The Years That Shaped Me

By Sibusiso Nsibande

The "years that shaped me" is a narrative about a young boy who is initially 5 years old at the time and lives with his grandparents, who are the only people he knows to be in his life. Life is good, and there is peace and love in his world, but it all suddenly changes the moment his mother appears from nowhere and takes him away; leaving him in the care of some relatives whose hearts were cold.
He is astounded to learn that he has a mother because no one has ever mentioned it to him. Not long after that, his mother vanishes after abandoning him with another relative, and she is never seen again. The five-year-old boy matures and attends school, but the grimmest storms have already begun in his tender life. The family that he has abandoned to, continuously treats him like an outsider; they forced him to plow the fields and has to work hard to earn a slice of bread; and at some point, they punish him with no food today as punishment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sibusiso Nsibande
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005586270

Sibusiso Nsibande

Sibusiso Nsibande was born in 1992 In Eshowe, Kwa-Zulu Natal. He is husband and a father. He attended the University of the Free State where he completed his Bachelors degree. Between the year 2019 and 2020 He got an opportunity to teach English in China. He is currently a high school English teacher. He has written a number of children's book and a novel. Apart from reading and writing he is a fitness enthusiast and a founder of Drastic Fitness, which is a fitness brand which encourages people to lead a healthy lifestyle.

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The Years That Shaped me

Sibusiso Nsibande

Copyright © 2022 Sibusiso Nsibande

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher

Cover design by: Aestar Enterprise

To my wife Sino and son Abongwe

Always know that life’s challenges shape us, they make us to be mentally strong and we were made to rise above them.

Prologue

The Years That Shaped Me is a touching narrative about a young boy whose life takes a drastic turn when his mother suddenly appears out of nowhere and takes him away from the only family he's ever known. At the tender age of five, he's left in the care of cold-hearted relatives who treat him like an outsider and force him to plow the fields to earn a slice of bread. The family punishes him with no food today, leaving him to starve and suffer in silence.

As time goes by, the boy begins to mature and attend school, but the grimmest storms have already begun in his life. Despite his best efforts to assimilate into his new family, he's constantly reminded of his outsider status, leading to feelings of isolation, sadness, and despair. The only thing he longs for is safety, acceptance, warmth, and love, but it seems that every attempt to find these things is met with rejection, exploitation, and heartbreak.

One day, after weeks of going hungry and being told to die, the boy reaches his breaking point and attempts to end his life. But even in the depths of his despair, he finds that he's unable to escape his plight. Moving from house to house in search of safety and love, he's constantly met with disappointment and abuse. At home, he's physically assaulted and emotionally battered; at school, he's bullied by peers who see him as an easy target.

As the boy grows older, he begins to feel lost and unsure of his place in the world. Dropping out of school and struggling to find his footing in life, he feels as though he's never truly belonged anywhere. But despite all the pain and heartache he's endured, the boy never loses hope. He continues to search for a place to call home, a place where he's loved and accepted for who he is.

The Years That Shaped Me is a story of resilience, courage, and hope. It's a reminder that even in the darkest moments of our lives, we can find the strength to keep going and never give up on our dreams. Through his struggles and triumphs, the young boy in this story teaches us that no matter how difficult life may be, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

Chapter 1

The bittersweet summer evening of 1998

I

n the hazy tapestry of recollections, the summer of 1998 stands out like a golden ember, a warm embrace that held the promise of adventures yet to unfold. A night draped in a balmy symphony, with cicadas orchestrating their night-time serenade, cradling the world in a gentle lull. Little did I know that within this tranquil symphony, a stranger's voice would weave an unexpected melody into the fabric of my existence.

As the stars painted constellations above, a mysterious voice emerged from the shadows, breaking the silence like a secret whisper.

Tomorrow we'll go on a long trip, and mama's going to buy you some nice clothes. The stranger declared, invoking the enigma of a motherly figure. The word mama lingered in the air, reverberating in the chambers of my young ears, an echo that refused to fade into the night.

Sleep eluded me that night, stolen by the intoxicating potion of anticipation. The prospect of an impending journey and the promise of a new wardrobe danced in my dreams. Yet, beneath the surface of excitement, a puzzle unraveled—a riddle that would haunt the corridors of my consciousness.

In the quiet recesses of my mind, I embarked on a quest, retracing the contours of memories to unearth a trace of this mysterious motherly presence.

Alas! The canvases of my past were blank, devoid of any semblance of her existence. It was confounding, a surreal realization that the stranger who spoke of a motherly love was, in fact, and my mother.

The revelation sent shockwaves through the foundation of my understanding. How someone so integral to my being could have remained veiled in the shadows of anonymity for the first six years of my earthly journey?

My mind, a tempest of inquiries, hurled questions into the void, knowing all too well that the echoing silence would be my only response. To some, these inquiries might have seemed inconsequential, trifles unworthy of contemplation. Yet, for a six-year-old navigating the labyrinth of an absent mother's past, these questions held the weight of significance. Years had passed since her departure, and now, like a ghost emerging from the mist, she stood before me—an enigma waiting to be unraveled.

In the labyrinth of my tiny brain, a swarm of questions buzzed like curious fireflies, their glow illuminating the shadows of uncertainty.

Where had she been when I craved the comforting embrace of a mother?

What uncharted destination was she plotting to unveil? These inquiries, like mischievous imps, danced on the edges of my consciousness, unsettling the tranquility of my juvenile musings.

Six years, an eternity in the timeline of a young life, had unfolded in the sheltering arms of my grandparents. Beneath the watchful gaze of stern uncles, who wielded scrupulous authority with an iron hand, my childhood had been a tapestry woven with threads of discipline. Nonsense was a luxury I couldn't afford, and the questions that now bubbled within me seemed to challenge the very order I had grown accustomed to.

Yet, amid the unsettling queries, a current of thrill surged through my veins, electrifying my senses. Tomorrow, the looming promise of a bus ride beckoned—an adventure that transcended the mundane routine of my upbringing. In the bygone era of my grandparents, buses were more than mere vehicles; they were enchanted chariots, beckoning with affordability and punctuality.

Our elders, wise custodians of tradition, had often embarked on these journeys, and as a wide-eyed six-year-old, the allure was irresistible. The prospect of being aboard that magical bus eclipsed the nagging questions, replacing them with the giddy anticipation of a journey into the unknown. The ancient wheels of nostalgia turned, and in the echo of memories, I envisioned a time when buses were portals to extraordinary landscapes. As a child, the very idea of trees hurtling past at a bewildering speed was nothing short of enchanting. Trees moving? Absurd yet mesmerizing! In the realm of a six-year-old's imagination, the ordinary became extraordinary, and the bus ride promised an odyssey where the mundane met the marvelous, and the world outside the window transformed into a blur of fantastical motion.

In the kaleidoscope of childhood wonder, there was a peculiar thrill in witnessing the world whiz by, particularly the dance of trees that unfolded like a mesmerizing tableau when seated in a bus or car. While my childhood memory could only grasp fragments of previous bus rides—once, perhaps twice, or maybe thrice—I couldn't pinpoint the precise age when these enchanting journeys had transpired. The details were a blur, like a fleeting dream that leaves behind only the essence of excitement.

The spectacle of trees surrendering to the speed of my transportation captivated me. It was an illusionary ballet, a natural choreography where the verdant sentinels appeared to bow in tandem, their foliage brushing against the canvas of my imagination.

The revelation that it was the bus hurtling forward, not the trees, seemed like a secret whispered by the universe. Yet, in the innocence of childhood, the magic persisted, undisturbed by the logic that eluded my young mind.

The prospect of a trip with my newfound mother held the allure of undiscovered realms—a chance to unravel the mysteries beyond the familiar landscape of my upbringing.

The anticipation, a fervent ember in my heart, burned with the promise of an experience unparalleled in its novelty. The moving trees were not just a spectacle; they were the prelude to an adventure, a cinematic overture to the grand journey that awaited. However, amid the swirl of excitement, a lingering question lingered like a shadow in the recesses of my mind.

Where were we headed?

The destination, veiled in uncertainty, remained a puzzle with missing pieces. Initially, the enigma of our course didn't trouble me overtly, but like a subtle undercurrent, it tugged at the edges of my subconscious. The answer, elusive yet essential, dangled just out of reach, teasing the edges of my anticipation with the unknown.

In the embrace of my grandparents' home, a symphony of family unfolded, and I found myself surrounded by uncles who were the pillars of our familial tapestry. The legacy of my grandparents echoed through the halls, a testament to their prowess in nurturing a brood of both men and women who had, over the years, blossomed into adulthood.

It was a familial garden, tended to with care, and the flourishing of so many children seemed a testament to their remarkable skill in the delicate art of upbringing.

Yet, amidst the sprawling branches of kinship, my uncles cast shadows that stretched with an air of stern authority. Their demeanor was etched in rigidity, a sternness that left little room for frivolity or the carefree laughter that often graced the company of children. In the presence of these formidable figures, we, as children, were acutely aware of the boundaries that delineated our place in the intricate dance of family life. Their seriousness became the unwritten law that governed our conduct.

The boys, in particular, were entrusted with a sense of responsibility that belied their tender years. Whether you had just taken your first breath in this world or celebrated the milestone of turning six, the unwavering expectation was clear—if you were a boy, you were destined for the fields or a distant realm, tasked with the solemn duty of tending to the cattle. The concept of age was secondary; the fact of being male was the decisive factor that whisked you away from the sanctuary of home.

In this structured existence, the laughter of children mingling with uncles was a rarity, a distant memory in the making. The fields and the distant horizons became the playgrounds for the boys, forging a path of discipline and labor that was etched into the very fabric of our upbringing. It was a world where the hands that tilled the soil or guided the cattle were the same hands that shaped the destinies of the young, weaving a narrative of responsibility and purpose into the very essence of our childhood.

The canvas of my childhood bore hues that, to some, may have seemed painted in shadows of adversity—childhood, a tapestry woven with stern hands and rigid expectations. Child abuse, one might utter, quickly to cast a judgment. Yet, with the wisdom distilled by time, I see it as a peculiar brushstroke in the masterpiece of upbringing, a means to carve responsibility into our souls. It wasn't merely a crucible of hardship; it was the forge that shaped us into architects of our destiny, cultivating a resilience that would burgeon into responsible adulthood. A stringent rite of passage that, in retrospect, echoed with a strange harmony.

Despite the severity etched in the contours of my uncles' demeanor, they assumed the roles of fatherly figures—guardians shaping my nascent understanding of responsibility. They were the architects of discipline, crafting a narrative that transcended mere survival, aiming to sculpt men capable of not just fending for themselves but shouldering the weight of responsibility for others.

Yet, like a tempest in a tranquil sea, everything pivoted when a mysterious woman, an ghost in the theater of my life, announced her presence. Inexplicably, she claimed the title of my mother and declared her intention to whisk me away from the cocoon I had come to know as home. The revelation, delivered with the weight of the unexpected, sent shockwaves through the foundations of my familial world.

The parting curtain unveiled a farewell scene—a final glimpse of my loving grandparents and uncles fading into the tapestry of memory. At the tender age of six, as I surrendered to the embrace of sleep that fateful evening, a disquieting awareness emerged. Something unsettled my grandmother, a palpable disturbance that cast a veil of silence upon her usually animated spirit. In the hushed quietude, I sensed an unspoken weight, an impending shift in the symphony of my existence. Little did I know, that night marked not just the end of a chapter but the beginning of a narrative that would unfold in the uncharted territories of the unknown.

In the somber echo of unsettling news, a discordant note disrupted the harmony of my familiar world—a revelation that my newly found mother, draped in the aura of newfound authority, intended to whisk me away.

The air hung heavy with unspoken tension, a silent duel between conflicting desires that, like opposing tides, refused to converge. It was as if the universe had thrust a script into the hands of my grandparents, one they couldn't entirely endorse. The news, a disquieting proclamation, seemed to sow seeds of disagreement. Perhaps, in the intricate dance of familial dynamics, my grandmother and this newfound motherly figure found themselves at odds.

Despite the potential clash, my grandmother, burdened by an unspoken surrender, acquiesced to the decree. It wasn't a surrender born out of agreement, but a recognition of the hollow claim that resonated