Shhh! We Don't Call it Abuse

By Toki Mohoto

Abuse has a different name, wears a unique mask and enjoys a degree of tolerable abnormalcy in our society.

Rarely do we look at it for what it is, if anything it has become quite a norm in certain societies. 

The book in contributes in part toward the identification, exposure and correcting of this anomaly. 

This is achieved or the attempt looks at various lives that have been affected by various forms of abuse, including the last impact this has had on their individual lives, those of their families and the circle of people within their various spheres of influence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Toki Mohoto
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780620677882

Book preview

Chapter 1

Who decides what is normal in my life?

The nature of and normalcy in discrimination

There are times when we see things in our own narrow views and insist that it is the right way and as such everyone else must subscribe to that kind of behavior and opinion.

In all types of people, there is a need to believe that our version of the situation is what everyone else prefers.

Our sense of self-importance convinces us that since we find what we do and having accepted to be the end of all opinions, the next person must see it the same way as we do.

We even create strict conditions by which forced compliance is achieved or at least advocated.

Those who fail to assimilate, face the possibility of being labeled all sorts of things, purely because our ignorance and views were as a result of a long process of socialization which perhaps started even before we were born.

1.1 The dangers of forcing people to fit in

Many of the practices we accept as normal today were generational prescribed norms, beliefs and culture, some even concluding you can’t go against family tradition.

One example that comes to mind is when my late grandfather invited me to join his church, which he confidently stated was for our clan.

He was not ready for taking No for an answer and all I could do was nod hesitantly; though, deep within me, I knew I would not join anytime soon. The rebellious twin in me, as a Gemini, ensured that I mischievously replied with an empty promise to consider the invitation.

After noticing that I neither had interest nor had listened with a spark in my eye every time the topic came, the classic threat of I will invoke the wrath of my ancestors if I did not join unashamedly came.

Another example was when as a young boy, I was a late bloomer and my peers would always pick on and bully me into engaging in the same habits they were convinced constituted a necessary transition from boyhood to young men.

In their ignorant logic, if I didn’t experiment in sex in my teens, sperm would fill my head to a point where I lose sight completely and develop severe cases of incurable acne.

Seeing that I was not willing to concede to emotional blackmail and whatever street wisdom they were advancing, the isolation, name calling and rumors about me being gay came from all angles, just to force their way.

This was the sad group who were mesmerized by a character Papa Action from a popular television drama called Yizo Yizo. They would assume that street corners were the best hangout spot for teens; my insistence on individualism would incite more discrimination and at worst defamatory labels.

I had developed a strong friendship with one of our friends who had not found the popular culture as appealing as it had been made out to be.

The rumor about us being so close that we did things in private started, but the most humorous was when we would be called a battery and a watch, apparently I was the battery without which my friend the watch was powerless and irrelevant.

These forms of forced assimilation did not end here; I distinctly remember what going against my spirit cost me.

It was a windy day during our school holidays, seeing that the peer pressure and claimed benefits of fitting in seemed to hoodwink me into finally setting aside my apprehensions and finally accepted the invitation to hang out with the boys.

Because I had taken the time to join them and was obviously unaware of how this hanging out takes place and what the codes were.

I found myself having to stand in front of a crowd I had only seen from a distance or greeted individually whenever I left my fenced home.

On this day, I was invited to a house packed with women only, and for some reason unbeknown to me.

My eyes caught the view of what was taking place; the scene was reminiscent of what normally takes place before a bitterly violent battle.

Upon my arrival, as though some ladies within this group had concluded that whatever charge was being presented I was indeed undeniably guilty of it; they were literally at the edge of their seats as if ready to pounce on me.

When I noticed that something against me was being planned, I stopped within a safe distance and asked after the reason for my invitation.

One of the afflicted arrogantly asked, utheni wena, uthena wena ngathi kubangani bakho? (What did you say, what did you say about us to your friends?).

Shocked at the tone and accusation, my anxious mind responded sharply Nina ningizwe ngithini, ang’fune munt ozong’qambela amanga (what you all hear me say, I don’t want anyone spreading lies about me), clearly dissatisfied with my answer and content with their version of events, one of them tried to apprehend me.

When I finally realized what the intention was; judging by the weapons being prepared and the tone used; I knew the next best thing would be to run as fast as my fear and energy would carry me.

I was convinced that our domesticated dog Tiger would finally prove his worth and protect me, as we lived in a low crime area, and he hadn’t been required to risk his life or do real dog work.

Moments after I arrived home, I locked the front and back door; the main gates were left unlocked because my mother was still preparing to go to work for a night shift.

Mind you, the nature of my accusation had not been mentioned; finally, the crowd descended home, few blocked the top and the rest stood at the bottom gate.

While the ladies who claimed I said some injurious words to them came to knock.

When my mother heard the insistent knock, she asked me to check who it was since I already knew and feared what would happen should I open the door; my immediate reaction was to pretend that I neither heard my mother nor the knock.

Confused at this seemingly escalating aggression of the knock, she quickly wore something and attended to the door.

To her surprise, a crowd of more than thirteen women of various ages had come to teach me a lesson as I heard one of them speak.

They were discussing how tired they were of being called degrading labels and discriminated against.

My mother’s calm voice asks as she opens the door yebo ngingani siza (yes, how can I help you?), that was her, even in the midst of trouble she always responded in a mild and reserved tone.

The lady nearest to the door angrily replies sizele lo, lo uyadelela Ma, usibize ngezitabane etshela abangane bakhe (we came for this one, pointing at me; he called us lesbians, while addressing his friends), at that moment my heart sank and as talkative as I was, only a deafening silence could come out of me, as I surveyed the desperately aggrieved crowd before me.

At this moment, my mind was racing between self-condemnation and cautiously accepting what my fate had led me to; a place where I listened to the popular voice as opposed to the one within which had before kept me out of harm’s way.

As they stood to hear my plea, I rushed to another place where I remembered why I had chosen to resist the temptation to join this group of peers before.

My mother had warned me about friends and what trying to fit-in as a teenager could lead to.

In a defeated posture I shyly said mina angenzanga lutho, futh’ angishong' lokho kumuntu (I did not do anything, and I also did not say that about anyone.)

In all honestly, I couldn’t have uttered such words, as I knew them to be slanderous in nature and amounted to an insult.

My mother understood me too well to know what I was capable of.

But since I had gone against her numerous pleas regarding friends, she was left with no choice but to ask for my forgiveness, to which the ladies replied: Wena Ma awu nacala, inangu ekufanele axolise (You have done no wrong Ma; he is the one who has to apologize).

Having to admit something I had neither said nor done was difficult for me.

Expressing an apology over something that was a lie, was equally daunting; since I could not stomach the look of disappointment in my mother’s eyes; I apologized and the matter was resolved, though not as the ladies had planned.

What I understood then was that I shouldn’t have gone against my instinct and that hanging out with friends for the sake of wanting to fit in never does yield any positive results.

My mother sat me down, with a look of concern, asked; Kodwa uyenzelani into enje, ngakutshela ukuthi hlukana nabangani (tell me why you did such a thing, didn’t I tell you to distance yourself from your friends).

I promised to not find myself in spaces where I am not supposed to be and indeed, I followed that promise devotedly.

As I had overcome this experience I locked myself in my bedroom and interrogated the meaning of friendship.

But most importantly, I reasoned that there must have been a greater reason which influenced why the ladies sought to take out the obvious high degree of anger and shame out on me.

Perhaps, for them to want to punish me over something they were comfortable with, could have happened for two reasons: one, being that the community would have found justifiable grounds to further ostracize and insult them, even going as far as being burned as it happened in a distant township,

Two; They knew that the pain and anguish of having to live in secret were such that for them happiness and acceptance came at a higher price, one which could involve being disowned by their loved ones, denied certain privileges and even stripped of their rights as a human being.

Whatever the reason was, this left an unsettling feeling deep within me, and I would, later on, understand what it felt to be in their position.

Conclusion:

Personal choice is one of the most sacred gifts and powers we can exercise as individuals. The choice can either come from our own initiative or as a suggested response, influenced by what other people feel is right for us.

In any situation we may find ourselves in, being able to choose a particular course of action, is both liberating and humbling.

May we allow each person to decide what makes sense in their lives without having them feel a need to explain their choices or change to suit what we define as acceptable?

Questions:

If you were in my position what would you have said to yourself so as to make the choice suited to you?

Since I allowed my peers to decide the terms of me fitting in, that alone disempowered me from active participation in my life. What would have been the best way of responding to the pressure presented?

What could the long term effects of the consequences of my choices be and how can I overcome this?

1.2 Am I man enough?

Within the same street as these ladies were, another gentle soul lived to positively touch each life that he met with; hope, renewal, acceptance, tolerance, respect, truth, sincerity and unconditional embrace.

He jokingly called himself jezebel though in the Bible, the character called as jezebel was known for being a loose lady, perhaps Jabulani (be happy, is the meaning of the name), used the name metaphorically.

Understanding that unlike the jezebel who spread havoc and discomfort in the Bible, he pursued the opposite mission; as few people who knew him can speak ill of and name any instance where they were harmed or insulted by him.

His brush with discrimination happened in the strangest of settings, and my witnessing this was preparing me for what would happen to my own sister, it seemed.

He grew up being a normal boy, for reasons I know not of, he was raised by a single mother who had become incapacitated and couldn’t afford life’s bare necessities for her child.

Having been around a feminine figure for a great part of your life and perhaps as some form of showing sympathy, care about and compassion for your single parent whose struggles you see daily; though unfortunately as a child can’t really do much to help since you also depend on them.

One is led to believe this drove him to escape the cruelty with which his father’s absence had exposed him to hardships which affected him in ways we won’t easily explain, and as such to avoid being the same disappointment or expressing one’s reservations in the strongest terms possible, the logical step to follow is to continue finding refuge within the familiar territory of femininity.

The church we all attended had programs which were designed in such a way that out of the three sessions we had, one of these was a class which separately spilt males from females.

As much as Jabulani loved coming to church, which he had done before his outwardly feminine orientation, he was faced with a serious challenge.

Whenever he was in a male only class he couldn’t identify with any of us and was the subject of ridicule, discrimination, and defamatory comments.

One such being called sissy boy when he needed to use the restroom, he was uncomfortable to share the urinals with us, and the church rules would not permit a male person to share a toilet with females only.

He would sometimes go on for weeks without attending church for evident and justifiable reasons.

The zealotry of the church leadership and their obsession with numbers would often fool him into believing that his special case would be accommodated and to his shock and dismay, more of the same thing occurred until he resentfully left the judgmental people and unwelcome environment for good.

He took so much pride whenever he went to church; I remember when I would walk past his house and find him washing his pearly white Levis denim which he often wore to church.

When he finally told me of the reason behind his choosing to stay away from the insults and rather opt to worship his God with his acts of kindness and servitude, instead of hypocritically claiming one thing while practicing the opposite.

I resisted the temptation of asking further and closed the subject.

While young, there came a day where I had questioned my masculinity because in my high school class in grade seven, we had a bully who was a big bodied woman.

Faith would terrorize the class males, purely because she could, was excited by the power to exercise the authority of sorts.

She would call us Osisi abadla ama kellogs (suburban snobs who couldn’t defend themselves).

This had such a huge impact on me, which I started to wonder if I was indeed man enough. In my quest, I interrogated the subjects of sexual identity, masculinity and the right form of manhood at length, but still, couldn’t arrive at a proper and sensible conclusion.

Of all the people that I could approach; to get clarity on the questions I was had regarding what was a proper masculine identity, and to resolve the evidently shaky foundations on which my assumptions about manhood were anchored.

And bear in mind that after the incident that almost landed me in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) ward, meant that my male friends were virtually nonexistent, and I couldn’t approach my father, as I partly felt shame and fear, knowing the kind of man he is.

The mere thought of being potentially asked why I was entertaining such topics at the tender age of sixteen would suggest that I was already exploring the politics of sex and thus courting teenage pregnancies, sexually transmitted diseases or worst even HIV/AIDS.

The disease had already claimed three lives in our extended family.

Realizing that unless I got answers soon, my fear would soon overwhelm me and what little names my peers had labeled me would be indirectly affirmed.

I ventured the more to the one person I viewed as being more knowledgeable on the subject of sexuality.

In my view, none had more credentials, than one who had lived the best of the both worlds on the gender spectrum.

The next logical direction to follow was to head over to Jabulani, a self-confessed gay man; I was just as surprised that my mind would point me to him too.

The one feature I had come to respect and admire about him was that he had heightened feminine qualities and really had a way of making the most difficult point become easy to ingest and even apply.

This, he later confessed was a skill he acquired through prolonged periods of observations, frank conversations with both male and female associates and as an escape from whatever had convinced him that masculinity was more trouble than it seemed.

He would also inaudibly offer assurances that he would not trivialize the matter, or ridicule my vulnerabilities.

Jabulani; as I had expected sat me down, stopped what he was busy with and smiled; as if he had been expecting me, which made me the more at ease.

Even though this took place, few people knew of such a phase in my life.

Jabulani opens by jokingly saying; So you want to be a young jezebel? You can’t be I’m the only jezebel around here.

He joked a bit and then proceeded to explain to me why he had become a homosexual, it was not a conscious decision, he said, but a circumstantial response and coping mechanism, which later on became a habit and a way of life.

The large part of people with whom he hung with, was women, and as such escalated his transition into femininity.

He also confidently informed me of how many heterosexual gays lived in our community without mentioning names of course.

But from his insinuation, I understood him to mean that much more like me had come to him at some point, perhaps to quench their curiosity or as I did; seek clarity on a subject which was treated as taboo but was as undeniable as the presence of the sun is.

See, the community I came from being a mix of different cultural groups, the dominant being Zulu.

For them so called unnatural liaisons are shunned upon in a way that they would rather remove the bad potato that risks being seen as a group which tolerates the deviant behavior.

The next hurdle was the Christian component, which constituted the largest literature on discrimination.

In their literature, homosexuals were near to demons in ratings and since they went against the perfect package of creation, which was only male and female; each Christian denomination made it their mission to vilify or desperately want to convert that person to heterosexuality.

The last matter one had to factor when considering this subject was the fairly balanced youth of both girls and boys of all ages.

This meant that unless you were indeed gay, you had to have a girlfriend, because when we played house each person had to have his own wife or husband, those without, were either isolated or made children with fewer privileges in that house.

As an extreme consequence, one would have to accept that they were gay and endure all that such a title brought with it.

So, my going to Jabulani and seek help in resolving my confusion, correcting assumptions in the community, was within the environment which characterized such township realities.

Where one was either straight, if gay, be expected to avoid all possible contact with normal people.

I am convinced that if heterosexuals had their way, they would rather have straight or gay only facilities, just as it was between Blacks and Whites under Apartheid in South Africa.

As one qualified enough to make a proper assessment of who was or couldn’t have been gay, his opinion was quite respected.

I mean, this was a person who was a tried and tested gay, proudly living his life as such and couldn’t be too concerned about who said what or thought certain things about him. He had made peace with his preferences and was thus easier to rely on.

The mastery with which Jabulani conducted the concern I raised, made me want to stay longer to listen to the many tales he was generous enough to share. Some were so emotionally draining, and as one who had personally experienced them, he felt it his duty to mother those who paid him a visit.

He showered them with enough hospitality and attention that even an empty stomach, unsettled emotions, and any other matter seemed to vanish with ease.

I understood that day, that, if as many people understood the side of Jabulani which appealed to all of our concerns as humans, and aligned with our noblest ideals and heavy worries; few, if any, would be ashamed to visit and relate to him as a normal and in my humble estimation, amongst the genuinely interesting people I had come to know.

He was such a confident person, and safe to say; he acted more of a woman than the few women I had come to be familiar with.

After that day we developed a friendship which had the potential to be like that of siblings, but because I had heard, all sorts of rumors about homosexual men, and I was a judgmental Christian; whose self-righteousness qualified me for some egotistical superiority and holiness above other people.

And as much as I still associated with Jabulani, I did so when few people were watching and in open spaces where no-one could make hasty perceptions about my fragile sexuality.

Jabulani shared a strange friendship with my sister Thandi, one which at first I took at kinship borne out of the church we all attended, but as time progressed it seemed to be more refined and frequent.

I wouldn’t dare ask my sister regarding nature and the premise upon which it was formed, as I had consulted in private and by so doing I’d be at risk of revealing more to her, thus inviting her to investigate even further.

So I left it at that and appreciated the fact that she too had not ostracized him ignorantly or judged him unfairly, but had chosen to embrace who he was outside of his sexual preferences, which were his private affair in any case.

Little did I know that my confidence in sharing my moment of weakness with Jabulani would court the attention of an openly gay friend of his?

Perhaps, in his view, I had become gay, my mind would reason on its own, why else would I suddenly be the subject of unwarranted attention and nasty comments?

One day that stands out, when analyzed against my visit with Jabulani, connected me to the world which I had held at arm’s length and corresponded with through discriminatory gestures and an air of narrowly acceptable disapproval.

An afternoon after a lecture, something unexpected took place; this must have been a week after I had confided in Jabulani.

As I took the escalator to reach the exit, two guys stood at the bottom of it, and the stolen looks which they measured me with, were enough to make me want to run back to class and use a different exit