“Shana, how did Lyle die?”
New followers often ask me to go into detail about what exactly happened to my infamous ex-boyfriend.
And as much as I hate to blog a dead ho$h, I will engage one last time about the happenings of September 5th, 2015.
As the story goes, Lyle’s father is a well-known gangster in Strandfontein/Manenberg/other gang related areas, and had been on the run from rival gangs for years.
Lyle never spoke of his dad, and in the 4 years of being with him, I had never met the man.
Regardless, he would see Lyle on occasion, by chance, while they both transported an assortment of narcotics through Strandfontein Village.
On September 1st, 2015, Lyle’s uncle, related to his father in some way, was shot dead at a popular Strandfontein merchant’s home. This must have incited or escalated an ongoing war, and Lyle’s dad came to Strandfontein to sort out the commotion.
On September 4th, Lyle met with his father at previously mentioned merchant’s home, and among other things that I am not fully aware of, had a few drinks with him, as the next Day, September 5th, was his father’s birthday.
Now, from witness accounts, there were many other people at the venue, and at some point in the evening, Lyle (as he would most days), ran into a bit of trouble with the other visitors. But somehow the night progressed fairly swiftly, and he, his friends- and his dad – hopped in the car, and moved the drunken party around town.
Several of my friends told me after his death that they had seen him that night, driving and partying around Strandfontein and Mitchell’s Plain.
At around 2am, Lyle’s friends dropped his dad back at the merchant’s house, and then dropped Lyle at home.
Lyle allegedly told them to be on their way, as he was going to sit on his stoep and have a smoke, before he turned in for the night.
Neighbourhood Watch was outside, and saw him arrive.
This is where things get strange.
From the Neighbourhood Watch’s account, a white Golf stopped a few metres away from Lyle, and an unknown man beckoned Lyle over to the car.
It is believed that Lyle recognized the car and its occupants, and made his way over to the vehicle cheerily.
After a brief discussion, Lyle was seen running from the car, clutching is chest.
Neighbourhood watch later reported that the look in Lyle’s face as he ran past them was one of terror, eyes wide.
He ran up the hill next to his home, and the car’s occupants could be heard screaming “Kry die gun. Skiet hom”.
It is assumed that they didn’t know they had killed him, but the hit was premeditated and intentional.
Neighbourhood Watch ran towards the car, and the white Golf sped away.
The Neighbourhood Watch then searched for Lyle. They woke his mother, and took her to the scene.
Lyle’s dead body was found directly behind the back wall of his home.
It is evident that he had attempted to jump the wall and access his house from the back.
As he had been drinking, he bled out in a matter of minutes. He collapsed just before making the jump.
The autopsy revealed that he had been stabbed with what seems to be a screwdriver, directly into his heart.
Most believe it was a “Happy Birthday” message to his father.
Others say that certain people were angry that Lyle was selling drugs on their turf, as a few weeks before, he had been approached by gangsters in the Trafalgar area, and warned about his dodgy dealings.
No suspects have been identified.
The case is cold.
My blog this week is more an accumulation of thoughts, than a story time.
Labour is imminent and unavoidable at this point, and the stress of having to prepare both my home, my mind and my soul has left me feeling both excited and drained…
And very, very overwhelmed.
The other day, I stared at an image of myself (the main image, at the top of the post), and didn’t feel like I recognized my likeness.
Pre-pregnancy, I had lost over 30kgs, and was happy, and fit… and (feminazis please forgive me), I felt as though my physical appearance made my husband proud to stand at my side.
Now, you see, my self-worth is not vested in what the man I am with thinks about my appearance. I have grown from that, and it took many years.
But, I would be lying to you if I didn’t admit that at a certain weight, (It may not apply to everyone, but I speak from my experience and those of the friends I have spoken to about it) there is a certain feeling of ‘not good enough’ and embarrassment that suddenly encompasses everything.
And yes, sometimes having a loving husband can only aggravate it.
Riyaahd always tells me I am beautiful. But that sentence, at 110kgs now aggravates me more than comforts me.
I looked at the picture and felt angry at myself for ‘letting myself go’ (whatever the fuck that means).
I felt shame. I felt greedy and disgusting.
I actually cried.
And most days when I wake up, I feel like I don’t want anyone to see me.
I have noticed that I avoid getting out of the car when I drop Jonah at school.. I keep imagining his friends speaking behind his back, laughing that his mom got so fat.
I feel scared to really get out at Riyaahd’s work, in case someone thinks, “Haai, you know, he married her with two kids and she looked so lekker, now look at her… poor Riyaahd”.
I don’t even start normal conversations without saying “I know I am huge”.
You see, if I say it first, then it makes it less embarrassing that you were thinking it.
I guess I do have a lot to work on besides my weight, once this baby comes.
When I was around 13 years old, my mother put me in a dance class. The class was hosted in the community hall behind St.Phillip’s church in Strandfontein. When she told me that I would be going every Wednesday, I was excited.
At the time, I was painfully unaware of my lack of co-ordination, and really wanted to be as pretty and liked as the girls with the dancer bodies.
They always looked as if they could easily glide into their hipsters and bell bottoms, and they always had red streaks in their hair, without their natural strand losing its shine or elasticity.
I aspired to pull off highlights, and smoke Rothman’s in the front seat of Abdul’s car. But that was reserved for thin kinnes, who looked more Malay than Khoi.
Even now, nearing my 30s, peroxide will snatch my weave, and I have never been able to score a man with his own car. I have only ever lit entjies in my daddy’s car when I would borrow it on my way to work… but never on the drive home, or he would vang me because of the smell.
My first dance lesson was pretty average.
Before it started, I sat on the floor, and secretly imagined how in just a few weeks I too would be stretching and skinnering with them. They all hugged each other hello and spoke of their week, listening to and telling each other anecdotes, with equal enthusiasm.
One girl, Jessica introduced herself to me and asked me a few polite questions to welcome me to the class.
When it was time to start, she said “it was nice to meet you”, and she sort of shimmied off to the people she knew better.
We were dancing to the then popular ‘You rock my World” by Micheal Jackson.
“Kick ball Chain. Step step, grab the chair…” the instructor shouted out, as I fumbled around, trying to move my hips in the same truthful way as the Roxys and Stacys in the team.
My hips, however, were liars.
At one point I felt them (the dancers, not my hips) collectively sigh, but still no one said a mean word, or even made prolonged eye contact at me.
I was positive.
The next week, I arrived five minutes early again and sat down by Jessica. I thought a familiar face would be friendly.
I said hello, and she sort of reluctantly replied, but she was still polite.
I asked how she was and she responded. We had a cordial back and forth.
The teacher emerged and I turned to look at her, when I heard the girl behind me whisper to Jessica “Oh my word are you friends with her?”.
To which Jessica responded “Hell no”.
I pretended not to hear, and kept that same forced smile on my face through the whole lesson.
When I got home, I cried to my mom to never go back.
And I never did.
Childhood was unpleasant for me. The story above is but a fraction of the humiliation I remember from my interaction with other girls, and actually other children while growing up.
Memories like these seem to disappear when I am feeling confident and rested, but creep into my head in the early hours of the morning, when I am battling pregnancy insomnia, and the urge to kick my husband ‘accidentally’ so that he can wake up and suffer with me.
Looking at his stupid, fertile, asshole face while he sleeps has been the most infuriating thing in my life for the past few weeks.
(“He’s a good man. Don’t stab him” is my most recent mantra. My resolve is wearing dangerously thin. Much like my uterus)
I am 35 weeks pregnant.
Besides the excitement of the imminent arrival of Scarlett-Grey Regina Fife, most of my feelings are of dread… and heart burn.
A recurring theme in my psyche for the last few weeks is that I am about to have my third c section, and I am terrified.
Now, I know that I am supposed to walk in faith, and believe me when I say I try to… But the thought of maternal death and risks, and the guilt of leaving my children motherless due to a major abdominal surgery that I could have avoided is leaving me a mental wreck.
I don’t know if I am the only woman who feels this way, in what is supposed to be a happy, glorious time. But I can tell you it feels lonely.
At the age of 29, my body is doing very different things compared to the first times I have done this.
My hips suddenly immobilize whenever I have the desire to change positions slightly.
My feet stink because of the excess sweat between my toes.
My vagina is constantly wet, no matter how much Carlton towel I shove into its now gaping folds.
Have you ever accidentally paper-mache’d your vagina shut, using only paper towels and your natural bodily fluids?
Well, let me be the first to confirm that it is a definite possibility. And you will lose skin and dignity when you dislodge it.
You will feel it in your throat.
It will dry up your mouth.
As you ladies know, I have also not been medicated for the last 8 months, so my bipolar and OCD are at an all-time high.
This means, that because I have been demoted from having A-class medical Aid, to ‘kak-en-betaalie’, at 30 weeks, Al –Nisa transferred me to Groote Schuur Hospital as a high Risk patient.
As the doctor explained, I am high risk because I have already had two c sections so I cannot go into labour, “in case your womb ruptures”.
Try thinking about that at 2am every morning, and see how long it takes you to ‘drift back to sleep’.
Also, “Because of your mental history, you will need to be admitted as a psych patient when you deliver”.
I do not feel ashamed.
I do feel ashamed.
I do not feel ashamed.
And so the feelings go back and forth.
Regardless, my experience thus far at Groote Schuur has been mostly pleasant. I have made a few 5am friends, and the staff have been bearable…
The breastfeeding nurse makes the same jokes every week, God bless her soul. The one constant in my hormonal journey.
“Ladies, don’t let me walk here again with my size 3 shoes. Ek raak moeg”
“If you feel sick, please tell the nurses, we don’t want any fitters and turners here. If you think you gonna have a fit, tell us. Then it will be your turn”.
“Jule hoef nie om vir my te luister nie, einde vanni maand pay ek nogsteeds lekker”.
I hate the term ‘High Risk”.
In my case it means I am high risk of death. But more unsettling it means that I, the mother am a high risk to my child.
I don’t think I can take another bout of post-natal depression. Because in all honestly, my 29 year old brain is different.
You see, this seems like a ridiculous comparison, but when I was 21 and 25, things in my life were already shitty. Depression was a common visitor, often staying for extended periods of time. It had its own time share in the many rooms in my head.
The thought of going back to depression now that my life is text book perfect is scarier than I can explain.
The questions that plague you when you have a lot to lose are more difficult to answer.
This is new territory for me.
I have never really had tangible happiness to lose.
In 1988, my mother was told that 13 years after giving birth to her first child, she was expecting again.
Now, my mother is not the most nurturing maternal woman, though to speculate her feelings towards the news would be disrespectful. But I can tell you it must have been over whelming when at the next visit, the doctor told her that she wasn’t only expecting one baby… but three.
As the story goes, from my mother’s account… she didn’t want any more children after the birth of my sister.
My mom is a career woman, and is nearing her 50th year of being an educator. This achievement I think, she holds in higher esteem than the fact that she is nearing her 45th year of being a parent and wife.
She is a woman before her time.
Regardless, when she was told that she was going to go from the reluctant mother of 1, to the reluctant mother of 4… her world shifted.
My father, who had always wanted a large family, was over the moon.
Time passed, as it does.
In the later stages of the pregnancy, my mother (I am unaware of the exact details of how she arrived in this situation) called my father at work, to say that she had a flat tyre.
My father couldn’t make it out to assist, and my mother being the strong, stubborn woman that I have come to know and resent (with love), decided that with total disregard to her ‘state’, she didn’t need a fucking man.
She prepared her work place, and proceeded to jack up the car and change the tyre herself.
Laying under the car, she managed to successfully remove the wheel, and must have misjudged its weight, or her compromised core strength, and the tyre fell directly onto her stomach.
She finished the task and went on with her day.
A few days later, she noticed that she was bleeding.
The gynecologist was baffled by the next ultrasound.
Two of the triplets had mysteriously ‘bled out’. There was no trace of them. They merely broke down and must have passed through.
All that remained was one very resilient, very stubborn girl baby.
Regardless of the dangers of any damage that may have occurred, my mother decided not to terminate the pregnancy.
On December 14th, 1988, Shana Genever was born.
Now, I understand that that is some far-fetched shit, but considering the way my life has gone since that fateful December 14th, is it hard to imagine that I have been living for 3 this entire time?
But the reason I am sharing this story isn’t for dramatic effect.
I am looking for a segue into revealing my biggest fear: losing this baby.
In the last few years, in my ‘luck’ with fertility, I always assumed that I could fall pregnant from the mere thought of sex. And this has proven to be somewhat accurate.
But what I have learned from life, is that it sometimes waits until your guard is down, in order to swing you into the next obstacle that you have to overcome.
Many of my friends tell me about their constant battle with infertility, and I feel almost smug, when I mention how easy it was, especially for my husband and me to conceive.
And the more I have been privy to stories of miscarriages and babies being stillborn, even at term… I have suddenly developed this dread.
I think things like: I could conceive for two worthless men, what if this time I fail, and it hurts the man I love?
What if this time I can’t control my post-natal depression, and I finally snap and hurt my child?
What are the chances of the largest listeriosis outbreak occurring during my pregnancy with Riyaahd?
What if this was the plan all along to punish me for my abortion?
The other day we rushed to hospital, because I sincerely thought I was in preterm labour. Even though it was confirmed as the worst ever fucking case of Braxton Hicks ever recorded (I am exaggerating), when I got to the bed to lay down, I noticed that the sheets weren’t being changed, even though the patient before me had bleeding piles.
Unable to lay down, I asked the nurse why they weren’t taking precautions against fucking killing me, to which she said, “Haai its okay man, I will put down a sheet. But we actually not supposed to because of the water restrictions”.
And this is the same place that will slice me open, and remove my baby from my womb, before it ruptures.
“So, how did Shana die”?