GREY AREAS OF ABUSE

By Omoseye Bolaji

The foyer was not as cold as I thought it would be, despite the advent of exceeding winter in South Africa. I was at PACOFS, repository of arts and culture where a couple of events about to commence had stirred my interest. But at the moment I was relaxing outside at the foyer.

It was just some twenty minutes from 6 o’clock in the evening but already it was almost dark. That’s winter for you! I watched a number of people going hither and thither – virtually all of whom were thinking of making a beeline for a place of warmth, better still, getting to their places of abode. But arts and culture, like myriad of other things still go on despite winter!

Then I saw a lady, a young lady probably in her early 20s walking towards me. She was of average height, quite plump and clad in a black coat. A scarf was around her hair. She shivered a bit, though to be honest it was not really cold. She got to my side and said: “Ntate Bolaji, I am sorry if I’m disturbing you,”

I smiled. “You are not,” I said. “As you can see I am doing nothing. I…”

She said almost primly: “You are waiting for the play to start? The one put on by Mr Duma (Mpikeleni Duma) Ihobe?’ she said.

“Ja, you seem to know everything,” I said. I was trying hard to remember: where had I met this lady before? Once again I was ashamed of myself for my poor memory in such matters. But I tried to keep up the pretence as if I remembered her well; not that I was deceiving her!

She said: “You don’t remember me? I was in this play (Ihobe) in 2011, the first run…you even wrote my name in your review of the play on the internet then. You remember?”

“Of course,” I lied. “Don’t tell me you are still part of the cast now…”

“No, but I wanted to see the play again,” she vouchsafed. She paused. “Actually for a long time I wanted to talk to you about your book, one of your books, the play, the – ah, transgressor?”

“The subtle transgressor?” I probed. My one and only published play!

“Yes, that’s the one Ntate,” the lady said. “I actually read the Sesotho translation first, before the English one. The plight of Kate interests me, the way she was abused (i.e sexually molested) by her father,” She paused again. “You see, I can identify with her; it happened to me when I was a young girl too,”

I winced. What can one say in a case like this? But she added: “Oh, not my father of course, it was an Uncle of mine who took my innocence away when I was young.  People don’t understand these things. He kept on telling me how much he loved me; he became insanely jealous when he saw a young man, or rather boy, with me. But I knew what he was doing to me was wrong, very wrong; the fact he somewhat swore me to secrecy then was proof of this. He would shower me with gifts, buy me lots of clothes – we ladies treasure our wardrobe. You know how it is,”

I grinned. “Personally I have no wardrobe,” I said. She laughed, and continued: “So I can empathise with young Kate in your book, your play,” she added. “It was a terrible experience for me too, but as you get older you put things in perspective. I know two ladies who were raped by three four men at a time. Thank goodness that has never happened to me,”

“You know,” I said gravely, “that Uncle of yours can still be punished for what he did to you…let him spend many years in jail! Pig!”

She smiled. “Let him go to jail? No! I can’t do that to him. He’s always been sweet in his own way despite what he did…anyway he’s old, older… and sick now. I can never let him go to jail…”

I stared at her. This was a twist I had not expected.