Yesterday we heard that Uyinene was raped and murdered as we still reeled in the shock at the murders of Megan and Leighandre, and felt the collective anguish and dread at the kidnapping of Amy-Lee.
This weekend while visiting a city I coached my 13- year -old son to be an extra pair of eyes for me at each traffic light, where I slowed down way before the light to prevent stopping for too long, left a big gap for quick escape, locked the doors, tied my handbag to the gearstick – our heads turning, turning – highly conscious of anyone suspicious. We are never free of escape routes, of ‘what if’s’. When we walked along the beach-front we carried nothing but a phone hidden in a pocket and did without cash for an ice-cream. “Be aware” I cautioned – take note of the person in the shadows, be aware who is behind you, who is coming from the front. Be aware. Be alert. Pay attention. We stood high on a pier and looked down at the fishes which swam and swirled in patterns below us. As he looked down, I made sure I looked up. We took turns in soaking in the wonder. Be careful of distraction you see. And it was picture perfect, and beautiful – this land that we love and pay tax to and have been faithful to through thick and thin.
Last night I robbed my daughter of her 19-year-old right to be carefree and joy-filled and to have a safe opinion in the university town where she studies. I warned her of going into any shop alone - tellers in Post Offices can be life-threatening, never walk alone, never drive alone, hike those magnificent mountains that she loves in groups of 8 at least, carry mace, scream and scream. Fight back. Don’t fight back. Wear sensible clothing. Never park beside a van, park in reverse for a quick getaway, lock the doors, lock the windows. As I spoke this, a vigil for Uyinene took place down the road. Tears flowed down candlelit faces to hymns of sorrow, mourning the loss of that potential, that friend, that student, that woman. Instagram posts screamed, “Am I next?”
Today the collective sorrow of our nation filters through the radio waves which speak the same warnings. We live under siege. Predated. Wear pants only, wear flat shoes so that you can run. This is our warped discourse. This is our reality.
Last week I spoke to my 17-year-old son about the importance of treating women with dignity. He knows not to objectify, not to value a woman for anything less than her heart and her being. He knows that authority and respect are earned, that they are not a right. He knows not to demean, not to wolf-whistle, not to gaze with judgment. He knows that it is not up to him to ascertain the worth of a woman or any person.
Last month the woman who cleans my home came in with yet another black eye. Her newborn is at home cared for by her pregnant 13- year- old. These babies bring in cash. The State pays for each child who is born. Our ex-president with ‘his’ 6 wives who he bought is the role model for this floundering generation who wear his face on their chests with such hope and pride. Pride for this rapist of Khwezi. In the tiny village where we live the streets swarm with toddlers. The babies of children. They are born into fatherless households where procreation is a reflection of virility and fertility with no thought of the future.
A man murders his wife with a rock. Two babies die – one abandoned by its 'child mother' is ripped apart by dogs. The other is inadvertently shut into a car in the Karoo heat. This is our reality. This is the news that goes unreported. This is our collective psyche.
Today I will walk on a road into the hills that I love, to clear my head. If I hear a car in the distance I will subconsciously duck behind a bush with my dog and wait for the dust to settle before I walk on. I will breathe a sigh of gratitude that little Amy-Lee has been returned to her family. I will worry about my daughter returning home on a long-distance bus. I will walk in sorrow for this land which needs drastic and conscious change.
Written 3 September 2019 by Bronwen Langmead, previously a resident of Howick who now lives in Nieu-Bethesda, Eastern Cape.