Church Chronicles: Part 2

Six: Wounded And Bleeding

I found myself in a position where I had no one to cry to. I had no one to console me, no one to encourage me and tell me that "everything will be alright Mandilakhe."

Vulnerability wasn't a very familiar feeling for me, I was so used to covering up how I felt, even from a young age, I covered up almost everything. When dad went AWOL on us, I covered up and acted strong for my mother. I saw how much the disappearance affected her, hurt her so I became her strength. I manned up, pushed my own feelings and fears to the back because I had to be strong for her in her weakness.

I basically had the first-hand experience of the sufferings his disappearance induced on us but I covered up very well no one could tell. I remember at some point in primary school I became a bully because I needed someone to channel my inner anger towards, I needed a venting box, I needed something that would help me heal but at the same time not break me as I was now the man of the house.

With Mike I had found a place of comfortability, I had found solace, peace, and what I thought was love. Now all of that was being ripped away from me and that made me feel naked and vulnerable all over again and for some reason, there was no covering up. Instead, the rejection brought back the childhood rejection, the rejection brought back memories I would have loved to forget, the rejection brought back insecurities that I thought I had overcome, and all of that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

"I want to come home mama," I said to my mother on the phone, and I knew very well that my voice was shaky.

"What's going on Mandi? Did you fight with Pastor Ndizi? Or emsebenzini izinto azihambi kakuhle?"

"Mama..."

"Okay okay... Buya, we will talk when you get here"

All I needed was that "buya", anything else she said went to the back of my mind. I started packing everything that belonged to me, I was going to go home and forget I'd ever been to East London.

**** **** ****

"Yazi mama you never really told me where dad went to, the time he disappeared on us"

That question wasn't meant to come out, it was an internal question but my mouth failed me and I wasn't really sorry. My mother sat across me, looking at me with so much confusion.

"Uthini Mandilakhe?" (What did you just ask me?)

"Utata... Ngoku wayemkile, wayeyephi?" I asked again. (I'm asking when dad left us, where did he go to?)

"Yintoni le undibuza yona ek'senapha?" (What kind of question is that so early in the morning?)

I wanted to answer and say "it's a question obviously" but that would have been disrespectful so I dropped it, I dropped it because it irritated her but that didn't mean I wouldn't ask dad. I wanted to know, and if he had left us for another woman or he had another secret family, then I wanted to know why mom forgave him. I had kept all these questions inside of me that even dissecting each and every one of them made me feel like I was crushing glass with my teeth. I felt so weird and in an emotional pain at the same time.

On the evening of that same day I noticed that dad was back from work, and he was in a good mood so I geared up and joined him outside as he watered his garden. After a couple of lousy conversations, I decided to bring my previous conversation with mom, up...

"Tata, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he answered enthusiastically.

"Remember the time you left, for about eight years if I'm not mistaken... Where did you go to? Why did you leave?"