Page 1 of 93 I was born on the 25th of December 1989 in the HF Verwoerd Hospital in Pretoria.

I am searching for my biological mother, who was at the time a student at the University of Pretoria. Please contact Stephen Goldstein, Private Bag 153, Auckland, New Zealand, 4251. *** The words of the advertisement shudder into focus. Bold letters reach out across the pain of a frozen existence of twenty years. I read them a second and a third time. Is this possible, could it be him. The You magazine slips from my grasp. Mam... Mam, Doctor will see you now. I quickly grab the magazine off the floor, flustered. Trembling fingers find the column again. Stephen, Stephen... is this what they decided to call you. The taste of his name lingers on my tongue. My child. My son. *** Waves of pain were ripping through my body. I had been in labour for seven hours. A student-nurse was watching me anxiously. The muscles in my pelvis were struggling in desperation to unlock life. The student stuttered. They are three m-m-minutes apart Her small hand was crushed in mine as fresh pain hacked like a bolt of lightning, her courage faltered. I think we need to call the sister now. My helper watched nervously, the night-shift sister seemed unperturbed. Are you ready, she asked indifferently. With a quick hand she exposed my vulnerability. Latex fingers assaulted my vagina. My body weakly tried to resist an invasion. Shes ready, Nurse. Push her through. Waves of pain seized my pelvis in a vicelike grip. Christmas decorations on the walls were merging with the sounds of Jim Reeves. Im dreaming of a white Christmas. The theatre doors shut him out. Inside masked green aliens were waiting in chilled air. Relax, Miss A voice devoid of warmth. My ankles were pushed into stirrups, a white screen went up to hide my pain. The social worker had warned that seeing my child would intensify the loss. My baby was seven days overdue. I was unmarried and without any rights. Or dignity. A rubber hand grabbed at mine, injecting liquid into my veins. The mask disappeared behind the screen. Pain dominated prying fingers. Scissors, the masked wonder commanded. At last, some relief of tension in my vagina. My abdomen felt heavy. Push. 1

Page 2 of 93 Harder, urged Scissors. Hes coming. Her voice sounded high and screechy. The head is crowning push. A painful, wondrous thought was flooding my mind. I was giving birth. Once more I obeyed the command, life materialized from my pelvis. The relief blissful. A smothered cry made my heart leap with excitement. I tried to sit up, callous hands firmly pushed me down. My Little Scream was being kidnapped, taken away from me. Just a few stitches and youll be fine. Alien magic. I could feel the tugging and pulling between my vagina and anus. Would anyone care to stitch up my heart. My child, cradled under my heart for nine months was now gone. Stolen. Adoption was legalised theft. Loud sobs erupted from my chest. The masked wonder commanded off handedly Give her Valium. A pimpled porter pushed my bed through swinging doors. Jim welcomed me again: Dashing through the snow, on a one-horse open sleigh, over hills we go, laughing all the way.... I was crying jingling bells. I had borne a ghost child, my little duckling was gone. The porter pushed me into the maternity ward. Parcels of tiny pink faces were greedily sucking on full breasts. Disturbed mothers looked up, my sobbing was upsetting the babies. Porter. I was frightened into sudden silence by the piercing shriek. What is she doing in here, take her to Ward Six. This ward is for normal mothers only *** My trembling fingers are clutching at the frazzled magazine. The doctor looks worried. Elizabeth, is something wrong. Im fine, its nothing. I tuck my child away. I have received the test results. There is a malignant growth in your left breast. We will have to do a biopsy. Stephen! Stephen ... my child has a name. Ask my receptionist to book a bed for you. He scribbles an illegible letter to the hospital, folds it carefully and seals it in an envelope. He notices my bewilderment. Elizabeth, dont fret, on Monday well know exactly whats wrong. I suppress the urge to shout it out loud. My child is looking for me. Two conflicting tidings are competing to make sense in my mind. I choose the living one. I walk back to my car with the You in one hand and the doctors letter in the other. 2

Page 3 of 93 Stephen, such a beautiful name. My son, Stephen, is looking for me. The noise of the traffic is deafening. My inner compass mechanically steers me back to my apartment. The advertisement is a chorus line in my head: I am searching for my biological mother. I am searching for my biological mother The past twenty years of my life have been frozen in a vacuum of desolation. My mind has been a block of ice withstanding cracks. One small advert in a magazine managed to create a tiny crack in the frozen wasteland of my soul. The hope of seeing my child was kindled like a shy candle. *** It was a day after my sons birth. My full breasts were aching, yearning to be relieved of their burden. Clumsily the student-nurse was trying to fit the breast pump over my swollen breast. One mommy doesnt have any milk, we could donate your milk. She tried to comfort me. The pain in my burning breasts and empty heart created a steady flow of tears. Mother entered the room, her pale face seemed desperately sad. She pushed the nurse away, put the pump on the cabinet and hugged me. We cried together. I for my discarded child, she for a lost grandchild. Elizabeth, dearest, I am so sorry, so very very sorry, she repeated over and over. My own arms were two empty vessels at my side.

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Chapter 1 Clever men create themselves, but clever women are created by their mothers. Women can never quite escape their mothers cosmic pull, nor their lip-biting expectations or their faulty love. We want to please our mothers, emulate them, disgrace them, oblige them, outrage them. And bury ourselves in the mysteries and consolations of their presence. - Carol Shields *** I also want to pee standing up. My nagging was wearing Mother down. Impatient hands pulled off my panties and propped me up onto the toilet. How many times do I have to tell you, you do not have a willy. She closed the door. You have to sit down to wee, she said. Her voice sounded tired. I was holding my urine back and folded my arms across my chest. Puffed up cheeks clearly reflected my displeasure. The sounds of splashing in the blue Sanpic toilet bowl were mocking me. I was losing my first rebellious battle as a female. The transfer-agent of my gender persona was a strong person, my mother. Her father had wanted a son, the family name had to survive. Mother, the last of seven daughters, was christened with her grandfathers names. Petrina Jacoba.(Petrus Jacobus) Grandmother, by then almost fifty, had obstinately accepted the pregnancy. She had once told my older sister. Your mother was an accident. *** At the time my mother still carried my fathers name. She would change identity a couple of more times, a chameleon. She was an itch that I could not scratch, not even as a small child. When Mother was pregnant, she was unaware of my existence. Prenatal care in Zambia was primitive. Had I been deprived of motherly expectation while she was wistfully caressing her swollen belly. Was it possible for the table of her heart to be set for an unplanned guest. Two different sperms had impregnated two X-ova. My sperm was X, my brothers, Y. XX and XY-chromosomes had developed in separate placentas. My brother and I were twins. Identical twins shared the same zygote My brother was born five minutes before me. His placenta unexpectedly started howling. A shock followed two for the price of one. Fortunately my mother was a healthy woman, she had an abundance of milk. My brother was born hungry and would often empty my feeding breast as well. I think mother was more attached to him, as she suckled him more often than me. I was the peaceful one, well-behaved. Consequently we were handled differently. 4

Page 5 of 93 My brother was my fathers big son. I was my fathers second daughter. Mother said father had yearned for a boy. She remembered the night that my brother was conceived very well. (Had she experienced multiple orgasms.) Mother had suckled us until my brother bit her nipple. My first loss due to male stupidity. *** A year after we were born we moved to South Africa. The Karoo tumble-weed was part of my fathers nature, a restless soul. The twins clothes advertised their gender without failing. My brothers babygro was blue, mine was pink. Father had longed for a son, his big boy was the apple of his eye. The two often disappeared together in the car while I had to stay behind in the driveway, soberly playing with my toys. I still remember that feeling of desolation, I was learning to play on my own. My first real disillusionment as a female was because of my brother. His action clearly illuminated the differences between our sexes. Gender differences had never caused great wars. Our resistance, like our menses was subtle. I was initiated as a member of the weapon-less guild just before my fifth birthday. My brother and I were bathing together. I was attacked by a pirate while I was sailing on the sea with my little boat. My brother stood up, pointed his weapon at me and ordered; Elizabeth, hands up. My eyes were burning, my mouth tasted salty. My brother had peed in my face. I was furious and jumped up, reaching for my own weapon. I looked down speechless, there was nothing. My hand searched in vain across the smooth shell of my sex. My defence was seeping from between my labia, a useless trickle. My brothers victorious laughter was spontaneous. Male piss specialisation evolution in action. I had realised that gender differences started and ended with a dick. I was unhappy. My brother possessed a weapon that was putting him to an advantage. Our shared nightly baths became traumatic. He showed off his superior piss-ability with sadistic regularity. My father, a meek man, died a year later. My brothers chauvinism must have been from some other ancestors genes. I had developed penis envy. I wanted to have a willy, empowered I would be able to conquer my opponents. I wanted to piss in my brothers scornful mouth. *** Our house was located in a new middle-class neighbourhood. A street without a name. We merely referred to our street as the first dust street after the tar street. A railway line rattled, half a kilometre west from our house. Coal locomotives were toiling continually in Ben Wieletjies industry. Our street had no lights.

Page 6 of 93 Most of the houses consisted of three bedrooms, a bathroom and a separate toilet. The kitchen and scullery were next to each other and the lounge and dining room were usually open plan. Every house had a porch and a single garage. The maids room with a separate toilet and no basin was hidden behind the garage. A black man as strong as Samson was the only one to dig the fields and plant grass for the whole neighbourhood. He had a grey beard. His Zulu songs woke us early in the mornings while his garden-fork rhythmically dug up earthy smells. Hour after hour he persevered in the sweat of his labour. A garden-shaman, earning his sweaty bread. Our maid was wary of men. My brother and I had to take food for him at twelve oclock. He quickly swallowed down the four thick slices of bread with tea. Siya bonga. He would stand up and quietly resume his digging. Like the meagre portion of food, his words were few. As new houses were being completed further from ours, his singing faded. What was he singing about. I could not understand his language, his existence also faded from our lives. My concept of opposites was rapidly developing. Day versus night. Good against evil. Sweet was not sour. Cold resisted heat. We were white, they were black. Afrikaans was on top, Zulu underneath. Similar was good, different was bad. I remember another man, a hawker who traded corn on the cob. He fastened the bag of corn to his bicycle carrier. Going up and down the streets, his droning of Greene mealies miesie! was preceded and followed by whistling that we simply could not imitate. The ice cream vendor used a goats bell to announce himself. My grandmother sometimes gave us money for ice-lollies. We would start singing rowdily as soon as we heard the hollow metal-sound of the bell; Who had stolen that bell off the goat. I never saw the milkman, he made his rounds too early. The clinging of milk bottles was our daily alarm clock. I knew that he was different too, he started working before dawn. In our household our domestic worker was the first one up. Our porridge was never late, her Vaseline-smile was always the same. These people brought sound and colour into our lives. My brother thought that I was different too. *** My father was a native from the Karoo. After standard six he had worked as a shepherd on his fathers farm. The Karoo sun darkened his sallow complexion even more. His black hair was tightly curled, he looked like a Griqua. When grandmother saw him the first time she asked mother if she had seen her boyfriends ID card. I take after my mothers Irish ancestors. 6

Page 7 of 93 Reddish hair and a milky, soft skin with light blue eyes. Father was a simple man and not very practical. My first memory of cold was before I went to school. The Highveld winters could be bitterly cold. We hadnt lit the anthracite stove since we had moved into our house. The coal truck still had to discover the new route. One cold night we were all listening to radio theatre, shivering underneath patch-work quilts. Father felt sorry for his benumbed family and went to the garage. He firmly dispelled the cold with an old tyre and a can of petrol, his family would no longer suffer. The air was much fresher outside in the cold than in our warm house. *** Dad regularly read to us from Uncle Abrahams bedtime stories. My brother used to fall asleep quickly. Our goodnight ritual had always included an encore. I loved looking at my father; his voice made me feel so safe. I had inherited his dimple in my left cheek. He always read the same poem last, I knew it off by heart. I adored my fathers reading. A Smile A smile is such a wondrous thing; It makes our dimples cute; And when it disappears again, We look in vain for its hiding place. The most valuable thing though, this you have to understand: when you smile at somebody he will smile back at you. And because you smiled at him; he will respond time after time again; soon your whole day will be blessed with smiles. Because a smile always lasts; a broken heart could be healed. So, just keep on smiling; and never forget to, my friend! He used to shut the book then, kiss me on the forehead and say; And they all lived happily ever after. I always slept well after Uncle Abrahams bedtime stories. Sometimes I was too lazy to go to the loo at night. Grandmother said only babies wet their beds. I once pinched her hands when she tried to put a nappy on me. My brother used to mock me whenever this happened. Pissy, pissy, pissbum; pissy, pissy pissbum I had forgotten to go the loo the night before my father died.

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CHAPTER 2 I felt in control of my bodily functions, I was determined to pee standing up. I was standing naked in front of the toilet and took careful aim. My pee went askew and hit my leg. This annoyed me, but I persevered. I would succeed to pee standing up. I discovered that I could pee in a straight line by pulling my labia back with my fingers. I could not control the angle though. I had to bend backwards in order to reach the toilet bowl. Standing astride over the bowl, I could even stir up some froth. The splashing sound was music to my ears. My favourite stance was in the veld. I pulled my knickers down, pulled my dress up and stood comfortably astride. The steady stream would hit the ground just in front of my left foot. My brother was impressed and bragged to his friends about his sisters exceptional ability. Elizabeth, they dont believe me, you will have to show them, he whined in my ears. I was proud, I could pee standing up just like my brother. The demonstration happened in our back yard. The boys formed a circle around me, gawking in wonder at my vulva. When I revealed Miss Lizzy one of them frowned and declared; Elizabeth, your willy is flat! Flat willy or not, I could pee a nice yellow stream. The boys were impressed. Are you sure you cant pee a curve one of them wanted to know. I was able to do that, but then I would have had to lie on my back which would subject the stream to gravity. I knew from experience that it would turn out in a real mess. I didnt answer him. *** My brother was my friend, he is my enemy. My brother was my confidante, he is my traitor I was his sin-eater My brother got a pair of boxing gloves for Christmas once. My present was a silly doll even though I was his boxing partner, who wanted babyteeth anyway. One night our shared bath turned into a game, my brother threw a face cloth at me. The cloth hit the bath oil bottle which broke the window pane. I was the one to be grounded and couldnt watch Al Debbos movie in the school hall the following Saturday morning. We both sang in the choir. He was chosen for the boys ensemble, girls could not be Fire Flies. Mother and uncle Billy didnt miss one of my brothers rugby matches. The netball and rugby matches were scheduled in the same time slots. I played netball for my schools first team. We once had white rats for pets.

Page 9 of 93 After a christening service at the church my reverend-brother baptised the rats in a Tupperware container. They drowned and I hung them out in the sun to dry. I told Mother that they were poisoned by the neighbours, I was the one who had to bury them. My brother clipped the wings of all our pigeons so they couldnt fly away. He clipped it too short, they could barely walk. Spot, the neighbours mongrel, caught the pigeons and ate them. I was scolded, because I forgot to close the gate. My brother used to pick his nose and stick his finger in his mouth. When I only picked my nose Mother said; Shame on you, Elizabeth, that is so unfeminine. Chores like doing the dishes, hanging the washing and sweeping the kitchen floor were beneath my brothers dignity. Every Sunday after lunch he occupied the loo and sounded constipated. He sat on the throne for hours. He flushed the toilet twice though, ghost turds dont flush away easily. The task of tidying toys and clothes after we both played, was mine. Mothers short command; Put it away, became my lifes motto. I managed to shelve my sadness as well. Richard Munslow was the last sin-eater in Shropshire, England. This was what they reported about him: By eating bread and drinking ale and by making a short speech at the graveside, the sin-eater took upon himself the sin of the deceased. The speech was written as: I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man. Come not down the lanes or in our meadow. For thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen. +++ I came to the realization that I was non-male. Eve was created from Adams rib and Athena from Zeus head. Two divine creations where a male was the common denominator. Women tracked men figuratively. We were the success following in their wake. Abrahamic belief reduced us to mere male helpers. In modern times sweet-talk depicts us as instigators of their success. I had always been second class in comparison with my brother. It was not jealousy - the pattern merely repeated itself at school, Sunday school and in neighbourhood games. Boys were the strong ones, always fighting to get the biggest portion. Girls interests had never counted. Of course my brother had to compete against me in everything, even though I just wanted to be friends. I wanted to keep the peace. He was a quarrelsome boy and had spitefully cut off most of my dolls hair and dug out their eyes. He always needed to prove to me how strong or fast he was. In cricket he wanted to be the opening and only bat. During marble-season he nicked my marbles. He even cheated at hop-scotch. 9

Page 10 of 93 My brother was what he was meant to be, the scorpion on the frogs back. He was capable of stabbing you in the back in the middle of the river. Even if he was to drown himself. The poet AG Visser defined our relationship very well. It portrayed his and mothers relationship. Tough love. Why is little Sister crying? Just now she was fine. Its because of Brother again, can you believe it, Doesnt he always hurt her? Indeed, he bit her Look at the mark, my lamb a brand new wickedness. Its just love, Mommy! Love? What a joke! What should Mommy do with you When you bite your little sister: Whack me, Mommy, but first a kiss. But first a kiss? Heaven forbids! Tell me: Who can beat you then? *** Father had bought our blue kombi from a squint-eyed man. The engine was freshly overhauled, but kept on smoking even though the kombi wasnt a diesel model. We kids now had more room to fight. My first experience of rejection was on our way to Warmbaths. We were going to spend the winter holidays at a spa resort. Our three kids were exuberant and restless, my brother and sister were fighting over a water pistol. Father was annoyed, we had been forced to crawl behind a slow-going truck. He warned us to stop messing around a couple of times. Of course we didnt listen. He must have lost it, because he then said a word that I had never heard before. Fuck! You will stop that ruckus now. or something similar. We still didnt listen. Father repeated the word, then stopped the kombi in a cloud of smoke and kicked us out. Out.... get out! Go do your romping somewhere else! Frightened we stepped into a red muddy puddle, our frolicking completely stomped out. Mother was staring straight ahead as the kombis gears grated as Father drove off. My brother and sister ran after the smoking vehicle, screaming at the top of their voices. I followed reluctantly, I did not want to tread mud on my own. Rejection scorched my heart, I shelved it.

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Page 11 of 93 Dear Stephen I saw your advertisement in the YOU magazine. I gave birth to a boy on the 25th of December 1989 in the HF Verwoerd Hospital in Pretoria. The other three births that day were girls. My name is Elizabeth Jacobs. Please check with your parents as they know my details. You could contact me at P.O. Box 10, Bleskop, 0301, South Africa. Regards, Elizabeth. *** I couldnt sleep that night after my doctors visit and Stephens advertisement. The knowledge of a malignant tumour in my chest was less important. I was reading the advertisement over and over again, the You magazine tattered. The reality of my child trying to find me was still evading me. *** My life had been shocked into immobility by Stephens unplanned creation. I had skipped a second period, but was still in denial about the possibility of a pregnancy. I felt uncertain while waiting in the doctors reception area. Were the other patients also curious about the possible illnesses lurking in other patients bodies. Could they notice that I have skipped a period. I was annoyed with myself, the biological process growing in me was still unknown. When it was my turn a white jacketed doctor was sitting behind a large desk. Plaster models of a right shoulder and a miniscule inner ear decorated his desk, the aorta of a heart is blue. Morning. His greeting sounded like a question. I have skipped two periods, I confessed. Are you sexually active. His eyes were questioning me more urgently than his voice. My timid yes, sounded like a confession to a terrible crime. Get undressed. Take off your... panties as well; you can use this robe. Was I being punished even before the verdict. I will have to do an internal examination and I will need a urine sample. Lie down on the bed, please. I lay down and folded the robe protectively around my body. Chastity was possible, even in the absence of virginity, the internal aspect bothered me. Draw up your knees and open your legs. My eyes were shut tightly, my hands fisted - Surrealism in action. The doctors voice sounded like that of my school principal. A sudden cold object on my vulva startled me. Relax, he commanded curtly. The cold had a rigid quality to it, I was experiencing penetration. Clinical intrusion was an undesired admission to my body. I could hear squeaking sounds as my vagina was being screwed open. My inner sex was revealed to medical science. Your cervix looks good, plump and healthy. 11

Page 12 of 93 Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts. Pee in the bottle, then you can get dressed For a moment I was stunned by his command. Didnt the man know that I did not have a willy, how did he expect me to aim into the bottle. He had definitely flunked his anatomy exams. Afterwards I washed my hands at the sink, annoyed. The doctor tested the urine sample and muttered something, seemingly satisfied. According to this sample you are pregnant. My message had no accompanying Angel. I have to take a blood sample, it will help us to see how far youre into the pregnancy. Pregnant... pregnant The word was spinning through my mind as I struggled to make sense of it. Other girls got pregnant, married women got pregnant, my ego aborted the foreign concept. What was mother going to say. Over the years she had made it clear that a bun in the oven would cause a lot of heartache. Become pregnant without a man, and you will have to work at a OK supermarket check-out for the rest of your life. My cashiered future was beckoning at me. I walked back to my room in the boarding house and lay down on my bed. My hand caressed my stomach, millions of cells were already conspiring in the construction of a new life. My body was a biological factory, diligently working in 24-hour shifts. Frightened, I wanted to call for a strike. I couldnt be and wasnt allowed to be pregnant, my disgrace would be visible to everybody. I turned on my side and started to cry. That was not how I had imagined or planned my life. I wanted to finish my studies, get a job, furnish my own flat and live there. I wanted to travel overseas and when the time arrived, wanted to get married in a big church. The organist would play the wedding march and I would be floating down the isle like a princess in my white dress towards the one and only in my life. I stayed in my room for two days, I didnt even set a foot out the door to eat. I hadnt thought that it was possible for one person to cry so much. The word empty had acquired new meaning. Grannys chamber pot that had to be emptied in the mornings was empty. Empty was a vacuum full of nothin - I was empty. My tears of regret were mostly for the loss of what I could have had experienced. I hadnt yet seen a pregnant girl on campus it would probably be the end of my studies. The idea that a new life was growing inside me was both unacceptable and absurd. I would have to phone Mother, and Erik. The church would be angry. I walked to the phone booth by the post office. The phone at the boarding house was obstinate the dial spun back after every number. Nothing would ever spin me back to my previously unimpregnated state. Hello Mom, its me. Bed-wetting fear chilled the booth. Did my mother know that dads death was my fault. 12

Page 13 of 93 Elizabeth, whats the matter. I started to cry and mother had to repeat her question. Sobbing I managed to squeeze out the word pregnant. My wailing startled a black man waiting outside the booth. He watched me, concerned. After a long silence my mother answered; I hope your baby will have a dimple like yours. The day I told the father about his child was a nightmare experience. The roosters crow took on a new meaning. Elizabeth, you are what! Erik asked, bewildered. We were sitting on the carpet in his flat, a pizza slice frozen halfway to his mouth. Pregnant, a trembling word escaped like a butterfly from my lips. Erik looked at me first, then at the pizza slice in his hand. He opened the box and completed the Italian circle. He closed the box, got up and went to stand by the window. Please, please dont cast me off. Erik turned around. His face looked different now, his eyes fixed. Elizabeth, you said it was safe. How could you get pregnant He was not happy. Erik, I skipped the pills on two days. The venom in his voice and the rage in his eyes frightened me. How could you be so irresponsible. You know I want to finish my studies. I will be forbidden to use the sacrament before I even had time to administer it. My castigation was not over yet. What do you think the professors at the seminary are going to say But I am the pregnant one, Erik. It is my body that will blow up like a balloon. What will I tell my dad, he wanted to know, deeply upset. You know that he persuaded the church council that I would be the right person to replace him when he retires in December. Ive been studying for seven years now, you can not do this to me. Speechless, I looked at this man who had harvested my virginity with the wiles of flattery. His foreplay that night on the train was to recite the Song of Soloman to me, first in Hebrew, then in Afrikaans: You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride. You have ravished my heart with one of your eyes, with one chain of your neck. How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride! How much better is your love than wine! The fragrance of your perfumes than all manner of spices! Your lips, my bride, drip like the honeycomb. Honey and milk are under your tongue. The smell of your garments is like the smell of Lebanon. A locked up garden is my sister, my bride; a locked up spring, a sealed fountain The Solomon paintbrush had painted and painted. Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates, with precious fruits: Henna with spikenard plants. Spikenard and saffron, Calamus and cinnamon, with every kind of incense tree; Myrrh and aloes, with all the best spices. A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, flowing streams from Lebanon. Beloved Have you forgotten the stains of myrrh on the starched railway sheets Erik, my most precious sacrifice for you. Awake, north wind; and come, you south; blow on my garden, that its spices may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and taste his precious fruits. How can you forget those words that became flesh inside me. I struggled to swallow the bile in my mouth. 13

Page 14 of 93 Erik, we did it together, we both are accountable, I feebly started. He looked at me as if I was a stranger, his green eyes were winter-dry. Elizabeth, are you sure its my child. The kombi from my childhood memories stalled to a stop. I remembered the fear, the desolation. My heart stifled my breath, nausea welled up in my throat, paralysing my tongue. I looked at my Solomons face his words were brutally unwise. I got up uncertain, wanting to touch him. He turned away with a rigid back, hostile. Stunned I stepped into the city street, blinded and consumed by the Jakaranda crimson-purple. I read Ingrid Jonkers poem that night, crying over a shared experience: Pregnant woman I lie under the crust of night, singing, curled up in the sewage, singing, and my offspring lies in the water. I pretend I am a child: gooseberries, gooseberries and heather, Gethylis afra, aniseed, and the tadpoles slip into the mucus of the stream, in my body my foam-white figure; but sewage oh sewage, my offspring lies in the water. Still singing fleecy-red our song of blood, my yesterday and I, my yesterday dangles beneath my heart; my duckling, my cradling world, and my heart that sings like a beetle; my beetle-heart sings like a beetle; but sewage, oh sewage, my offspring lies in the water. I pretend I am glad: look at where the firefly spatters! the moon-sliver, a wet snout that trembles but with the morning, the limping midwife chilly and grey on the shifting hills, I thrust you out through the crust into the daylight, oh mourning owl, great owl of the daylight, free from my womb but soiled soiled by my tears and tainted with sorrow. Sewage oh sewage I lie trembling singing how else, but trembling with my offspring underneath your water ...?

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Chapter 3 I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us... We need the kind of books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into a forest far from everyone, like suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. Franz Kafka. On Saturdays mother carted us and the neighbourhood kids in the kombi to the muncipal swimming pool. The kombi was big and mother was a patient woman. She was lying on a towel next to the pool, reading a book. I lay down next to her and took a magazine from her striped beach bag. My left leg was bent at the knee just like hers, I could read pictures. I watched her, she looked just like Marilyn Monroe. Mother was clever, she could read English. On our way home we stopped at the Greeks cafe for soft serve ice cream. We were licking and laughing when the kombi wobbled into our yard. One instinctively senses danger. Fear of a possible sabre tooth had been slumbering in our genes for centuries. My heart started beating faster. I was carried back to the savannah of my primitive ancestors. The sabre tooth was evolutionised into the minister and the chief elder. Coated in black. They stole our laughs with their rigid stares. I looked at my mother; sabre tooth fear was written on her face. She got out of the kombi and walked hesitantly towards the men. The striped green and white beach jacket looked out of place. My mothers nervous hands were tugging at it. The reverend greeted us half-heartedly with the elder bearing silent witness. Our kids huddled behind mother, our exuberance had vanished. I am afraid we have bad news. The reverend spoke softly; the tiding had sucked his breath empty. Mother looked at him, she was scared. Your husband was killed in an accident at work. I am sorry. Mother sat down on the steps. I could see her privates bulging under the jacket. My sister was twelve, an early pubescent. What is the dominee saying... whats wrong with my father. He turned to her and touched her shoulder. I am sorry, child, your father is dead. The neighbours kids darted through the gate. The oldest started yelling as soon as his feet touched the dirt road. His brother was waddling behind him. Maa Maa, Elizabeths father is dead, Maa You shouldnt lie to us, my father is at work, he will be here just now My sister sounded uncertain. Where is my daddy, I want my daddy, my brother started to cry. Mother pulled him onto her lap, comforting him. My sister ran up the steps, I heard a door slamming shut. My soft serve melted, dribbling to the ground. I looked straight into the reverends eyes. He was looking past my shoulder. I looked straight into the elders eyes. 15

Page 16 of 93 He saw ice-cream tears on the ground. *** My brother had once punched me in the stomach that left me winded. I fell to the floor, gasping for air. I panicked, the dyspnoea made me wonder if I was dying. My brother then grabbed me by the ankles, pumping my legs. He forced me to breath normally again, I felt better quickly. Fathers death also winded me. My breath would never be restored again. I remember my fathers workplace very well. It was there where I had my first Christmas party, Santa had a long, white beard. We sat on his knee while every child was being photographed. Santa gave me a doll that could say Mommy. My brother got a big red tractor. There were green sodas, cakes and crisps, my stomach felt as if it could explode. My fathers workplace was so nice, how could he die there. *** Fatherless we lay on our mothers bed. A Rembrandt was listlessly burning in her mouth. Sadness had drawn shiny streaks on mothers cheeks. Years later mother admitted to me that on the morning of his death she had thought my father was useless. Her tears then acquired new meaning. On the day after the fatal afternoon I overheard my mother on a condolence call from her sister. I have three children with a fourth one on the way, and my husband is dead. Her despair settled in the pit of my stomach. I was a good listener; mother called me precocious. In a way I was comforted by the new life that was beating underneath my mothers heart. Was this new life a remnant of my father. *** The jingling of two pints of milk announced the new morning. Mother sat up straight and lit her first Rembrandt. Smoky words were blown into nothingness. Your father is dead, does the milkman know. She was talking to herself, as if the milkmans knowledge would make my fathers death a reality. Her life had exploded to a halt, how could the milkman still do his rounds. My sister got up, I could hear the rustling of pee in water. My brother was still sleeping as an innocent. Mother went to Grannys room to empty the chamber pot, she drew the curtains. Her mother was living with us, she had terminal cancer. Morning, Ma. Granny grunted a response. Our female physician injected morphine into her veins. I could never understood why people would refer to her as a female physician, nobody ever talked about a male physician. After all, a doctor was a doctor. 16

Page 17 of 93 My father had instructed the builders to plaster the word MOTHER above the frame of her bedrooms outside door, the letters were painted black. He also requested half moons and stars to be plastered on the outside walls of the house. The house was painted a powder blue. Granny had told mother that she thought it was fathers inner child struggling to get out. Mother snorted; Ma, the child doesnt want to get out, he was never gone. I wondered why they had reduced my father to a child. My father could never keep a job. My sister always brag that she had been to eleven primary schools. One day I overheard our neighbour telling her husband that we believed in magic. Have you seen all the suns, moons and stars on their house.They are obsessed with horoscopes. I had still wanted to ask my dad if he believed in fairies. In the dark in bed one night I asked him, his silence seemed to be forever. I still remembered the day when my father had told my mother that grandmothers room smelled like death. Granny smelled like death - Father was dead. *** My sister went to the primary school near the big swimming pool. She was in standard five. My brother and I were in the pre-primary school on a tar street. Our fathers death presented us with an extra holiday. Our maid cooked oats on the Esse stove. She was crying quietly while she was setting the table. The Sunday school lady from across the street stepped through our kitchen door. She had baked koeksisters for a dead father. The grownups were talking, their eyes alert, as if we hadnt known yet. I thought they were silly, sadness does not know about age. My father was dead and would never come home again. I wondered whos fault that was. This auntie is going to make a pretty dress for you for the funeral, Mother announced almost excitedly. I looked at the woman, she was smiling while her eyes were crying. My sister was mulling over her porridge. Arent you going to greet the auntie, my mother nudged quietly. Mumbling inaudibly she shoved more oats into her mouth. I could see that her throat was constricted, she was struggling to swallow. My brother came in and hugged the woman, mother also got a hug. He greeted the maid cheerfully. Can I have a koeksister when I finished my porridge, Mom, he asked. Mother stroked his thick white hair and nodded, my brothers tastebuds comforted him. This auntie is going to make a dress for Elizabeth, well get you a safari suit from the mens outfitters. My brother nodded and bit right through the koeksister, his teeth were gleaming white. I have to go now, said the auntie Her face was pained, as if it hurt to smile. ***

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Page 18 of 93 A big black car fetched us for the funeral. Domestic workers stood like mailboxes on the side walk, quietly watching as we passed. The funeral home was in the main street, the hearse had been waiting in the street. The leaves on the trees looked black. Where is my Daddy asked my brother. Do you see all the flowers. He is underneath those flowers, explained mother. I want to see him, he nagged. You cant, the coffin is sealed. My brother started to cry; my mother and sister too. I looked out of the window. An old black man was taking his hat off, reumy eyes averted. Slowly we followed the hearse. The church was on the corner of two tarred streets. We always walked past the rectory on our way to the swimming pool. On Sunday afternoons the reverend never greeted us. He believed that the seventh day was the Lords day. Swimming would disrespectfully splash water in Gods face. The mourners had filled the church entrance. Men were stomping out their cigarettes, women fiddled with their tissues and handbags. Eyes in compassionate faces were watching us. An ugly man in tails and striped trousers handed a bouquet to each of us. The bouquets had to be placed on the coffin in the foyer. My brother took his into the church. Everybody stood up and looked at us, we had ringside seats. A rustle filled the pews. There was some delicate sneezing in handkerchiefs, men coughed quietly in wheezy hands. The minister in a black dress walked to the pulpit and stopped in his tracks. Slowly he bowed his head, clinging to the railing. He must have felt better then, as he finally stepped onto the platform. He tidied the books, took a sip of water and adjusted the black dress. The church bell rang. Slowly the reverend lifted both his hands. The church bell stopped. I lift my eyes to the hills, from where would my help come Western sun shines in glass panels Jesus seamed in a lead uncomfortable on a glass cross My help is from the Lord who made heaven and earth. I shut one eye, colours mingle flashing I flicker my eyes faster Jesus hopscotch He will not let your foot falter, Your Protector does not slumber or sleep. Tensed thorn-crown-sun Jesus seamed in gold Colour-images alive Dad, how are you The organ started playing, my sister elbowed me in the ribs. The hymn dragged, words stumbled unfamiliarly. The minister made arrangements for the interment. My fathers brother thanked the minister, the verger and the sisters who would serve tea and cake afterwards at our house. He thanked relatives and friends who travelled from far. 18

Page 19 of 93 Solemnly everybody was reminded to remember the widow and her children in their prayers and to support them in their grief. Nobody was talking about father, everybody had already forgotten him. I would never. The flowers travelled in front, we followed. Cars in the procession were sailing white-eyed behind us. Why are all the cars lights on, Mommy my nosey brother wanted to know. The lights are always on in funeral processions. Mother didnt feel like idle talk, I thought the lights were on for people to see our pain. A traffic cop halted other cars at the junction while we carried on. I wondered what dad would have thought of that. Chairs were put out for us at the grave, other people huddled around the gaping hole. Some green fabric was shrouding the dirt from the hole. The coffin stood on a shiny-legged table. The flowers were beautiful. St Josephs lilies, asters, and dahlias, sprinkled with tiny white flowers. Father was planted in a flower garden. The minister was talking a lot, but once again did not mention my father. He said; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The people started singing, the flowers slowly descended into the hole. I couldnt see the table anymore. Mother stood up when an even uglier man offered her a basket of rose petals. She started crying out loud, my sister and my brother too. They held each other. I leaned forward, the flowers had stopped. The ugliest man scooped sand with a spade and people took handfuls to throw on the flowers. That way they would never fill the hole, I thought. My brother was wearing his newly-bought safari suit. I, my home made crimpelene dress. I tore at the purple flower Mother had sewed to my chest and buried it with father. The peoples faces looked funny, they slumped away as if they were tired. Later I would realise that they were grieving for their own mortality. We got back into the black car, I peeked out the back window. A group of black men shuffled towards the hole, carrying spades on their shoulders. Father was going to be buried. My eyes were scratchy, the Transvaal Highveld was dusty. The people seemed to be less tired at our house. Their plates were full, funerals is good for appetites. I walked out the back door and sat in the corner of our yard. I saw ants carrying grass into a hole. I took a blade of grass and stuck it in the hole. I fished out a ball-biter with the grass-blade. I pinched the insect between my fingers. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. My father died in an explosion at his work, he had worked in a dynamite factory. *** My mother wore black to church for a long time. One Sunday with communion we suffered silently through the liturgy. I was passing the cup to my mother when my impatient brother elbowed me. The wine spilled on Mothers maternity dress. Embarrassed, she passed the cup without taking a sip. Sunday school was after the service and my class was in the vestry. 19

Page 20 of 93 I walked past a group of Sunday school teachers, one of them was whispering in a shocked voice; Did you see - the widow spilled. Yes, poor thing, chorused the eternal council of women. I couldnt understand their excitement, the big Spill was only an accident. My brother was his meddlesome self. I remembered the hymn we were singing after the communion: ... all is well with my soul... or something like that. Was it a sin to spill Jesus blood *** The United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child defines childrens rights like this: The Convention acknowledges that every child has certain basic rights, including the right of life, his or her own name and identity, to be raised by his or her parents within a family or cultural grouping and have a relationship with both parents, even if they are separated. To me separated meant dead. The United Nations Convention of childrens rights was an illusion. The minister visited us regularly, the quiet elder came along as well. After scripture reading we all knelt in front of the couch. My brother and I giggled at my mothers fat butt. The minister always said the same words at the end of all the prayers. Sister, man proposes but God disposes. Selah, selah as we were going to blazes.

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Page 21 of 93 Chapter 4 Our pre-school teacher hugged both of us on the day after the funeral. Her eyes were misty. My brother liked to be hugged. We could sit in front, usually reserved only for the birthday kids. After we sang, the teacher said we were allowed to draw all day. I was glad, as I was good at drawing. During break everybody shared their lunch boxes with us. The teacher must have asked nicely, as my podgy friend had never wanted to share before. My brother and I could play on the swings the entire time. Nobody was chasing us away. After break we drew some more. The town clerks son even lent his precious colour pencils to us. My brother drew cowboys on horses, hunting Indians. I drew my father. The two of us were planting pansies in the garden. Dad was smiling happily, we were holding hands. Mother and my brother and sister were crying in a circle. I drew the sun behind some clouds. Birds were flying backwards. That day at the pre-school was my best one ever. I did not trust the peace. Did ones father have to die before everybody would be kind to you. What would have happened if my little glitch hadnt happened. We ended every day with prayer. The teacher asked Jesus to be with my mother and her kids. She asked Jesus to enfold us in his loving arms. She also forgot to mention my father. *** We slept in my mothers bed after my father died. When my little brother kicked inside her, mother allowed me to put my hand on her stomach. How did the baby get inside you, Ma. She explained how dads seed swam into an egg in her uterus and created a little baby. The baby was growing in a sack of water, mother was feeding him through her intestines. He was getting oxygen in the same way, he could not breathe in water. Mother told us that all living creatures reproduced, some lay eggs that hatched outside the mothers body. Human eggs are laid in the womans womb every month and conception takes place inside the womans body. I was satisfied with the explanation and began noticing the wonder of reproduction everywhere. *** There was a weeping willow in the corner of our yard. Before my fathers death he said that a farmer probably had planted the tree when our yard was still farming area. The weavers knotted their nests in the supple branches. 21

Page 22 of 93 Father and I loved watching them at work. Sometimes the female destroyed the nest, Father would laugh and say; Do you see, Elizabeth. Women are never satisfied. Two nests eggs hatched after my fathers death, weaver chirping announced their life. I wondered if weaver-life was the same life that was -exploded from my fathers body. *** My father hadnt had any insurance policies, his pension paid off the house. Our kids each got seventeen rand per month from the dynamite factory. The payments would be stopped on our seventeenth birthdays. Mother worked as a bookkeeper at the butchers, I suspect we were actually poor. My aunt told mother that we were fortunate that the factory paid off the house. I wondered if father had to pay with his life to get us a house. The lady from the Sunday school said Jesus paid with his life too, His death built us a house with the heavenly Father. If I hadnt wet the bed, my father wouldnt have died. If he wasnt dead, we wouldnt have had a house. I couldnt understand why we could not have both - a father and a house. Mother was restless, even though we had our own house. Our suit cases were shelved away. Mothers house was a permanent address for her and her kids. Routine and constancy were good for the children, grandmother said. Sometimes mother had a far away look while her coffee was going cold. We knew she wasnt feeling well her bedroom door was closed tight. I wondered if she was pining for a Karoo tumble-weed. *** Our first school day at the primary school near the big swimming pool arrived. We went by bus; my sister protectively accompanied us. My brother and I were in an elderly teachers group. She too knew about our fathers death, she was kind to us. Every year a nursing sister visited our school to promote school health. The standard fives helped the little ones to undress. My brother and I sometimes shared clothes. On that day I was wearing one of his torn vests, I only realised that as I was undressing. The bigger girls noticed and started giggling, I tried to cover the tear with my fist. The nurse said I had to stick out my tongue and say aahh. I had to let go of the vest so she could listen to my lungs. The bigger girls giggled again, the nurse chased them out of the room. Dont let them bother you, my darling. Feathers dont make the bird. She helped me to hide the tear with my dress, I tucked away another invisible tear. *** In that year our town had its first snowfall, we built snowmen and threw snowballs. Our hands were frozen and the playground was soon turned into a mud pool. Fortunately the coal truck had found our house. My little brother was born in the clinic in the midst of this natural wonder. He was red-faced, but not from the cold. Mother could only take three weeks of maternity leave, our maid had to look after the baby. 22

Page 23 of 93 I dont think cows milk was good for him, his little face was painfully puckered after every feed. His uvula vibrated while he was screaming, the screaming hurt my ears. *** My brother quickly made friends at the new school, he was popular. I usually sat on my own and watched them playing. I have to admit he did invite me to join them, I was fine on my own. I had realised at a young age that I didnt need other people to make me happy. My brother always wanted friends around him. He was an extrovert, people determined his happiness. We didnt always have money for bus tickets and sometimes had to walk home. Our maid was also our day-care mother and was waiting for us at the gate every afternoon. She took my brothers bag and urged us to take off our school uniforms. We had bread and milk for lunch, she couldnt help us with our home work. She couldnt read or write. *** We had Bible classes on Friday afternoons. Our teacher had a felt board to which she stuck pictures, Daniel in the lions den I remembered well. There were huge locks in the picture which the Lord used to lock up the lions mouths. Sometimes we helped to stick the pictures onto the board. What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and grief to bear my favourite hymn. My brother always fooled around, he changed the words of the songs and hymns. He was a very rude boy. *** Every ward of our church had to perform an item at the Christmas concert. Our ward performed the story of the Good Samaritan. My brother and I were black kids and were to experience Afrikaner charity. Our clothes were patched, we had to look poor. Totally unnecessary I thought, we merely had to act natural. Mother turned us black with shoe polish. If you want your baby to shine all day use Nugget En you Gagga Ee Tee Nugget Applying the polish was easy, the washing off was painful. We were a huge hit and everybody thought we were cute. The fair committee asked my mother if we could take part in a parade. We could earn fifty cents each. Mother became clever, she used cocoa to change our colour. Our brown was less black, again we were a big attraction. Other churches also wanted to make us of the cute little kaffirs. The black twins were so adorable, most folks wanted to take us home. While Mother was washing our cocoa bodies my brother asked. Mother, am I black Our fame was promptly washed from our white bodies, mother decided her children were no clowns. My brother, pivot of my life.

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Page 24 of 93 We learned a poem that made me think that Umtwana should be glad that he was black and real. Umtwana is a black kid Umtwana said he is happy because the children of the whites have to bath every night With a skin such as yours this is what Umtwana says The people will quickly see how dirty you can be *** The school offered Voortrekkers, which was a lot like Boy Scouts. Girls could participate as well. We also did folk dances, called Volkspele. The twins were well known and were involved in both of these cultural activities. My brother and I were partners in Volkspele. There is a photograph of us in mothers album where we were holding hands while dancing to Onwards Red ones. Onward red ones, the road is long and hard, the people are waiting there and the coffees ready to share; So swing swing your tufts So swing swing your tufts, rock your heads up high and make the wheels go fly! I loved the feel of the mittens on my hands. The dress was on loan beautiful lace that reached to the floor. My auburn hair framed my face and the bonnet was my halo. My brother looked striking in brown velveteen trousers and an embroidered waistcoat. He wore a scarf fastened around his neck with a tiny wooden ring, he looked like a real gentleman. When the picture was taken I was wearing my school shoes without any socks. Voortrekkers was just as much fun. My brother was a penkop and I a drawwertjie. On Mondays after school we had Voortrekkers, our maid packed extra sandwiches. I shared mine with my brother. We were taught that our forefathers trekked barefoot over the mountains. I never heard anything about what our foremothers were enduring. We defeated the black heathens at Blood River. Little Rachel de Beer was the first drawwertjie, she had laid down her life for her brother. I did it as well, without dying. God had established the Voortrekkers as His chosen nation in the south of Africa. I loved the stick bread that was roasted on an open fire, we often sang The Voortrekker life is the life that I love We sing together and play together nothing could be better than this 24

Page 25 of 93 or Just a sausage, of an inch and a half on top of a slice of bread and butter... *** In our Grade two year the Bush school opened. The school was on the outskirts of the town, bordering Allens bush. Later the school was named after an aeroplane that was built by the flying corporation in town Impala Primary School. Our teacher was sad when we were transferred to the new school. The Department of Education required that we should attend the school closest to home. She kissed my brother and I, which surprised me that she dared to kiss somebody who didnt have a father. Our new teacher was younger than the previous one, she also had two kids of her own in our school. I remember her well, because she took my brothers matchbox-Ferrari, he was playing with it in her class. I had bought the little car for fifty cents at the pharmacy across the post office. She never gave it back to him. The impounded toy was bothering me more than him. I tossed and turned at night, the red Ferrari was roaring through my dreams. I felt weird toward the teacher, later I realised that the feeling might be a form of hate. We were poor, my father was dead and a teacher stole my brothers Ferrari. *** We had to walk through a park on our way home, where huge trees had fallen over. Some afternoons Tarzan and Jane dawdled before going home. Tarzan climbed trees, Jane built a house on the floor and had to watch the agile Tarzans tree-climbing. Look, Elizabeth... look, he was pleading for attention. The maid often had to come and look for us. Basie, she said, get out of that tree. Just now youll break an arm and then Miesies will be angry with me! She was the same age as mother. *** Mother had a new job in Johannesburg, she commuted to work by train every day. Lots of parents were working either in Johannesburg or Pretoria, few families owned cars. Government services looked after the Afrikaners. My middle-aged memory is plagued by the image of a tired woman in a maroon rain coat walking slowly uphill. We often waited for my mother at the train station. Actually, it wasnt because we were missing her each of us just wanted to be the first to file a complaint about sibling injustice. Mom, Elizabeth stole almonds across the fence from the neighbours, my brother betrayed me. He was the look-out I evened the score. Mother was ashamed, her children were uncouth. Our upbringing was halved, fatherless. We will talk about it at home, she usually answered. 25

Page 26 of 93 On Mondays she bought the You magazine, we often got into a scrap about who was to read it first. A young, attractive widow (mother was thirty one) wasnt good news in n neighbourhood of married couples. Late-night help was regularly offered to mother by inebriated men. She used to block the door with her foot and didnt invite them in. She would inhale her Rembrandt testily and swore quietly amidst wafts of smoke. Horny dogs! Yeah, very fucking horny, I earnestly confirmed. Mother looked at me, taken aback. Who taught you to swear like that, youre barely nine! Mother was my idol, I turned around quietly and went to bed. *** The women in the street gossiped about my mother, she was the prettiest of them all. A beautiful, helpless widow could mesmerize their husbands. My brother was too young to have any male impact on our lives and my little brother was a cry-baby. We battled with a leaking geyser. Broken windowpanes, caused by my brothers slingshot, were covered up with cardboard boxes. The grass was flourishing, the lawnmower was broken. I liked watering the garden, my shadow was flexible. The garden hose spouted erect water from my male shadow. I could control the shadow stream, my penis envy satisfied. My brother was a pest, he opened and closed the tap to tease me. My penis was in his hands. I was watering flowers one time when the top of the tap came off. The water spouted an arch and my brother immediately started dancing in the spray. Mother tried to fasten the top, she was soaking wet within seconds. Our neighbour was pruning rose bushes and heard my brothers shrieks. He always busied himself with something in his garden when we were in ours. Decently he came to our rescue. While he was still busy, his oldest dashed through the gate. Dad Dad! Mom says you must come home immediately, theres a problem with the washing machine. He wiped his hands and said goodbye to mother. Mothers nipples pointed accusingly through her cotton dress.

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Dear Mother It feels strange to call another person mother. My parents here in New Zealand have told me about the adoption. They do not know much about you. I am overwhelmed to be in contact with you, my biological mother in South Africa. We can write and get to know each other in this way. Regards Stephen. *** I visit my mailbox every day, the key turns automatically. My heart jumps in excitement when I at last see the envelope with New Zealand stamps. The handwriting is slightly uneven; but my name is clear - Elizabeth Jacobs. I hold the envelope close to my heart, my first contact with my child. I want to read the letter in privacy and hurry back to my flat. The letter lies impatiently on the kitchen table while I switch on the kettle. Does a silly piece of paper have the ability to restore my status as mother after twenty years. He addresses me as Dear Mother. The kettle is whistling urgently, how I have pined to hear those words. My friends are unkind to their children, to them motherhood seems to be a punishment. I have lived in the same flat for twenty years, hiding. The wonder borne from my body is somewhere in a strange country. I remember another mother who also lost a son Mary An angel delivered it, The message of joy and you were singing a song of praise to Gods honour Mary, young maiden from Nasareth! But when Joseph wanted to leave you and neighbour-suspicion troubled you would you have thought that he would have to carry the whole worlds shame? Sometimes when you, smiling, caressed your body. Staring into silence did you know with how much love and anguish he would have to accept his descent into hell? That night in the cow shed no-one to support you in your need Did you know that he, alone Would enter Gethsemane? When emperors came from the East 27

Page 28 of 93 to humbly bestow honour did you know how soldiers would crown him as King? And when he lay in your arms His mouth against your full breast Did you know that he would say when it was too late; I am thirsty! When all was finished, and you went home with his friend, John Mary, woman of sorrow; did you understand the message then? Elizabeth Eybers Historical events are not always recalled in chronological order. This is how I remember my mastectomy: On Monday I lie in the theatres reception area, I am dressed in a turquoise gown and loose-fitting pants. The biopsy will be done under anaesthetics. They will do a mastectomy if the malignancy had spread. The implication of my signature on the indemnity form is still unknown. The admission clerk explained the details clearly. I close my eyes, the pre-meds are floating through my tense body. I wonder whether Stephen has received my letter yet. When did his adoptive parents inform him about his real situation. Does he resemble his father. I wonder if hes got Eriks green eyes. Erik made the newspaper on a regular basis. His opinions on ethics of this and that apparently intrigued the readers. We have never had contact again after he denied paternity. Waves of pain seize my body, I can still taste the theatre. I feel a stinging pain under my arm, I am thirsty and open my eyes. Oh, youre awake, says the woman in the bed next to me. The intravenous drip reminds me of the needle just before I drowned in a cloud of cotton wool of sheer bliss. I struggle to sit up, but the pain in my left breast drains me of my strength. Afternoon, afternoon! How are we doing the afternoon sister, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The drainage bag is lifted up and scrutinized in the light, a red elixir of life. A thermometer is tucked in my armpit while my blood pressure is taken. A quick question, Are you in pain. My answer is not important. The reading is taken from the thermometer and recorded. I am relieved from the blood pressure strap pinching my arm. I sigh and lie back on the pillow, my lips are parched. Theres a warm and fuzzy spot just above my heart, my chest looks flat underneath the bandages. My right breast, bewildered in middle-aged desolation. Separation of twins is always traumatic, Penny was gone. Does the doctor have any idea of the nature of my relationship with Penny. My breasts are not only part of my body, they are part of who I am. Penny was me, I was Penny. What did they do with an amputated breast. 28

Page 29 of 93 Penny wasnt just an appendices, or tonsils that could carelessly end up in a bin somewhere. I start to weep quietly, mourning the missing piece of my inner self. Softly stroking Prunella, I feel strangely comforted, maybe God took Penny in exchange for Stephen. A needle prick extinguishes Penny. And Stephen. *** My doctor informs me that the oncologist has suggested chemotherapy. The details of my programme are clear after two visits to his surgery. I would have to work through eight two-week sessions. The words work through makes me wonder if I have to be actively participating. The fear that I might die before I meet my child is clouding my mind. How could I die now, now that a lifelong dream is becoming true. God Eternal Balance. He gives with the one hand, and takes away with the other, a sadistic reminder that His grace is enough. God visited Jacob in his tent, wrestling with him all through the night. I have decided that I would fight for my child, even as a cripple. God had taken him once, this time He wont succeed. God and the unknown cancer have become synonymous. God could only be Almighty, could he possess good and bad qualities. God could become angry. God could kill you with the forces of nature. God was jealous. That God I understood more, I will not sacrifice my child. My child is my promised land, Stephan will restore the meaning of life to me.

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Page 30 of 93 Chapter 5 I am a simplicity dress-pattern full of old buttons and rotten thread I sit down and the seams come apart It does not bother me I am what I am Jeanne goosen *** A man on a broad-wheel bicycle visited mother. He knew my father, he was a store-man at my fathers work. We were hanging around until the man cleared his throat, Mother was making eyes at us. His hair was shiny with Brylcream and parted on the side. He wore glasses, had a pot-belly and was a head shorter than mother. He had one glass eye, my sister didnt like him. He brought sherbet lollipops when he visited. He once gave me fifty cents (my brothers Ferrari-money). He visited every day and my mother was looking less tired. We eavesdropped at the door, they were wrestling. My brother was annoyed. Mother gives us a hiding when we jump on the couch! Mother informed us at the kitchen table one evening; Uncle Billy and I are getting married. My brother and I couldnt be bothered, he always brought us lollipops. My sister was in standard eight and unimpressed. I will not call him father she jumped up and left the room. Her bedroom door slammed shut, we werent frightened as the slamming was old news. Can I have her meat, my brother hungrily asked. Mother sighed and scraped my sisters meat onto his empty plate. *** Mother got married in front of the magistrate. Her surname changed again, this was her third one. Did her new surname ban father from her body. Four seeds sprouted from her, could the name-change wipe biological pictures from her womb. I didnt want to wipe out or ban anything that was part of father. I would keep my name and my fathers surname. The minister was annoyed that they were not married in church. After disciplinary council they entered into matrimony again. Before God on a Wednesday evening in the vestry. We attended, but were too young to bear witness. The minister said he would get the verger and scribe to sign the next day. *** Most afternoons the neighbourhood kids were playing in the dust street. The tennis ball was bouncing uncontrollably on the uneven surface. As a permanent wicket keeper I had my job cut out for me. Batting and bowling was meant for boys only. 30

Page 31 of 93 Sometimes we played touch-rugby, but I preferred to be linesman. The boys touch usually left me with scraped knees or winded. The maids in the neighbourhood walked to the station to catch the train to the location. We knew most of them, the bigger boys treated them rather rudely. One afternoon a woman walked past with a shiny tin can on her head. Black womens ability to carry stuff on their heads instead of their hands always amazed me. The bigger boys instigated my brother to throw a rugby ball at the tin can on her head. Milk sprayed like a white shawl over her when the ball hit the can. The womans face tensed visibly. Stunned she turned around while my brother and the other boys were running away, mocking her. The woman sat down next to the wet spot in the street, she picked up the can and took a hopeful peek inside - it was empty. She bowed her head and started crying softly. We lived in Laleles land. The woman was a victim of inhumanity perpetrated by tomfoolery. I remembered the poem Mabalel and read it again. If you had the muscles of a tiger Or the wings of a vulture; Little maiden, it wouldnt help you; Because you waited too long too late! From the mirror-surface, up high Explodes a foaming water bow; Above Rakwena, calm and wide; Reverberates a single, anxious shriek; And then, quiet once more Silence on everything descends. *** Uncle Billy loved woodwork and had turned the garage into a workshop. His tools were revered and many days our in-fighting forced him to escape to the garage. My younger brother was still screaming relentlessly, his skin crusted with eczema. Did he draw rejection with his little body. The man had a small radio in a black leather jacket. After work he changed into shorts and a vest, maybe he wore the vest to work. He always said grace at the table: Lord, bless this food to our bodies and the hands that prepared it and make us truly thankful. Amen. Domestic servants were blessed with Godly graces all over the country on a daily basis. What the blessings would have achieved still baffles me. Uncle Billy believed that we had to eat in silence. Vegetables were compulsory to qualify for desert on Sundays. I could not eat string beans, our maid didnt remove the hair and that disgusted me. My sister gave her desert to me, which led to a war between her and the uncle. Mother sat silent and did not look up, doors slammed again. ***

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Page 32 of 93 Every night after supper uncle Billyy went to his garage to listen to the seven oclock news. This is Radio South Africa. The news is read by Roelf Jacobs. The news reader had a charming voice, he spoke clearly and earnestly. I think I was in love with his voice, he also acted in a film called The Candidate. He reminded me so much of my father, I missed Uncle Atties bed-time stories. Sometimes we were allowed to listen to Bunkum to Blue Monday. I remember the jingle ad very well. Go slowly, slowly over the pebbles, The sun shines in wonderful little droplets, If youre up front on the wagon youll fall off the back, Go slowly, slowly over the pebbles now There was a bottle of medicine on the woodwork bench Vat 69. Uncle Billy was always leaning against the bench. With a smoking Rembrandt between his fingers, he listened to the radio with his eyes closed. He took sips of the medicine in between, maybe in that way my brothers screaming was shut out. I think he cursed his marital status, instant families are an evolutionary excess. Marital pleasure fades in the face of strange genes. Mother bought her monthly groceries at Checkers, I used to help her to compile a list the night before. Her new husbands salary was extending the list. We bought our weekly vegetables from a Portuguese. Cabbage, green beans, carrots, pumpkin, tomatoes, potatoes, and onions. And a box of apples. Every week Uncle Billy took seven apples from the box and hid them away. Clever. *** We learned a poem at school about being scared of the dark. My brother was restless, I knew he was afraid of the dark. After fathers death he crawled into my bed every night. He refused to recite the poem, te teacher scolded him and he started to cry. When the bell rang I went to talk the teacher. Miss, I am sorry that my brother doesnt want to recite the poem. My fathers death is darkness to him. Scared Alone I have to go to bed The passage is long and dark I cant ask anybody to go with me cause then theyll now that Im scared. There he is in the corner now He wants to grab me Mommy, Mommy! I shout The dark is coming at me! Then my mother takes my hand And leads me through the dark. The culprit was my own coat Hanging on the stand 32

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The teacher didnt ask my brother again. *** My grandmother got the chickens neck on Sundays. She was toothless, she licked the small bones until they were white and shiny. After she died my brother got the neck. Grandmother was struggling to suck soup through a straw. I was scared of my grandmother. She sat alone in her room all day, staring through the window. Her blue eyes grabbed hold of you when she looked at you, as if her eyes wanted to steal something from you. She always repeated the same sentence when she talked to me; Elizabeth, life is precious, you must cherish it I didnt understand then, but her passing had brought insight. I will always remember her last days. Raisin painfully shrunk Life slurped greedily Eyes hazy and dull Flame of life stutters pitless An ambulance collected grandmother to a provincial hospital. The sirens were quiet, there was no haste. Flashing red lights accompanied her ravaged body. The cancer had spread to her bladder, liver and lungs. Whimpering with pain she was removed, without saying goodbye. Without ceremony like a bag of rubbish. Grandmother was put on an intravenous drip and injected with morphine. I wondered if Eugene Marais also experienced so much pain. We all followed in the kombi. The ward sister told mother that we could stay to say goodbye. Our kids sat in the corridor while grandmothers groans were oozing from underneath the door. We were tired and fell asleep on the bench, silence suddenly woke us. Mother was standing in front of us, dazed. Grandmother was gone. The funeral was in Rustenburg where grandfather had been resting for a long time. Our family was bundled into the kombi. An English woman from across the street and our maid went with us. At Hennopsriver the kombi broke down. We were waiting there after mother got into another car with her three sisters. The funeral would start at three oclock, the predikant was an important man with a full schedule. I forgot how we got back home again. Cervical cancer is a sexually transmitted disease, the pampilloma virus causes the condition. My grandmother had seven children and two husbands, I wonder how she got infected. ***

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Page 34 of 93 After my fathers horrible death and my grandmothers painful one I decided that I would want to pass away quietly. Death was an unavoidable necessity. Everybody is born in more or less the same way, in labour or by caesarean section. We dont have much say in how well die. If I had a choice, I would like to die obliviously in my sleep. Death is a future horridness that infiltrates the human mind. Religion, philosophy or any ism, can not stop the relentless appointment. To live in the hereafter, one first has to enter the shadow kingdom of death. I have wondered about life before conception. Could life after death be a continuation of life before conception. Does our dust possibly become part of eternal cosmic life. The gateway to heaven didnt seem very open to me. I would like to be able to go home in quiet dreams, like DF Malherbe in his poem, Sleep. What is sleep, a sweet wondrous thing Softly over her blue eyes it descends like moonshine touching deep water pools to lie there in silver twilight dreams. One last whisper trembles on her lips; Night, Daddy. I notice how slowly he draws near, that turns dreams into sweet realities. Close like this my eyes, oh God, when to me your Angel beckons for the last, long rest and I from this untamed agitation must part; that my then quiet dreams hush me home and your strong Hand through darkness leads. Close like this my eyes, oh God, when I go to rest.

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Page 35 of 93 Chapter 6 It never ceases to amaze me how often women perceive their external genitalia as unattractive, even abnormal. Just as there is loveliness in the faces of all women, however, each womans vagina is uniquely beautiful - Robert Hahn. *** We learned about the petunias reproduction in natural science. Excited about it I showed my mother; Look Mom, this is the pistil. The pollen clings to the bees knees and then they land on the pistil for nectar. The pollen slides down the pistil and the plant gets babies. I rattled off the miracle to mother. She looked amused. Elizabeth, this is beautiful. Nature is wonderful. I looked into her blue eyes; she was looking back at me with so much love. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her. Mothers eyes were misty. *** The mother of the two brothers who announced my fathers death was pregnant. The brothers information was suspect. The oldest said his mother was going to fetch a sister at the hospital. My brother laughed contemptuously and asked him if dogs fetched their puppies from the SPCA. What do you think Flea and Spot are doing he aggressively asked the little guy. Wide-eyed, he didnt know. I will tell you what he does to her; he fucks her. He fucks her until she gets puppies. That is what your dad did to your mom. The brothers started crying and ran home. I was furious with my brother; he was an unfeeling oaf. Reproduction was beautiful, reproduction was ordered. Reproduction was not as ugly as he said. *** I broadened my insight on reproduction over weekends on my aunts small-holding. I saw how the roosters fluttered onto the hens. My brother threw half a brick at a rooster, the concussed bird was to be examined. We couldnt not see his penis. A bull uncomfortably got on top of a cow, its genital organ was shiny and animated. Flea covered Spot. Flea was a big dog and got stuck inside Spot. He slipped off her back, which had caused the problem. I helped Flea back onto Spot. He slipped out of her and slinked away. Uncle Billy also climbed on top of mother every Sunday night. I could hear his grunts and the squeaks of the bed. Sometimes he farted in between the grunts. Mother didnt make a sound. He was a man of routine and after each session asked; Do you want to wash up I once saw two Hotnotsgot insects copulating. 35

Page 36 of 93 The female, who was bigger than the male, was busy eating a small gecko. The male stalked her from behind. He climbed on top, I think he penetrated her. The female turned her head around like a robot and bit the males head off. His body stayed behind in the coitus position. I read that conception continued, even though he was headless. My brother also saw it. He remarked rudely; This is what I call a dead-fuck. I noticed that the male species in nature always climbed on top of the female species in the reproduction action. Was that an indication of the womans evolutionary submission to the man. I read Dr. Jan van Elfens Medical Manual for Women with gusto. He dealt with six sex positions, of which the missionary was the most popular. Was the missionary position named after the fact that the church favoured male domination. Is the woman ultimately the inferior receiver in the evolutionary mating game. The church did not mention sex. I hadnt learned once about sex in pre-school Bible classes or during eleven years of Sunday school. I dont know why so much shame was associated with the most natural deed between a man and a woman. Wasnt sex an act of creation in the same way that God created everything. He made our respective organs to fit so that the wonder of creation would come to pass. I was thinking a lot after my first sexual experience. The fact that I enjoyed the act, must have had something to do with the perception that sex is a sin. If reproduction had taken place without emotion and physical pleasure, the church might have reacted differently. Dogma and death were synonymous. Pauls spirituality created the dualism between flesh and spirit. I think he was a frustrated bachelor; lusting and unfulfilled. *** My brother, Jennifer and I regularly played doctor-doctor. Jennifer was the girl next door and English speaking. We took turns to be doctor, nurse or patient. My brother liked to be the patient, both the doctor and the nurse examined him. His penis was conditioned to stand to attention when the medical team examined him. We were thorough. I had discovered the male anatomy very early after I had made peace with my less impressive genitalia. I was light-skinned and my labia were not as prominent as Jennifers. She was also slightly chubbier and her labia showed dark brown against her olive skin. We couldnt find our urethra after self examination. My brother remarked that English and Afrikaans vaginas looked the same. Grandmother had referred to our vulvas as faces down-below. Before she had became ill, she told my sister after her first period; Now that you are grownup, you will have to wash your face down-below thoroughly. Cleanliness is a female virtue. Cleanliness is next to godliness I did not understand. 36

Page 37 of 93 We scrutinised my brothers penis from all angles. His foreskin was pulled back and its tip emerged, shiny like a plum. His testicles in their sack was small and oval. Jennifer was inspired and pinched one little ball between her thumb and index finger. My brother howled. We inspected each others breasts as well, all threes looked more or less the same. We even studied our arses; after that our curiosity was gratified. Mother called us to task once after our maid walked into our surgery without an appointment. She explained that we were playing with fire. What we were doing was only meant for married couples. Children were discouraged and even punished when they touched and explored their penises and vulva. Shame, ugly, wrong and sin were the words associated with genitalia. Sub-consciously we were being programmed for guilty and distorted sex when we grew up. I was confused. To see and to feel were not sinful. How could God create sinful parts on our bodies. Were we not created in His image Chris Wallace described genitalia like this: Penis. Is what boys have down in front. Penis. Is the word though it seems blunt. All boys have a penis, no matter what you have heard, remember that penis is the proper word. Vulva. Is what girls have down below. Vulva, When she is naked it will show. All girls have a vulva, so no matter what you have heard, remember vulva is the proper word. Both boys and girls have breasts, each person recognizes They are found upon our chests, and grow to different sizes. Our anus, is a useful thing indeed. The anus, gives relief in time of need. We all have an anus, so no matter what you have heard, remember that anus, is the proper word. So dont be appalled, cause thats what they are called, and each of them is a proper word. 37

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Our doctors examinations carried on in the sly. *** After my twelfth birthday my areolas enlarged and my breasts started to point. Light red down started growing on my vulva. I stopped playing doctor-doctor. I think Jennifer and my brother were still professionally committed. I started bathing on my own and locked the door. My brother was confused. He could not understand why I ended our bathing sessions. He complained to my mother and she explained my femininity to him. I think he enjoyed discovering his own sexuality in peace.

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Page 39 of 93 Dear Stephen To receive a letter from you is like getting a second life. Could you send me a photograph of yourself, as I have never seen you. Imagine, meeting someone who was part of you, but not known. You must have finished your schooling. What are your future plans. What are your hobbies and who is your favourite singer, author and movie star. Forgive me, I am not prying, but I need to create a person in a void that has ached inside me for twenty years. Love Elizabeth *** The letter that I wrote back to Stephen is not even an iota of what I really wanted to say. I tear page after page from the writing pad and crumple them into balls. Childishly excited I cant spell properly or write any coherent sentence. A lifetime of ignorance about my sons life cant be questioned in one letter. I write this letter, plus several others. Every monologue is a testament to my intense longing. I will start feeling the effects of the chemo next week, but for now I dont feel sick at all. I exercise my left arm daily and the scar is changing its colour from dark purple to light rose. I spend hours in front of the mirror. I cannot get used to the halved image. The padded bra that I wear might fool others, but I know the truth. *** I relive the emotions and events during and around my pregnancy. The shelter for unmarried mothers is part of a painful memory. Mother had decided that I would go there. She was working all day and I would be home alone. She was aware that I would be getting counselling at the shelter. It was my only option. I was nineteen and the second oldest in our group. The Opel Kadet stopped with a jerk. Mothers foot was unsure of the brake. She carried my bag and I my vanity case. She had bought a jar of Oil of Olay that I had to use on my stomach to prevent stretch marks. The girls were watching television when we entered the room. They all looked at me guardedly. Old eyes in young faces focused without any real interest. I could smell milk-pasta with too much cinnamon. Two beds and two cupboards. White lace curtains and a black-and-white plastic tiled floor. A cell. Punishment for my unmarried status. Mother unpacked my clothes. I could smell moth balls. 39

Page 40 of 93 My chest felt tight I was an inmate in an institution. Sentenced because of a body that bloomed naturally outside of wedlock. I sat down on the bed and felt the lumpy mattress. Mother packed my panties away with meticulous care. Did you feel like this about me. Like what. I was a surprise, was I not Elizabeth, you are my child; you know that I have always loved you! Hello, my name is Helene. I also live in this room. A girl with dark hair was standing in the door. My roommate was a national schools athletic champion. She ran too slowly, I thought wryly. Mothers greeting was friendly. We looked at each other. Two unhappy pregnant fairies. *** Thirteen pregnant fairies were taken to the OK Bazaar every week to do our shopping. The kombi dropped us in the parking lot defenceless against the gawking faces. Unmarried mothers were whores, or at least, sluts. The girls behind the tills amused themselves with us. Madam, why dont you rather get Palmolive its on special today. A fairy waddled down the isle to swap the soap. The cashiers giggled; they didnt know me. My stomach was still unobtrusive. I wanted to pay when one of them remarked snidely Here come the unmarried whores! I immediately got angry. Unfortunately the cashier triggered all of my pent-up emotions. Whores whores, do you call us whores. Everybody heard and turned to listen to my tirade. Do you know what a whore is My audience was waiting in anticipation. I will tell you what a whore is The manager was on his way. A whore is somebody who drinks pills to stop ovulating. A whore is somebody that fornicates without getting a bun in the oven! The background music was silenced. Do you think you are elevated above us because we are unmarried Everybody was looking at the cashier; she didnt know how to react. You are fucking without life; you are the whore. I stormed out of the shop. The girls were excited and chatted energetically. My outburst was a collective catharsis. We were united in our unmarried state, a zygote. The driver informed us that the cashier had been a resident of the shelter two years before. I was embarrassed by my outburst, but I felt a lot better. The cashier was reserved but friendly with our next visit. *** Feelings of guilt are unmerciful drivers. I was fighting for balance. 40

Page 41 of 93 My spirit was constantly broken by a heartless jockey. I was beginning to hate Erik. His cowardice was the cause of my childs father-less status. Hate and guilt pulled me deeper into a dark hole. Doctors, ministers and psychologists took turns in throwing life lines down the hole. I ignored them and suffocated in the mud of self-pity. My own Lemnos despair was smelly. Sophocles described in Philoktetes how Philoktetes, son of Poias was betrayed by his comrades. Philoktetes was on his way to fight in the Trojan war when he was bitten by a water snake. His wound was festering and the smell forced him and his comrades to leave him on the island of Lemnos. Cassandra saw that the Trojan war was futile without Philoktetes. Philoktetes was the carrier of Hercules bow. The very same Odysseus who had rejected Philoktetes, had to fetch him from the island. His herculian bow was necessary for victory in Troy. Philoktetes refused: From all the pain you have given me, even if I can regain my glory, I reject you, even if it is at the cost of my own redemption. Even at the cost of reconstituting my own existence. My snake bite was just as poisonous. I gained weight; eating was a comfort. I rolled listlessly from one eating session to the next. My life was a failure; I was a mess. My brother tried to cheer me up during his seven day leave from the army. I too was on special leave from the shelter. He told amusing stories from our childhood. We used mothers Opel Kadet to go to the road house and drive-in. Childishly he tried to distract me with his clown antics. At night he climbed into bed with me and I sobbed myself to sleep in his arms. The hurt was stuck somewhere where even radiologists were blinded. My brother was sent to the Angolan border for the last six months of his duty. He wrote regularly, mother answered his letters. Dear Elizabeth My pass was difficult. I couldnt show you how much I was hurting. As a child you always were the strong one, the one who had to comfort me so many times after Dads death. You always had advice when I messed up. I am sorry about your child and I am even more sorry for the man that betrayed you. I can see how the hate that you feel for him is consuming your young life. The word peace means to live in harmony (peace) with yourself, your neighbour and the world around you. You can achieve this by forgiving yourself and the father of your child. I know I am preaching to you (I am not a minister yet) but there is no other solution to your problem. You loved this man and he made you believe that he loved you too.The sex happened in a relationship of trust, or you would not have allowed it. Unfortunately he shirked responsibility and betrayed you. Dont betray yourself; you are still young and there is hope for your future. I love you and I constantly pray for you. With love Your brother. 41

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I left the letter in the lounge like all the others. Mother put all of them in a photo-album with our photos. *** The unmarried ones sometimes got weekend-passes as well. Mother was not shamed by her unmarried daughter. I remember the night when my healing started. The doorbell was ringing. Mother and I looked at each other. We both thought it was too late. Neighbourhood men were too old to bother her any more. A chaplain in full military uniform stood on the threshold when mother opened the door. He came in and put his cap on the coffee table. The cap had a purple band the colour of mourning. I looked at my mother; we both knew that my brother had died. Mam, I regret to inform you that your son was killed on the border. He paid the highest price for his country, nation and God. His vehicle detonated a landmine that killed him and seven others. Their remains will be transported to the Waterkloof air base tomorrow. I will make arrangements with your local church for the memorial service. He will be buried with full military honour. Mothers face was pale. She asked quietly; May I see him Mam, I am sorry, but his injuries were of such a nature that identification was a problem. His coffin is sealed. My fathers coffin was also sealed. I stood up and took the album with my brothers letters. I locked my bedroom door behind me and read through them. My brother my bow. Trauma isnt necessarily physical. My frame of reference could not grasp my brothers death. I projected my confusion. God was trauma, God was pregnant God was childless God was death He, master of fate of all nations. I realised that it was time to make decisions. I decided to live for my brother. I revisited my wounds during and around my pregnancy in therapy. I moved far back to earlier hurts, the sadness of years was unburied. My memory graves were rather full. My fathers death was not the result of my bedwetting. Dejected I had believed that my mother hadnt loved me. I realized that I transferred my own rejection to other people, which perfected my experience. I prophesied about myself and saw to it that my own prophesies were fulfilled. Grief was deeply encrusted. I dreamed that I was naked. I dreamed that I was lost. I dreamed an elevator plunged into nothingness. 42

Page 43 of 93 Gradually I started to focus on the ordinary, but I could not look at my guilt about my pregnancy. I started sketching; unknown ogres disturbed the paper. By painting my emotions I chaotically pinned down my healing. Art was the expression of my unchartered sub-conscious. My dreams had acquired three dimensions. The ointment of self-forgiveness was slow in healing.

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Page 44 of 93 Chapter 7 The product, abortion, is skilfully marketed and sold to the woman at a time of crisis in her life. She buys the product, finds it defective and wants to return it for a refund. But, its too late. Carol Everett The girls started wearing bras at school. Some filled the cups with tissue paper. Some of us developed crushes on the teachers; our giggling irritated our parents. Our principal was a big man with a bushy moustache. He had been at school with my mother. He called me to his office one day and fastened a tie round my neck. The schools first tie, with a small crest on it. I want you to show this to your mother. His one hand was resting on my shoulder, while he adjusted the tie with the other. He was taking his time. You are beautiful, he said; A young woman I didnt understand. Mother said I was still a child. I kept quiet; what should I have said. When I turned to walk away, he softly touched my butt. I thought it was my imagination. *** My brother and I were Voortrekkers again at the new school. As twins we were coupled to participate together in activities. My brothers interests were mine as well. We took turns to hoist the national flag before school and strike it after school. Orange, white and blue with a dash of British and Boer was the banner of a young nation. We had to fetch the flag in the principals office. The drawwertjie carried the flag while the penkop kept pace. Left, right, left, right we marched towards a naked flagpole. Halt, stop, one two! we came to a stop in front of the pole. My brother turned and I respectfully held out the flag to him. His two left thumbs fiddled with the knots. The wind tugged at my dress while my brother jerkily hoisted the flag. Flamboyantly he unfurled it. The wind greedily grabbed at the colourful fabric while my dress was like a tent around me. The principal was watching me through the window. When the flag was streaming, he opened the window and hollered; Take off that flag it is upside down! The twins never hoisted the flag again. *** We wrote IQ-tests and the principal called me to his office. He closed the door and sat down behind his desk. Elizabeth, you surprised everybody in the school. Your IQ tested the highest in the whole school. Thank you, Sir. I sat studying the pictures on the walls. You are really pretty, he suddenly said. 44

Page 45 of 93 I want to help you develop your intelligence. I will do extra maths lessons with you. Maths wasnt a problem, though. We will start on Monday. He stood up and opened the door for me. He touched my bottom again when I walked out. I was in standard five and was wearing a size 32 bra. My vulva was covered in red-blonde hair. I was taller than my brother and looked like a high school girl. *** My first period had started the previous month, on my sisters eighteenth birthday. She was wearing a pretty Belinda mini-dress. Her hair was stacked in curls on top of her head. The whole streets kids were there. She lived in a boathouse, down by the river Everyone called her pretty Belinda My sister was dancing in circles with her arms stretched wide. She thought she was cute a kewpie doll. The Pilot gramophone played the seven single over and over again. Now and then we were treated to I love you Timothy I love you Timothy I love you Timothy Youre just the guy for me.. I started getting cramps and thought I had too much Coke. It felt as if I needed the toilet. When I was sitting down with my panties on my ankles, I noticed the blood. I had a fright. When did I cut myself Blood was gleaming pink on my vulva. I am menstruating, I thought. I pulled my panties up and ran back to the party. I went to my sister where she was close-dancing with the Peeping Tom of the neighbourhood. Let me tell you you know heart Well you goin crazy I tell you you are all that I say Oh heart, he does not want you That way She was annoyed and looked at me, irritated. What now, Elizabeth. I took her hand and walked to the kitchen. I am bleeding, I said, embarrassed. Put a plaster on it, she said unsympathetically. You dont understand. I am bleeding between my legs. She stared at me incredulously. She then quickly checked to see if anyone had heard. She took my left wrist in her fist and dragged me to my room. You have started a bit early. My first period was in standard seven. She delved in her cupboard and came up with a pink parcel. I knew what it was. My brother and I had stolen one from her cupboard before. The girls at school said sanitary pads could absorb a whole cup of water. Dr. Jan said in his book that women discharged only a few teaspoons of blood. 45

Page 46 of 93 We had taken the pad and wet it with a few teaspoons of water, it had looked as if the water was seeping away. Impatiently my brother had emptied a milk jug full of water on the pad. Our experiment had drowned. My sisters words of initiation were simply; Your red Capri has arrived. She unwrapped the sanitary pad, peeled off the sticky strip and ordered. Pull down your panties! The pad covered up the blood stains. I pulled up my panties; the pad felt uncomfortable. My sister left the room and I looked at myself in the mirror to see if anything was noticeable. I walked a few steps and it felt as if I was carrying a pillow between my legs. I walked back to the party, embarrassed. Sitting down on a chair I furtively tried to see if anybody would notice that there was something different about me. Everybody was carrying on as before and couldnt even be bothered. *** I was fascinated by the blotted blood droplets on the New Freedom pad. I was producing eggs now and had the ability to get kids. (Ovulation would only start later). The realisation made me feel mature, yet unsure. The Bible stated clearly that I was unclean during my period. In our society menstruation was still regarded as unhygienic. Did the flow colour me purple. The biological cycle that would govern my life for almost thirty years, had started. I would begin with a new cycle every twenty eight days. At different stages hormones would beautify or distort my personality. I couldnt be bothered by my progress from child to woman. The sanitary pad was an unwelcome guest to my body. I read a description of the menstruation-experience in the book, The Second Sex, by Simone de Beauvoir. The only novelty is the untidy event that is repeated each month; there are children who weep for hours when they realise they are condemned to this fate. And what strengthens their revolt still further is the knowledge that this shameful blemish is known also to men; they would prefer at least that their humiliating feminine condition might remain shrouded in mystery for males. But no; father, brothers, cousins, all the men know, and even joke about it sometimes. Her disgust at her too fleshly body arises or is exacerbated in the girl. And though the first surprise is over, the monthly annoyance is not similarly effaced; at each recurrence the girl feels again the same disgust at this flat and stagnant odour emanating from her an odour of the swamp, of wilted violets disgust at this blood, less red, more dubious, than that which flowed from her childish abrasions. The young girl when at her period may feel horrified at the sanitary napkin and refuse to undress except in the dark, even before her sister. By a kind of natural malice, certain illnesses and pains often begin only after the flow, which may at first past unnoticed; young girls are often not regulated: they run the risk of being surprised while out for a walk, in the street, visiting friends. *** Our maid taught me to wrap the pad in toilet paper and throw it in the bin. If it flushes down the toilet you will block the drain, she warned.

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Page 47 of 93 Elizabeth you must never use tampons. Your virgin will tear and then your husband will think you are second-hand. Virgin was a well known word. I had read in Dr. Jans that the hymen is not necessarily proof of virginity. Some girls sporting activities tore the membrane. The hymen served as protection against infection. I wondered what would be an indication of my brothers virginity. Our maid was my black mother. She didnt have a husband and had told my mother that she would never get one. She didnt give a reason. I was curious and wanted to know if she also got periods. Her yes was self-conscious. My people do things differently, she answered, apologetically. Her people were from Kenya. Our girls are circumcised. I knew that baptism replaced circumcision. Jews severed the tip of boys penises. I felt glad for the little boys sake when the minister read the baptism creed. Baptism was safer than circumcision. How do they do that. The sangoma cuts you before your first blood. Were you circumcised. Yes, she answered timidly. Can I see. She looked at me, uncertain. We went to her room where she cautiously closed the door behind us. Her overall fell to the floor. Her skin was dark against the white nylon panties, her pubic hair dark and woolly. I got a fright when I looked at her vulva. I could only see pink scars. She had no labia, her vulva was like a prune in a hole. Almost like my brothers anus. She covered the destruction again with the panties and started crying. Can you now see why I cant get married No man will be able to enter me. After my fathers death this sight was the biggest shock of my life. How could a mother allow a sangoma to disfigure her daughter like this. She was circumcised, or rather, disfigured as a young girl. Her clitoris and small labia were cut away. Some cultures also remove the labia majora. No woman could function normally after such a mutilation. *** My brother noticed that I was embarrassed by something. Whats wrong with you, he asked when I didnt want to go swimming with him. My sister had warned me that it was forbidden to swim while I was having my period. My grandmother had told her that one couldnt wash ones hair either, as it could be dangerous. I have started my period, I apologised. You have started what he asked, incredulous. Menstruating, I answered quietly. I will never forget the revulsion on my brothers face. Annoyed he went swimming without me.

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Chapter 8 It is a womans destiny to rule men. Not to serve them, flatter them, or hang on them for guidance. Nor to insult them, demean them, or stereotype them as oppressors. Gay men and artists create a realm marked off from womans power, but most men require women to centre them and connect them to the underworld of emotional truth. When women withdraw from men, as have been done on a massive scale in lesbian feminism, we have a major cultural disaster on our hand. - Camille Paglia. *** My brother had discovered Trompie. Or rather, he discovered, I read. My sister worked as a counter-assistant in the library. We considered ourselves to be honorary members and took out books to our hearts content. We started our own Boksom gang. I was the only girl. I could use a slingshot just as well as my brother. One afternoon after school we went to the quarry to play clay-stick. The enemies were the brothers who shouted my fathers death to the world. It was close to a road-workers camp. My brother took a short-cut through a donga. Elizabeth, come and have a look, he whispered out of breath. A man is bathing naked over there I was curious. We crawled up the mound and took a peek. A man was standing in the donga. He was naked and his dark-copper body was gleaming. He painted white soapy lines over his body with a cloth. I held my breath. This living Adonis, fully grown and in the prime of his life, was washing himself, oblivious of our stares. He was more than six feet tall; manual labour had chiselled his body. He looked vulnerable, washing himself in privacy. His genitals looked peaceful, relaxed. The aggressive hunter, absent. He took his penis in one hand and washed the glans. His concentration was innocent erotic. (The line between eroticism and pornography is drawn by innocence.) My throat was dry, I moaned quietly. The image was beautiful; I would have loved to make a sketch of it. I wondered whether I would be able to capture this beauty-innocence on paper Later I read Ernst van Heerdens poem The weight-lifter at school. It was this image of the black Adonis that came to mind. The sticky claw of the soil multiplies every pound, the lush plait of muscle is triumphantly an animal

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Page 49 of 93 that, lightning-fast, with one chop redefines gravity. My sister brought home a copy of Magersfontein, Oh Magersfontein by Etienne Leroux . I read this banned book with hungry eyes. I couldnt understand why the book was causing such a ruckus. Apart from its mockery of the Afrikaner-status quo, it wasnt bad at all. The much disapproved of, censored passage was about a Coloured pissing on historical soil. Maybe the Afrikaner thought its history to be holy, or they were envious of the colourful way in which Leroux portrayed the well endowed Coloured man. Or it could have been the enjoyment with which Rebecca was swaying her hips whilst he was fucking her. I inevitably saw the penis in opposition to my vagina. The attraction of opposites was a scientific fact. Evolutionary genital development was functional. This quote evoked a penis image. An Ancient boer took his shield in his hand. At the age of forty Gert Garies looked like a lascivious old man; tired but proud of the many women that could not resist his formidable dick. He grabs his sex organ through a tear in his pants and pisses on the historical soil while he wonders whether Rebecca Daisy wasnt playing tricks with him. Rebecca that rocked her hips while she was fucking. Fishermens recalled fish gradually become bigger. I recalled the penis on the copper body as enormous. The shaft was hanging to the left, the glans a purple gleam; he was circumcised. My brother wasnt circumcised I only realised there was a difference. The penis image of the black construction worker still forms the centre of my phallus reference. Michelangelos David was clinically beautiful, the lines of his body perfectly symmetrical. Statues in white marble were one-dimensional, detail was true to life, but bloodless. My Adonis was alive, my Adonis was magnificent. Big had a specific picture in my frame of reference. My Adonis in the quarry had a formidable dick. *** I researched the evolution of the penis. In comparison with all big apes gorilla, chimpanzee and bonobo the homo sapiens penis is the biggest and the most impressive. The shape, length and width are a result of evolution. The penis head serves as shovel that scoops competing semen from the vagina. The mechanism suggest that monogamy is possibly evolutionary dysfunctional Leonardo da Vinci sketched the architecture of coitus. His erect penis was straight. Modern scanning indicates a curvature of the penis like a boomerang in the coitus position. We had learned about the Egyptians in geography. The sjadoef was used to scoop water from the Nile. The action of the penis moving in and out of the vagina reminded me of a sjadoef. Our working parts were created for a perfect fit by a genial Instrument-maker. The history of Homo sapiens has been sexual. Our survival has been sexual. 49

Page 50 of 93 The driving-force behind our genes is being undermined. Rationally we strive to restrain our instincts. Sex remains the most volatile human activity. *** One night my sister was screaming hysterically in her room. Somebody had been at her window. When I went to have a look, I saw one of the neighbourhood boys awkwardly climbing over the fence. He was still fiddling with his pants. Voyeurs were not only boys. The way I watched the black man was the same. My curiosity had turned me into a Peeping Tom. Voyeurism is part of sexual dynamics. After all, Dr. Jan van Elfens book was only partially informative, without live models. *** My mother, the Sunday school teacher and the school warned us about swearing. Swear words were painful to Jesus ears. The most repulsive swear words were sexually driven. The most sinful ones were those using Gods name in vain. My sister once said that the sounds were not sinful, but the wrongful intentions were. One afternoon after Bible class my brother was hit with a sling-shot by one of the boys next door. Ouch! he shouted. Your mothers cunt! he added. The teacher was aghast and dragged my brother by his ear to the kitchen. She forced chilli pepper onto his tongue. She locked him inside the smallest room for an hour. Mother was informed when she got home. My brothers back-side stung much longer than his tongue. The Afrikaans word for the sexual deed naai, was derived from the pumping action of the needle in a sewing machine. I was surprised to hear the Sunday school teacher referring to her broken naaimachine. I couldnt understand why one talks about the naaing-action of the machine but when humans copy it, it is a sin. Mating, copulate and intercourse were all euphemisms. Naai sounded just right to me. Naai described quick in-and-out movements. The word vagina also amazed me. Whenever you talked about a box, the correct word was supposed to be doos. Yet, the same word was taboo when referring to a vagina as a doos. Doos was equal to the English word cunt. It baffled me that a vagina could be compared to a box. Something conspicuous was to refer to a womans vagina as a puss. Vagina and vulva were sophisticated words and puss was banal. The word cunt in the English language was the mother of all profanities. Similarly, your mothers puss in Afrikaans was the worst insult imaginable. Needless to wonder why both these vulgarities referred to the female anatomy. We live in a mans world. The sexual side of reproduction was taught to my brother by his friends. They used words like naai, fuck, dick and cunt. 50

Page 51 of 93 Their description of the process was messy, as if they were explaining something filthy. Their tone was aggressive, which made me realise that testosterone poisoned their judgement. I felt uncomfortable because whilst they were talking quietly they looked at me. I no longer was a sister or a gang member. I became an object of their twisted sexual fantasies. Words were hurled around like mud clumps. I will fuck her. Have you seen how her pussy was bulging in her swimming costume. The aggressive tones of their pronouncements were hurting me more than their words. A womans vulva is concealed within pubic hair. A little girls labia were still under-developed. The boys image of the vulva was incomplete. They created a pussy as if it was a hostile entity. Tits also get attention, but Pussy is King!. I was flabbergasted by the comparison of a vulva with a male persona. The genitalia in which and through which all humans were received and born, turned from something creative into a curse. I also noticed that adults were shying away from conversations about sex. I was surprised. How had all of them ended up on earth Plants and animals also reproduced. The survival of the planet was the result of the dynamics of reproduction. Reproduction was only possible through sex. God is the Creator of the penis and vagina. He is the composer and the conductor of the biological sex-opera. I wondered what He thought of the missionary position. *** I started noticing couples in love, but I never saw anybody making love. The Afrikaans movies that we saw were pious. We went to see Fiddler on the Roof in a theatre. It was the best film I had ever seen. The main character was a father with five daughters. His name was Tevye and his wifes Golde. I missed my father and was crying throughout the film. Why does one only realise the value of something when its lost Tevyes question to Golde had set me thinking about love. I had never heard father asking mother whether she loved him. She never volunteered the information either. Was love a saying-thing or a doing-thing. Do you love me? Do I love you? With our daughters getting married And this trouble in the town Youre upset, youre worn out Go inside, go lie down! Maybe its indigestion. Golde Im asking you a question Do you love me? Youre a fool.: 51

Page 52 of 93 I know.. But do you love me? Do I love you? For twenty-five years Ive washed your clothes, Cooked your meals, cleaned your house, Given you children, milked the cow. After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now? Golde, the first time I met you Was on our wedding day. I was scared, I was shy, I was nervous. So was I. But my father and my mother Said wed learn to love each other And now Im asking, Golde Do you love me? Im your wife. I know.. But do you love me? Do I love him? For twenty-five years Ive lived with him, Fought him, starved with him. Twenty-five years my bed is his. If thats not love, what is? Then you love me? I suppose I do. And I suppose I love you too. It doesnt change a thing But even so, After twenty-five years Its nice to know *** I had an aunt that was three times the size of her husband. She was my fathers sister. The poor guy, her husband, got many a hiding and had a horrible life. After yet another thrashing he went to the station bar where his drinking buddies gave him advice. After several double brandies he mustered some Dutch courage and went home. He knocked on the front door and when his wife opened up, she got a black eye. He then scrambled back to the bar and drank to victory. My aunt phoned my mother to come and see how her husband had assaulted her. Apparently she never dared to lift a hand against her husband again after the incident. Mother just laughed and said thats probably what one would call tough love. I thought it was rather sad that two people could abuse each other like that. *** The man across the street used to hit his wife on Friday nights, she was quite frail. They had three daughters. My sister was scared of the man. She and my mother talked quietly while they were doing the dishes. I pretended that I was reading, but was listening to them. 52

Page 53 of 93 Mom, Annie said her father touches them. Mother was shocked. Doesnt her mother notice anything She does, Mom, and she tries to stop him. Annie says that is when her dad hits her mother. She says her father says that if Abraham could lie with his daughters, he could as well. That is incest, my child. Mother signalled at my sister that I was listening and then kept quiet. What is incest, Mom My mother rolled her eyes and sat down next to me. She took my hand in hers. Elizabeth, the Lord created husband and wife to sleep with each other in marriage. A father is not allowed to sleep with his daughters. But Sis says Abraham had. Oh Elizabeth ... I dont have any answers, I just know that it is wrong. Go brush your teeth and go to bed. I kissed my mother and walked to the bathroom. The Bible was a muddled book.

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Page 54 of 93 Dear Mother I am a bit confused right now. I am trying to understand why a mother would give her baby to strangers. Is my father still alive. Forgive my bluntness, I need to know. Stephen. The Question. I could not even find a satisfactory answer for myself. Reproach follows when the question that you had feared the most is asked. And you dont want to know the answer. I realised that I would be confronted with this if ever I would meet my child. *** The days after Eriks denial of paternity I was wandering about. More often than not standing on the edge of a side-walk. I felt humiliated. I had naively believed Erik when he had said that he loved me. Erik was like every other man just another Boelie. I wanted to step in front of a car to end it all. I must have looked lost; a girl greeted me friendly and shoved a tract in my hand. Diary of an Unborn Child October 5 Today my life began. My parents do not know it yet. I am as small as a seed of an apple, but it is I already. And I am to be a girl. I shall have blonde hair and blue eyes. Just about everything is settled though, even the fact that I shall love flowers. October 19 Some say that I am not a real person yet, that only my mother exists. But I am a real person, just as a small crumb of bread is yet truly bread. My mother is. And I am. October 23 My mouth is just beginning to open now. Just think, in a year or so I shall be laughing and later talking. I know what my first words will be: Mama. October 25 My heart began to beat today all by itself. From now on it shall gently beat for the rest of my life without ever stopping to rest! And after many years it will tire. It will stop, and then I shall die. November 2 I am growing a bit every day. My arms and legs are beginning to take shape. But I have to wait a long time yet before those little legs will raise me to my mothers arms, before these little arms will be able to gather flowers and embrace my father. November 12 Tiny fingers are beginning to form on my hands. Funny how small they are! Ill be able to stroke my mothers hair with them. November 20 It wasnt till today that the doctor told mom that I am living here under her heart. Oh, how happy she must be! Are you happy, mom? November 25 My mom and dad are probably thinking of a name for me. But they dont even know that I am a little girl. I want to be called Kathy. I am getting so big already. December 10

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Page 55 of 93 My hair is growing. It is smooth and bright and shiny. I wonder what kind of hair mom has. December 13 I am just about able to see. It is dark around me. When mom brings me into the world it will be full of sunshine and flowers. But what I want more than anything is to see my mom. How do you look, mom? December 24 I wonder if mom hears the whispering of my heart. Some children come into the world a little sick. But my heart is strong and healthy. It beats so evenly: tup tup, tup tup. Youll have a healthy little daughter, mom! December 28 Today my mother killed me. +++ Mother took me for my first sonar scan. The picture was unclear, but I could see a little heart beating. The beating rhythmically depicted grey life. The doctor was skilled and the sonar quietly rested on the childs genitals. I couldnt see anything. Do you want to know if it is a boy or a girl he asked. I looked at mother. She smiled and nodded. Yes, please Doctor, my answer sounded as if I was six year old. Look, there between the little legs it is a boy! My mother was crying. Was she thinking of my brother. Fortunately I missed the bus to the abortion clinic. If I had switched off the little boy-heart surgically, I would have been a murderer. As my stomach was growing bigger, feelings for my unborn child were awakening. My hormones had instinctively influenced my mind to prepare me for motherhood. Whenever the realisation of Eriks betrayal left me crying on my bed, my son fiercely kicked my body. I became aware of the fact that his life was interlinked with mine, biologically as well as emotionally. The kicking taught me self-control. He knew when I was bathing at night, could feel how he relaxed. Does Mommys child like the warm water I chatted to him while scooping water over my stomach. My sons future was uncertain. Where would I get the money to take care of him. Who would look after him during the day when I had to work. Where would we live. My decision not to abort my child created more crises in my life. *** My mother smiled at me one Sunday afternoon when I went to lie down beside her on the bed. Mom, what must I do She was silent for a long time before she answered me. Elizabeth, this is your child. The decision that you are going to take will stay with you for the rest of your life. I dont want to influence you, but do know, whatever you decide, you have my support. The social worker was more practical. 55

Page 56 of 93 She pointed out both the advantages and disadvantages of single parenthood. The church and society were intolerant towards unmarried mothers. We discussed the implications of adoption. The cost of accommodation in a shelter for unmarried mothers and confinement could be covered by adoption. I thought with resentment of Eriks wealthy family in the Boland. I didnt want to approach them for help and be humiliated. Weve got a lovely English couple on our waiting list, the social worker manipulated. They are prepared to cover all your costs. I can assure you that your child will not lack love or care. I gnawed at my finger nail. I need time to think about this. My thinking time had sent my child to New Zealand. He now wants to know. I decided to answer him simply and honestly. He has the right to know.

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Page 57 of 93 CHAPTER 9 Whats to be done? Psychology after all is the science of the soul and it is not my fault if the soul is a woman CG Jung. *** I had to write an essay for the social worker to tell about my experience during my pregnancy. I found the yellowed essay in the photo-album with our childhood photographs. I am placing this verbatim. I am a student in my second year. Erik, the father of my child, was on holiday in the Western Cape. I started feeling nauseous and my period was late. When it happened again in the second month, I went to the doctor to determine whether I was pregnant. I was hoping that I had caught a chill or something that could have had an effect on my time. Unfortunately it was not the case. I was pregnant!! Part of my soul died on that day. My mother arrived after I called her, reeling in shock and pain, major disbelief. She phoned the CWC and made an appointment with the social worker. I will never forget the morning when she picked me up for the appointment. I was dressed in pink and very nauseous. She looked like a wellgroomed woman whose children would not get into such unreal horrific situations. It was decided that I would go to a shelter for unmarried woman from the sixth month of my pregnancy until the birth of my child. I could not stay with my mother; nobody would be able to function in the stifling atmosphere of hurt and helplessness. I went to stay with my sister and her husband in their flat. I left for the shelter on a Sunday, in a new maternity dress that was made by the Sunday school teacher. The place reeked of milk-food. My suitcase contained everything that my mother could afford. Nine other pregnant fairies were watching television in the lounge. I was inspected from head to toe as if I had to be approved. Mother silently unpacked my suitcase. She urged me to be neat and to befriend my roommate. She cried in the social workers office about her Elizabeth. My heart was breaking, broken, broken. An anger took possession of me which would never go away again. I think the fact that Erik didnt want to marry me, wanted to abort the child and believed that he wasnt the father made me decide to let the child be adopted. My mother.. well, I dont know. I think she thought that I was too young. (She was nineteen when she had my sister). Erik didnt love me and I wasnt good enough for him anyway. He ran away. Would I have kept the child, it would have put pressure on my mother. While I was in the shelter we were told about the advantages of adoption during individual and group sessions. Most of us, no, all of our lovers were in denial regarding their so-called precious seed that was dumped in us. Our biggest mistake was to allow, as willing sex objects, the seed to grow inside us. They couldnt and wouldnt want to have anything to do with this. I was twenty years old/ young and fucked in my head, unwanted, with a mother that lovingly looked at me with broken eyes. My life was shocked into a stop. How could I decide? The sad stories of childless couples that have been waiting for ten years for a baby were inadequate comfort. I could make somebody else happy with my doomed fertility. My question to my mother was; How could one give your child away like a puppy? A hungry puppy is a sad sight. My unborn child ought to have the right to two parents that could take good care of him. I was a twenty year old student who only passed my first year. What could I offer him? Mother was paying for everything. The fact that I gave the baby up for 57

Page 58 of 93 adoption also had implications. I didnt want to think that I had sold my baby. I had unbelievable feelings of guilt about the money that my mother had to pay. Another pound of guilt in the bucket. If only I knew it would have lightened my mothers financial burden if only , if only, yes, I would have done so many things differently. The fact remains that I had not. I was spinning amongst different phases during my pregnancy. I started sinking when the doctor confirmed my pregnancy. The little heartbeat on the sonar drew me deeper into a bottomless marsh. I was drowning in noisy chaos. Outside the sky was still blue, but the buildings were tumbling down around me like Samsons pillars. I would never be able to forget my mothers dejection. Her intelligent daughter, her hope for a future that she could never have. I was scared and I wanted to get rid of the unreal organism inside me as soon as possible. Why did the Lord allow this to happen? I couldnt go on holiday with my friends. The unwelcome guest would plague me for the following seven months. I started to hate the guest and wanted to separate myself from him. I thought of the migrating birds that could fly to warmer climates. My wings were clipped, though. The physical changes to my body were those of another, unknown person. I tried to use this changing body to keep Erik. I believed that he would take me back and learn to love me if he could see how my body was becoming fuller and swollen with his child... I took good care of myself. Sexy pregnant Elizabeth what a contradiction. It was in the fifth month that I became aware of the new person inside me. He was kicking fiercely when I was crying. I got into a warm bath and massaged my stomach until he calmed down It was seven days after the expected date. My contractions started on the 24th of December. The black driver took me to the hospital. I phoned my mother from a telephone booth. She rushed into my room and chased the nursing staff away. She pleaded that she wanted to be with her daughter. They bluntly refused. On that moment I hated everything; the awful hospital, nurses, the unborn baby everything. Mother couldnt leave me, I was still attached to her emotional umbilical cord, my only comfort, my uterus. She kissed me on my forehead while tears were shining on her cheeks. She walked through the door into the corridor with its yellow, sick lights. I screamed in loneliness and frustration. My baby was born. The porter pushed me into the general maternity ward after the delivery. I was confused and not aware of much. It was six oclock. When I opened my eyes, the happy mothers were breastfeeding their babies.

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CHAPTER 10 Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and never leave. Our lives are measured by these. Susan B. Anthony *** I got a microscope and my brother a telescope for our thirteenth birthday. These were the first big presents that we ever received on our birthday. Uncle Billy made an economical difference to our lives. I was a modern day Marie Curie. I enlarged my hair under the microscope and could see organisms crawling on it. Even after a double wash. Spit was just as horrible to see. The cutting edge of a shaving blade looked like a saw. The naked eye was actually blind. I studied the green stuff from my nose and understood why my mother had forbidden my brother to stick his fingers into his mouth. After I had started menstruating, I was fascinated by the concept of egg-cells. Despite Dr. Jans explanation that the ovum disintegrates and is flushed out with the blood, I still wanted to see one. The cell that governed women world-wide for ages, avoided me. Ive placed blood of my next period on a platelet. There was life, lots of it, but unfortunately I could not spot the ovum. The action of conception also interested me. I wanted to see the sperm-cell with its little fin-tail. My brother was bathing behind a closed door and I suspected that he would be able to help me with a donation. Have you started ejaculating yet I asked him bluntly. What. He was shocked. I just want to know if you are coming when you masturbate. I had not forgotten his horridness about my period. Master who, he teased. I was annoyed, which was never a good thing. Listen Brother, I want to know if your dick secretes white stuff when you are wanking. My brother blushed. Why I want to study it under my microscope. He was stunned. He turned around and locked the bathroom door behind him. I went to my desk and wiped the platelet clean with a cloth. My brother brought a tiny bottle labelled with Dr. Williams pink pills. Here, I also want to see. I opened the bottle that smelt like starch. White jelly-like liquid seeped onto the glass when I turned the bottle upside-down. I used my finger to spread it over the surface. Semen felt like semen. The sight under the microscope was remarkable. 59

Page 60 of 93 The little sperm-cells were swimming like tadpoles all over the glass. My brother shoved me away to have a look. Fuck, but there are lots! How many are needed to make somebody pregnant I took Dr. Jans book from the shelf and read on page 21: The male sperm looks like a comma, but is so tiny that 2 500 of them are needed to cover this punctuation mark. Combined into one headache pill, these will be enough to populate the whole world. A spermatozoon consists of a head that contains the chromosomes, a body that provides energy for movement and a sweeping tail, with which it can sprightly project itself forward at one centimetre in three minutes. A spermatozoon can live for up to three or four days in a womans body. Elizabeth, he doesnt say how many Wait oh yes, here we are. Many of the millions of spermatozoa die in ejaculation on their way from the vagina to the real Fallopian-tube where the ovum nestles. Coincidentally, or because some unknown force prompts them, they are swimming like mouse-birds around the ovum. Only one is chosen, though probably the liveliest and healthiest one to unite with the ovum. Conception becomes an accomplished fact as the chromosomes of the sperm and the ovum are entwined. My brother looked again. Amazing, fucking amazing, he mumbled. *** Naturally my first introduction to pornography was my brothers doing. A friend whose father worked at an American pharmaceutical company rushed into our yard on his bicycle one Friday afternoon. In his eagerness his foot got stuck in the pedal and he almost knocked himself out cold when he fell in our driveway. My brother was laughing out loud, I struggled to contain myself. As he was limping towards us, the boy took a bundle of black-and-white photos from his shirt. Chum, look at all the pussies, he said excitedly and out of breath. I was livid; I hated it when girls were reduced to mere sexual entities. My brother took one look at me and quickly grabbed the stack of pictures. Jesus! he exclaimed after every picture while he was looking through them. Usually he was more careful not to swear in front of me. The pictures had switched off his conscience . My brother never wore underpants; his pal said it cause blue balls. Oblivious of what he was doing, he touched his crotch. He was horny. Elizabeth, do you want to have a look, he asked cautiously. My curiosity got the better of me and overruled my dismay. He shoved a few pictures in my hands without waiting for an answer. I had never seen a mature, erect penis before. A naked man stood behind a girl, with his penis pointed like a weapon at her. I was confused; I thought people were doing it while looking each other in the face. Questioningly I looked at my brother. Doggy style, he proclaimed. The photographs interested me and I quickly looked at all of them. I was intrigued, but I wasnt stimulated by them. My brother and his friend asked to be excused; they had homework to do. They both disappeared with a picture. My brother had never done any homework on a Friday afternoon before. The coitus position was different on every picture. The women were beautiful and slender, but they didnt look happy. 60

Page 61 of 93 The expressions on the mens faces looked exactly like my brothers when he peed in my face. Their attitude was dominating, aggressive. The womens breasts varied in size; some of their pubic hair was neatly trimmed. Without sound, the colour and movement, the pictures were rather monotonous. The models actions looked lifeless, but the different positions were enlightening. I was shocked to see how some of the women were sucking the mens penises, while some men were licking the womens vulva. I shuddered and hoped nobody wanted to pee. The same friend also brought some Playboys and Penthouses. The pictures were in colour and the people looked livelier. We knew very well that it was illegal and maybe sinful, but my curiosity was stronger than my conscience. I wondered if the models parents would recognise their children in the magazines. My body was just as beautiful as those womens, but I would not display my body in the same way. The Sunday school lady would definitely have been unhappy. Was there a difference between pornography and erotica. The object in both cases was the human body. The activity was having sex or intercourse, or making love. Two people could be sexually active in privacy and it wouldnt be pornographic, even though they would be able to do everything as depicted in the pictures. I thought a lot about what the pictures and the images said, and my definition of what I understood pornography to be, was: Pornography is without the suggestion that sex could be more than penetration or to be penetrated. There is no intellectual, emotional or spiritual dimension that ought to make the deed meaningful. Pornography is mechanical and lifeless, I thought. *** My brothers friend traded some of the photographs at school. An angry parent visited the principal. Lots of shit followed. Fortunately my brother (at my insistence) had given back all of his pictures. The friend had a younger brother who merrily studied the photos. I was in my twenties when he was found guilty of the rape and murder of a nine year old girl. With his execution I wondered if the pornography that he had studied as a child had paved the way to this act of violence. Was everybody that had been exposed to pornography necessarily potential rapists and murderers. *** The teachers ran relays every year at inter-house athletics. The principal ran the fastest, his team always won. He had good legs; his laughter made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. After my fathers death the principal was my hero. With every maths lesson he sat closer to me. His hand underneath the book eventually touched my leg. I experienced a weird warmth at my vulva. I think my little face below was blushing. I wasnt scared of the principal and rather liked him. 61

Page 62 of 93 He was an attractive man. *** After one of the maths lessons I lay in the bath that night, enjoying the flow of the water on my vulva. I became aware of a warm tickly feeling in my vagina, almost like in the maths lesson. My hand was searching until I found a sensitive spot. Dr. Jan called it the clitoris; some people say its the female penis. I found the feeling when I rubbed the little button very pleasing. I used my index finger to stimulate the sensitive area even more. A warm, shocking feeling suddenly emerged, gripping my body in waves. The sensation was exquisite and my hips were gravitating towards my index touch. I rubbed harder and harder until a numbing enjoyment gripped my vaginal muscles. Involuntary I started moaning when I experienced the unbelievably intense sensation. Warm waves from my vagina rippled through my body. I cried, ouch ouch ouch I was yet to learn that pain and pleasure were intermingled. While I was towelling myself, I looked at my blushing face in the mirror. I was experiencing a feeling of content. I wondered if I would be able to do it every day. Was this a sin *** I was curious to see what my vagina looked like. The satisfaction of my newly found game was worth some self-investigation. My sisters hand mirror came in quite handy. My vagina was steam-distorted. I was clumsy and the mirror slipped into the water. I was surprised to discover how short the distance between my vagina and anus was. Our maid had taught me to wipe myself properly, even before I understood the setup. Elizabeth, the water comes out in front you must wipe forward. The clay comes through the back you must wipe backwards for that. If you do this properly, you will never be stinging when you pee. The practical advice was precious. At school and university I discovered how many girls were struggling with infections. I also learned that my labia swelled up when I played with them. Dr. Jan said the blood flow to the area increased and the nerve ends became more sensitive. He was right. I took the mirror to bed with me; the water made the handle too slippery. I eagerly continued with my discovery with the bed lamp clutched between my knees. My vagina had a clitoris my own little willy and the small labia were like petals enfolding my vagina. They were called the labia minor and the outer lips were the labia major. My vulva was my outer genitalia and my vagina the inner part. The skin was light rose and more supple than the skin on my stomach or legs. It was hard to see the vaginal-channel, though, so I focused on my vulva. I couldnt understand why the boys were referring to my vagina in such a demeaning way. She wasnt ugly at all. I named her Little Lizzy. 62

Page 63 of 93 We became good friends. My breasts were firm. I could cover them with my hands. The skin around my nipples was called the areola, which stiffened when I stroke them. The nipple had the same erectile tissue as a penis. The colour was pink, almost like my labia. I started a ritual where I started playing with my breasts and ended with my vulva. I noticed a sticky fluid in my vagina whenever I became excited. Later on I learned that this would serve as lubrication when a penis would enter my vagina. I named my breasts, Penny and Prunella. I loved my body, it was beautiful. I was excited about the new-found pleasure. I wasnt bothering anybody and my ability to orgasm was natural. I didnt feel guilty when I enjoyed eating or sleeping. Erotic celibacy were lovely words that satisfied me. *** I was curious about my brother. Ever since we were not bathing together anymore we were talking less. I was excited about my discovery and wanted to know whether he had similar experiences. I decided to compile a questionnaire and left it on his pillow. Would you please read the following questions and answer them: Does your penis have a name Do you talk to your penis and what is your relationship Do you think your penis is big or small Do you wash your penis every day How often do you play with your penis Do you enjoy it Do you feel guilty about it If you think you have an ugly penis, are you ugly as well Are you embarrassed by your penis Do you think a penis is designed to hurt or please a woman Honest answers will be appreciated. During breakfast the following morning my brother stared at his plate. He was aware of my questioning eyes. He put his sandwiches in his school bag, walked through the front door and turned to me saying; Elizabeth, you are full of shit! *** Unfortunately I remember the day when the principal wanted to do it very well. I had to report for extra maths later than usual. All the other teachers cars were gone. Sir was waiting for me in the corridor. He looked at me weirdly, as if he was hungry. I blushed and looked away. He locked the door behind us, breathing heavily like after a relay. Elizabeth, come here, he commanded in a husky voice. 63

Page 64 of 93 He took my hand and pulled me towards him. I got a slight fright. He then kissed me, he tasted like tobacco. When my father had kissed me, I never tasted anything. My father never opened his lips. His lips were sucking mine, his moustache scratching my nose. He was breathing fast and grabbed my breasts aggressively. I was confused about the unexpected attack on my body. He pushed me down on the couch and sat next to me, taking his penis out. I was frightened by the blue glans of his penis head. It was shining like a big marble. The arteries on the shaft were bulging. I was scared. Photo-penises looked harmless in comparison. He folded my fingers around his penis and moved my hand up and down. His penis looked angry and I obeyed. He then forced his hand into my school panties. His rough fingers grazed my labia and I shuddered. He kissed me in the neck, moaning. Faster . faster He pushed a rough finger into my vagina. Ouch Sir, you are hurting me! I said out loud. He started convulsing, white semen was shining on my hand. His hand left my vagina; he stood up and zipped up his pants. He gave his handkerchief to me to wipe my hands and went to sit down behind his desk. This is our secret, he said softly. If you ever tell anybody about this, I will see to it that you are sent to a reformatory. Some money was stolen from my office last week. I had never stolen any money. He was looking at me with hostility. My mind started spinning. Merely a minute ago he wanted to devour me, now he wanted to send me to a reformatory. I was annoyed with the principal. He had abused me, and had exploited my innocence in a position of trust. My childlike, romantic fantasy was shattered. My curiosity had almost caused serious trouble. I realised that he was selfishly trying to save his own skin. The experience was everything but erotic. His abuse of me as a child couldnt bother him. I stopped going to his extra maths lessons. He never called me to his office again. Like all the other unpleasant experiences I shelved this one as well. *** I had been in high school for three years when he was jailed for the same transgression with another girl. Our society despises paedophiles. These people are seldom punished because they are known to their victims. I was too ashamed and frightened to lodge a complaint. He was the principal, knew my mother and wanted to help me with my maths. Nobody would have believed me. I was confused and felt guilty about my part in the incident. 64

Page 65 of 93 One thing that I had learned at a young age. A woman should stay in control. A mans mind is useless when his dick is erect. Mother preached to my brother; Youd better keep your pants on. When youve got a stiff dick, your mind favours the smaller head. Women are hardwired to find the best genes to impregnate their eggs. I wasnt a woman yet. Years later I described my first wham-bam-thank-you-mam experience in a book. Sex was rational, sex was emotional, but above all, sex was cast in our genes to flirt with the best sperm-cell. Woman is the origin of life. The woman is the uterus that cradles life. After birth she will continue feeding and nurturing life. The mans contribution after conception is small. (I was also sceptical about the before-and-during part.) I realised that every person is the result of male orgasm. The woman doesnt necessarily experience the conception-deed as orgasmic. One day I would carefully teach my husband how to handle my body. Emotion, pleasure and euphoria are the ingredients that result in orgasms. The three experiences are activated in the brain during different stages. The proportional representation of every component differs from orgasm to orgasm.

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Dear Stephen The question I have been asking myself the last twenty years, bothers you as well. How could any mother ever justify the giving away of a child. I am sorry. At the time I was a student, and economically not in a position to take care of you. Your biological father could not marry me. Your parents were well-to-do and longed for a child. They took care of you in a manner I never would have been able to. Please understand that I always loved you and that you were daily in my thoughts. I hope you understand and find it possible to forgive me. Love you always Elizabeth. The short letter with which I tried to answer Stephens big question was insufficient. *** On the day that I decided to give him up for adoption I had an emotional breakdown. My sons kicking could not restore my calmness. I was taken to hospital and sedated. Chemically calm I felt less guilty. My betrayal was the same, if not worse, than that of Erik. My emotions were swinging. Somewhere in the haze a thought was taking shape. God impregnated Mary. She was unmarried until an angel twisted Josephs arm. I was sure that Joseph didnt want to get married to her. He had to stand in for Somebody elses child. The English word for this is cuckolded. God must have understood the dynamics of being unwed. My feelings of guilt were real and understandable, but why did I want to ascribe the betrayal more to myself than to Erik. After all, he aborted me and my child. Patriarchy caused arbitrary paternity; seed is deposited with regular irresponsibility. I completed my sons birth cycle and granted him a better chance than what I could provide for him. I calmed down and fell into a deep sleep. For the first time I could accept my pregnancy. *** After my mastectomy an oncologist visits me in hospital. Specialists are the cleverest as well as the most dangerous of doctors. Oncology is the study of ongkos, which means massive growth. He actually is a cancer doctor. Cancer is being cut out, x-rayed and poisoned. Surgically the technique hasnt changed much in the last couple of years; even the radio-active rays ability stayed unchanged. The cocktails in which chemotherapy is administered, are alchemical experiments on willing cancer rabbits. My cancer is aggressive; all three actions are necessary to fight it. The tumours from my breast and lymphatic glands were analysed and are malignant. Chemotherapy will stop the fast-growing cancer cells. 66

Page 67 of 93 Malignancy develops when cells grow aggressively and out of control. Cell-shaped anarchy. Cancer with a capital C is the anarchist; the good guys would wage a chemical war in my body. I will have to be induced with a chemical substance over eight sessions, which would conquer the cancer. The side-effects were explained to me beforehand. To warn somebody against something of which he has no knowledge, is like telling a kid; Ouch! This stove is hot. Most kids will burn themselves first before the Ouch! will get any meaning. Leucopoenia, Anaemia, Alopecia, Stomatitis are flowers bearing bitter fruits. Nausea is a prelude to death, which eludes me. The chemo activates the brain to vomit, or to heave spastically to get rid of the poison that was administered to you. How can I describe this indescribable condition. The first session was strange, the staff experienced and I was comfortable. I started feeling nauseous halfway through the second session. My cocktail was weakened with some antidote. My living hell had started. The knowledge that Stephen lives and wants to connect with me, gives me strength. I focus on him and pray that I will be able to see my child before I die. Sometimes I feel as if Im dying, other times I wish that I could rather die. Chemo is destroying my zest for life. Chemo is destroying my body. The side-effects are diabolical. Other patients are more fortunate; albeit only slightly. I am transformed into a waxy, hairless being. My mouth and oesophagus are covered in ulcers. I cant eat. My skin is yellow and wrinkled. My femininity withers in the face of poison. The mirror is cruelly trying to sell an image of an alien being to me. I am tired and in pain. After my fourth session I try to obliterate the stranger in my hand mirror against the wall. Hair follicles, white and red blood-cells and mucous membranes in my mouth, throat and stomach perish under friendly fire. My nails discolour spontaneously. They turn purple first, and then surrender life. Fatigue takes over I am fed up with life. Eight times I am linked to a pocket of poison that painfully slows down my death. The loss of my breast is traumatic; the loss of my hair is catastrophic. I vomit throughout the night after my third chemo-session. Sometimes a tepid bath brings relief. I lie in the water and wish I was dead. Listlessly I wash my hair. A handful of hair is my reward. When I jump up and look in the mirror, I see my head is as bare as my dolls were after my brother had mutilated them. I am tired, I am nauseous, my right breast seems bewildered. My body is hairless, my nails purple or deceased I dont want to live any more! Cancer didnt do this to me chemo did. I look at myself in the mirror. My vulva is pathetically wrinkled, bare. Chemo disturbs the natural processes in the body. 67

Page 68 of 93 Early menopause is one of the side-effects. I remember this poem: Sonnet of hot flushes Something staples your spinal cord somewhere you feel. how a newly-founded sting of anxiety is spreading from. a core and your veins are running with fire your flesh. kindles your heart keeps fire-resistant her balance. your bones are baking outside of themselves your face. singes your cheeks simmer ahead dismayed and. numerous times you break away from sizzling sheaths. sweating your skin sparks away blazing. But one day you move in your chair and feel the furnace coals that destroy your last juiciness. Fuck knows it is enough: burning like a warrior you get up an arch of fire grab death by the jugular and plough his nose through your bare-plucked dried-baked cunt. antjie krog

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CHAPTER 11 The difference from a person and an angel is easy. Most of an angel is in the inside and most of a person is on the outside Fynn *** We spent the December holidays before high school at a resort on the KwaZulu Natal coast. My sister fell in love with a farmers son. She looked at him as if he was a celestial being. She was like a puppy staggering behind him. Her eyes were shiny; her face blushing as if somebody was carresing her face below. They strolled alongside the sea, lay on the beach and were cooing softly to each other all the time enough to nauseate anybody. On a rainy day while they were playing table tennis, my sister stumbled. White panties were flashing when she fell. A dark glow of potential promise mesmerized the youngster. He started with his army training in January in Pretoria. My brother idolised the young soldier. He visited on weekends and helped uncle Billy diligently. He worked for my sisters hand. The two were smooching regularly in the garden. He must have had a weak bladder, as his pants were often covered in stains. The engagement was celebrated on the family farm somewhere in a rural area. The wedding happened two years afterwards. Twenty five years later they were divorced. The influence of the dark glow of her panties, extinguished. *** During my sisters wedding ceremony I was all ears. The wedding vows sounded like a guilty verdict. (Our family wasnt often invited to weddings.) I wanted to hear if it contained anything that would explain my mothers misfortune. The minister said something about leaving the mother and father to join the husband. In Afrikaans the word could also be translated into cling to. My father had once said that the encyclopaedia-hawkers just wanted to take ones money. Once they get their foot in the door, you wont be able to get rid of them again. Their clinging is worse than shit clinging to a wool blanket he said. The image of a wife clinging to her husband like shit seemed out of focus. Women rather reminded me of woolly blankets. My brother and I were best man and bridesmaid at the wedding. We were all dressed in light blue. The men had bought their suits at an Indian shop. Our dresses were made by the Sunday school teacher. The service was in the Dutch Reformed church and the reception in the Reformed Church hall. The master of ceremonies read a poem of IL de Villiers: Magnesium flashes in the foyer. Expectation. Silence broken by a cough. 69

Page 70 of 93 The verger gives a sign: Mendelssohn. The bride! A matron in a coral twin-set digs out a pink tissue. Solemn silence. Word, Prayer And vows. Hymn: May the Lord bless thee. White chicken. Sardines on Salticrax. Champagne. A carnation-ed cracks a joke on (you know what). And when the groom gets up It is the sign For Aunt Kittys rooster. *** The verger wasnt invited to the reception, he kept back the deposit. My brother was drunk from white wine. I tried to stop him, but he was thirsty. I was shocked to see the vomit squirting from his mouth. His spastic roars sounded unearthly. Eventually he could only manage huh huh sounds, his stomach was empty. I wiped his mouth with his tie; he smelled disgusting. Elizabeth, I feel nauseous, he muttered before his body went into spasms again. I think I am dying, almost inaudible. He forgot how to walk. I was amused; we had spent so much time in learning to walk. I helped him to uncle Billys Ford, he passed out on the back seat. His open mouth and messy hair was an unfamiliar picture. Bacchus he would discover, wasnt a youngsters pal. *** My mother and her husband started to fight. All couples fight. I think his instant paternity overshadowed the poor mans Sunday-night pleasures. The responsibility, child-shit and a wife that married him for survival eventually became overwhelming. Bread had to be earned, even if it was from face to back. He took good care of us and wasnt treating mother badly. Silence could also be seen as harassment. The absence of intimacy is a form of abuse too. Women are not the only victims of these. One specific fighting session was extremely volcanic. 70

Page 71 of 93 Mother shoved her plate away and commanded us; Come. My little brother and I got up and followed her with dragging feet. My brother stayed. Mother bundled us into the Opel Kadet. Uncle Billy had bought the car. Elizabeth, where is your brother, she wanted to know. I got out and found my brother and uncle Billy sitting in silence. They were not even looking at each other. My brother noticed me and I indicated with my head that he should come. He reluctantly stood up and followed me. Mother stopped the car at the entrance to Allens bush. She turned around and looked at my brother. Why didnt you want to come with us she asked quietly. Tears were running down his cheeks. He mumbled softly; You must love your neighbour as yourself. I was surprised. I hadnt really considered uncle Billy to be my neighbour. Mother was my neighbour. It was easy to love her as I loved myself. The minister said once that your neighbour is anybody that you could touch anytime, day or night. Uncle Billy was okay, but we never touched each other. *** Uncle Billy started eating his food in the garage at night. He gradually drank more of his medicine. We had to listen to the radio in the lounge. On Sunday evenings mother was not asked any more if she wanted to wash. Uncle Billy moved out and mother called a family meeting. Our groceries list shrunk back to single parent status. I suggested that we could go to boarding school. The government gave single parent bursaries. My mother applied to different schools and we were placed at a school in the city. I was excited, boarding school in the Saartjie-books was fun. I would still see my brother every day. Mother and uncle Billy were divorced. Divorce was death without a grave. Children were spectator-corpses. The use of the sacraments were forbidden to mother. The church censured her. I thought to shed Jesusblood would just stain clothes. *** We went to a boarding school. I welcomed the prospect of freedom. I would be able to escape the stifling situation in our house. I would miss Jennifer, but would see her on weekends. I went to the Johanna Potgieter-girls boarding house and my brother to its counterpart, Hendrik. My brother found the adjustment more traumatic than I did. Most children came from dysfunctional families. 71

Page 72 of 93 Bullies were in the majority. Girls were initiated less aggressively than boys. In the mornings my brother complained about his lot with hanging shoulders. Elizabeth, I dont want to be boarding any more. He didnt want to tell me what they were doing to him. Telling tales were out of the question. The boyfriend of one of the girls in my boarding house told her how they were bullying my brother. He had to make the beds of two seniors, polish both their shoes and had to see that they got hot Milo eight oclock at night. He had to shave his pubic hair because greeners were featherless cocks. The seniors also hit the greeners with a blackboard compass. His feistiness was seen as being arrogant. For the first time in my life I wasnt able to help my brother. Together we wrote letters to my mother. I wrote and he dictated. He complained to her and pleaded to be allowed to go home. She wrote back. One specific comment did little for my brothers welfare: I understand your problem, but you have to realise that the tallest trees, in your case the liveliest, would catch the most wind. My mother was afraid that the Karoo tumble-weed could be hereditary. My brother stopped dictating. *** My roommate was from Maraisburg and wary of soap. She had an over-developed libido and masturbated herself to sleep every night. Horny, she didnt know how to be discreet. Our room smelled like a fish market. I was fully grown by then and five feet nine inches tall. I wore my hair short in the neck and fortunately I had good skin. I was well-built and a size 34. I think I was rather pretty. On Sunday evenings we marched to church. In summer all boaders had to be dressed in white. The boys called us the Milky Way. Their testosterone-eyes were painting everything in a sexual shade. The female face-down-below was vague and unknown. The senior boys stared at me. My brother was suffering. One of the matric boys promised to protect my brother if he could get a date with me for the athletics-party. My brother begged me to go; my yes would save him from the bully-seniors. My date to my first dance was a rugby prop, he was no oil-painting. Boelie (the prop) had two left feet and was sneaking peeks at my breasts with a principal-expression in his eyes. He wanted to get fresh air. As we left the hall, he pinned me against the wall. Three years as a provincial school-rugby prop had made him strong. I couldnt stand up to him. His hands were squeezing my breasts and he forced his mouth on mine. His disgusting tongue sailed into my mouth and made me nauseous. I pushed him away and said; No! Maybe you dont love your brother, he threatened me. 72

Page 73 of 93 My second sexual contact with a man was as awful as the first. He pulled me towards him again; his hands clawing at my breasts. He was hurting me. He kissed me with his soppy mouth. His breath was struggling through his crooked nasal passages. His hand found its way to my crotch. Angry, I hit him between the legs with my knee. He hiccupped and let go, staggering away. Fortunately one of the teachers saw us and ordered us back to the hall. I was upset. My brother repeatedly looked in our direction, I could see that he was worried. Eleven oclock finally arrived and all the couples had to go back to the boarding houses. The housemaster welcomed his girls at the gate. Boelie told everybody that I was hot. He elaborated on my passionate reaction to his kisses. My body was described in graphic detail; apparently I was his best fuck ever. My brother was furious. That Saturday on the train back home he asked me accusingly How could you give in so easily I couldnt tell him about Boelies threat. As long as I knew that Boelie was lying. I realised that I would have to look after my body, as there were lots of wolves in wait. I tried to avoid the boys and declined all invitations. Initiation eventually came to an end. Sadly I shelved away my brothers distrust. *** I took art as a subject and music as an extra subject. The art teacher was the resident staff member in the boarding house. I think we were drawn to each other because we both tried to adapt to our new circumstances. She invited me for coffee to her room. I found the beginnings of Renaissance art very interesting. The names, dates and different styles were challenging. I paged through her glossy prints book and was enticed by their work. There was a book on erotic art on her coffee table. I started paging through it. One work of art shocked my senses into a halt and sucked me in like a tornado, Courbets - The Origin of the World. I had never been exposed to erotic art before. My mothers and sisters nudity was familiar. The boarding girls always covered their bodies with gowns or towels. The girls that I did get to see naked all looked different. The Origin painting was a revelation. Faceless, armless, and with half-legs the bushy vulva confronted me. A vulva painted in honest glory. The models left leg extended her body, the right leg branched out of her hip into a rectangle. Pubic hair was crowning her pink labia. Small elevated lips were hiding her inner genitalia. A nipple bolted her right breast onto her body. The nipple was red and erect, just like her labia. The caption stated that the painting was painted after the sex deed. 73

Page 74 of 93 I had never been penetrated, but I knew what an excited vulva looked like. The port through which the human race entered the world was vulnerable and innocent. A port which could drink-and-drink-and-drink testosterone and never be satiated. Miss sat down beside me and turned the book to see. Beautiful, she said softly. I was beginning to understand the difference between erotica and pornography. The image was realistic, stripped of all pretence. I could not understand, though, why the human body was socially only partially observable. The body was, after all, a unit. We couldnt go home on all open weekends. We didnt have a lot of pocket money and mother could afford train tickets only twice every quarter. Some weekends just a few kids stayed in. Miss was hospitable. One winters night she suggested that I should sleep over in her room. I accepted and washed my face and brushed my teeth. I already had a bath earlier on in the seniors bathroom. I shuffled back to her room in my Pep Stores slippers and flannel pyjamas. We sat on her bed listening to Neil Diamonds Hot August Night. Miss made Milo and the hot drink made me drowsy. She lit three candles and switched off the light. She had a three-quarter bed on which both of us fitted comfortably. Miss showed me another Courbet painting. Sleep depicted two naked women lying on a bed with their legs entwined. Their eyes were closed in expectant ecstasy. I thought the image was erotic. Miss closed the book and put it down on the table next to me. She stretched over me whilst her breast was rubbing gently at my cheek. It is beautiful, isnt it she whispered. Silently I nodded. She tenderly stroked my hair with her hand. Diamond was singing. Red, red wine Go to my head Make me forget that I Still need her so. Miss breath was warmly stroking my neck. She kissed my ear lightly. My heart was pounding and I had goose bumps all over. I felt her downy lips in my neck with her breath hotly following. I felt the tickle of tingling between my legs. I turned my face towards hers and our lips touched. She pulled me closer and we kissed with total surrender. Her lips were soft and her hair smelled like pine needles. The tip of her tongue teased mine and I liked it. The experience was in stark contrast with my Boelie-outrage.

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Page 75 of 93 CHAPTER 12 Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above: But to the girdle do the Gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends: theres hell, theres darkness, There is the sulphurous pit burning, scalding, - William Shakespeare *** My brother shared his first sex experience with me. He was attending a braai at his girlfriends home. She was an only child and spoiled. (Her panties fitted loosely about her hips.) The next weekend when we took the train home he shyly told me about the experience. Elizabeth, I slept with a girl. I looked at him in silence. We were smooching and both were very horny. She asked me if I had an FL. I have been carrying one in my purse with the hope that something like that would happen. Ive put it on and struggled to enter her. She helped me. We were both flippin excited and it was over quickly. Our breaths were faster than after any dance. When I rolled off her to take the FL off my dick, it was gone. She lifted her butt and we looked everywhere. He started giggling nervously. The FL was gone! After a while she felt between her legs and pulled it out. It was wet and bloody. I think she was a virgin or maybe she was having her period. His nose was wrinkled as if he was smelling something bad. I dumped the FL in the pedal bin in the kitchen. I went back to where her parents were sitting around the fire. Her dad went to get another beer and threw his empty beer can in the pedal bin. My brother swallowed. Elizabeth, I had the fright of my life when he came back with the FL clipped in a clothes peg. I looked at him, dumbfounded. My girlfriend was white as a sheet and looked frightened. Her mother yelled something like; My little girl, while her father roared; You bastard! I had no words. Next thing her father got up and I saw murder in his eyes. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, grinning idiotically. I left hurriedly without saying goodbye. What could I say. Congratulate him because he wasnt a virgin any more He looked at me expectantly. Fortunately you did find the FL *** My roommate had brought a toy from home. Her orgasms increased in intensity. Her vibrating gasps commemorated lights-out. Women as the delicate sex sometimes are less delicate. Boys dick lengths were discussed, and who was best at kissing labia. I was fascinated. Sex and reproduction were definitely two totally different activities. 75

Page 76 of 93 In our standard nine year I was confronted with death again for the first time after my fathers death. A standard six boy had hanged himself in the boys toilets. He was discovered by a matric boy who wanted to smoke on the sly. The principal delayed the bell and a windowless police van removed the corpse. We watched through the biology classroom window how a black bag on a stretcher was pushed into the truck without any flowers. He was a tall boy. He merely lifted his legs and hanged himself by his tie until he died. The ministers of different churches came to provide counselling. Teenage death was an unreal, traumatic concept. The suicide made me wonder whether I would be able to commit such a deed. The boy had weighed life and death in his hands death was heaviest. Was it a sin to kill yourself. The CSS -groups numbers increased. Their arranged weekend trips were better than having to look at the housemasters face. Nicki Cruz from The Cross and the Switchblade appeared at an open air meeting in a university stadium. Our born-again CSS teacher used the opportunity to provide an instant Damascus experience for us. In the bus on our way back to the boarding house we endlessly sang: I have decided to follow Jesus I have decided to follow Jesus I have decided to follow Jesus No turning back (praise the Lord) No turning back The kids in the group were emotional and recited the Campus Crusades conversion recipe out loud. Jesus was busy. He was invited into tens of hearts concurrently. I did not invite Him. My heart and my body was my own. He had created me and he already owned me. My friends nurtured their newly-found religion and learned more songs. They founded a coffee bar Jesus Inn. Peer pressure became spiritual. The teachers were amused the ringleaders and their mobs caused less trouble. Puberty was confusing teenage hormones; religion added to the confusion. My roommate was also converted she slept restlessly. At our prayer group she confessed her guilt feelings about sexual day and night dreams. I slept peacefully in her newly found piety. My brother was the leader at Jesus Inn. He dropped his girlfriend who did not want to invite Jesus into her heart. She was a Reformer and all the evangelism confused her. I understood. *** The boys started to taunt and mock me because I refused to date them. I was not anti-boy, but I thought they were only after one thing. I wasnt scared of sex or intimacy, but I wanted to be in control. Lots of girls started boasting about how they enjoyed smooching boys or how they had sex. 76

Page 77 of 93 I got the impression that they were just bragging. Antjie Krog dedicated herself to God in the poem Daughter of Jephthah. I shared her sentiment without the dedication. Lord at Abel-Kermim Lord at Mispah in Gilead Lord God of Jephthah Here is my body! Here is my membrane safe like a retina and whole like a small green pomegranate. Here is my stomach a cold fire-place that resigned will watch over the monthly flow. Here are my breasts two budding drops that will never be yeasted with love. Here are my hands dear Lord strong and willing like my heart. From now on I am a bride impregnated by Spirit, from now on I am midwife to a nation from now on I am expecting You. I wondered if Antjies devotion could be permanent. *** My brother and I completed our confirmation classes in our home town. Confirmation was a necessary acquisition for a wine licence. We had to proof our readiness to be accepted as members of the Dutch Reformed Church in a private interview with the minister. My brother confronted the minister about baptism. I think he was secretly baptised again in a swimming pool. My conversation was different; the reverend had buried my father. Elizabeth, do you have any questions. I wanted to remind him that he had never answered my wordless question about my fathers death. No answer would however gratify my need to have a father. The Bride of Christ, embraced by the Canons of Dort and the Heidelberg Cathechism was without emotion and rational. The female character, absent. Wordless I looked across his shoulder at the patriarchal knowledge on the divine bookshelves. How could anybody become a member of an organisation of which the requirements were so arbitrary. Religion was subjective. Faith and disbelief required equal energy. *** The church was full on Confirmation Sunday. The principal who had molested me was out on parole. He marched down the isle, red-faced, with his family in tow. I was thinking that the man had a cheek to show up like that. The blood of the Lamb might have washed him, but in my book he wasnt clean. His action was arrogant in its humility.

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Page 78 of 93 Fortunately we all had to answer simultaneously to the question of whether we believed in the creeds. I kept quiet I believed in God. The church was a phallic organ. *** One of my friends turned sixteen and I was invited to her house for the weekend. They lived in the affluent part of town. There would be an open party at their house on the Saturday night. Excited I helped her to decorate the garage. Her dad hired a disc jockey who could play music until midnight. Fortunately my mother had just bought me a pair of new jeans and pretty sandals the previous weekend at an Edgars sale. My friend insisted that I wore one of her peach tops. Boys arrived on their motorbikes and stood in groups looking at us. We were self-conscious and giggly. The disc jockey was a Pink Floyd fan and I became A brick in the wall. He played slower music, couples started to close-dance. My reputation as a Frigidaire ensured that I retained spectator status. The physical science teachers son was shy and avoided girls. He was hanging against the opposite wall and had been eyeing me all night. I smiled back at him with a bouncing heart. He came to ask me to dance and it was easy to say yes. He was more than six feet tall and played centre for the first rugby team. We were both tense and swayed Pinocchio-like in each others arms. He said something that I didnt catch and when I lifted my head from his shoulder to ask what he was saying, he kissed me. My first romantic kiss was heavenly. His father fetched him at eleven oclock. I was annoyed; I would have liked another kiss. At school the next day I wanted to see him. The encounter finally happened after break on the stairs. He quickly squeezed past me and ignored me completely. I was taken aback. I could still feel the tingling of his kiss on my lips. Why did he kiss me if he didnt like me. It couldnt be because of my breath, as I had been chewing Beechies all night. My friend and I had bathed in Fenjal and I had dabbed Youth Dew behind my ears. I was pretty and slender; we scarcely talked to each other. I was hurt. I really wanted to dance with him the night before and I wasnt reluctant to kiss him. Could it be that he had heard the Boelie-story, or that he knew something about my background. Too many questions and no answers made me shelve that episode as well. Insecure I weighed myself and I didnt measure up. *** I was seventeen and in Matric. As a senior I considered myself to be mature. I definitely didnt think that I was naive. I had developed symptoms of appendicitis and was taken to a provincial hospital. The nurse brought a bowl of water and a razor. Will you be able to shave yourself or should I help. 78

Page 79 of 93 I was surprised. Did I have to shave my armpits and legs for an appendectomy. I didnt answer her. She drew the curtains and ordered; Take off your panties. What for, I asked, dismayed. You have to shave your fanny. My ignorance made me blush and I mumbled that I would manage on my own. The strawberry-blonde hair looked wet and dark in the kidney-shaped bowl. My mons pubis looked puffed up and my inner labia prominent. The skin felt tender and soft. I thought of Jennifer; how many years ago since my vulva had been hairless. A doctor injected a needle into my arm in the theatre and said; Sleep tight. I sank away into nothingness. The operation was successful. My pubic hair eventually grew back, shy and itchy. *** Neither my brother nor I was chosen for the student council. Mother was absent. I was satisfied, but my brothers aspirations were unfulfilled. Christianity calmed him down, but the damage to his reputation would take years to repair. He had always wanted to be a clown and liked attention. He was popular because he was good at sports, but he wanted even more attention. He felt inferior and was chasing his own tail like a bullterrier, never able to catch it. My matric farewell was a failure. My mother couldnt afford a dress for me and I had to hire one. The Sunday school lady made the alterations. My date was an orphanage boy. My friends smiled high-handedly when they heard who was going to accompany me. He had polio as a child and his parents simply never fetched him from hospital. He had been in the orphanage since he was four years old. I was content with my farewell partner, but not with the dress. Nobody invited me to the farewell when I was in standard nine. Even though I was pretty enough, the boys would rather avoid a rebuff. The hired dress was worn by the head girl the year before. I didnt know it, but everybody was giggling behind their hands about Elizabeths second-hand dress. It was awful. Their behaviour left my partner uncertain; he thought they were gossiping about him. We tried to dance, but he stumbled. Everybody laughed, I was furious. I helped him up. He blushed and stuttered an apology. Laugh at your arses and pray for your souls! I snarled at the hall. We walked out in silence. I started crying in anger. How could people be so cruel. Fortune or grace favoured some people above others. His illness and the rejection of his parents did not make him a lesser person. My fathers death was a long shadow.

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Page 80 of 93 *** Our matric year was almost at its end. The trial exam was an unpleasant prelude to the final exams. I remember when I wrote the last paper and hurriedly left the school grounds. Outside the school gates I stopped for a moment and looked at everybody who was excitedly pushing to be outside, just to feel the same as two minutes previously. I had really wanted to leave school, and I did. What now. The anticlimax was disappointing. I had to write aptitude tests. Art and languages were my strong points. Fortunately my commitment resulted in a scholarship. My brother received his army call-up to 2 SAI in Walvisbay. He was very excited. Some of us went to Margate to celebrate our freedom from school. We experienced freedom for the first time. Some kids abused alcohol, which affected their judgement. Inebriated, horny teenagers contraception was careless. The abortion clinic in Mbabane, Swaziland was particularly busy in the new year. My brother left with the troop-train on the 2nd of January from Milpark station to Walvisbay. He had a whole backpack full of religious tracts. He wanted to announce the tyranny of Jesus love to friend and foe. Other recruits backpacks were filled with alcohol. My impetuous brother was going to suffer, I thought. Mother was in tears, like most of the other mothers. For South Africa our land!

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Page 81 of 93 Dear Mother I have spoken to my parents, they told me that they never would have experienced parental love if it had not been for your selflessness. I am fortunate to have two mothers who love me dearly. As you know I am turning 21 this December and my dad has offered to pay my airfare to South Africa. He has booked me on flight SAA 235, arriving in South Africa on the 16th of December. Do you think you can accommodate me? Perhaps I can even meet my biological father. Love Stephen. *** The letter is a relief to my thirsty soul. The desert of my cancer therapy sometimes make me doubt Stephens existence. My child doesnt know of my illness. My chemo is, thank God, over and the side-effects as well. *** Radiotherapy sounds so devout; it has nothing to do with sound, though. This part of my treatment has been less traumatic than the chemo. I was scanned to indicate the affected areas. Two blue tattoos directed the machines focus accurately. The treatment consisted of six sessions of twenty minutes each. I was lying on my own under the glass eye. The radiographer skipped energetically in and out to prevent becoming radioactive.. She was a Xhosa woman that had received her training at Mt. Frere hospital. As if by magic the invisible energy would obliterate the chemo-weakened cancer cells. Blind atomic energy charred cancer cells into ashes. The chemo poison has the alien cells on their knees; the knock-out would be administered by the radiotherapy. Even though I myself was almost knocked out, my spirit is still fidgeting. Have the treatment damaged my inner being. My body has been the object of cruel experiments for the past few months. I wondered what God was thinking of his beings tricks to hamper His plans of supreme wisdom. Some of my co-sufferers believe that God uses the doctors to heal them. Cancer patients are hopelessly naive; we believe because we are desperate. Anything is acceptable as long as it will get rid of the big C. God is roped in to help, which He sometimes does. The treatment has exhausted my medical funds. With an anxious heart I have started using my savings meant for future dreams. I have to finance my own via dolorosa. The quiet fear under the emotionless eye musters confused thoughts about whats happening to my flesh. My initial shock after the diagnosis has turned into denial. There must have been a problem with the tests. The weakening of my health caused by the chemo made acceptance even more difficult. Depression is a condition without any hope.

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Page 82 of 93 More often than not I have been so sick and tired after a chemo-session that I even wished I would die. Through the haze God as an unknown entity has developed a face. One night while I was lying on my bed pleading with God to end it all, I had a vision. I was in the middle of the desert. I had been scorched by the sun, delirious and totally dehydrated. I fell forward and the dry sand filled my nose and mouth; it tasted of ashes. I started crying in despair and buried my hands in the sand, despondent. Desolation and loneliness were suffocating me. I turned on my back, but the sun blinded my eyes. I just stretched my arms sideways, and told God; I am tired. Come and take me. A shadow moved over me. The hot, dry air became a cool breeze. A woman whose face I couldnt see in the bright light lay my head on Her lap and used a wet rag to bring relief to my burning face. I drank the sweetest water from a pitcher; every sip was renewing my sick body from the inside. The Woman was humming quietly and cradled me in Her arms as if I was a baby. I felt safe and secure in Her arms. She took my face between Her hands and kissed me on my forehead and spoke. Her voice was reverberating in my heart. I am the good shepherd. My sheep know My voice. I became aware of a peace like I had never experienced before. My nausea was gone and there was no more discomfort. Stephen, my child, was a gift from God. I knew then that I would survive to see him. The vision had healed the Cancer in my soul. Cancer is a cause of death just like a car accident, heart attack or diabetes. The body perishes naturally, but we want to fight this with all weve got. Could quality of life ever be exchanged for suffering-quantity. Do sheep also get cancer.

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CHAPTER 13 One of the chief mechanisms in the suppression of female humanity is the obliteration of female sexuality In order that the pork sword might be seen to rule the world unchallenged, women obligingly hid their sex, at first with a hand (though later the) devices for minimising the organs of femaleness became more sophisticated; women began to wear knickers, then to deodorise their genitals, douche them, shave them, pluck them. Modesty rotted their innocence. They learned to prize smallness, inaccessibility. Their rich juices were prevented from flowing. Germaine Greer. *** I went to university and found a place in a female residence. The experience to act responsibly was strange. The first-years were strictly managed by the seniors; the other students lives appeared carefree. Few young people realised how privileged they were to be able to study further. There was lots of fun in the interaction with the mens residences during rag. Many of the girls forgot all about parental restrictions, and were enjoying their newfound freedom. I did a course in art and found my artistic co-students to be a rare breed. Some of them dressed weirdly and the group as a whole seemed to be more rebellious than the other students. The Afrikaans culture with its traditions was unmentionable. I realised that there was no money for idle play and I worked hard. Committed female students were called convent cookies. The senior men asked me on dates regularly, but I stubbornly refused. My Boelie-experience had left me cautious. *** A senior in my corridor was an honours student in Geology and organised weekend outings. My curiosity about evolution was kindled when we visited various archaeological sites. Evolution was a fact that I only discovered at university. Christian National Education was hijacked by our bigoted sister churches. Creationists switched off our sinful minds. The senior was an envoy of Erenos. She visited my room and frequently invited me for coffee. She wore her hair short and her uniform was jeans and a T-shirt. The interest of an honours student made me feel important. We went to the movies and the civic theatre and drank cappuccinos. *** I had my first real sexual experience towards the end of my first year. That is, one in which another person brought me to an orgasm. We were camping in a nature reserve. The project had something to do with a volcanic crater in which the park was located. We were hanging out around the camp fire, drinking dry white wine. I wasnt much into alcohol and my face soon glowed. The other students drank rum and went to bed early. 83

Page 84 of 93 My first sex was in a two-man tent. The senior had a double sleeping bag. I was dressed in panties and a T-shirt and self-consciously got into the sleeping bag. The torch light cast a white spot against the tent sail. I was wiggling my butt to get comfortable when I felt her cool body silkily nestling to mine. She started stroking my breasts. I was shaking; she took my breath away. She lay down on top of me and teased me to excitement with tiny kisses. I wanted to kiss her back and when her lips touched mine, the fire inside me was kindled. My T-shirt and panties became redundant; my heater was switched on. Softly she nibbled at my nipples and her tongue treaded a warm foot-path towards my mountain of Venus. I was almost out of breath with excitement and involuntarily made soft groaning sounds. She kissed my vulva and her tongue stimulated my clitoris intensely. The enjoyment of that touch was building up in waves and flooded my consciousness. It was as if the walls of some dam broke and passionately flooded through my body. My lover covered my mouth with her hand. Geologists might be dull, but they definitely werent deaf. The fauna and flora were disturbed by the ecstatic howling of an anthropoid. My lover whispered softly in my ear that she was Isis, the goddess that had control over life and death. Temporary death in the form of Le Petit Mort was her speciality. It was refreshing to experience orgasm from another hand. The experiences intensity was also different. The weekend was long and my goddess, diligent. Skilful and with sadistic commitment I was taken from climax to climax. Her fixation to bring me to an orgasm with every love session was exhausting. We started dating formally. Initially I was excited about our relationship and the attention. Our friends were sharing our life choices. I was learning a lot about my body and of a relationship with another person. The sex was great, the shows nice, but our relationship was lacking in the wowfactor. I couldnt be bothered much by remarks about our sexual orientation. Love was a human ability and we were after all humans first and then women. *** The development of sexual identity required research. Fortunately I had a committed mentor that allowed me to discover and enjoy my bodys abilities. I was aware of religious prejudices; some students aversion was aggressive. Gossip was rolling off my sensual back. Hedonistic I surrendered myself to her lips that transformed my body into a living symphony. I read a poem that described my experience. Eve Lips taste the fruit on the tree 84

Page 85 of 93 of Knowledge of Good and of Evil depriving her of paradise. Other lips taste another, more terrible fruit giving paradise back to her.- Ina Rousseau We gradually spent more time in each others company. She hated men; her dad had molested her at a young age. I did not have a problem with men but enjoyed the relationship. *** We went to a rock festival. Everybody was drinking and dagga was the primary sustenance. I had never before seen so many drunk or high people in one place. On the first night we sat around the campfire, joking around while a dagga zol was making the rounds. When it was my turn, I pinched the wet paper between my thumb and index-finger and sucked nervously. I went overboard; the tip was glowing red and angry. Look, Elizabeth is drawing a donkey-dick, somebody teased. You are a natural, my proud companion proclaimed. I felt light-headed with the second round and was thirsty. I floated to our tent like a ghostly spirit. There was water in the cooler. My brain was confused, everything was inside-out. The moon was rushing at me from the sky like the light of an approaching train; Human voices sounded as if they were talking from under water. The meanings of words were all back to front and I had to turn everything around to be able to understand. It was hard to follow conversation. A paranoid feeling of doom grabbed hold of me. The festival-goers were plotting with my lover to kill me. I lay down in the tent, trying to get my breathing under control. Panic overwhelmed me. My lover entered the tent and stripped my clothes off my body. The dagga made her horny and she wanted to make passionate love to me. I did not protest; I was nauseous. Her face was a grinning skull; I shut my eyes. I promised myself that I would never smoke the shit again. I had lost control an asset that I had been guarding jealously. I would never compromise myself like that again. The meaning of my existence was founded on my rational decision to believe in myself and to be in control at all times. What a lesson.

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CHAPTER 14 Did you know that every brain begins as a female brain and that it only becomes male eight weeks after conception? This is when excess testosterone shrinks the communication centre, reduces the hearing cortex, and makes the part of the brain that processes sex twice as large. Louanne Brizendine *** I was scrambling across the road in front of the residence during a heavy storm. I was late for class and didnt hear a thing. The next moment I was lying on the side-walk in a jumble with a man and his bicycle. My butt was numb, but fortunately that was my only injury. I looked up and saw a beautiful man. His blonde hair stuck to his skull. Water was dribbling from his nose; his eyes were sea-green. Are you okay, he asked. He shoved the bicycle to the side and helped me to get up. I was without words. I owe you a coffee, he said, and led me to the Wimpy, not waiting for an answer. His name was Erik, he was a theological student in his final year. His father was a minister in a Boland town; his grandfather owned a wine-estate. Our coffee arrived, but still I couldnt talk. What is your name. Elizabeth, I answered softly. The royal one, he playfully wanted to know. Even as a young girl I had always dreamed that I would know when the right man would cross my way. My way had collided with a Boland burr. *** I told my lover about the incident and could see that she was upset. I thought she was jealous. We studied the Kama Sutra together. As a technical virgin I found the book very interesting. Finally I could continue with Dr. Jans education. The dynamics of sex were interesting, but my lover was not at ease. She was aware that I was still wondering about sex with men. The erotic bible we studied was heterogeneous. We had regular sex, but I refused penetration with any aid. I was protective of my virginity. She was angry and called me old-fashioned. No man was worthy of a womans virginity, she bitterly reproached. Homosexual relationships were a reality. People of the same sex could love and care for each other. Our love-deed was satisfactory. Evolutionary a single-sex relationship would become a problem, however, should a couple desire to reproduce their genes. Erik was aware that I was in a relationship. I dont think he knew that it was sexual. Even though he was intelligent and educated, he was naive. My lover had set an ultimatum. 86

Page 87 of 93 Either I would allow her to penetrate me with a dildo, or our relationship would be over. The choice was easy. I had always been in control of my body. If men could not get my virgin, she couldnt either. We ended the relationship. I was relieved; I didnt love her. *** My brother wrote a letter once a month; his passion for his religion was quenched by the desert. He still wanted to study theology, but had to finish his army service of two years. I started spending more time in Eriks company, he made me laugh. Erik was courting me slowly. He only started to hold my hand one evening after church on our way back to the residence in the second week after we started dating. I was in no hurry and enjoyed our relationship. Nature was ticking to its own clock. Eriks honesty provided him with an appealing vulnerable quality. I deducted from his conversations that he was still a virgin. Premarital sex was forbidden by the church, but Erik was open-minded. He believed that if two people loved each other, things have to be allowed to take their own course. (Paul would have strongly disapproved.) Erik invited me to his grandparents farm in the Boland. We would go by train, which meant an overnight trip. I was on my own in a coupe while he shared a four-bunker. I had never slept on a train before and was excited. There were lots of army troops on the train. The men were on their way back home from the border. They sneaked peeks at me and one was trying to paw me. Erik reacted and knocked a big sergeant out cold. He was a provincial boxing champion at school. Drunken men are animals. Supper in the dining-saloon was a worthwhile experience. Starched table cloths and serviettes with silver cutlery and white crockery. The Freestate landscape rushed past in the cold moonlight. Waiters in white jackets and black trousers served the food. There was an unreal quality to this formal dinner. Afterwards I went back to my coupe. The click-clack of the wheels on the railway-line kept me awake. There was a knock at the door Erik I invited him in and we started chatting. He held my hand and told me that he loved me. He also told me about the Biblical love-book. He recited parts of it in Hebrew and repeated them in Afrikaans. I was surprised who would have thought that The Bible could be erotic. I kissed him and he reacted awkwardly. I applied my lovers training with skill. Poor Erik could not resist my purposeful love-techniques. I touched the front of his pants and he experienced a jittery orgasm. Stuttering he apologised. I was on a roll. Lets take a shower, I suggested. He looked at me, incredulous. 87

Page 88 of 93 He fetched his toilet bag in a flash from his compartment. The shower wasnt very big and we struggled to undress. At first the water was too hot and then too cold. Erik adjusted the temperature with shaking hands. We embraced each other underneath the pleasant spray. I kissed him with passion and could feel the pressure of his penis against my innerthigh. I firmly took it into my hand and guided it between my labia. The discomfort in my vagina quickly passed. Rhythmically we panted in each others mouths in the restricted space. Erik started to shudder and I held him tight. He looked me in the eyes and said; I love you. Our virginities were lost on the Transkaroo-Express. We finished showering and went back to my coupe. Together we lay on the narrow seat. He held me and I was stimulated again. His penetration in the missionary position was thorough. The sheet was stained by a tiny blood speck. The defeated sergeants tape recorder played Cat Stevens. I would have given you all of my heart But there is someone whos torn it apart And shes taking almost all that Ive got Bit if you want, Ill try to love again Baby Ill try to love again but I know The first cut is the deepest, baby I know The first cut is the deepest cause when it comes to be lucky shes cursed When it comes to lovin me shes first Thats how I know The first cut is the deepest, baby I know The first cut is the deepest. Today I still remember the prophetic song. The bride of Christ his first love. *** Eriks mother fetched us from the station. She was a friendly woman who didnt talk a lot. We wandered around the farm. He showed me where he had burned down a haystack. The dam, into which he had driven a tractor as a ten year old, was empty. The area was experiencing a fierce drought. We used every opportunity to explore and enjoy each others bodies. The sex was magnificent. I taught him the different Kama Sutra positions. We found the missionary one to be boring. I started to protest two days before my ovulation. I wasnt using any contraceptives. Oral sex was at first uncomfortable for Erik. I remembered the pictures of my brothers friend. Erik did not pee. After two weeks we went back to university. Erik was a new person. The new life-experience made him more self-assured. He traded his naivety for sophistication.

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Page 89 of 93 *** Women as the apparent soft, nurturing species can be devastatingly cruel. When I discontinued my studies some weeks after the vacation, everybody wanted to know why. My silence confirmed general suspicion. I was walking down the stairs with my belongings when I ran into my ex. Her eyes were shining viciously. Her ability to hurt with words, well-known. Elizabeth, at least my dildo was sterile.

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Page 90 of 93 Dear Stephen I cannot believe that I will finally meet you. Of course you can stay with me. I will be delighted. I have tried to find out about your biological fathers whereabouts but was unsuccessful. Rest assured, I will be at the airport. Love Mother *** I am so excited, my child is coming home. The treatment has turned me into a skeleton. Stephen is still unaware of my illness. I dont want to saddle him with the fear of meeting a half-dead mother. *** I got hold of the universitys number after I had phoned 1023. The ringing pulsed through my fear of years. Department Religious Ethics, good afternoon. I swallowed. May I please speak to the Professor. My heart was pounding. How many years since I had talked to Erik; twenty twenty-one. Good afternoon. His voice was deeper and sounded reserved. Erik, its me, Elizabeth. Silence. Erik, can you hear me. It is me, Elizabeth. So I hear. After an eternal silence, he asks; Why are you phoning me. Erik, our son that was adopted is coming to South Africa. He is turning twenty-one on the 25th of December. He asked to meet his biological father. The buzz of the telephone line sounded impatient. Elizabeth, I havent heard a word from you for twenty years and then you phone me out of the blue about a boy that wants to meet his father. I told you then and I am telling you now, for the very last time: I did not father a child with you. Purple jacarandas suddenly were budding in my memory. I lost my temper. Erik, as dean of the Theology Department you have suspect ethics. You prefer prestige and respect to your own child. You were the first and only man with whom I ever had sex. I was calm and not finished yet. I do hope that your god wont suffer from amnesia when he calls you to justice one day. He put the phone down in my ear.

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Page 91 of 93 CHAPTER 15 The sun rises, stumbles looks and moves on . Dolf van Niekerk. *** I am preparing the spare bedroom in my flat for my sons homecoming. I chuckle excitedly as I take the teddy bear out of its twenty year old wrapping. The teddy smiles. I make him comfortable against the pillow on the bed. I went to my doctor and he did more blood tests. Neither chemo nor x-rays stopped the cancer. A scanner detected tumours in my brain, lungs and liver. I have decided not to go for any more treatment. My spirit was healthy and after my vision from God, I experienced a peace which has conquered my rational fears. People feel sorry for me. They dont realise that the process of dying takes its time. Bit by bit the horror of death is overcome. I would slip away quietly. I dont have much time left. Fortunately I have the opportunity to reconcile with the most important person in my life. I look at the clock. I better make a move. The plane is landing in an hour. I adjust the vase with sunflowers in the lounge and cover the bowl of biltong and dro wors. I chuckle again, my Kiwichild will learn to eat biltong. On my way to the airport I sing with Pavarotti: Ave Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena Maria, gratia plena Ave, ave dominus, dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus et benedictus fructus ventris ventris tui, Jesus. Ave Maria. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis, nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. In the mirror I notice how the green of the bandana accentuates the blue in my eyes. I think the knowledge that my son is coming home contributes as well. I am wearing a loose kaftan to hide my thin body. The arrival hall is packed. Ex-pat South Africans still consider this country home. Flight SAA 235 from Melbourne has landed, announces a girl with an Africa-accent. Every face coming through customs searched anxiously. A tall young man with his hair in his eyes is gracefully pushing his trolley, as if hes doing it every day. He is frowning while his eyes page through the waiting crowd. 91

Page 92 of 93 Our eyes meet instant recognition. His young face lights up into a smile, he has dimples in both of his cheeks. He leaves the trolley and shoulders a few people out of way. How can I describe something for which there are no words. He is over six feet tall and embraces me in his strong arms. He hugs me against his chest. True happiness is not an illusion. My spirit was gradually fading away for more than twenty years. My biggest loss became my biggest profit He touches my shoulder holding me an arm-length away. Hi, Mom. My little duckling, my cradling world.

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Epilogue Jesus; And he who does not take up his cross and follow Me, is not worthy. He who finds his life, will lose it again; and he who loses his life for My sake, will find it. Johann Wolfgang Goethe: When you dont recognise this death and this genesis, you are merely a sad lodger on this dark earth. Wu Ming Fu: The seed that was destind to grow must first be lost; and that which crawls first has to develop wings through a pupa. Will you then, o mortal, cling to shells that falsely present you to yourself? Jolande Jacobi: In the individuation process it is always a case of something expired that must be left behind so that a new may be reborn. *** In a letter to a friend in 1850, Gustav Courbet declares: in our so very civilized society it is necessary for me to live the life of a savage. I must be free even of governments. The people have my sympathies, I must address myself to them directly.

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