Twelve Monkeys
By Abigail George
I’ve made mistakes. More than a few. I haven’t always apologised for my behaviour, for the mistakes I made, the wrong journey I took, the path less travelled. I am broken inside. I sometimes feel numb and dead inside when I exercise. Especially when I exercise. When I’m stressed out, I exercise a lot. I watch films. I read poetry. I write poetry. But these days it just feels as if I can’t carry out the simplest of tasks. I feel that nobody really loves me for me. I think of Elvis, I think of Sinatra, I think of Sammy Davis Junior. I think of their friendship. The bonds between them. They were brothers. They had each other’s backs. They looked out for one another. They loved each other. I do not know what love is. Growing up my mother loved herself. Narcissist I think is the correct term. Always in heels and a G-string. Sexed up. My father was an absent father by all accounts. But, to all intents and purposes he gave me a happy life, a happy childhood. So, I am taking the memories wherever I go. Wherever, whenever, and I mean the happiest memories I’ve had, I still have, are the moments I spent with my father. Eating ice cream, going to the beach, visiting the clinical psychologist, buying the month’s groceries, playing under his desk at work. My father’s friends were my friends. The people that knew my father, knew me from a young age. Precocious and cute, always wanting to make people with sad eyes laugh, and if I couldn’t get them to laugh, I would get them to smile at least. When I was born before the eighties, George Botha passed away that year, from an apparent suicide. Biko slipped on a bar of soap. Then there’s Dulcie.
Dulcie September (I wonder what her
children would have been like, her husband, would she have settled in London,
married a man who had green, or blue eyes. Rick Turner was assassinated by a
man with a gun (they haven’t found him yet), Kevin Carter was killed by a stray
bullet as he was taking pictures of the unrest in the townships during the
brutal heights of the heyday of apartheid. Political activists of colour were
being arrested at every turn. Turn the corner, walk in the opposite direction
someone, someone would be following you. The Americans I think termed that
phrase Big Brother is watching you, or else it could have been anyone really. I’m
young, but I have an old soul. Yes, I read poetry. Yes, I read books too.
Basically, anything I can get my hands on. I love getting my hands dirty in the
kitchen. The cake flour, the dough I eat off my fingers, dust the doughnuts
with icing sugar, or cocoa, keeping busy, busy, busy, trying not to think,
trying not to think of anyone, or anything. It is a long, long way to Rapunzel,
Rimbaud, Verlaine, Proust, Nabokov, Salinger, Rilke, Akhmatova, and Coco Chanel.
It is an even longer distance to Billy Graham, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Walter
Sisulu, Oliver Tambo, Neville Alexander, Fikile Bam, Patrice Motsepe,
ex-president Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, ex-president Thabo Mbeki, ex-president
Jacob Zuma, and president-elect Cyril Ramaphosa. Then I think of the land of
the free, and the home of the brave, and the American presidents (the leaders
of the free world), George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, JFK, Thomas Jefferson, Barack
Obama, and Donald Trump.
Nobody knows anything really about
their childhood. Rapunzel, like all fairy tales, like the Native Americans, and
the Eastern Cape poets Ayanda Billie, Robert Berold, Brian Walter, Mzi Mahola,
the late Arthur Nortje, the late Dennis Brutus, Mxolisi Nyezwa, they are all
frozen in the snow of my memory. I want people to love me. Just like my dad.
People love daddy. People loved daddy. But inside I am sad. I am not even loved
in my own home. My mother hates me. How to get over the mental cruelty, her
un-loveliness to me over the years, her utter humiliation of me when she saw
how close me and dad were getting. She was in the house, put on a disappearing
act whenever I appeared. I tell myself that nobody loves me. That I’m a
rubbish-throw-away-type of person. Nobody should associate themselves with me. I
have no self-esteem, then low self-esteem. Sleep around. No, not really. I just
give expert hand jobs, and I never kiss. Never. Too intimate, it makes me feel
vulnerable, and when you kiss someone there are just so many levels to it, you
know. The first kiss. Well, you always remember that. You always remember the
person who first kissed your lips. And after that, after that you open your
warm mouth (I think of everything as an experiment, an adventure, an exploration
of sorts). They have all gone out into the world now. The wives have done what
is impossible for me. Given the boys children. That, that, that right there is
too much for me to take, to handle, although I know I will survive. Believe me,
I survive without cocaine and alcoholism, without sexuality and the sexual
transaction (as Jean Rhys said in After Leaving Mr Mackenzie).
I endure with the best of them. I love
like the greats. The great singer and songwriters (the late Karen Carpenter),
musicians (Lenny Kravitz, Fiona Apple). I too have been careless with the
hearts of delicate people. Some have moved on with their lives, and have
forgotten all about me. I pretend to wake up in the mornings to the legends
that the boys have become. They are men who rule empires now. They have
forgotten all about me, forsaken me for money, prosperity, prestige, status
(I’m mixing up my similes here). I miss them. I miss them like crazy. I wish I
was back there, not here. Each and every day in Johannesburg was either a
summer-ish day, or winter. I wish I was in love again, but I’m not. I’m a
wreck. Still the same wreck I was 20 years ago. I’m growing older. I’m in my
forties now. What a terrible age. The onset of menopause, flashbacks to a time
and place when you were happier, when you could afford to make mistakes, behave
foolishly, and love, love, love, and dance the night away with multiple
partners on your arms, but I didn’t know about the world. Didn’t know anything
about the world. So, mothers, be good to your daughters. They will learn to
love like you do. I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know anything about
love. I can smoke, I can drink when I hang out with the guys. I love men. Women
ignore me. Women talk down to me. Women humiliate me in front of their
children, mother-in-law, and especially, especially their boyfriends, their
husbands, life partners. You know that kind of girl. You know that kind of
woman. She’s beautiful, exceptional-looking.
She dresses down, she dresses up. I’m
that kind of woman now. Can someone hear my plea? Anyone, anyone? Anyone out
there? All I ever wanted was for my mother to tell me how much she loved me,
how proud she was of me, and she didn’t. Still doesn’t to this day. And I hate
violence of any kind, even in films. I still believe in what Walt Disney
proclaimed. It is my mantra still to this day. I believe in family values. I
guess it is the principle behind it. Norms and values. Growing up with norms
and values. A kind of belief system, even though I did go to Sunday School, and
memorise Bible verses, and was indoctrinated into religion by the Union
Congregational Church, (I’m not religious anymore, although I still pray, still
meditate, believe in reconciliation, and as such there is evil in the world, but
there is also the greater good). Anyway, I am much more of a spiritual person
now, from an early age I believed in angels. Truth for some, but not truth for
all. I believe in the qualities of a good Christian, Brahmin, Yogi, Hindu,
Muslim, Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, and Catholic. All religions hold truth at
the cornerstones of their foundation. So, instead of making war, think instead
(this is for all the world leaders, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters out
there), make peace (keep the peace in the house, reconcile your differences,
sit at the table and break bread, talk about your day, don’t isolate yourself
from either your family, or your community). Be kind. You can kill with
kindness you know. Today that person could be your enemy, tomorrow (as the
ancients, prophets, saints, angels say) that same enemy could be your friend.
Money and wealth won’t make you beautiful.
Inner beauty, understanding and understanding devotion to others less fortunate
than yourself, the marginalised, downtrodden, those living in poverty-stricken
areas in dire straits give them your peace too, and something to eat. The game
of life is made up of winners and losers. The loser always forgets about the
lesson that they have learned. The winner takes it all. Always remember it is
how you play the game. Life is precious. People are precious too. We are only
human at the end of the day. Once, they said that someday technology will
surpass humanity. Code breakers, the women and men who serve countries around
the world, and who are willing to sacrifice their lives for millions of
people). I think also of scientists like Sir Isaac Newton, Niels Bohr, Max
Planck, Pavlov, Albert Einstein, Marie Curie (twice-winner) of the Nobel Prize.
I think of researchers dealing with computers, information communication
technology, indigenous knowledge systems, the great digital divide between the
haves and the have nots (first world countries and third world countries). I
think of intellectuals like Pliny the Elder, Aristotle, Hippocrates, Homer, and
Plato. Isn’t every intellectual an authority on philosophy, education, subjects
as diverse and varied (Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo), as the holistic vision
of an educationalist, community leader, humanist, activist, volunteer, just as
much as a person can be plumber, he can also be a storyteller (everybody has a
story to tell), and a poet. His name can be Yusuf Agherdien, Ambrose Cato
George, and Shaheed Hendricks.
(The writers of the book South End: As
We Knew It, although District Six in Cape Town is more well-known when it comes
to the promulgation of the Group Areas Act). They can even be the curator, and
a writer-visionary-maverick of the world-famous museum, the South End Museum,
that has its roots in Saint Helena. An island in the middle of the ocean, that
could only in the past be reached by a Royal Mail Ship that sailed from Cape
Town to Saint Helena. Are we still slaves, our minds enslaved by oppression and
racism, prejudice and gangsterism, the abuse of alcohol and mental cruelty? It
has become a global phenomenon. It has become a buzzword. In my mind, we are
all then victims of circumstance, of trauma, of incidents that happened in our
childhood. And yes, we fall prey to evil deeds, and evil thoughts, we sin, and
sometimes we pray and ask for forgiveness, and sometimes we don’t. We don’t
learn the lesson; we would rather abscond. Go our own way. For some of us, this
is all we know. Running away from loss and grief, denial and instigation, and
when we do that we are motivated by our own fear, anxiety, even insanity (which
means two things, break from reality, or non-reality). When you’re in high school all you want to do
is hang with the popular crowd, go out with the most popular boy in school,
obtain high marks, achieve on the sports field and inside the classroom. I was
an obsessive-compulsive achiever, and the only people I wanted to impress were
the women in my family. The women make babies, and stay at home, cook and
clean, raise their family, but in my world the husband was always marrying the
mistress.
We know the affect that climate change
has had on the seasons, harvests, running water, rain, sanitation, and it
spells disaster in all areas. Floods, tornadoes, tsunamis, storms, drought
which affects our farmers, and particular our agriculture all over the world. I
digress. I come back to those two words again. Global phenomenon. We are
reaching a climatic stage of events in world history. Ask yourself these
questions, think about them, ponder them as you would any project that is
highly creative, and imaginative, that needs you to focus, and concentrate. Put
all your energies into it, as you would your children’s lives, and your
husband’s or wife’s welfare. What is your legacy, will it be hidden from view,
or be there for all to see? What is your calling, your purpose in life, what
are you extremely passionate about (I must have asked myself these questions
thousands of times, and so, no, I’m not exaggerating)? What are your empirical
dreams, lofty goals, pre-imminent plans? Are you concerned about the spiritual
welfare of others, as I am?
