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“Being poor, I have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
I live Irish poet Yeats’ stampede through my friend’s life as he is forced to pack up his fabulous flat in a week as his family forces him to move out.
Long story, but he’s moving into a bedroom after packing up his feathers, art deco and crosses and all, and I got – a lot. He is devastated. Like I am. But not as devastated as I am trying to put his heartache to paper and see a cop van flashing at my front gate.
My oldest has to sign a “new court order” yet again to see my lovely red-haired grandchild – and the mother is sitting in the van… I lost it.
We haven’t seen her in more than a month and there is a court order stating clearly we have to see her every weekend. We see her – guess – when we can pay “something toward”. I’ve seen the pattern; recognised – and throw in the odd R200 just to pinch my darling’s cheeks.
But what a happy child we have in our home when she’s here. “I love you. This is my home – and do you know how they bully me at school?” she tells me unashamedly while I tell her the home schooling just doesn’t work and go to a “normal” school where she can pick and choose bullies.
But we haven’t seen her for a while and I try keep her father’s head up with: she’ll one day defy them all and choose us.
Only problem is she’s seven and we have to wait another 10 years with an impossible mother who dares pitch up at my gate at night in a cop van to have some “parental right because the court threw it out” signed.
The court threw nothing. You’re wrong. Forgive me for having not an iota of faith in our justice system. Because if a woman, who has entered into an agreement with a court, can blatantly defy it and hunt a father, who has no legal rights down and deny him access to his child, I give up.
I give up on this country who just stomps on all of our dreams.