Keakantswe

Prologue

Keakantswe
Prologue
On a causal drive with my father after he picked me up from my mother’s place, we were driving through Onderstepoort, looking for a goat we had to buy for ukuphahla.
“You know dad, I have been hurt so many times, and the thought of taking my life makes sense.” I said with a strained voice, swallowing the lump in my throat that was the size of a lemon, resulting in bitterness in my throat and a mouth full of saliva, a nose hot with transparent liquid flowing as I held back the tears threatening to fall.
“Don’t let them see you cry.”  I chanted in my head, with every hidden wipe I made with the back of my hand, still looking out the window, my nose ran faster than the Olympic gold medallist. My hand seemed to be losing as my father’s response punched the air out of my lungs, leaving my out of breath and my heart skipping a beat. I felt suffocated as I tried to catch a breath; a loud sob escaped my mouth. 
This was by far the worst feeling, the final nail to my coffin. The tears I held back ran wild, what happened to me seemed, but a scratch compared to this betrayal.
“You know my baby, if you had killed yourself, I would have cried and been hurt, but years later we would have forgotten about you and only remembered you when we saw someone your age and only imagined how you would be.” He said after parking at the farmer’s gate.
The chest pains didn’t end, my chest tightened, the oxygen in my lungs seizing with each of his words. It felt like knives were being twisted in my heart, the physical pain was the worst, I could feel each twist and stab that made my heart skip beats. What my father didn’t know is that I needed reassurance; I needed him to tell me that everything would be fine and that he needed me in his life.
He got out of the car, and I followed him with red swollen eyes, I wiped my tears and smiled at the farmer’s wife, she gave me a tight hug, making me emotional.
The goat was put in the back of the van, like the goat my fate was sealed, I needed to be sacrificed, for him to have the peace he longed for with me around.
They were right all along; I have been called a waste of oxygen and my father had proven them right. The drive back to my grandmother’s was a quiet one, I was looking at the trees and the cars that were passing, my father had turned on the radio, Bab’Ringo’s song was playing. This was it my last drive, the last time I ever heard music playing, I had a perfect plan on how I would depart this painful place I called home.
I would be reunited with my mother, oh my sweet, beautiful mother. I smiled as I thought of her, I helped my father open the gate as my cousins rushed to help him with the goat. My grandmother told me that my food was in the microwave, but I had no interest in that, I had to make sure that everything was ready. As they sharpened the knives, I got my utensils ready.
It was around 6 PM when everyone had gathered around the lemon tree where the goat had been tied, the women were busy with the pots, others gossiping while drinking umqombothi which my grandmother was famous for.
My family members kneeled around the tree, I walked to the house, giving my grandmother one last look before entering the house.
I got in my grandmother’s bedroom, and I locked the door, then I locked her bathroom door, taking out the blades I had stolen from my uncle’s medical kit, I laid in the bathtub and started cutting my left wrist, the first cut didn’t give me the pleasure I had expected, so I continued with my assault a few more times, with blood coming out of my wrist I finally felt the peace I had imagined.
This was better than the smoke I had with my classmates, I was high and floating. Fighting my eyes to stay open so I cut one last time, light-headedness took over me, my eyes too heavy; I let the darkness consume me. Peace at last. I was known as Amahle Ntulini 24 years of age. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and recurrent depression after my failed suicide attempt.
I don’t trust people easily, people say that I am unapproachable because of my face, I apparently look angry all the time. It is a lie, I just don’t like crowds much, and I’d rather be in my room watching television or making care packages for the family members of the cancer patients at work.
Lerato, Lesedi Le Kganya.