Loveless

Damiam vincent henry

I became a writer and poet, the day my mother named me. I was born Damiam Vincent Henry in the very streets of Cape Town. Being a young male, growing up in the Cape Flats. But I had my reading. I read all types of books, from Map Jacobs to Moby Dick. Swept away into a world free from poverty and institutionalization; born in the Cape Flats, I’m reminded coming from school and immediately getting lost in the comic book titled “Coloureds” written bythe Trantraal Brothers. Reading became my hope. It inspired me to write. But imagine seeing people addicted to drugs, girls forcedinto prostitution, and boys inducted into the number game. Motherless children who hadn’t ate for three whole days, wearing those same clothes they wore a fewdays ago. These are but few of many things my eyes had witnessed; although this happens everywhere. We fought our battles from being bullied at school, making new friends, and vaguely hating our lives. But we’d never truly know how our mother would do char jobs just to keep us in school. Or how she starved herself so that we wouldn’t attend school hungry; many mothers can relate. But growing up and later moving to Delft. Our mother becameeven more protective over my brothers and I…who could blame her. We’ve lived just about everywhere and eventhough we pretended getting used to the idea of staying in one place. We thought life was cruel. But our mother had an antidote to escaping from the “cruel life.” Funny, she’d give each of us a Huisgenoot while attended to the people’s washing, and doing dishes. And we’d belost in “Liewe Heksie” and trying to complete the crossword puzzle. She had hereye on us even when it seemed she was pre-occupied. Now, residing in Stellenbosch and being away from my mother’s home…I’m reminded by her words she’d always quote: “A mother’s work isnever done.” And now being a father of two, understanding what she meant after all this time. I dreamt of changing the Cape Flats but it never crossed my mind that our entire world needed fixing. As one of my role models said:“Wishing for the impossible is a flat stone skipping across water, bouncing off the surface, countless times before sinking.” Yes, failure is inevitable, but literature will always be beautiful. My mother stood firm in her beliefs that we represent God wherever we go, and now being in Stellenbosch. Today I'm 26 years old and I'm hoping to do so through my writing.