My evolution means I speak only with spills of ink

My grandfather loved me. He would call me to speak English for his guests. He did not understand much English, but could sense passion and hate in any language.

He had no doubt that Brooke Logan was a moll. He knew that every time she shed a stream of tears, from only her left eye, she was about to marry someone else. He didn’t have to understand what she said.

He employed the same wisdom to calculate that I was a gifted child. And he would show me off. I was like an adorable little circus elephant, trumpeting out random English phrases through a nose-pressed accent to please strangers. I relished those moments – rare occasions where I was the centre of attention.

I was a shy child, a trait that prevailed into my teens. I know there are classmates from my high school who have no memory of me speaking. I was merely present and only noticeable because I was the smallest and a Zulu girl.

It was my choice of career that eventually broke my shell. I became a court interpreter at the age of 18. I spoke with a stern loud voice and had the confidence of a peacock. I even took up a slot as a radio presenter during those years.

I just always knew what to say, and had crafty ways of expressing myself. I would jump out of my shell whenever I had an audience and ensure that I locked eyes with whomever I speak to, as if to see my words pierce through.

It was then that I discovered that I was a good speaker, and apparently had a “strong personality”. I was small, intimidating, very clear – fiery.

Then one night I had a nervous breakdown that altered my life completely. After a short stint of blindness, paralysis and days of being mute, I started stuttering prominently and would have anxiety attacks at times. Those days of clap-backs and fast wit were over. I was a nervous wreck with little desire for sunshine, let alone podiums and audience. I went back to the comfort of my own company, minimal social engagements and a mild dislike for human interactions.

Nowadays I sit in the front row of every lecture so I don’t have to deal with a full class of faces. I block people’s faces in order to forget encounters.

I have a bad memory, and am careful not to cloud it with ornament s. I don’t respond to everything that is spoken to me. I speak to those I like. I am aloof and only give my attention to things I want to absorb.

I, however, passionately engage in debates with my people.

I am no longer shy, I am just quiet because I became depressed.

Depression stole my speech. It is a leash that pulls at my jugular every time I want to say something. I can longer speak of beauty and magic without any provocation. I get emotionally drained at having to explain myself.

I am fortunate that I can always put my thoughts into writing. I appreciate my talent. Blank pages are now my stage, and readers hear me through their own voices.

I imagine the worlds I can create at the stroke of a pen and the characters I could bring to life through clicks of a keyboard.

When a stutter and a nervous condition gagged me, writing became my voice. I now speak in spills of ink.

‘ ‘ Blank pages are now my stage, and readers hear me through their own voices