EVERY TIME I DID DRUG deliveries, I would think of Beverly, my dad’s girlfriend and the mother of my half-brother Storm, who got locked up for trafficking drugs. Could I juggle improving my spiritual life, on the one hand, and having clients and drugs, on the other? I knew I wouldn’t be able to do both: it was either one or the other.
There is something that was growing during these times in Joburg – this inner voice saying, ‘Don’t do it!’ I knew this drug delivery story would lead to me being caught. My inner self said, ‘You know if you do this, something bad will happen.’
Thoughts about my future caused me so much anxiety, even though I knew I needed to change and find my purpose. As I exited from the horrors and dislocations of my past life of prostitution, drugs and other abuses, what would I have to face next?
At the age of thirty-two, in 2013, I decided to avoid temptation by returning to Cape Town permanently.
I returned to my mother and S five years after I left them. I arrived with some income saved up, but more importantly, I came with a change in spirit, an upliftment, a maturity and growth towards sobriety and even some semblance of inner happiness.
I had learnt not to turn my anger on others or to blame them for what had happened to me. Rather, it was my life, and in that life, I was responsible for caring for my son. I would not allow my anger to focus on him, like my mom’s anger had throughout my life.
Once I was home, I looked at the city of my childhood. I was impressed with the way the Democratic Alliance was cleaning up Cape Town – I didn’t see as many street kids as there were when I was young. I thought that the DA was reputable, and so I got a job working in their call centre. And I became one of two-hundred-and-fifty coloureds and Africans, speaking several indigenous languages, engaged in heated political debate.
With the DA job I earned a decent income and learnt more about the racial realities in my society. Working there made me realise that I could change professions and hold a job developing awareness. This job empowered me to understand the world better, to work hard, to gain skills and to feel I was doing a worthwhile and useful service.
In my childhood, I had known only a little about Mandela and the ANC Youth League. Now, I was becoming more politicised, and realising the importance of activism. The DA job prompted me to begin working in public awareness.
I then saw a request on Facebook for anyone who had experienced sexual exploitation and abuse. I responded and told my story, which was filmed for a programme on SABC 2. This opened up even more speaking events. I just continued to pray to God to keep providing these opportunities. My newfound spiritual strength helped me develop confidence to talk publicly about the gender issues so close to my heart.
I became excited knowing that my vision and purpose was to write and talk about the horrors of sex trafficking. Working with the Embrace Dignity NGO allowed me to do this.
This, I knew, was the work I was cut out to do.
It has not always been easy. At times, my physical, emotional and financial needs have overwhelmed me to a point of wondering if I can ever realise my vision.
I have also had to deal with the stigma of the strip club community who know my past. When I came back to Cape Town permanently, I had enough money that I didn’t need to find clients. But I would still go to the clubs – maybe just out of habit. The bouncer would say, ‘Hey, welcome back! You just missed out at the big convention event …’ And there it was: this assumption about who I was and what I wanted.
Habits are hard to change. The minute he reminded me of my old life, my mind would jump wildly: ‘Let me find a client for tonight.’
I didn’t though. I just watched. I would see how the regular folks who came in were familiar with the girls, recommending them to each other. It is so hard to step out once you are in these circles. You become part of a network.
There were other things I had to face too.
I needed to seriously look at matters of health. As a survivor for the past few years, I am only now going through the emotional process of caring for myself. And nothing is simple. Because I had headaches, I went to an eye doctor. At the appointment, I hated him testing my eyes – my vision got very blurry and I couldn’t see. I was very scared, and I started crying. Confused, the doctor asked me why I was crying.
I explained: ‘When you look into my eyes, it reminds me of the masking tape I had to wear over my eyes during my Joburg bondage.’
I am still healing, and wounds hurt as they heal.
As a survivor, I want to grow as fast as I can, learn how society works, what it does, and how I can ‘fit in’ and be independent.
I’m learning to manage my story. When I talk publicly, I feel like I am undressing myself. I’m always wondering what other people are thinking of me. This paranoia will pass, I hope.
It is still hard for me to be a single black girl in an African community, especially since I have a son to raise. It’s hard for me to get involved in emotional relationships, to tell a guy my background. I keep wondering, ‘When is he coming to me?’ I have never had any stable trusting loving relationship that didn’t disappoint me.
Also, I am only now facing this process of reconciliation with my mother, having her confront the reality that she abandoned me. This pain hurts us both, but we are working through it, and growing trust between us.
I have always been perplexed about why my mother and my dad gave up on me in my childhood years and never included me when they started their own families elsewhere. Was I not ‘family’?
When my mother lived and worked at the docks, I thought she didn’t care about me. But now that we are talking, she tells me: ‘You know what? I don’t even know if they told you at the shelter that I used to bring clothes and other stuff for you.’ And I think it’s true, looking back, that my mother provided some things for me, maybe even further back, when I was living in Woodstock.
I understand my mother better now too. She is also going through change, meeting her own challenges. Her bouts of drinking have made it difficult for me to reconcile with her, and it has sometimes worn me down. We’re still adjusting, but the peaceful times we have together are a blessing, and we are working on it.
Sometimes my mother says the prayers that I have taught her. She sometimes asks me to help her with certain scriptures. I think my journey is rubbing off on her. She is learning, and now it’s in her life. I am proud to say that I have changed, and now she is changing too.
I have learnt from S the importance of loving and how to extend that love. Now that I am present, at home, he can identify me as his mom. There’s some normality to our lives now; we’re like a typical family, with Granny caring for him as I work. This makes life and loving easier.
S is the voice that keeps me going. When he calls me ‘Mama’, it is my strength.