PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

Have you been awaiting your Road Accident Fund compensation, and are wondering why it is taking so long to pay out? What if the money has been paid out and your lawyer keeps telling you RAF still hasn’t paid out just so he scores a good interest for himself? It is possible that your money was paid out a long time ago, but your lawyer has declared you incapable of handling your own affairs and appointed himself as your proxy.
In my 16-year career as a journalist, I have unearthed countless stories of corruption, fraud and plain thuggery by those put in positions of power and trust. The stories that have hurt me the most, however, have been those of the theft of Road Accident Fund benefits – theft not from the fund itself, but by lawyers stealing from those who are supposed to receive the money.
In Delmas, Mpumalanga, I unearthed a sodded tale of a man who lost his leg in a car accident. His life got so bad that he lived in the streets as a hobo, while waiting for his lawyer to inform him about the progress of his RAF claim. Unbeknownst to him, the lawyer had received the money, over R1 million, two years earlier, but had been telling his client that the RAF is yet to pay out. Now and then, the lawyer would give him loans of between R1000 and R2500, promising to deduct the money when his benefits are finally paid out.
In Secunda, another client who used the same lawyer had been awaiting his payout for over three years. What he didn’t know was that the money had in fact been paid out, and that the loans the lawyer had been giving him were from his own money. The man lived in abject poverty, plagued daily by the aches and pains from the hoffiric injuries he sustained in the car accident, unaware that he was already a multi-millionaire.
In Bronkhorstspruit, Groblersdal and Mashishing I dug up the tragic accounts of three vehicle accident victims who simply vanished on the eve of their RAF payouts. One of them was found a day after he vanished. He was dead and his body run over by countless cars on the N12. The last people known to have seen them were their lawyers.
In Springs, I was tipped off about a lawyer who receives the clients’ benefits, but does not immediately dispense the monies to the people who desperately need it. The clients need the money for, amongst many other pressing needs, their medical bills and necessities of life such as food, transportation and shelter. The legal eagle without clout opted to keep the money in his bank account for up to six months to a year, so it would accumulate interest that he wouldn’t dispense to the client. This is over and above his 25% of the payout that he is allowed by law to pocket for his services.
Of course, some lawyers cut themselves quite a bigger slice, bigger than the 25% they are allowed by law. After all, how would the client even know? Most clients are so excited at receiving the windfall, they don’t bother to do the Math or check exactly how much is due to them.
But how are these lawyers able to do this and get away with it? Simple: they set up a trust and their clients’ payouts are then paid into this trust. Next, they declare the client mentally incapable of handling his or her own affairs. The lawyers then appoint themselves as trustees, practically giving themselves proxy or signatory powers over the clients’ benefits. The Delmas homeless man for example, was at the lawyer’s mercy in that the lawyer built him a shack on an illegal piece of land near the N12, just to separate him from people who were trying to help him. Yes, he was a squatter camp millionaire. A man worth over R1million lived in a shack!
Whatever the rot or modus operandi employed, the fact is, these lawyers without clout are living lavish lives at your expense, and now it is time they are exposed and stopped. In the next three months, we intend to hold interviews with those people who have been through bizarre situations with lawyers who were supposed to help them but turned around and made a meal of them.

Who Do We Need To Hear From?

1. We want to hear from people who received their RAF benefits but suspect they might have been short-changed by their lawyers.
2. We want to hear from people who suspect their lawyers might have taken a bigger cut than they should have.
3. We want to hear from people who, through their lawyers, have claimed from the RAF but suspect the lawyer might have received the funds and is witholding them from him/her.
4. We need to hear from people whose lawyers are generous enough to give them loans but aren’t forthcoming about their RAF benefits.
5. We need to hear from people who have lost loved ones who have been awaiting benefits from the Road Accident Fund.

What Would Be Expected Of You?

1. While we investigate the matter and assist you, we will need you to consent to an interview on camera.
2. Our investigation and assistance will be free of charge. Anyone who claims to represent us and asks you for money is not a member of our team.
3. Sign a consent form / release for the video material to be broadcast on TV, newspapers, magazine and on online platforms.
4. Provide us with all documentation that will assist us in our investigations.
5. Acknowledge that our intervention might not have further financial benefits for you, but will assist in rooting out bad elements in the legal fraternity.
6. Depending on the nature of your case, you might be expected to have further engagements with law enforcement agencies including the Law Society of South Africa.
   Do you have a story to tell? Then contact us on WhatsApp at 083 487 4440, or email info@publishdafrika.com.

Photo: Timothy Mkhabela’s lawyer received over R1 million in RAF benefits, but kept telling Timothy that his compensation still has not been paid out. To separate Timothy from people who might show him the light, the lawyer built him a shack near the N12.

You have been doing the work for years and have amassed a wealth of experience, but have never had formal education for the job or obtained a qualification for it. Everything you know, has been obtained from On-the-Job Experience. This lack of formal education has curtailed your career advancement, forcing you to watch less experienced colleagues progress ahead of you simply because they have diplomas/degrees.
Well, not anymore. Your wealth experience can actually be all you need to get an internationally recognised qualification.
The University of South Africa (Unisa) uses the Recognition of Prior Learning (RPL) process as an additional pathway to admit students in its qualifications.
The RPL process is designed to provide students who do not meet the statutory admission requirements of the qualifications but have gained work experience. It acknowledges previous knowledge, skills, and competencies for them to have access, mobility, and better career paths. It permits our prospective students to gain credits within formal certificates, diplomas, and degree qualifications offered by the university based on the level and extent of their knowledge.
This process is also a commitment to being responsive and student-centered through providing a supportive and enabling environment for students with work experience and skills to study further through UNISA’s comprehensive open distance e-learning (CODeL) model and opportunities.
Whereas Unisa has been using the RPL process for many years, the community is unaware of this pathway. Unisa staff members are available to explain the benefits of the RPL process through the media.

For enquiries and interviews requests, please contact Tommy Huma (Unisa: Senior Media Officer) on 072 218 6197 / humartm@unisa.ac.za OR Edgar Rathelele on 063 731 5456 / ratheme@unisa.ac.za

This is the 5th year of the Afritondo Short Story Prize and a special landmark for us at Afritondo. We thank all our writers for their contributions and look forward to reading all the stories for this year’s contest.

THEME
This year we want writers to respond to the theme of “fate”. You are welcome to give the theme your own personal interpretation.

As always we are looking for stories that surprise us, that take risks with imagination and language. A good story for our theme will offer unique insight into the theme and explore characters in refreshing and imaginative ways.

Deadline: December 15, 2023.

PRIZE
The winner will receive a cash prize of $1000. Four other shortlisted writers will get $100 each. The longlist will be published in an anthology in August 2024.

The 2023 Prize was awarded to Alex Kadiri for his story, The Hyena and The Two-Headed Goat, published in the anthology, The Anatomy of Flying Things.

The 2022 Prize was awarded to Howard Meh-Buh Maximus for his story, Grotto, published in the anthology Rain Dance.

The 2021 Prize was awarded to Desta Haile for her story, Ethio-Cubano, published in the anthology The Hope, The Prayer, The Anthem.

The 2020 Prize was awarded to Jarred Thompson for his story, Good Help is Hard to Find, published in the anthology Yellow Means Stay.

The entry guidelines for the 2024 Prize can be found here:

https://afritondo.com/entry-guidelines-2024

ISBN: 978-0-6397-4568-8

Women Breaking The Glass Ceiling
Glass Ceiling (noun): An unacknowledged barrier to advancement in a profession, especially affecting women and members of minorities. – Oxford Languages.
*A metaphor usually applied to people of marginalised genders, used to represent an invisible barrier that prevents an oppressed demographic from rising beyond a certain level in a hierarchy. No matter how invisible the glass ceiling is expressed, it is actually a difficult obstacle to overcome. – Wikipedia
*The invisible – but impenetrable – barrier(s) between women and the executive suite, preventing women from reaching the highest levels of the business world regardless of their accomplishments and merits. – The US Department of Labor.
The term ‘glass ceiling’ was first popularised in the late 1970s to describe invisible barriers to women’s career advancements. Though society has made giant strides towards levelling the playing field, the odds are still stacked against women who have the ambition and potential to lead.
In this book, 18 scholars dissect these unacknowledged rules and obstacles waylaying women in their paths of career advancement. Each chapter, backed by published studies conducted around the globe, probes these ‘speedhumps’ that are not in a form of well-defined policies, but still go a long way in preventing women from gaining leadership opportunities, leaving them at the bottom of the workplace hierarchies and appreciated merely as homemakers.
PUBLISH’D AFRIKA co-founder Thokozani Magagula said the book is a must for every woman with an ambition to climb the corporate ladder in business, government, construction, engineering and any other sphere known to be male-dominated.
“The authors look into the glass ceiling at institutions of higher learning, the business world, industries and in how the glass ceiling affects widows in the African cultural setting,” he said. “The book also covers colonial influence, White domination and power structures in academia, as well as gender and age biases in the workplace, culture and widows.”
Professor Maehabo Magano, a full professor in the Department of Psychology of Education at the University of South Africa (UNISA), said there are many critical issues regarding the lack of equity and parity for women of colour in the workplace. These include unequal representation, lack of sociocultural understanding, embedded institutional racism, and insufficient collaboration and relationship building.
“In many societies around the world, women also face greater societal scrutiny as well as unequal treatment in the workplace, at home and in relationships,” she said. “In this volume, titled Women Breaking the Glass Ceiling, we explore various ways in which women draw on their individual resourcefulness, traditional values, and support of female and male allies to navigate the ways and means of breaking the proverbial glass ceiling.”
Women experience a myriad of challenges in different spheres of life that may prevent them from achieving their full potential. According to Professor Dolapo Adeniji, of Adelphi University in the United States, most women work very hard to equip themselves academically and make sound contributions to their practice and broader community. Some of their contributions are even cited and implemented in various fields and disciplines to make a difference globally.
“Yet, despite their sound and valuable academic contributions, very few women ascend the academic ladder to reach managerial leadership at the apex of institutions of higher learning,” she said. “Those who manage to lead and be appointed to the middle and top-level management roles also face pressure from their counterparts and other structures in society. They also struggle to achieve their full potential in other sectors including society, tribal groups, politics and economy.”
“Thus, it is necessary to examine how women are perceived globally and how patriarchy has bedevilled the society. Will the world ever have a paradigm shift in recognising women? Are women pushing hard enough to break the glass ceiling that exists globally?”
The current body of work is an attempt to address these questions and to leverage on the experiences of women, especially those in higher education, to create a scholarship of possibility and a reality for women to break the glass ceiling and ascend the ladder of success in any discipline and lead.
To order the book, please email info@publishdafrika.com

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: Dear Zweli
Written by Phakamisa Mayaba

Awaiting a letter from a father you haven’t seen since your ninth birthday must be a tough ask on anyone, not least a sixteen-year-old. So I figured I’d be a dad for once and explain to my son the reasons for not having gotten back to him sooner. All night I’d spent mulling it over when it dawned on me I didn’t really have any. Work, work; it’s always work, isn’t it? I think you’re at that age now when you can pick up on a lie. Maybe – heaven forbid – you can spin a fine one yourself. So what do you say we cut the fluff and play open cards for a change?
Your last letter, my boy, was full of noteworthy curiosities. Though I’m hardly the sort of person who cries easily, man, your penmanship had me ruffling for an old Dylan record, just so that anybody who was around would know: Geez! The only thing that’d ever make this guy cry is music.
From the pages leaped at me the anguished torments of a child having to grow up really fast. With his mother (how is Kathy doing by the way?) putting in overtime at the hospital, his father miles away; the sheer idea of a normal family is, no doubt, missed on him. To be sure, dear boy, it’s a rough place to be in. Having to put up appearances; forging mom’s signature on the excursion indemnity form; lying about why your dad never picks you up from school; that your last oral presentation was of an imaginary dog you don’t really own because they have a strict no-pets policy at that haggard downtown apartment block which your mom can barely afford.
Judging by some of the stuff you’ve entrusted upon me, I can see where this is going but whether it will get there, only you will decide. You see, Zweli, in life you can be one of two people. Am I beginning to sound like a shrink? I certainly think so, so I’ll drop the serious, filial spiel for now. Vaguely, you mentioned a girl, Thembi, I believe is her name. Can’t tell you how you must have felt when you found out she has the hots for James, the chizboy? What I do know is that between rejection and jealousy cuts a fine line. So fine you’ll often don’t see yourself crossing it. Before you realise it, you’re clambering through the school corridors in designer greys and shoes. Your nose looks down on those of lesser acquisitions – even your friend Thabo who once welcomed you to this very school with a big smile, bigger glasses and an even greater character seems cumbersome to you of late only because he’s just not cool enough.
Your tie hangs loosely around the neck, shirt sleeves rolled high as you drag on a forbidden cigarette inside a forbidden shed somewhere on the school grounds at break time. You think you’re the proverbial turd and you’re probably right. A turd who has snuck into his mother’s room while she wasn’t looking, ruffled through her handbag and retrieved the last money inside it so that Thembi might finally see that you too could be cool like James. You too could be the one bunking school, slipping inside a liquor store and walking out bearing a bottle of liqueur that you, Thembi, and all the other cool kids will enjoy at a time when the ‘losers’ are bored in Ms Green’s-always-boring Maths class. “Cool” may be what you Insta kids call it, but to me it crumbles to a singular disaster: utter stupidity!
But who am I to pass judgement, right? Absent father! Some hotshot lawyer in a priestly gown, lying through his teeth in an effort to spare some guy who’s done some really bad stuff from doing hard time alongside other bad guys. So I lie – I’m sure your mother tells you so all the time – and I get paid for it. Hardly an honourable way to earn one’s keep but then again what job is without its hypocrisies? For what it’s worth, when I was your age, I’d often ask after my own father.
“He’s in the mines,” my mom would say, “digging for gold.” Every day, she’d continue, from sunrise till sunup, dad was taking a pickaxe to solid granite, ostensibly making his fortune. He was sunk way in the underbelly of the Earth, sweating, bleeding, heaving and I’d like to think that as he was plunging the drill, or wielding the pickaxe, in his mind, between the requisite accuracy, that in the rearview mirror he could still see us, his wife and kids. His family.
Yet, in the fleeting memories I vaguely have of him, he never seemed to have enough to buy me anything; I’d even have to lie to friends every time I happened to get a new pair of anything.
I’d tell anybody around that “My father bought this for me, don’t you dare touch it.” And act like I truly believed it; that my father actually took time from work, told to his colleagues that he was going to buy a copy of whatever it is that the kids were listening to in those days for his son.
That his son mattered.
But one night he came back unannounced, heaving and frail. A week later we buried him in a cheap coffin, not so much a tombstone to immortalise his memory.
I don’t mean to depress you, Zweli, in recounting this woeful yarn, only to say, sometimes a lie is more palatable than the truth. Some things are far more beautiful in how we perceive them than in how they really are. And so when you write about your friend, James, how “in” he is with the crowd and his big brother Tony who speaks tsotsitaal and gets all the pretty girls, I’m happy and worried in the same breath because I see exactly how this is fated to end even though I can only speculate as to how it began.
In Tony’s company you probably feel like the most important person given how he dotes after you. He calls you “kid” and that satisfies a longing for brotherly or, for that matter, fatherly affection, something you’ve never really known. Pour another one for the “kid” he instructs his aides when your glass of beer is spent. “Let the kid have the first puff” when a joint is rolled. He calls you aside to his private room, walks you up to a safe concealed behind a glossy portrait of a duck-walking Elvis Presley. He punches in a few keys and the vault opens. There are gleaming watches, bracelets, gold cufflinks and stacks of money – enough, you think to yourself – to buy a dozen cars. Of those he has plenty in his five garages and you can have them too someday. But there is a snag – there always is – some pound of flesh to be surrendered. Nothing comes easily in this world. But so you can start out small and work your way up, he tells you.
James, along with an older spiv will show you exactly how it’s done tonight. They’ll pick you up somewhere secluded and you’ll be sure to wear black. Your car with no plates and tinted windows will cruise casually around the city. The vigilant eyes of the spiv will yell James to a screeching halt and that’s your cue to leap out the back, approach the car that’s idling at the intersection and point a gun at the driver. Simple as that; like taking candy from a baby. Of course the maiden attempt will go just according to plan – that’s because the car you thought you were hijacking is actually one of Tony’s and the driver is not as unwitting as his expression lets on. He’s just a prop in Tony’s vast organogram, another dramatis persona in this exciting, elaborate tryst in the underbelly of a play where everything looks easy as the audience who applaud, and swoon but altogether harbouring no ties with the actors who happen to be sweating yet are none the wiser before them. But they’ll lull you into thinking you’re a badass, toasting to your courage at a party with the coolest people, and girls who look like they’ve just stepped off a pageant runway.
“Welcome” Tony will announce, “now, you’re one of us.” And there’ll be champagnes popping and glasses clinking. And next time, you’ll scour the city again and maybe you’ll be lucky once more. But the more often you succeed, the slimmer your chances of always getting away with it become. Maybe you’ll be so good as to be worthy of a promotion. But again, a promotion only means your chances of getting out alive are just that much slimmer too. You know way too much to simply hand in the gun and walk out the front door. Now that you’re up the ladder, your name does the rounds and eventually some policeman catches its scent and starts sniffing at your spoor.
You don’t yet know it but you have shadows following you. They loom after you long enough to anticipate your next move. Then boom! Gotcha! These guys always get nailed Zweli. Always. And when you’re standing before the stern-faced judge, you think Tony will be there invoking those brotherly declarations you guys would make when you were hijacking cars that went along the skit of; “I die where my brother should die.”
Not in this lifetime old chap; here you are just another dispensable rag, plenty more out there to trample on. By the time you’ve come to your senses, you’re lying on a fleabed, in a 4 by 4 cell, all alone. Thembi is out there looking ahead to the rest of the life ahead of her. The one every kid deserves, even you. Tony doesn’t even bother thanking you with a visit. Your mom is in tears whenever she summons the strength to see the person who broke her heart forever. And what else can she do, son, except lie that your father is a lawyer when in fact he is nothing but a prisoner who wallows in his cell fighting every day in the hope that his son will turn out not the same way that he did.

Yours, Truthfully
Your Father

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – August 2023 Leg
THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: A TRAIL OF YOUTHFUL BONES
Written by The ‘Weird’ Brown Girl

Langa watched as children ran around the bedrooms looking for their best clothes to prepare themselves for the day ahead. The sun’s glow permeated through the floor length windows of the orphanage, illuminating the shabby Christmas decorations adorning the walls. Langa would have carried on sleeping if it weren’t for her cruel overseer Mother Tulip.
Mother Tulip was a voluptuous woman of cruel pedigree with a permanent twisted scowl on her face. Mother Tulip was kind to every child in the orphanage except for Langa. Langa wasn’t sure if the reason for such hatred from Mother Tulip as well as all the other inhabitants of the orphanage was because of her skin colour or sharp tongue. Maybe it was both, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.
Langa was an anomaly. Even to herself. She was a tall, thin seventeen-year-old girl with hair as wild and gorgeous as a lion’s mane. Her skin was a smooth shade of black that was so dark it was almost navy blue. Everyone at the orphanage started a rumour claiming that her skin colour was an unnatural shade of black because she had been kissed by a demon when she was a baby. People considered her unlucky or evil. These superstitions led to people alienating her and despising her existence.
Langa had been abandoned by her mother in an alley. She had been tucked in a blanket and placed in an old box with a note that had her name on it, including a small but beautiful crescent moon-shaped pendant with the words, “be the light.”
Sister Shamiso, a nun with a beautiful heart had found baby Langa in the alley wailing, the pendant her mother had left her fisted in her small hand. Langa abhorred her mother for leaving her to suffer the cruelty of strangers. She didn’t want anything to do with her mother, but she was always strangely convicted to keep the pendant her mother had left for her. The pendant brought her comfort, it was her solace and her only hope in a miserable world that fate had fashioned for her. She often clutched it to her chest after some of Mother Tulip’s painful mulberry stick lashes and other people’s horrible comments about her skin. It was her only source of comfort when Sister Shamiso passed away after a difficult fight with cancer. Langa was jostled out of her reverie when Mother Tulip’s massive bosom shoved her away from the window sill.
“Go get dressed Soot, you might get adopted today,” Mother Tulip ordered, her usual scowl etched on her face. Mother Tulip towered over Langa, her imposing build dwarfing the straight-faced teenager. Langa was not the least bit intimidated. If anything, she silently challenged Mother Tulip by squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, her gaze unwavering.
“My name is Langa, not Soot,” she enunciated confidently.
“Your name is whatever I want it to be, you little devil. Now go get dressed and do your best today,” Mother Tulip hissed.
Langa let out an aggravated sigh before stomping off to a room she shared with other girls. She grabbed the best dress she had, quickly yanking it on her body. Langa was a dreamer but she was no fool. She knew that no one cared to adopt her, because of her age. She was now 17 and no couple was willing to adopt a teenager. Langa remembered when she was younger, about six years old, when she wanted nothing more than to be adopted and rescued by people who would love her. That proved impossible seeing as how no one cared enough to even consider her. Couples would take one look at her and disperse, no doubt apprehensive of her dark skin and curious features.
Thanks to Sister Shamiso, Langa had grown up self-aware. She would constantly tell Langa that humans often despised what they didn’t understand. They despised differences in anyone even if the person was one of them. Langa firmly believed that her own people often displayed shocking amounts of self-hatred by ridiculing dark skin. Langa maneuvered her way through the sea of children and nuns bustling around the orphanage in preparation for adoption day. Langa hated adoption days with every fibre of her being. She didn’t like being paraded around like she was up for sale at an auction.
The couples or customers as Langa liked to call them arrived, their eyes lit with the hope of finding a child to call their own. Before Langa could join the rest of the children, one of the nuns in charge pulled her aside and warned her not to be as mouthy as she usually was. Langa couldn’t help but snicker; her tongue was a little sharp. Some couples offered Langa warm smiles which she would return with scowls.
One woman told Langa that her frock was pretty, to which she replied with, ” I can’t say the same thing about yours.” The woman gasped in disbelief and left the premises beside herself with anger. The day pressed on and Langa braved every irksome moment of it. It wasn’t until a couple donning sleek, well-tailored clothes approached her that Langa’s interest was slightly roused.
“I don’t care for politicians,” Langa said and yawned after the imposing couple had introduced themselves to her.
The couple, Rudo and Tino Hove, were some of Zimbabwe’s most prominent politicians. Their faces were plastered on billboards and they always managed to secure themselves an interview on television.
“Well, we’re interested in you, Langa. Mother Tulip tells us that you’re mouthy but brilliant. I mean, your report filled with impressive grades speaks for itself,” Tino pointed out.
Langa scoffed. “Mother Tulip complimenting me? Gosh, she really does want me gone.”
The back-and-forth repartee carried on between the couple and Langa. Langa was surprised that her curt tongue hadn’t ran the couple off yet. In the end, it was clear that Langa had come to like the couple. No sooner than a few weeks later, papers were drafted and filed, the court was paid a visit and miraculously, Langa became their daughter.
After a week, Langa was excited when a sleek black car came to a stop in front of a huge silver gate, adorned by damp intertwined vines that shimmered like emeralds under the afternoon sun. Langa knew that the couple that had taken interest in her was well-off, however she had not expected such a blatant display of opulence. The gates were opened by two security guards, revealing a driveway made of cobblestone. As the car drove up the driveway, she marvelled at the wide expanse of manicured lawns and a kaleidoscope of flowers.
Her new home was ensconced on a small hill, overlooking the lawns. The Hoves were standing at the front door, warm smiles adorning their faces. Rudo’s smile widened when Langa stepped out of the car, her eyes perusing the splendour of the house.
***
Two months had passed since Langa had started living with the Hove couple. They were kind, intelligent and attentive. They gave her just about anything she desired. They had found her an artistic private tutor whom she adored. They spoilt her with books, paint and cameras as she loved art.
One rainy morning, Langa settled down to eat her breakfast when one of the maids, a petite woman with a mouth especially created for gossip, placed Langa’s cup of tea on the table. The maid kept glancing at Langa.
“Spit it out, Farai,” Langa ordered.
“You’re the tenth child,” Farai muttered as she twiddled her thumbs.
“What are you talking about?” Langa sighed.
“You’re the tenth child the Hove family has adopted,” Farai said quickly before scurrying away. Langa suddenly found it difficult to swallow the mealie-meal porridge she had been enjoying. Farai was known to gossip but there were always elements of truth to what she said. Still, ten children seemed far-fetched. If what Farai said was true, why hadn’t Rudo and Tino mentioned any of them? Why weren’t they here? There was no sign that other children had lived in this home.
Langa tried very hard to ignore what Farai had said. She had tried to choke it up to mere gossip. Try as she might to ignore what Farai had said, she just couldn’t. Her curiosity had been peaked. Langa could barely focus during class. After her tutoring sessions, Langa found herself in front of Tino’s study. It was a private room that the staff was only permitted to clean on Fridays. Her parents hadn’t explicitly told her she wasn’t allowed in the study, but it was obvious she wasn’t allowed.
Langa tried to open the door, but it was locked. She grabbed a Bobby pin from the pocket of her tunic and dismantled it, whilst ensuring to elongate one end of the pin. She fiddled with the keyhole until the door opened. Langa had picked this trick up at the orphanage in her countless escapes from the cold and damp detention room. The study was a plain room with a table that had a phone on top of it and two chairs on opposite ends of the table. It was dark as the curtains were closed. The table had a few files on top of it, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.
She scanned the room until her eyes landed on the table drawers. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick file that was placed underneath a myriad of papers. Langa blew the dust off the thick file and opened it, watching flecks of dust saturate the air. The file contained various images of children, including the information about their dates of birth and ages. There were nine children in total, all from different orphanages. Just then the phone on the table buzzed, Langa grabbed it then clicked on the notification that opened a pandora’s box. She saw a message from a Mr Moyo who was excited for Rudo and her husband Tino’s invite to dine on a new child. Langa gasped in horror when she realised that this Mr Moyo was one of many people invited to dine on a new child. She read further and uncovered that the couple had been adopting children in the past only to slaughter them like animals and dine on them. Langa realised that she was their next meal. The revelation was horrifying.
Langa made to grab the phone and the files in order to present them to the police. She heard footsteps trudging up the stairs and her parents’ voices. She quickly put everything back in its place and ran to her room before she was caught. In the morning, she planned to pass by the study, grab the evidence and head to the police but when she went back to the study, everything was gone. Had they cleared the study, fully aware that she had been snooping? Her heart sank and fear gripped her like a vice, but she was determined to go to the police.
“I think my parents are cannibals who adopt children to eat them,” Langa reiterated for the fifth time that afternoon at the police station. The chief of police in Burnside roared with laughter, even going as far as to invite his other colleagues to laugh with him. Langa sighed when she realised that they didn’t believe her. She understood why they didn’t believe her. She had no evidence except for her word. Her word alone wasn’t credible.
The police continued to laugh at her as she pushed her chair backwards and stood up. She grabbed her backpack and left the police station, then headed to a place she couldn’t call home anymore. Her heart was filled with fear. Langa laid awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was well aware that she was in danger. She knew that she had to leave with her life intact.
Where would she run to? Where would she hide? She knew that Rudo and Tino would find her and make her disappear from the face of the planet just like the other nine kids who came before her. No one would look for her. After all, no one cared about orphans. They had resources befitting of crooked politicians that would ensure she was caught and killed. She knew that to be free, she had to face them. She had to bring their dark deeds into the light. To do that, she had to get evidence of their misdeeds and take it to a competent police officer who would imprison them.
Langa knew that if she didn’t act fast, she would end up dead. She immediately sat up straight, kicked off her duvet and rushed for her satchel. Langa yanked on a jacket. She was going to get the phone and the files and flee the mansion before they caught her. Langa was in Tino’s study in no less than five minutes, shoving every file she could find into her satchel. She searched all the drawers for Rudo’s phone which contained all messages the couple had with their fellow cannibals.
“Looking for this?” Rudo asked after switching on a light that illuminated the whole study.
Langa’s heart sank as Rudo marched up to her. She ordered a security guard to apprehend her. Langa felt a sharp pain on her head after the buff security guard delivered a devastating blow to it. Everything faded to black before she collapsed. When Langa came to, she realised she was bound to a chair, her wrists and ankles firmly secured by thick rope. Rudo and Tino were staring at her with hollow eyes.
“You two are cannibals. You’ve been eating them? You’re evil!” Langa screamed.
“Animals eat other animals all the time. How is what we do any different?” Tino asked.
“You two are sick! You’ll never get away with this… all those children—you killed them,” Langa struggled to say as she choked on her tears.
“We put unwanted kids out of their misery, and we enjoy youth-giving meals,” Tino smiled sinisterly.
Rudo set the files ablaze with her lighter. She threw the papers into the metal bin in front of her. “Now, our colleague will come by later today for dinner,” Rudo grinned gleefully. “Try not to look so mortified. Consider it as us taking you out of your miserable existence.”
“You’ll never win!” Langa announced. “Say Hi to the camera; my friend and I have your confession on live and the world is watching.”
“What?” Tino gulped.
“One of my jacket buttons has a camera on it,” Langa smirked triumphantly.
Relief flooded Langa when she heard sirens in the distance. She would make sure the Hove family paid for their crimes. Langa phased out the couple’s panicked noises as she mused about how she hadn’t expected to go sleuthing to live up to a pendant that implored her to be the light.

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: “WHEN THE PRAYING STOPS”
Written by Ntsarane Nelson Molapo

The chorus had everybody swaying and dancing to the melodic voices of the congregation and the choir, accompanied by the simultaneous rhythmic clapping of hands and the beating of drums. Other members had bell-shaped metal items that they struck with another metal producing their own spice to the mix. The music prepared the congregation mentally and spiritually for the sermon that would be delivered by their leader later. It whipped up emotions and got everyone into an almost uncontrollable frenzy. It drove some members to act like they were in a trance, in their own world! The atmosphere was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
The resident priest, Pastor Sipho Selwane, stayed with his wife and two daughters in an exclusive area that was popularly referred to as the “Billionaires Playground”. Its real name was Serenity. In contrast to the outbuildings in Pastor Selwane’s estate, the house itself was a modern, imposing three-storey building. To complete the picture of opulence that one senses as soon as one enters through the large electrical gates, there’s a long driveway, lined with tall trees on both sides. The majestic house stands a further five hundred meters away. Next to it is a large pool that shows water flowing into a lake adjacent to the property but surprisingly, the pool never empties!
The pastor was a snazzy dresser. He believed in flaunting his expensive fashion taste in everyone’s face. Known to wear top international brands, his trademark among his peers was that he would never mix brands. Whenever he wanted to feel special, which was almost always, he would, on a certain day choose to wear for example only, Gucci or Versace or Louis Vuitton etc. Therefore, on that day, he would wear only that brand, from head to toe! In jewellery, he wasn’t a fan of wearing neck chains or wrist bands. His taste in watches was top notch. In this category, three names dominated – Tag Heuer, Cartier and Rolex. Whenever he needed “go kgalemela lenyatso”, he would wear one of these, knowing very well that they were bound to turn a few heads!
Even though Pastor Sipho was more into bikes than cars, his choice of four-wheeled vehicles was intended to make an immediate impression. He owned only four cars, among them a Porsche Panamera and a Mercedes Maybach S Class. He also had five motor bikes ranging from a BMW to a Harley Davidson. Whenever he felt like clearing his head, he would get onto one of these and as soon as he was clear of the city traffic, he would push the engine to full throttle and enjoy the thrill of adrenalin rushing through his body! All this and much, much more sums up Pastor Sipho’s life. It is a fact that most men of the cloth are poorer than church mice, so “How did this pastor get it right?”
On this day, like in most other days, the large building of the church was packed to capacity. As the singing continued, Mfundisi stood holding the pulpit with both hands, slightly leaning forward with an almost invisible smile pasted on his lips. He was waiting for the critical moment when all resistance would be driven from everyone when he brings up the issue of “Giving to the Lord”. Years of practice had taught him to pick just the right moment to get the greatest financial results from his flock. When the moment arrived, he knew.
In a calculated and well-rehearsed move, he dropped his head to his chest and raised his hand with the palm open and slowly clenched it into a fist, signaling that the music must stop. The sermon that he delivered was hard hitting and could literally have caused blood to pour out of a stone. Mfundisi Sipho Selwane was at his element and some people were moved to tears. He spoke with a well-modulated rough and emotionally charged voice. As he was nearing the end of his sermon, he said:
“Brothers and sisters, you are nothing without the mercy of God. HALLELUYAH!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“God wants to bless you. But many of you cheat God. AMEN!!!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“Even though you want God to bless you abundantly, but when it is your turn to give to Him abundantly, you only give Him small change, AMEN!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“By how much do you want God to bless you today?”
The people opened their arms wide above their heads, indicating the size of the blessing they wanted!
“HALLELUYAH!!”
Response: “A-M-E-N!!!”
“Come forward and give God your ALL and He in turn will give you His ALL!!!”
With that, he motioned with his hands for the people to come forward and deposit their offerings into the four large cane baskets at the front. Someone burst into a new chorus and everybody joined in, proudly waving stacks of bank notes in the air as they surged forward. Pastor Selwane moved from behind the pulpit and stood watching as his flock filled up the baskets with cash. Just when it looked like it was coming to the end, another moving chorus erupted. It grew in intensity and engulfed the worshippers with ‘umoya’ until they were dripping with sweat.
Mfundisi announced that the day was his birthday. Amid the congratulatory ululating and clapping of hands, the pastor again beckoned the congregation to come and make more offerings. Everyone danced their way to the front and dropped some more bundles of bank notes into the baskets.
Almost unnoticed, a man quietly came into the building through one of the side doors. He was carrying a large gift-type paper bag that was straining under the weight of whatever was inside. When he got to the front, he insisted on handing it directly to the pastor as it was his birthday gift. He then took his place in the back row and joined in the singing. After about ten minutes he quietly slipped out without drawing any attention.
Finally, when he was convinced that everyone had come more than once to the front, Pastor Selwane signaled to two muscled young men and two young women, to pick up the baskets! The one girl’s looks had a way of catching one’s attention without much effort. She had what one could call aggressive beauty. She had a tough looking jaw-line which resembled that of a boxer who had taken a few serious blows in the ring. As the frenzied singing continued, the pastor quietly slipped behind the curtain, shepherding the fortune bearers to a room at the back. The foursome was part of the team of ushers that directs people to their seats when they arrive for the service. But they also had an added responsibility of attending to every whim and wish of Pastor Selwane.
During and after the offering, the strong-men, Lefika and Tornado, who were always armed to the teeth, double up as bodyguards, ensuring the safety of the man of God, and also as security guards for the cash. The girls, Nqobile and Nompilo, were at the beck and call of ntate Mfundisi. Whenever he needed any or both of them, they were always at hand. Nobody really knew the scope or limit of their duties and nobody asked! The four comprised what is known as the inner circle, with Mfundisi holding the center.
The church service wound down and Mfundisi gave the last prayer dismissing the congregants. He then mingled with them and chit-chatted with those who wanted his attention. Slowly the chattering died down and the place appeared empty except for the four of them. They then converged in a secluded room at the back of the building to count the day’s takings. When he was satisfied that every cent had been accounted for, Pastor Sipho pulled out four A5 sized brown envelopes from his jacket and dropped them in front of each one of them. They all broke into loud ululating and praise-singing that bordered on worshipping the man.
After he told them to restrain themselves, he took the two women into a secluded room at the back. There, Nqobile and Nompilo immediately changed into plastic suits similar to those used by medical teams during the COVID-19 pandemic. Mfundisi came in carrying the “Gift” bag that was given to him earlier. It contained two “Brick” sized parcels sealed with black plastic. He took out another two similar bricks from a safe in the corner. The girls knew exactly what to do. They expertly peeled off the wrappings and started spreading the white powder on the foil that covered the table. Then they divided and weighed the stuff, making packages according to a list of orders brought by Mfundisi. He stood behind them, barking instructions:
“I want every gram accounted for, okay?!”
Later, Mfundisi went out into the large backyard where Lefika and Tornado, together with three other men, were busy with preparations for a large meal or party. On a large braai stand under a tree, meats of all kinds were hissing and sizzling under their watchful eyes. Drinks in large containers and buckets of ice could be seen everywhere.
The front gate and door were by now locked and for all intents and purposes the church building looked deserted. But the back of the property, which was hidden from the public, was a hive of activity. Top range vehicles were streaming in through a cleverly concealed entrance. Their occupants, ranging from early twenties and upwards in age, all dressed trendily, excitedly spilled out of the cars, greeting and chatting with each other as they entered the building. Within a few hours after the church service ended, the place had been transformed into a top-class den of iniquity, complete with strip dancers and pole dancers.
The sanctuary of the church was now converted into a VIP area where the big spenders were accommodated. One could say that they had a ringside view. They were lounging in comfortable couches and chairs. Others sat comfortably on the floor. Most women were dressed to please the eye. High stiletto heels, skimpy dresses and bare-backed tops were the order of the day. Expensive drinks flowed freely and the sweet smell of incense that earlier permeated the area was now unceremoniously replaced by the pungent smell of Cuban cigars that eerily hung in the air.
At spaced intervals, the patrons would discreetly visit the back room where Nqobile and Nompilo had all their orders ready for collection. Some would first sit down and enjoy a sniff or a lick of the powdery stuff before collecting their orders. Pastor Sipho would occasionally take a walk around the building, making sure that every patron felt special and appreciated. He was a master in communication and people skills. Once he turned his charm on, very few people could resist him. He made his congregants to believe that they could reach the dizzy heights of success like him, if they gave as much as they could to the church. As a result, they emptied their pockets and bank balances, pinning their hope on him.
The pastor’s family knew how much he enjoyed their wholesome home-prepared meals, so they decided to do that for his birthday. After the service, they bought a few items and headed home. They knew from experience that Daddy had to finish God’s work first, before going home to attend to his own family needs. His wife had a special surprise birthday present for him. With her two daughters turning into teenagers soon, she had been praying to give them a sibling, hopefully a brother. God had finally answered her prayers and now she wanted to surprise her husband by announcing her pregnancy during dinner.
Archbishop Joseph Rademeyer was in charge of thirteen bishops that served under him. Among them was the aging Bishop Amos Zanempilo, to whom Pastor Selwane reported. These two had been watching the growth of both Pastor Selwane and his church. They were certain that when Bishop Zanempilo retires, Pastor Selwane would become bishop. After consulting some senior bishops, it was a done deal. They then decided to give Pastor Selwane the good tidings in person on his birthday!
Nothing beats spoiling oneself a little once in a while, right? Being his birthday, Pastor Selwane decided to let his hair down after seeing that his clandestine operation was going on perfectly. He was joking, laughing and was seen more than once in the center of a group of dancers, screaming: “Make the circle bigger!!!” all to the amusement of the workers and the patrons alike. With all inhibitions gone, it came as no surprise when, completely out of character, he started flirting indiscriminately with some women in the room.
Dusk was falling fast and the dinner preparations at home were spot-on. The large dinner table was being laid to accommodate about fifteen people. Archbishop Rademeyer pressed the buzzer at the gate and was let in. On arrival he explained that he could not get hold of Pastor Selwane and that from the gates of the church, the place looked deserted. Mrs. Selwane promptly invited the two clerics to stay for dinner, adding that they could meet with Pastor Selwane afterwards. The archbishop politely declined, saying that he had great news to deliver to the pastor without delay. Mrs. Selwane smiled and offered to take them to her husband.
Things were spiraling up to dizzy heights at the church, or was it an entertainment venue? From the drinks and assortment of substances that he took, Pastor Selwane felt like he was literally walking on clouds. And he liked it. Without any resistance, he allowed two beautiful girls to lead him to a large chair that was usually reserved for a bishop when he visits the church. It had a regal feel to it. They then put a paper crown on his head and gave him a scepter to complete his ascendency the throne. One girl ripped off his shirt, took out her red lipstick and wrote: “HBD MY KING!” on his chest! The other girl held a platter with white powder close to his face and handed him a R200 note rolled into a straw. He stuck it into his nostril and cleaned out one long line at a go! Smudges of the stuff were all over his nostrils. As he was about to plunge down for another pull, he heard the unmistakable voice of his wife screaming:
“Sipho wenzani?”
He slowly lifted his head up to see his beautiful wife, flanked by their daughters standing in front of him. Her face was a mixture of all the emotions put together. She was shaking like a leaf. The girls just cried! The two men of God stood there in disbelief. None of them could muster enough courage to say anything to Pastor Selwane! The pastor just stared at them!
Have you ever wondered what happens in your place of worship when the praying stops?

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE LAST TRUMPET
Written by Kaluwe Haangala

“The Onyx TV Main News in detail. Reports reaching our newsroom, quite extraordinary in nature, are that people are resurrecting from their graves. Footage obtained shows healthy people and not zombies coming back to life! This has roused religious communities of the Christian persuasion in to quoting off scriptures to do with the sounding of the last trumpet, a Biblical call for the dead to rise…”
***
He hears the noises, the commotion reminiscent of the crowds he entertains. He stretched out to rid himself of his slumber, and the feeling that he had slept a really long time. To his shock, he was in his favourite suit! What the hell? Who even sleeps in a suit? He struggled to get up out of what seemed like a box. To his horror, it was a casket next to a grave. He stood up. The sight before him was as gory as it was intriguing. He looked down and the realisation hit him like a flood! He was surrounded by people as well dressed emerging from the ground. It soon dawned on him that this was a graveyard. He felt like he was having a bittersweet dream!
The last thing he remembered was being on a hospital bed. He had been sick for quite a while till a darkness enveloped him. Tuberculosis was what the hospital staff kept saying. The regimen of medicines would be what eventually took a toll on him. In the end, or towards the end as he corrected himself mentally, he was just tired. And for whatever reason, his letters to his wife to come and see him went unanswered, or so he was told by his bed minder relatives who he knew hated the woman he had loved so much.
Someone bumped into him and as he turned to dole out a few choice words, he laid eyes on a young woman with a confused look on her face. She mumbled an apology and was about to hoof away when she looked back at him, and her face lit up!
“Stevie Sieve!” she screamed.
He smiled sheepishly and looked around to realise no one was really paying attention. He looked back at her in time to realise she was leaping to hug him, literally.
“You haven’t aged a single bit!” she said. “My father had all of your vinyls, tapes and then later the CDs!” she added, to his shock.
“Haven’t aged a bit?” he rehashed, more in rhetorical wonder while looking down at his hands, then back at her.
“You haven’t aged! Look, you are maybe a little disoriented, I know I am freaking out. But we have just come back from the dead, like everyone you see here…” and she mumbled on as his mind zoned out as it used to when he needed to think.
Back from the dead. That hung in the air for what seemed like ages. He looked around him and saw all graves had somehow been unearthed, plaques and tombstones strewn all over the place. He looked at a tombstone lying at his feet:
Agabeth Tembo
Born 12 December 1992
Died 13 March 2021.
He looked at the plaque again. The shock took a whole new level when his mind told him the last date he remembered was 14th August 1988!
“What year is this?” he asked the young woman.
“It’s 2023, Bro,” answered a young man clad in the strangest garb he would yet see, with chains, studs on his ears and nose, and jeans dangling below his buttocks as he walked past.
Musonda, or Stevie Sieve as he had been called back then, realised that for whatever reason, after having died in 1988, had emerged from the grave 35 years later. Old Leopards Hill Cemetery was the immediate information he gathered about where he was. The last place he remembered being at was the University Teaching Hospital.
“What next?” he said more to himself than to anyone in particular, and the young woman started her mumbling thing again. All he could think about was the wife and daughter he had left behind. He was shown to the main road and he was immediately struck by the amount of traffic, the variety of cars. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a shortage of transport to the hospital in all the ensuing commotion. On the ride over, everything looked big, strange, weird. Nothing seemed at all the way he recalled, and it was all so overwhelming. He felt a heaviness, a darkness pass before his eyes. He fainted.
When he came to, he was lying in what he immediately surmised was a hospital bed. It was a far cry from what he knew, and everything looked even strange to him. The only thing that was familiar, was that hospital stench prevalent in almost every government hospital he had been to, an overwhelming smell this time around that instantly gave him severe nausea. He vomited, shocked that he even had something to vomit. A nurse came to his bed side and asked him a few questions. To his utter frustration, she didn’t even know who Stevie Sieve is and when he guessed her age, he knew she couldn’t possibly know him. He had no ID on him and amidst the chaos of all the people disgorged from the graveyards dotting the hospital campus, he was told he could leave as all his vitals were fine. He walked outside. The sprawling streets and the sheer number of people had him stumped all over again. As luck would have it, someone did recognise him.
“Stevie Sieve! Comrade, how nice to see you again!” and the stranger drowned him in a hug.
He mumbled his hellos and looked at the old man who had a vaguely familiar look.
“It’s me, Moffat the Slim! Come on man! You gotta remember me!” beamed the old man.
It all came back flooding to him. The year they had first met was 1968. His first day at the University of Zambia. The first friend he made had been a young man who trashed him about being the only 18-year-old to enter University at the time, Moffat Banda. They had similar interests and soon enough, they were a constant in a local band that would propel Musonda into the world of music, performances, money and of course, the trappings of that life. In the ensuing time, he met his wife to be, a medical student that Moffat would later tutor.
“Moffat!? What the hell happened to you!?”
“Well, young man,” he said with a chuckle, “while you were out there playing dead, some of us laboured on and lived. As you can tell, I am 79 now. And had you used your ears more than your pants back then, you’d be turning 74 in a few months.”
They embraced again and were soon chattering away because Musonda had a billion questions. Foremost of those was: “Where can I find Lutanda?”
Moffat realised his friend had taken in too much change in so short a space of time and there was yet more he had to take in. Instead of answering, he suggested taking his friend home to have some rest, leading him into the carpark and into what he indicated was his car. Musonda made a quip about the car, but rest was the last thing on his mind. Thirty-five years lying dormant and seemingly healed of all that had ailed him before death meant he was rearing to go.
“Where is my wife?” he asked again, sternly this time and as per past habits, with a clenched fist. When he saw the look on Moffat’s face, he looked down at his hand and apologised quickly.
The conversation would have continued till there was a bleep on the radio in the car signaling a newsflash. That a few people had spotted and identified Stevie Sieve at the hospital, was the news filtering through.
“You are still well known my brother. Soon people will start looking for you,” said Moffat. Just then, there was the sound of a ringing phone. It all seemed even stranger to Stevie how advanced things were, like a phone without wires!
“Hello.”
“Honey, where are you? Musonda has been seen alive,” said the excited voice.
“Yes love. And you will not believe I am in the car with him right now. We’ll see you soon.”
He cut the line. Musonda turned to look at his friend curiously.
Moffat could feel the look on him that Stevie was giving him. He knew he had a mine field to navigate around given the current circumstances. He had an ear on the ground, in a manner of speaking. It was for that reason that he had orchestrated a chance meeting with Musonda, something that would seem completely random. He was retired, but his reputation meant he was called in regularly for consultancy work. The moment he confirmed with the hospital that corpses were coming back to life in the morgue, his instincts immediately flew to his long dead friend. As luck would have it, Musonda made a beeline for the only place he thought he could find someone he knew from back then, the doctor friend who frequently visited him at his time of death. He cleared his throat. He had to get this off his chest, get ahead of it before things came to a head.
“Musonda, I married your ex-wife some years after you died.”
“What?”
“Look, you had been dead for a few years and the first thing that happened is that your relatives completely neglected your wife and daughter. Not that she wasn’t doing well for herself but with your death came an unprecedented interest in your music. In all of that, your wife and daughter were just not counted in. One thing led to the other and by the time we got to be together, my own wife had been dead for over a year.”
Musonda stared at him, a rage building in him that he knew would explode.
“Brother, let me explain. There is a lot I have done in my life for which there is absolutely no justification. I have no excuses to offer you, just the truth. We have been friends for so long, and all this while, I have done my best to be the big brother, the guiding light, the pillar, and I know you see me as such. You know how I was back in university, never really settled for anyone, yet always looking out for you, telling you never to hurt her but you were always stepping out on her, incessantly too. I became her shoulder to lean on, the one she spoke to about the things she feared most about you, the girls, the booze, how reckless you were with money. In my wisdom, I figured that if you got married, maybe you would settle down, do something different with your Economics degree and admit brother, there was no shortage of takers for your craft as you know well that you were among the best students. You could articulate the subject well. But you opted for the easy life – on the road every Wednesday, take in the sights, sounds and skirts of your destination. Meanwhile, I would be back here nursing the wounds caused by the women who would call your home and your wife would pick those calls. And she’d come crying to me. It was all so much work, man!”
He thought back to that one particular day. He had just come back from the hospital to find her sitting on his verandah.
“He has done it yet again”, she complained.
Normally, the conversation would pretty much go the same way; he being conciliatory and sticking unwaveringly in the middle, but show some semblance of leaning towards her side so she would not leave her husband, his friend. But somehow, her need for solace seemed to translate differently in his head this time around. Animal instinct took over, so to speak, and he broached a divide he had vowed never to – sleep with his friend’s wife. They both regretted it instantly and somehow, that built a chasm between them. For Moffat though, that led to his spiraling and despite the fact that he remained a ‘good friend’, he despised Musonda immensely! He kept the charade for only as long as his friend and his own wife were still alive.
“Stop the car!” Musonda screamed.
***
Moffat woke up from his slumber screaming. This was a very disturbingly wicked dream, another in a series of nightmares about his long dead friend. Why he kept dreaming he had married the widow blew past him, like a language whose words he didn’t understand. He sat up and looked over to his wife. She had horror written on her face as she stared first at him, and then at the radio, mouth agape.
“Reports reaching our newsroom, quite extraordinary in nature, are that people are resurrecting from their graves…”

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3