Simply Complicated

By Siviwe Mgolodela

“Simply Complicated” is a story of friendship, documenting the simply complicated lives of three best friends, who lean on each other while tackling a wide range of relevant and modern social issues, ranging from femininity to sexuality. Set in Johannesburg, the book explores the untold stories of the young and the restless, who often find themselves policed by the societal cultures that have been formed against them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Siviwe Mgolodela
• Release date: Feb 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370915255

Siviwe Mgolodela

I am the voice through which untold stories are illuminated. I seek to enlighten, inspire, and to empower readers with my storytelling.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: STRENGTH OF A WOMAN

I recall a conversation that I once had with my mother. The words she spoke rotated in bewilderment as my 9-year-old mind attempted to conceptualise the truth behind these words.

You are an intelligent and beautiful dark-skinned girl, she told me, as you grow older, you are going to step into a world that will try to convince you that your beautiful dark skin needs bleaching to subscribe to the world’s definition of beauty. This world will try to convince you that your beautiful curly hair needs to be hidden in shame underneath something called a ‘weave’. Baby girl, you are going to step into a world, at a time, where being a black girl is extremely challenging; where people will try to convince you that you are less than because you are a black girl. You are going to step into a world that will try to convince you that being proposed a hand in marriage is the single greatest accomplishment you can aspire toward, that alongside mothering a nation, of course. This world will try to convince you to abandon your dreams of becoming President of South Africa or becoming Chief Executive Officer of a multinational corporation. Baby girl, please remember that when you step into this world, you have been raised to be proud of who you are, to love yourself, and to always reach for the stars. Never allow anyone, including myself, to define beauty or happiness for you, my baby. You hear me? Never.

But mommy, if I am so beautiful, why is it then that all the kids at school make fun of my thick lips?, I asked with a teardrop falling down my face.

God gave you thick lips, so you could singer better, baby girl. Do you not know that you sing better than all those kids in that school choir? Why do you think your teacher chose you to be the lead singer, and not one of them?, my mom instantly replied.

Mmmh…okay, but mommy, if I am so beautiful, why is it then that Natasha and the other girls say that I am skinny?, I responded.

God made you skinny, so you could move through life easier. Let mama tell you a story…when I was your age, kids used to make fun of me because I had some meat on my bones. They used to call me all kinds of names, like fat. One kid even referred to me as a whale. Can you imagine such a thing? Your mama, a whale?, my mom replied, jovially.

They did?, I asked in absolute disbelief, but mommy, you are so beautiful. You are not a whale.

Aah, thank you, baby girl…I say all of this to say that it does not matter if you are skinny or a bit chubby like mommy is, people will always have something negative to say about your body. I remember a long time ago when black women like Sarah Bartman were ridiculed and ostracized for being blessed with a large behind, curves, big breasts and thick lips. Nowadays, the very people that ridiculed and ostracized black women for our features, are first in line to pay expensive surgeons to inject them with all sorts of stuff like butt and boob implants, as well as lip fillers, and all that mess. God could not give you everything, so He gave you what you could use. Now mama wants you to work with what you got, baby girl. You hear me?

Yes, mama, I replied with a content glow on my face.

At the time, I could not fully understand the depth of what was contained in my mother’s words, for I was only 9 years old. I did, however, walk away from that conversation feeling that I was the most beautiful and blessed girl in the world to have been blessed with a mother like mine. In hindsight, I am now able to fully comprehend the many lessons that my mother tried to impress upon me. My mother’s words were foreshadowing the imminent trajectory of my life as a black woman in a world where black women are at the bottom of the societal ‘food chain’. The black woman is the most marginalised and oppressed human being in society. My mother knew this. As a black woman herself, she knew this all too well. I now understand that she was preparing me all along to be able to step into this world self-assured and confident in my worth as a strong black woman.

Basked in my own subconscious naivety, I walked into the world assuming that all black girls were taught the same precious lessons my mother had taught me when I was only 9 years old, and that they had been prepared by their mothers to conquer life in ways that my mother had prepared me. It was not until I enrolled in high school, where I befriended a beautiful and incredibly sweet black girl by the name of Nokuthula, that it dawned on me that my assumption had in fact been terribly false.

Upon discovering that we shared the same clan name and a shared love for all things Beyoncé, it became clear that Nokuthula and I would be inseparable throughout high school. Nokuthula and I shared more than a clan name and a mutual love for Beyoncé, however. Like myself, Nokuthula had been raised by a single mother who struggled to put food on the table. However, unlike myself, Nokuthula always felt that with each passing day, her mother’s love and attention became ever so elusive. At the time, I never understood why she felt that way or how it could possibly be true, because once again, basked in my subconscious naivety, I assumed that all black girls received the same love and attention from their mothers, that I had always received from mine.

After two blissful years of friendship, Nokuthula and I had grown increasingly close. Every day, we would walk to and from school together. Every morning, I would always make my way across the street to Nokuthula’s home before walking to school together. I always enjoyed my morning strolls to Nokuthula’s home because her mother would always greet me with a freshly baked vetkoek accompanied by a smile. This became my blissful routine throughout the year, until one morning. Upon arriving at Nokuthula’s home, it became apparent that something had changed. It began to dawn on me that the blissful routine I had been accustomed to, had somehow been rearranged. This time, there was no morning vetkoek accompanied by Ms Velemani’s smile. From the kitchen to the living room, the house looked as though it had been struck by a tornado; the atmosphere felt as though it had been plagued by agonising betrayal and animosity. More noticeably, there was no longer a spring in my friend’s step as we made our way to school. On our awkwardly silent journey, I remember biting my tongue hoping that she would voluntarily tell me what it was that was clearly bothering her. Out of respect, I had always refrained from poking my nose in other people’s personal matters. However, bloated with concern, I was left with no choice but to find out what the matter was.

Friend, I can tell that you have been crying, and that you need somebody to talk to. What is the matter?

It is nothing I cannot handle. Do not worry about me, Thandi., she replied, while trying her best to stop her bucket full of tears from falling down her puffy eyes.

As your best friend, it is my job to worry about you, especially when I can see that something is wrong. I cannot nor, will I try to force you to open up to me if you are not ready to. However, I want you to know that when you are ready to talk, I am always here for you, friend.

I appreciate that a lot. I so badly want to tell you what is going on. I am just afraid., she said, please promise not to breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to anyone. Promise me, Thandi!

I promise. You have my word.

We then proceeded to wrap our little pinkie fingers around each other, signifying the promise that I had made to her. We still had about 20 good minutes to spare before school commenced, so we stopped by the park, where we sat down on a vacant bench to have one of the most intimate and spine-chilling conversations of my life.

It is my mother’s boyfriend, she uttered, with a sea full of tears rushing down her eyes.

He…he…he…, she continued as she stuttered in agony mid-sentence.

My natural inclination was to give her a long and gentle hug in the hope that it would calm her enough to be able to finish her sentence. However, she just would not stop crying and chocking up in her speech. As I quickly reached for a bottle of water in my backpack, she blurted out three words that left me feeling utterly mortified and heartbroken for my dear friend.

He raped me, she told me, Growing up, he would always touch me inappropriately, and each time I would alert him to how uncomfortable he had made me feel. Each time, he would apologise, yet turn around and do the same thing over and over again. When I was 12 years old, I told my mother, for the first time, that her boyfriend had been touching me inappropriately ever since he moved into the house with us. My mother, seemingly stunned at first, calmly responded by saying that she would have a word with him about it over dinner that night. I was so relieved that I had finally told my mother, because I was convinced that she would kick him out of the house. But that never happened. He justified brushing his hands around my thighs as a way of showing his affection and love for me. He managed to convince both my mother and myself, at the time, that I was simply imagining things. Almost a year later, he continued to make me feel uncomfortable. I recall nights when my mother would work night shifts as a security guard. She would leave me alone in the house with him. Each night, he would crawl into my bed and touch me inappropriately. Every time I would tell my mother, he would somehow convince her that I was having nightmares and that he was merely trying to calm me down and make me feel safe. My mother eventually convinced me that I was overreacting and that her boyfriend was a good man. I believed her. Up until last night that is…

Is that when he…?, I asked, with tears rushing down my eyes, as I struggled to finish the sentence.

Yes. That is when he raped me. My mother was working a night-shift, so I was once again home alone with that man. He started complimenting me on how beautiful I looked…he even said that I looked more beautiful than my mom. I tried to giggle it off, as I attempted to watch an episode of Generations. However, it was not until I noticed him grabbing a seat next to me on the couch, that I started to sense that something was not right. He began to brush his hands around my thighs as he had been doing for years now. Knowing that my mom would dismiss my concerns once again as me ‘imagining things’, I felt absolutely numb and helpless. He then proceeded to forcibly lift my skirt, at which point I suddenly bit his arm, in retaliation. He warned me that I would regret biting his arm and then angrily pinned me against the couch, pulled out his penis and that is when he forced himself on me. The second I yelled out for help, in the hope that one of the neighbours would hear my desperate cry, he aggressively used his hand to cover my mouth. He then threatened to kill me if I did not stop screaming. Fearing for my life, I stopped. All I could do was cry in silence as he continued to force himself on me for an entire hour. By then I was so numb that all I did was just lay on the floor while he jovially proceeded to grab a beer in the fridge…

My friend, here, please drink up, I said, as I offered her a bottle of water. In that moment, I could literally feel her pain rushing through my veins. Every part of me wanted so badly to express my anger in response to the heinous crime that had been committed against my dear friend. But I was quick to recognise that this was not about me. It was about her. My role here was to validate her the best way I knew how, which was by listening to her story.

Thanks for the water, she said, as she prepared herself emotionally