To think the past never became the future I imagined…mph.
“Do you have anything to say, Nyasha?”
I was hooked out of a pool of thought. Seven pairs of eyes pierced through my glasses. How could I avoid the stares? I glanced down and cleared my throat.
“No. I’ve nothing to say.”
“That’s alright, Nyasha. Feel free to share your story anytime you’re comfortable.” [Reverend Honde drifted his attention to one pair of goaded eyes that shifted their attention from me].
“Shalom, you may continue with your story.”
So I muttered words and frowned whilst Shalom was sharing her experiences. At the thought of this, I sighed. She stared irately. I can’t imagine how wound up she was.
“I swear to you I wanted to end her life!” [she started], “How could my sister whom I took care of for eight years under my roof and sent to school till she finished college cheat with my husband? She…he…they took me for granted!” [and she sobbed] “I was the one who paid for my husband and sister’s betrayal! My assault was nothing compared to their filthy acts in my bed! Now they’re together. They get the reward and I get the punishment. Mph, the irony…”
Shalom appeared aggressive. I had met her outside the church earlier. She was smoking by the entrance and at the same time pulling her sleeves repeatedly to cover her hands from the frigid weather of the sub-tropical winter morning. I greeted her.
“Do I know you?” She asked.
“No, but I was just…mph…never mind.” I walked into the hall twice as irritated as I was when I arrived.
“Shalom,” the reverend spoke. “Have you ever expressed your anger the way you did that day?”
“No, reverend, I never expressed anger at anyone. People told me that I had a big heart. Some said I took after my mother. She named me Shalom. She was a pacifier naturally. Even when my father beat her so much to the point that she would find it difficult to walk.” She sighed.
I thought it was out of relief for unburdening herself of something I think she rarely or never shared. “My father beat her to death…and then killed himself. I lived my whole life seeking peace like my mother but I guess the day I assaulted my sister…I acted like my father.”
“I’m curious to know how this works,” Joyleen spoke. “How a woman clings onto a violent husband to the point of death.”
She looked around demurely and said, “Sorry, I just started talking…”
“It’s alright, Joyleen,” Reverend Honde said and signaled to her to continue.
“I was also in the same situation as your mother, Shalom. My husband beat me up so many times till he fractured my arm.” She pointed at the plastered arm whilst staring unnervingly at me.
“When the doctors asked me what had happened I told them that I had slipped in the bathroom and hit my arm on the bathtub.”
“And why would you say that instead of reporting your husband for what he had done?” a young man asked irritably.
“I was afraid.”
When I walked into the hall that morning she was sitting by herself scrolling down the broken screen of an old smartphone. There were three other people in the hall standing close to the altar. They were young. Perhaps they made Joyleen feel out of place. So I approached her and said hi. She replied bashfully as if she had done something wrong.
“May I sit here?” I asked. She simply nodded, and I sat and pointed perceptibly, “What happened to your arm?”
She attempted a smile but ended up sneering instead. “An accident…”
“A car accident?”
“Um, yeah.”
After she revealed the truth, I figured that Shalom’s story had made Joyleen want to open up even though it wasn’t her intention to do so initially – the reason for her lying to me about it. Her look towards me was remorseful as if my exoneration meant anything or everything to her. There was nothing to forgive because there was nothing for her to feel contrite about. I understood her and hoped my expression would convey that message to her.
“I don’t know why I was too afraid to report my husband,” Joyleen continued, “He was mean. He was hateful even to our children. He always claimed that they were not his children so he never treated them as his own. I thought I could love him enough to make him stop. He didn’t. He’s in prison now.”
“I was told your husband was a respectable member of his church,” the reverend stated.
“He was.” Joyleen said. “No one knew the kind of man he was except for me and my children. He poured boiling water on our ten-year-old son. I reported the case and everything else to the police. Still, at that point, it wasn’t easy to tell the whole truth. I even tried to defend him even when our son was in a critical condition.”
“I understand,” the reverend claimed. “I’ve come across women who’ve shared similar stories of abuse. It is traumatizing to be hurt and controlled by someone you love. Sometimes, you doubt your judgment and you blame yourself. It’s commendable that you’re now able to speak out and bring these shadows into the light. Now you’ll need to work on your self-worth and we’re here to help. How’s your son?”
“He has not entirely recovered.”
“He can never entirely recover. He’s lost his beautiful skin. He’s lost his esteem, and his father…however abusive he was. I just hope my son won’t turn out to be like him. Sometimes I think the reason I stayed is that my husband was the one who provided for me and the kids. He didn’t want me to work anyway. Now everything is on me. I thought the community would assist us in any possible way, reverend. Where’s the help?” she asked with a scowl.
“Joyleen, all we knew was the abuse you experienced in the hands of your husband,” the reverend asserted, “But I suppose we’ll have to add you to our program and try our best to attend to your family’s needs.”
“What about me? Can I receive help too?” It was the young man who had spoken earlier. “I… there’s something I need you all to know about me.”
“Alright, Takunda, you may go ahead and speak,” Reverend Honde said.
He nodded and said, “I am a happy person. I’m…optimistic, positive, fun, and energetic but…just yesterday, I thought about killing myself.”
The room dropped dead. Nobody uttered a word.
Takunda continued. “I’ve been lying to myself that I should always be happy and not feel sad or mad about stuff. Now I’m troubled.”
“What troubles you, young man?” the reverend asked looking as though he wrestled with himself to ask. His words were soft and calm but he grimaced at the man’s confession.
“I got my ex-girlfriend from college pregnant. And we agreed we were going to keep the affair a secret and terminate the pregnancy because she was already engaged to someone else. The abortion attempt didn’t go as planned and she…” Takunda paused as though he forgot he had forgotten part of the story he was telling. He was only pondering over his own deeds. “She died…and only I know she was carrying my child but many blamed her fiance when the news broke. The guy claims he is innocent but the girl’s family demands he pays for what he did…for what ‘I’ did. I keep telling myself that I’m fine but it’s weighing hard on me.”
“Takunda, don’t let another man take the blame for your actions,” the reverend said.
“I need your help, Rev,” Takunda implored. “I don’t know how to face my parents and I don’t know how to face Andile’s parents. I don’t know how to face life anymore…”
“We’re here to help,” the reverend assured him, “That’s the reason for this exercise…”
This exercise had become a confession exercise. I felt the growing uneasiness.
“It takes courage to be able to speak about this, Takunda,” Reverend Honde continued, “What you did was wrong, yes, and there’s a penance for your actions. The guilt you feel now is part of it…but you don’t heal by taking your own life. You now need to make things right for everyone and remember, it’s okay not to be okay.” It was then I felt the reverend’s eyes piercing through my glasses again. It was my turn.
“Wow,” I said and faked a smile. “Reverend Honde, I’ve studied the psyche…and I’d like to think if our souls had shadows, then these emotions, traumas, denials and hidden personalities brought into the light would be…”
“Nyasha,” the reverend cut in and asked seriously, “Would you like to share ‘your’ story?”
Mph, to think the past never became the future I imagined.
“No reverend…not today.”
Read – I Met a Hobo Once – A Short Story by Tumisang Shongwe, South Africa
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