The perfect person

As the thunder roared in the sky, the secretive boy sat in the road and waited.The patter of rain at his feet nor the sound of distant birds could could bring him out of this state.He was a stranger to the people who loved him, his parents. No one else took the time to look beyond his black, deep set eyes and mysterious white lips. He was different, who could argue?

 He herd a faint rumble emerging from the north. "here i'll wait," thought the boy."behind the trees and be patient, for heaven is my destiny" he always was a good boy, but society has its ways of molding and twisting us into different shapes.Behind his thick woolen jersey hid a boy so deep with anger. It is not entirely his fault he ended up this way, its you who should be feeling guilty for you pushed him every day. He was supposed to walk like everyone else, supposed to talk like you-but dont feel bad, its hardly your fault,its what society expects of you. After all, we're all expected to be perfect, but did you and your friends ever stop and wonder, if people are really people, witch we are, arent they supposed to be different? So what if im strange, should i really be labeled for this is what makes me...me. You watch this boy through your judgmental eyes you see that truck sprinting towards him. he rises to his hanches. As you're about to scream, he jumps. Into the road. In front of that large truck.

It was never his fault, its all on you. But dont feel bad, its what society tells you, its what society tells you.

sisterly rejection

This is a poem i wrote for my step sister who does not know me yet.

Before i knew you

I could feel your presence near

No one else had known her

but she helped me through my fears

Step, By step she guided me forward

pushing me through thick and thin

Then one day she became real

all because of one blury sin

She was a figment of my imagination no more

My insides were left open, wounded

my mind had to close that door

the one that kept me grounded

life went on day after day

untill the tension mounted and flew away

I had no reason left within me

I had no choice but to cave in

They said the truth would set her free

But im afraid she did not see

What i

Was trying to be.

A lonley child

I have no dreams, no aspirations, and no hope for a better life. Today is the present, my past has faded, and my future is as bleak as the day I was born. What if you were stuck in this scary life, where everyday is the same and the sun just never shines.

Some people think life is about family, education, clothes and striving for a better future. For me it’s different, people don’t understand that I have no future, no education, no college crazy days or hectic house parties. I don’t even have a home, a place to sleep at night, and family, I should be so lucky. They don’t know how it feels to be a failure, to know that you mean nothing to those people around you. My whole life has been about the simple goal of staying alive, after all you need food to survive but more important you need money to buy the food. My birth was not a joyous day like it is for most people; I was a burden to the only person in my family, my mother. I just another person she had to look after, clothe and feed. She was so young and weak that I never got the right care; I don’t blame her, after all I, Simora Marwede was one of my mothers many mistakes and that would never change. Only a day after my birth I was put to work, my job was to be out on the streets. I was never a cute or beautiful baby, after all people aren’t looking at your face, they’re looking at your clothes and by the looks of the yellow and blue dishtowel around my waist, I could never be as cute as the other newborns. In my mothers arms I would watch the cars drive past, yellow, blue, silver. In through the shiny, clear windows I would look at the people in their clothes with their toddlers in their matching pink and blue booster seats, I would try and reach out for them not knowing what it was like to touch another child, but the window was always in the way. This was my mothers second source of income, encase the first wasn’t enough to get us through the month. My mother would stand at their windows with a tiny, thin newborn baby on her side and glare at them with her big beady eyes. The driver would study me and my mother and then gaze into the back at her own children; she would feel sorry for this starving baby and remove her wallet from her handbag to give my mother some money. This was the only way my mother could keep me alive. We made enough money to feed ourselves daily. As I grew older, my mother discovered drugs, using all our money to satisfy her needs, there was nothing left for me to survive on. When my mom was doing the night shift I would be out on the pavement in the cold with the other homeless children. During the day, she was so tired that she would pass out on the pavement and leave me to do my own thing. I was a toddler at that stage and the streets were mine. I sat in the roads and ran around while rich folks sat in their cars, mouths wide open, they could not believe that my mother could let me do this. This was the way we made most of our money, people just saw a child, so innocent and pure. How could they let an infant like their own suffer harsh conditions like this? As I got older people didn’t care anymore, I was just some black child on the streets up to no good. The same as every other street child my age, a nuisance. When times were tough, my mom was almost never around. I found myself making the street my home at night. One Cold August night a black car pulled up to the pavement where I was lying. A thin clean, neatly dresses woman stepped out and told me to get in the car. It was my mother, she was new, clean, like I had never seen her before. It was that night that I met Dante, a young, strong man with a bald head. At first I was intimidated but as filled with happiness when I realised that mom and I were not alone, we could be happy again, like a family. Once again life wasn’t that simple and it was just too good to be true. I would often hear my mother scream out at night, it was just bad dreams, things were looking up. When I started hearing loud bangs and cries at night I knew what was happening. Dante was a drug dealer, when he wasn’t at home he was at the pub, drinking. He would come home in his demented state and fight with my mother, hitting her and abusing her. Then it started with me, he came into my bedroom when he was finished with my mom. He told me how bad I was, how I haven’t looked after my mother, then he lifted his large hand and hit my back till every bone in my body shook and my eyes grew heavy. I sunk into a dark place and listened to the grunts and moans my body made as it was slammed against the wall. I awoke to the sun streaming through the windows and the birds singing but not even these natural beauties could convince me to move. My body was numb and my mind was in shock. I couldn’t hear anyone in the house. I called for my mother but there was no answer. I held my breath and used my swollen, blue hands to lift the rest of my broken body off the ground. I had to find my mom, What if she was hurt, or maybe she had run away without me, I would have to escape before Dante returned. As my legs navigated their way to the door my mind was still going over the events of last night. I crawled to my moms room as my legs could no longer support my aching body. There she was, the lady that had raised me, kept me alive was lying on the floor, in a pool of blood. I couldn’t feel a pulse. I lay on her chest waiting for a miracle to happen. For her body to heal and her heart to start beating again. I knew this wasn’t going to happen. I took her arm and started pulling her towards the door. ‘Please mom, wake up. He’s going to get you, wake up!’ She didn’t react to my pleading and she didn’t Evan react to my screaming. I knew she was gone and I had to escape, start a new life, I needed to leave the past behind.

Goat Boy

He’s 11 years old, black hair brown eyes and not very tall, but it wasn’t his looks that Intrigued me, it was the tiny No horned goat that he carried around in a waterproof bag.

My first thought was – wow a boy with a goat as a pet, that’s a first. After some time and a long stare, curiosity kicked in and I just couldn’t help myself. He was with a rather tall man, I tagged him as goat boys father as I saw some resemblance. Me being shy when meeting new people, or should I say boys, did not have the courage to go and talk to him and his goat. Luckily my father swooped in, introducing himself and asking questions. I sat there watching but my father tends to talk too much and I got bored of staring at them and went inside to wait. After half an hour my dad opened the door announcing that he had found my future husband. Surely not, I thought to myself but listened as my dad told the tale of goat boy. He lives in Port Alfred with his father, a journalist for the daily dispatch and his goat is named TK.

TK is an acronym for Transkei, his home town. He was rescued when goat boy and his father were back packing through the Transkei on a motorbike. Goat boy just fell in love with him and would not leave until he had him. The Xhosa farmer, TK’s owner would not let goat boy take him. Fortunately Goat boy’s father pulled some strings and they finally were on the road with the goat in the water proof bag, all at the cost of goat boy’s cell phone. TK had an experience most goats cant Evan begin to imagine, Riding on the back of a motorbike, trekking through the transkei, eating luxury food and having all eyes on him wherever they went. Yes, TK was living the good life. After hearing the story, I just had to meat this dynamic duo, so that night, at supper; I was introduced to Quin, TK and Dave McGregor. Quin was quite a funny boy and we baby sat TK the whole of the next day as I found him utterly adorable! When the day came that we had to pack up and leave, it was decided that Quin and TK would get a lift home with us as it was raining so we gathered up TK’s belongings, filled up his milk bottle and made him comfortable in his waterproof bag. He was such a good goat, slept the whole way and only made a small bahhhh informing us that he had to pee. We quickly pulled over and let TK do his Business. After a long drive everyone started getting hungry so we pulled into the nearest steers only to be faced with the problem of where to leave TK. As we were ravenous, we put a leash on TK and dragged him into steers, he stared at all the people, bahhhhh’ed his way politely through the crowds. As we got inside, TK decided to drain the main vain and made a pee right in the middle of Steers. The manager was the only one who wasn’t laughing. After a long trip home we said our goodbyes to Goat boy and TK. My heart grew very sore as I watched them drive away.

Turns out, it wasn’t the last time I was going to see them. When we were in port Alfred for the long weekend, my father went down to the beach and guess who was there, Quin and Dave. After chatting to Dave, Quin spotted my dad and ran up to him, only the first words he muttered were: Where’s Chelsea!!??

The haunted house of Bathurst

 Many peoples ideal holidays don’t involve freaky haunted towns, old bars and crazy people. But then again I'm not like many people.

 As you read in my previous post, I took a likening to the little settlers town called Bathurst. I loved it so much that my father took me back the next day so I could do some more antique shopping. I ended up in a bar with my father and the many crazy locals talking rubbish and watching comedy acts done by the community. Bathurst has always appealed to be because of its spooky atmosphere and I've always been intrigued to find out the history of this tiny ‘town’. Murphy’s Law, here I was sitting in the lounge area and in walks an old lady who sits next to me. She was rather chatty and I picked up that she was a local and tried make conversation with her. Much to my advantage she knew a lot about the town and its history and I found myself asking questions left, right and centre. I went in there feeling that there was a mystery to be solved and walked out with an enormous number of unanswered questions and all the old lady could say was see for yourself. Well I didn’t see for myself but I did get some answers. Quite a while back a reporter that lives in port Alfred visited a supposedly ‘haunted house.’ The story goes that there was a group of settlers that lived on farms in Bathurst; this particular house was owned by a nun. She wasn’t really a people’s person but shared her house with a bunch of young solders that were fighting the Xhosa Boer war. Some say she went crazy, others say it was a statistic act, but it doesn’t matter what people assume, the fact is that she hung herself in the closet of one particular room in the house. She was found dead and was buried in a church yard not far out of town. Till about 5 years ago the house stood empty as people knew they dare not go in it for she was powerful beyond measure. Now believe what you want but this is no lie. It wasn’t until an English lady came to Bathurst and found that the house had an unusual charm to it. People warned her but she insisted on buying the house. People thought she was crazy when she started telling them about her first night there. She said it was unimaginable, like nothing she had ever experienced. First little things started happening such as lights going on and off and chairs moving, buts that’s the usual she states. She went upstairs, on the hottest night in Bathurst, the room that the nun died in was as cold as a freezer. Then the smell came, an unbearable smell like dead bodies drifted into the air. The smell came from the floor boards so she opened it up. Some say there were dead solders body parts under the floorboards; others say it was just the smell of them. Those were just some of the many stories about this house, and I don’t want to know the worst.

 People called this lady mad, but she told the people that the ghost is her friend and they always talk about the old days. As I sat there, outside writing this story, a chilly wind picked up almost freezing my fingers, the sun went away and the sky was filled with grey, grey clouds. Call it a coincidence if you want, but I believe every word.

 

The life I want to lead

 With this weekend being a long one, my father and I decided to take my little brother on a road trip. We booked into a hotel in Port Alfred and took the long route (by long I mean 2 hours longer). Our journey started at 12 o clock on Saturday morning, but what I didn’t know was that this trip would determine my future.

 Our first stop after we left east London was bihra crafts store and let me tell you something, the food was delicious homemade meals and snacks. Yummy, my favourite! The shop had many different items for sale such as food of course and jewellery, clothes and art. If you are looking for some different Objects for your home, Bihra is the place to go. We hit the road once again with full stomachs and a good taste in our mouths. We moved onto our next stop, a tiny settler’s town called Bathurst. Under its creepy surface, it’s a really laid back place full of hippies and crazy but fun people. My favourite thing about Bathurst (besides the people) is the little shops that sell cute odds and en’s such as scarves, fairy dust, Jewellery and antiques. Bathurst has such an old and airy fairy feeling. The people are amazing, what a lifestyle that they live and that’s when I realised what people miss out on with their busy lives, with work and kids. So I decided that going into Bathurst was a calling for me. That is the life that I want to lead.

  Although, knowing me, my idea of the future changes just about every hour.

 

 

The lady in the little yellow car

Some people drive slowly on their way to work, avoiding traffic and listening to soothing music. Others think it’s a race and pump up the volume of their favourite rap song while swerving through the masses of cars. In my case, it is none of the above.

 Every morning for the past few years I have gotten a lift to school with my next door neighbour, Sally who drives a tiny yellow car. Now I love sally and everything but some days I wonder if she is trying to kill me on our way to school. I came to the conclusion that this is not possible as her 5 year old daughter is in the car with us. I could share with you quite a few of my near death experiences but that would take far too long! What continues to amaze me is the fact that possibly every week she nearly rides into the back of a huge van! I hope she doesn’t think she stands a chance against that monster. With me in the passenger seat I’m more of an alarm than a sitting duck, telling sally when she should stop for a red light or that there is a car turning in front of us. Her 5 year old Jane thinks it is a huge joke when sally slips the clutch and the car ‘Farts’. For me it is not as amusing as this happens nearly every 2 minutes (no exaggeration there.) Its not that I feel sorry for myself having to go to school with her, I really do feel sorry for her tiny yellow car though, it has more dents and scratches than I have hairs on my head.

 Somehow life goes on, I get to school with my heart racing, hands shaking ready to tackle the day and sally gets to work on time.  That means everybody’s happy, doesn’t it?

The best holiday of my life

On our annual visit to the Transkei last year I discovered that its not the most expensive holidays that bring the most fun and memories but the ones spent with family and friends, laughing and having a good time.

 In September last year we packed our bags(with minimal clothes) and hit the road with our friends, who are more like family. We were ready for a road trip of note and began our holiday with a 3 hour drive to a small ‘village’ called Coffie bay. We spent a night at a hotel there (or should I say the ONLY hotel there) That night my dad took me to a small backpackers and I realised what life is like for those gypsies and hippies all over the world, it opened my eyes to all the wonderful things life has to offer. These people have it so good, they may not have a lot of money but they sure know how to have fun.

I awoke early in the morning, shoved on the clothes I could squeeze out my suitcase and before I knew it we were on the road, and were where we going? To the best place in the world! Bulungula backpackers

 Bulungula is a small village situated rather deep in the Transkei, it has no electricity or running water or Even signal but it is one good place to sit back and relax. We arrived in the afternoon and were welcomed by the Xhosa people that live in the village. Before you get a picture in your mind of what Bulungula is like, I'm going to tell you. When you arrive you drive over a big hill, but when you reach the top you look onto 6 small huts, brightly painted with the traditional Xhosa patterns, a main building and an ablution block. They all are right on the river mouth and you wake up in the morning to the sound of children playing soccer outside and the smell of see air, and you think to yourself, what a life!

 There are many activities that you can do to keep you busy, such as horse back riding, hiking, fishing and much more. My favourite thing to do is wake up early, sit on the beach and write. You feel so captivated by the beauty of this place that it is almost to much to take in. It is one of those places that your heart aches for and when you are there you feel on top of the world. My favourite thing to do there is play with the Xhosa children and visit their homes. These people are so poor but yet they are so humble and welcome you with open arms. The food is another thing that makes me smile, bacon, eggs and beans for breakfast, traditional Xhosa meals for lunch and the same for supper. What more could you ask for?

 After a life changing few days, we said our goodbyes and moved on to a hotel in the middle of Dwesa game reserve called The Haven. This was quite a new experience for me as I had never been here before. It felt rather good to be back in touch with civilization again. We stayed in small cottages a few metres away from the main building. It was wonderful to wake up in the morning and have a zebra staring at you through the bedroom window. We met so many new people and enjoyed a nice supper after a 10km walk through the nature reserve(we saw a skeleton of an actual whale!)

 This holiday was so amazing, I wouldn’t trade it for anything and I would recommend it to anyone who is in need of some soul searching.

 Websites

www.coffeebayhotel.co.za 

www.bulungula.com

www.havenhotel.co.za

 

Poverty of the heart

 

Its 2009 a year before South Africa shows the world what it’s made of. 2010, the soccer world cup is on its way and yet we are stuck in the middle of an immense economic resection. Could this be the root of the problem or is it much deeper than wealth?

 

Looking at this country from a 13 year old point of view is quite a shock. The rich is stealing from the poor, the most influential leaders setting immoral examples for the future generation of this country. A famous writer once quoted, “our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate but that we are powerful beyond measure.” I believe that South Africa has a great amount of potential just waiting to be discovered. We just have to put aside our problems and work together as a nation to bring out the best in our people. Thinking long and hard about our situation bought me to a conclusion, South Africans have a problem. A problem so big they try to cover it up by finding an excuse. That excuse of course has to do with your status, financial that is. The real problem, and this shouldn’t come as much of a shock, is poverty of the heart.

Many people say home is where the heart lies, but with over 67,8% of the population getting divorced how can this be true?

Being a kid from a broken home cannot be easy, and I am thankful that I have not had to go through this. The heartache and confusion, mixed emotions and many sleepless nights wondering if you will ever make it through this alive! The answer to this problem is just one word, 4 letters, LOVE.