MY brothers – gather around, I beseech; it’s our turn to speak. Young Cwecwe was molested; there was a national uproar, yet quietly we sat, neither saying nor doing anything. I can’t say exactly what caused our shiftlessness, but I think I can guess. We kept quiet because we were ashamed; we kept quiet because we were complicit.

Though we may not have stood in the dock with Pastor Timothy Omotoso or had our DNA samples taken as potential suspects in the Cwecwe case, we equally have a case to answer for the crimes we committed in our youth. Remember when we stood on street corners as teenagers, demanding to speak to girls clearly not interested in speaking to us?When they refused to entertain us, we resorted to insults. It elevated our ire when the objects of our torment responded with silent fortitude to the fingers we poked in their eyes.That’s when we took the abuse up a notch; we forcefully grabbed them and twisted their arms, their anguished screams becoming music to our ears.

Instead of admonishing us, our friends and brothers spurred us on: 'Vele icherry ibanjwa nge-three' (grab her by force if she refuses to cooperate).

They ultimately had to change routes when going to the shops or to school to avoid us, the dogs who were always barking at their world.

Our perversion knew no bounds. We were verbally abusive even to the ones barely pubescent.

We passed disgusting ‘compliments’ such as “khula sithombo siyakuchelela (a few more years and you will be ready to be my wife).

Now do you see why I say we are complicit in the molestation of seven-year-old Cwecwe?

My brothers, let’s bring it back from the streets for a bit; I want us to take it home. Do we realise that we’re hateful even to our very own mothers? During angry outbursts, among ourselves, we resort to insults such as “Son of a b**** and “Motherf****?”

Don't cringe! You know it's true!

Look at us; we suffer from an Oedipus complex and don't even realise it.The dearth of positive role models in the townships means that we seek validation and respect from those we perceive as weaker than ourselves; women are objects that exist solely to satisfy our carnal cravings.

We say she is my girlfriend and must therefore yield to my erection.

We equate her protestation that she is not ready to infidelity. She threatens to end the relationship, and we react with violence.

At times we even forced ourselves on her, and our friends congratulated us because “that’s what a b**** deserves!”

Even the justice system took our side. She goes to the police to report the rape, and the male officer accusatorily asks: “wena kanti ubuyaphi uma uzophinde wenqabe ukulala naye (why did you even visit him if you were not ready to sleep with him?)”

She can't go to her father or brother because, like us, they will judge her and call her names.

Don’t even mention her mother because, having experienced a similar ordeal when she was younger, all the way through into adulthood, she has accepted that the man is right, the woman wrong.

So she keeps it all inside, and the cycle continues.

My brothers, it’s our turn to speak. It’s time we asked ourselves: where did it all go wrong?

Was it when we converged on street corners, as teenagers, demanding to speak to girls and grabbing them against their will?

No, I don’t think that’s when it started; this rot started way before us. It started with our uncles and brothers forcefully demanding sex from girls, slapping them around in the streets. "I bought her beers, and now she refuses to go back to my “khebheni siyolala (my shack)."

We looked on in spellbound awe, young boys aged between eight and eleven. We abandoned our game of street soccer to watch. It was a movie; our uncles and older brothers were the heroes – the protagonists kicking around the female antagonists, those evil witches!

We were interned early on about how a woman ought to be treated.

That's when we contracted the sickness which we're now transmitting to a new generation, making sure that the cycle never dies.

My brothers gather around; I beseech, it’s our turn to speak. Do you want to know where it stops?

It doesn't stop. In fact, there is no 'it’. We have to stop!

Siyabonga Maphumulo is a pantsula (streetwise, urban black man) from Folweni, south of Durban, who calls the streets his home and the sky his roof. His street life musings are not necessarily those of the Sunday Tribune or Independent Media.

SUNDAY TRIBUNE