry my bruised heart to the river with tears flowing down my cheeks. When I finally get to the river I forget about my pain for a moment and just take in the peaceful aura that surrounds the river. I cannot help but still feel the swell on my face. I lower my bucket into the water to let it flow in. And just as I am bending over my head gets covered with a cloth and I am held from both sides. I start screaming as a wave of panic attacks me and I feel the footsteps walking away with me.

“What is going on, what is going on?” I yell, kick and scream as I try to escape the grip of what feels like a thousand men.

“Ma! Ma!” I call out as loud as I can.

“Keep quiet, Yibanathi. No one can do anything for you right now, you are not in danger.”

Those words do not stop me from screaming or take away the fear.

Where are they taking me to?

What is happening to me?

Who are these people?

All sorts of questions fill my head and I regret that my mother did not follow me all the way to the river. I cry and scream until we reach what seems to be our destination where there is no more walking, just cold silence.

 

“Just relax.”

A man’s voice speaks to me as he slowly removes the cloth from my face. He looks at me closely and wipes my tears with his hand. He holds the base of my chin to turn my face from side to side assessing my puffy red eyes and chicks. The grin on his face says he is proud of himself and I am confused. I look at him carefully while shaking from fear. My memory traces to when I saw him earlier at the river hanging out with the other older boys behind the burnt rondavel. I seem to recognise him as someone who works at one of the farms around here. I am not too sure at this point, however, this being a village where everyone knows everyone, I seem to know his face.

“Come, let me show you around so you can get comfortable and prepare us a delicious supper to celebrate your presence in our home.”

“Excuse me?” I ask as though I did not hear him well, accompanied by a cold, confused stare.

“I would like to go home now, my mother is waiting for me. She needs some water, I have to rush back now,” I say in hope that this is just a little misunderstanding. The man comes closer to my face still wearing a grin that seems to put me off. I can almost hear his heartbeat from where I’m standing and his warm breath fills the air I am breathing in. I am disgusted to say the least. He does not take his eyes off me, he gives me a deep stare that exposes something very dark about him. I give in at that point and follow him as he moves away suggestive, hoping that my cooperation will have me released to go home sooner. He shows me around the yard until we get to where his parents are sitting outside one of four rondavels that occupy their yard as the main house. We find them sitting on a bench near the cattle. They are smiling, seemingly pleased, as we approach. I am worried that they do not seem concerned about my presence at all. I look at them hoping they will speak some sense into their son so he may send me back home, but I am afraid to speak. I shyly greet them looking at the floor to avoid eye contact. Where I come from it is regarded as rude to look an elder directly in the eyes. I feel as though I am about to wet myself when his father gets up from where he is seated to greet me.

 

“MaShenge, Sokwalisa, Phungashe, Mnyamane kaNgqengelele” he calls me by my clan names which sounds so formal.

At that moment it hits me; no! This cannot be. This cannot be happening to me. My thoughts are racing - this cannot be my fate. This cannot be my life. I cry inconsolably for as long as my tears allow.

 

This cannot be my reality.