“Those are the waiting rooms for witnesses,” she said. She explained that all the witnesses for my case (Zanele, Ant’LaMabuza, my mother, Dr Malan and Nobuntu), and anyone else who wanted to support me on the day, would wait in one of the waiting rooms, until they were called to deliver their testimonies.
She must have sensed my nervousness. Putting her arm around my shoulders, she asked, “Are you ready for this?”
“I am,” I whispered, swallowing a few times. “At least, I think I am.”
* * *
The hearing was set for Friday, September 10th. The day before, Bheka and his father drove all the way from Johannesburg to support me. That evening, they invited my mother, my brothers and me to a pizza restaurant in the mall near their hotel.
I nibbled at my pizza, took small bites of a mushroom, tasted a bit of ham, wondered how I could explain my lack of appetite to Mr Bongani, who had been so kind to us. Every now and then I looked up to see his kind eyes searching my face. When he offered my brothers some money to use in the games arcade, I knew he was preparing for a serious talk.
I was right: as soon as my brothers ran off, he turned to me.
“I can see you’re nervous about tomorrow. But please relax, if you can. You have a very strong case. And excellent witnesses. All you have to do is to give your testimony as clearly as you can, and in as much detail as you can.”
I nodded, breathing deeply. On the one hand, I was confident; on the other, I had serious misgivings about what lay ahead.
“Can I speak straight?” asked Mr Bongani.
I nodded again.
He put his arm around my mother’s shoulder. She looked shrunken next to him, as if she had sunk into her seat.
“Rape is a serious offence in our law system. And a father who masterminds his own daughter’s rape …” His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat to continue. “The two accused will try all they can to lie their way out of things. And so will their attorneys. But stay calm. You have nothing to fear.”
I looked across at my mother. Her face showed enormous strain, and she looked more exhausted than I had ever seen her. Even long shifts and working overtime didn’t make her look as drained as she did that night. I leant across and took her hand.
“We will win this, Ma,” I said.
Her eyes shot full of tears. She seemed to sink deeper into her seat.
With his arm still around my mother’s shoulders, Mr Bongani focused on me again, eye to eye.
“Many rape victims never report the violence they suffer. Out of fear, ignorance or helplessness. Too many women in our country submit to the stereotype that they brought the abuse on themselves. You are different. You will have your day in court on behalf of all the girls who remain silent.”
Once again, I took a deep breath. I caught Bheka’s eye. His eyes were soft that night: they were not shining like searchlights. Their light was gentle, like the light of the moon. Gentle, and encouraging.
“I’m ready,” I said.
For the first time since it all happened, I felt a tug inside my heart, a reminder of my Place of Promises. While Mr Bongani settled the bill and Bheka went to call my brothers, I took the opportunity to comfort my mother.
“I will be brave, Ma. It’s time for me to get back on track. My dreams will not be broken. Not by anyone.”
14
Was I so calm on the day of the court appearance because of all the support I was receiving? Or was it because of the vow I had made the night before, that I would not allow anyone to crush my dreams?
Whatever it was, while Mrs Lobi waited outside the waiting room to walk me to the room for minors, I was feeling calm and confident as I said goodbye to my support team.
Nobuntu had arranged for sandwiches and cooldrinks. It would be a long wait for them until witnesses were called. While I was hugging my mother, my brothers, Zanele, Ant’LaMabuza, Nobuntu, Dr Malan, Maryke, Bheka and Mr Bongani, Mr Khumalo burst into the room. His shirt was the colour of a blazing sunrise.
“I’ve come to be part of your support team,” he said breathlessly.
“Dream team,” Nobuntu corrected him.
Everyone laughed. I introduced him as my favourite teacher, which seemed to please him no end.
“The whole MAD crew, and especially Lindiwe, asked me to say they believe in you and they expect you back at school soon,” he said with that broad smile of encouragement I knew so well.
Just then, Mrs Lobi called me from the door. With a feeling of calm determination I accompanied her up the steps to the room for minors. But just before entering, I heard someone behind us. It was Nobuntu who was flying up the staircase.
Surprised, I turned.
“Girl,” said Nobuntu, looking right through me, “did you ask to be raped?”
I looked at her, shocked.
“Some men say girls wear sexy clothes to tease them. Are you that kind of girl? Did you tease the Bad Boys? Are you a loose girl, a flirt?”
A flame of anger shot right through my body. I had to hold on to the stair rail to steady myself.
“No!” I cried out at the injustice of Nobuntu’s outrageous suggestion. “And you know I’m not!” My reaction was so loud I was surprised Mrs Lobi didn’t come out the room to check on me. “I-I-I know who I am. How dare you –” I began, glaring at Nobuntu.
“Then go in there and believe in yourself,” she interrupted me. “Be proud of yourself. Value yourself. Above all, stand up for yourself.”
Turning sharply on my heel I stomped angrily into the room, but not after looking back over my shoulder at Nobuntu, who was skipping down the stairs as if nothing had happened.
Her words were like a match setting fire to dry wood. I imagined how desperately my father and the rapist would try to maintain their innocence. They would say that I was loose, that I flirted with boys, that I asked for it, agreed to have sex with the monster, and that it was actually me who had invited him into the bushes for sex.
My cheeks were hot with anger. No one, no one was going to get away with suggesting that I had asked for it! My day in court had arrived and I would stand up not only for myself but for all the girls Mr Bongani had referred to, the girls who remained silent, too afraid to speak out. I thought of my mother and her dreams of being a teacher. Of Lindiwe. How her aunt and her boyfriend had made her feel dirty and shameful.
I, Nandi Dube, was not afraid to speak out.
And I would.
I took a seat next to Mrs Lobi.
“You’re looking confident,” she observed.
Yes, I thought, I have that don’t-mess-with-me-ever-again look on my face. And then it suddenly dawned on me that Nobuntu had provoked me on purpose! She had wanted me to get angry! Anger is good, anger tells me you’re fighting back, she had said when I first found out about my father’s terrible betrayal.
So I used my anger to help me stay on track.
When my time came to testify I didn’t stumble once, and not once did I stand on the brink of that deep, dark, familiar hole.
At the end of my testimony, I felt very tired, and I was just about to ask Mrs Lobi if I could lie down on the couch when she took off her headphones.
“Is it all over?” I asked.
She cleared her throat. “No, but the court has adjourned for a short while,” she murmured softly.
“Why?” I asked, feeling suddenly out of breath.
“Your father has broken down. His attorney has asked for some time to speak to him in private,” she said.
To this day, I can’t remember exactly what happened next. All I know is that the exhaustion I felt after testifying suddenly overwhelmed me. Within seconds I was fast asleep on the couch, one hand on my golden locket, my face pressed into a soft cushion.
As for the rest, I will sum it up like this:
Mrs Lobi wakes me. I have a slight headache. The sweetness of the tea and chocolate biscuits she offers me is welcome. I have run out of energy or the will to carry on. All I want is to
run to my support team and feel Bheka’s arms around me.
This is taking so long, I think. I look at the clock on the wall. We started early this morning, and it is already midday.
Mrs Lobi has the headphones on again. The clock against the wall ticks on and on and on.
But why is Mrs Lobi not saying anything? She has a very serious expression on her face. What’s going on?
After what seems like hours, Mrs Lobi removes the headphones and turns to me. She tells me the trial has taken a dramatic turn. My father has crumbled. My father has cried. My father has admitted to the allegations. My father with his cruel, crooked smile and the sour smell of beer, has fallen to his knees and repented. My father who handed me over to the enemy, who hit my mother, has agreed to undergo programmes in prison so that he can stop drinking, stop smoking dagga and become a better person.
“Why did he give in so suddenly?” I ask.
“Because when he saw your face on the closed-circuit TV screen, he thought of how he also had a dream once, and how his father smashed that dream by beating him and forcing him to leave school,” she explains.
“And the rapist?
Mrs Lobi comes to sit beside me on the couch, softly stroking my hands. She tells me that the monster has also admitted to the allegations, just like my father. Scar admitted that he did accept my father’s money in turn for a sick, gruesome favour. He admitted that he had watched my every move for weeks. He had followed me to the spaza shop on that dreadful night. He had just waited for the right moment …
“So it was never my fault. It was really, really never my fault,” I whisper.
* * *
When I reflect on my day of justice, many memories are vague, wrapped in a misty haze.
After hearing about the admissions by the two men who had almost cost me my life, I was so surprised, so shocked, so relieved, that my brain stopped working for a while. But I do remember clearly how Mrs Lobi explained that, because of the surprising turn of events, no further testimony or cross-examination was required. This meant the verdict would be delivered sooner than expected. That same afternoon, in fact.
I also recall her closing words: “It’s almost over. You were fantastic, Nandi. You’re a star. I’m so proud of you.”
I remember also how Nobuntu was waiting for me outside.
“You did it on purpose!” I called out. “You wanted me to lose my temper!”
“I knew you needed a flame under your butt. You were much too calm. Calm is good, but you needed anger, too,” she said, laughing.
“Well, your trick worked,” I said.
I always knew Nobuntu was a different kind of angel.
For what seemed like an eternity my supporters and I waited for the verdict, some of us crowded into the waiting room, others sitting on the grass outside. My brothers played marbles, and the adults tried their best to create a light, happy atmosphere. Nobuntu’s refreshments had run out, so Bheka and Maryke went to a nearby corner café for cooldrinks.
Everyone pretended to be relaxed, but I knew that all of us were nervously waiting for Mrs Smith to appear.
At long last I saw her walking at great speed across the patch of lawn towards the waiting room. Mr Khumalo and Mr Bongani, who had been chatting outside, came inside to join us. My brothers interrupted their game of marbles and rushed in to sit up close to my mother. Everyone stopped talking. There was a short, intensely anxious silence until Mrs Smith stepped through the doorway. She cleared her throat, looking straight at me.
“They’ve both been sentenced, Nandi. They’ll be behind bars for a long, long time. You can take back your life. You’re safe now.”
No one said a word.
“The magistrate said your testimony was excellent. Clear and honest. Well done – you were outstanding. You are a role model for other young girls, and I salute you.” Mrs Smith hugged me and then excused herself to attend to other matters.
I was at a loss for words.
Nobuntu was the first to jump up and draw me to my feet. She hugged me so hard that I almost fainted. Or maybe I almost fainted because of the mixed emotions that overwhelmed me in that moment: unspeakable relief, excitement, joy, but also a terrible sadness, a strange kind of grief, for what my father had brought on himself. For what he had done to us.
Once Nobuntu let go of me, I opened my arms to my mother, who was looking shrunken and shocked. Her body trembled against mine. My brothers joined us; two boys who now had to grow up with an absent father, a father who would not be a part of their future.
The four of us clung to one another, sobbing uncontrollably. You would have thought we would be dancing with joy, but instead the full impact of all the hurt over so many years bound us together as one tearful, bewildered family.
It was Jabu, young as he was, who was the first to stop crying.
“Now Nandi will never be afraid again. And Ma will never be hurt again.” This simple truth reminded us that a new life for our family had just begun.
We were not the only ones who had been reduced to tears though. Maryke, Zanele, Ant’LaMabuza, even Dr Malan and Mr Khumalo, had wet, glistening eyes. Even Nobuntu, who had gone outside to phone Gogo, came inside, dabbing a tissue to her face.
“Your gogo says you and the boy from Johannesburg must visit her soon,” she reported.
I turned to look for Bheka, who was standing to one side, eyes fixed on me.
“Tell Gogo it’s a deal,” he said, before taking me in his arms.
He held me for a very long time while the others chatted and laughed all around us.
“I always believed in you. My girl like no other,” he whispered.
I felt the warmth of his body against mine. Trust, respect, friendship, love … I wanted to stay in his arms forever. And ever.
At that moment Mr Khumalo tapped me on the shoulder: “I don’t want to spoil the moment, but I have to get back to school.”
I turned around, feeling a little bit embarrassed that my favourite teacher had seen me in an embrace with my boyfriend.
But Mr Khumalo was as cool as ever. “Glad to see your love life is well and happy,” he said. “Good choice.”
“Thanks for coming, sir,” I said, a slight burn on my cheeks.
“We’ve all missed you, Nandi.”
“See you on Monday. . . and I can’t wait,” I said.
Suddenly I had an urge to thank Mr Khumalo and every single person who had helped me on my journey out of that deep, dark hole; everyone who had made it possible for me to testify to my innocence, declare my own worth, stand up for myself. But that had to wait because just then Mr Bongani called out, “Time for a celebration! You’re all invited for a meal.”
Everyone streamed out of the waiting room into the sunshine, relief clearly visible on happy faces. I was about to follow, but Bheka held on to my arm and pulled me gently to one side of the door, where no one could see us.
“Wait,” he said, “there’s something we need to do.” And then he kissed me. As tenderly and as full of love and care as I ever could have hoped. And later when I told Maryke about it, and she asked if the entire Mpumalanga had moved under our feet, I said, “Yes, didn’t you feel it?”
You may think a waiting room is not a romantic place for a first kiss, but for me on that day at that time it was absolutely, totally perfect. When I stepped out of the room, something slipped off me, something heavy fell away. It was the old, familiar, dead weight of darkness.
I turned my back on it and walked into the brilliant sunshine of a new life.
Alive again.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to Lucy Moyane, Deputy Director General: Curriculum, Mpumalanga Department of Education, who read the manuscript and gave valuable feedback. Helpful suggestions were made by Khumbulani Sam Ndawo, Chief Educational Specialist: School Library and Information Services, Mpumalanga Department of Education.
I was fortunate enough for the assistance of two very skilled editors: John Linnegar
graciously agreed to a first round of editing at very short notice, and his legendary competence shines through. Nicola Rijsdijk’s unfailing eye noticed the tiniest flaws, and she ironed out every crease in the fabric of the story with great flair.
I am grateful to two legal practitioners who gave authoritative advice pertaining to the court proceedings as described in the book: Franselien Mouton, Regional Magistrate, Strand, as well as Naomi Engelbrecht, President of the Mpumalanga Regional Court in Mbombela.
Michelle Cooper, publisher at Tafelberg, facilitated the process with friendly, informal efficiency.
Notes
The description of the Mbombela Magistrate’s Court is fictitious and does not correspond with the layout and interior of the court buildings as they appear in reality.
Every story begins with a spark, which fires the imagination. Alive Again was sparked by a three-minute-long film, Never Give Up, which I saw at the 2012 Ubuntu Teen Film Festival in Cape Town. Although this moving short film is based on a true story, Alive Again is a work of pure fiction and the characters are fictional and of my own creation. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Synopsis
Alive Again was sparked by a three-minute-long film, Never Give Up, which the author saw at the 2012 Ubuntu Teen Film Festival in Cape Town.
This contemporary youth novel, written in a first person retrospective narrative style, shares with the reader the story of the highly intelligent and very beautiful Nandile Dube, who – from an early age – hopes to be an “honest human rights lawyer to make sure helpless people get treated fairly and with respect”. Her long-suffering mother fully supports Nandi’s dream, to the extent of working double shifts to pay Nandi’s school fees at a former Model C school. Mrs Dube constantly encourages Nandi to make use of every chance to attain her dream. Nandi’s father, however, holds the patriarchal view that education is wasted on a girl and that women serve no other purpose in society than “to cook, clean, please their husbands” and bear children. The stage is then set for a story that grips the reader from the very first paragraph. Will the courageous Nandi and her support team of “Earth Angels” help her to hold on to her dream of becoming a lawyer, or will her sexist father and his ilk trample on Nandi and disrespect her dreams?
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