Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Day my Father branded me a Whore

On only two occasions that I saw my father drunk, the one that still haunts me is when I found him lying on the walkway to our home. He was dead drunk and I was afraid he would die.  I dragged him inside and phoned Dr Hall.   Quick as a flash, Dr Hall was there.  He wanted to give my father an injection and asked me to help him get his pants off so he could inject him in his buttock.  Imagine the mortification and the horror at finding that my father was wearing stockings and a suspender belt under his jeans.  I cringed with embarrassment.  He wore women’s underwear under his clothes.  Something was terribly wrong with my father.  In a time of crisis, he would be the leader, organizing and sorting everything out for everybody, but did the world know that he was a cross-dresser?  Why did he suddenly start spending more and more time with the homosexual hairdresser in Umtata? 
One night, after Patrick and I had engineered an escape for my mother and the two smaller children, I saw him put a sanitary pad into his underpants! I was horrified.  And he was starting to fondle me in ways that a father never should have done.  I was so innocent I did not even realize that what he was doing was wrong – He would kiss me like a lover, fondle me like foreplay … breathing hard and telling me how he would love to do more.  I was afraid of him.   One night he came home from the pub with the policemen who were stationed in Umtata at what was called the mobile police.  He woke me up to make them food and then took me into his bedroom and made me put on a g-string (remember those days it was forbidden to have such things in the country) and a bra with places cut out for the nipples to stick out.  Both items were made from fake leather and he had me serve his guests like that.  While standing in the kitchen, preparing bacon, cheese and tomatoe toasted sandwiches, he took a koki pen and wrote “whore” on my bum. Those men all laughed.  I was feeling embarrassed.  I did not know what a whore was so looked it up in the dictionary the next day.  It took me 20 years to get over that branding on my arse.  I had a tattoo of a fairy put in the exact same place as where he had written in black, the word “Whore”.   Putting that tattoo there was symbolic for me – it rid me of the memory.  The only problem with my fairy now is that with age, it has slipped down my arse and is almost at the top of my leg (gravity) and the angel now looks like a dragon.  I don't care.  The sagging arse and the dragon tattoo is part of my bravery awards. 


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