I must have been six or seven years old when my auntie El came to live with us for the first time. It was definitely after 8pm, because my sister and I were already in bed when the phone rang.
My mother answered and immediately called my dad. “It’s your sister,” she said. My mother came and closed our bedroom door, but I could still hear my father’s voice. He was upset and spoke loudly, which made me afraid. Then my mother came into our room and sat on my bed.
I heard the garage door open and my father speeding away. The next morning, pillows and blankets in the living room told me someone had slept there. Then auntie El shuffled from the bathroom. Her one eye was black and she walked like an old woman, one arm wrapped around her chest.
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My sister and I were told to eat our porridge in our room before my mother drove us to school. Auntie El stayed for a few days, but we didn’t see much of her. She confined herself to my parents’ bedroom and we were told not to bother her.
A few days later, her husband arrived at our house. My sister and I were sent to our room. There was a massive argument. My father raged, auntie El cried, and again my sister and I were afraid.
The front door slammed shut, and the last words I heard was auntie El screaming at my dad: “But I love him! I love him and he has changed!” I was very confused. That was the first time, but this scenario repeated itself a number of times in following years.
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And no matter what my father said or did, the end result was always the same: His sister always went home after her husband’s promises to change.
Almost five decades later, I am still confused. I still don’t understand the dynamics of an abusive relationship. But abusive relationships aren’t just confined to couples.
About half the people in this country are in an abusive relationship with the ANC. Every Sona, every budget speech, every address by the president brings promises of change, and of self-correction, but the abuse never ends.
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