Your illegitimate child hates you for being an ungodly whore – and other painful truths that will most likely have me banned from Facebook… again

Smells like success“, Riyaahd chuckled as he passed our bathroom door. Since being hospitalised for a blocked bowel, my trips to the toilet have been placed in community of property.

Hardly the image of matrimony I envisioned when I said ‘I do’.

Turns out, I doo doo.

 

Much of the last few weeks has been learning to juggle working from home, taking Rose  out of crèche so that I can be a full time mommy- and learning how to be a wife who doesn’t say things like ‘make your own vriete’, or ‘I want a divorce’.

It has been a challenging last two months.

Especially because when I do say “I want a divorce”,  [ In Jest, of course] Riyaahd thinks it is hilarious [every frucking time] to respond in an Italian accent, “You wannta de wors? I hava de Wors’.

My husband seems oblivious to the fact that Wors is not an Italian word, but is in fact an uncomfortable Afrikaans slang term for penis, coined by the even more uncomfortable Afrikaans penis terminator, Nataniel.

[As a side note, I am aware that I always bring up Nataniel in my blogs. I feel inclined to announce that i have no beef with him…. well, except the wors, of course].

I have also never enjoyed metaphors for penis. Yes… Metawors…. Let’s move on from this… I fear I might fall down the rabbit hole of puns…. Wors innie pun, etc.

Stop saying Wors.

Wors.

Regardless, so many things have transpired in the last few weeks, that I have had some trouble sitting down and putting my thoughts to paper. Until Sidney-Jonah asked me the question I had been dreading for years:

“Mommy, why don’t I have a real daddy?”.

This may possibly be the sole reason my bowels released themselves so rapidly. I must have been clenching since Huzaifa abandoned me and his soon-to-be-seven year old, in 2010.

But Sidney didn’t stop at just one question. It seems, an almost seven year old can also hold back… and what ensued was verbal diarrhoea… much-much wors…. especially discussing his paternal piece of shit.

I hardly discuss Sidney’s ‘other’ family.

This might partially be due to the fact that I haven’t really dealt with my emotions towards how they have neglected their own flesh and blood, especially In Ramadaan.

It might also be because before I could address my feelings of neglect and anger at being left to fend for a baby all on my own at the tender age of 21, I fell in love with a man who did the opposite, and refused to leave my side…obsessively so.

[I then went on to have his child too… before he left me alone permanently].

“But Shana, he didn’t abandon you… he died. “

“Semantics. Same Antics”.

Two deadbeats in the hand is like giving birth in the bush… or whatever the old adage says. Either way if he didn’t kick the bucket, I would have had to financially support the bucket myself too.

I digress…

I would like to say that I have forgiven the Laattoes from Ottery, who live next to the Mosque, for denying my son.

I would like to say it… But I would be lying.

As a Christian, I am however expected to turn the other cheek. A feat much greater than anticipated, unfortunately. And as Sidney was conceived while my back was turned… I am unsure of how many more of my cheeks I can reveal to his ‘dad’.

He is more than welcome to kiss the cheeks of which he has already made acquaintance.

I’ll be sure to have a hearty meal first.

“Mama… So did you marry my dad first, and then have me? Then married Uncle Lyle… then marry daddy [Riyaahd]”?

Not many things have ever reduced me to complete silence.

I felt so guilty in that moment for selfishly having a child out of wedlock.

Twenty year old Shana has not even considered the mental repercussions that would eventually affect the child. I have only been caring about myself, and being a strong single mommy. God forbid that the world that was judging me even noticed my regret.

I thought that the challenge only lied with me.

Looking back, I was honestly convinced that if I didn’t allow my children to suffer financially, that they wouldn’t feel the effects of growing up ‘unconventionally’.

I was wrong.

The feminist inside of me is filled with rage.

My marital Nirvana is lost on my kids, who I now realise naturally expected me to be eternally tied to their [respective] biological dads.

Jonah even cried on my wedding day, because he did not want a ‘new’ dad.. Even though he had never met his ‘old’ one.

So, when he randomly started firing questions at me, about a man I had slept with seven years ago, then let ejaculate inside of me accidentally, and then never saw again…..  I did what any logical, level-headed woman in my position does when their kids ask them difficult questions.

I turned to Jonah and gently said… “I think you should ask your dad to explain”.

Sorry Riyaahd.

(Guess it smells like team spirit, bitch).

“Mama, can we go on the bus?”

In 2015, Jonah was almost five, and completely obsessed with anything with wheels that go round and round. I agreed to take him on a bus ride to Cavendish, and meet up with my best friend, Fozia.

On this particular Saturday, we ascended the Golden Arrow at the Pelican Heights robots, and as we walked to our seats, I heard a painfully, almost too familiar, “Hello Shana”, emerge from a black doeki.

“Is this Sidney?” Huzaifa’s mother smiled at me. A smile I believe is reserved for strangers, homeless people and the bitch that birthed your grandchild.

She didn’t even pause so that I could process the last five years of her avoiding his existence.

My politeness got the best of me and I responded; “Hi. Yes.”

Jonah and I had chosen the seat in front of his not-so-Grand ma. My entire body tingled from my vagina to my throat in what I thought was anger… [Only later that year would I find out I was feeling the aggravating effects of herpes.]

“Mama who is this?”

“I am aunty Shahieda”, she responded in my place.

Aunty.

Heh.

She continued the conversation with her not-grandchild, while I sat in stunned silence.

“And how old are you?”

“I am five. I’m Sinny-Joma”.

Then burning sensation escalated. My son was now fully immersed in his dance with the devil. I work-shopped ways to stop the conversation, but came up empty. She turned to me.

“He is beautiful.”

Yes, I know He has been beautiful since 2010.

“…and so smart”.

… yes, even though he is partially your son’s sperm, we managed to dodge the Oude Molen gene.

“…and what have you been up to these days, Shana?”.

Well besides raising your son’s premature ejaculation, I have been “working and stuff. I have another child now, a baby girl”.

And then she gave me that judgmental eyebrow, straight from Jahanam… the same eyebrow she raised when I told her I was expecting the heir to the Laattoe Sassa grant.

“….. And I’m getting married to her dad…” I lied. I still don’t know why I felt the need to make myself seem less deplorable, to a woman whose son has denied his child for years.

“Mashallah. I am happy for you”.

The conversation teetered after she asked for my number and I reluctantly obliged.

When the bus came to her stop after the Ottery traffic department, she pinched Jonah’s check, and touched me on the shoulder.

“Well, I will be in touch hey… We need to get that paternity test”.

Jonah waved.

“Bye Aunty”.

“……..Mama I like that aunty”.

…….

Misogynist men, judgmental females and many Facebook memes are always talking about women who choose to keep their children away from the dad, as if these women are hell spawn.

I am one of these women.

In August 2010, Jonah was nearly three months old.

At the time, I had been single for a year, and had not seen Huzaifa through my entire pregnancy.

My mother and father had never forced me to contact him, but being overweight and lonely, and absolutely overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising an entire human being, I was motivated to contact him.

I needed to share the responsibility.

I needed somewhere to send this child on weekends. I needed an escape.

I dialed his number.

“Hello Shana”

“Your baby was born”.

Silence.

“I’m not sure what you want from me.”

I put down the phone, and got into my car with Sidney. I arrived at Huzaifa’s home 15 minutes later, shaking with anticipation, and excitement… and rage.

I remember it was raining.

Jonah and I knocked on the front door, and Huzaifa opened. He didn’t even look at the baby, or at me. He was on his phone. I still don’t know who with.

I sat down on the couch.

“You lucky my parents aren’t here. They don’t want you here.”

I suddenly felt desperate. I wanted him to like us.

 

“This is your child, Huzaifa”

He offered a blank expression.

“He isn’t Muslim.”

………………

 

I need to stop for a second.

Suddenly, my first blog post from ‘The Dirty Girl Diary’ seems appropriate. For context, of course.

The year after Sidney was born, I decided to write about my feelings. Below is what emerged.

I still cringe at my terrible attempt at normalizing being known as ‘dirty’.

He had made me feel dirty for carrying his child.

I also still cringe at my lack of grammatical skills, and attempt at entertainment.

Forgive me, I was but 22.

Goodmorning. I am Shana..and I’m a student, single mother and glorified badAss. (cue shades.) It seems fitting that I start our meeting at the crux. I am a well known dirty girl.

(Definition: New age woman prone to to addiction, rumours and one night stands.) I found out i was pregnant in 2009, sitting in my En suite on a Sunday morning, ironically as I was preparing for 10am Mass. (you know how us catholic girls can be…)  staring at my feet, wishing that the two ply would wipe away the HCG.

Well, I was actually half staring at my feet, and half at the crystal ball like apparatus that I have just peed on. It has just doomed me to becoming an unwed mother. Oh, let me get you up to speed, I am 20, unemployed and dating an Islamic man/boy that irritates me. I am also an extroverted ex Crescent clinic patient prone to Ally Mac Beal fantasies, but we’ll get there.  You see, this wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to be famous by now.

Yes, my plan was a cliché, but whose isn’t? My view is that everything has already been done anyway; the best we can hope for is to be carbon copies of really successful people. I’ve always pictured my name in lights, albeit Vegas, limousines, bodyguards, and telling people I’m from “the block”. Not once, did I picture having kids. I was about to own a mucous oozing, sand eating leach. I was about to experience gestation, gas, heartburn, vomiting, a possible C-section that I’ll have to do at a state hospital, and some intern was going to lose his sponge in my abdomen. Oh God. My Abdomen, and yes, this is worried me most, I was about to become fat.

“I’m leaving at quarter to…” my mother shouts from her room across the hallway. I can’t seem to look up. My head heavy, in its third trimester. Eventually I drag myself into the shower, hoping to drown in a freak domestic accident involving a farfetched scenario about intense water pressure paired with projectile faucets and overtly soapy floor.

I suppose I didn’t mind my parents finding out I was pregnant from my autopsy. It would certainly appear in a whole new light. “If only she’d told us” I can hear my mother sob. “I would have loved another grandchild, if only she was alive” my imaginary father adds, consoling my mother as she sobs. Luther Van Dros playing in the background on the coroner’s Wireless.

Fade to Black.

Unfortunately, this isn’t how the reveal goes down in real life. What irks me is that I feel as if they’re half expecting it. For you see, I am the black sheep, the “that child”. I’m the colossal-fuck-up sibling that causes most of the comic relief in many American sitcoms. I’m the fucking Marsha.

I know what you’re thinking, how did I tell “him”?

Hello?” Sperm donor X answers his phone.

“I’m pregnant”

Ok. No problem, uhm, I a bit busy but….we can chat later.”

“Ok.”

“You ok?”

“Yeah”

“Ok cool. No problem. Cool.”

Because of my jaded past, I feared that no one was going to be surprised. I am somewhat disappointed. What is the purpose of my dramatic lifestyle, if not to shock people? I just feel that after being victimized and embarrassed, I would have at least enjoyed the element of surprise as consolation.

We all deserve our 15 minutes of publicized shame.

So, what do I blame my continuous lapses in judgment on? Neglect is a good one. Or sexual abuse… any abuse really. Poverty always gets people out of things, too.

But alas, I am not that lucky.

I am a fortunate, upper middle class product of suburbia. I have a Degree in Film and Music and have gone through countless Life Orientation Lessons, so I am over qualified in the art of contraception.

Imagine this conversation.

Dad: “why didn’t you use the pill or the injection?”

Me: “it makes me fat dad”

Dad: “and condoms?”

Me: “I prefer skin to skin, it feels better. I don’t orgasm with condoms”.

Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to go down well.

What I would give for a pedophile uncle right now. 

*******

Okay, I’m back.

“He isn’t Muslim”.

Silence.

“…. I can’t deal with this now. Can you guys go?”

He escorted us out, while it was still raining.

I turned around, while he gently pushed me on my back, to facilitate my departure.

“Can I contact you again?” I asked.

He gave me his work email address, and asked me not to call his phone anymore, as he had a new girlfriend.

His new girlfriend had a child.

I put Jonah in the car, and turned to ask if Huzaifa would like to kiss him.

He had already gone back inside the house.

I never bothered Huzaifa again, and he never bothered to see his son.

His family and friends also never attempted to communicate…

Until two weeks ago, when I received a Facebook request message:

“Hello Shana…. Is that Huzaifa’s laaitie?”

[To be continued]
************

 

 

 

Note: My new parenting show will air from Monday 19 June, 10am till 12pm.

Catch me on #Hashtagradio, ‘Howbowdah?’

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12 thoughts on “Your illegitimate child hates you for being an ungodly whore – and other painful truths that will most likely have me banned from Facebook… again

  1. I started reading your blogs again, now that i have a bit of free time. Thank you for being bold and sharing experiences many of us will never do because we are scared of being judged.

    Like

  2. What a great way to spend my first Saturday to myself. Lying in bed and reading your posts. I can’t consider myself a ho or a housewife but your posts are so pure, so hilarious, so real, so heartwarming, sad the list goes on. You are one hell of a woman 🙂 thank you for sharing and keeping me entertained. Your story in a weird way is many women’s stories… many woman close to me and it moved me. Can’t wait for the next one. (As I try figure out when that will be!)

    Like

  3. Totally love it. My eldest daughters dad alsi a muslim guy Ebrahim Weber from Athlone, Balgravia also never bothered with his child nor hs family and she is 9 years old now.the worst part is that i saw him outside of a brothel in town n when he realised i saw the fool…sorry, he started running.god alone knows why.she knows her dad is muslim and now also wana pwaza n have labarang cos she’s got muslim blood. It hurts hey, but ive raised her by myself since she was born with the help of my family n sassa of cause n os is just fine.

    Like

  4. Lmk…heir to the Laattoe sassa grant. Everything of the best my dear keep your sense of humour its a gift in these tough times

    Like

  5. My life would be a little emptier without your sarcasm, wisdoms, humour, rude awakenings, etcetera :-). thank you for your grind… are you on twitter? (and dont now vloek me)

    Like

  6. F@#$ them!

    Sorry to start my comment like that. But seriously f@#$ them. I get your situation. Hell I lived your situation as a child who was dumped by their father and a mother who’s child got dumped by her father. They can go to hell. All of them.

    Here is the short version of my long story: Met and dated sperm donor. Got pregnant, her got arrested for drug dealing. His priest father told us to get married. I said no. Had baby. He lived with me and my parents. Kicked his ass out on her 3 month birthday due to drugs. Spent hour with his kid at 9months old. Moved to Randburg with his gf. Tried to claim maintenance. Spent 10min with her on her 2nd bday. Spoke to his kid on her 4th and 6th birthday. Went poof like smoke. His family doea not believe in bastard children so wont help financially or emotionally. He made contact in Dec wants a relationship with his kick. Told him that there will be rules and it will be her choice. He never contacted again. She is turning 11 on the 28th.

    Feel free to email me if you need someone to vent to that understands.

    So I will releat f@#$ them. And protect your child from the hurt ther assholeness will cause.

    Ps: love your blog.

    On 10 Jun 2017 11:23 AM, “….Into a Housewife…” wrote:

    > justahoewithbabies posted: “”Smells like success”, Riyaahd chuckled as he > passed our bathroom door. Since being hospitalised for a blocked bowel, my > trips to the toilet have been placed in community of property. Hardly the > image of matrimony I envisioned when I said ‘I do’. Tu” >

    Like

  7. All I can say is a Moerse #dalawhatyoumust! That’s how I live my life. And you have done just that… nanny all the judgemental ma se goedtes, dala what you want and not what they approve. Tsek!!!

    Like

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