Be Your Life - BYL

Be Your Life - BYL BYL(Be Your Life) a community-driven initiative in Despatch, promoting wellness through talks, organic vegetables & social support.

BYL Catering service funds our programs, ensuring we continue to empower lives. Be Your Life—where wellness meets purpose!

Epilogue: A Testament of ResilienceOur story is a powerful reminder of the strength of love, faith, and community. Throu...
16/05/2025

Epilogue: A Testament of Resilience

Our story is a powerful reminder of the strength of love, faith, and community. Through trials and tribulations, we found hope and support in the most unlikely places. The hardships we faced did not define us; rather, it was how we responded to them, how we loved and supported each other, that ultimately led to our redemption. We are proof that even in the darkest moments, there is a way out—if we remain steadfast in faith, open to love, and committed to the journey ahead.




Redemption – From Ashes to MillionsThe investigation finally concluded. Bongs was exonerated, and our assets were return...
15/05/2025

Redemption – From Ashes to Millions

The investigation finally concluded. Bongs was exonerated, and our assets were returned. He received retroactive pay for the five years. I was reinstated with my retroactive pay as well. We both chose to resign. I went back to school, studying community development. Bongs was headhunted by a global company as a cybersecurity analyst.

We bought a new house, sent our children to good schools, and continued attending the same church. Today, we are multi-millionaires, sustained by people who were once seen as “nobodies” by society, but who played a vital role in our survival. Our success is a testament to resilience, faith, and the support of those who may be overlooked by others but are the foundation of our journey.

I am now a community development practitioner (CDP) because my main aim is to work with those people—the ones who are often labelled as having a "poverty mentality." Our story is a reminder that no matter where you start or how deep the struggle, the support of others and unwavering faith can lead to redemption.

Our journey has come full circle, from hardship to prosperity, and we will never forget those who helped us when we had nothing. They are the ones who showed us the true meaning of community, love, and resilience. And as we continue to thrive, we honour them by helping others, just as they helped us.

If this touched you, share it with someone who needs hope.

Trials – Financial Ruin and Faith TestedFive years later—The Beginning of Trials and TribulationsWe had bought a big hou...
14/05/2025

Trials – Financial Ruin and Faith Tested

Five years later—The Beginning of Trials and Tribulations

We had bought a big house and had four children. Bongs was in the IT industry, and I was still with the same employer. We were married in community of property, with joint bank accounts and shared assets. One day, I woke up to an email informing us that we were being audited by SARS. I didn’t think much of it until an hour later when Bongs called to tell me that they were being investigated by the Hawks for fraud.
Despite his promotion, Bongs had signed documents without fully understanding them, and now he was implicated in a massive fraud case.

He asked me to call the pastor, which I did. After prayer, we went to bed. The next day, at work, I was called into an urgent meeting and informed that I was being suspended without pay due to the investigation. My husband's involvement in the fraud case had extended to me, and our assets were frozen. We had no money.
We called the bank to ask for an extension on our car and house payments, which they granted for three months. The investigation dragged on for five years.

During that time, we moved into the church’s rooms, then later, to a backroom offered by a church member. We sold most of our furniture and had nothing left but necessities. We couldn’t look for work because we were blacklisted, so we just had to wait.

I volunteered at a daycare for women in need, and my children ate there. Bongs spent his days at church, fixing the systems and doing odd jobs for the pastor in exchange for small help. But the weight of the situation took its toll on him. His self-esteem plummeted, and he fell into depression. Friends turned their backs on him, and he felt hopeless.

For five years, I had to put my feelings aside, constantly helping him stay afloat. We prayed every day, but as the years wore on, we became numb. I reminded him of Job in the Bible, but the pain of watching him suffer was unbearable.

Despite everything, we lived on what we could find. I did piece jobs like laundry, anything that helped feed my family. We managed with little, but we found joy in small things like laughter and the support of church members.

The Long Road to HealingOn the third day, Bongs called my doctor. I was admitted to a mental health facility—but I could...
12/05/2025

The Long Road to Healing

On the third day, Bongs called my doctor. I was admitted to a mental health facility—but I couldn’t stay long. I had to help plan Grams’s funeral. It was a beautiful send-off. I couldn’t have done it without Bongs. He stayed close, sensing my suicidal state, even though I never attempted it.

After the funeral, we returned to P.E. I asked if we could have s*x. He refused. He explained that it would act like a drug to me, feeding an addiction. In my mind I thought, “Uyazi njani? How do you know I’m chasing a high?”

I went back to hospital. Admitted again—for 8 weeks. I was discharged just before giving birth.
Straight from there, I went to the maternity ward. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

Two days later, Bongs proposed again. I gave a provisional yes. He was happy. I told him I wasn’t who he thought I was. I carried too many skeletons. I didn’t want him to bear my burdens.

We agreed to see a psychologist—if, after hearing it all, he still wanted marriage.

My psychologist, an Indian woman, was shaken by my story. I told her everything. She asked if I still craved blood. I said no. That craving stopped when I stopped drinking. But s*x? I still yearned for it. I explained how it soothed me. She explained that untreated grief and trauma could manifest as compulsive s*xual behaviour—not necessarily addiction, but pain looking for relief.

She advised me to be honest with Bongs—but leave out the murders.
After that, I felt lighter. I understood myself. I could live with my truth.

She referred us to a male psychologist for couple’s counselling. He started by asking Bongs to disclose his truths first.

His scandals couldn’t match mine—he had cheated, lied. He said he feared who I became when angry.
Then it was my turn. I told him about the r**e, the abortion, the s*x in varsity, the men in Central. He was livid. He said, “If I didn’t respect you as the mother of my child, I’d say you were Satan’s firstborn. But I can’t say that to my child’s mother.” I remember thinking, “Swine, undiqhela isithende ngoku.” 😊
After that session, he moved out. But we continued with therapy. It was clear—he didn’t want me anymore. I respected that.

We co-parented. I was breastfeeding and couldn’t take psychiatric medication. I stayed sober. I went back to my psychologist—twice a week for the rest of the year.

Then, I applied for work in Gauteng. I got the job. BabyBongs and I moved. I told Bongs—he didn’t object. He just asked why. I told him PE held too many ghosts. I needed to leave to heal.

My employer provided an apartment in Pretoria. We settled in. Bongs called every evening to speak to our daughter.

A year passed. I missed him. Missed how he loved me, cared for me. But I knew I couldn’t tell him. It wouldn’t be fair.

In the second year, he called—asked to visit BabyBongs. I agreed. I asked him to stay with us. I gave him my car. He agreed. He slept in the guest bedroom, went out, returned in the early hours.
One night, he came home tipsy. I had fallen asleep on the couch—it was hot. I was naked. He sat on the floor next to me and asked me to wake up. I asked him to pass my gown from the other side of the couch. He did. I covered myself.

Bongs cried before he spoke. What was beautiful was how he praised my commitment to him: “Yhooo, unxilile Bongs fondin, ukhalela nton kengoku,” while crying, ke phofu. He declared how much he missed me and how much he wanted me now, but he knew it wasn't appropriate. Yhooo, I became wet as he said this, and my heart swelled as he spoke. He then approached me and kissed me deeply.

One thing about my man—he knows how to kiss. We kissed, and he went down on me. I cried tears of joy as he pleasured me. I shuddered, mhamha, as he tightened his hold on me. He continued, his actions firm and determined. He paused and whispered, “Do you have a boyfriend, my love?” Out of breath, I answered, “No, nana, I don’t have one.” He continued, “I want us to get married before anyone finds out you’re pregnant again. I will send your uncles next week.” I agreed and asked him to make love to me. “Do you really want me?” he asked. I replied, “Yes, nana, I want you, all of you.”

He kissed me deeper and began slow, deep thrusts that sent me soaring. As I was almost there, he asked, “Do the men from Central do it like this?”

I answered, “No, baby, I wasn’t looking for enjoyment there.” He stopped and walked to the bathroom. I followed him, finding him sitting in the bath, crying. I sat on top of him, took his face in my hands, and said, “Babe, please look at me. I know I have hurt you. I know how much you love me, and I betrayed that. But please forgive me. Only you and your feelings matter now.” I felt him growing hard again, but I resisted the urge to entertain what was happening.

“I love you and only you,” I said, “You have my heart and you always will. I will wait for you to be ready.”
He pulled me closer, inserted me, and said, “Please continue, baba.” This time, I let him take control. As we moved together, I suggested we go to church and give ourselves to the Lord. He agreed.

We made love again with deeper passion, and this time, I felt the presence of something spiritual, like a cleansing. I cried, but the pain lifted from my soul. In that moment, I felt lighter. When we finished, we showered and went to bed. I slept in his arms, feeling for the first time like I truly belonged.

The next morning, he took me to work and, as he kissed me deeply goodbye, he told me to inform my mother that people were coming for lobola negotiations. We both agreed, and everything moved quickly from there. Six months later, we were married, with no one suspecting I was pregnant.
After the wedding, Bongs moved to Pretoria for work.

Happy Mother’s Day from BYL (Be Your Life)!To all the amazing mothers who nurture, uplift, and lead with love — today we...
11/05/2025

Happy Mother’s Day from BYL (Be Your Life)!
To all the amazing mothers who nurture, uplift, and lead with love — today we celebrate you. Your strength inspires us, your care sustains us, and your love shapes the future.

May this day bring you the peace, joy, and recognition you so deeply deserve.
Be your life. Live your light.

10/05/2025

Contraceptive and abortion policies, let’s have a discussion.

Breaking Point – Gram’s Farewell and My DownfallMy matric year was intense. I buried myself in my studies. Grams was exc...
09/05/2025

Breaking Point – Gram’s Farewell and My Downfall

My matric year was intense. I buried myself in my studies. Grams was excited to see me “ephepheni”—in the newspaper. Bongani supported me, fetching and dropping me off at school.
Still, no s*x talk. He wanted me focused on my books.
When farewell came, my father was nowhere. No one at home had money to help me attend the event. Bongani offered, but I refused.

My father had disowned me years ago when I was acting out in high school. To him, I was a disappointment.
Bongs was heartbroken for me. So, on the day of farewell, he took me out for a late lunch/early dinner to lift my spirits.

The final weeks of school, I was immersed in books. I barely saw Bongani beyond morning and afternoon pickups.
Somewhere in that time, he cheated on me. I found out. I dumped him. Told him he was a distraction. He didn’t want to let go. He kept fetching me, kept asking for forgiveness.

Each ride was filled with awkward silence. He’d apologize, and I’d say nothing. One day, as he said “I’m sorry” for the hundredth time, I snapped. I grabbed an empty can, crushed it, and moved straight for his throat. I stopped myself just in time.
He was shocked. Silence filled the car all the way to school. I got out quietly. That afternoon, I didn’t expect him to come back—but there he was, waiting for me at the gate. He had bought me something to drink, poured into a plastic container. ☹

As I closed the car door, he handed it to me. I thanked him and apologized for my actions. He asked if we could talk. He said he would never apologize again but needed to understand where my anger came from. I lied and told him it was because of him. He asked for another chance. I told him: after finals. I asked him not to come see me again until I finished my exams.

I did great. I was accepted at varsity, got a scholarship. Grams and my mom were proud. Bongs was over the moon. He took me out to celebrate. I told him I didn’t want crowds—I wanted serenity. He agreed.

The new year came, and I went to school in Venda.
There, everything changed. I started partying. I felt this… longing for blood. The smell, the rush—it became intoxicating. I targeted men. Men who tried to take advantage of women they thought were weak. I started drinking, and one night, I tried s*x. That’s when the gates of hell opened. I would drink until I blacked out and walk alone, deliberately. When a man approached, I would let him take advantage—pretend to be willing. As he climaxed, I’d slit his throat and watch him take his last breath. This continued throughout my time in Venda. 😊 They called me a serial killer, targeting men.

After Venda, I moved to PE for my postgrad—closer to home. I reconnected with Bongani. He had changed—more serious, wanting marriage. But I wasn’t ready. I had too much darkness in me. I told him I wasn’t wife material.
I did my Honours in Accounting Sciences and my Master’s in Port Elizabeth. Bongs visited on weekends. I decided to stop drinking. I focused on my studies—and on him.

After graduating, I got a job at a well-known accounting firm. Three months later, I fell pregnant. Bongani wanted to marry me more than ever. But I spiralled into a deep depression. The only relief came through s*x—rough, painful s*x.
I found myself in PE Central, preying on African men. I would sit in clubs, sipping juice, scanning the crowd. I was beautiful, short and chubby, dark-skinned with a radiant smile. Well-spoken, respectful, quiet—but captivating. Every man’s dream.

Once I chose a target, I’d tell him exactly what I wanted. No one ever said no. We’d walk to a dark alley. I’d hand him a condom and position myself against the wall. He’d lift me, enter me from the front. Each thrust felt like a bandage on my broken heart. Then I’d ask him to take me from the back. Those thrusts gave me short, shallow breaths—like forgiveness. I climaxed and asked for no name, gave no number. Just a smile and silence.

This became my routine until I was 28 weeks pregnant. By then, I was showing—I couldn’t just walk into bars anymore. I felt like I was drowning. Bongs moved to P.E. to be closer.
Two days after he arrived, I got a call. Grams had been admitted to hospital. We rushed home. She was in a coma—leaving me.
I spoke to her. Told her she could go. That I was safe, loved, employed. She squeezed my hand. I told her I loved her, that I was only sad she wouldn’t meet my child. She squeezed again. I said, “Rest, ntombendala. Thank you for everything.” She let go.
I cried for three days.

I cried because I was a murderer, a s*x addict, and not the woman my grams had hoped I would become. I cried because I knew I didn’t deserve Bongs. I cried because I feared what would happen if he ever found out the truth.

Love amid Chaos – Bongani’s LightOn my way home, a man driving a car stopped when he saw me in uniform. He offered me a ...
08/05/2025

Love amid Chaos – Bongani’s Light

On my way home, a man driving a car stopped when he saw me in uniform. He offered me a lift. I took it. He was friendly. We chatted, and he asked if he could see me again. I didn’t refuse.

We started dating.

Let’s call him Bongani.

He would visit, we’d talk, and then he’d go home. That’s how our relationship went for the rest of the year. He was a complete gentleman.

I passed the year with flying colours. I was happy. Grams was proud. Even my mom seemed pleased—but, as always, she had a “but.” At that point, I didn’t care.

Bongs wanted us to go out to celebrate. I didn’t feel like it, but he insisted. I asked my mom. She gave me permission—with an 11 p.m. curfew. That was more than enough time.

We went to a local pub. He was with friends—there were girls around. It felt safe. I wasn’t drinking; alcohol was never my thing. I always preferred a joint.
Around 9 p.m., I went to the bathroom. I was sober, the place was busy—I didn’t expect anything bad.

But as I stepped inside the stall, a man followed me in and locked the door behind us.
“Take off your pants,” he demanded.
I stayed calm. “Okay, let me p*e first.”
He agreed. The idiot.

While sitting, I slowly pulled the metal toilet roll holder to test its strength. It gave way.
In one motion, I yanked it out and drove it into the side of his neck, slicing deep and wide—making sure to cut through the veins.
I left him there to die.

I felt relieved.

I felt my power slowly returning.

I washed my hands, checked for blood—none on me, thankfully—and returned to the table.
A few minutes later, I told Bongani I wanted to go home. I made up a story about wanting to get back early so my mom would allow me out again.
He agreed. We left.

When we got home, I asked him, “Why haven’t you tried to have s*x with me?”

He replied, “Because I love you. I want to show you that love. S*x isn’t important—we’ve got all the time in the world.”

I was impressed. It made me fall for him, properly. He was the first person I truly loved.

The next day, Bongani came to see me and said he was glad I had gone home early the previous night. Some guy had been found dead in the ladies’ toilets.
I wasn’t bothered.

“May his soul rest in peace,” I said plainly.

📢 CATCH-UP ANNOUNCEMENT!"You have Walked Through the Fire With Us – Now the Healing Begins"✨ “Chapters 1-4 showed the br...
07/05/2025

📢 CATCH-UP ANNOUNCEMENT!
"You have Walked Through the Fire With Us – Now the Healing Begins"

✨ “Chapters 1-4 showed the brokenness. Now watch how God rebuilds..."

NEW SCHEDULE STARTING TOMORROW:
⏰ Weekdays at 7:30 PM SAST
📍 Missed earlier chapters?Find them in our [Pinned Post]

🔔 Turn on notifications – The redemption arc starts NOW!

Comment "REDEEMED" if you’re ready for this next phase.

07/05/2025

The Reckoning – Blood and Retribution

I woke up the next day—or rather, I never really slept. All night, my mind spiraled with thoughts of how I could torture Sine. But no method I imagined felt cruel or brutal enough. I was terrified of him. I was furious. But I knew there was nothing I could do to him. I couldn’t tell my old gang friends—how would I explain what happened without them thinking I was weak? That kind of violation wasn’t something I was ready to admit to anyone.
Instead, I went to my grams' room and snuggled up next to her. She was getting better—talking again, even managing to stand up and walk around the house. It wasn’t easy for her, but it was progress, and I held onto that with everything in me.
She asked me what was wrong. I said, “Nothing.”
She looked at me knowingly and said, “I know you, Sisi, more than you know yourself.”

Still, I insisted nothing was wrong.

We chatted a little, and the conversation drifted to Phumla. I quickly shut it down. I didn’t want to talk about her—the girl who had left me alone with a stranger. I hated her. In fact, I wanted to hurt her.
I asked Grams if she wanted tea, not waiting for her response. I rushed to the kitchen to make us both a cup. She always kept treats in her bedside cupboard, so I knew we’d be having our tea with chocolate or biscuits. She had a way of making me feel whole. Being with her washed away my worries, my sins, my shame. I loved her without limits.
As we sipped our tea, she looked at me and said, “I’m waiting for you to grow up and be an independent woman so I can go. I’m tired, but I just can’t leave you now. I sense something is terribly wrong with you, and I’m scared. I’m so sorry that I’m not strong enough to protect you anymore, my child. But I want you to know—I am with you always, and I will never stop loving you.”
Yhooo… I broke. I cried so hard that she started crying with me. Between sobs, I begged her not to speak like that again—not to even think of leaving me. We comforted each other, and eventually, we dried our tears and moved to lighter topics, avoiding more pain.
The weekend passed. Monday came. I had to go back to school. I was dreading it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Phumla knew what had happened and had told people. But I had promised Grams I’d do my best and become an independent businesswoman. That promise held me.
When I got to school, the first person I saw was Phumla—waiting for me. As I walked toward the classroom, she beamed and came straight to me. Every fiber of my being wanted to turn around and vanish, but I couldn’t. She hugged me tightly and, mid-hug, said, “My friend, why did you leave that day? Sine and Thando say you’re a nice person and want to hang out again.”
She kept talking, but I couldn’t hear most of it—her voice faded into the background. I only snapped back when she asked if I was okay. I said yes but told her I didn’t think I wanted to hang out with them again.
Then she opened her school bag, pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box, and handed it to me. I asked what it was. She said she didn’t know—Sine made her promise not to open it. He had asked her to give it to me and said I should open it when I was alone.
I refused to take it, but she insisted it was just a gift—a token of appreciation. She even showed me the watch she was wearing, saying she got it from Sine. “If that’s a watch,” she smiled, “then we’ll have matching gifts.”
I felt sick—physically nauseated. All I wanted was to throw up. But Phumla wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I took the box, planning to throw it away later.
Then she handed me a note from Sine. It read:
“I enjoyed our time. Thank you.”
I wanted to throw up right there. I rushed to the toilet and locked myself inside. I didn’t care how foul school toilets were—it was the only place I felt remotely safe enough to let go. I cried.
Afterwards, I washed my face and stepped out. Phumla was waiting for me, looking worried. She asked what was in the note. I told her my getting sick had nothing to do with the note.
But everything inside me was falling apart.
We walked back to class. I was quiet—Phumla did all the talking. When we got there, I chose the desk furthest from her. I started avoiding her altogether, only responding when I had no choice. Days turned into weeks. Eventually, she seemed to make peace with the fact that I wasn’t interested in being her friend anymore.
I buried myself in my schoolwork so completely that I didn’t even notice I had missed my period.
One morning, while I was getting ready for school, Grams approached me.
“Did you sleep with a boy?” she asked bluntly.
I didn’t even process the question properly. “No,” I replied, without thinking.
She paused and said, “I think you’re pregnant. When last did you get your period?”
I told her it had been two weeks ago—still unfazed.
She looked confused but didn’t press further.
I finished getting ready and left. On the way to school, it hit me—Sine. That bastard.
I immediately remembered the gift he had sent. I dug through my backpack, pulled it out, and opened it.
Inside the box was a watch and a thick stack of money. My heart sank.
I changed course and headed to the clinic instead of school.
They confirmed it—I was pregnant.
I was oddly calm. I thanked the nurse. She asked if I wanted to test for HIV. I agreed. The test came back negative.
As I walked to school, I wasn’t thinking about the future or telling anyone. I was thinking about how to get rid of the child.
After school, I went to my aunt’s house. I made up a story about a girl from school in the same situation. My aunt advised that the girl go to Marie Stopes if she had money—or the clinic if she didn’t.
The next day, I took a taxi to town, went to Marie Stopes, and terminated the pregnancy.
The pain was unbearable. I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to walk afterwards. But after 30 minutes of rest, I was on my way home.
A new me was formed in the fires of Marie Stopes.

04/05/2025

Hi, my name is Mhlabakazi.

I am a community development practitioner, married, and a proud mother of five beautiful daughters. My husband is a cybersecurity analyst who works remotely. We were both born and raised in the Eastern Cape. We are a joyful family who loves God and delights in spending time together in His presence. We’re not very social and prefer the comfort of our home. When we do go out, it's usually just the two of us with our children.
Fridays are for our ice cream dates, Saturdays are reserved for movie nights, and Wednesdays are our special date nights. On those evenings, we deliberately avoid discussing work, children, duties, or responsibilities. Somehow, we always end up talking about sports—and complaining about our lack of intimacy—though we never quite get around to finding solutions. One thing we never forget to talk about is food. Oh, how we love food! We usually end our date nights with a quiet walk, during which we meditate on the Word of God and pray together. But life hasn’t always been this harmonious. We’ve faced many trials—conflicts, health challenges, heartbreak, and financial struggles. At one point, we were even living in someone’s backyard, renting a two-roomed shack. Through it all, God has been good. And He remains good.

I was born to single parents, and their relationship was far from ideal. Growing up, I never saw them speak to each other. My father would come to our home to see me, but instead of engaging directly with my mother, he would speak to my grandmother about my needs—even in my mother’s presence. It was confusing, but neither of them seemed to mind, so I eventually stopped questioning it. Whenever it was time for me to visit my father, he would come to fetch me—but it was always my grandmother who prepared me for the visit, never my mother. As I grew older, I learned to accept this dynamic, and it stopped troubling me.

I attended local government schools, and my grandmother was a constant presence throughout my early schooling years—until age caught up with her. That’s when my mother had to step in and take over. You know, if it weren’t for my father’s occasional presence in my life, I would have believed I was the last born—forgotten and invisible.

My husband, on the other hand, comes from a stable, loving marriage. He is the last born in his family and was raised in an environment filled with warmth and support. He attended what were then considered multiracial schools and, after matriculating, pursued his studies in Information Technology. He graduated, went on to complete postgraduate studies, and was later headhunted by a well-known company as a software developer.

My upbringing was far from glamorous.
When my mother took over the responsibility of raising me, she lacked the love, patience, support, and understanding that my gran had always given so freely. My mother seemed constantly angry. Nothing I did was ever good enough. I found myself tiptoeing around her, careful not to trigger her temper. By then, my gran was growing frailer by the day—she no longer had the strength to step in and protect me from my mother’s wrath.

Despite everything at home, I performed well in school. My academics were strong, and I was also an excellent athlete. I remember one moment clearly—in Grade 5 (Standard 3), I was selected to represent my school at provincial games. I was overjoyed and rushed home to share the news. The first person I saw was my mother. I excitedly told her about the selection, expecting at least a smile. Instead, her face remained blank, and she responded with, "Where are we going to get the money for you to go gallivanting in useless endeavours?" Her words stunned me. I couldn’t understand. My gran had always supported me, going out of her way to ensure I excelled—especially in school.

By the time I entered high school, I was already a broken little girl—desperately seeking love and acceptance. That’s when I gravitated toward a group of boys who smoked on the school grounds and stole from others. People noticed them. They had attention, and that drew me in. I began hanging out with them, smoking, stealing, and using the money to get high. They were my people—up until Grade 11 (Standard 9). That year, I failed. When I asked why, I was told it wasn’t due to academics—it was because of my behavior. I wasn’t ready for Grade 12.

After a meeting with the principal and my class teacher, I had a decision to make. Around this time, my gran was bedridden. Watching her decline weighed heavily on me. One of the educators at school knew my family. He remembered me as the bright child who was once My grams’ precious jewel. He pleaded with me to change—for my grams sake—because he believed in my potential. When the new school year started, I returned with determination. I arrived on time, attended all my classes, and stayed consistent. It was incredibly hard—and lonely.

Then I met a girl who noticed my effort. She told me she was proud of me for changing my crowd. Her name was Phumla. She was kind and warm. She’d share her lunch with me, even though, academically, she wasn’t the strongest. She loved dressing up and talking about boys—topics I hadn’t been exposed to much. I helped her with schoolwork, and in time, we became close. She would even visit me at home on weekends.

One day, I was walking Phumla home when she told me that her boyfriend—who drove a car—was coming to pick her up. I didn’t think much of it. It was her life, and who was I to judge? As we neared the spot where I usually said goodbye and turned back home, she spotted the car and pointed to it excitedly. We said our goodbyes, but just before I turned to leave, she offered to ask her boyfriend to drop me off. She asked, and he agreed. Let’s call him Sine. I got into the car and noticed Sine wasn’t alone—there was a guy sitting in the backseat. Phumla introduced him as Thando. I greeted them, and we drove off. Sine asked if I was in a hurry because they needed to drop off a parcel not far from where I lived. I said I didn’t mind.
Thando and I started talking. He was easy to talk to and surprisingly kind. He said he remembered me from when I used to hang out with the gang and commended me for turning my life around. He even said I looked more like a girl now—that he hadn’t realized I was this beautiful. I laughed, beginning to feel comfortable in his presence. We arrived at the house where they were meant to drop off the parcel. Sine asked all of us to go inside—he didn’t feel comfortable leaving us alone in the car. The house was nice and cozy, nothing suspicious about it. Once inside, Sine offered us something to drink, then realized there was nothing left. He asked Phumla and Thando to go buy drinks and braai meat, leaving me alone with him.

There wasn’t much conversation. I only answered the few questions he asked and kept to myself. Then he asked if I had ever seen a gun. I said yes. He asked if I’d ever been shot. I said no. Then, “Have you ever seen someone get shot?” I nodded yes. “What do you think about death and dying?” I told him I didn’t know. Then he asked something I will never forget: “So which would you choose—having s*x with me willingly or me forcing myself on you and killing you afterward? Because I’m not going to jail for you.”
I froze. I told him I didn’t know how to have s*x—that I’d never had s*x before—and that I didn’t think it would be right for my first time to happen like this. His response was cold and terrifying: “I’m h***y. I want to f**k now. Don’t explain s**t to me.” His voice changed—deep and aggressive—and his eyes were bloodshot. He got closer. Something in him shifted; he wasn’t human in that moment. I had never felt such fear in my life. I felt like I had no choice. So, I let it happen. Afterwards, I went straight home. Apparently, I had been gone too long. When I walked in, my mother beat me for staying out so late.

That day marked the beginning of my end.

Address

Despatch
6220

Opening Hours

Monday 09:00 - 17:00
Tuesday 09:00 - 17:00
Wednesday 09:00 - 17:00
Thursday 09:00 - 17:00
Friday 09:00 - 17:00

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Be Your Life - BYL posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Business

Send a message to Be Your Life - BYL:

Share