Eyebags & Dimples

An Autobiography

By Bonnie Henna

Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd

Copyright © 2012 Bonnie Henna
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4314-0500-8

Contents

With Love and Gratitude,
Prologue,
1 My Father’s House,
2 My Mother’s House,
3 After School is After School,
4 Like a Bird,
5 Imminent Death,
6 Becoming,
7 First Love,
8 Deeper,
9 Losing My Religion,
10 Walkabout,
11 Fame,
12 Bad Girl,
13 An Answered Prayer,
14 Facing the Music,
15 Dipping and Soaring,
16 Cleaning Up,
17 A Lesson in Love,
18 In Sickness and in Health,
19 To Live in LA,
20 Or Die in LA,
21 Lost and Found,
22 Pleased to Meet You,
23 Mourning,
24 Under Repair,
25 Motherhood,
Epilogue,
A Conversation with Bonnie,

CHAPTER 1

My Father’s House

As any black South African kid can tell you, religion is a constant, gigantic entity in their childhood. For black people, going to church is an essential ingredient of every good person’s make-up. Whatever debauchery they may indulge in during the week, as long as they do it discreetly, come Sunday it’s all water under the bridge as soon as they set foot in a church. I was no different in that regard.

Like most children, I never really got the point of church, especially because some of the most unpleasant adults were the ones who frequented church the most. For me it was a Sunday tradition in which I took part reluctantly, only because my mother thought it was a first-rate idea. My siblings and I were enrolled in the tradition by our mother, the way mothers enrol their kids in all kinds of activities.

What I hated most about church was the three-kilometre walk to get there every Sunday. My feet and shoes would get caked in dust, and the sight of them brought a lump to my throat and left me in a terrible mood. I hated dirt with every fibre in my body. But no matter how cleverly constructed my excuses were, nothing ever dampened my mother’s determination to get us to church every Sunday.

Our church was the Zoé Bible Church, which held its services in the hall of Thaba Jabula Secondary School in Klipspruit. The fact that church was held at a school may have influenced my dislike of it. Still, I didn’t exactly hate it. Our charismatic pastor cut a dashing figure, especially in a suit. And I loved staring at his kids. They were so good-looking, with their long hair, immaculate outfits and perfect behaviour. Perhaps I just assumed they were well behaved because they looked so good, or that they were good-looking because they were pastor’s kids. If your father was a pastor you surely had no desire to misbehave.

Occasionally, I really focused on what the pastor was saying and sang from my heart. During some hymns the congregation would break into choreographed sequences to match the words – if the lyrics said ‘I walk with him and sit with him’ the congregation would animatedly mimic walking and sitting. If I managed to not let my awkwardness get in the way, there was a kind of happiness about being at church. But mostly I dismissed all this as silly and unnecessary, a far cry from the composed and discreet behaviour at Mass on Friday mornings at Belgravia Convent, where I attended school until Standard Four. I knew that the nuns would vehemently disapprove of these displays of emotion at church, yet once in a while I’d find myself enjoying some of the catchier tunes.

People came in their Sunday best from all over Soweto to worship and listen to our pastor’s engaging sermons. But the start of the sermon was the signal for us kids to go off to one of the classrooms for Sunday school. Our Sunday schoolteacher was very strict and I never dared get into her bad books. But it wasn’t difficult as I was a quiet child, something I believed God approved of.

We sat on orange chairs, each marked with the school’s initials in peeling black paint behind the back rest. I didn’t pay much attention; I simply sat there, and my biggest sin, when I thought no one was looking, was to flake the paint off, leaving tiny pieces of black under my fingernails after church. From the way the school property was vandalised I could tell its pupils were neither fond of it nor disciplined, so peeling paint off the chairs wouldn’t make much difference, I decided. Sometimes I wished that I could ‘catch the spirit’, an experience adults spoke of and seemed to long for, but which was granted only to the holiest of individuals. I figured it would set me apart and mean God was pleased with me.

I didn’t speak much as a child. I kept to myself and cringed if any sort of attention was pointed in my direction. I always felt foreign in my own body. I had an awkwardness, a discomfort with my appearance and movement, and my skinniness didn’t help. This self-consciousness accompanied me wherever I went, mocking me the way boys on a street corner sniggered at the girls’ legs as they passed. This feeling lurked deep and sometimes seeped through my composure to the surface. I can’t recall the precise moment that I noticed it; it was there from the first moment I became aware of myself, as if I’d been born with it. It regulated my moods and behaviour, dictating how far I could go, how much I could relax or laugh. My default position was always a subtle discomfort, an uncertainty lurking behind every activity I engaged in; it was a feeling that something wasn’t quite right about me and my way of doing things; that I didn’t belong.

Kids laughed at me all the time. I realise now that kids are often nasty and revel in the misfortune of others, and sometimes I, too, participated in mocking other kids. But at the time the problem seemed uniquely mine, as if I had a sign on my forehead saying ‘Laugh at me’.

Walking home from the taxi stop after school, I got mocked for carrying a hockey stick, wearing a blazer or going to a multiracial school. At school I didn’t fit in either – not that I tried very hard to. Everything about me seemed out of place. Kids laughed because my hair wasn’t relaxed, because I brought the same lunch to school every day, or because I was thin, especially my legs. They called me Stick Mathambo (stick bones). I took it all so seriously, and their words crushed me.

Worst of all, at home nothing I said, did or achieved received any applause or even acknowledgement. If my mother commented at all, it was only to say, ‘You can do better.’ I so badly wanted to please her, to wipe away that look of disappointment on her face when she looked at me, but it seemed nothing I did ever could. I longed for the day when I’d give up trying to please her for good, though a part of me dreaded it. The result was a gaping hole inside me. It felt like no one had put much thought into my existence or purpose in this world. I was a poorly thought-out plan and now everyone just had to bear with me, though no one wanted me or took any account or care of me. Not my mother; not even God.

God was a distant watcher guy. With our souls spread out on a big chessboard in front of him, he was moving the chess pieces around just for the sake of it to see what might happen. I was just a chess piece being shoved meaninglessly about. I assumed that he wanted nothing to do with me, though I tried to neaten up or put on airs and graces when I prayed, as one did before those in authority.

Still, I liked Psalm 23 and John chapter 3 verse 16, maybe because our Sunday school teacher forced us to memorise them. In those passages my watcher guy’s profile sounded impressive. Yet having given his only son to die on the cross made God sound lonely and misunderstood, almost vulnerable – he still willingly gave his most precious gift without knowing if it would be acknowledged or accepted. And how could he do all those amazing things in Psalm 23 and in John, yet still feel so distant? It was all too unimaginable; I couldn’t relate to it on any level. Much like my mother, he must have been a pretty tough parent to please, and no other offering from his son except death on a cross would do – such was my young, naive view. He was a good man back then, I thought, but the things disciple John said my watcher guy did clearly didn’t relate to me in any practical way. He certainly wasn’t willing to do them in my current situation, and anyway, his promises and miracles looked a bit too extravagant.

Besides, God allowed way too many bad things to happen, and he did it knowingly. At Sunday school they’d taught us that God knew everything before it happened. So he had known black people would be despised for their skin colour, but still went ahead with it. Couldn’t he have made them lighter, or come up with a less complicated situation? This question bothered me particularly, because I already despised any form of injustice. He could have made people’s lives much easier, it would have been no skin off his back. This was just one of many doubts that cast a shadow for me over his supposedly good intentions.

CHAPTER 2

My Mother’s House

I was five when my mother became suicidal. From then on the mood in our house was always sombre, the ambience gloomy and void of all hope. I spent much of my time feeling sorry for my mother, wishing I could take upon myself all the pain she was carrying, to spare her from the harshness of the world.

At first only my siblings and I knew about her death wish. Over the years she spoke of it increasingly as the solution to every problem. It became her life, her dream, her promise of paradise. She spoke of it longingly with glazed eyes in the way Christians speak of heaven. It was as if death had become her truth. But her threats plunged me into desolation; the constant fear of losing her loomed over my head like a spectre. And she learnt to wield it as a weapon to coerce us into cooperation.

It took many, many years before I stopped listening to my mother. I stopped because it hurt too much, because after years of threats, I realised that they were just a cry for help and an instrument of torture, whether intentional or not, that she waved in an attempt to force us to join her pity party.

Mom hadn’t always been like that. I remembered a time when my mother was happier. She would listen to music, sip red wine, cook exotic dishes and dress in stylish clothes. It was still just the two of us then. Each morning she would take me to crèche before she left for work. I remember her waking me on cold winter mornings with a cup of sweet, milky tea in her hand. She’d wrap a blanket around me like a pyramid, with my head peeping out at the top, and speak lovingly and patiently to me as she pottered around getting ready for work. If she went out of view I’d call to her. ‘I’m still here, Nunu,’ she’d answer sweetly. Only when I was warm enough from the blanket would she dress me and walk me to crèche.

After crèche, Gogo, my granny, would fetch me. On our way home we’d detour past the house of her friend, Gogo Girly, whose name was no doubt conferred by a white Madam for whom she worked as a domestic. Gogo Girly ran a delectable business from a little table covered with a carpet outside her house, selling amaChappies, amaskoppas, sugary orange sweets that melted in your mouth and white marshmallows freckled with toasted coconut. Gogo Girly was my favourite because she let me nibble on sweets while she gossiped with my granny.

My grandmother was a tall, svelte woman with a graceful beauty, chiselled features and shoulder-length hair – rumoured to be from Indian blood. She always seemed so caring and kind, but so fragile that it seemed a passing wind might sweep her away. She had spent her life doing domestic work for Jewish families in the east of Johannesburg, where she learnt to cook Mediterranean-style and passed this skill on to my mother. Not surprisingly, I still love Mediterranean food. I loved my granny and enjoyed our closeness. Gogo told good stories and never seemed to tire of my endless questions, which mostly started with why. We’d sit and fold laundry together and she’d teach me how to iron or plait my hair, and sometimes tell me jokes, though there was often a cloud of sadness about her.

But her relationship with my mother was not a peachy one. Gogo always seemed disappointed in my mother. Both she and my mother shared a detached, distant look that seemed characteristic of the Mbuli women. Whenever Mom was in the room, Gogo’s face took on a grimace of disapproval. I never forgot that look, with her eyes all scrunched up in disdain. Soon my mother began to use that same look on me.

I have a jarring memory of my mother coming home from work to find my grandmother ironing in the family room. Apparently unprovoked, my grandmother began to hurl insults at her. Mom ignored her and continued to busy herself quietly around the house, but my granny didn’t stop. Her voice grew louder and the insults uglier. Then suddenly she was attacking Mom with the hot iron.

Mom tried to fend Gogo off and grab the iron out of her hand. I was terrified and crying, but paralysed with fear and helplessness. My mother eventually managed to peel the iron handle out of Gogo’s bony fingers.

I was five when my grandmother passed away. She was only in her fifties. Her addiction to alcohol had finally closed the curtain on her life story. The addiction had so gripped her that she resorted to drinking methylated spirits when she ran out of money to buy alcohol. And she drank it neat. She must have been self-medicating, trying to deal with some unbearable emotional pain deep inside her. Although I loved my grandmother, I was at peace with her passing because she was such a tormented woman.

A few months later my brother was born, and soon Mom began speaking of suicide.

Ahile was the most adorable baby, with cheeks so plump and soft I often imagined biting into them. I took care of him on weekends and school holidays, and I loved being with him, letting him fall asleep on my skinny little lap. His skin always glowed, because in black homes a baby smeared with Vaseline was a loved baby. Five years later, my sister Koketso was born, a perfect little bundle with smooth cocoa skin. She had such a calming effect on me – and still does. She too often fell asleep in my skinny arms. I took even greater care of her because by then I was ten, apparently ready for more responsibility.

Being the firstborn made me responsible for everybody. I hated responsibility, more so because it was thrust on me like an inheritance. It meant I got beatings on everybody’s behalf, even when they were the ones who’d misbehaved. And we all got more beatings than I care to recall.

In our four-roomed Soweto house in Pimville Zone 3, my time was spent doing chore after chore, including the cooking and looking after my siblings. My mother was at work during the day, and like many black moms, she had a fixation with cleanliness. I was expected to keep the house sparkling, and failure to do so resulted in a severe beating. My existence began to revolve around avoiding beatings – it became my greatest motivator.

Our house was second from the corner, opposite the Blue Flame bottle store, a well-known landmark. It was part of a strip of shops that serviced a large part of the neighbourhood. I always wondered why the bottle store was the largest of all the shops. There were many bottle stores in the township, all well advertised. Later I came to realise that having so many bottle stores in the township was part of the grand, sophisticated scheme of apartheid, designed to choke the life out of black families.

Of the three food shops, my favourite was the one that sold the best spykos, or takeaway food, in our zone – their amagwinya, ispeshelli, amachips, iwhiteliver and isnoekfish were especially delicious. The other two shops sold staples like bread, milk, cool drinks and general groceries, but my mom didn’t like buying from them because they were pricier than the supermarkets in town – like the OK Bazaars. So whenever she sent me to the shops it was with a pained look on her face.

But at times there just wasn’t enough money to go around. Occasionally, we went to bed without eating, and there’d be only enough bread for my lunch box the next morning, with sandwich spread and a bit of margarine. The other kids’ lunches always looked nicer than mine, so I was ashamed and ate it when no one was looking, or not at all. Fortunately, my brother’s school supplied him with lunch.

Mom became really sad at these times. ‘I’m pulling hard,’ she’d say. I hated hearing those words, because it felt like we might not make it. One day a lady from our church, Lindi Nhlapo, came by while we were eating bread and cabbage for lunch. A little later she returned with a bag of groceries. I learnt the power of kindness that day, and never forgot that generous gesture.

Mom carried a lot of responsibility, and often lamented being a single parent as she did chores around the house. But she was resourceful and creative with the little she had. She had a cottage at the back of the house, and transformed the garage beside it into another cottage. We called them the back rooms, and rented them out to other families. We often grew close to our tenants, and if they had children I played with them. Ngwana and Ida were the couple who rented from us the longest, and I loved Ngwana. He had a great sense of humour and was always telling jokes. Sometimes he bought me sweets and tickled me as I tried to reach for them, and sometimes I daydreamed that he was my father, and played out imaginary scenes of us doing father-and-daughter stuff together. In these scenes I was always laughing.

But then Mom had a fallout with Ngwana. I was heartbroken when he and Ida moved out. I had few friends, and at that time Ahile was still too young to play with me.

(Continues…)Excerpted from Eyebags & Dimples by Bonnie Henna. Copyright © 2012 Bonnie Henna. Excerpted by permission of Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd.
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