Trying to Escape Poverty

Chapter 1

I can feel a cold breeze brushing against my body, awakening me from a deep slumber. I shiver. My eyes are heavy and waking up feels like doing the final rep of a bench press workout. I struggle. Defeated, I forage the bed for a blanket, a sheet, just anything to cover my shame, but the palms of my hands can only feel the bumpy surface of the pocket-sprung mattress.

"Sean" I call out.

I have known Sean since childhood and he is not very far when I get this drunk. "Drunken Master", everybody calls me. Not to say having one too many makes me a Kung Fu master like Jackie Chan; if anything, I would say alcohol makes me a "King Fool master". Of course, the scars on my face and body tell a story I have been into many scuffles and lived to tell the tale that bottling and stabbing do not mean an unfair fight in South Africa; the point is not to be fair, it is to defend yourself, whatever means necessary. Being the King Fool master I am, passing out and vomiting, or blowing the trumpet as Sean calls it, are my superpowers. It's nothing to be ashamed of though, so is the fact that I snore terribly! I am just part of the normal in the beautiful rainbow nation of South Africa. Taxi drivers with potbellies the size of a full-term pregnancy are known to turn any place into a tree-logging area.  For toddlers, mastering how to open a beer bottle without an opener, like with teeth or another bottle, is part of early childhood development.

Like an out-of-control fire hose, I move in my sleep; I do not doubt all the blankets and sheets are on the floor. I tut before burying my head under a pillow, but then the sound of drapes blowing in the wind startles me, just the motivation I need to do a deadlift of my heavy eyelids as I finally come to life.

To begin, Sean's Hoki - shack or shanty house - has no windows, let alone curtains. It has a makeshift door that stays open in summer to prevent the place from feeling like a furnace. In winter it does not matter whether the door stays open or closed, the metal sheets that make up the walls and roof trap enough cold to make the place feel like a morgue.

Why are South Africans living in these terrible conditions? I often ask myself. Is Apartheid still well and breathing, walking on two legs, or "shanty housing" has just become part of South Africa's social structure? The answers to my questions lie right under my nose, my poor background. I was born in Khayelitsha, Cape Town, where I live today. There, and in other Kasis - townships - in South Africa, people rent out their Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP) houses to immigrants and choose to live in Hokis instead. My mother is no exception. She is unemployed and widowed and had to look for other means to supplement her income from the shebeen business. All I want is an escape- too much is happening at home.

I curl up in bed as I try to make sense of my surroundings. Opposite the bed is a TV mounted on the wall. A news channel is playing and the reporter says it is windy today. Cape Town winds, known as "The Cape Doctor", not knowing if because they have super healing powers, can be unpleasantly strong and irritating. Below the TV is a chest of drawers with photo frames and other accessories. I squint my eyes to get a clearer view of the photos but then I feel a sudden pang in my head.

This hangover feels a little different today, a little excessive I think. I feel like my head is about to explode.

"Morning Boet (brother)" a voice startles me.

A man who looks like he is in his sixties is leaning on a bathroom door with a towel wrapped around his waist.
"Who are you?" there is panic in my voice, "What have you done to me?"

I wince as the idea he may have raped me invades my mind. I clench my butt in anticipation of some sought of discomfort to confirm my fears.

The man looks at me. A smirk slowly forms on his face.

"It's not me whose love hormones you have in overdrive!" he chuckles disappearing into the bathroom. He reemerges at the door carrying a naked girl in his arms. The girl appears to be drooling and her neck is slightly crooked. "It's her," he says.

"Oh my God!" I can feel my legs getting weak.

"Relax, she does not bite," he puts her on the bed, "I tell you nobody has ever made her happy like you did last night. She hasn't stopped smiling since "

I look at the girl and she makes strange sounds, evidently chuckling.

"I wouldn't...I..I.." I stammer, falling short of words.

"Well, you did boet" the man chuckles unlocking a phone on top of a side drawer. He starts playing a video. "I swear I have never seen a man mourn this much. You wanna see?"

"I would never sleep with, with..." I pause" ..someone like her."

"Come on, don't be mean now! " the man says, "Haven't you heard of cerebral palsy, it is a common disease." He then leans onto the girl to wipe away the drool on her face and continues, "She is like any other girl, just that she lacks...ugh.." he ponders " ...I'd say a little action. Don't you sweetheart? Are you ready to have another go?"

The girl seems to nod eagerly.

"Ngeke - Hell Nooo" I charge for the door. The man rushes to tackle me and I feel like I am being hit by a thirty-ton truck. He is a big Afrikaner guy and funny enough, he is wearing a Bush Shirt.

My lights go out.