"If
I regarded my life from the point of view of the pessimist, I should be undone.
I should seek in vain for the light that does not visit my eyes and the music
that does not ring in my ears. I should beg night and day and never be
satisfied. I should sit apart in awful solitude, a prey to fear and despair.
But since I consider it a duty to myself and to others to be happy, I escape a
misery worse than any physical deprivation." - Helen Keller
After the accident, we went from doctor to doctor. I hated it but Papa and Mama wanted to look for alternate options. They, somehow, hoped that they could prove the doctors wrong. That I would regain my eyesight somehow.
We didn't have
medical aid and Papa couldn't afford to take me to a private hospital so I sat
in public hospitals from the early hours of the day waiting to eventually be
called in.
I never understood what had happened to me. I woke up the
next morning in Mama's bed with a little girls face peering into mine. The scab
on the side of my face represented a mask in itself and she immediately
retreated in fear.
People came to visit, sympathizing, bringing gifts and cards that
made me feel special. Yet, I never understood the detriment of that accident
till much later. I only reveled in the attention.
You see, today's youth (and I don't mean to sound like a Khala
who knows it all) are obsessive about their appearance from a young age. I was
eight, but I was never phased by my looks. When I glanced at myself in the
mirror I never saw a girl with a squint eye, I saw someone who needed her hair
combed or her teeth brushed because her Mama said so.
I sat in an endless line of waiting rooms with Papa and Mama
patiently, not sharing in their concern. So I had lost sight in my one eye but
I still had sight in the other. All was well in my world. Or so I thought.
The next year we moved schools. Papa had a job further away
from home. Mama dropped us off every morning before Papa left for work and
sometimes she would give us 20c to buy something from the sweet lady outside. On a good day we'd get 50c and spent the entire day eagerly
waiting for home time so we could buy red juice in a clear rabbit shaped
plastic container.
By then, Eesa had started Grade One. He's teacher was Madam
Moorat, which I thought odd because she had eyes.
My form teacher was also our English teacher and through her
I developed a passion for literature. I never realized it then but each week
she would give me a set of books that was different from the classes and asked
my opinion on them.
I gulped the words like they were a packet of Mochacho's
chips and I submerged myself into a world of my own – a world where fiction
brought meaning to life.
Reading was my
superpower.
Mama would
take us every Saturday to the library in Brixton and I had read every Nancy
Drew book there was to be found. I had several favorite authors though and
Mama would sometimes point out books she had read in her childhood years. I
looked forward to turning 13, only because I would then be permitted to take
out six books on my name instead of the meager three I had to make do with.
By the end of
that weekend I had read all the books I had taken out and I eventually took to
reading the books Mama brought home. Papa disapproved though and would
reprimand me strongly if he ever caught me reading ‘their’ books.
After the
library Mama would take us to this amazing doughnut shop that had opened up on
Church Street in Mayfair. They sold doughnuts for R2 and we were treated to a
doughnut each. I looked forward to Saturday for two reasons:
1)
Our trips to the library
2) The weekly treat from the Doughnut Den
I was determined to become a librarian when I
was older so that I could spend all my time amongst the one thing I loved most
in the world; books.
What a lovely reminiscence
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