This I Believe

By Lisu Khuzwayo Reflecting on my life, I acknowledge that I have endured significant hardship—baggage, trauma, inner turmoil, and hate. These experiences have imparted invaluable lessons on what not to become. My mother disciplined me in the traditional African way, with whipping belts and haunting screams. Through this, I first grasped the depths of life and the essence of HLONIPHA—respect.

“Why are you crying?”

“You think you’re clever?”

“Yes, tell me why you are sorry?”

These questions, posed by my mother, accompanied each dose of life’s harsh discipline. In my household, my mother’s punishments were fierce. Yet, amidst the pain, there was a profound lesson. After each beating, my mother would comfort me, her silence speaking volumes. The forgiveness in her hugs taught me that my mistakes were lessons, not definitions of my character. Her embrace, as she wiped my tears and even vacuumed the snot from my nostrils like an elephant’s trunk, was a powerful gesture of unconditional love and forgiveness.

Though she spoke little, her actions were clear. I realized that “bad” is not limited to rapists, murderers, robbers, and criminals; it can manifest in anyone’s life, including my own. Each strike of her red belt was a lesson, each chapter of my life a different tragedy, trauma, or teaching moment. The greatest gift she gave me was the understanding that, at the end of each chapter, I had a choice, not an order, but a choice.

This is true: Every single day, we are presented with choices. Circumstances do not dictate who we are or what we must become. It is our choices—to hate or to love, to boast or to be humble, to see life’s scars as reasons to be nasty or to be kind—that define us.

My eldest brother, Mpilo, ironically lived a life contrary to the meaning of his name. Mpilo fell into a world of drugs, and negative connotations were the only things associated with his name. Mpilo and I did not spend much time together; I resented him because I understood that he had the power of choice, yet he chose poorly. Mpilo disappeared at the tender age of 18. Despite continuous searches, he remains unfound nine years later.

I vividly remember nine years ago, just before my youngest sibling, Simile (meaning “we are standing”), was born. Two weeks before my mother went into labor, Mpilo and I had a conversation. He told me our parents would neglect me once Simile arrived, just as they had neglected him after my birth. Unlike Mpilo, I understood that believing such things is merely a choice.

Nine years later, I write this to share my truth with the world. My little brother is the greatest soul I have ever known. Every day, I choose not to let my inner conflicts consume me, unlike Mpilo’s inner turmoil, which fueled his inevitable downfall.

Every day we are offered a choice. This, I believe.