Eliminating the Limits

By Protus Lucky Shange

The story of two lives

This inspirational heart-wrenching autobiography is based on Shange’s true testimony of two very different lives lived in one! It’s a fascinating account of one half lived with such vastly different dreams and aspirations compared to the other. The author narrates this true testimony with raw and real emotion flowing through his words in a simple and honest manner that makes one immediately relate to the fragile human in us all.
It is a true story of a tormented soul – a mind trapped inside a failing body; scared, frustrated and bewildered at the loss of dreams and hope for the future. It gives the reader a wonderful concept of two lives lived within 36 years. The author regards himself blessed to have lived such completely different and contrasting lives – one active, physical and hopeful of the future, and the other a painful journey of loss, healing and emotional and mental healing.

Indeed, this book is all about eliminating the limits! It’s an inspiring story of healing, growth and hope to come out of heart-break and loss. It’s a real testament to a person’s will and ability to recover, to heal and to “fight” back in life regardless of the obstacles. When life knocks you hard and destroys the essence of who you are, grab that as an opportunity to learn and grow, conquer the obstacles and re-emerge stronger and victorious; that is to eliminate the limits!

Mr Shange is a well-travelled motivational speaker who gets invited to inspire people in events and institutions like universities, schools, churches and so on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Protus Lucky Shange
• Release date: Sep 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463948248

Book preview

Eliminating

the Limits

Protus Lucky Shange

Copyright © 2019 Protus Lucky Shange

Published by Protus Lucky Shange Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Bronwen Bickerton

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

"I have commanded you to be determined and confident. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for I, the Lord your God, am with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9

Contents

Introduction

1. Inherent Battles of Lucky Shange

Born to rise, accept to stumble

The Episodes of Gloom

2. The Audacity to Persist

The Switch

I kept Riding

My Strength was Never in the Eyesight

Introduction

I was playing in a cup final at a stadium packed to capacity. Teams were locked at one goal apiece, time was approaching the final whistle. Soccer fans were singing and dancing, yet they were nervous and praying for their respective teams to win the cup. We won a free kick outside the 18 area. I took it and no one could believe it when I unleashed that ball as it went like a rocket into the back of the net ‘goal’ as the scoreboard wrote in red. A few seconds later the final whistle went - it was game over, and I can’t put into words how we excitedly ran around the stadium as we celebrated that big victory with our fans. We lined up to receive our gold medals and the team’s trophy. Just when I was about to lift up the trophy in front of our management and coaching staff and dignitaries with cameras and journalists all around us, the lights went off in the stadium. It was so dark nobody was able to move, except those three gentlemen in black suits. One of them stood behind me and put a sharp knife to my throat, the other blindfolded me and the third guy forced wool into my mouth. I tried to scream for help but I couldn’t. Not even one person saw what was happening to me – and that’s how I was dragged out of the dark stadium.

We entered the tunnel and walked down the flight of stairs. It was silence everywhere. We arrived at the basement where their car was parked with a driver and one passenger inside. They tightened my hands and my legs and threw me inside the boot of the car like a bag of cabbages; my soccer boot fell on the ground. No one noticed or perhaps no one cared. The place was suddenly quiet, and at that point even screaming for help was not going to assist. The kidnappers slammed the boot and banged their doors and the car took off. Just when I was starting to ask myself the questions who are these people, what do they want from me, and where are they taking me, the car started to move like it was losing control. Loud screams of men, the sounds of tyres as drivers applied their brake pedals, ringing bells from trucks and cars and buses, and our car crashed into an oncoming truck. I screamed but I was not heard.

I woke up sweating and shaking – struggling to catch my breath, damn I’m dreaming. I sat on my bed – a 36 year old man in me was quivering with fear. Lifting my head up from the wet pillow, I stood up and pulled up a chair and sat in front of a computer desk which had a laptop on top. I looked up and prayed, and that’s when I took an oath to type this autobiography. Unlike authors who get worried about whether the book will sell enough copies in bookstores, or whether readers will have adequate copies on library shelves, those were none of my concerns. Mine was to offload and set my soul free, and I did. Besides, I’m not an author.

I’m glad to have finally found strength to narrate just how God has blessed me to live two lives in the space of 36 years. Of course I’m blessed not only for these two different lives, but also to have such a wonderful mother in Thembi Dlodlo, a loving soul mate in Xola Filo, amazing siblings in my two sisters and four brothers, supportive big sisters in Suzan Malima and Ntombi Mxenge, and the list goes on. Indeed, ‘behind a successful man, there is a beautiful woman’.

Despite all limits I still consider myself blessed to be the father of two boys and two girls. None of the people mentioned above are mentioned just for the beauty of writing or to make good reading, but all of them, in their own distinct way, add a priceless value in ‘The True Story of 36’. For this reason I regard them as a source of my inspiration, they are the strength within my soul. This autobiography has only two chapters. The first focuses on the first 18 years of my life; while the second deliberates on the second 18 years. Hence I call it ‘The True Story of 36’.

At 18 my first life reached its end, and that end destroyed me quite terribly. Unfortunately, those pains and tears and sorrows and attempts of suicide and sleepless nights couldn’t rescue me. In fact, in the universe there was nothing else that could set me free from being bound by those handcuffs of anxiety, except a correct frame of mind. At 19 years I was forced to abandon my first life and switch to a new life. That switch, however, was not optional, instead it was obligatory. I tried to deny and abandon and fight back and surrender and cry for help, yet I found no mercy and sympathy.

My confession is that I never wanted to write a book, and even worse not about my personal life, for any person to just grab and read. Ultimately I was forced to write, but forced in a gentle way, more so by friends, academics, business people and institutions. Nearly two decades later I obliged. I guessed it was not too late to let the cat out of the bag. Yet it wasn’t easy, writing was hurting and with time it became healing. Now I present to you this autobiography as a true testimony of just how I advanced from the circumstances of my hardships. If I managed to survive it all, you can too. That means that within all of us lies the ability to eliminate the limits.

Section 1

Inherent Battles of Lucky Shange

Born to rise, accept to stumble

I was born and raised in the rural village called Mkhoma Reserve. At a young age circumstances forced me to accept poverty, discrimination and hardships as part of my life, but definitely not for eternity. We were seven children at home – five boys and two girls – stuck with our parents in a single, small one-room house. Hardly two decades later one journalist asked me, How did it feel to be raised under such conditions? Even worse, be victimised by other kids because of your poor family? I told her that those circumstances, in particular, were like motivations that gave me strength and courage to soldier on. To me it was not about where or how I was raised, it was about having the audacity to rise beyond limits.

The Mkhoma area and other nearby villages of the Nseleni area were divided by a railway line. As residents we could hear a train as it passed through – at least twice or thrice within every hour. In due course, of course, we ultimately got used to that annoying noise. More often the train was transporting coal, wood or timber. Sometimes it was cars, motorbikes, furniture, etc.

I recall how my homeboys often stood beside the railway line, beating their bellies twice or trice then stretching their arms wide – indicating to the train driver ‘I’m hungry’. At times train drivers appeared on the window then opened their hands conveying the message ‘No food’. It was sad to see those who stood there in anticipation of food as they turned around and walk away empty-handed, hoping to get something from the next train.

More often than not an African white person appeared from the window of a passing train, throwing out bread or any other type of food. Residents always ran for it, picked it up and shared it among themselves. Yet others couldn’t share; instead they snatched it and ran away. Those scenes were truly mesmerising to watch; a guy running away with a half bread in his armpit like a rugby player on the verge of scoring a try. Folks came all around to join the chase, forcefully took that bread away from him and started to share it among themselves. At times those chasing would ultimately give up the chase, sit down and start swearing at him as he ran away with a loaf of bread; there would be those standing on the other side, applauding like fans in a rugby match. The reality is that in most native families at the time, bread was a very scarce item on the kitchen shelves indeed.

I never took part in those scenes. Not only because I was still too young to wrestle with big boys, but Mama did not approve. One day a train passed very slowly towards a red robot. A lady stood at the window and gave me bread. Yet my joy was cut short; a certain woman snatched that bread out of my hands like an eagle snatching a chick in the garden. I cried so terribly and those tears and pains went straight to my mother. I met her on my way home. She grabbed me by the hand and I turned around; she was fuming and she wanted me to show her the woman. I had never seen her in that state of annoyance. No doubt she felt pushed over her limit.

That was one episode that didn’t run out of witnesses. Others were meeting us on our way, some even turned around and followed us – they obviously wanted to see how the drama ended. She went to confront her, forced her to return that bread and told the woman to never abuse any of her children. The woman was feared in the area, well known for her abusive activities, particularly towards men, for which most people were very surprised when they saw my mother beating her up in public. I still thank the Gospel of Christ through which my mother was saved; for me she was a true example of what repent really means to humankind.

I’m the third born son of Thembi, she’s the first born daughter of Mr Bamo, and I guess it’s safe for me to say she was a woman espoused to my father Myekelwa Shange, a man otherwise popularly known by his nickname, Zulu. He was a second-born of Qalokwakhe in the house of Shezani. For me to have grown up into a God-fearing man, compliments go to these two loving parents. It was only death that did them apart. At the time of my father’s death, Mama was 39 and that was a terrible turning point.

I recall how we used to sit around the fire in the afternoon as siblings, freezing in the winter breeze under the tree – a spot we called a kitchen in which the family cooking was taking place. Our forward-stretched arms and opened hands would be facing towards the fire – making it difficult for a cook to lay her hands on the pot. She had to yell at us so we could create a space for her.

We would sit there childishly provoking each other, arguing and threatening to fight – it was a kid’s thing after all. Mama always interfered as a judge, protecting the young ones from unnecessary verbal attacks. As much as we had fun during the day, we did not have the leverage of playing equipment, like colouring books, TV games, dolls, balls or any other type of toy. There were no such things as running around the house, chasing each other, or kicking the ball in the passage. In fact the house was too small, there was no passage.

As kids we played with mud behind a house – building cows, cars and people. We survived on fruits, sugarcane and vegetables, which we illegally ripped from local small farms. I still recall how we used to sit together and share whatever we got, with big brother Zamani being the one to ensure equitable share to all. Anyway, both parents knew zilch about this; it was just our secretive way of eliminating the limits.

Our family was one of the poorest in the village. As kids, we got accustomed to sleeping at night without an evening meal, only to wake up the next morning without breakfast – it couldn’t hurt us anymore. While playing around the yard in the afternoon we would notice our parents coming back home in the distance. We were always so filthy that one would bet we had been playing beneath the surface. We would excitedly run to them as if there was a trophy to be won, greet them with grins of delight as we dusted our dirty hands to help them carry the little luggage they had. Mama often looked at us and said disappointedly, Look at how dirty you are, who’s going to wash these clothes for you? We would turn around and start walking back with them as we all entered our home that had no gate and no fence.

My father often spent years without a formal job, yet he had the undying strength enough to put bread on the table. He made me to understand what it really means to be a man of the house, how to provide for a family, take care of a wife and children, etc. Every afternoon he would put his fishnet in the big river called Nseleni, only to come back and collect it the next morning full of fishes. Sometimes his fishnet would be ripped apart by a big snake, or by a crocodile found trapped in the net.

I always wished to walk with him to the river, yet he accepted no escort or companion from any child. Either way I will forever salute him for such an act of bravery. There was no other man in the area at the time who took such a risk for his family, sailing in a boat that had been poorly made with his bare hands and that sometimes got broken in the middle of the river, forcing him to jump out and swim away from the danger. The real battle would be when he pulled up his fishnet and realised there was a big snake, crocodile or any other animal trapped in it. To drag that net out of the river and kill the animal was a real hustle – I can imagine. Traditional healers always offered to purchase the animal.

With time one of our very close neighbours decided to join him on the job. He bought his own net and the two became partners in crime. Hardly a year later, the partnership was broken. The neighbour died on duty – he was attacked by one of the animals. It was sad to witness the police cars as they brought his body back from the river. May his soul rest in peace.

I thought that my father was going to quit the thing, sit back and think twice, then find something else to do to be able to provide for his family. But the man had no time for any of those, instead he continued like nothing had happened. I stayed worried, asking myself, what am I going to do if it is my father who is laying cold in that police car?

He brought fishes at home almost every morning, putting a few of them aside for the family dinner. The rest he put in a bucket for us to go house to house selling them in the community. Thereafter, we would run back home to prepare to go to school. His father – Granddad Qalokwakhe – left him about nine cows before passing away. We were given a responsibility to look after them every day; my father milked them for his family to have milk. That too, of course, was something we could not even try to do in his absence. We were still too young to fasten such a big Brahman with a rope to the tree.

I still recall those fear-provoking scenes; an angry animal determined to kill anyone around. For me it was not just an animal fighting not to be milked, but a mother with fire in her eyes, so determined to do whatever it took to protect her child. What worsened the wrath from my father, in my observation, was when the animal kicked the milk to the ground. My dad would grab a stick and severely punish the animal.

As little boys we always stood afar and spectated the scene: a man with a stick in a kraal; a cow squeezed tight against the tree, grumbling, jumping and kicking. The calf would be standing and watching from a few metres away. At times Grandma too stood at her door and raised her voice – asking my father to calm down. Please don’t hurt the cow. My dad would go on as if he had heard no message of caution. One could tell his intention was to teach the animal a lesson. Sometimes the usual activity took place peacefully inside the kraal; it seemed the man and his Brahman were able to make conversation and reach a consensus.

At that time Mama was working as a contract worker on a farm. Alternatively she worked as a domestic worker; washing, ironing and cleaning in the houses of white people. At least that is a kind of a job she did for almost her entire life. She always came home with four slices of bread in her bag buttered with peanut butter. We couldn’t go out and continue to play, not until that bag was opened.

Today it hurts so badly to reflect and realise what Mama was going through, even worse to recall her words as she often said, This is my bread that I was supposed to eat during my lunch at work. I imagine her with an empty stomach, working hard in the house of a white person, accepting being called a ‘girl’ while she was mothering seven children. Even worse to come home to her kids and have to share four slices of bread among seven children. As painful as it sounds she went through that pain every single afternoon.

Her mother stayed just across the railway line, our maternal grandma. May her soul rest in peace. She loved her grandsons and daughters so amazingly. I recall how she always left her clients and gave us her attention. She would play with us, give us food and escort us to cross the railway line each time we visited her. I still cherish the great love I had for her; it is stuck in me and certainly for eternity. When I was still in Grade 1, I often preferred to take a route via her house on my way from school; she was always happy to see me walking through the gate.

One day I walked through her gate after school. This time she could not show up. Her house was full of people seated beside candlelight, the majority of them being old women. They were speaking so gently, you would swear there was no one inside. I stood at the door and they all looked at me with worried faces, their eyes were full of sorrow. I turned around and went to play outside. I couldn’t understand all this. Even worse, Grandma was not among those women. Since she was a traditional healer I couldn’t walk into her house without her inviting me, or I would interrupt her session with a client and aMakhosi amakhulu and bones scattered all over the place.

What I noticed though, of course, was that a lot of those elderly women had familiar faces. Some of them were my granny’s friends who always played with me, called me ‘my husband’, touched me in my private parts and sensitive places and made me laugh. This time none of them shared a smile. I was confused, more so by the frequency of men and women walking in and out of my grandma’s house, talking gently, moving slowly with their shoulders dropped. Among them no one noticed a seven-year-old boy seated outside dressed up in a school uniform. All these were signs that Granny was no more; I recall how Mama and her younger sisters cried at the cemetery.

All this was in 1989, the year I walked through the gate of Vondlo Primary School as a Grade 1 learner. But the previous year I had been deprived of enrolling because of my height. I went to school with my mother and other kids from the village. Being a rule of the time, a teacher asked me to cross my arm over my head and touch my ear on the other side. I did, but the tip of the finger couldn’t reach the ear; it fell short by a centimetre or two.

Although my birth certificate was produced as official evidence that I was older than some of those home boys and girls, I was turned back home declared still too young to start my primary school education. That was the first time I felt life was not fair. That trauma came to pass as I succeeded the following year; I struggled until the tip of my middle finger eventually touched my ear. Teachers laughed, but I was happy to be finally admitted as a learner at school although still being the shortest kid in the entire institution.

A few years later I fell in love, and such love was declared – it was the love of God. Since those days I have never fallen out of that love; I’m still bound by chains of the same affection. Indeed, God and Jesus are the only two men who can be loved by another man, with such a man still not being accused of being gay, unfaithful or cheating. For that I stayed committed to them, more so in the Sunday school activities and my relationship with Him who sits on the Throne grew even greater. My Sunday school memories still remain sweet in my mind. From those biblical verses I was taught to know the Word of God by heart, and I carry it wherever I go.

At some point Mama was my Sunday school teacher. Half a decade later I followed suit and continued from her predecessors. I hope I made a valuable contribution in the house of the Lord. I recall when I reached 10 years of age, a day still vividly treasured as diamonds in my heart, that it was my first birthday party. I felt so thrilled, cutting the birthday cake and sharing it with a few children from nearby neighbours as they honoured the invite. I appreciated the birthday gifts, the new clothes with a size three beautiful pair of shoes. Thank you Mama.

As siblings we went to school with empty stomachs, no money in our pockets, no lunchboxes and no expectation of eating when we came back home in the afternoon. Once in a blue moon Mama would surprise us with a lunchbox each and I cannot describe that particular level of excitement in words. I became so thrilled I even forgot that, by the way, a school is a place to learn. So as much as I wished to carry a lunchbox every day at school, I was not certain if I was going to do well as a learner. All I could think about across my classes was the lunch break and my lunchbox, wishing to break sooner so I could eat my lunch.

Every school break I watched friends and schoolmates opening their lunchboxes,