Warrior Princess?

Circa 1992.

Katlehong, Siluma View. We lived close to a hostel inhabited by IFP members. The clash between the ANC and IFP was not skirmishes, as news reported. It was a geo-locked war. Complete with guerrilla tactics and open-air mortality displays.

It had become common for us to hear gunshots. I'm not talking "BAM!" like a pistol. I'm talking "RATATATATAHH BOOM!"

It became normal for us to know when it was time to switch off the lights and call it a night and when it was okay to carry on living until about 8pm. Some gunshots translated to "go sleep in the bathroom because it's at the back of the house where it's hard to reach with guns from outside." I was assigned the shower. I thought it was marvellous that I got to sleep in my own little cubicle. I was already lucky enough to live in a house that had an indoor bathroom. Those nights in the shower provided me with a sense of comfort and safety. It was false safety, obviously. What with reports of mobs of IFP men breaking into homes and shooting men and boys, and shooting at ceilings in case some boys where hiding there. 

With this background information, please let me present you with a specific night. 

The "go ahead and hide" gunshots started early that evening. So, we did just that. That night, they were louder than usual. I'm certain that I could feel the sounds reverberate through my 11 year old body. 

I was not sleeping in my room that night. I was on the floor in my parents' room. At some point, my father woke up, if he'd ever slept, with terror in his eyes.

Running away, as we had done before, was not an option at night. So, calling on all his beliefs, my dad proceded to summon all available deities to protect our home. We had some pungent herbs burning, chanting and calling out. He was doing all this while pacing around the house, which made me nervous because if those men had barged into our home, he'd be gone for sure. He is Xhosa, and in that war that translated to Khongolose (African National Congress). When homes would be raided, Xhosa folk were automatically on the kill list. 

Then came a moment where he called me to the kitchen and said, "my child, pray for us."

I beg your strangest pardon, sir?! I am eleven. I barely have all my teeth, and my greatest worry about this war is the lack of lollipops at the spaza shop.

At any rate, like a good child, I went and picked up the nearest bible literature I saw in the house and started to utter a prayer. What was I to do? I was modeling after dad's use of objects to summon the power of Umkhomazi ogcwala ngomoya (uMkomaas river, the windswept and powerful) with repeated chants. So, I too wanted an object to hold on to while I prayed.

I do not remember what I asked God for. But I prayed, because the look on my father's face told me that he was very afraid for his family. The fear in the house was tangible, it even had a certain scent to it. I could hear my mother mumbling under her breath. That night we all held back tears. I didn't want to cry, you see. I had to feign bravery for mama nobaba. My mother was pregnant at the time. Pregnant with a baby she had been wanting for so long. So, somehow I understood that the situation was fragile.

A calm fell on my spirit after that prayer. I remember that feeling like it was last night. The timing was perfect because the gunfire noise was getting softer as the mob was moving further away.

I often wonder how many men and boys lost their lives that night. I had recently heard that our next door neighbour's nephew had been shot dead. I used to play with him when he'd visit his uncle. 

I know it's not the prayer that made the gunfire stop that night. But, my parents held on to that miracle lore. To this day, I can't bring myself to burst that bubble for them by bringing my cynical realism into the conversation. 

For reasons unknown to me, even as a teen, my dad would wake me up if there's commotion (read: suspected thugs outside). With full expectation of my participation in scaring them off or at least finding out what's happening.

Maybe it's my disproportionately broad shoulders that make me look brave. I am not brave and there were times in my childhood when I wished that was clear. I was just a girl.