By Tiro Makhudu

“For the longest time, she was uncomfortable with cars. They made her feel vulnerable and exposed like the large, corse hands of a grown man were sliding up her ribs to grab a fistful of her supple, pointed, virgin breast to squeeze and rub. The perverted sensation of his hands between her thighs and his liquor ridden tongue on her neck and in her ear lingered on her skin and olfactory senses for years. She focused her gaze on a tiny black bird in an old tree that proceeded to build it’s nest that day her stepfather took her to the edge of the village at the bush. The day he took her to the edge of life itself.

She was unaware of the tears streaming down her face as he reached over to turn the knob that reclined the seat. It took an eternity but eternity would never be long enough no matter how sincere and desperate her silent prayer. She reeled at how at ease and natural Sticks was through the whole thing. It was almost mechanical and she an object being taken apart like one of the engines Sticks used to fix behind the little corrugated iron structure she would from this day know as a house and no longer a home.

Only that one black bird that was building a home of its own was her witness and didn’t have the guts to either come to her rescue or at the very least, speak up when she told her story. It didn’t care. Not when he started and not when he finished the fourth time, sticking his tongue in her mouth and then his fingers to push her lips and cheeks back into a smile.

The song that he played right after as he opened another nip of old buck sounded distant to her muddled mind. It was as if she had fallen off the edge that Sticks had taken her to. That perhaps she was under water but not drowning, never had existed or most vividly, that she was no longer a human being. He sat there calmly and drank, smoking his rothman’s and making every every drag last just like he whispered in her ear that he would make her last.

Sticks finally passed out. She sat there motionless, arrested by a deep shock, paralysing fear and unbearable pain. The pain was in her heart, in her mind and in her tiny body. It occupied her entire being in the most coldly clinical and unsympathetic way imaginable. She never contemplated taking her own life. She was dead already.

As the sun touched the furthest reach of her village, she finally scraped together the courage to leave. She had not pulled her skirt down yet. The shock hadn’t permitted her to. She untangled the bunch around her waist and rolled down her skirt before buttoning up her short sleeved shirt and gathering her bag and panties off the floor of the front passenger seat.

Gingerly, she began to make her way back home in a fog of confusion, selfhate and guilt. She felt both betrayed and responsible at the same time. Somehow, without thinking, she was home but like a vampire waiting to be invited in, she froze at the gate and couldn’t enter. Soon an approaching figure in the distance compelled her to enter but by 9 that night, she had still not been found. Had she not been found hours later, balled up next to the kennel, dazed and shivering, she might have caught her death and her pain would have ended.”

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By Tiro Makhudu
Tiro Makhudu is an aspiring writer who has written for several local television productions and a voice screaming the narrative that needs to be heard with no one willing it to tell it. With an unapologetic, no-nonsense approach, Tiro holds no punches and purports to wake the spirit of his fellow man with the belief that that woke spirit will translate into a sharp and pro-African weapon of a mind that will deliver the African from his mind, body and soul penitentiary. An Africanist through and through and all-round social commentator, Tiroseeks to plant his tiny seedlings in the landscape of the discourse that will one day give rise to the brightest Africa that the winds of change and hands of time will allow

The day of the arrival of the impis was nothing short of tragically spectacular. It was like an invasion epic right out of the corridors of Hollywood. It was as if the Martians had not come in peace and would not rest until they had killed every last one of us. 

The put axes through the heads of man, woman and child alike. Spears were driven into the chests of those laying bloodied and beaten unconscious on the streets and those who still had their legs under them were chased down like animals and hacked down. From that day, the men’s hostels became zulu hostels and the rest of us “iilwane”…animals. So they killed without remorse.

They would March peacefully from madala hostel in their red and white regalia. Weapons in hand, they sang as they came down 4th avenue and up again to the football ground next to the old Pretoria road. There they listen to their leaders denounce the negotiations of the ANC and NP. There, a different more forceful plan was laid to wrestle power from the ANC where invariably, it would vest.

The call and respond would ring and hang in the air as the winds carried it on gentle shoulders down to the township. Those who had not been fortified the night before got their share of the inyanga’s magic at the grounds to loud, bloodthirsty cheers. They were invincible…untouchable. 

Once the day’s indoctrination was complete, the war cry shook the township and the bloodshed began. A shout would alarm up the road to warn all of us to get off the street and lock ourselves in our houses. Those who did not hear “nkatha” would be buried on the nearest Saturday. 

The brown military and yellow police nyalas often visited the township but not to protect us. They would have if they wanted to. After all, it was no secret that inkatha was coming and once they arrived, what they did. 

The police and SADAF soldiers came only to protect the nearby white settlements. Exiled MK combatants had returned to find that there was no milk and certainly no honey. The direction and shape of the negotiations made it clear that there was no room for them at the table. So they robbed, stole and hijacked to put food on the table and stick it to the whites who had for generations taken from us.

It wasn’t theft, it was repossession and the state would have none of it. So the police and soldiers raided our homes regularly and by the time they were done, some would be missing and others bleeding. Compacted reporting made sure that these flash points didn’t interfere with negotiations. 

An avocado thrown into one of the personnel carriers sent soldiers diving for their lives and provided a bit of comic relief on one occasion. The mission to make the soldiers abandon their weapons to be taken failed but luckily resulted in no casualties when the annoyed trained killers finally returned to the vehicle.

The impi and military raids had become common place. The ANC and its Mandela had become the face of freedom. I couldn’t tell if the violence intensified after the death of Hani. It became hard to tell the police battles with criminals and the political fights. Racist police had found a way to kill with impunity for one last rodeo before democracy would dawn.

There’s one particular raid of our shack I will never forget. I had been with a friend and my brother there. The military arrived. My friend shot out of the house to his own at warp speed. The tall afrikaaner officer bent to enter. As he giraffed, he hit his blonde head on the roof. We laughed. They beat us as they turned our home upside down, insisting that we were hiding weapons.

For the first time my eyes opened to why I had been marching that day I was turned back by the then young lady who could right this minute be walking the streets in a permanent mumble, saying incoherent things.

Part 5 to follow soon…

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`Alexandra has always been an interesting place. Full of life, full laughter and peppered all over with pain, poverty and suffering. There weren’t as many people then and there were even fewer lights. Gomora, Gamampyane, dark city and of late, Gom town. 

We lived in the women’s hostel back then. It seemed like a gas stove powered, self catering prison looking back now and we’d soon have to move as my elder brother grew too big to live there. It echoed in every direction and the communal kitchens and laundry areas on each floor bustled with laughter and gossip. Every floor looked the same. It was easy to get lost in the endless echo and dark pockets. So I never strayed more than a single floor away.

We moved into a small shack not too far away from the hostel. There were three round, pointed roof bucket toilets behind our little shack and it was in that esthetically poor but love rich place where I first noticed my mother’s cape and it has never escaped my gaze ever since. She seemed to make miracles happen everyday from the smallest things and would soon erect a brick structure to give us a modicum of dignity. 

Now and then we would go to Ga Rankua. The questions from our peers would hit us like a title wave and we would lap up every moment like dogs with a fresh stake. I would explain how setjwetla, a shanty town on the banks of the jukskei, meant something different from the then contemporary name of a dance in which the object was to get naked. We were rock stars. The kids from the big city.

While Bophutswana sang Lefatshe leno la borra rona side by side with ditonki diapoka, Alexandra was on the cusp of its bloodiest era and to this day, many dare not enter it. Nelson was coming and the song K’sasa eksen’ ngo 4 o’clock was about to lose all meaning.

Dipek was deployed to pave and tar our roads while slowly, mustelek began installation of  prepaid electricity. Change would come thick and fast to appease the masses and stay a bloody civil war and my grandfather would die in the arms of his beloved wife but not before Nelson, his CODESA and democracy came.

Word came that the IFP had deployed from the deep of kwazulu and was headed for the small township of Alexandra. The men’s hostels had been mixed then. Tswana, Zulu, Sotho, Xhosa, Tsonga, Pedi, Venda all lived side by side.

But this would soon come to an abrupt and bloody end. The IFP impis arrived by train from the heart of the Zulu Kingdom. They had on their person, knives, pangas, knobkieries, guns and on their itinerary…death.

Busses took them to from Johannesburg park station and brought them to our door, the bridge that led into pan Africa at the mouth of the township. Our worst fears, the truth we didn’t want to believe had come knocking. They alighted with a thunderous battle cry. It was all the quarter and pleasantries they would give that day. 

They hacked down anything that was in their path and what would follow would hold the entire township hostage for a long time to come.

Part 4 to follow soon…

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I often think about the then young lady who sent me home that day. I remember her sharp, singy voice clearly but somehow, not her face. I want to remember but nothing comes. Not even when I shake loose the cobwebs of the deepest reserves of my mind. I wonder about her life and if she returned with it intact. I wonder if she was one of the angry or bitter ones or whether she walked the streets in a permanent mumble saying incoherent things. I never did see her again. Perhaps I did but didn’t recognise her and she, unperturbed by the presence of a random boy, did not recognise me.

The decade that saw this march had also witnessed a tricameral parliament, one of apartheid’s neat little tricks to keep us from freedom and a violent state of emergency would follow. A government on its last legs wanted to beat us into submission like one would beat a slave. It occurred to me then, even at such a tender age that the Caucasian was a violent species. 

I remember being in the Pretoria CBD with my mother. She had taken me into the ladies because I was much too little to go into the men’s alone. It was clear from viewing just the entrance of the white ladies facilities that they were clean and well looked after. Inside the black toilet however, my mother scolded me for putting my palms down on the sticky seat of the filthy toilet in the black facility. It seemed, the black facility had been built to insure there was both function and sufficient humiliation. 

My arms were much too short to reach either of the walls for balance. So my feet dangled and my palms inevitably returned to the sticky seat for another scolding. It wasn’t because I was anything of a toddler. Only quite small for my age…something that persists to date.

I’m not sure if I experienced a pie and coke for the first time that day or not but I couldn’t help but experience the tension that lingered quietly behind every turn of the sideways and sidewalks of Pretoria. Ironically, I wouldn’t experience the same feeling in Sandton where my mother, qualified in her feild, worked as a dental nurse and doubled up as a domestic to keep us clothed and fed. Perhaps the people here were just ignorant or didn’t care that one part of the population lived under the boot of another and that it was all about to end.

The air was different there. Trees lined the streets and the houses were larger than life. There were no tin houses here and the soil grew the most beautiful grass. I was introduced to the concept of a swimming pool then but dared not go near it. It sparkled blue and the light of the sun danced on the surface of the water like diamonds suspended by magic. 

Inside, there was a parrot that sat in a cage next to the rotary dial telephone. If anyone used the phone, he would repeat part of what they said the entire day. He was a sophisticated telephone guard but unnecessary at the time. After all, we had no one to call. I want to think there was a dog but can’t remember that either. What I do vividly remember is the day my biological father came to see me.

He took me to the arcade in Sandton city to play some games. I suppose it was his way of saying goodbye because I would not see or hear from him again. Not until I would track him down at the age of 25. He had had a further four children whom he had raised with private schooling. 

I’m still unsure how one deals with a rejection that is so absolute and four times reinforced but in his defence, I turned out to be a lousy father whereas he redeemed himself four times over.

I don’t recall seeing him in Alexandra or Ga Rankua or any other place except that one day he said goodbye with the utmost silence.

Part 3 to follow soon…

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I remember joining a march from Ga Rankua in the mid 1980’s in the then independent state of Bophutswana. It was headed to Mothotlung. To this day I haven’t a clue why there specifically. It seems such an obscure place. Perhaps they wanted to go further and for a moment, WE wanted to go further. 

It was a terrifying time in our history but for me, only in retrospect. People disappeared regularly and if they ever returned, they were never again the same. Some whittled and faded into oblivion, their spirits broken like beaten dogs and their eyes vacant like ghosts. Some had the sense clobbered right out of them and walked the streets mumbling incoherent things. Their sky had fallen and their minds had been rattled loose. Others harboured rage but all lived in a world of hushed tones and racing hearts. 

On occasion, young men would return battered and bruised almost beyond recognition just on a regular day that was no more significant than the one before. I would later come to understand that it was that they didn’t have their dompas, looked at a white man the wrong way or in the eye or were simply as God had made them…black.

I had not given any thought to these realities that day when I joined the march. The thunderous struggle songs rattled my ribs as I walked alongside thousands of black bodies going into battle for their freedom. Some would not return that day and of those that did, some who had not given up the ghost later from their wounds would walk for the last time that day.

I walked in stages, trying not to get noticed. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. Still, I persisted…pressed on, pretending to be from nearby wherever I was when I wasn’t walking. I was as stealthy as a clumsy, young boy with knocked knees could possibly be.

Instinctively, I knew there was death were I was headed. It hung in the air like the omens of Shakespearean literature but that didn’t bother me. I wanted to die! Not for the cause. I didn’t know what the cause was.  I didn’t want to be a martyr. I didn’t know what that was either.  I just wanted to die.

So onward, forward I  went for what seemed like miles on my tiny, skinny legs and bad lungs. Anxious but resolute. Scared but determined. I pressed on. Eventually and inevitably, I was discovered and was sent home. We respected our elders then, so I complied without protestation or an ounce of defiance and just like that, my stint as a freedom fighter came to an end just as quickly as it had begun.

It would be a short time thereafter that I attempted suicide for the first time, hanging myself from the branch of a tree with a spinning top string. I cannot be sure of the exact time that had passed but I am not writing from the great beyond because the branch I had chosen from my favourite mulberry tree could not hold my weight. A cruel irony for someone a skinny as me.

So, I fell to the ground, the string tight around my neck but only enough to cause discomfort and not death. My crudely tied knot had grown tighter and I could not get it undone. 

I  headed for the kitchen to get a bread knife to cut the string off and hid underneath one of two dining room tables in my grandparents three bedroom tin house. The same table I hid under when I fell from a makeshift junglegym at school and broke my left arm. I got no joy and no sooner had I giving up was I discovered with my little string around my neck. 

I stood by my story that I had attempted to tie a tie and not a noose but wasn’t believed. I got one of the most memorable beatings of my life that day.

Still, my need for death persisted just as I too had persisted in my march towards Mothotlung that day and by the time I reached adulthood, I had lost count of my suicide attempts. The suicide attempts that were all done quietly because their success has always been more important than the attention people would invariably conclude I seek. 

And so it was all done in the darkness in which I live. All done secretly. I was ashamed for it. I was told it was nothing more than weakness my entire life and of all the things I couldn’t be or archive, at the very least, I didn’t want to be weak.

Part 2 to follow soon…

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By Tiro Makhudu,

Chapter 2: The Scramble for Contact.

With the landing of the colossal alien ships, a seismic wave of urgency reverberated through the halls of power, stirring governments and nations into a state of frenzied activity. The world stood transfixed, its collective gaze fixed on the extra-terrestrial visitors that had descended upon historical sites located in countries perceived as hostile by Western states and their allies. It was an unprecedented event, one that held the promise of knowledge, advancements, and potential threats.

Across the globe, governments swiftly mobilized their resources, recognizing the profound implications of this encounter. Intelligence agencies sprang into action, their operatives embarking on covert missions shrouded in secrecy. These elite spies infiltrated the ranks, assuming false identities and venturing into the shadows to gather intelligence. Their mission was clear: to unravel the enigma of the visitors, to decipher their motives, and to discern the true nature of their advanced technology.

Simultaneously, teams of brilliant scientists were assembled from all corners of the world. These exceptional minds converged in state-of-the-art laboratories, driven by a relentless curiosity and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Their objective was to dissect the remnants left behind by the alien visitors, meticulously examining the artefacts, decoding their symbols, and probing the mysteries of their otherworldly materials. Each breakthrough brought humanity one step closer to understanding this cosmic riddle.

Diplomatic missions were swiftly organized, as seasoned negotiators were dispatched to establish channels of communication with the extra-terrestrial beings. These emissaries, armed with the weight of nations on their shoulders, traversed borders and navigated the treacherous terrain of international relations. Their task was daunting, for they had to balance the pursuit of information with the delicate intricacies of diplomacy, seeking to forge a connection that could bridge the vast chasm between humanity and the visitors.

Tensions ran high as negotiations ebbed and flowed, with each nation vying for a favourable position in this unfolding cosmic saga. The world watched with bated breath as diplomats engaged in intricate dances of protocol and rhetoric, seeking to glean even the slightest hint of the visitors’ intentions. Agendas clashed, alliances were tested, and the art of persuasion became paramount.

The media became a battleground of information, where headlines blared with speculation, theories, and sensationalized accounts of the alien encounter. Journalists, driven by a hunger for truth, pursued leads, interviewed witnesses, and scoured every available source for nuggets of information. The world hung on their every word, yearning for even the slightest glimpse into the secrets held within the alien ships.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the scramble for contact and understanding intensified. The global landscape transformed into a theatre of ambition and intrigue. Governments pushed their boundaries, employing both overt and covert means to gain an advantage. Schemes and counter-schemes were hatched, alliances formed and dissolved, as nations vied for supremacy in the quest for knowledge, power, and control.

Yet, amidst the chaos and competition, a select few individuals emerged as visionaries. They saw beyond the superficial trappings of rivalry and recognized the profound implications of this extraordinary encounter. These advocates for unity understood that the fate of humanity rested not in division, but in collaboration and mutual understanding. They worked tirelessly to foster dialogue, to bridge the gaps between nations, and to build a foundation of trust that could withstand the weight of this monumental moment in history.

Across the globe, academic institutions and think tanks became hotbeds of intellectual discourse and collaborative research. Scientists from diverse fields of expertise pooled their knowledge, analysing every bit of data gathered from the alien ships. Multidisciplinary teams, comprised of astrophysicists, biologists, engineers, linguists, and mathematicians, worked together to decipher the intricate puzzle of the visitors’ technology, language, and intentions. Their efforts were driven by a shared belief in the power of human ingenuity and the boundless possibilities that lay within reach.

Amidst the fervour of scientific inquiry and political manoeuvring, the general public became consumed by a mixture of awe, curiosity, and trepidation. Ordinary citizens followed every development with a mix of fascination and anxiety, their lives forever changed by the presence of the extra-terrestrial visitors. Discussions unfolded in homes, workplaces, and social gatherings, as individuals grappled with the profound existential questions this encounter posed. Fear mingled with hope, uncertainty intertwined with curiosity, as humanity stood at the precipice of a new era.

In the midst of this whirlwind of activity, a sense of unity began to emerge—a realization that the fate of humanity was inextricably linked to its ability to rise above geopolitical rivalries and come together as a species. The scramble for contact, while driven by the desire for knowledge and advancement, also unearthed a deeper yearning for unity and understanding among disparate nations. As the world teetered on the brink of a new era, the stage was set for a global transformation—a transformation that would test the resilience of human nature and redefine the course of history.

To be continued…

By Tiro Makhudu
See more of Tiro’s work here

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By Tiro Makhudu

Chapter 1: Arrival.

The night was still, with a faint chill lingering in the air. Stars glittered above, casting their ethereal glow upon the Earth. In the quietude of darkness, a sudden brilliance illuminated the sky—a cosmic spectacle that captured the attention of the world.

Three colossal ships descended from the heavens, their majestic presence casting a sense of awe and trepidation. Like behemoths in the firmament, they chose to make landfall in historical sites located in countries perceived as hostile by Western states and their allies. The chosen sites—South Africa, Iraq, and China—were steeped in rich history and riddled with enigmatic tales.

News of the extraordinary event spread like wildfire, igniting the imaginations of billions. People around the globe were drawn to their screens, eyes fixed upon the unfolding spectacle. The air crackled with anticipation and uncertainty as governments and scientists scrambled to understand the purpose of this extraordinary visitation.

In South Africa, the alien ship hovered over the ancient ruins of Thulamela, triggering a surge of speculation about the origins of human civilization. The world questioned if these visitors held the key to unravelling our past or if they arrived with a mission of their own.

The Iraqi site, near ancient Mesopotamian ruins, sparked a flurry of conjecture about lost secrets and advanced knowledge possessed by our ancestors. Was it possible that these interstellar travellers sought to uncover the wisdom of bygone civilizations, to bridge the gap between our present and the distant echoes of history?

Meanwhile, in China, the ship’s presence near the Great Wall ignited discussions on shared wisdom and the possibility of ancient connections between Earth and other worlds. The immensity of the structure seemed to mirror the awe-inspiring scale of the visitors’ vessels.

As the news spread, humanity grappled with a mix of emotions. Hope and wonder mingled with fear and apprehension. The aliens remained enigmatic, their intentions veiled in mystery. The world was left to navigate a complex web of possibilities, with the unanswered question of whether these visitors came in peace or harboured motives that would reshape the destiny of humanity.

Scientists from different corners of the world strained to gather data, aiming to decipher the visitors’ purpose. Telescopes were pointed towards the skies, capturing every fleeting glimpse of the alien crafts. Laboratories buzzed with activity as researchers analysed readings and conducted simulations, seeking clues to unravel the mysteries of advanced civilizations.

Governments, too, entered into heated debates, negotiating access and forming alliances in pursuit of knowledge and potential advantages. Diplomatic missions were dispatched, hoping to establish channels of communication and exchange. As the world teetered on the precipice of discovery, it became abundantly clear that the arrival of the alien ships heralded a turning point—an extraordinary juncture in human history.

The arrival of the alien ships fractured the world into two camps—those advocating for global cooperation, believing this to be an opportunity for humanity to unite and progress, and those driven by fear, perceiving the visitors as potential threats to security and dominance. The divisions that ran deep within societies were now amplified, as the world grappled with the implications of an encounter that defied all expectations.

Humanity stood at a crossroads, teetering on the precipice of an epochal shift. As the world contemplated its next steps, it became abundantly clear that this encounter was more than a fleeting moment. It was the beginning of an extraordinary journey—a convergence of worlds that would forever alter the course of human history.

Chapter 2: The Scramble for Contact.

To be continued…

By Tiro Makhudu
See more of Tiro’s work here

Sometimes I can feel death at back. I try to ignore it but it is too heavy to shake. it’s a shadow…so I turn around and it embraces me. its hands are cold but gentle. it takes me by the hand and draws me nearer, dancing with me gently, swaying it’s hips and kissing me softly.

it’s voice is sweet. it intoxicates me like the song of a thousand sirens. it seduces me. it places my head on its bossom and tells to lay my tired bones there for a while. it cuddles my heart and promises to put it back together piece by piece for eternity. 

it’s silence awes me beyond comprehension. is this perhaps what peace looks like? Is this the date my soul has been longing for?

sometimes death is all around and she is beauty in shadows and fleeting moments of arousal.  she courts me daily and one day I’ll have to answer. 

sadly my beloved, that day will not be today. I have a contract and love of greater proportions here. I love you yet and we will be together soon but only when my work is done. 

regards

A depressed soul

By Tiro Makhudu
Tiro Makhudu is an aspiring writer who has written for several local television productions and a voice screaming the narrative that needs to be heard with no one willing it to tell it. With an unapologetic, no-nonsense approach, Tiro holds no punches and purports to wake the spirit of his fellow man with the belief that that woke spirit will translate into a sharp and pro-African weapon of a mind that will deliver the African from his mind, body and soul penitentiary. An Africanist through and through and all-round social commentator, Tiroseeks to plant his tiny seedlings in the landscape of the discourse that will one day give rise to the brightest Africa that the winds of change and hands of time will allow