Vanessa Govender ‘He raised his leg like he was preparing to kick a ball’
As one of the first Indian women on South African TV news, Vanessa Govender was known to hundreds of thousands of viewers. But she hid a terrible secret, an abusive relationship with a colleague. In ‘Beaten but not Broken’ she tells of her five years of h
There had been another argument, and I wasn’t taking any of his calls. The silent treatment was the only way of expressing my anger. I had been punished violently so many times before for giving him the silent treatment that I should have learnt my lesson. But I was obstinate even in the face of potential danger. I still hadn’t mastered the art of stifling my own anger and stashing it away so that it wouldn’t trigger my boyfriend’s fury. Engaging with him, talking — or not — was the only thing over which I really had control. It was my only weapon. I didn’t know how else to express myself other than to withdraw to a place of quiet. But my silence did nothing to douse and subdue his anger.
I was working the Saturday evening shift and read the last bulletin of the night. I was high on the rush of live radio. Sureshnie Govender, who went on to become a news anchor on 5FM, was sitting opposite me and getting ready to start her music and dedication show.
Her energy filled the studio. She was pumped up and revving to go. Our collective high from having our voices heard by thousands of people created an unspoken connection. It made us equals and made us feel powerful. It was 8pm.
As I went into the last story of the bulletin, he walked into the studio. He greeted Sureshnie, ignored me and went to stand behind her facing me. She fiddled with the sound desk, bopping her head as the music played into her earphones, oblivious to the dark aura of the man who stood behind her, arms akimbo, jaws clenched and lips pursed — all the tell-tale signs of the mounting rage that would have to erupt.
Impending danger
He never took his eyes off me. Not for one second. I felt his silent, savage stare burn into me as I continued to read the final story of the bulletin. I had the feeling of impending danger, of fear. If I had only known what was to come, I would have slowed down the pace, savoured every word that danced on my tongue waiting to be delivered into the microphone. I would have committed every second of that news bulletin to my memory. But we never know … until we know.
My heart raced, from the adrenaline of live radio and the dark energy that had suddenly transformed the studio. I knew every word of that “and finally” story brought me closer to the confrontation. There would be one — of that, I was in no doubt. For a split second I probably regretted being obstinate. Why couldn’t I have just swallowed my pride and kept the peace?
I wished the thousands of Lotus FM listeners good night, promising to catch up with them the following day, and said goodbye to Sureshnie. With my heart thumping, I followed him as we walked out of the studio. My mouth was dry and my skin hot.
I had barely pulled the heavy door shut behind me when he turned and slapped me with such force that it sent me staggering backwards, pushing me into the door and flinging it open. Sureshnie looked up, stunned by the sudden interruption. He quickly pulled the door shut, pulled me by my arm and threw me against another door.
The silence was so loud, it was deafening. The airconditioner did nothing to cool down my hot skin. It took a few seconds before the studio door opened. Sureshnie stood there looking at us both. Bhangra music was blaring in the background — loud, garish and obscene in the face of my fear.
Humiliation and pain
Concern was etched on Sureshnie’s face. Did she know? Surely, she must have known something was wrong. “Is everything OK?” she asked. Her eyes met mine. The question was directed at me.
I stood silently against the door. He stood a few feet away from me. My eyes looked into Sureshnie’s, willing her to not close that door and leave me alone. My eyes were screaming, pleading with her to stay. Everything I couldn’t say I tried to convey with my eyes.
I couldn’t speak or trust myself to speak. What would I say? I was backed into a door. I was fighting back tears, terrified. Oh God, please, I silently begged, don’t close that door, don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with him. My eyes never left hers. Why couldn’t she sense what I was trying to say? I could smell myself, my fear. It filled my nostrils, almost suffocated me. Could she not smell my fear?
She stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Maybe it was only a few seconds. Then he answered, for me, his smooth, deep voice breaking the silence: “Everything is fine. Just go back in.” Her eyes left mine and darted over to him.
As Sureshnie closed the door, my heart crumbled, my body braced itself and my mind began shutting down.
I turned to look at him. Maybe if he looked into my eyes, my face, the angry beast could be subdued. Maybe we could laugh it off. Maybe we could hold hands and walk off together and forget the slap. I would be happy to forget it, to forgive it if he would have just let it end there.
But he took a step back and raised his leg, like he was preparing to kick a ball. I didn’t quite understand what was happening — until his tan Caterpillar boot ploughed into my stomach.
The sheer force of that kick sent me doubling over, currents of pain tearing through me. It felt like everything inside my stomach had been reduced to liquid. Humiliation and pain combined. But I remained on my feet, bent over, but still standing. I refused to crumble. I didn’t want to fall to the floor in front of him. I clutched my stomach, panting, trying not to cry. It was excruciating. I didn’t make a sound. Not even a whimper.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the lift. My stubborn feet tried to stall, but they were two heavy slabs of concrete weighing me down. My heels dug into the carpet. Eventually I lost the battle. I could not compete with his strength and determination to drag me off somewhere quieter. Abuse needs privacy. It needs a quiet place, so that it can be exacted with fury.
I should have broken free and screamed with all my might. That would have brought the security guard, for sure. But I kept my silence.
Even now I can’t answer for all the missed opportunities of drawing attention to what he was doing to me. Why I never sought police intervention — that would have been the sensible thing to do. Except, I was bound by some misguided sense of loyalty and also protecting myself from being found out. And in the Indian community, such matters should remain private.
As a journalist, I was the voice of the masses, highlighting their pain and trauma, telling their stories, which would inevitably lead to some kind of action being taken, someone coming to the rescue. But I didn’t know how to speak my truth or get help for myself. I simply had no clue how to save myself.
Not a word was said between us in the elevator. There was nothing to say. He watched the numbers as the lift travelled up. I stared at the floor. I was bent over, and waves of pain flowed inside me.
There was more to come. A slap and a kick weren’t enough. It was never going to be enough. I had to be taught a lesson in submission. I had to know who wielded the most power and who was ultimately in control.
Inside the main Lotus FM office, he pushed a red couch against the door to make sure no-one would interrupt. Not like anyone would be coming up at that time of the night anyway. “Sit!” he barked. And I did.
He lit a cigarette and squatted on me, his entire body weight resting on my scrawny thighs, his heavy shoes digging into me, leaving prints on my black pants. My thighs and my stomach were aching. He blew smoke into my face. He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head from left to right, examining my face and blowing smoke into it. His eyes narrowed into slits. If I weren’t so traumatised, I would probably have laughed at how utterly ridiculous he looked.
Tears softly and silently started streaming down my face. My self-control was diminishing with each passing second. He finished his cigarette, jumped off and ordered me to stand up.
I tried to say sorry, but he seemed unreachable. He pushed me against the wall. He took my head in both his hands and started banging it against the wall, over and over and over. Hard. Measured. Deliberate. Thud, thud, thud. Vibrations of pain were shooting through my skull. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was too far gone.
I couldn’t keep quiet any more. “I am sorry,” I begged. “Please, I am so sorry.”
I was sobbing, and all vestiges of dignity and selfcontrol dissipated. Hot tears and snot were coursing from my eyes and nose, cascading down my cheeks, into my mouth and over my chin. I tasted salt. My hands clutched onto his, trying to still them and break the momentum of the blows.
And after what seemed like an eternity of banging my head against the wall, I saw softness and some sanity creeping into his black eyes. His hands stopped their rhythmic banging.
No turning back
Still holding my head in his hands, he suddenly kissed me hard and deep. I tasted ash and emptiness. My tongue was like cardboard, dry, desolate and unwilling. But slowly I allowed my hands to reach up to hold his face, gently, and I kissed him back with what I hoped was unbridled fervour. Anything to restore calm and stop his frenzied attack. Anything.
He led me back to the red couch. He gently pushed me onto it and began unzipping his pants, his eyes boring into mine. I never took my eyes off his. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout: “I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this. Don’t touch me with your filthy hands. I hate you.”
Instead, I allowed him to lower me onto the couch. I lay there, stiff and silent as he took off his pants. It was the grand finale of the night, the pièce de résistance, the ultimate act to humiliate and subjugate.
I felt his weight on me. Still I said nothing. “Dear God, if you are there, please help me. Make this stop,” I silently prayed. But no help came, and he didn’t stop.
There was no turning back for him. My body was no longer mine. My body, my breasts, my lips, my mouth, that out-of-sight-but-never-out-of-mind place that he sought for sexual release — all belonged to him. I may have washed my body, I may have fed my body, I may have clothed my body, but my body was never truly mine.
Violent thoughts
His touch as he removed my clothes made me want to throw up. Those beautiful hands, capable of such brutality, were suddenly gentle. But the gentleness didn’t mean I had any rights to my body or myself in that moment. I couldn’t say no or push him away. There was no way I could say, “Not now please.” No was not a word I knew. My mouth revolted against what my mind and brain where shouting. Pursed together, my lips were unable to say please, stop, I don’t want to. I never said a word. I didn’t know how to. I dared not say no.
Instead I let him do whatever he wanted.
I shivered. My teeth were chattering softly, as if I were freezing. Except it was warm inside. I was filled with such hatred and revulsion.
He stared into my eyes as he moved above and inside me; I wanted him dead. I wished he would rot in hell. The couch squeaked, seemingly protesting the despicable thing happening on it. I wanted to scream. I wanted to die. Still that couch squeaked. I wanted to claw his eyes out.
In that moment, I could understand how some women are driven to kill their abusers. I could understand the satisfaction that would come from driving a knife into the heart of someone like him.
My head throbbed. My stomach and ribs ached. His panting and moaning filled my ears and the room.
I withdrew to a place where he could never reach or hurt me. Despite what he was doing to my body, he would never get to me in that secret place deep inside my head where violent thoughts, rage, hate and fear swirled about in a tangled mess. He could harm my body, but he would never penetrate my mind and soul.
Maybe if he looked into my eyes, the angry beast could be subdued … But he took a step back and raised his leg, like he was preparing to kick a ball