What Happens After
There below the surface
Just under your skin
Flows blood as red as mine
And when too much is spilt your heart stops just as mine would
There below the surface
Away from your gaze
Are cells that hold your parents DNA the same way that my cells hold my
heritage
And when you open your palms
Life lines criss-cross like the highways of fiber that bind flesh to bone the
same way as mine
These are things that give us life like the breath in our lungs yet you choose to
use them in attempts to take mine
…
Khonzile sturdily reads the poem as she contends with the memories of the
day they took him away. Dr Zolani is seated quietly on the dark green sued
couch, watching her as she reads. She notes how she still clutches at the
piece of paper but is not pacing as she usually does. It is Khonzi’s seventh
therapy session. The crying at the start of the sessions subsided and
eventually stopped. Now Khonzi uses the time to read the poems that she
writes as an offering to sleep. She is able to say his name now. And she no
longer calls it the incident out of shame. No. Now her words are precise and
her voice no longer quavers out of sync with the syllables. She loved him. She
never thought her mother would have to break a vase over his head. Never
thought her mother would have to pry his limp body off of her in haste. Never
thought she would have to peel her broken body from the floor as they both
pray that he does not wake up before the sirens reach their gate.
Khonzi sits on the single seater couch opposite the doctor. She takes a deep
breath in and is awash with empathy and anger as she exhales. “I wrote this
one after a lunch date with my mother and my aunt. It is not specifically about
Lebadi,” she says before the doctor asks her the first question about it. “I
wrote it for my children, I want them to know the truth. And I want to teach
them that love should never be expressed as ownership,” she continues.
“And the second part of the poem? There was a shift in the tone and
messaging. Can you tell me more about that?”
“Yes. That part is for those who have been abused,” she pauses for a
moment. Surprised that the empathy is winning over the anger. “I want them,
us, to know that the word light is not reserved for things that shine brightest.
That we are enough. We don’t need to be more or to be less. That the abuse is not related to our importance nor are the words and actions of the abusers
the scales that weigh it.”
“Khonzile, this is great work, you should be proud of yourself. Is there a
message in there for the abuser?”
“Thank you. No,” and Dr Zolani notes how she is maintaining eye contact and
not grinding her teeth.
“I did consider writing something. Something in an effort to persuade them to
tend to their emotional fragility and to update their views on equality. But I
decided to start supporting platforms and organisations that are already doing
this.”
Noma the writer 