Her Soldier

I looked at my therapist, tilting my head and squinting my eyes at what she said, "excuse me?"  She nodded, already used to my snappy attitude, "you do need friends, Dudu. You need to put yourself out there and get to know other people your age."  I shook my head and scoffed, "I do have friends."  "Then be adventurous. Go out and have fun, stop sitting in your room all day and doing nothing. Do something different. You just told me that you have the same routine every day and that you're tired of it, so do something to change it, Dudu," she spoke. Her Afrikaans accent pronouncing my name differently than it's supposed to be pronounced but I didn't dare correct her because it didn't make any difference. She still struggles saying my name and it bothers me, I could almost pull her hair.  "So what should I do? I don't know what to do," I complained as I pouted and folded my arms under my boobs as I felt like she'd scolded me.  She knows how I am. Henrietta has known me for 6 years now and she's been my therapist, consistent and making sure that she was there for me continuously. She'd become my second mother even though she looked very much different from me and was very much different from me.  Henrietta is an Afrikaner woman my mum had acquired information about from the police station on that cursed night. I didn't know how my mother was expecting me to be able to connect and find comfort in a woman who was not only white but Afrikaner, it doesn't get much stricter than that.  I never liked Afrikaners, after what they put us through in a*******d. I don't think anyone can blame me. But she warmed her way into my life and into my heart. Now she treated me like I was her child and I treated her like she was my mother, with my tantrums, tempers and back chatting.  "Ok...go clubbing," she said quickly, suggesting, "that would be nice. Drink, dance-"  I shook my head, "Henrietta, have you forgotten who my mother is?"  She laughed, shaking her head, "I most definitely know who your mother is. But Dudu, you're old enough now, she won't mind you stepping out of the house and just letting loose and living life."  I gave her my best side eye, "Henrietta, my mother is as black as mother's can be. She will never allow me to do that as long as I am in school. She would rather drive me to a library and watch me read. I don't want to get hiding," I said as I scratched my forehead, grimacing when I accidentally scratched a pimple and knew it was going to leave a mark.  She sighed, "then what do you want to do? Ok let's start small, get social media."  I scoffed, "I'd rather gauge my eyes out. You know that I can't take pictures to save my life."  She threw her hands up in defeat, "ok then I don't know, Dudu, write a damn letter and see where it ends up."  I frowned, "that's not a very good idea."  "You can do it in the safety of your bedroom. You don't have to get dressed up or do something you don't want to. Just write a letter, give it to your mother to take to the post office and then from there just wait for a response."  "But then if I write this letter who will it go to? I don't know anyone outside of school and where I live, so I don't think it's a very good idea to write a letter and not put a name or address, so again, I say, not a very good idea."  She rolled her eyes, "ok, let's do this. Write a letter and I," she pointed to herself, "will take it and send it to someone I think is deserving."  "But how do I know what to write? Do I write about myself? Do I ask about them? Please don't send it to some old man or old lady. Or some paedophile or criminal. Oh, most definitely, this is a terrible idea!"  "Listen," she put her hands under her chin, "I'll send it to someone in the army. I've got some relatives who are in different armies, one of my cousins is in the Australian army, my son is in the South African army and one of my niece's is in the American army, so I'll send it to them and ask them to just give to someone. That's a good idea right? I'll fix everything for you, all you have to do is just write the letter, which will be given to a soldier."  I sighed, pouting some more as I reluctantly nodded my head, "I guess that's alright."  She looked down at her wristwatch and then at me, "alright that's it for our appointment, my darling," she said as she stood from her chair and I stood from mine as I accepted her hug, "take care of yourself. I love you and your mum," she said as she planted a kiss on my forehead and I nodded, smiling as I waved goodbye.  ~~~ "How was your appointment?" My mother asked me as I walked down the stairs and to the kitchen where I found her cooking.  "It was good," I replied with a smile, "Henrietta told me to start making new friends and become more outgoing and adventurous."  My mother nodded, agreeing, as she turned and smiled at me, hugging me, "she's right, my baby," she replied in Zulu, "you're always staying in the house and being a good girl. I'm not complaining but you never go out, not even for parties that your friends throw."  I sighed as I sat on the table top and nodded, "I know, mama, I just don't like being around people."  "I'm just glad you haven't given me any boy problems," she laughed, "lord knows I'll cry when you find one."  I shook my head, "no guys, never going to make that mistake."  The room became silent at that comment even though what I said was true and my mum for sure knew that I meant every word. I was never going to fall in love, not after what my da...not after what that evil man done to my mother and I. He ruined me and my view of men.  My mother is a beautiful woman and a very successful professional. She’s an auditor for a bank and it's always so amazing to have her home and cooking for me because she never has time. She always comes home late and has to leave early, or sometimes even goes for business trips overseas and I would go if I didn't have to go to school and wasn't in my final year.  Holidays are the best with my mother because I travel with her. Last year we went to Portugal and Germany, the previous year, we went to Switzerland and this year, she tells me that we'll be going to America. I can't wait. I just hope she takes me to New York or Las Vegas. The hangover made me really want to go there.  I look up to my mother because she is the strongest woman I know in my life. She's been by my side all the time and I've been there for her as well. My mother is my best friend, and I am her best friend. She tells me everything from the usual flirts to the problems she faces because she's a black woman with a PhD qualification in a boardroom filled with white men.  My mother is fashionable, sophisticated and elegant. Her fashion rivals the fashion of Bonang Matheba. She always makes sure she's looking her best with her natural hair and her natural features with designer clothes. The only place she doesn't wear heels is in the house, other than that, when she steps out, she's dressed to impress.  "So, what was the solution that you and Henrietta came up with?" She asked me as she poured herself some juice in one of the wine glasses and looked at me, c*****g her hip.  "Well, Henrietta says I should get a pen pal."  "A pen pal? In this day and age?" She laughed, shaking her head with a smile, "ok, carry on."  "She told me to write a letter, give it to her and she'll give it to a soldier".  "Oh, that's nice!" She said as she clapped, "that's really nice. Well did you write it? I could drop it off by her tomorrow before I go to work."  "No, I didn't, but I'll write it before I got to bed and then I'll give it to you in the morning."  "Alright, love," she planted a kiss on my cheek, "let's eat and you can tell me about school."  ~~~ What the hell do you write to someone you don't even know? Do you start with "hey, my name is"? Do you even say "how are you doing" or will that be offending because, I mean, they're dodging bullets and dropping bombs every day, so it's not exactly peachy?  I sighed as I looked down at the paper in front of me and played around with the calligraphy pen in my hand. I at least wanted to make this letter look beautiful.  This is silly! Why am I even doing this? Writing a letter to a complete stranger? I get that they're fighting and I think that the last thing they would want is a letter from some strange annoying girl with a lot of problems and mental health issues.  I almost tore the paper in front of me as I sat there and then looked around my room as I stared at the simple colour and design of the room.  I'm a simple girl, who likes the simple things even though my mother spoils me rotten and tries her hardest to bring me out of my shell.  Maybe this is what I needed and maybe this is the push that I need. Let's take it one step at a time. I don't want to leave my bedroom, I don't want to leave my house and I don't want to get dressed up. So what must I do? Write a letter. It doesn't require me to do much except write words which will form sentences and then I'll call it a day.  Maybe the person who will receive this letter won't even reply so it'll be fine. I sighed at that thought, finally picked up the pen again and began to write. If they won't reply then I should probably just say what I want to say and leave it at that.