Mandela is to be released from prison, and the South African government has been toying with the words ‘civil uprising’ in the lead up to the event. Anxiety saps them of the brute strength that once governed a formidable force in the eyes of the international community, and with increasing pressure, the decision to release him after 27 years of imprisonment turns the stomachs of the middle-aged men in their pristine pinstripe suits. This morning they switch on their radios and open their papers, as if seeking guidance for their collective conscience in what they are doing is indeed for the better of the nation. It is difficult to comprehend, as the world continues with their lives, that an entire nation right here right now is suspended in time, awaiting the scales to tip. For some, the prospect of a new beginning sweeps them up in a wave of patriotism, while for others, life, the country, and their place in it will never be the same. How do you let go of a past that defines you?

Tussling with propaganda both at home and abroad, the nation swims in a democratic frenzy of slogans and imagery, edging closer to a cliff of uncertainty but united in optimism. Sun-kissed skin appreciates that there is no room for interpretation, with the only way being forward. With the legacy of apartheid still very much fresh in their minds, it will be a journey of acceptance, with the past being the past. A path yet taken, pages yet to be written with colonialists in familiar territory, the nation tills its historical soil and turns fresh ground with political fertiliser. The international polity, a consummate instigator, never the solution, languishes in the wings until it can once again plant its seed and flourish under African skies—the country never quite shaking its colonialist past.

In a small, first-story, two-bedroom flat, mom and I share a light breakfast and discuss easily discarded topics, avoiding the more pressing issues that truly occupy our minds. Previously, we had no idea that a significant change in the leadership of the country would become a reality, but having watched the news last night, it is happening. Politicians have a habit of making bold statements that never reach fruition, but we could also blame the media for desensitising the audience by replaying narratives laced with bias. Equally, we are aware that life gets in the way and one becomes absorbed in one’s own world. Outside of that, life goes on, and here we are, possibly on the brink of civil war, but when the real issues lie closer to home, the situation is more desperate. Mum’s tears flowed as often as the windowed envelopes pushed through the slot in our front door, and debt collectors just kept on coming. We had nothing left. They had already taken the living room furniture. Mum smoked and drank herself to sleep almost every night poring over her budget notes, wondering how we were going to make it to the next month, and I was in boarding school through no choice of mine.

It’s been eight years since the divorce, and in that period, mom and I have moved six times, finally settling in the shadow of Lion‘s Head. My journey to boarding school in the suburbs gets longer with every move, and although I am free to go home on weekends, I no longer do so as it has become unbearable and unaffordable. It would just be an empty flat. I appreciate the reasons for my parents sending me to boarding school, but this is a decision that will have a dramatic impact on my life for years to come. Losing my family as a result of the divorce, moving away from friends to a new city 1000 miles away, making new friends, and then being dumped into boarding school with a boys-only school is social amputation. Some good did come out of it, however, and I learned the importance of self-preservation and independence. I relied on no one and made sure no one was in a position to rely on me, and that soon became apparent to my parents when I started avoiding them. Friends were temporary and scattered for miles as they disappeared on weekends back home. As a result, I have no home as we know it—in  the heart. Some will say, ‘I’m going home’ which could mean a building, parents, or country; I have never had that. I was relieved to be free of dad’s wrath, but only to be plunged into an environment where corporate punishment ruled your every move. Again, for small transgressions, I regularly received a beating with a cane (cuts) that raised welts on my skin, forming blood blisters. Every Sunday evening, upon returning to the hostel, those being punished lined up outside the room of the housemaster, listening to the squeak of the New Balance trainers on the parquet flooring as the master lined up his swing and then the swish of the cane and smack. A red-faced boy emerged from behind the door with tears welling, his head hung low and hugging the seat of his trousers, quickly making his way back to his dormitory. At 10 p.m., lights out, the master paced the corridors, his trainers squeaking and fingers clicking, always listening and always watching. He had a habit of clicking the ring and middle fingers, resulting in four clicks at each go. This was annoying, with some boys picking up the habit and then punching their fist, making a hollow sound for impact. In my first year at boarding school, with puberty fast approaching, I awoke one evening from a strange dream. Realising something was happening, I jumped out of bed and sprinted towards the bathroom whilst trying to hold back the explosion in my pyjama trousers. I was more embarrassed than overjoyed, and so it was for the years ahead where it seemed that there was always someone looking over your shoulder. Perverts called the public phones in the hostel, and when boys answered, they asked all manner of sexual questions. The numbers were not generally known to the public, so one had to assume they were either past pupils or relatives of the boys.

In my final years, school has been an obstacle to my dreams and desires. I prefer to drink and party like any other teen, with anger fueling the adolescent, and adolescence fueling the anger, where I am now uncontrollable even to myself. Frankly, this period is somewhat of a blur to this day. My parents had managed to send me away for 5 years, and I was graduating. With my grades being really bad and not good enough for university, I enrolled in military conscription in the hope that this would give me time to consider my future. In hindsight, I made an idiotic decision as I moved from one institution to another, but having no real home, I really had no choice. In the very least, conscription would be out of the way rather than have it haunt me later on when I’m working. After travelling a full day north to Pretoria in a baking troop train that had run out of water (we were literally down to our underwear sweating bullets) and then transported in Samil troop trucks to camp, the next morning I had my head shaved and attended a physical where I was deemed unfit due to a knee operation I had in recent months. And the following morning, I was given a sandwich bag meal and promptly escorted to the train station along with other recruits, ticket in hand, and back to Cape Town. I met all manner of rejectees—physically unfit, drug addicts, and conscientious objectors. This was a turning point in my life. There are no good or bad decisions; there are just decisions that turn out to be whatever they are. Had I known they would be bad, I would not have made those decisions, and it took me a long time to learn to not beat myself up over decisions made. And something I learned very late on in life is that often you will have to take risks on your own as no one will support you, but if you toe the line, everyone is there with you. It was on this train back to Cape Town that I had my first sexual experience at the age of 17 with Christina.