I was born 25 years ago into a family of boys. The memories of my childhood are of pillow fights, checking which plate had more meat at supper time, crying my lungs out after discovering that the trousers I was supposed to wear to town that particular day had been taken by one of my brothers for his own use because his were dirty and mine looked damn fine.
It was a good life, depending on the circumstances you found yourself in on a particular day. School was great; thanks to the Grace of the Holy Mother, I could recall a lot of what the teacher had said the previous day and so spared myself that terrible long stick.
The year was 1988. My mother was expecting another baby. She had been crying a lot those days. We had noticed the change in our father’s mood; we had also heard their continual arguing, because we shared bedrooms. Most of the time I could not even hear my brothers breathe; our tales of daily heroic adventures would come to an abrupt halt.
Those were tense moments that continued for days. We could all see that it was taking a toll on our mother, but we had no idea what to do.
Polishing my father’s shoes became a chore rather than the ultimate glory (and the path to pocket money). Instead, we set up a duty roster, which also extended to opening the gate for his car at night.
On one night, after some fighting, our father packed his bags and left through that gate. My mother did not want us to see what was happening, but we were able to look through the windows of our bedrooms.
It was awful. At that moment we knew our world would not be the same again. I think that was also the last day we had pillow fights.
My father did not come back that night. The gate closed, and so did an ugly chapter in our lives. Some months later my mother lost what would have been our sixth brother.
To describe the work my mother did to raise my brothers and I to be the men we are today would take a lifetime. She taught us self-respect, humility and, most importantly, to value other people.
Then, a year ago, our young niece came into our lives — a granddaughter of my mother’s sister.
Most of us had gone to work in different parts of the country, including myself.
We knew our niece was going to join our family and we were excited about it, especially because she was a girl and my mother had always longed for a daughter of her own.
I remember the euphoria when the family gathered for the Easter weekend. Everyone spoiled her because we understood the hardship her family was going through after her father was retrenched. We went out of our way to make her feel at home, like a sister.
She was extremely beautiful and she brought our home to life. I remember how much I bragged about her to my friends.
I had never before seen my brothers speaking with one voice and doing one thing without fighting, but we managed to organise a school for her to attend.
She closed the door that my father had left open. I was happy to have her in my life. Things could not have been better!
Two weeks ago another man reopened that door. My sister was raped coming home from school. A case has been opened. Since I work in Cape Town and the telephone is the only means of communication with my family in KwaZulu-Natal, that is how I learned of the news.
Once again somebody used their power for their own selfish reasons and satisfaction.
This was my sister’s first sexual encounter, according to the medical report, and it has robbed her of her womanhood. It violated everything she is.
I cannot understand. How could someone who calls himself a man, just like myself, do this?
How is my sister supposed to look at me and my brothers and not think of this man? How is she going to trust another man? At the tender age of 14, what picture will she have of men in general?
How can we be so destructive? After fighting for so long for equal rights and dignity for all, why, my brothers, are we trampling on the good works of people like Ma Lilian Ngoyi, Victoria Mxenge, Albertina Sisulu and all the others who put their lives on the line for our freedom?
I do not know what to say to my sister except that, on behalf of all men who are decent, kind and caring, I am sorry.
Every day I wake up and look at my blue uniform, and I feel inadequate because the sacrifices so many people made so that I could enjoy this freedom are forgotten in the rush for self-fulfilment, enrichment and greed.
At the same time I know that it will take us some time to bridge the economic and social gaps of our country. But to bridge these gaps we need to act as a society to fight against the abuse of women and children and all who cannot fight for themselves, not only for 16 days, but every day.
My sister is receiving counselling, I am told. I am proud of her for reporting the crime and trusting us to share in her ordeal. She must have the assurance that she is not alone.
She is my hero. I cannot begin to understand what she is going through, and what she will go through for the rest of her life.
I am also proud of other women who speak out against abuse, and I pledge my support to their cause and to the counsellors who are working with the victims. You have our prayers.
Constable Jabulani Mamela is a member of the South African Police Service stationed at Mowbray