Today my life was rocked.
Growing up in a country full of crime doesn’t prepare one for the fateful day when it strikes one of your own. A man, a father, a husband, a breadwinner, is shot in the chest at point blank range by another human being. His son, shot in the stomach beside him. The father dies instantly, the son hanging on to a thread of life calls his sister for help. No longer interested in the bloody car, the murderer turns and leaves.
What a sad, cruel, devastating world we live in. How does a wife and mother carry on? How does she get through the next minutes and hours and days that now make up her irrevocably changed life? Why? What’s going to give her the courage to live?
Today I see 3 places in my neighbourhood that offer trauma counseling. I’ve walked past them many times and never noticed them. I hope my cousin is being taken care of, that someone is supporting her and that they are being effective in their task.
As I look outside my window I see a beautiful Cape Town day. I wonder when my cousin will notice the weather again, or if her son will ever see another sunrise. I want to rage. I want to cry. But I do nothing. I feel numb and paralysed by the injustice of it all.
I can’t wait for my own sons to get out of school today so that I can pick them up, kiss them on the top of their heads, and before they get a chance to say ‘Aw Ma!’, I want to tell them again how much I love them.
Image credit: Isyedasairanaqvi.deviantart.com
