Last week, I went to the post office to collect a parcel.

A year ago, Uyinene Mrwetyana was raped and murdered for doing the same. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what to say on this horrific anniversary. All day, I’ve been running different approaches through my mind.

I’ve drafted guides on how to stay alive as a South African woman, compiled all those oxymoronic instructions we receive into one list, and realised I should have died a hundred times over. 

I go to the post office, I go to bars, I live in a house that could be broken into, I have male friends, I meet new people, I am queer, I decline advances, I drink alcohol, I run errands, I go on dates, I’m too nice, I’m a bitch, I was a child, I am a woman, I am a woman, I am a woman. I am a piece of meat in front of a hungry dog, or a Rolex in a dodgy area. I’ve discovered that I am daring the world to kill me.

I’ve written pleas to the men of this country, and found them turning to diatribes halfway through. Then I’ve deleted them, because I have been told time and time again that I cannot ask men to stop raping and murdering us if I’m going to be mean about it.

I’ve researched statistics – South Africa versus the rest of the world, empirical evidence of the astonishing amounts of abuse the women in this country face every day. I’ve looked up the number of gender-based violent crimes committed by sober perpetrators, because the government seems to think that only alcohol is to blame. I’ve remembered how people’s eyes glaze over when faced with numbers they’ve already seen a dozen times before, and I’ve started my post over again.

I’ve looked for reviews of accessible self-defence weapons, but then I’ve wondered what good a single weapon is against a gang of men. What if these weapons are used against us? What if a weapon provides a false sense of security that leads someone into a situation they might have otherwise avoided? What if the presence of a weapon further provokes an attacker? I’ve panicked and deleted this information in case it gets someone hurt.

I’ve constructed headlines announcing my own hypothetical death. I’ve decided against posting any, because my mother already lives in enough fear every time I leave the house.

I’ve started listing the names of the women whose lives have been stolen from them in the past year, but there are too many to count. Now, finally, I’ve written about how I don’t know what to say anymore.

I have run out of ways to convince this country to give a fuck about women. Uyinene, a year later and so much remains the same. I am so sorry.

But Uyinene, your killer has been sentenced to over three terms of life imprisonment. A foundation has been established in your memory. GBV is being discussed now more than ever, and thousands across the country are fighting to create a society that loves and protects its women. So much is the same, but there has also been so much change.

Things are changing. They are changing slowly, but they are changing nonetheless.

Uyinene, your face and your name are everywhere today. A year later and we have not forgotten. We will not forget, and we won’t let anyone else forget either. This is our promise to you.

As hopeless as I feel some days, giving up is not an option. The progress feels infuriatingly minuscule at times, and our voices are hoarse from repeating ourselves – but even so, we have to keep speaking out.

We owe it to those we’ve lost. We owe it to each other. We owe it to the future of this country.

We have no choice but to keep shouting.

We must make ourselves heard. DM