How to destroy your children


I know a young woman, my niece, who through very bad parenting, landed on the streets at the age of 14. I was not aware of her suffering and plight, as we weren’t allowed having contact with her or her younger siblings. The three girls were home-schooled, and as a result their mom got to misuse and abuse them as she pleased.
The stories the three of them have told me, made me weep. At one stage their mom decided she was a pastor in the christian faith, however, after being kicked out of one church after the next, because she quarrelled with the ministers during their sermon, she decided she was into withcraft. She then went around, her daughters in tow, laying spells on people. She also had sexual rituals in front of them, apparently. One of her favourite rituals, was murdering young animals. They had a cat and three dogs, and whenever there were kittens or puppies, she would give each child one, which they had to beat it to death with a brick. If they refused to obey her she would beat them with a whip.
She only schooled them up to early high school level, and as she was an under achiever at school, she didn’t do a very good job of it either. When they weren’t doing school work she made them clean house and do other chores; they were never allowed to be just little kids, who played with friends of their age. My parents would send them gifts for their birthdays, which  Cruella Devillian would throw in the trash in front of the girls. None of us was allowed to have contact with them, not even by phone. The girls were ten, six and four at the time it began.

The eldest one was kicked out of the house at 14. She was older than her sisters by four years and was more like a mother to the girls. Jenny ended up living with a crystal meth addict, who pimped her for the money for his drugs. She started using at his insistence, and she found it helped her perform her whoring duties. The boyfriend beat her terribly as well. At 17 she found employment at a local whorehouse, where she got even deeper into drug use. An elderly gent, a kind fella, took pity on some of the whores, and opened his home to them, offering them accomodation at a low rental. Jenny ended up becoming a resident at Mick’s place, still working at the whorehouse and still taking drugs.

By this time, the house had been striped of all of Mick’s belongings. The house had become so dilapidated, it was on the verge of becoming condemned. One of Mick’s sons, Patrick, also a druggy, took a liking to my niece. They became a couple, and a few months down the line, my niece fell pregnant. She only acknowledged the fact around thirty weeks (seven months). She continued using meth, and only by God’s Grace, did her child come into this world healthy and intelligent.
Because of their habits, they had to run from the town Mick stayed in, and came here to the farm we stay on. Her dad had been battling to find gainful employment after both his hips conked in from his heavy drinking habits.  He now also lives here, so Jenny and Patrick came to her dad. Her younger sisters were also here after their mom had kicked them out. Mom had remarried to a man as wicked as she. The girls were cramping her style, so she evicted the youngest two. Jennys second sister told their mom and new dad would have sex in the lounge in front of them. The mom and youngest two had an argument and the mom had hit poor little Cindy, who has dwarfisim, and Cruella Devillian is an amazon,  across the face. Three weeks later I could still see the bruising and ring marks on Cindys cheek. Would you believe, when I last heard, Jennys mom was trying to get pregnant again?

The youngest of the three, Diane looks just like my late mother. She was only thirteen when her mother deserted her. A soft, sweet, gentle child. Jenny was glad to be reunited with her sisters again. Baby Jasmine arrived soon after Jenny and Patrick moved here. Jasmine is now two and a half, but unfortunately her parents have still not quit the habit, despite all my efforts to help them do so. Patrick has a debilitative disease and was told he would only reach his mid-forties. He is now in his late thirties. If our rehab centres in this country really made a difference, I would bring in social services and the drug unit to deal with them. However, I have met far too many people who have gone through rehab come out using worse drugs or using more frequently than previously, and now they have allies in the friends they met in rehab.
Another problem is that pedophilia is rife in this country, and social services is sure to put Jasmine in foster care. There have been too many stories in the media of children being abused in foster care or at childrens homes. Many foster parents simply take on the children to get the pay check from social services.
My brother, when he could afford to, took very good care of his childrens material needs. He was a generous dad. He was not generous with his time, though, as he was a workaholic and had also become an alcoholic. It was too painful for him to deal with the situation, I suppose. He failed them miserably, and they hold it against him. They don’t mix with him much, and don’t live in the same cottage as he does.

Be grateful for your parents, dear reader, that gave you love, time and an education.  Be grateful, dear reader, if you have children and can love them, give them time and an education.


Come With Me


Come journey inside my mind with me
Come and look
Come and see
Come and feel and laugh and cry
Don’t worry, my friend
I’ll be there to wipe your eye….
The colours are brighter here
And you’ll not be plagued by fear
Don’t worry, my friend
Come with me
Come and see
The creatures and characters
All painting their worlds
Colours splashed about
And mingled in swirls
Don’t worry my friend
Come with me
Come and see
So many stories to tell
And words to rhyme
It’s going to be fun and adventure
Something new all the time
My muse just won’t leave
She pesters me so
And where she takes me next
I never ever know
When from our journey
We eventually return
For that beautiful paradise
My heart constantly yearns
Come with me dear one
Come with me and see…

Letting go…


I have never attended formal art lessons. What I have learned, I have learned from various sources, including my husband and daughter. Both are brilliant pencil-sketch artists and cartoonists.
My husband helped me with getting my perspective right, in both my art and daily life. More than most, I can step away from the problems that surround me. I can analyse the situation, and ask myself
‘Is it neccessary that I involve myself in this? Can I really do something about this? Can I do it with the right attitude, without adding more fuel to the fire?’
In most cases, the answer is no. It has been hard, with the suffering of loads of ‘foot-in-mouth disease’ learning this. I have a very fiery temprament, and will sometimes go off fully loaded, hurting the people I am dealing with unneccessarily. I realised I didn’t like being a person who inflicts pain on others. Some might say I was withn my right, reacting as I did. My personal property gets stolen regulary, and sometimes it would be something of sentimental value to me. I have had to learn to let go of it all. I psych myself by saying
“Maybe they needed it more than me, or maybe they need to learn a lesson and this is part of their journey.” It’s hard letting go. Something I have noticed though, is the more I let go of my carnal nature and material belongings, the more I gain in other spheres of my life. I am rediscovering things about myself, unlearning bad behaviours taken from bad examples in childhood.
In Africa, where politics are so tumultuous, one never knows what you are going to wake up to the following morning. If war had to break out, I don’t need to be held down by material goods. I have lived on the bare minimum on occaision, and I survived. What is important is that my children can cope with difficult situations, if and when they arrive. That those I care for and love are able to help themselves and even those who I have no liking for, can shake off the ‘hounds of hell’ that torment them daily and can grow to their full potential.
There is choas all around us and those who survive it, are those who acknowledge the truth about themselves and the world they live in….and those who acknowledge what is neccessity and what is merely window dressing, and can learn to let go.

Isomniac Dreams


As the newborn cries and the sorrowed weep

The undead rise from a tortured sleep

And the owl calls out another curse
As the doctor sighs, his hope has fled
And fools still go
Where angels fear to tread
The writer adds another verse.

As the mother murmurs and lovers meet
And the milkman delivers, I cover this sheet
And the owl calls out another curse.
As witches brew and spells they chant
Sleeping dogs lie as is my want
This writer adds another verse.

Nightmares go dancing with dreams
Paupers lay sleeping with queens
Mystics are questing
Innocents are resting
And still there’s more to tell…

As a young girl smiles and a father dreams
A whore plies her wares while a lighthouse beams
And the owl calls out another curse.
As the thunder rumbles, the wind shrieks and howls
Lightning flashes bright and an old man scowls
This writer adds another verse.

When the night grows old and the world is slow to wake
My Love serenely lies, while thieves are on the make
And a dove coos gently in the rain.
As the fire grows cold and the farmers plough
The stars fade and go, the moon takes a bow
The writer lifts up her head.

The earth is full of tragedy
The skies are filled with mystery
Inspiration and insight to ponder
Doubts and fears to allay
I rise and greet the new day.

Mr Jekyll


I met and married my first husband in what I now realise was a rebound situation. I had been engaged to a very sweet young guy, but never felt secure in the relationship because I felt I had manipulated him into it. We were engaged and were to marry within a few months, when a friend of his contacted me and told me I have to set Michael free of his commitment to me. James sensed I would be no good for his friend and he was right. Somehow news came to me that Michael, who had returned to his hometown to secure employment, was visiting with another young woman in his church’s youth group.
It was that that decided it for me. Unfortunately I messed up, and for some reason lied to the poor guy, but I broke off the engagement. I was correct in doing so. Firstly, Michael was better off without me. At that stage of my life I wasn’t a nice person. I had yet to deal with the trauma of my childhood. This would only come twelve years down the line. Secondly, Michael married the girl he’s been visiting, and they are still together today and going strong. I was relieved to see I had done right by him, even though he may not think so.
Around the time Michael married his true love, I met Mr Jekyll. He was blonde, good-looking (he made womens heads turn when he walked down the street) and was on his way up the corporate ladder, having just qualified as an accountant. We married two months after meeting, at his insistence. Stupidly, I married him, not knowing much about him. Within six weeks, however, I received my first beating. I don’t recall what set him off, but as most abused women do, I made excuses for him, and convinced myself I was the one who was wrong.
My new husband was a sex addict. It was ridiculous. Needing sex five times a day? Don’t get me wrong, I am a warm-blooded person, and enjoy love-making. Because he was over sexed, and I wasn’t, he started thinking I was cheating on him. Three months after marrying, I found myself pregnant with my first child. Even though I was pregnant, I still got beatings. We would got to town, and me being the friendly person I am, would inevitably chat to strangers, male or female. I meant nothing bad by it, but he didn’t see it that way. I hated going to town, because it would always end in an argument and I would get a hiding.
If I didn’t want to go, I would be in trouble too. My days became highly stressed. I was working at the time, and at month end, would have to hand my paycheck to my husband. I had no clue what was happening in our finances, and was never allowed access to the bank account. In the evenings my husband would strip me down and sniff my crotch, much like a dog does. I would then be beaten because he would claim to smell another man on me. Around the end of my first tri-mester of pregnancy, my gynae told me I had to quit my job. It required quite a bit of lifting, carrying and stairs, and I had started spotting. Things worsened at home.
Dr Jekyll started finding all sorts of reasons to bully and beat me. The house wasn’t cleaned to his standards; the food wasn’t right; I was being unfaithful; my parents had come to visit; I had left a pair of shoes lying in the lounge. Dr Jekyll took to ‘working late’. I knew however, that he was having an affair with an older, married woman at work. She had the decency to phone me and let me know they were continuing the affair my marriage had interrupted.
When Jekyll went into one of his rages, he would rip up clothes, throw furniture around and smash electrical items. In between I would get punched or beaten with the remanents of the electrical items. I remember once him beating me with the chord of what used to be a clothes iron. The chord stung as it made contact with my skin, and for weeks I had a bruise that was shaped like a plug. He would drink ant poison and lay on th e bed waiting to do, but then he’d rush to the phone and call and ambulance. He did this on more than one occaision. Another favourite of his was tie a palstic bag tightly around his head and lay on the bed next to me. If I tried to get out of the room, he would stop me and beat me up.
Dr Jekyll had taken to saying the child in my belly was not his, but my eldest brothers child. He regularly spat on my belly to show his disgust. My gynae was concerned for me, as I was struggling to eat and suffered permanently from nausea. Most women gain ten to twelve kilograms during pregnancy, but I lost twelve by the time I reached the third trimester. I hardly looked pregnant. At month end, we went to do food shopping. On our way home, hubby decides to beat me up. We were standing in front of the police sation when it happened. He hit me with the heavy shopping bags, sending milk and sugar flying when the bag broke. The cops all just stood watching. Eventually, after he had ripped my dress off me, I managed to run into the police station, crying for the cops to protect my child and I. They refused to get involved. They did let me phone my dad though, and he came and collected me.
Dr Jekyll is a prime manipulator and convinced me to come back and that we should go for marriage counselling. Unbeknownst to me, His boss had called him in and told him to sort out the mess of our marriage or he would lose his job. In the interim, our daughter was born. She was such a beautiful baby that she became the favourite in the nursing home. When we walked down the street with her, people would stop us and give us money to buy something for her.
At three months, she developed a bad fever and I took her to a paediatrician. I had had problems with breast-feeding her, and had had to put her on formula. I couldn’t find one that agreed with her. She was a colic baby, and cried a lot, which caused even more tension in the home. That in turn caused her to cry more. I remember spending most nights sitting in a chair rocking her to sleep. Sometimes this would displease Dr Jekyll, and he would get something cold from the fridge, like milk or water and it would be emptied out over us.
Danni was badly constipated, and as a result her anus had torn when she had a bowl movement. As a precaution, she was sent for a lumber puncture, to ensure she didn’t have menangitis. It was a horrifying experience for me. They strapped her little body to a table so she wouldn’t move and did the procedure. My little girl screamed with agony. When the paediatrician got the results, they were clear. Next option was to do an anal stretch, to stop the tearing. Dr said her intestine had become infected from the tearing. That again, was traumatic for both me and baby. She wasn’t allowed anything to eat or drink for ten hours. Have you ever tried witholding sustenance from a three month old? Eventually we were both bawling our eyes out.
When we got home, Danni was very niggly, as you would expect from a little one who had just come round from anaesethic. Her father picked her up out of her stroller by the head and threw her into her cot, which was about a metre and a half from where he stood in the doorway. I was not allowed to attend to her, and had to leave her crying in the room. I had to attend to his needs first. Later on that night, he got into a rage again. Danni wouldn’t settle down and he took her from me and walked away. Panicking, I followed. When I got to them, he had covered her face with a towel and was trying to smother her to silence. I struck out at him with a fist. Unfortunately he lifted his face and my hand caught his jaw. I broke two of my fingers, but didn’t even realise the fact until a while after. He dropped my baby when my fist impacted and I caught her as she fell. Jekyll left us alone for the night.
The following morning when he left for work, I went to our GP to check out my hand. He reset my fingers and put a cast on my hand. He told me I must do what is right for myself and the child, and leave my husnband. But I had been brainwashed into believing divorce, for any other reason than adultery was wrong. he had since stooped the affair with his co-worker, so I had nothing. Another thing was that I veiwed divorce as a failure on my part. I still had a lot oflearning to do.
We eventually got to see a therapist, a qualified phsychiatrist. Afer three sessions, she called me in to speak to me. She put money on the table and gave me a choice.
“Your husband is schitzophrenic and one personality is borderline phycopathic. You can either stay with him, and I take your child, or you can leave him. The choice is yours.” I returned to my parents home. After six months of him harassing me, attempting suicide etc, I divorced him. His mother, whom he told me was dead, somehow found out about me and her grandchild. I ended up visiting her and she convinced me to go back to her son. I stupidly did so. He was now on meds, and I was assured he wasn’t the monster I divorced. I landed in hospital with bad kidney infection a couple of days after we remarried. I was there for three weeks.
The night I got home he raped me. This became his new sport. After two months and yet another attempt on mine and my childs life, I left him for good. Two weeks after this, I found out I was pregnant with his second child. The lawyers told me I had to give birth before the divorce was finalised. Our son was born and a week later the divorce went through. The birth was very traumatic for me, as the mid-wife decided to induce me. The doctor who was to preside over the birth arrived late and cut me so badly, I couldn’t sit for six weeks.
My ex was not allowed to see his children without a social worker or my mother present. He stopped paying maintenance. His words to me were
“If I can’t see the goods, I’m not paying the fee.” The kids grew up the first six years without knowing their dad. When they were eleven and eight, he came to visit with his mother. He had been put on medical pension, because of his psychological problems. Things went well, and he behaved himself. A few months later, his mother found out she had cancer and she was terminal. She asked if the children could come and see her. They paid for the tickets and I put my children on a plane. As they were home-schooled, it was easy to do. Their lessons went with them, and Mr Jekyll made sure the work was done. The following year, after gran had died, I found out about hubby no. 2’s escapades and the marriage ended. I took a break and went to visit a friend living in a costal city.
Both dads, as it was christmas time, asked to see their children. I acquiesed. Mr Jekyll refused to bring them home at the correct time. My mother was siding with him. She had tried everything to take my children away from me. She considered me a useless mother. I met Silvermane during this period, in the boarding house I now lived in. Silvermane and I started living together about six months later. I was in regular contact with my eldest two, who now attended formal school, and were doing well. My dear mother decided Silvermane was dirty rotten scum, and was aids infested. She got social services to come to our new home to take the children away. She had issues with Silvermane who used cannabis for religious and medical reasons.
To my surprise, after I had explained the situation to the social worker and she had gone throught the house, checking each cupboard, the social services lady sided with me and told my mother she must leave us in peace. She also made a case against Mr Jekyll for kidnapping the eldest two. When she arrived she had been condescending, telling me she was here to take my children, and why weren’t they in school. The youngest two were not even pre-schoolers yet, so I was puzzeled and told her so. She wanted to know where my eldest two were and I told her. She then started asking more questions, and her attitude towards me changed considerably.
When my mother passed away in 2010, Mr jekyll, for some strange reason only he knows, decided to cut ties with his children. They haven’t heard from him since.

It’s a life…


In South Africa there are institutions known as missions. These missions are not like the missionary posts that are established for spreading the message of God. Missions are entirely a different kettle of fish altogether.
They, of course, hide behind the guise of doing God’s work, well most of those I know do. However reality is this, the people who establish these NPO’s are either corrupt from the start, or become like that along the way. In SA people seem to have the idea that you have to look out for number one and damn the rest. The pick of the donations goes to the leadership and the people they supposedly are caring for must eat whatever is left, even if it is long passed it’s sellby date and no longer safe to eat. I have even heard of places where the leadership sells off donations and pockets the cash.
The people who run these places start out usually with a feeding scheme, or clothes drive, where they gather old clothing, and any other household items donors give, and distribute these goods or food amongst the poor. Many of these places are racist and don’t cater for all races. Usually it is the dregs of society that gather at a mission. On the one I live at, we have a mixed bag. There are ex-convicts, some still on parole, fraudsters, pedophiles, rapists, sexual deviants (sex and porn addicts), drug addicts, alcoholics, disability pensioners and old age pensioners all thrown in together. Occaisionally a prostitute or youths who have no where to go and cannot find work will spend a few months here. There are also occaisionally a few street people that find shelter through winter, however as soon as spring arrives they are off on the road again.
There are also the widows, whose children have abandoned them here and those who through bad luck or plain stupidity have lost everything and landed here. My hubby and I landed here through a combination of the latter two reasons. We had our own place and were doing well for ourselves. Through a series of events though, my husband was made redundant and we had to sell our property. Thinking we were clever, we invested in two small businesses, but life had a few more curve balls for us and both businesses went bankrupt through our partners misspending of company funds. Both guys saw us coming and knew how to make us part with our money. To cut a long and messy story short we came to live at this mission we knew of. We have been here five years now, and if you can believe it, we have had even more stolen from us.
Three years of living here, and we had to start using our own vehicle to help get the food donations and take the elderly and sickly to the hospital or local clinic for meds or treatment. We had no option really. The pastors vehicles had all packed up and were too expensive to repair. The pastor, like most of his ilk, likes flashy cars and has expensive tastes. A year later, our vehicle conked, through overuse and no maintenace and the pastor in charge of the mission just point blank refused to help us repair our vehicle. She has been standing for three years now, and it breaks our hearts everytime we look at her. To add to this injury, some of the residents here keep breaking into our home and stealing our belongings, so we don’t have much left. The furniture we had is all beyond repair. We allowed the people here to use some of our tables and cupboards and they ruined them so that we ended up using the stuff for firewood.
The cherry on top was when people from a local church came here, supposedly to minister to the people here as church services are no longer held. The lady brought her dad with on one visit, and after hearing about the place he wanted to help. The people here, who mostly love and respect my husband and I, all told them about the lack of transport for the people, even though a local mine donated a vehicle for the purpose of collecting donations and getting the people to town. The ladies dad decides he wants to help us repair our vans engine, which originally only needed a new timing kit and gaskets and the grease for re-assembly, a job I was assured by a mechanic, would only take half a day to do.
Said person takes our engine to a ‘friend’ who has had it now for over seven months. We never heard from the man until six months after he’d taken the engine. By now I was getting annoyed and concerned. Only after threatening to go to his home with the police to recover our property, did he suddenly show up here, very quickly to tell us the vans engine would be ready by the end of January. Today is 15 February, and still no sign of the engine. I contacted his daughter to ask that her dad call us and explain himself and he gave me allsorts of bullshit excuses as to where the engine is, suddenly it needs pistons and I don’t know what all.
Thats the thing about living amongst criminals and fraudsters, you learn to spot the liars straight away. A young guy that lived here for a while, whom I have known since he was eleven, went with the dad to his home soon after he took our engine. Apparently the man has an engine there that he wanted to put in our van. But Mr Christian, the engine numbers have been filed off! An illegal engine, and he wants to put it in our van. What kind of help is that? Fortunately the youth patiently explains to the man the engine is too small. It is only a 1300 and we need a 2l to be able to carry the weight of the van and passengers without straining.
Said lady is accusing me of being ungrateful. What do you think?

Tears in Heaven


My Love and I have been together for sixteen years. We love each other as much, if not more, than the day we decided to become a couple. Not saying we have a smooth flowing relationship. Hell no. I would get bored too quickly. I don’t need a man in my life who jumps at every demand and command. A man like that is useless to me. Don’t get me wrong, I have many male friends who are the absolute gentlemen, and I love and respect them. Some women like men like that. Every pot finds its lid no matter how skewed it is, as my late mom used to say.
I have always been attracted to the unusal. My Love is very unusual, as you may have read in my previous blogs. We lived together for a period of a year before we married, much to my folks disgust. In that time, I fell pregnant with our first child, my fifth. Now I have always had tricky pregnancies, and due to weak ligaments and muscles, was confined to my bed during the last trimester. Okay, the systolic heart murmur apparently was also a reason for the complications I experienced.
Truth be told, after being very unhappy in my first two marriages, I really didn’t want to bother with the marriage process again. However My Love insisted that he wanted to make it official, so I arranged a small wedding and only invited immediate family. I was six and a half months pregnant at the time. The previous week, I had to go through to Pretoria for the divorce hearing from hubby no.2 . It was Friday the 13th! I remember standing on the podium before the judge and feeling a bit foolish, with my big belly. He never batted an eyelid though, never questioned me about the belly either. My children were being abused by no.2, so the divorce went through.
A week later I married Silvermane. While the minister was reading the vows, the silly man stood and pulled faces at me. The minister reprimanded us telling us this was a solemn occaision and we should behave ourselves. Two months later, I awoke one morning with the realisation that I had not felt our baby move through the night.
My heart sunk; I knew our son was dead. We went to the local hospital for further scans and they confirmed that our child was dead. The sister arranged for me to come in that evening so they could induce me to bring on labour. I remember feeling so lost and confused by what had happened. I searched my mind and heart, trying to find where I had gone wrong, what I had done to kill my child. My Love and I had to wait for a lift back home; we were in such deep despair. It was the first time death had come so close to me. I had lost people I wasn’t close to, like grandparents and cousins, but no-one in my immediate circle had passed on. Joshua, the name we had given our unborn son, was the first.
We sat on the dirty pavement outside the hospital and wept. It was the longest day of my life. I arranged for my aunt to take my children while I went into hospital for the procedure. My Love was by my side every step of the way. He was so precious. Not once did he lay the blame at my feet. They induced me and set up a morphine drip to combat the pain of the induction. When the birthing process started, I still hoped and prayed they wre wrong, and that my son was going to be born alive and healthy.
A black mid-wife was assisting me with the birth. When Joshuas head came out, she jumped back away from the table. Hastily she old us that I child had been killed through witchcraft and that she couldn’t help with the birthing. She ran out and called a white mid-wife to help me further. The umbilical chord was wrapped around the Joshuas throat ten times and there were two knots in it. After I had delivered him, I sat up and looked at this child who was so hoped for and already loved. He was the spitting image of his daddy, and as he lay there, looking like he was merely asleep, with absolutely no blemish, I felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces.
I kept thinking of all the women who never had a child before, that had to suffer this kind of trauma. How did they stay sane? I was numb for the next few weeks, but as I had other children who needed me, I had to snap out of it quickly. I stopped going into town, because everytime we passed a baby, I would burst out in tears. It killed me that I never took a look at Joshuas feet when I had held him and said goodbye. It killed me that I had never been able to see the colour of his eyes, or his smile.
At his funeral, my brother, Eddie and Silvermanes, Jim, offered to sing the song we chose for the funeral. I love Eric Claptons music and asked they sing Tears in Heaven. The minister presiding was not happy about my choice, but it was my childs burial, not his. My brother sang whilst my brother in-law accompanied him on guitar and did harmonies. When Silvermane came walking into the church, carrying the casket, Eddie broke down in tears and couldn’t continue singing. Poor Jim battled through it on his own.
Afterwards, Eddie apologised for letting me down.
“When I saw Silvermane walking in, carrying that tiny casket, it suddenly hit me. I looked at your husbands face and saw how broken he was. I couldn’t bear all the pain. I am sorry sis.”
Our GP advised me to give my body a few months to recover and that I should get pregnant again immediately. I didn’t have much hope though because in the interim Silvermane and two of my children contracted mumps. However two months later I concieved. But it wasn’t meant to be. At the beginning of the 25th week, I started haemorraging. We went to the hospital, directly to the maternity section. No one would help me. By now I was cringing in pain and my pants were soaked with blood. Another young woman came in with the same problem and she was put into bed with a drip to stop the contractions. I became a victim of racism that day.
We were told the doctor had to see me, and I had to wait for her. Doctor never arrived and Seth, our second son was born. He lay in Silvermanes hands, wailing and fighting for breath. Again the mid-wife wouldn’t help and told us our baby wasn’t viable. She didn’t even try. Silver mane went crazy and threw some trollies around. Midwife panicked and wanted to call security. When we asked for our baby so we could bury him with his brother, she told me the foetus had been sent to the incinerator. I had never faced such blatant evil, I could smell the hatred coming from her.

It is fourteen years since we lost Joshua and thirteen years since we lost Seth. The pain is still there. I still wonder how women who cannot have children or lose unborn children cope. Yes, I have four others. Healthy, intelligent and goodlooking; I have been blessed. But it doesn’t take away the pain of the two that didn’t make it.