​In those days, my father and I, before he got married to my step-mother, we lived together as 'father and son'. Most people thought that we were brothers, not because of height but because of the love we had for each other. I was just a small boy. My father although working in far distant town from home, but he always made time for me, and that he always sacrificed just to see my smile. We were just fine, both of us. My sister was living with my aunt because she loved the company of other cousins. We understood that because most of our cousins are girls, almost 80% of them. We lived in harmony and in peace. As he was working eBhisho he always asked his sisters to look after me while he's away. My great heroines Veliswa and late aunts Mavis Qeqe and Nompumelelo Nogantsi. They took me as their own.

My father taught me how to be a man in my early age. He always said to me, ' whatever you want do not rest until you get it. There's nothing that will come to you as manna from heaven. Those times are over now. The manna was made for those who lived in time of Moses, but for us "Indoda itya ukubila kwebuzi layo".' I always lived his company. On the other hand, my grandmother his mother Nowins had been always the great story teller for ages. I remember her teachings, we never went to bad without reading a story. She always told stories of her past, and some were just short indigenous stories. One of the stories that she told us and which I'll never forget.

"Your grandfather and I went up the hill, it was summer. He took me for picnic and that none of our 12 children new that we went out. He got to the summit of the hill, and the sun was just dazzling very beautifully, it was not that hot. As we settled under a fig tree, there was a funny nose probably over the hill, or maybe on the other side of the hill. "What was the nose sound like Auntie!?" Ziphozihle one of my cousin sisters asked." It sounded like children chasing each other or something like that." She said. By the way, we never called our grandmother Makhulu or Granny. We always called her "Auntie". Everyone in the village called her Auntie. We don't know why. She became the Aunt of the village. "My husband went to the other side of the hill to see what was happening. So I remained there and had said nothing. I eat the scones he baked for me and lay down on the duvet we brought. I waited and waited, until she showed up running and sweating. He said "sithandwa sam, masihambe". I asked why we should go, because it was only about 30 minutes we've been there. All along he saw a Black Mamber and the snake ran away because he frightened it. So I laughed at him because he feared a snake which feared him. So the moral of this true story is that, do not fearer anything especially something that is afraid of you."

My father was just like my grandmother. Whenever he told a story, he always tell the moral of it. I enjoyed my grandmother's company. One of the things that I like about my father is education. My father ever since I stayed with him, he always busy with studies. I tried to call him a book worm, but he didn't accept that. He always said he was just a hard worker. That's where I got that term. 'I am a hard worker'. That's what I use to call myself at school. In fact I still use that term even today. Reminded by that, my English teacher Ms Madikane, one of the greatest in town always made an example in class about me. I remember one day she came to class from the school library upset in appearance. She put out our test papers on the table, it was on a Monday because she was marking over the weekend. "You didn't do well at all in this test." So she said. "I don't know I'm wasting my time in teaching whereas you don't put any effort to that." She continued. "Only few of you did well in this test. All those who are clever, thought that the test was easy, but it wasn't. Some of you are not clever! Not at all". That was a shock! To everyone in the class. All of us looked at each other... "Yes, Qeqe is not clever, and Doro as well." Everyone looked at us, we were so embarrassed. But they are hard workers." She concluded. That was then a relief.

We sighed.

Ms Madikane had a sense of humour she was just like my father. My father did not believe in people who are clever, he always admired people who are hard workers. I was so troubled when my step-mother broke my relationship with my father. In fact when she separated my father from his family. She wanted to strengthen her family using ours, and that caused a conflict between both families. The conflict started in 2007 if I remember well. My step-mother rejoiced over this, and at the same time I remained in prayer. No one taught me how to pray. I learnt it through people whom I used to see praying in my father's church. I alwaysprayed when I went to bed, and that I always asked myself how did I learn all those things. To me they were for older people. I always asked for forgiveness from God for praying...because in my mind it was something for older people. But one day I had a feeling that, God was just in my midst and I could tell every time I prayed I could feel His presence.

One night just after my step-mother had beaten me up. I heard myself praying... "Lord, you freed your people from slavery in Egypt to a promised land, I know Lord you'll free me as well. If you were able to free thousands of them, how could you not free me and my sister?"

Prayer was the only thing in my mind, even at school. I always prayed that we remain at school, because I knew it was hard outside. School was not only good place to be, but it was probably the best place to be. I always felt safe and it was the only place to hear my laughter. She did not want us to go to visit our father's family, although we grew up there. She was afraid that we would tell all her dirty actions against us. But of course we did some of that and we cared less who would say what. That was our safety. To be honest that was their fight not ours. She always claimed that our mother did not love us, and if she did she would've been still I alive. That was one of the things I hated about her, she said all these things as is she knew my mother. Who even says such things about the dead? Is there no respect for the dead anymore? I always asked myself 'where on earth did my father get this woman'. But as it is said, "God works in mysterious ways." One of the questions I asked...was 'why me Lord, why me?'

But in all my struggles, I've taught myself not to ask 'Why me', but say instead 'Try me'.