Letting in the light
I lay down on my bed and curled up, numb with grief. There, in the darkness of my room, I let the darkness inside me rise up and overwhelm me and decided I would end my life. The easiest way would be to lie down on the train tracks near my home in Khayelitsha and wait for the train to come.
At last, I would have rest. But it was not to be because, at that moment, my son Anthony came knocking on my door. And he changed my mind about suicide forever. It was the year 2001, and for some time I had been unable to do anything but cry, cry and cry some more. I was so sick of all the sadness that had piled up over so many years.
I no longer wanted this life of Alicia Mdaka, the life she would never have chosen for herself, if only she had been able to choose. I hated it all and hated myself for being stuck in it, but I could see no other way out.
Have you seen my Mom?
So I locked my front door, closed my curtains and hid in the darkness of my house. Then, through the window, came the voice of Anthony talking to a neighbour, an old lady whose name I can't remember right now. 'Have you seen my mom?' he asked. 'No,' the old lady replied.
'I saw the grandchildren, Thuthukani and Juliette, going to school, but that was much earlier. I don't know where she is.' 'Well, I've bought some nice new pots and pans for her,' he said, his voice light and easy as if all was well with the world. 'I tried her door but it's locked. I think I'm going to break down the lock, so I can put these pots and pans inside.
I'll just have to fix the door later.' Well, that got me going. I rushed to the front door and unlocked it. If he was going to bash the thing in, I may as well save him the trouble and save my door. 'No, don't break anything, I'm letting you in,' I shouted out, and opened up.
He took one look at my swollen face and asked, 'Ma, what on earth's been going on? Why are you crying?' Well, I had to be honest. Through all the trials of my family, Anthony has done his best to help. When he lived with me, he used to make breakfast for the grandchildren in the morning, and would bring home the odd bit of cash when he had a job.
He has a good heart and I trust him. ‘Anthony, I just can't carry on,' I said. 'I can't think of any other way now except to follow my daughters. I want to be with them. I want to go off to a better place. 'I don't know how to say this nicely to you — I've been lying here working out how to end it all.' He took my hand, led me to the couch and when we were sitting down looked me straight in the eye. Not for a moment did he take his eyes off me.
'You know what?' he said. 'You were in three car accidents, got hurt in all of them, but God saved you. You had a stroke three times and God saved you. Do you know why? 'He knew that one day he would take my sisters Olive and Prudence, and their children would be left behind. He needed you to take care of those children.
They need you, ma. 'If you go now, what will happen to them? It would be a terrible, terrible thing. You have to stop thinking this way.' His words were like cold water washing over me, shocking me into waking up. In my grief, my grandchildren had disappeared to the back of my mind. But they were alive — alive, as I was longing not to be — with all the hopes and fears that I remember so well myself from childhood.
'Let us pray,' I said. We got down on our knees and I cried and cried, pouring my heart out to God. At the end, Anthony said, 'Amen.' Then he turned to me. 'Ma, don't do that again, please. Please don't think that again.' I opened the front door and flung open the curtains to let in the light.
That was the end of the tears that day. It is now many years since I wanted to kill myself and things are still terribly hard. I still take antidepressants every day, as well as pills to stop myself having another stroke. But these days the pills aren't the only thing that is keeping me going.
These days we grandmothers are becoming more aware of what is going on in our lives and helping each other to be strong, at my church and at the organisation that we formed together, Grandmothers Against Poverty and Aids, which we call GAPA. My Gapa sisters counsel me and comfort me. If it weren't for them, I would be dead by now; there is no doubt about it. We are a big family of grannies supporting each other, taking away the stress, even teaching each other to laugh again.
By Jo-Anne Smetherham