I recently celebrated my first year of marriage and a lot has changed in that year, but not my surname. I have officially remained a Ndlovu, not because of any rebellious streak that is usually attached to women of my generation but because I have so much attached to my maiden surname. Also, I have been too busy to go to the Registrar General’s office to face the unpleasantly cumbersome and time-consuming procedure which I have already had the misfortune to attempt to endure before.
The biggest challenge I faced was going back to church with my new status. DIVORCED. Looking back, I think I would have done well for myself if I’d stuck a sticker on my forehead written, “Cursed! Run away from me as fast as you can!”, as I failed to fit in with any group.
I feel my life story is a testimony that may inspire and encourage many people and I am not afraid to tell it.
I am woman of mixed race and many opinions; a woman who stands for what she believes in at any cost. I was born over two decades ago to a somewhat dysfunctional family; I am my dad’s last born and my mum’s second born. I have one blood sister and four half siblings. I was raised by my maternal grandmother and had a childhood filled with a whole lot of drama as my grandfather was an alcoholic and the worst abusive type; the type who swore and shouted a lot, which is any little girl’s worst fear.
I AWOKE from my unconsciousness to find myself lying in my own vomit; my first suicide attempt had failed. Still determined to kill myself, however, I reached for the same bottle of white pills from which I had overdosed and decided to try again, chucking another handful of the medication down my throat.