The Star In My Eye

You ask who was Themba Nkosi? Who told you that? You shrug your shoulders.

Alright, my daughter put down that hairbrush and come and sit on the floor between my legs.

You place your hairbrush on the dressing-table and move away from the cracked mirror.

Your hair is in tangles. If you don’t mind, can I run my fingers through your knotted hair.

You nod your head and smile; my fingers rake through your curly hair, your scalp is warm under my finger pads.

Themba Nkosi was my son.

You frown, your olive-skinned forehead puckers . You’re confused but you choose to keep quiet.
It’s a deep secret that the family has kept to themselves. He was only a week old when we gave him away – you were not born yet.

You are probably thinking of why we gave him away. It was because he was different. How different?

He was black.

When I pushed your brother out of my vagina, the doctors and the nurses were appalled.

The Star In My Eye

And your father, the look on his face had said it all. I was the slut of the town in his eyes. That I had slept with a black man infuriated and disgusted him.

It disgusted me too, not because of the skin color, but of my immoral behavior.

There was nothing I could do – my son had to go. It was not my choice but of your father’s.

You’re not saying anything. You slowly stand up and face me, your eyes swimming with unshed tears.

Shaking your head, you flounce out of the bedroom.

I am alone now, my tears drenching my hands.

All that I can think of is you Themba, the star in my eye.