The Long MisWalk To Final Freedom

Prologue

I'd appreciate anyone who's good with design or whatever to contact me because I really need a cover before I publish chapter 1.

xxx

"She's not here, she's gone to her grandmother's for the holiday" I heard Novalo, my step-father lie one last time.

1stof November, 1987. The day of my birth, a day not special to most, a work day, Saturday, church day, a drinking day for some but with no occasion, the corrupt went about their corruption, the poor went about being poor and again, the day of my birth.

1st of November 2047. The day of my birth, a day celebrated by most, a holiday, whether it be Saturday or Sunday, a holiday nevertheless, a drinking day for those who prefer to celebrate that way, the corrupt would rest to pay respects, the poor would forget about poverty and again, the day of my birth, the whole world celebrated my birth. To think that the celebration started between the three of us, mother,father and I, now I have no idea how half the people celebrating my birthday even look. Where do they even live? Do they even really know me? Do they know my struggles? Actions I'm not proud of? Do they even know my middle name?

I had my pen in hand, and I was ready to tell my story to the papers that were willing to listen. Ready to transport my stories from the bottom of my heart flowing out the tip of my pen, flooding pages with bravery and quite the opposite. My father always told me that he knew I was special from the day I was born, he always said "From the minute you were born, I knew you were a far cry from the odd child, I knew I'd have the most obscure experience at parenting"

My father and I had the most memorable days, I remember taking a drive to the white neighbourhoods and my father would reassure me that we'd one day be allowed to live here too, he made it feel so real, like I would wake up in a white house the very next day. Every morning I'd pry open one eye with my hand and the next, but every morning I still saw myself in Soweto, but as soon as I'd see my father's silhouette at my door all i was filled with was joy and I felt so safe, nothing about Soweto scared me when daddy was around. And again the very next day he'd take me to another white neighbourhood and he would say "Aviwe, my daughter, one day we'll live here. Not just you and I but all of us blacks, together with the whites, and every other race"

"But Why would we want to live with the whites, daddy? Is it not their fault that me and you still don't live here?"

"You and I, Viwe"

"Daddy?"

"You and I, not Me and you. And a Johnson never holds a grudge"

"Daddy?How come our surname is Johnson but Granny's is Maxheke?"

"From the minute you were born, I knew you were a far cry from the odd child, I knew I'd have the most obscure experience at parenting"

At that time I didn't know it but that was my best birthday. My last heartfelt birthday celebration. Like every other birthday, Daddy stood at the door, with the most homely smile and every year after that all I could ever wish for was too see that smile again.

I remember waking up one Saturday morning, Saturday's were the days when father took me to see the suburbs. But not today, today all I could do was watch. Watch as hands dressed my body my body in all black, watch as women wept and men carried a box. A box that I couldn't understand the use of. Why carry father in a box if he could run miles, he had youthful feet for his age. I watched as they watched me with pitiful eyes full of sympathy. I watched as they watched mother with wary eyes. No, not mother, a man. They watched this man with wary eyes but he stood by mother so firmly one could've mistaken them for one person.

Novalo Nxumalo...