Baptised in Fire

By Msi Boltina

Like gold to Fire, life experiences have left Msimelelo refined for purpose.

Burnt almost beyond recognition at the age of six, and left paralysed by an almost fatal accident at the age of twenty-six, it is almost hard to believe how Msimelelo is still full of life and courage to reach out into the world to make a difference and carve his mark.

Baptised in Fire is an inspirational account of a true life experience of sheer resilience, courage and a discovery of one's personal power to see the world in a different light when the world sees you to be different.

Baptised in Fire is a story of hope-filled adventures on overcoming life-altering encounters to see a way through hardship and despair, to elicit light from the darkest storms of disability.

Given no chance to make a choice, all that you choose is all that you are. When you can ask the question 'Why not me', in the face of all adversity, what seems like a stumbling block becomes a stepping stone. Baptised in fire is all that and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Msi Boltina
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781991206947

Book preview

Foreword

What is a baptism?

Baptism is defined as a person’s initiation into a particular activity or role, typically perceived as difficult. This is the Christian religious rite of sprinkling water onto a person’s forehead or immersing them in water, symbolising purification or regeneration and admission to the Church.

In many denominations, baptism is performed on young children.

Msimelelo Boltina is a tough guy – both mentally and physically. His flame of spirit warms you comfortably on the first word and certainly burns right through you on the first handshake. Why not, when this great man was ‘Baptised in Fire’?

At six years of age, here is a man who visited an initiation school back in his rural community way before his time. Instead of immersing him in trickling water, the Great Spirits bathed him in boiling larva. It is after this initiation that the little boy emerges as a mature man. Like a Phoenix from the ashes, he spreads his wings and flies away to fulfil his difficult role of living a life of a truly inspirational role model for many in this unforgiving world where we live – an activity he has undertaken gallantly and with exceptional distinction.

The first time I spoke to him was in early 2009 when he called to introduce himself and tell me his story. We must have gone on talking for close to an hour, like ‘complete strangers discovering they had known each other for eternity’. Later that same year, I jetted into Port Elizabeth for a Motivational Talk, and we had arranged to meet in person. I still remember this day which will always seem like it was only yesterday. We shook hands and embraced in Brotherhood – this unforgettable moment unleashing a raging volcano that has gone on to light us both an amazing pathway to many creative storms.

Here we are today, the two of us now proudly published Authors of books – productive minds still singing in unison like blood brothers preparing for an always looming battle of the titans. It was Charles Caleb Colton who said, Times of great calamity and confusion have been productive for the greatest minds. The purest ore is produced from the hottest furnace. The brightest thunderbolt is elicited from the darkest storm.

Colton could have easily been talking about Msimelelo. Had it not been for the hot furnace which engulfed him in his childhood years, this man would not have grown to be the purest gem he has come to be to all of us who have been touched by his glowing smile, which naturally polishes his scars into a captivating glow.

Again, had it not been for life’s calamities, which caught up with him during his late teens and landed him in a wheelchair, another turning point in his life, 19 years after his early years’ baptism, Boltina would have never come to fully realise and release that brightest thunderbolt of his ability.

This capacity, which has somehow come to the fore with each of these tragic occurrences, has simply demonstrated Msimelelo’s self-driven power to elicit rays of light from the darkest storms of disability.

Even when it finally came to finding eternal love, Msimelelo was attracted to a flame, like a moth. His beautiful wife, Somikazi, radiates her own special blazing inferno of an all-embracing human soul. As Nokuthula Magudulela commented on Facebook immediately after seeing them celebrating their love story on the television program, ‘For Better or Worse’, which was aired and later set ablaze all social media networks on the 21st of January 2020, "This young couple is a ‘School of Love’ that has never existed in brick and mortar in the history of humanity.

"You can’t help but marvel at the depth of their love for each other. It’s so authentic and so palpable that it spilled out of the television screens. May they flourish and be fortified with more zeal and vigour as they continue to trailblaze pathways of love that others won’t even dare endeavour to explore in their lifetimes.

May they be provided with more tools as they continue to dig even deeper into the trenches of love to strengthen the foundations and pillars of their union". Vive L’Amour … Long Live Love!

Simply put, it had to come to everything Msimelelo has gone through in his eventful life for himself to master the art of sharpening his own resilient soul. He has successfully anchored his stand in the process and spoken loudly in his own voice, on a solid platform of mighty experience which he has harnessed to guarantee his own continuity.

Msimelelo Boltina was ‘Baptised in Fire’… and his motivational tale in this book, detailed frankly with a touch of beautiful language, will surely leave you with permanent burn-scars of sheer inspiration all over your body!

MUSA E. ZULU (2019)

Author, artist and poet

Image No. 2

Our innocence to self discovery cannot and should not be tainted by the monsters that cradle our unrelenting spirit to dream and to believe.

The true test of strength does not lie in one’s ability to duck and dive but in taking a punch with your eyes open.

—Msimelelo Boltina

1   The Baptism

I can’t remember if I screamed. All I remember is waking up to excruciating pain. Hot! Hot, all around me! It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I stood dazed; delirious; swaying left and right; coughing; my body overcome with an indescribable pain while smoke and flames wrapped me in their hateful tendrils.

Mercifully, I can actually recollect very little. Hot, melted plastic dripped onto me, but I couldn’t feel it. The pain was so great that my mind had escaped to another world – a place of nightmares.

Flaming pieces of wood and straw dropped and collapsed around me, but I remained standing there, shocked, terrified to my core, unable to comprehend what was happening.

I was just a small six-year-old boy, and the sheer horror of it all was just too much to take in. I do recall my older brother, Sipho, suddenly grabbing at me. His mouth moved as he shouted something to me, but I just stood staring blankly, consumed by fiberglass fumes. Somehow or other, my brother managed to grab hold of me and pulled my almost-dead-weight out of that fiery pit of hell.

I lay on the soft grass, looking at the ibhoma, our hut, which was being engulfed in fumes and smoke, smouldering away to nothing. I could not feel the grass below me, and I couldn’t feel my lips. Why the lack of sensation of my lips was important to me then remains a mystery to this day.

Suddenly, I felt my body moving again. My brother had picked me up. He had such strong arms for a young man nursing a circumcision wound. Then, we were at the side of the road where my half-naked brother tried his best to get the attention of any passer-by anyone who could help us.

Meanwhile, Monde, my brother’s aide, had run to wake up my father. Our home wasn’t far away from the ebakhwetheni, or initiation camp, where my brother and I had been staying that night. It had been my brother’s ninth day at the circumcision school a place where, in our Xhosa tradition, boys become young men.

While we languished at the side of the road, my brother continued to shout and cry, the desperation cutting through his voice. Lights eventually appeared on the horizon. It was my father’s car. My brother lay me down on the grass again as I writhed in pain. I heard tyres crunching on the stones of the road and heard faint voices talking. I heard my father say my brother’s name, Sipho. Then I saw my father’s dark face, his familiar full beard and bushy hair. His eyes were filled with a simultaneous mix of terror and compassion.

"Mfene, you are going to be okay," he said gently, in his voice deep.

Mfene is my clan name. Spoken from my father’s lips, it was a term of endearment. That moment has stayed with me always.

I’m going to take you to the hospital, he said calmly, cradling me in his arms. He placed me tenderly on the backseat of his car, and my brother climbed in next to me. He had always been a well-built tower of a man. For a few moments, I felt like a baby again – safe and loved. That drive from our township of Motherwell to Livingstone Hospital in Korsten, Port Elizabeth, usually only took about 30 minutes. Still, that day it felt like an eternity, along with some additional delays. I remember at one point getting a familiar whiff of petrol in the backseat. It was then that I recognised some of the voices and lights from beyond the window and realised that my father had to stopped for petrol.

But an argument had developed.

I’m sorry, I heard my father say. I didn’t realise I left my wallet in my pants from last night. I had to rush out of the house to get my sons. You can see he is severely burned. We need to get to the hospital.

Wait a few moments. I need to call the manager, the petrol attendant said. The manager (who also happened to be the owner) slowly approached the car. When he caught sight of me in the backseat, he did not want to hear another word of explanation from my father.

Go! Go! He shouted. Just go! Get your sons to the hospital.

Although I know my father had pulled off in haste, it still felt to me as though the car was not even moving. Everything felt suspended like time no longer existed. I was consumed by pain. It was eating my little six-year-old body alive.

At some stage, I remember looking at my hands and seeing a strange, black substance all over them.

My skin was soft, like mush.

It peeled off as easily as rotten mango skin. Later, I learned the black substance was the melted plastic that had covered the hut.

It had dripped all over me onto my hands, head and feet.

Finally, we arrived at the hospital. I was swiftly placed on a bed and wheeled into the emergency unit. Even through the pain, I’ll never forget the looks of shock and disbelief on the faces of the nurses and doctors. Some even gasped and shook their heads.

I can only imagine how horrifying and painful it must have been to see a small six-year-old boy’s body burned almost to a crisp.

The staff quizzed my father about what had happened, but he couldn’t explain as he honestly did not know. All he knew was that our ibhoma had somehow caught alight and that I had not been able to get out in time. One thing we all knew for sure, though, was that my older brother was a hero. Despite the pain of his circumcision wounds, he had somehow gotten me out of there.

I will never forget my father’s attitude that night. He had always been a difficult man to live with. He was very strict and expected nothing but perfection from his children.

In the wake of an accident, he would not usually have given any of his children the benefit of the doubt. Instead, he would have exploded in anger and fury and demanded answers. How did this happen? Who is responsible? He would have shouted, looking to discipline either myself or my siblings. Out would come his cane, a white, plastic pipe usually used for cabling.

He would smack the first child to show any disrespect. But, on that morning, my father was calm, gentle and doting. He never once asked my brother or I how the fire had started. Nor had he jumped to a single conclusion. Getting us to safety had been his priority.

That morning, in the middle of my pain, I perhaps saw my father for who he really was for the very first time – ‘The man who lay beneath the layers of exasperation and frustration.’ I wish that I had got to experience that side of him more often, but such times were few and far between.

I never despised him for his authoritarian ways. I realised that his strictness had been his way of trying to protect us. Still, living under such a strict disciplinarian was hard.

Perhaps my father also felt guilty. A man deeply rooted in Xhosa customs and traditions, it was he who had suggested that I spend the night with my brother at the circumcision school.

The following day was to have been the 10th day of the ceremony, which was very significant. During the first eight to 10 days after the circumcision, each initiate umkhwetha is confined to their hut and can only eat certain foods while they heal. They cannot drink water either. Afterwards, they enter the ukosiswa rite, when they can change their diet and eat food with salt and drink water.

The festivities also imply that the circumcision was successful. After eight to 10 days in seclusion, the ukojiswa (meat roasting) marks the end of the fasting period with the sacrifice of a goat by the adult men of the village. The umkhwetha then gets to eat a roasted strip of meat from the right foreleg of the goat.

I’ll never forget the sight of my brother when I entered his hut that evening. He was covered with ceremonial white clay, which is believed to help ward off evil spirits. It also distinguishes the initiate from other boys as the one who goes to the mountain.

Each initiate receives a young male as an aide an inqalathi who assists them with their food and other needs as they heal. That day, however, my brother’s inqalathi, Monde, went missing. My mother thought he might have become a bit side-tracked by the arrival of new initiates. So, because my brother seemed to be without assistance, my mother wanted me to spend the night with him.

I didn’t want to go, I wanted