To begin with, I have to say that absolutely  nothing that I relay in this book is intended or focused to harm anyone in whatever way - that is certainly not my intention.  This is simply my memories of my life journey from my own, personal perspective so it is presented without prejudice to anyone. I also accept that not everyone might agree with or accept my viewpoint, perceptions or insights into situations and that is totally fine with me.

I truly hope you have fun in traveling with me as the pages unfold, but prepare yourself for a very colorful, at times laced with grief and often hilarious journey! This book is certainly not for the fainthearted, so don't read it if you are either overly traditional, conservative or opinionated as I guarantee that you will find something in here to take offense to. I really don't care if you have or feel the need to judge me. Although I appreciate the fact that you invested your money and time in purchasing and reading this book, I've traveled this journey and seek no-one's approval of my experiences and life. I've lived it and it's mine to tell as I choose.

Every experience we live shapes and forms us, so there is no need to live with regrets. Our entire life journey is one of learning, one way or another, but in every way. And once you learn self-acceptance and to love yourself regardless of the sweet and the sour in your life, you find peace and become content with who you are.

“I hate you! I hate you!”, she sobbed as the blows continued to rain down on her body.  And as a renewed onslaught of the belt started, through clenched teeth she screamed:” I still fucking hate you!!!” Her body stinging and burning all over from the blast of the thrashings, she curled into a ball on her bed, silently sobbing into her pillow. – She was me at age sixteen, but, of course my journey started way before then, so let's travel right back to the very beginning of me …

Everything in this book is an account of my journey through life for half a decade from my perspective and is in no way written with prejudice or any intent of harm to anyone in any way or form.  It is based on how I experienced each situation from my viewpoint.  Therefore, I accept that others may not share my viewpoints or opinions.

Because I didn't witness my own birth and everything that went along with it, I can obviously only relay what I have been told through the years and most of that information was served straight from my mother's mouth and mostly, it was never pretty.  I can tell you that as far back as I can recall, I felt that she didn't love or want me.  “You are so different! Why can't you just be more like your brothers?!"  She would spit out while glowering down at me. I definitely recall always feeling less, not being quite good enough, smart enough and well, basically just not being enough for her.

I was born on the twenty first of October, on a Tuesday shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon.  This may be meaningless to most, other than those intrigued with astrology.  I've been told that even though I am a Libra girl, my houses and planets (don't ask me exactly what) are mostly in Pisces.  The day I was born also happened to be my biological father's birthday and his and my mother's wedding anniversary.  You would think that made me the perfect little gift in a perfect world, wouldn't it?  Wrong - it only meant that I was a constant reminder to my mother of everything she would have loved to forget and chose to pretend never even took place in her life in the first instance.

Yet, my brothers and I were there and I, in particular, was the “constant reminder" but more so of what could have been, I reckon. I want to tell you about my actual birth situation, but first I need to tell you about the “sperm donor” that was supposedly the cause of me.  So, this guy (my biological father, apparently) was convicted of having committed white collar crime (fraud) and allegedly he was quite good at it too. So, he was in jail, but my brothers and I only accidentally discovered that years later while we played hide and seek in the house and one of us stumbled upon newspaper clippings while trying to hide in my mom's closet. But the immense impact and effects this discovery had on me, especially, is hard to explain however I will certainly try to clarify that for you in later chapters.  For now, let's go right back to my birth and how my mom relayed the dramatic details of that experience to me from a really young age.

“You almost killed me when you were born!” I so often heard.  And man, did that alone instill the guilt monster in me throughout my early development.  Apparently doctors had to fight for her life as she “didn't have enough blood for herself and the baby, so she had to endure blood transfusions for twenty four hours” as she bravely refused for them “to stick needles in her baby's head”.  I literally have no idea what relevance or significance this had as I wasn't even born at that point, remember, however I am sure she perhaps had preclampsia like I did many years later when I was pregnant with my third child.  Who knows?  Perhaps she had something else going on, but what I do know is that I was never allowed to forget that she had almost died giving birth to me or the dreadful experience that was for her and impact it had on her life.

I recall really being terrified of my mother as she wouldn't hesitate to belt especially me for any little transgression.  But, you know, looking back today I really feel a huge amount of empathy for her and compassion as well, as it couldn't have been easy to have had a husband who was jailed more often than he was out and then be left with three little children to care for by yourself.  Plus, it was a major humiliation and embarrassment back then, (as it certainly still is now in South Africa, if not globally - as who wants to admit that they'd been to jail?) and of course I was told that I resembled him.  Now, this was a whole little untruth in itself, but we will get to that later on.  For now, let's focus on me as a baby.

When I was six months old, my mother gave me to my father's parents to raise (apparently this was the point in time when her marriage to my biological father completely deteriorated) while she kept my brothers with her, and discovered that she was in fact pregnant with my sister two years later. Yep, a fact about my life that very few people are aware of - I have a sister in heaven.  She was a full term, still born baby, however and my mom named her Naomi. This little girl is three years younger than I am.

“Reflecting back on this now (having lost two children of my own - my previous book “Grief isn't for sissies!”), I find myself pondering the fact that perhaps this woman was in a deep state of grief and even despair - not only grieving the loss of her baby, but also the loss of her dreams and marriage due to this wayward husband that she'd chosen?  And perhaps I was a constant reminder to her of this little baby girl she so nearly had, but lost?  The overall sense I feel for her is that of deep, deep empathy and a deep desire to want to understand, yet I had no comprehension of any of this, nor insight, when I was younger.  If only she spoke about her feelings, her loss and her pain.  But my mom kept it all locked inside (to my knowledge anyway), other than one day in a fury she said that it might have been easier raising my sister rather than me - that was when I discovered that I actually had a sister." 

It was only in later years after Zandré was born, that I saw a glimpse of the woman underneath all the hardness when she spoke to me about my younger sister and the circumstances surrounding her birth. At that time she was living in a different province to me and I chose to visit her on my own for a week. Back then I was so desperate to build and have a relationship with my mom, but unfortunately, by that stage I took everything she presented to me with a pinch of salt, and yes, it was because I was distrusting of her and even judgmental at that juncture in my life - for the most part anyway?  It's possible. But, anyway, let's get back to my grandparents and the period I was with them after my mom had given me to them to raise when I was six months old. (Did you know that a baby only starts realizing that it's a separate entity from the mom from this age?)

Anyway, these two people doted on me and even over indulged me, I'd say and that never changed for as long as they lived.  I was their little princess and that was all there was to it and I lapped it up like a hungry dog.  I feasted on their love and I absolutely adored my grandpa, or “Dadda”, as I called him.  As a toddler, it would suffice to say that I was a second shadow to him and my Nanna was the only mom that I knew at that stage. They definitely spoiled me, but with an abundance of love, nurturing and care and in a good way. I have vivid memories of my grandpa doing gardening and me toddling in my nappy and asking him to make a little hole for me to throw and avocado pear pip in. That grew into a huge tree that he treasured in their garden. Other beautiful memories I have are of me driving in the car with my grandpa, with me standing next to him on the passenger seat. (Shocking how very, very different the laws were back then, right?) Also, of me and my nanna in the kitchen and me with my grandpa in the shed where he was working on some project or the other and I was barely older than two or three in those recollections. Then, seven months after I turned four, my mother came to claim me back.  (Remember that I'm conveying this verbatim as my grandparents shared the story with me, so it's not exactly from my memory as I don't personally have any clear or exact recollection of this period of my life, although I have glimpses of images, however also don't know if those are true memories or images I conjured up as a child in accordance with what I was told.) One would think that any child would be overjoyed to be reunited with their mom, however, I was terrified.  I didn't know this woman and I didn't want to leave my safety haven, yet my grandparents agreed to my mom taking me as they thought the best place for a child to be was with their biological mother and that it would be in my best interest. They couldn't have been more wrong in this instance.

So, my life journey with my mother started and my nightmare began. I recall my older brother being super protective of me from the onset, often even defying my mom to try and shield me from her ridicule and the punishment that inevitably followed, yet he was not that much older than me.

Then shorty after I was returned to her, we were introduced to our “new dad”.  I don't remember the wedding, but I do remember him being a really nice man, taking us to the zoo, parks and on holidays. He was the only dad that I really knew, aside from my grandpa, of course. My mom refused any contact between my grandparents and I from the time I was returned to her, so I felt completely alone and abandoned. I became very uncertain, almost introverted and mostly withdrawn, choosing to spend my time with animals and drawing mostly. It would suffice to say that I developed into an awkward child from that point forward. My younger brother and I eventually became good friends and would either spend our days horseback riding or playing out fantasies of constructing a Neverland, like in Peter Pan or playing cowboys and Indians, with me inevitably taking on the role of being the Indian.

Once I started school and the years progressed, I recall her telling me stories about a man whom she was in love with prior to meeting my so-called biological father. I did well at school and was dedicated to learning, which often ignited a nostalgic sense about her, mirrored by the look on her face as she made comparisons and indulged in reflections during unguarded moments.

“From a very young age I would sleep very little at night, so we started developing a pattern where I would stay up with her while my dad worked night shifts.  These were the times when she would basically soundboard her thoughts and memories to me, even though I feel she only did it because she believed that I wouldn't remember as I was too young in her opinion. Fascinated and just so happy that she was sharing her memories and talking to me, I would of course ask numerous questions, which she would answer in response, but in the morning we would return back to "normal" as though none of this occurred.

This was when I was “introduced" to Alfred.  She relayed to me that they were madly in love and told me how he would infuriate her at times, causing her to basically attack him with her hairbrush, yet he would remain calm and simply smile at her while his almond-tinted green eyes lovingly gazed at her until she eventually calmed down and forgave him.  On other occasions, she would chase him away, yet time and time again, he would return to her.  It was a beautiful love story and I loved listening to it.  As the story unfolded and she tenderly reminisced, it struck me how longingly, yet consumed with regrets, she spoke of him. She would spend hours yarning with me and I lapped up every detail as it rolled off her lips and took shape in my mind as it unfolded.

Eventually, hungry to know more and enchanted by this wonderful love story, I asked:" What happened to him, Mom?" With a mournful expression and a deep sigh, she replied:" One day when you're old enough, never allow any guy to trick you into having sex with him. And remember, it doesn't always happen in a bedroom - it can happen on a couch too."  I was seriously perturbed as I was a complete tomboy at that stage and the very last thing on my mind was boys, nor did I even know what this thing called “sex” was.  Plus, that didn't exactly answer my question, yet I was too afraid to ask her to clarify it for me, scared that it would ruin the moment and tarnish our camaraderie.

It would take another almost seven years for me to fit together the pieces of the puzzle and another seven for me to sum up the courage to finally “confront” her.  The final piece of that puzzle took shape and form when late one morning, my mom told me that her and I were going to go visit someone (I was about eight or nine years old then) - only the two of us, but I had to promise not to reveal anything about the details of where we were going to my stepdad or brothers.  Of course I promised, elated that we were going to do something on our own together.  My brothers begged to accompany us, yet my mom was firm in telling them that it was a “girls only” expedition.

We arrived at a beautiful place showcasing a lane of Palm trees embracing the long driveway all the way up to the front of a stately building.  As we entered through the front doors, my mom somberly told me that I was finally going to meet Alfred.  More curious than nervous, I bounded up the steps holding her hand.  The place looked and felt like some sort of hospital.  As we entered a room at the far end of the long corridor, a pair of huge almond-speckled green eyes enveloped us and my mom rushed forward into his waiting arms, silently crying.  I stood rooted to the spot taking in the scene in front of me as they embraced, after which my mom tore herself loose from his grasp, reached for me and said:" Come, meet Alfred", and she pulled me right up to the edge of the bed.  

His gentle eyes interlocked with mine as sobs tore through his body and he hugged me close.  I remember feeling extremely frightened, uncertain and overwhelmed in that moment, tugging and pushing against him to break free from his arms, so my mom ordered me to go stand by the huge window that overlooked the gardens while they started chatting in hushed tones.  I recall becoming fixated on a pair of fan tail doves in the garden as I attempted to block out their whispered conversation, laced with a sense of urgency and sadness. That was the one and only time that I had the privilege of meeting Alfred in person as he died shortly after that.  We never spoke of that day again. It seems silence was my mom's avenue of solace when faced with really difficult situations and circumstances.

Many years later, I approached her one day and asked her directly why I not only looked, but was also very different to my brothers in most other ways and whether I was in fact Alfred's child?  She hurriedly scurried into the kitchen to make tea and summarily changed the subject. To this day I have still not received an answer to my question. However, my older brother told me that from his recollections concerning them, especially during the first five years of my life (the period when I was absent due to living with my grandparents, and the short while after), that I was correct in my conclusion to this mystery.  I later discovered that Alfred was an only child and basically drank himself into a stupor after losing my mom and finally developed gangrene because of it - all due to a broken heart because my mom had left him to marry my “biological father”. They had maintained intermittent contact with each other and apparently this took place each time when her husband was jailed and Alfred came to the rescue - even to the point where my mom considered leaving her husband for him. According to my older brother, he believed it was during this period that I was conceived and also explained why the age difference between my younger brother and I is only a few months as he in turn was conceived when her husband returned home after a stint in jail. And of course, not long after that Naomi happened.

The interesting thing is that growing up, I always fantasized about this “biological father” of mine and that he would suddenly arrive one day and rescue me from my mom.  I received a call from my older brother one morning and he insisted that I meet him at a hotel in Cape Town. Upon arrival there, I asked him what was going on and he divulged that we were to meet our biological father in the minutes that followed. I was about to leave when a charismatic looking, tall man walked into the bar area and approached us where we were seated. With a sly grin, his first words to me were:" Well, at least I did a great job in creating such a beauty as yourself!" I felt chills run down my spine and was filled with repulsion as his eyes slowly and carefully did a tour of every inch of my body. I wanted to flee as he said:" Hello, Princess. I am your father. It's good to meet you, so what can I get you to drink? You can have whatever you want from the bar - it's on me." And with that, he flicked a wad of notes down on the bar. My distaste grew with every word he uttered.  “I don't drink," I stammered and with that made my excuses and left the hotel abruptly. I never saw him again after that. In those few moments, I felt more like a piece of livestock at an auction, than a girl meeting her “father” for the first time. I definitely had no desire or any inclination to want to see him ever again after that. Not only had I been carrying the burden of shame knowing that my “father” was jailed, but it irrevocably affected my sense of self-worth, self-esteem and filled me with constant feelings of shame and everything that went with that, not to mention the damage my mother had caused up to that point throughout my life.

Anyway, let's return back to my stepdad, or rather dad as I prefer to remember him. He was an amazing, hard working man and yet my mom had very little regard for him.   I remember him as a quiet and fair person, but with a good sense of humor.  We moved into our first big house shortly after they were married and the expanse of it had all three of us children in absolute awe.  It was an old Victorian style home, but beautiful with stained glass windows in the foyers and gleaming polished timber flooring, plus a kitchen where you could easily park four vehicles, huge spacious rooms and living areas, all nestled on an expansive piece of land.  It dated from a period where they used little ropes and bells in the kitchen that were interconnected with the bedrooms to summons the cook or servants, I'm not sure - we loved to play with these. It was certainly at magical place and we were so excited that this was to  be our new home.

He had four daughters from a previous marriage, the youngest being only three years older than I was, yet my mom insisted that he gave them up in favor of marrying her and starting a new life with her and her three children.  (Their mom was an alcoholic and incapable of taking care of them.)  He complied and placed the girls in a boarding school in the country and whereas they visited us every alternate weekend and in the school holidays initially, she reduced it to one holiday per year as time went by and after the three eldest girls finished school, she stopped all visitations from the youngest daughter altogether.

Well, one sunny morning, my mom was busy with something in the house and my younger brother and I were playing “discovery” in the backyard.  So we approached a station wagon my dad had bought a few weeks earlier and parked under an awning to the side of the house, underneath the kitchen window. He planned to do some work on it. We tried the doors, but they were locked and very soon discovered that the rear tailgate was in fact unlocked, so we opened it and crawled inside.  There was a pile of newspapers in the back and when my brother discovered a box of matches in the front of the car, we decided to set the newspapers alight.  We definitely weren't thinking of the consequences, that's for sure.

I was about five years old then and he was four.  As we lit the corner of the first brittle with age newspaper, the flames ignited with a sudden fury and we were trapped just behind the front seats of the car.  We started screaming in a panic and the next moment my mom was hollering from outside the car window and begging us to unlock the door, however by this point we were so panicked and terrified that we continued screaming and yelling to her to help us and paralyzed with fear, unable to unlock the door.  Eventually she discovered that the tailgate was unlocked and yanked us both out of the car through the flames.  We ran inside the house and scurried straight to safety under our beds.  My mom extinguished the flames and as we heard her stomping down the passageway in the direction of our bedrooms, we already started sobbing uncontrollably, knowing what was to come. We “cleverly” had our feet and arms hooked into the slats under the bed, so the next thing, my mom flipped the beds over and we received the thrashing of our lives.  I sincerely feel we did deserve it that day though as aside from possibly having the car explode and burning down the house in the process, we could have burnt to death as well.

That house was also my first experience I recall having with spirit as late one night, the house quiet and dark, I sneaked to the kitchen to go get a glass of water.  I wasn't afraid of the dark then, so I didn't even think of switching on any lights.  No sooner had I entered the kitchen than a big, angry chef started chasing me out waving a huge ladle in his plump hand.  Now I was terrified and ran back to my bedroom screaming at the top of my lungs.  Of course that woke the entire household and my mom was once again ready to lay in with the belt, however my dad calmly tucked me back into bed and listened to my explanation - my mom concluded that I was “only looking for attention”, so she went straight back to bed leaving him to console me and he sat there until my sobs subsided and I drifted off to sleep.

That wasn't my only sighting either, as after that I met an old man who paced up and down our main corridor and as soon as he spotted me, he would wave his cane threateningly at me.  Of course I didn't speak to them!  Quite honestly, I was too scared of that angry cook and more nervous and confused about the old man as no one else seemed to be able to see them.  My mom forbade me to talk about them, so the only person I could talk to concerning these nightly visitors was my dad.  By now I had developed an immense fear of the dark and that fear eventually transformed into taking on the shape of a big black bear moments after the lights were switched off and the house went quiet. This big black bear would enter my room and walk towards me on its hind legs and I would start screaming, absolutely terrified and then followed by me starting to hyperventilate. Eventually, one night, my dad put a bible opened at Psalm 91 on my bedside table and placed an open pair of scissors on top of it, in the shape of a cross.  Quietly, he read the Psalm to me and reassured me that the angels and God were watching over me and that no bear, nor the men I saw in the house could harm me. He told me that the bible and scissors placed like that were a protection symbol against any harm.  He taught me the value of faith in simple terms.

A while after this, my family moved to a small town by the name of Tsumeb in the north of Namibia, situated a hundred kilometres from the Angolan border.  It was a beautiful town and the best part of it was that my brothers and I started horse riding each day, so we spent most of our days either swimming, exploring the veld or at the stables.  Life in Namibia resonated freedom and in those days we were free to spend our days in the outdoors as long as we were home by seven in the evenings, which was around sundown. Each day was mostly carefree and my brothers were my closest friends aside from the horses and little Ovambo children at the stables.  The warm Namibian evenings were filled with my parents having friends over for a braai (barbeques on a wood fire) most nights.  Well, this was what life presented to us as children - too young to have any clue or understanding of the political climate at the time and exactly what it entailed and equally unaware of the lurking dangers and threats in the country back then. All we knew was that life was beautiful and relatively free.

I wasn't free of my fear of the dark and spirits though as in no time at all I had visitations from spirit again.  However, for reasons unknown to me, my mom had assigned my brothers to the bedrooms closest to her and my dad's at the rear end of the house and my bedroom was at the front of the house.  Once it was lights out in the evening and the house was quiet, I would take my pillow and crawl to my parents' bedroom and settle under their bed to sleep there for the night in order to feel safe.

So it happened that one morning I didn't wake up as early as I usually did to crawl back to my own bedroom and I was woken by my mom's frantic screams.  In no time at all the entire household was searching for me and in a small voice, I announced my whereabouts as I crawled out from under their bed.  Of course, now my secret was out and yes, I did get a hiding of note because she believed for a brief moment there that I had been stolen during the night.  I never sought the safety of their bedroom again after that and had to face my fears and learn to deal with my nightly visitors on my own.

Soon after we arrived in Tsumeb, my mom employed a Herero (another Namibian tribe) nanny to look after my brothers and I and a house boy/gardener who cleaned and maintained the house and garden.  I absolutely loved our nanny and couldn't understand why she had to leave each evening when a siren sounded in the distance - those were the apartheid years and the signal for them to return to the townships.  As I said, we were completely oblivious to this as children, so each evening I would hang onto her dress and beg her to stay with me, until my mom would tear me away from her threatening both of us with retribution.  I don't recall ever actually being told her real name as we simply called her Nana.  She would sit me down at lunch time each day and after she prepared her lunch on the donkey stove outside, she would feed and encourage me to eat rice ants (I'm translating directly here and not sure if this is the appropriate name for them) and Mopane worms prepared with rice.

I reckon I loved her more than I did my own mother as she was nothing but exceptionally loving and kind to me and also fiercely protective of me, to the point of challenging my mom on occasion, full well knowing the consequences could be dire for her. On numerous occasions however, whenever I was in trouble with my mom, she would hide me under the expansive layers of her dress and whisper softly that I should remain very quiet and still. My mom would search everywhere for me in vain and eventually assume that I was either in the veld or at the stables and calm down.  Although in the evening I would receive my belting for whatever the misdemeanor was that had upset her in the first place, but I still had that respite for the remainder of the day.

So it happened that one summer's day, the rain was pelting down and we were super excited as it indicated the end of a drought, so my brothers and I ran outside wearing our rain capes and each time I stomped my plastic boot down in the water, jumping up and down, I would shout “fuck”, “fuck” in exhilaration!

(Yep, that's where the use of that favorite word started, even though back then I didn't exactly know or understand the full meaning of it, nor the appropriate use for it.)

Oblivious to my surrounds and just having fun in the pouring rain, I was soon shocked out of my euphoria when the next moment the sting of the belt started dancing over my body.  You guessed it right - my mom had heard me and I paid the consequences for my inappropriate use of language!  And God help us -  outside, where the neighbors could hear, to top it all! People were so pedantic about what the neighbors could or would hear or say back then - or perhaps that was only my mom, but I think it is ludicrous to structure your life around what other people might think or say about you. Sure, consideration is one thing, but fearing the judgment of others is a complete different aspect altogether.

The Swapo political party was rife in the practice of their freedom movement in the country, especially up north where we lived, so Tsumeb being so close to the Angolan border, had a dominant military presence and the largest Namibian military base close by in a town by the name of Grootfontein.  As a result, we became quite accustomed to military vehicles and personnel frequenting our town on a daily basis and when a member of Swapo was caught anywhere near the town, our teachers would be armed with AK47 rifles, which they carried with them throughout the school day.  We had daily terrorist attack drills and when the signal was sounded, we had to leopard crawl into dugouts and tear gas was released around us, all in preparation for a possible attack from Swapo (considered the terrorists or enemy at the time) as schools, women and the aged were usually their targets because they were the vulnerable in the community.  Yet, as I said before, we were totally oblivious to the dangers and let alone the tense political climate we were living in.  We were kids and to us it was one huge adventure.

I recall that one night we were woken by soldiers and evacuated from our home, which was situated on the outskirts of the town.  As we exited through the front door, flanked by troops, we were met by waves of beautiful flames rolling towards the town in the surrounding bush land.  Members of Swapo had set the tall grass alight around the perimeter of the town.  We were escorted to the center of the town, cordoned off by military vehicles as a safety zone, where we received hot soup and medical check-ups.  Honestly, as a little six-year-old it was all exhilarating and even fun.  Once the blaze was extinguished and news received that the terrorists were caught, everyone returned to their respective homes and of course it was the talk of the town for weeks to follow.  We were taught to be cautious at all times and to report any spotting of terrorists, especially when out horse riding, yet there was no such thing back then of entertaining anxiety, stress or any such notions as a result of the dangers we lived in.  If I look at society today, I consider myself blessed and lucky to have had the freedom to move around freely as we did back then.  There was almost a stigma attached to the idea or even suggestion or seeking the help of a psychologist and the general take on things were “to get on with it" - or at least, that was my mother's take on mental health issues and services.

My days were filled by spending time in the veld with my younger brother on horse back or hanging out at the stables.  Those days each town had what they called “town stables” and it was customary for anyone who owned horses to stable them there without needing to own a piece of land to do so.  (I believe it is in fact still the norm in Namibia to this day.) So it happened that late one morning, my brother and I decided to have a race down a dirt track that led up to the caravan park just outside the town.  I was riding bare back as usual and his horse was saddled up.

(Now, it's note worthy at this point to mention that my mom never really appreciated or understood our love for these majestic animals and would scold us for having spent the day with those “dirty animals” each day we were at stables.)

My brother and I were very competitive, so we were going at a full gallop as the end of the track became visible, when suddenly I was ripped from the back of my horse.  The trouser leg of my jeans got caught in a thorn bush on the side of the track and I went flying head first into the thicket to the side of the track.  When I eventually came to, my brother stood there wide-eyed and staring at me in horror, fear etched all over his face.  I had absolutely no idea where I was.

It turned out that when I fell into the thicket, I sustained a massive concussion as my head hit the ground.  I begged my brother not to tell my mom, afraid of the repercussions and mainly scared to be banned from the stables.  We returned home and I quietly went straight to my bedroom.  As I was drifting off to sleep, my mom rushed in, followed by my brother - clearly he didn't keep the secret and look ever so apologetic.  My dad was called and he took me to hospital where it was confirmed that I had suffered a concussion.  “No horseback riding for you, little Missy!" the doctor announced.  Fortunately, because I sustained an injury, that saved me from having my ass smacked on top of it. A few days later though, my brother and I were back at the stables and right back to riding.

I was raised to be tough and the circumstances we were raised in definitely did a good job of toughening me up as well, so in hindsight after all these years, I am most grateful for the soul contract that I entered into with my mother and the journey that choice resulted in, as even though I could not have the slightest idea back then, it definitely served me extremely well later in my life when I had to face my own challenges as an adult and a mother. But, let's not trail off and continue with my life in Namibia.

I was about nine or ten years old and in what we called standard two back then, which would be grade three nowadays, when I had my first taste of bullying.  Each afternoon when my friends and I walked towards the school gate to go home, a boy would stand at the gate post holding a long thorn branch in his hand and as the girls walked past him, he would wack them across the back of their upper legs with the branch.  As I observed numerous girls running off crying and even screaming, with blood seeping down the back of their legs, I slowly took off my shoes.  When it was my turn to pass through the gate, he made no exception and the burning pain from the thorns tearing into my skin seared through me.  In an angry motion I swung around and hit him one vicious blow on his nose with the heals of my shoes.  Blood spurted everywhere as he ran off screaming while clutching his nose.

Not long after, there was an angry knock on our front door and I heard a woman bellowing that she wanted to see the bully who had broken her son's nose.  Tentatively and rather scared, I edged my way down the passageway (more afraid of my mother's reaction than the angry sounding woman).  As I entered into the foyer, the boy started screaming through sobs, pointing straight at me:"It's him!  It's him!"  My mother turned around and the look on her face was one of dumbfounded astonishment as she questioned:" Melanie?"  Crying myself by then, I turned around and edged up my school dress, stammering through tears:" Yes, Mom. But look at what he did!  And not only to me.  To all the girls that walked past him." The boy was wailing by now, cradling his nose for effect.  To my immense surprise, my mom took a deep breath and pointing to the front door emphatically ordered the woman:" Take your bully of a son and get out, before I give you and him the same!"  My older brother had been viciously bullied because he was overweight for a good couple of years by then and hadn't retaliated, so when my dad got home, my mom told him with a sense of pride that I had “sorted out” a bully earlier that day.

And of course when my dad learnt the details of the situation and that it was a boy who did it, combined with seeing the results of his bullying, he congratulated me.  The fact is that back then we were taught to stand up to bullies and to defend ourselves and parents realized that if their child got hurt like this boy did, it was the consequences for their actions and especially when a girl who defended herself against bullying from a boy. Bullies have been around for decades, but they weren't treated with kid gloves as they are today.  I am by no means saying that I condone violence among kids at all, however do feel that there is much merit in it when a child acts in self-defense and sorts out a bully.

Bullying has been part of our society globally for centuries and centuries.  My question is always:" What happens to the boy who feels it is ok to bully girls at school level?  Is he the husband who ends up bashing his wife, abuse his kids?"  If he is not taught any different, how will he ever learn and know to break the pattern?  But this is a topic for another day.  The most prominent recollection I have of my primary school years was defending my brother against bullies and earning the reputation of the scrawny girl who didn't hesitate to give a bully a bloody nose.