The beautiful mess

CHAPTER 1

I told this kid he should stay away, I am too much of a mess to deal with a human being, especially a cute boy who says he likes me. I don`t even think I like boys for that matter. Honestly I never had to deal with person who says they love me. Love is a strange concept to unravel, It never makes sense, I hate things that do n`t make sense. I am very mathematical in my approach in life, sometimes I think I am too logical I miss out on important things in life.

Why did I even come back to this town? I truly hate home, I think I have leaved too much on my own and for far too long, as such I cannot relate to my won family, I love them with a strange kind of love, even though I never told them, but I think they sort of know. I do n`t really know much about my family, I know we sort of share this house and my fathers money, but that`s basically it, that all I know about them.

My dad still believes the South African educational system is not to advance the black child, He says the apartheid government changed the good old British Education that came with the missionaries together with Christianity into Bantu Education. In Africa education was brought in by British missionaries wrapped around with a ribbon of Christianity. Many good old boarding schools are not only named after British Saints, like St. Christian College, St. Johns Collage, St. Colonizers College, but they also brag with humongous Chapel buildings which specialised more on changing African names to the so-called Christians names.

This is an act that led to the famous South African icons with the names they have now, Rholihlahla Mandela was changed to Nelson, Bantu Biko wass given Steve, Mpilo Tutu was given Desmond. My fathers name, real name is Sidima. That is his Xhosa name, a tribe of the Ngunis speakers of the Eastern part of South Africa. This is not only the name given him by his grand father but it’s a name that his ancestors know him with.

My father tells me he grew up in a family of absent men, he only had women in his famliy, by the standards of his tribe his family was not reagrded as a respectable family, talking about African culture and patriachy right. His name stems from all those family experiences.

When my grandmother was impregnated by her employer in Johannesburg she came back to deliver my father in the Eastern Cape, and she immediately returned to work in Johanessberg. His name means the one who bears dignity I love that name. I love how African names bear the aspirations or critical moments in a family`s history, its almost prophetic. Look at Rholirharha, The one who draws out a thorn bush, an idiom for a trouble maker, yes I did n`t say they will all be nice names to have. But a trouble did he really cause for the Apartheid regime, didn`t he. One of my father`s political friends is Mvulankulu heavy rain because they day he was born it was raining cats and dogs.

My father has borne many pseudo names in his life time it makes you even question why his family bothered to name him such a nice dignified name, his Tanzanian passport his goes by the name Abdullah Nkosi, while we were living in Mozambique he was called Wellington Bongco, I don’t even know what to call him anymore, I just call him Tata.

My name is Donna, I know right and know there is no meaning to it, I was just named after the mid wife who helped my mother deliver me, apparently I got stuck in the virginal passage, which complicated my birth process. Donna was a brilliant Cuban trained nurse she worked in the ANC refugee camp in Morogoro Tanzania. My mother says that during the day of my delivery my head was big for her pelvic hole to allow easy passage I think her pelvis is very small, she has a petit physique. It was the brilliance of Sister Donna`s Cuban training that saved my mom’s life and prevented me from asphyxiating to death. Because my head was almost out of the virginal canal they could not perform and emergency C-section. Sister Donna performed and ancient technique called a cranioclasty, where the skull of a baby is collapsed without damaging the brain, in order to make the head smaller than it really. My brain was not damaged by this process, Sister Donna says crainioclasticies are rarely performed even by a well-trained neurosurgeons. She did it to save my life, I sometimes wonder why she went to so much lengths to save me. This is I wish I was born in South Africa, under the supervision of a South African Bantu-educated mid-wife.

spent some time in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe during his days with the MK. He came back to

South Africa at the dawn of democracy, with my mother to serve government officials. My mom is a simple farmer girl from Zimbabwe, she is simple in the true meaning of the word. Her family were tobacco farmers, who were later killed by the Mugabe `s land expropriation regime.

I can`t tell you jerk about my sister and brother, I just know they are my siblings. As soon as my front milk tooth fell off I was sent back to Harare to start my alimentary education, who does that? who sends a mixed race child to a foreign racist, anti-white land? My father always says it was for my own good, but that`s rubbish, I think he was too shameful of having to raise a bipolar schizophrenic child. I still hate my mom for not having stopped him, I hate her submissiveness to everything my father says, it hurts me.

I can swear they are glad I will be moving to Cape Town to study medicine. These people really hate my presence in this family. They forced me to study medicine so I can be as far as I can from them and for as long as possible.
I can`t catch feeling now, I can barely bare with the madness of my own mind and now imagine having to learn to love a homo sapien?

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