Am I Different

<P>Was I different? Were you? They say that things are different, changed for the better. How was it that I still feel like the same old me? This post '94 euphoria fell short of Nokuthula Nkosi. I am not complaining. Do not get me wrong. I thank G** every day for this change that He has brought to my homeland. Every restrictions inflicted on a people are no longer there. We have been welcomed back into the bosom of the world community. No more were we the delinquent, years after the historic elections and inauguration, we are now the poster-child of a relatively conflict-free change from the old and tyrannical guard to one that was new and fresh. <BR>Now I belong to a select society that has lived through both. Am I to take on a new identity as my nation has? No, that is not my fate. You are mistaken friend, if you believe this to be a political book, documenting those days of "The Struggle", the early days after a miraculous change in government and the hereafter. It is not. For my own selfish reasons, this book is about me and my struggle in the new world thrust upon me at an early age. It is not philosophical, that is not my intention. It is simply a part of my story, serving no other purpose than that of indulgence.<BR>I was the only child of an only child. It was the norm to find children raised by their grandmothers in those days. The absentee parents were either elsewhere trying to scrape together whatever living they could find, or they were dead or imprisoned by the apartheid government. My story is not so poetic. My mother simply did not want me. My grandmother did not say much about how I came to live with her at the white people's house, but once, I did get the abridged version from her. The woman, who we will call my mother for all intentions and purposes, came one day on a hot and humid day after which she complained about being tired. She ceremoniously removed me from her back, sat me down with my Gran and within thirty minutes, she was gone, never to be heard from again. <BR>At three years of age, I cannot remember much of that day. As you can guess, I have no recollection of my mother's face or love, whether it hurt her leaving me behind. According to my Gran, I did cry like the baby that I was, upon realising she was not coming back for me. When she could not calm me down after the first hour, worried about the mysterious, wailing child, my grandmother's employer came to enquiring if I was okay. I sometimes joked and laughed with her about that day, about how Annette Fernando actually come to check to see if no abuse took place. Thinking back to that day, I wonder how she may wish I had never come to her home, but I am getting ahead of myself. <BR>In the beginning, I was isolated and I was a burden to my aging and only remaining relative. Where was my father you ask? Who knew back then, I still do not know anything about him to this day. He could have been a member of Umkhonto weSizwe for all I know. It certainly does not matter now. This is not about raging against those missing members of my family tree, but if it were not for them, you would not be reading this. Not only was my Gran taking care of an entire household, she had become my fulltime guardian. I understand now how difficult her life had suddenly become. It was the fault of neither one of us. My mother had made me in orphan, my grandmother, who was way past her prime, became a mother. I was inconsolable during those first few days, according to Gran. I wanted umama 'mi. What could she do? There is no other cry under heaven that pierces a man's soul than that of a child crying after its mother according to those who have heard it. It far outweighs that of any amount pain or suffering. She would work most of the day with my little self, strapped to her back. She took me down on two occasions, either when I was asleep or at the very least calm enough to relieve her aching back. My Gran's Missus eventually relented and informed her servant about perhaps leaving me to play with her little ones. There were conditions and stipulations of course. <BR>I was to play with little Rachelle and Marcos (he preferred being called Marc) for a maximum of an hour per day as long as my grandmother didn't neglect her duties and I didn't cause any trouble that was deemed reprehensible. Rachelle and Marc were neither little, nor could you consider them angels had you witnessed them during their well timed fits away from their parents, you would have known them for the little devils they were. Even with a momentary relapse in judgement by their parents, never thought of the little rascals as ill disciplined at any given time. They kicked; and screamed; and violently abused anyone and everyone to found in their path and me worst of all. </P>