3
BEADS UNDER MY SHIRT
Nokuzola
Not so long ago I was seen as one of the prettiest girl in school. But that changed almost overnight. One morning I woke up with my face riddled with pimples that won’t go away.
My friends won’t let me use their creams any more. They won’t even hug me like they used to. Yesterday Zukiswa turned around to talk to her friend and her face brushed my cheek by accident. She pushed me away from her and I hurt my ankle trying to avoid tumbling down the stairs. I asked almost in tears, “What was that was for?”
“Just don’t touch me again!” she shouted.
When the bell rings, signalling the end of the school day, I run straight to my hiding place. The after-school talk about boys, and every other interesting thing, still goes on. It is just that I am left out now. In my hiding place I take out a tube of ointment from my pocket and rub it on my face. I was told at the clinic that it would work. I put it on every day in the same place. It’s like a ritual. But it isn’t working. My face is still covered in pimples.
My friends have turned from best friends to haters. When they walk in front of me in the corridor they giggle and turn to point at me. I hate having them walk behind me, they trip me and squirt water, even juice, on my neck. When I wanted to know why, Busisiwe told me, “It is to get that stuff off your face.”
~•~
Lubabalo
I look for Nokuzola in the secluded spot behind the classroom where we always meet. But today other girls have occupied our spot – is she in this crowd? As I walk closer I realise that she will not be here. She is never in a crowd of girls any more. As I turn around thoughts run through my mind. Do I still want her as my girlfriend? Is she still the one I want to be with? Even I am suffering for the way her face looks now. My cricket team mates tease me and make hurtful comments to me about her. I look around the whole school but she is nowhere to be seen. She did not say anything about going home early to me.
I write a note.
“Nokuzola where were you at second break? I looked for you everywhere. You do know that I still want to be with you, hey? Lots of of love, Luba – your man.”
Once it has been folded up nicely I look to see that nobody is looking and slip it inside her locker. But I am not so sure if I want to be her ‘man’ any more.
Nokuzola
I hear the bell ring. Do I really have to go back for my English class? Sitting behind Mr Maqubela’s old Ford bakkie in the teacher’s parking lot feels safer. But if I wait a bit for the corridors to quieten down I won’t make it in time. I certainly do not want all my classmates looking at me as I walk into class late. My last experience was awful. But if I hurry in front of everyone to get to class first I might get hurt. Who knows what these bully girls will do to me this time?
So I make my way to the reception desk. My acting skills better not let me down. “I am not feeling well. Please could you phone my dad to come and pick me up?” I tell our secretary, Miss Sixubane, as I lean forward across the counter, holding my stomach.
“What is wrong with you, my darling? We can give you Panado. Are you sure you don’t want to lie down in the sick bay for a while?” She takes her glasses off and looks straight into my eyes.
“No, please, I need to go home,” I say becoming a little agitated. She can see this and she asks me for my dad’s number. I think of my mother and how she used to tell me school was fun. It used to be. But now the eight hours of my day at school are a time in hell with all the bullies around me. I spend this time tearing myself up inside. Do I have the strength to go back into class?
My dad arrives at the school. He has a big smile for me and the secretary. It is strange how he smiles even when I know he can sense things are not well. “Nokuzola, my child, you have not been yourself lately. Are your friends being nasty to you?” my dad asks as we drive off.
“Dad, my friends have been worse than nasty to me. I will do anything to get these pimples off my face,” I say to him. I am very emotional. I look out of the car window. We pass through beautiful neglected scenery. Nature has a way of healing itself. I wish I was the same.
He looks at me as he switches the car off at home. “I think we will need to go and see a sangoma.” There is silence after he has said this. I am not exactly sure about the idea. I have always thought of sangomas as dirty people who do not wash. People have said the weirdest things about them and what they use to heal people.
Mr Mamali
I need to prepare Nokuzola mentally for the journey to the sangoma. It is just that a father can do only so much. Now I need someone else to help her. She needs to be comfortable at school again. I wish I could be at school with her to protect her. I sense that she has very few, or no people to talk to, yet there are many good people around her, even at school.
When she gets home from school she runs to her room and stays there for a long time. “Nokuzola, are you okay in there?” I call standing with my ear to her door.
“Dad, I will be out in a sec,” she says. I can hear her voice breaking.
“Please do come out soon. I have prepared a nice sandwich for you.”
“Dad, I’m not hungry.” I can hear she is crying.
More than two hours pass. I contemplate going into her room but that would just be rude of me. She is a girl of 16. Sitting on the couch I try to read the Cape Times but I can’t concentrate. After a long time she comes out her room. Her eyes are red and I am overwhelmed by emotions. I want to help.
“Dad, we can go see the sangoma,” she says.
Nokuzola
On arriving in Khayelitsha, we find a queue outside the sangoma’s place. We take our shoes off and walk into this shack with poor lighting. There are different animal skins hanging on the walls. My dad tells me they were obtained legally. An elderly man sits on the floor. I think my father is rude because he doesn’t tell this man why we are here. A candle melts as it burns eagerly. White strokes of impepho smoke fill the room.
The old man starts his consultation with us. Mysteriously he knows why we are here. My father keeps saying, “Camagu, ooGatyeni – We agree”. The sangoma tells us I will be healed, and a slight smile lights up my face. The room suddenly becomes a home of hope. I reserve my excitement, remembering that he is not God. I think of the SRC candidacy elections coming up at school. I really want to run for a position on the SRC. But as I am now, nobody will vote for me.
But then the sangoma shocks me to near death when he says, “You have the calling.” He tells me what the dream means that I keep having, and that wakes me at night.
In the dream an old lady with a funny-looking hat and beads on her wrists is standing near a fire, singing for me in the bush. I have never been to the place in real life.
The old man tells me that it means that I will become a sangoma too.
I walk out with a traditional mixture to drink twice a day in my hand. I must accept the calling. Yuck! I think. Will I ever do that? I don’t see myself doing that, why me? What will people think of me? What will Lubabalo think of me?
Nokuzola
“Lubabalo, I need to talk to you,” I say to him nervously as we sit down on a grassy patch in the school grounds.
“Shoot, baby, I am all ears,” he says looking me straight in the eyes.
“I g … g … got the note you left in my locker,” I stutter.
“Come on, Nohlahla s’thandwa sam – Nohlahla, my love, I am sure that is not what you wanted to talk to me about,” he says gently stroking my hand.
“Okay, I went with my dad to see a sangoma.”
“Hold it, girlfriend, are you a witch now?” Lubabalo shouts and jumps up and moves away from me.
“No,” I plead, “please sit back down.” But I can see he is furious. His whole attitude to me has changed with one sentence.
“Nokuzola, why did you have to tell me that? You mean I have wasted my time on you for this long?” he says, violently grabbing his backpack and walking away.
“Buya Lubabalo, baby, please come back,” I call after him as he waves, signalling he does not want to hear any more from me. I don’t say anything. I don’t want him to shout at me so everyone can hear. I didn’t believe that things could get worse. But they have. Why did I tell him? But I can’t take the words back.
~•~
Lubabalo
I am not spending one more day with Nokuzola, and I am not listening to one more thing she has to say. How could she? No wonder her face has become ugly with pimples. My friends were right about her all along. I must move on. Find a new girlfriend. What a waste of time. I do not care how she must be feeling about me now. I have my life to live and she almost spoiled it for me. How can she believe in that rubbish? She deserves what has happened to her.
In the evening my cellphone lights up. There is an incoming call and it is Nokuzola. Okay, we will let that ring go. On her fourth attempt to reach me I ask my sister to pick up and pretend to be my new girlfriend. The phone is on loudspeaker.
“Luba’s phone, hello.”
“Hi, is Lubabalo around?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I am his girlfriend, Nokuzola.”
“What, since when? You’ve got a nerve to be calling him. He is my man.”
“Since when, dear?”
“It is none of your business. And don’t ‘dear’ me. I do not want you calling him again, do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, sisi. Now I would like to speak to him.”
“What don’t you understand? You have no right to speak to him again. Or do you want me and my girlfriends to come and find you?”
“Ndivile, sisi – I hear you, sisi. You don’t have to come find me.”
“Good, now put the phone down and don’t you ever call him again.”
Nokuzola
I sit on my bed crying. I think of life without Lubabalo. He has been holding my hand in the absence of my friends. I think of the price I am paying for having pimples, for being ugly, suddenly. Some girls have them when they go through puberty. No one judges them. Why me?
I pick up a small mirror and look at my face. If it is not beauty I see, at least I should be patiently accepted as a human being. I try to smile, but I do not know how to any more.
My father wants to have umcimbi wokuthwasa, to accept the calling to be a sangoma in the September school holidays. Is it something I will be able to pull through? I do not know.
On Friday afternoon sangomas arrive in a taxi. There is already singing as they get off the taxi outside our gate. The song is about ithongo lam, my dream about the ancestors. There are drums, dancing and singing. I watch in awe at the people dressed in beautiful, colourful outfits.
Lubabalo stands across the road and watches. I tell myself that he is only here to report back to the others at school. Who cares? I tell myself. I have a great number of people by my side today.
To my surprise our school caretaker, Buti Ncedile is here. I am put at ease by his presence. He does not usually drink on weekends with the other men in shebeens, but today he is drinking. It is beautiful to see him dance with his shoes off.
I am instructed to apply white non-permanent paint to my face, neck, arms and legs. One other accompanying sangoma gives me instructions. From now on I have to sleep on the floor, eat with my hands, and bath in cold water. I do not know how I am going to keep up with the rules I am given.
At school on Monday Lubabalo does his best to avoid me. He does his absolute best to make sure I see him when he is with girls or sometimes hugging my ex-friends.
Busisiwe comes towards me at break time and she wants to shake my hand. I do not believe this. It must be a turn of events for the better. She takes my hand and holds it very tight. With her other hand she rips off my shirt cuff button. It all happens so fast. My right arm is left bare, exposing my beads. I try to break free but her group of friends come running and she calls other learners to come and see. I stand there with my heart racing. My eyes fill with tears. I cannot see clearly. When she lets go of my arm I fall down. My cheek rests in a pool of tears. I watch many feet run away.
~•~
Someone is pulling me by my earlobe. It is Lubabalo. I get up, dust myself, and pick up my bag. Lubabalo stands in front of me. “If you know what it is good for you will not report this to the principal. There is no way of stopping Busisiwe. She will always come back for you,” he speaks, keeping his distance.
“I hear you, buti, I am not supposed to be seen with you either so please leave.”
“I bet you want me now, ha,” he laughs hysterically. I don’t say anything. I just walk past to class. Our Life Orientation teacher keeps asking why everyone keeps looking at me. I have been warned, so I do not say anything.
After class, as I rush downstairs a water bomb lands in front of me and wets my shoes. Looking closely I see it is a condom. As I look up to see who threw it, another one lands on my face. My vest under my shirt is wet. Ok, I get the message. I think of a teacher intervention. There hasn’t been one in my struggle. But now I have been warned about reporting. What do I do?
I walk on – right out of the school gates. As I reach the street somebody taps me on my shoulder. I drop my bag and make fists. I am ready to fight, though I do not know how many people are behind me. I turn, ready. A tall figure stands in front of me. It is Buti Ncedile, our school caretaker. He has a smile on his face. His smile does not reach me though. I hate and I hate.
“Please allow me to drive you home if you must go home now,” he makes an offer. I hesitate. My father told me I must never take lifts from other people without telling him. What is the worst thing that could happen to me though?
On our way home Buti Ncedile talks to me about fighting back with words. He speaks of how weak and vulnerable the space is where hatred resides. He tells me how small I am to try to take on everyone against me at school, physically. He says they will most likely come out victorious. He wants to know how else I have been affected by what has been happening to me at school. I tell him that my marks have dropped. He asks me what standard I am in. “Grade 9,” I tell him. He jokingly asks what standard that is, telling me he is from ‘that’ generation. We laugh. At the gate when I get out he says, “Nokuzola, prepare that fight with words and do it for yourself and those who will be bullied after you.”
~•~
It is the day of the SRC elections. I am standing up on stage as Busisiwe and her friends boo and catcall. I look down to see Lubabalo amongst them, the loudest of all of them.
I am a little shaky holding my speech, I take deep breaths in and out. Out of the corner of my eye I see Buti Ncedile. He is standing just outside our main hall as I start my speech.
“I am a child of God first. Your actions of late have done no good. They have hurt and scarred me inside. What if any one of you was in my position, would you accept the treatment you have given me? My manifesto does not contain in detail what I will do if you vote me onto the SRC. But should that opportunity come, I would ask you to step back and look at what you have done. To see how you have bullied me and made me suffer. And how people bully those who are different from them, those who are easy to hurt. These are acts that cannot be justified – please stop.”
There is silence and then the clapping starts. To my surprise the outgoing SRC members start a standing ovation. I can feel all the eyes in the hall looking at me as I sit down. The SRC candidacy does not bother me any more. I know the bullies won’t vote for me. But I have done the right thing and a brave thing. I look up and see Buti Ncedile smiling.
Our principal is to read the names of those who made it and are voted onto the SRC. I know my name is not on this list. The girls in my class spent a lot of time making this clear to me after my speech. He reads out the names and the girls and boys jump up with joy as they go onto the stage.
He spends a long time saying what the role of the SRC president is. Then he announces the SRC president and head girl: Nokuzola Judith Mamali. Wow, that girl must be happy. I see everybody looking at me. What, has he just said my name? Phelisa whispers in my ear, “Yes, that was your name.” I do not believe it. I walk up to the stage. The learners are screaming, “Speech, speech, speech!” Our principal whispers into my ear. He wants to know if I will be saying anything. I take the microphone. A song breaks out from the back row in the hall.
Thina sihamba noNokuzola thina
Nok’zola thina
Thina sihamba noNokuzola thina
Nok’zola thina
[We are going with Nokuzola – we are.]
The song goes on for a while until our principal asks the learners to give me time to speak.
“Thank you for voting for me. I look forward to working with you all in your matric year and to making it exciting. I must say I did not expect this.”
“You deserve it!” a boy shouts from the back row as I conclude my short speech.
I run outside to Buti Ncedile and hug him.
“What happened, Nokuzola? Why do you have the whole school behind you?” he asks pretending not to know.
“I have been elected SRC president,” I say as I feel my feet leaving the ground. The first team rugby captain, Siphelo, lifts me up on his shoulders.
From here I must say the view is beautiful.
I look down only to see Lubabalo. He looks at me with disbelief and misery. I see others run towards him and he puts on this act, pretending to be honestly cheering. I don’t know what he is thinking or what he must really feel about me.
For our first task I ask the SCR members to work on a bully-free school. We come up with a one-liner on bullying. “Don’t Bully, Make Friends.”
We have it printed and stuck on every locker in the school. We also have it displayed on the schools’ notice board.
The pimples are slowly going away, a big thank-you to Buti Ncedile and my father. I can now enjoy my life again.
Now I don’t worry any more about hiding my beads. Many pupils at school ask me where they can get beads like mine, thinking it is a fashion. I tell them I am ithwasa, a trainee sangoma.
At netball practice I now wear my short-sleeve shirts and beads without fear.
Discussion questions
• Would you have voted for Nokuzola? Why/why not?
• Does your school need an anti-bullying campaign like this? If so, why? If not, what other campaign would be relevant to your school?
About the author
Sonwabiso Ngocowa lives in Masiphumelele, Cape Town. Sonwabiso completed his matric at Fish Hoek High School in 2002. He went on to study for a diploma in Business Management at Cape College, and then worked for Standard Bank at the Fish Hoek branch in customer services. In 2011 he resigned from his work at the bank and is now studying a BSoc Sci at the University of Cape Town. He has written many short stories for FunDza’s mobi site.
Advice for young writers
Believe in yourselves – anything is possible with hard work and courage. Don’t get derailed by obstacles in your path, persevere.