Exit!

by Grizelda Grootboom

  I had always carried this feeling of loss for Z. This new baby brought love into my heart for the first time; I knew I had to be my best for him, because he had trusted me with his life – now there was this tiny baby, and it was him I had to learn to care for. It was a responsibility that removed me from my own self-interest, because my whole life I had been concerned about my own survival and protection.

  S made me feel that I have survived, even though I wasn’t yet ready to be the person I knew I needed to be for him. I made promises in my heart for him: ‘Please, S, give me time. I promise you things will change.’

  I would say this to him every day.

  My mother still had her business of selling beer to support everyone in the house – my two step brothers plus now S. She was drinking a lot and selling wine. We had so many arguments about money, which made me very tired.

  Then Harry’s Pancakes closed down and I lost my job. Mom’s noise in my ears got louder and louder.

  ‘You’ve got to support yourself. And what about me? And S?’ she would repeat.

  During our arguments, my ears, heart and body would be shaking. I think my little baby felt and heard my anxiety and my increasing anger.

  Weed helped me shut out her noise, so I smoked more and more, but it was clear that I couldn’t live with my mother any more. And I knew I had to make money so that I could afford a separate home for my son and myself. I would not allow him to grow up with the abusive parent that I had had.

  I just wished I could be alone with S in a quiet place.

  I was twenty-eight years old. S was two months old. His father was gone. And through all the noise I had this spiritual feeling that was growing. I wanted things to be right.

  Twenty-two

  FOR THE PERIODS THAT WE were together, my mother and I had argued a lot and I had always felt we needed something to bond us together. The answer was S. He was her baby too. Despite all the arguments, I was strengthened by having my mother near me because most of the time I had no idea what to do with this baby. She helped me care for him, and I think it was the first time we had something we shared.

  I decided I needed to continue the spiritual journey I had started with the Methodists in Johannesburg. I also needed to find an income. I knew one hundred per cent that I would return to S, and that I wasn’t going to repeat what my mother had done to me. That wasn’t going to happen. But to make a new path in my life, I knew I had to get away from my mom.

  That December 2008, just a few months after S’s birth, I left for Johannesburg to find a job. My mother wanted me to return to prostitution. That, to her, was my job. She didn’t seem to realise how much I didn’t want to go back to that lifestyle.

  I knew I had to get away, and then come back stronger.

  And it came at a great cost: I left parenting S in order to resurrect my spirit.

  In the back of my mind, I thought I would stay in Yeoville with Lindiwe, my pretty Cape Town friend. She knew my story – knew about the working and occasional stripping in Cape Town, knew about me getting pregnant and having S. She thought that I was in Johannesburg to look for clients and continue my prostitution business now that I had a bigger family to support.

  When I arrived in Johannesburg, Lindiwe immediately fixed me up to perform on a bachelor’s party strip show which she had organised for her friend’s fiancé.

  The money was tempting – R1200, a good amount for a night’s work. The party was inside a big bus with a bar inside and a pole for me to dance and strip on, and it drove from one club to the next while the guys watched me strip. The guys kept buying me drinks, and I was high on weed.

  So that was how I started things back in Joburg.

  When I was staying with Lindiwe, she kept going out, and that’s when I learnt that she was now also attending functions at the Methodist church. When she found out I was also joining the Methodists, she became very embarrassed because she had introduced me to this strip bus, not knowing about my spiritual pursuits.

  Then Lindiwe found out that the soup kitchen staff and others in the church already knew me and my background from the last time I’d been there. I thought to myself, ‘This chick could threaten me.’

  And she was about to do just that – Lindiwe was about to make my life hell.

  Once I had made contact with the Methodist church, I moved out of Lindiwe’s place and into the Methodists’ Home of Hope shelter. While I was there, I learnt about a six-month programme designed to guide ‘young’ women like myself, who were having difficulties with life in general, in the direction of the Christian faith. It was called IntombiMayano. When I joined up, it was like I was ‘on trial’, trying to become a spiritually strong young woman and forget my years of trauma.

  Lindiwe, whom I had considered a close friend, didn’t seem to understand the spiritual changes I was experiencing, and that I preferred to continue with church activities rather than prostitution. Nor was she accepting of my spiritual growth, even though we went through the programme together. And while I was so excited to come back to the Methodists, Lindiwe seemed uncomfortable with my move, perhaps because I might crowd her own space there. That’s where we had our differences.

  She might have been willing to help support me, but the church was full of TV celebrities, and she felt I wasn’t fitting into this image. By now, Lindiwe was an extra on a local TV show, and was moving about with the ‘celebrities’. With everyone knowing my story, I felt like I was living in a fish bowl.

  I challenged her: ‘You’re an actress now. So why are you also joining this church programme?’

  The dynamics between us started to change.

  The IntombiMayano programme enabled me to not only learn religious and Godly principles for conducting my life, but also to make friends within the church, and give service by working in their soup kitchen. During that time we could only wear our black and white clothes.

  But at the same time, my mother had been phoning me from Cape Town to complain about money, and she was making me feel so small and cheap. When I spoke to S on the phone, I would reassure him that I was his mama and would be coming home soon. But as I neared the end of the six months, I became totally focused on my spiritual path, even forgetting about my mother and S, and the anxiety I had been feeling about them.

  I ignored my mom’s voice more and more, and instead I focused on helping the kids in the church’s orphanages. And I was able to stay in the Home of Hope shelter, which helped my focus. By now I was making choices that were free from the violent and abusive circumstances of the past. I had found a church community which supported my growth, and it felt like my time had finally arrived. When I completed my six months, I received a uniform that identified me as an intombimayano.

  Right after receiving my Methodist uniform, I had the opportunity to visit Cape Town and see my mother and S in Site C. The grannies in Site C also wear their ‘cultural’ garbs for church, so I impressed them by wearing my garb that Sunday. I really felt that I was getting somewhere. I went back to Joburg feeling good about things.

  Then, a shock.

  Just when I had my full uniform and had found a stronger spiritual path, my friendship with Lindiwe fell apart. One day, we were both called into the church office and told that rumours were spreading among the members. Lindiwe stated in that meeting that I had told her that the church pastor was a client of mine from when I was a sex worker. Her own circle of friends had been spreading this rumour as well.

  I said in that meeting, with the pastor present, ‘I never met this pastor in my previous life.’

  The pastor stood up and agreed with me: ‘This is not true, this rumour. I have never had any relations of a sexual nature with Grizelda!’ And then he surprised me by saying: ‘This rumour is very hurtful and I’m afraid Grizelda will have to leave my church. I cannot have my name muddied like this. My position in this church is more important than her past.’

  The church leaders said I must leave the congregation and not work at the soup
kitchen any more. This rejection hurt me profoundly. I left, and never saw Lindiwe or discussed this false rumour with her after that.

  The rejection from the church and betrayal from someone I had thought was my best friend plunged me once again into deep depression.

  Just as I had chosen the path of survival, I was being set back once again. I asked God why I deserved that, just when I thought I was doing the right thing.

  One lady in the church said I could continue working on Saturdays at the soup kitchen. I was very confused. I disliked the shelter’s ‘sorry-shame’ programme, which meant begging and looking poor for the white people who came with their donations and gave us food. That didn’t allow for spiritual growth.

  I also didn’t know if I would be allowed to go back to the Home of Hope shelter, or if I had to stay on the street. I started looking at other shelters and programmes to join. The Home of Hope shelter allowed me to stay, although they weren’t happy that I was spending time on other church programmes.

  Then I was invited by a church member to stay in her apartment in Joburg central until I found my feet. Her apartment had three bedrooms, and she lived there with her boyfriend, two children, and her sister, Zanele.

  I think the woman was worried that her boyfriend would want to have sex with me, because she made me sleep on the balcony. Although I was grateful for the bed, in my mind I queried whether she really trusted me. I found it unsettling that she was so suspicious of me. I just couldn’t understand why someone from the church would try to help me, but then not trust me in their home. On the streets I had been called useless and unreliable, and I hadn’t expected the same treatment now, when I was trying to change for the better. I left after a month, but in that time I had developed a close friendship with her sister, Zanele.

  After that I wandered about, and would find odd jobs for income, like washing people’s clothes. One time a guy tried to approach me for favours, but I just got very angry. I was not interested in engaging with any men.

  I had to find my own feet again. I was deeply hurt and confused. Yet, I had to make some money for myself, S and my mother in Cape Town. My mother was drinking and still expected me to prostitute myself for income. We had a toxic relationship, even from this distance.

  A Zulu guy I knew in the church referred me to a Pakistani guy who owned a tuck shop in Soweto, and that’s how in my vulnerable condition I was trafficked by a church member: I could work and live in this man’s house, but I had to give sex for my accommodation.

  My spiritual growth had cleansed me, but my progress was being challenged by the devil, who kept pulling me towards temptation. I still needed to earn money, and I knew I could do it with sex, but at the same time I wanted to be left alone!

  I spoke with God: ‘Please, don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.’

  Twenty-three

  GOD, IN THE END, DID not give me the money, but after a week He helped me to get out of Soweto and back to my friend Zanele.

  Zanele was still attending the Houghton Methodist Church, but she introduced me to Tie, a Zimbabwean girl, who suggested I join her Christ Embassy Church in Yeoville. I kept strong, kept the faith, and considered joining the CEC community.

  In the meantime, friends I made led me to others who helped me find jobs, like domestic work. My employers were caring when they didn’t know my background. Sometimes, maybe once a month, I would still go to bachelor parties and do strip shows.

  When I eventually joined the Christ Embassy Church, I discovered that the Nigerian pastor was very charismatic, encouraging rigid practices of fasting during the week, preaching the gospel and holding conferences. The programme promoted forgiveness and prosperity in life, and this helped my spiritual path further. I felt that my spiritual strength was paying off; I could grow in this new church.

  But I was still being pulled back to work at the Methodist soup kitchen. I felt good about my walk from Hillbrow to Houghton at 5am to cook rice and chicken for people who were on the streets, like I once was. I could also receive a day’s meal for myself, and this kept my spirits up. It was as though I was overcoming, even forgiving, my former church for abandoning me, and allowing me to still exercise my spiritual and civic duties towards others in need, against all odds. I saw the change my work was making in the lives of other people.

  But it was painful for me – being torn between two churches. I loved the Methodist church for what I learnt from it, but in the end I was experiencing more growth at Christ Embassy.

  After two-and-a-half years, I finally stopped working in the Methodist soup kitchen because I developed a runny tummy! It seemed to me then that my system was being purged of stress and confusion.

  And what was I to do with the uniform I had earned with the Methodists who cast me out? Thinking about it all over again made me very angry, so much so that I threw the uniform into a street bin.

  A woman who was watching me told me that God would curse me for that. ‘You can’t just change churches like that,’ she said.

  Yet Christ Embassy, which was more charismatic and emotion-driven, inspired me to grow. And I was happy at least that the Methodists had taught me discipline during a time when I needed to get off drugs and prostitution.

  Yes, now I was making choices, like I couldn’t have during my time of being trafficked. I was evolving.

  But old thoughts plagued me as I continued to walk my spiritual path. I knew how to find money – with clients. I also knew the trade-off: sex workers always needed their fix. I remembered how one girl I knew had drunk Benylin cough syrup and then smoked cigarettes just to stay high.

  Should I go back to this kind of life, even temporarily?

  I had other thoughts: had I enjoyed sex during my prostitution days? No. I had always worried about satisfying the client so that he would return. I had never thought about satisfying myself. Yes, I would like to have a loving relationship with someone who could physically satisfy me. In my life, I had only climaxed during a threesome with another girl.

  Most importantly, I had to make some decisions about money, and my choices were muddled by the economic realities of my situation: I was undereducated, underskilled for employment, and I still needed to get off the sex and the hard drugs. Those addictions were still calling me.

  My mom’s phone calls angered me. She was always asking for money, saying things like, ‘You have a child.’ In my phone calls to my mom, I always tried to reassure her that I would send more money. But it wasn’t happening.

  I desperately looked in other directions.

  Twenty-four

  I SOMETIMES WONDER WHY I have so often been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Something else happened during these Joburg years that later really made me question what was going on in my life.

  I was still going through what I thought was my spiritual transformation, and meeting lots of people at the Nigerian Christ Embassy Church. I became aware that there were other activities going on at the church – some people who I had seen at church conferences were also involved in less spiritual business. I really wanted to change, so it was a challenge to accept what was going on, but I just washed it off.

  When I found myself still struggling with life, I went with the flow. And backslid again.

  A girlfriend of mine, Portia, had got to know some top Nigerians in the church. They flew us both to Cape Town for a big celebration – they had booked out an entire hotel in Tableview. I was happy about this opportunity because it gave me a chance to visit my little son and my mom.

  Once we were there, I was surprised to discover how deeply Portia was involved. She kept her BMW at her home in Cape Town, and together we drove to Tableview.

  On the way, we stopped at a garage to fill up with petrol.

  In the car, as we were putting on our make-up, a white guy waved to us.

  ‘Jeez, Cape Town has got so friendly!’ I exclaimed to Portia.

  Then he came over to us from his little red Golf. He seemed middle-aged, almost bald, wi
th his little patch of grass swept to one side. I could hear that he wasn’t South African but British. We chatted bit.

  ‘Will you go on a date with me?’ he suddenly asked me.

  ‘That sounds very personal,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he returned, ‘but you look like a very beautiful South African girl.’

  I was all excited at having a British guy trying to pick me up! I looked into his green eyes, and politely told him that we had a function to hurry to. He gave me his card and we exchanged numbers before saying goodbye.

  Portia and I then drove to the hotel. I had never seen a bunch of black guys take over a hotel before, but these guys had real money. I learnt that the drug lords were celebrating several years of successful moneymaking by having one huge party. What was funny for me was that I knew some of the small guys who were standing around selling their stuff.

  I also knew that I was there to work, though. So I asked Portia who my client was in this gathering.

  ‘It’s the main guy!’ she replied. ‘He’s into girls with big boobs!’ Portia herself had a bum but small boobs. That’s how I discovered that a tall Nigerian guy called King had booked me for the whole week.

  When I met him a bit later, I carefully asked for my R12 000 upfront, which he gave me. For that amount of money, I assumed I was booked to entertain not only King but other men as well.

  King gave me my own room, but he wasn’t around much and when he did visit my room he would just sleep. King had apparently booked me to be the pretty lady with the tall clicking heels who he could show off at the events. But I wasn’t sleeping with him.

  I got bored. I’d been out to have lots of fun that weekend, so I ended up shagging King’s friend Jay instead, just for fun. Jay even gave me his bank card, which provided a good laugh for Portia and myself, although I wasn’t going to play around with it in case he went crazy.