Excerpt for My life in Ceres as a Christian to my life in Mitchell's Plain as a Muslim by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


My Life in Ceres as a Christian




To

My Life in Mitchell’s Plain as a Muslim




Table of Contents




Part 1

The upbringing


Part 2

Manhood





































My Life in Ceres as a Christian

To

My Life in Mitchell's Plain as a Muslim


Part 1



In the beginning, there was sand, dry sand. In the beginning there was peace, in front of our little home in our little town. Ceres, the place known for its farms. Known for its fruits and juices. But my home town. A town a love with all my heart and soul. A peaceful mind as a little child running on farm soil. My story life journey as poor soul in time. Some say we did not ask to be here, but is it not that some do not make it to see the light out of their mother's womb. And my heart is it that writes this let alone my mind. A thought that seems so easy to come out of the mouth but yet so difficult to put in text. My story as the soul granted permission to live in these surroundings of mine. Raised by women only. Where do I look to find my first memory. I wish mama was still here to guide me through this narrative. And if I should have not made it breathe, then let my unborn spirit give the correct version of Jeremy Felix born Ceres. And if some white folks read this, know that I don't hate you but I hate the mentally that some of fore fathers had. Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother. These are the women I remember. For me, my first thoughts, my first breath, my first eyesight. Or at least what seemed to be in my reality. Sometimes we cry out our past. But the past was always carried around with us. Dear father, I no longer have the small boat you gave me. What at the time seem to me like a toy boat. My neighbours later told me I actually use to play with broken cars in it. I swear to the Lord I have not heard a gunshot tonight, no fights. And when we go to sleep grandmother use to rock radio with some bedtime stories. Can I even recall the name of one? But grandma use to know what was good for me. Eiland street, our home was on the corner with an open sand field. Sundays, we used it as a football field. Oh mother, how did everything come to be only memories? Oh mama, how did everything come to me not even having a picture of you? Never have I heard these three women argue. But I knew once all three started cooking separately. And how different pots can take the example of different lives. Papa used to bring potatoes and unions to our little home. I never figured that he and mother was no longer. Instead I thought this is how a relationship between man must be. That the father just comes to check up. Mama tried her best. And grandma used to bake “vetkoek”. The famous dish after a day at school. Water mixed with sugar later joined the meal. Forgive the memories of man going back in time because of heart ache. How we love to express ourselves in violent ways in my society. And the sudden development of music to ears. Or was it always there and I have not yet been fully grown. Dear friends, I have lived my life for thirty-two years but feel like I have been here for ninety years. Let me express this true story of my life and your life. Eduard, they use to love you from head to toes. My feelings hid a little jealousy because I never had a full plate of food. As I watched you enjoy whatever your aunt would buy you. This in place for what your own mother could not buy because of not working. A feeling of almost scariness whenever in your presence or is it inferiority? Dear mama if you could return from your grave, I forgot to tell you how much I love you. Growing up in the ghetto we don’t say how much we care for the ones we really love. And grandma used to get me dressed for church every Sunday morning. And every Sunday morning became three Sunday's apart. Mama had her set back and were send to a mental institution. She was hero and my friends did not know what we went through behind closed doors. I was taught to walk with a smile in the streets and up until today this is how I conduct myself. Our dog use to jump trying to make the neighbours jump. His name was Klonkies and I use to love him like I love mama herself. I saw Klonkies pass away and some other dogs after it. Trip was a dog with black hair. One day as a child I bent down I stared at his hair I said to

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My Life in Ceres as a Christian

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My Life in Mitchell's Plain as a Muslim



myself that this moment itself will come to pass. I when it finally did no pain could enter my heart. I cried for Trip years after out of remembrance. Now, who was the one who gave me food when I was out and lost? Who fed me when I was hungry? They were Women. And today I carry these Women around with me. And maybe my harshness in the pursuit in justice lays in Mother's words “Break them up before they shut you up, because if they shut you up they will first break you up.” Her words did not make sense to me until I started seeing good people die for what they believe in. Oh, what is going on the mind of a child who doesn’t know battle and doesn't how to fight. And my war within is fighting with my soul. Dear Lord I'm the product of a ghetto child trying to get this story to those with ski masks and quests for rivalry. And I if don't get out my dying thoughts than bury me as Mama's star. I'm sorry if I was a burden Mother. I know you didn't have much. I know you tried your best to be a good Mother and good friend to me. Oh mama, you used to tell me not to get stuck in greed. I'm finally free reaching my dream to leave in peace. And Jonathan was a real friend and still is. I take a lesson from him in being soft natured. My gratitude might not display love and the only place I could let it all out was in church. My only regret is that the three women in my life had to close their eyes while still being on welfare. Now I'm only driven by my ambitions and talking to those deceased as a hobby. Who will try to impress when it seems that only my dreams matter. I talk to God every Sunday in church asking Him to make me a better man. I forgot to asked God why He took my mama because of still being in shock. Lower mother's casket but your memories will always be a part of me. Taught morals and my fear that we can't change today's generation. Mother left me with a sister and she is life after mama. Dry your eyes and let try my best little one. As weak as I am, Jany, Magdelena and Sapoorah raised me as the man that I am now. I would not have it any other way but to be raised by women. And in the darkest nights they used to tell me not cry. Even though my stomach was not filled but they knew how to comfort me. My childhood was not made used to seeing a lot of family visit. Maybe because of mama that use to drink and party. One picture that I remember is where Jany stood on a bridge as a teenage girl. I swear to God my baby sister looks just like her. When in my moments of pain, I turn I away from looking into my sister's eyes. Oh Lord, I see my mama eyes. And what it rained tears of joy. The only thing that made my happy was the water descending from the heavens. Did the shoe fit mother? Did she fit father? I don't blame them for my broken home. A home that never used to belong to my mother any way. Steven was introduced to me. He stayed in Hamlet, a few kilometres out of Ceres. Inevitably I found out he was my brother. What I never found out up until this is whether or not Papa was married to this woman or not. Today I'm too grown up with too much respect to ask him. My pain run like a slow train not knowing when it's going to pick up speed. At night, I looked towards the direction of Cape town and said one day I will make out of Ceres, come hell or high waters. Today I cry over the memories that was left there. My uncle Mervin? He was different. A wild cat with respect in the house but tripping outside. I remember the time he came out of the “form”. He used to hit cats with the head on the streets. A local gang called Pang Nation. Although I have wondered why they were a peaceful gang. Everybody on the in my neighbourhood used to know Mervin. If not a maniac in battles, then a general in war, through the eyes of my child eyes. I don't think people really knew that we were related except when my friends started noticing he comes in and out of our home within my teen years. Or is it me who cannot reality as a boy? And the family were aware of what he did but not say anything because he had respect in our home. I think actually this is why there is so many gangs today. Parents will die for their kids, let alone talk to them for being in a gang. Some of my friends not only attended

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My Life in Mitchell's Plain as a Muslim



the school I went to. I was happy and not asking too many questions. I had a friend who was on Charlie Hoff Meyer, a white school like we called in the ghetto. It was just across the block, maybe ten blocks from where I stayed. He was friends with the priest's son who moved into Ceres. One specific night I remember standing in front of the community shop when this priest son approached me and asked whether I could spend the night by him since his parents won’t be at home. At this stage, I really did not know him that well but I ran back to my home and told my Mom I would sleep over at his house. This is where my church life started. From going Sunday school of Bible studies to going on sermons on farms with my friend’s father as the priest. I grew in a second from being a free-spirited soul to being much more in a controlled environment seeing that my friend literally stayed in a home on the church ground. I started learning a lot of the trials and tribulations of the Prophets in the Bible. Every Sunday morning, I would be in church. People started making fun of me and said I am family of this new and wonderful family I met. As time went by I also learned that my friend had two bigger brothers who worked in Cape Town during the week and only came home every weekend. We all started befriending one another and it was all good and well. I remember one day when the second eldest son accidentally dropped the water melon and his Father said that he should rather go help his Mother in the kitchen. We all cracked ourselves up at that one. A peaceful place where you here no gun shots. Well, at least every ten years almost like a meteor tour through space. And who would have thought that my life would have been like that same meteor all these years later. And who can stop my tears when the one responsible for stopping it are no longer there. I grew up so peaceful that my soul still yearns after the sand of my home town. But once water runs you by it is difficult to set chase after it. And my sensitivity in growing up as a quiet child would later be my rage and anger. But let’s get back to the church. There I was learning and loving. Such a good feeling to love and let love. And every priest you meet would give you a different inspiration. In my own opinion, maybe it was God preparing for what is about to come. Like a thriller God had to keep me in suspense. But good movies keep you on the edge of your seat. So well done to God. What I can’t stand though is people treating religious people as if they are God themselves. But who am I? And my questions I keep within myself in fear of judgment. My life as this young boy or perhaps teenager was soft and behaved. I cannot remember swearing at a dog or cat for that manner. But the devil is a liar, isn’t he? Not to sound like my old priest or anything, but I remember the time I was shown my first porn magazine. I was maybe 15 or 12 years of age. And at that age I acted shy towards it. But I could not get my mind off it once I stared into the life of adulthood. But yes, you men would know the feeling. An innocent young boy touched by the vision of nakedness. My childhood was filled with good people. And when I say that I do not just mean church going people. But honest, decent and hardworking people. My Mother and those who had raised I did pity the most. Because being on welfare with no one working in the house is tough. At that time, I didn’t see it the way I know it to be now. How tough life can be. How life can through stones at you from all directions. How people can judge you for not having what they have. Hmm, maybe my Mother is the reason I’m writing this. I taught respect, honour and dignity by these Women who raised me. And they were the best. My friends use to get angry at me when they see celebrities visiting our country and I have that nonchalant attitude towards them (the celebrities). But truly it wasn’t me. It was the manner I was raised. Like there is not anything those who look after me taught me that you can show me something better to impress me. Not from an arrogant standpoint or braggard standpoint. But what can you show me to impress me when I was raised by Women? So, can you IMAGINE how ANGRY I get


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