Therapy
I associate therapy with rich folks that turn life’s stones and pebbles into mountain peaks. Parents are sad when they cannot afford school fees. Rich folks go to therapists because they are depressed about husbands’ frequent visits to ex-wives. Therefore, one feeling has different names.
Maybe I was wrong. Poor people have also graduated from sadness to depression, judging from online comedians. Example, #thaddboii my fav YouTube screenplay writer. Donovan, the main character is persecuted by the football coach, who is also dating his mother. The therapist asks why the coach likes her. Donovan hands over his phone. It turns out Donovan’s mom is drop-dead gorgeous. Now the therapist has a problem.
What is therapy? I think it’s a shoulder to cry on. It’s somebody I can confide in, and it’s understood that it’s between us. Therapy is built-in in all societies. Sisters who are scared of their mother's reaction, go to auntie. She tells them to mend their ways, and promises to talk to the mother. She does. If it’s too serious, they run away to auntie’s house. “They are here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Therapy is talking to someone who will listen, and is capable of listening. There’s a difference. ‘Capable’ is when your brother’s friends come looking for him. Let’s give him a name, Thulani (it means keep quiet in Zulu). They find Thulani giving your dad a haircut. He gives his friends all kinds of sign language. After greeting pleasantries, your dad says: “You boys, talk to your friend.” He says that because he knows Thulani’s friends are capable of talking to him, since he doesn’t listen to his parents.
Pastors and rabbis do some therapy. They minister their flock. Men and women who pull pints in a British pub are therapists. They pull that handle and listen, seven days a week. What is therapy then? Listening for a fee.
By: Nonqaba waka Msimang.
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