Be In My Shoes

By Juliet Lee

It's amazing how time doesn't really heal, but merely dulls old wounds

"Stop making assumptions about me, rather get closer and put yourself in my shoes, and then start to judge. Don't ask me why it happened, ask me how it happened" – Juliet Lee 

She flashes a smile, laughs heartily and easily you'd swear she is a woman without a single care in the world. But that's just a mask Juliet Lee puts on every morning, takes it off at night and then buries her face in the pillow that is always soggy with her tears. This is a woman who has endured all sorts of pain dating back from a troubled childhood. Finding love proved to be an even bigger torment, with a series of failed relationships that left her broken, used, defeated and unloved.  
Take a walk in Juliet Lee's shoes as she relates how her strained relationship with her mother, step-father and estranged father, and how life's harrowing punches meted out by two-faced lovers, co-workers and gossip-mongers has forced her to develop a thick skin and a dim view of the world around her. This is a story about an innocent rural girl who endured pain throughout her life journey, an unalloyed girl whose innocence was stolen by a lady friend, a family friend, a family member and an ex-lover's goons. Walk with her as she takes you through a journey of abuse, disappointment, hate and lust where love seems to have taught her nothing but hate, where love seems to have brought her nothing but pain and confusion. A journey without leaders to give her direction in life.
"Juliet Lee strips herself bare in this riveting account about a childhood marred by a series of sexual abuse, neglect and ultimately becoming an adult who had to undergo the same vicious cycle all over again" – Thokozani Magagula, author and founder of PUBLISH'D AFRIKA.
'Be In My Shoes' is part of a two-book series that Juliet Lee will be publishing about her life. The sequel, which depicts her journey to healing, growth and lessons learnt about life, love and the power of letting go, will follow in early 2022.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliet Lee
• Release date: Nov 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201299453

Book preview

Prologue

The pitter-patter of the rain on the zinc roof could not drown out the voices, even though they tried to speak in hushed tones. Without realising it, their voices rose with the monotonous clap of thunder, a fitting soundtrack for this Soapie that was unfolding in the life of a child.

I... I have to find work, mom, she had said for the umpteenth time, and going to Maseru is the only way. It is either Maseru, or I follow my husband in Johannesburg.

Moeketseng is still too young to grow up without a mother, Ma'Lebusa, granny said softly, sniffling. You have already lost two children. You cannot lose this one too, not while she is still alive. Think carefully about this.

Ntswaki is here, and you are also here, she had said. My daughter will not be by herself. She will be with her aunt and her grandmother.

My concern, Ma'Lebusa, is that Benedict only returns on month ends, and at times doesn't even return. Now, with you too gone...

I will not be far away, mom, I will only be in Maseru.

A moment of silence lapsed, the two women seemingly letting the sound of nature have its opinion on the subject as well.

I pried the blanket an inch and stole a peek at them. My mum's face looked dejected, half shrouded in shadow and the other half in the glow of the candle light. I think I saw a tear fall from the one eye, landing into the puddle that had already formed on the table.

My granny's wrinkles seemed more pronounced than they had been earlier in the day; they might even have multiplied. She dabbed her soiled handkerchief on her eyes, and then blew her nose, sniffling. She shook her head and looked away, at the window where sparks of lightning illuminated the myriad of holes in the curtains.

I don't know, Ma'Lebusa, she finally said, at the tail end of drumming thunder. I just don't know...

––––––––

I cut my nostalgia and look up again, at the reflection of the young woman standing in front of the full-length mirror. I did not realise it, but a few traces of tears had cut furrows down my cheeks, and I quickly brush them away with the back of my hand. They are warm, so warm...

I shake my head vigorously, a futile bid at dislodging the melancholy that had invaded my thoughts.

It's amazing how time doesn't really heal, but merely dulls old wounds. Should I even still be able to remember this so vividly? I was four years old when this woman left me. I was a child who shouldn't even have been able to follow the conversation that turned my whole world upside down.

With my vision clear, I stare at the mirror again.  I am young, beautiful with a body built for the fashion ramps, even though now I am wrapped in only a towel. When I speak, you could swear a Caucasian was in the room, only if I could back up this expensive intonation with a bit of education. I can go on and on about my loving personality, how people easily warm up to me at first sight and why you should too. I can describe in detail how I am of mixed race - a blended heritage passed down from having a white grandfather and a Xhosa grandmother - undiluted even though my own parents were purely black. I can fill a 500-page book about how men - young and old - lust over my young, vivacious body simply because I am that so-called coloured Mosotho girl everyone is talking about and wants to ride once in a while.

But this innuendo will sound all too vain and pompous, because you should discover this for yourself as I relate my tumultuous journey and the odds I have had to face in my young life on this earth. The fact of the matter is that I am the complete opposite of what I have just described.

I have shrunk from a Size 34 to 26 in merely four months, and that's despite the ridiculous bump extending in front of me. Yes, I am five months pregnant and thin as a reed. My once glowing cheeks are now hollow and gaunt, my skin is as pale as chalk and my eyes so sunken the bony sockets stand out like a hollow cave. 

The bed creaks and I look up at the mirror again. Oh, it is only Themba, stirring awake. I look at his reflection in the mirror as he stretches and yawns, the muscles in his arms pulsating. He looks at me, his cleanly shaven face melting into a scowl. God, this man is handsome, even when he gives me dirty looks!

Hey, you are awake, he drawls, and lazily wipes the drowsiness off his face with the palm of his hand. What are you doing?

I was about to do some ironing, I reply, inwardly praying that he does not ask me to come back to bed - or drags me.

What time is it?

It's a little after 9.30.

He gets off the bed and puts on his pants - relief!

I am going into the main house for a shower, he says and shuffles towards the door.

Themba...

Julz, can we not talk about last night again, please? he pre-empts, stares at me briefly and sighs. I only went out with the guys. The lipstick on my shirt may have been from brushing across one of the women at the club. You know how crowded that place can be.

I only wanted to ask you to bring me some bathing water too, I say.

He draws a deep breath, let go of the door handle and steps towards me. I cringe, because I know what comes next.

"Kahle kahle who do you think you are, mara wena? he roars. Queen Elizabeth? Futhi are you gonna tell me whose child that is? Because it surely ain't mine."

"Yazi yini Themba, you can go back to your floozies, I spat back. I bet they are waiting for you. Baba kagirl, I know it’s that time again, do not worry you are free to do whatever you want."

"Uthini wena s'febe? he says, reaching out and grabbing my arm. I am not the father wena. That is Fezile’s child, not mine. Stop calling me Baba kagirl."

And with that he unleashed a blow that caught me on my left cheek. I could have sworn I saw a few stars, and the moment I open my eyes, he had the ironing board in his hands. He struck me on the back as I duck, the blow pushing me against the window. I collapsed in an untidy heap onto the floor.

"Stand up and fight nja! he hissed. The only thing you know is opening your legs, you good for nothing bitch!"

At that moment, I believed him. I am a good for nothing bitch with no education. I had only gone up to Grade 11 when I got pregnant with his first child, a mistake that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

He glares at me, his eyes fiery and filled with so much hate I expect him to stomp me like an ant where I sit. But then the amazing thing happens. His face softens, and he heaves a deep sigh. Slowly, he extends his hand towards me. I flinch and recoil deeper against the wall.

"Julz, get dressed nawe man, hawu," he says, handing me back the towel. I didn't even realise I was now naked.

Bathing water coming right up, and he is out the door.

I sigh dejectedly and amble to the corner of the room, where the basket with his laundry sits. While he was dancing the night away last night, I sat here, in his backyard room, and scuffled my hands washing his clothes. I had to - the stink of dirty socks and discarded underwear had already sucked out all the oxygen in this tiny space, and smacked you in the face as you walked through the door.

Of course, there were other items of clothing that were not his, unless my Themba is a transgender who is yet to come out of the closet...

Chapter 1

My name is Moeketseng Juliet Lee - yes, I know who I am, but I am not entirely certain what I am. You might say my grandparents Martin and Masisi Lee, were rebels with a cause; two brave souls who risked all to pursue a relationship classified as a crime, in a land that sought to keep black and white as separate as planets in outer space.

They had three children; my dad Benedict being the eldest, then my aunt and my uncle. It was indeed a beautiful family, wealthy with lots of cattle, sheep and pigs. The Lee family was well-respected too. You can imagine my grand dad was white, so the privilege came with the skin colour. I am not sure how my dad met my mom, but I know she was still in high school when they became an item. My dad was from the Cape - the Northern, Eastern or Western Cape, I couldn't be sure. He was a doctor who had migrated to Lesotho, so his family trekked to the mountain kingdom as well.

This is where my journey in this story starts. My shattered dream, my twisted life as a young innocent girl...

We had a big house and a huge yard, in a village called Phamong, in Mohale’s Hoek. Then it was just myself, my older brother Lebusa and my little brother Khauta. Lebusa was the cutest, most handsome child with green eyes. People called him Hoo after some Indian guy from the neighbourhood. Even though I and my young brother were his siblings, people and family still referred to my mother as Ma'Lebusa, meaning Lebusa's mother, as if he was an only child. Unfortunately, Lebusa passed on at the tender age of four, while Khauta died at the age of a year and a few months. This was in 1986. This then left me as an only child, yet my mom remained Ma'Lebusa.

There was also my grandmother Masisi, my dad and my mom. I can barely remember all these people, except my mom and dad. Strange, isn't it, considering that my mom wasn't always around.

As I mentioned earlier, my dad was a doctor, and almost by default, my mom became a nurse. Life was good, until my dad decided to go and work in a mine somewhere in Carletonville, South Africa. I am not sure what he did there. Life changed drastically, because we only saw him once a month, which was at the end of the month. My mom soon moved to go work in Maseru, the capital city of Lesotho. It was either Maseru or Johannesburg. My brothers had passed on then - I believe it was in 1985 - I was only three years old then. She had left me with my aunt Ntswaki and my granny, dad's mom.

Things really changed. One moment I was staying with my paternal grandmother and the next my mom’s mother; life was just confusing. Oh well, it was life and I was a child. I think both my grandparents loved me. I had to go with the flow since I had no choice.

The rest of my dad’s family stayed in the same village, separated by a few kilometres that we could travel on foot or horseback, but I still did not get to see much of them.

I was a loner, very neat and didn’t like dirty kids, so there was no one to play with apart from the one friend, Dikhapha, may her soul rest in peace. I never saw my mom again for a few years, and my dad... the less said about him the better.

I think your friend is outside, Ntswaki said, and almost immediately, I heard the sound of a rustling plastic bag and tins banging against each other.

Yes, it was Dikhapha, approaching hurriedly from the gate. Her arrival was always announced by the sound of the tins, which we used for the game called makoti-koti. Filled with excitement, I was about to bolt out the door when Ntswaki grounded me to a halt.

The dishes, Moeketseng, she said. They are not going to wash themselves.

Can I do them later...

You are going to do them now, we both know later never happens, she said, with finality to her voice. Ask Dikhapha to come in and help you.

At only seven, I stood a few inches taller than the cupboard, which meant I was old enough for some household chores, the dishes being one of them. It was not that Ntswaki couldn’t do it all by herself, only that there was just the two of us, as it had been the last four years since mom left.

Granny hadn’t been helping much lately - she left in the middle of the night and came back in the morning - oftentimes unable to stand and speaking in tongues, or slower than she usually spoke. Sometimes she would be so weak and so dizzy, other equally dizzy people would carry her home, and she would call them names and then vomit all over the place. Each time, she would sleep almost the entire day, and wake up complaining of a massive headache. So strange was her illness, Ntswaki said the best cure for it was if she just slept it off, so we just let her be.

The dishes weren't that dirty, as we ate pap and milk last night. The other night it was pap and eggs, as it was pap and milk the night prior to the previous one, and pap and morogo the other day, and pap and milk the day prior to... need I go on?

Meat was a luxury we really could not afford, except on month ends when dad graced