On March 7 2004, when I was 17 years old, I started hating all men. It took one man to make me hate all men. I hated him so much. The only thing I could think of was killing him. On that night I made a promise to myself that I’d never associate myself with any other man. I blamed myself. The thought of him on top of me, unable to defend myself made facing tomorrow impossible. I saw no hope and lost faith. My dreams were shattered, and the freedom to say “I am me” was lost.
Kingsley (not his real name) and I were friends, more like a brother and sister. I was on my way from the Forum for the Empowerment of Women (FEW) offices where I attended life skills and computer training when I first met him. He introduced himself as a gay man, but not many people knew about his sexuality, so he said. He warned me not to tell anybody, especially his friends, because he was not “out” to everyone. We spent most of our days together if I was not with my girlfriend or my other friends, and it would feel odd if days passed without us seeing each other.
One evening, we went out to a club near his home. It was nice there and I met some of my friends from high school. I started dancing with other people and was really enjoying myself until suddenly his mood changed. He complained that I was spending too much time with other people. I didn’t want to upset him, and sat with him. It got really late, and I had the only key for the house so I insisted on going home.
It was a bit chilly and he wanted to get something warm to wear. We went to his place since it was close by. I went to the outside toilet and I thought he was getting a jacket. He was standing right in front of the toilet. I was shocked to see him. He did not look happy so I asked him what was wrong. He did not reply. He went to his room and I followed him with the hope of finding out. That was the worst mistake I ever made.
I got a bit tense when he started giving me the “you make me sick look”. He locked the door. I was really confused. He was swearing at me and saying how much he hates people who pretend. I then asked him what he was talking about. He was furious with the lesbian life I was living. He slapped me in the face and warned me not to shout at him or I would regret it. He said: “Tonight I’m going to change you, and from now on you are my girlfriend.”
I got angry and told him that I knew my rights. I started to leave. He got up, holding a screwdriver and threatened to stab me if I didn’t cooperate. I became quiet, trying to find a way to calm him down and find a way to leave his place without anyone getting hurt. He ordered me to take off my clothes while he hit me with anything he came across. No matter how hard I cried or how loudly I screamed, he told me it wouldn’t help because he was not scared of anyone or anything. He punched me and I thought he was going to kill me if I fought back.
He raped me repeatedly for more than an hour. I was quiet, with tears streaming down my face. He continued to beat me even though he had succeeded. He kept asking me if I loved him and when I said no, then the beating got worse. “You go about pretending you are attending classes in Jo’burg while you hook up with your Nigerian boyfriends, and then you come pretending to be something you are not,” he said.
A little after midnight he fell into a deep sleep. I dressed silently and left. I went straight home. I cried the whole night. I couldn’t sleep. My face was bruised. When my family asked what had happened I lied and said I was in a fight with a friend.
His smell was all over my clothes and body and it felt like he was still with me. I took a bath three times. I called Zanele Muholi; she was the only person I could relate to and someone who’d come up with a way to deal with the mess I had gotten myself into. I took a train and we met in town. We went to People Opposing Women Abuse (Powa) for counselling.
We then went to Medico in Johannesburg for a medical examination and treatment. We didn’t get help because there were neither nurses nor doctors on duty and they had no crime kits. They also said that it was not possible for a doctor who is based in Johannesburg to testify in a case originating in Krugersdorp.
They offered me a slice of bread and a painkiller. Muholi organised a car and we drove to Leratong hospital in Kagiso. There was no doctor on duty and no crime kits at the crisis centre. While waiting for a doctor, the police came by to drop off the crime kit. They said they were rushing to Magaliesburg to attend to another urgent rape case.
The doctor arrived after three hours. I was examined and then he took the statement for the medical report. I told him that the guy raped me because I was a lesbian. As soon as he heard this he stopped writing and posed questions regarding my sexuality. He said: “Why are you a lesbian at this age? Do you know that it is against the Constitution to make such a decision without the consent of a parent? You are wearing a cross of Christ; did you know that it is an abomination in the eyes of God to be lesbian?”
I asked him: “The guy raped me because he wanted to change me. Are you saying that was the right thing to do?” He didn’t answer me. Instead he scratched off the report and said, “There is no sign of forceful penetration because the girl had already broken her virginity and the blood stain in the eyes are due to constant rubbing and they might develop further if they are not treated.” Without a medical report I had a weakened case.
The police arrived at 9pm. I opened a case and then went home, but could not stay long: my safety was not guaranteed. I got a call at about 10.30pm to inform me that the guy had been arrested and I would be notified in advance about the case and court details.
I wanted to be away from Johannesburg, to ease my mind. I left for KwaZulu-Natal for a month. When I came back I heard that the guy had been released. I then called the sergeant who was handling the case. He told me the same thing: they’ll notify me in advance.
On August 28 2004, I saw my rapist; he approached me and threatened to kill me. I felt cold, betrayed, angry and very scared. I called the sergeant again, but this time I couldn’t get hold of him. I went to the station. They couldn’t find the docket and said it didn’t exist.
I was failed medically and the justice system proved its inexistence. South Africa is celebrating 12 years of democracy, but with written policies that are not implemented. We are told to cooperate and not take the law into our own hands. Others harm us and get away with it; we have no way of getting justice. Will South Africa ever change and accommodate everyone?
These stories are part of the “I Stories” series produced by the Gender Links opinion and commentary service for the Sixteen Days of Activism campaign