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  • I was nine years old when my mother threw me out of a moving car
  • That carless Sunday we made our circuit of churches, ending up, as usual, at white church
  • White Church 
  • I know it was on a Sunday because we were coming home from church
  • Religion 
  • My mother was—and still is—a deeply religious woman. Very Christian.
  • We were standing at the corner of Jellicoe Avenue and Oxford Road, right in the heart of Johannesburg’s wealthy, white suburbia, and there were no minibuses. The streets were empty.
  • A Zulu driver got out with an iwisa, a large, traditional Zulu weapon
  • a car drove up and stopped. The driver offered us a ride, and we climbed in. We hadn’t gone ten feet when suddenly a minibus swerved right in front of the car and cut us off.
  • Why are you picking people up ?
  • My mom spoke up. “Hey, listen, he was just helping me. Leave him. We’ll ride with you.
  • My mother reached over, pulled the sliding door open, grabbed me, and threw me out as far as she could. Then she took Andrew, curled herself in a ball around him, and leaped out behind me.
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