PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: Silent Ears
Written by Clever “DBharo” Mukanya

Chapter 1
On a Wednesday morning, I arrived at the heart of Rustenburg city and headed to a branch of Mukuru where remittances from other countries are received. There was no queue, so I quickly got served by a young lady calling herself Chipo.
I grinned and thanked the sister as I immediately left the office. I was floating with joy because my brother Kelvin in the UAE had sent me R6000.
My wallet was full, so I thought of sauntering and having a look around the shops. I didn’t need much that day as I would do most of my shopping during the school opening.
I landed at an unusual corner where a brazen-faced hulk appeared ahead of me, with a cigar in hand. He was wearing a white beret, a red vest, and a leaf-colored jacket half-buttoned. He was covered all in black. Judging by his appearance, I assumed this man was an outsider, just like me.
I averted my eyes in fear, thinking that maybe this man was in the army. His red eyes silenced my thoughts; perhaps he was among other vicious yobbos. My fear grew, causing my confidence to rapidly dwindle, and I lowered my face with a gentle sigh.
The hulk continued to stare at me from head to toe. I pretended to answer a call and took a few steps forward. I reached another corner and quickly headed west. I walked blindly with other pedestrians toward the taxi rank, passing a crowded corridor of vendors.
Instantly, my heart flooded with relief when I heard touts shouting, “Only one Moruleng left.” I breathed heavily, feeling my heart race.
“Hey, mister! Are you going? Take your taxi, mister.”
I responded, “Yes boss, I’m going to Moruleng,” which confused everyone as to whether the voice came from me or the hawkers.
“That’s your taxi, mister. Get in.”

The taxi moved quickly and reached a fast-food shop where it parked directly across from it. The driver and conductor hurriedly got out and joined the queue. We passengers stayed inside, though a few got out to get some fresh air.
A handsome man in a grey suit approached in front of our taxi, looking elegant. I silently observed him and thought he might be a renowned pastor from the local churches. A few steps away, the man asked in a soft voice.
Another passenger nodded his head to confirm that it was the right taxi I was in. The man in the grey suit boarded and asked me if he could sit by the window. However, I followed our tradition of respecting elders, as I am accustomed to. The man pulled out a white handkerchief and gently wiped his face. He neatly folded it and returned it to his front pocket.
As I tried to study him more, the driver and conductor returned hastily and got back into the taxi. Right behind them, the same brazen-faced hulk I had encountered earlier followed. His appearance clearly indicated that he was familiar with the gym. Quakes formed wherever he stepped.
The hulk boarded and sat quietly on my left, making the three of us in this seat. As it got stuffy, I felt uncomfortable being squeezed and suffocated — it was hot and airless. I felt like a toad in the middle of a stack of hay. Shortly after, the conductor shouted, “Right! It’s time for us to leave the city,” as he slammed the door shut.

Chapter 2
The Amapiano beats resonated in our ears, the music embodying the vibe that had swept across the continent. The driver steered the taxi as it eased into motion. As two female police officers approached, the conductor quickly settled into a seat. He used slang deeply, so it took me a while to grasp his words.
“Oh, cops!” he chuckled. “What’s the use of having corrupt cops when they’re involved in everything?”
Our laughter was uproarious, leaving only one person untouched by the mirth. “Eh parents and midwives, I’m facing a small issue with my pockets—they’re feeling rather empty. So, I kindly request that you settle your fares before we depart the city. Is that agreeable, my elders?”
His voice brimmed with enthusiasm. “Yes! This way, our journey shall be eternally blessed. We never know when these corrupt cops will cease their extortion in this country. Soon everyone might be driven to criminal acts. Who’s with me on this?”
Silence followed; no one else spoke up. All except for the hulking figure and the man who resembled a pastor were not ready with their fares. The conductor asked, “What about you, sir in the grey suit?” The man replied calmly, “Ah, don’t worry, my friend. I find myself in such tight quarters that I can’t access my wallet.”
The conductor’s expression turned stern. “No, sir! Are you suggesting you’ll travel without paying?” The man responded, maintaining his composure.
“Of course I’ll pay. It’s just that space is so limited that I can’t retrieve my money right now. But if some room opens up, you’ll get your payment. It’s a pressing matter, my good man.”
The conductor let out a sigh. “Alright, then! So, who else hasn’t paid?”
I noticed the hulking figure pointing in my direction. A frown formed on my face, even though his gesture perplexed me. “Eh… Monkeyman, pay up and let’s get going. Sir, we’re on a tight schedule. Doesn’t everyone realize that?”
I replied, my voice laced with both hurt and apprehension, “Conductor, I’ve already settled my fare. Elders, did you not see me pass some notes to those in front of us?” I scanned the faces around me, hoping for someone to defend me against this unjust accusation that weighed heavily on me.
“No, no!” the man in the grey suit waved it off. Anger surged within me, nearly overflowing. “Monkeyman, pay your fare so we can move. You do want to reach home, don’t you? Huh!” I struggled to find the words to respond. If flies were on a daytime mission, they’d have been caught in my open mouth.
Tears welled in my eyes as a flood of grief engulfed me. I lost my ability to meet the gaze of my fellow passengers, my head hanging low, gasping for air. Finally, I retrieved a hundred rand note and handed it to the conductor.
“Quietly and smoothly! You see now, Monkeyman. You’ve proven yourself braver than most. You’re the type we want in our ranks,” the conductor praised before being interrupted by the brazen-faced hulk.
“Ahem! Um… driver, we’ll be disembarking before the roundabout. Conductor, could you please assist us in helping our young brother here?” He gestured toward me, leaving me in a state of wild confusion. “We understand it might be a challenge to manage him, as he’s been struggling with a psychological disorder for years. Please!”
I turned around to identify the person they were referring to, but no one on the taxi exhibited any signs of mental health issues. I swallowed my anxiety for the sake of tranquility and sat in silence.
The taxi accelerated, conversations dominated by intense eye contact. Eventually, we reached the roundabout and the taxi halted at the roadside.
“Alright, let’s handle this,” the hulk declared. “You know Jonah can stir up a storm of shame. We’d be thoroughly embarrassed, facing the public in this condition.”
His eyes alternated between me and the man in the grey suit as he spoke. “Yes, Uncle, you’re right,” the man agreed, as the riders shot me disdainful glances, eagerly waiting to witness my foolishness. The two men joined forces to lift me, and I remained immobilized in shock.
“Aww!” I cried out, my voice tinged with fear. “What’s happening, elders? Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”
“Oh, you see! You predicted this, Uncle. Hold him tightly. We might be seen and shamed in public like this,” the man in the gray suit explained while lifting me higher.
“No!” I protested, my tone shaking with fear. “It’s not me, elders. They’re comparing me to someone else. Wait… ouch!” Their grip became painfully tight.
“Jonah! Jonah! Jonah!” the hulk chanted, calling my name repeatedly. “Please, spare us this embarrassment before our elders. We’ve arrived, our home is just down there. Let those who continue their journeys do so, we can’t linger here. Agreed?”
Shock rendered me immobile. I listened to the conductor’s words of no mercy, his chuckle resonating.
“Beyond his mental challenges, he’s quite the trickster. Oh, what’s his name again?” he inquired while helping the two men force me down.
“Yes, my brother, Jonah, that’s his name—our nephew,” the man in the grey suit confirmed with conviction. “His mind deteriorated after leaving Namibia. Jonah hasn’t fared well like the others.”
“Oh!” the conductor exclaimed in exasperation. “That doesn’t exempt you from paying your fare, my friend. Hand over the money, so we can continue with the waiting passengers.”
“Oh, man!” he feigned sorrow, both in his expression and his heart. “Don’t do that, my brother. Show some compassion. With this issue at hand, can we overcome it? The moment we release him, Jonah might run into the woods or dash into oncoming traffic. On the other hand, if we find an alternative, we might even benefit by purchasing medication for our patient. Please!” the man in the gray suit pleaded. “Hold him tight, Uncle.”
Throughout this ordeal, I struggled to escape their grasp. Their hold was unyielding, preventing me from shifting even an inch.
“Don’t leave me here, guys. Please, I don’t even know these men,” my voice, filled with despair and sorrow, resonated mercilessly.
“Apologies for the delay, parents,” the driver interjected as he beckoned the conductor. “Soldier, leave these people and their patient alone. We might delay our parents and midwives while the world keeps spinning. Let’s go, Soldier!” he called to the conductor, who promptly hopped into the taxi that was about to depart.
He slammed the door forcefully, his gaze fixed on us. “Please, don’t leave me, guys! I haven’t reached my destination yet. How can I get back home when you can see the sun hurrying to set?” I shouted, my voice fading until it was lost in the uncaring wind. Laughter and jeers filled the air, and a wave of fear washed over me.
“Look at this one, a real nutcase. Not just playing pranks, but genuinely crazy,” someone sneered.
“They should send him off to some place where the less gifted folks reside. Trust me, tomorrow this Jonah will end up doing something terrible. Just you wait!” remarked one of the uncles seated alongside the conductor.

Chapter 3
The taxi roared away, leaving three of us behind. As I gazed at the bold, imposing figure, a sense of familiarity gradually washed over me. Memories resurfaced of the two men who had forcibly dragged me into a desolate forest, where even the presence of flies seemed absent.
The hulking man lit a cigar and reclined on a nearby rock, billowing smoke into the air. The man in the grey suit produced a Bible, hurling it at me with a cruel nonchalance. The hulk’s gaze bore into me, more menacing than a battle-hardened soldier’s, enhanced by a hint of weed-induced relaxation.
“Monkeyman,” he sneered, a twisted grin forming. “So, where’s the money? Our money.”
Trembling, I shook my head, my voice quivering. The sky seemed to descend rapidly, pressing against the earth as if to intervene.
“I have no money, elders, I—”
My words were shattered by the hulk’s thunderous roar of anger.
“Hey, vulture kid!” he bellowed, his voice resounding like a clap of thunder. “Think we’re here for games? Huh! Fetch the money. Tsk!” His disdainful cluck hung in the air. Before I could react, a fist as brutal as Malcolm Klassen’s met my face, driving me to the ground.
“Brother, no! Seriously, I—” I tried to plead, but was swiftly silenced by the hulk’s contemptuous retort.
“Piss off, you!” he yelled, his words laced with venom. “I’m not your brother. Your mama’s your brother, not me. Share blood with you… like a cat? Huh!”
The man in the grey suit, a fox in goat’s clothing, struck me with a slap that shattered the wind and rustled the bushes.
Suddenly, I was engulfed in a cloud of crimson dust, my vision blurred as if through a pair of hyperopic eyes. My golf pristine white tee shirt was reduced to tatters, much like a deer caught in a crocodile’s jaws.
Blood became my shroud, akin to the garments of Zion. The man in the grey suit snatched my wallet and emptied the remittance I’d collected from the Mukuru office. My national identity card, passport along with other items from my time as a middle school student, vanished into his grasp.
In no time, both men turned their backs on me, fading into the distance without notice. My eyes swelled shut, and my cries were muffled, unheard by the world. I lay helpless, aware that any predators drawn by the scent of blood could turn me into mere minced meat. The blood-soaked figure that I had become struggled to move, inching its way towards the road, though directionless.

Chapter 4
After a while, a private blue car pulled up where I was sitting. As the window slowly rolled down, I saw an elderly woman behind the wheel. I couldn’t help but feel pity for my terrible condition.
She quickly stepped out of the car, seemingly without a destination in mind. In a swift motion, she opened the car door and reached for her phone. As she spoke on the phone, she wrapped her housecoat around my shaking body, much like a shepherd rescuing a sheep fallen down a deep shaft. She bravely lifted me and gently placed me onto the backseat, offering me a newfound comfort. Without delay, we left that place and headed towards Kanana clinic.
Upon arriving home later, my blood had thinned out, and my once-swollen face was barely recognizable in the dim light. The state I was in surprised everyone in the house. As I gingerly sat down, I recounted the tale of the unfortunate incident, but none of them seemed to believe me. I couldn’t help but question what sort of cursed day I had stumbled upon.
Just as I thought the day couldn’t get worse, my mother’s furious yell shattered the calm, startling even the lizards and forcing them to scatter. Meanwhile, my brother and father confronted me with their fists, inflicting blows that felt like crossing a fiery pit.
On this fateful day, I felt like I was leaping over flames, only to plunge again into the depths of trouble. I tasted a slice of life on the wild side and came to a silent realization—Chipo was the mastermind behind the robbery.

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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: Echoes of Silent Resilience
Written by Judgment Moela

I found myself gazing at the expansive, folded peaks of Madikatjo’s longest mountains, a serene smile gracing my lips without any apparent cause. At that moment, a profound realization washed over me: my unrelenting quest for knowledge was undeniably validated. The journey thar I embarked upon ages ago, had now led me to this point. The genesis of this pursuit lay far back in time, its origins shrouded in the mists of history.
One might inquire about the genesis of this venture, about how I became the person standing here, transfixed by the majesty of these mountains. In a diminutive realm where cynicism, delinquents, and those merely existing abound, an individual not only survived but flourished—emerging as a beacon of what lay ahead. Amidst the labyrinthine passages of the subterranean Sehunyane village, the resonance of my name etched an indelible impression, a testament to my presence and influence.
Sehunyane birthed and raised me just before the educational trend and the internet in a place better than none, and that’s what made my upbringing spicy. Growing up as a boy, I didn’t only do ups and downs—playing with mud and water and making noise—but I gathered everything which was fundamental information. As I mentioned, my background was poverty-stricken. There was no electricity when I was getting my lowest grades. The problem was that I was a child who sought to be a teenager, a teen who after a while aspired to be an adult. All the simplest basics of kindergarten seemed dreary to me. Note that I wanted to get to something.
Childhood was the dullest and last thing to me. I made it an utterly overdosed thought, but it was just the tip of the iceberg. Something peaked my brain during the first grade. I had been wrongfully slapped by a lady teacher in front of all the first graders. I wasn’t making any noise, and it was my friend. My entire awakening began when one slap became a sphere of influence. Talking more often about matters with my parents was never my style; I liked keeping quiet and talking to myself. One girl, Mahlogonolo decided without my consent to tell my mother that I was attacked unarmed. I wished there would be no drama, although everything confused me too, I just wanted dissolution.
Something odd happened after my mother visited the teacher: I started getting treated as an outsider. She treated me like a probable outlier. Phantom conversations dwelled in me, like ‘his mother is a monster and overprotective.’ I was haunted psychologically all day. That had started as the toughest year for me. Never mind our generational gap, but how we looked at each other subsequently showed agonized bad blood. I loved my lady teacher; hence, I had no room in my heart for anything else related to humans.
Although I didn’t like blame-shifting, at that time I never survived it. I blamed the go-between and my mother because they abolished my peace as a child who adored being a young man at the time. I was an average foundation-phase learner with the opaqueness laid forth by elementary education. It was the boredom of “apple mathematics” with an equivalence of two that made my school life miserable. The year to another grade came as I was waiting despairingly. I was finally a second grader and hoped for the newest foremost air. I never knew that the episodes wouldn’t stop. That time, it was because of me. I constantly started escaping from school during mealtimes and staying home; I had done it often. I knew the spot where they hid house keys, so that was how I tiptoed to my daily hideout. Which youngster does that? I did things, and for a long time—the time which I allocated myself.
Usually, when I got home, there would be no one. That was in the past when my siblings were at school learning. My parents owned a spaza shop on the other side of the village—in the distance. So, I was able to stay home alone without disruption. As a kid with absurdity, the boy with some loose screws, I saw nothing wrong, although I was not proud of it. I just couldn’t stand school and all the aspects of infancy. The fallacy of that situation became the failure of the academic year. Before failing, I was forever mocked in front of the whole classroom. In second grade, my lady teacher used to say, “You’ll get your decent feedback; you’ll deserve your results.” Instantly, learners would laugh at me, and I didn’t care much about them.
To pass to another classroom wasn’t through repeating that grade. I got a condoned pass to the third grade as an order from the Department of Basic Education to promote all kids to the next class. My mother advocated for me in the next class—everyone had hope for change. Unexpectedly, I changed over time, and I ensured it would be better than wine. As in every case, the secret was out. I got a reprimand from my father when he discovered I was bunking school mercilessly. My failure brought more attention to me at home and made me consider someone who couldn’t think straight. Among everyone, I declared myself the worst fiasco. I hated school at the time, so was my dad to convince me otherwise?
His rebuke started jiggling into my head and stuck mystically to my brain. I understood and thought of it every day. It’s true, even my cerebellum too shared the same sentiments, and I stood tall by his words. Another one: for the centres of the medulla oblongata, enhancement was that I lived his remarkable lecture. I needed just myself with an ear, and my grandchild said, “Uncle, did you change for the better?”
“Yes, motlogolo,” I said, “I had become a better man. And with everything building me, I opened my eyes to the real world.”
“Oh, I understand that.” she said, “You’re my inspiration.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be OK.”
“Yes, Uncle. And Uncle, most of my friends don’t like books. Studying is a horror to them,” she said.
“How?”
“They just hate classes and studying. I suppose they need your motivation,” she replied.
“It might be different because I was young. But I’ll just explain further.”
My niece was washing the dishes, and I was sitting by myself, reminiscing about the past: I was nine years old in 2009, in the third grade. My father’s words stung me every time because he had different opinions about school. I’ve maintained my presence since then, and when I didn’t, I was feeling under the weather. I impressed him, and more importantly, myself. I became everyone’s promising kid and proved myself right. The single issue that was there was that the third grade’s lady teacher was the first grade’s best friend. I was her sole problem, and that’s why she shared the whole story with her—was that caring? After that, another nightmare began as she put my hand on exception, even if I could mess up deliberately. As a kid, my life peaked again!
Imagine begging for corporal punishment serenely with protruding eyes, or mates forcing you to offer your palm. As for me, I was on a fixed rejection list. Some hurting learners started disliking me for not taking beatings, but I remained unbeaten. Anxiety kept eating me until I passed Grade 3 and was promoted fairly to the fourth one. For Christ’s sake, I was done with the foundation. On embarkation into the intermediate phase, I fell in love. That’s when my vast realization came to life. I went as far as knowing how to read perfectly in both my native and additional languages. I was good at everything, including math.
The intermediate phase has proven to be my peacetime; it was the year of the dog. I enjoyed every moment and treated myself like a teenager I wasn’t yet. Fairness was not singing the Roman alphabet anymore. I became one of the class’s top learners, although above me were two brilliant girls, but only before I confiscated the throne. Through my Grade 4 teacher, I adopted a love for Sepedi short stories. Then, with the help of my Grade 5 teacher, I learned and became an exciting reader and pronunciation master. Education was taken very seriously, and in every classroom that I was in, I longed for the next one. If I got a low mark, I’d be angry at myself until I mended the issue internally and academically. With time, a lot of teachers started adoring me—was it that I was their cream?
My seventh-grade teacher groomed me for high school. I milked him for every indispensable brilliance he possessed during his ancient Bantu education and preserved it. Both his and my father’s tips on the topic’s importance subsided with me through ups and downs. I was thirteen years old, fully engrossed in puberty, at the edge of primary school. Adolescence—I was in it and who I wanted to be—and close to being in high school.
We already had final examinations written, and classmates visited Jozi to see their relatives. They had long gone for their festive season—the holidays. I was in a classroom with my Grade 7’s English teacher. He was preparing me for secondary school, but a valid reason was that we were busy with the lower classrooms’ scripts. In a moment, his words reverberated: “You’re… Seun, you’re my hope and bear in mind that high school is a mix-up. Adolescence would force you to neglect your books. By any means, resist, resist—just resist!”
My resistance sprang out of that December. I gave him a pledge, and I could remember how hard the journey had been since my childhood. By that time, I had already fallen deeply in love with education; school remained a huge premise full of deafening kids. I departed, and high school was a new thing for all of us (the least my peers and I had was new exposure). I applied my teacher’s resistance when I met another impediment. It was strictly academic: a mathematical letdown—not Apple mathematics, just pure and mind-boggling. Life elevated for the courageous! I was ashamed of myself, but I believed in the destination of that greatness. Surprisingly, only two girls passed the math. It was an obstruction to be conquered. I put in my hardest effort. My mathematics teacher’s speeches taught me two notions: “Practice makes perfect sense, and patience isn’t procrastination.”
I practiced and even had myself overtake her, but we met halfway since I wasn’t in a rush anymore. I kept consistency to keep off regression. One thing I won’t forget was how I maneuvered through chemistry. Organic Chemistry’s immense proficiency came from my educational love. It forced me and my friend to attend an advanced study of twelfth grade while we were in eleventh grade.
I don’t know how, but I was the guru of an accidentally learned study. In lower classes, I started topping the grade books. My chemistry teacher later took credit for my twelfth-grade mark. I was nationally notable as the best learner at the school countless times (once for the circuit). I was eighteen and dealing with the mature teenager in me and it’d be funny how I always thought I was aspiring before expiration.
At once in a day, standing ahead was my niece again coming towards me. She’d finished with the dishes. Another girl was opening the gate too. I never saw her in my life. I stared at her intensely. She was a minor for an adult, my niece’s size. I kept quiet with eagerness. As I was still lost in searching for nothing I knew, my niece said, “Uncle, I think it’s time you told us the whole story.”
“Motlogolo, what story?”
“Your success story.”
“Success! But I’m not successful, and even if I was successful—the simple trick is to work hard and that’s the only thing I can tell,” I said, “but how am I successful?”
“You’re the inspiration. Oh, I’m sorry, uncle. Forgive my manners,” she said delightedly. “This is Lorraine, and she’s my friend and classmate.”
“Okay, how are you, Lorraine?”
“I’m fine, uncle. How are you?”
“I’m well; thanks, my girl,” I replied, still startled.
She exuded her a chair, and they both settled down before me you’d think they were disciples at the king’s palace. Perhaps success might be defined in many forms, and I realized it through my niece. At that very moment, I knew immediately that she was ahead of me in time. I wanted to know why, don’t you? The reason was that she seized my status quo as a varsity student as success. I hardly knew or thought of that. All along, I looked up to my imaginary self throughout my years of neglecting my attainments. I cohered to too much shrinking, not realizing Marianne Williamson was right that all children shine regardless of the dimmed background. Irreversibly, there was someone who looked up to me as an elder, and that took me a whole year to figure out.
She discovered small victories which I overlooked as futile. I share stories with her like folklore, and whenever I open my mouth, she prepares her pen.
She glimpsed at Lorraine, who shortly insinuated, “Statistics must improve.”
Then I asked: “What do you mean?”
“Illiteracy against literacy weights must be uneven, with the greatest imbalance since we have everything now,” she said.
“Think about it, friend. There’s even Google,” my niece Fiona said.

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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: My Life’s Journey: A Journey of Resilience, Faith, and Self-Discovery
Written by Mihle Tyesi

In the realm of dreams and aspirations, where hopes soar and the heart yearns, my life’s journey stands as a testament to the delicate dance between ambition and acceptance. As the echoing footsteps of unattained goals resonate through the corridors of my past, I found solace in an unexpected refuge: a steadfast faith in the divine. Amidst the clash of desires unfulfilled and the sanctuary of newfound spirituality, my story unfolds a portrait of resilience in the face of life’s unpredictable canvas.
I was forever known as the girl with boundless ambition. From a very young age, I had fire within me, a drive to achieve my dreams that burned brighter than anything else. My determination was awe-inspiring. Throughout my academic journey, my goals remained unwavering: to achieve my dream career and make a mark on the world. My dedication extended beyond my studies. I was a kind-hearted individual and ever-willing to lend a hand to my community, especially my peers. I believed that the world would be a better place if everyone worked together, if everyone cared for one another. I poured my energy in helping my peers, often staying late to assist them with assignments and projects. But despite my generosity, I noticed that my peers rarely reciprocated the same level of kindness. I shrugged it off, convinced that my efforts would be rewarded eventually.
I found solace in the hushed haven of knowledge. While my peers navigated the chaotic seas of popularity and the relentless pursuit of fitting in, I discovered a sanctuary with the pages of textbooks and the quiet embrace of the classroom. Unlike my classmates…I was not popular and it did not help that my appearance did not fit with my peers standards, but the uniform I lacked in appearance was more compensated for by the uniqueness of my character and unwavering dedication I put in my studies. My undeniable mind was the beacon that drew the admiration of both my peers and teachers alike. As some of my peers grew to admire me, some saw me as an easy target for their judgement. They scoffed at me for my disheveled appearance and lack of trendy clothes. In their eyes, my quiet demeanour was mistaken for weakness, my lack of popularity a sign of insignificance. For me that was not the case. I was a simple girl who did not want attention and I knew if I met their standards, I would have to be in their crowds that were known for bad behaviours and bad attitudes. And once again I shrugged it off, convinced that my efforts would be rewarded eventually.
As I advanced to Grade 12, my world started to shift. The pressure of exams combined with my own sky-high expectations began to take a toll on my mental well-being. Nights turned into endless study sessions, and days were filled with constant anxiety. I pushed myself harder, believing that my dedication would lead to success. I hoped that all my hard work would pay off and that the doors to my dream career would swing wide open. As the final stretch of high school unfolded, casting its weighty shadow over the horizon, I found myself standing at the threshold of Grade 12. The pressure of impending exams hung over me like a storm cloud, casting doubts upon the fortress of confidence I has carefully built.
Amidst stacks of books and scattered notes, I prepared for battle, arming myself with the knowledge I’d cultivated over the years of dedication. But there was an unforeseen adversary lurking within the trembling of my own hands. As I sat in the exam hall, my heart pounded an anxious rhythm. With every tick of the clock, the familiar trembling would start, gradually turning her hands messengers of anxiety. My mind sharp and prepared, struggled to find its voice through the tremors that choked the ink from my pen. Time, the relentless master of such moments, slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. The questions stared back at me, a taunting reminder of what I knew but couldn’t translate onto paper. Each passing second deepened the pit in my stomach, a growing realisation that my time was running out.
Amidst my struggle, my class teacher, no doubt well-intentioned, approached, offering assistance that felt more like a magnifying glass on her inadequacies. As my trembling intensified under the spotlight of her attention, the pressure mounted to an almost unbearable degree. The once familiar rhythm of my heartbeat seemed to pound out a mocking retort: “You not good enough.” But amidst this chaos, a glimmer of truth emerged. I recognised that the strength that had carried me through challenges hadn’t abandoned me. It was strength born from authenticity, from the willingness to embrace my uniqueness, even when others undermine it. It was a strength found in the countless hours of solitary study, the quiet triumphs that needed no audience.
When the results were announced, they did not match. I had passed, yes, with a bachelor, yes, but my scores fell short for a sponsored chartered accounting degree in one of the promotable universities in South Africa. The disappointment was a sharp blow to my self-esteem. My mind became a battleground of self-doubt. I wondered if I had done enough, if my dreams were even with reach. My mental struggles didn’t end with high school. I entered varsity with the weight of unfulfilled expectations resting heavily on my shoulders. Stepping onto the expansive campus of university, it felt like a wanderer entering an unfamiliar territory. My chosen degree, a compromise of sorts, was a constant reminder of my failure to reach my dream career. Life’s path had taken another twist, and I found myself navigating the complex terrain of higher education, where the shadows of old struggles awaited me. The unfamiliar modules and coursework only amplified my anxiety. The solitude that had once been my refuge transformed into a daunting challenge. I often found myself questioning my abilities and doubting whether I was capable of succeeding at all. The social environment on campus wasn’t any more forgiving. My peers seemed to exist in their own world, focused on their aspirations and achievements. The camaraderie I had hoped for was elusive, and I felt increasingly isolated. I yearned for someone who could see beyond the façade of success I had projected for so long. The very same qualities that often set me apart, an unwavering dedication to learning, an unflinching commitment to authenticity seemed to cast me in a harsh light.
In the eyes of my varsity peers, I was intimidating. My dedication to my studies and apparent confidence made me seem like I had everything figured out. Little did they know, the sleepless nights, the self-doubt and the constant pressure were my constant companions. My peers driven by their insecurities viewed me with suspicion, interpreting my diligence as arrogance. My heart ached for someone who could see past the surface and acknowledge the battles I was fighting internally. In group assignments, the collaborative spirit turned into a battleground. Ideas were exchanged but mine were often dismissed or overshadowed by the clamour of louder voices.
The weight of my isolation grew heavier as I tried to navigate the dynamic, striving to contribute meaningfully despite the odds stacked against me. My academic journey took a toll. The relentless efforts I poured into studying for test yielded results that fell short of my expectations. The skewed dynamics of group projects had a ripple effect, a poison that seeped into my overall performance. My marks became a reflection not of my true potential, but of the challenges I faced within the constraints of my environment. Through my perseverance, I found allies, professors who recognised my passion and peers who value my input. Slowly, the walls of isolation began to crumble, revealing the potential for connections that transcended the confines of conformity. As I neared the end of varsity, I emerged not as a villain, but as a protagonist whose narrative defied expectations.
After deciding to take a break and not continue with honours, I found myself in a new chapter of life, a gap year that chose to fill in an unexpected way by turning to my faith. Though I had always known God, this time my journey with spirituality held a different significance. The pages of scripture seemed to speak to me in a profound way, resonating with struggles I had faced and the strength that had carried me through. Ecclesiastes 9:11-12 became a passage that held my attention, its words offering a deep layer of understanding to my journey. “The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come from the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favour to the learned: but time and chance happen to them all.” These words became a mirror reflecting my own experiences back at me. The passage spoke to my struggles in high school, my isolation, the challenges of university, and the doubts that had clouded my confidence. The words “time and chance” struck a chord within me. I realised that life’s twists and turns, the challenges and triumphs, weren’t solely a reflection of my worth but a part of a greater ebb and flow of existence. The scripture reminded me that life’s hurdles and rewards weren’t distributed solely by merit, but were the result of the interplay between time, chance, and the spirit within me.
As graduation day approached, a bittersweet wave of emotions washed over me. The years over navigating isolation, defying stereotypes and striving for authenticity had left their mark. Yet, the haunting whispers of self-doubt had become my companions, whispering that perhaps my journey had been in vain. A quiet anxiety cast a shadow over the anticipated day, a lingering fear that my efforts wouldn’t be acknowledged. But I mustered the strength to attend, to walk the final journey alongside the very peers who had made my path so arduous. As I stepped into the sea of caps and gowns, a mix of emotions flooded my senses. As I saw my peers for one last time, my memories came alive, vivid and unbidden.
The isolation I felt, the judgements I had endured, the moments of invisibility, all surfaced. Every whispered remark, every stifled laugh, every instance where I felt the weight of being different, each memory coalesced into a storm of doubt that threatened to engulf me. As I stepped onto the stage something unexpected happened. The weight of all those years, the whispers of doubt, and the judgement of my peers converged into a single moment of clarity. With my name announced, the world around me seemed to fall silent. The faces that had once sneered or ignored me now became a blur. All that mattered was my journey, determination, and the unyielding authenticity that had propelled me forward.
My journey to healing began as I embraced my imperfections and sought help for my mental struggles. Through my journey, I have uncovered the layers of anxiety that had been building for years. I learned that my relentless pursuit of success had taken a toll on my well-being, and I had to prioritize my mental health. My journey, marked by challenges and coloured by the hues of self-doubt, has been a testament to the yielding strength of my spirit. While the echoes of unattained dreams may linger, they no longer define me. Ecclesiastes 9:11-12, once a verse in the pages, has become a guiding force, helping me make sense of my journey and providing a new lens through which to view my experiences. The missed opportunities and trials I faced now serve as stepping stones towards a future infused with purpose and resilience. As a girl who once sought comfort in her studies, defied doubts and embraced spirituality as a guiding light I am now on a journey to reclaim my dreams, to shape my destiny with the wisdom I gathered along the way. I am now a testament to the potential of healing, redirection, and transformation. In my story, I hope you find hope. A reminder that even amidst the darkest moments, there’s a light that guides us forward, strength within us that can mend the wounds of the past and lead us towards a future defined by our own terms. THANK YOU

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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: Love, in slow motion
Written by Mlungisi Radebe

Italy, Florinas. We went there one summer, honouring an invitation. We’d been invited by the Mayor of Sardinia, to come and exhibit to his fellow countrymen our South African heritage.
A series of thoughts coursed through my head like water from a spring, paving its way into every corner of the mind. Art had taken me to many a place before but never that far from home. It had taken me to places I knew only in books, places I had never thought were real. Never did it cross my mind that it would ever lead me into being a wingless bird, into spending fifteen hours closer to God.
A lot of scenarios were created in my head, the scariest of all being a crash. The possibility of such a devastating, gruesome incident nurtured itself in my brain. From seeds of nostalgia came to bloom a nerve-wrecking phobia. At the same time there was inexplicable giddiness, a warmth kindled by eagerness, by anticipation.
From memory, I could not draw out a single reason for which to fear Sardinia, for I hadn’t even the faintest of ideas about it. In fact, I hadn’t known a thing about the place before fate adorned our path with the mayor’s invite. The sole discomfort I had sprouted from a frightening reality, from the fact that I had to board two planes. We only live once, I reminded myself when uneasiness began to shoot out of every pore.
As the day of departure drew to a close, my fear enhanced, spiraling out of control like the feelings I once had for Nathalie Echeverria — a talented Colombian dancer I approached too late. By the time we were in love, I had to say goodbye. All without a kiss, without a hug, without a promise of everlasting love. But, anyway. . .
I had a series of sleepless nights, until the big day finally came knocking at dawn. Mama held my both my hands into hers. And though no word left her scarlet lips, there was something beautiful in her silence, something glorious and enticing — a prayer that knew a direct path to God’s majestic palm.
“Go with God, child,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Our ancestors will watch over you. When you are sad, look at the sky — you will see light in your journey. Make us proud.”
A tear rolled out, silently.
From Durban it took us exactly two days to reach Rome. At the airport was a bus waiting for us, a ride which took about five hours. Then we boarded a ship, which stretched the forty-eight-hour trip into fifty-six. Again, we took another bus to where we’d reside — a school — a total of sixty-two hours.
On every wall hung murals and drawings which were, without doubt, for the amusement of the little ones. None of that mattered much because my whole body was itching; we hadn’t had a bath in three consecutive days. We’d only relied on airport bathrooms to wash our faces and armpits and to brush our teeth, which was gross but, at the same time, captivating.
The first thing I noticed in Sardinia, which I had not anticipated, was the sun taking a nap at around 8pm. During the day you hardly see people. The windows are always shut, the blinds drawn. Vineyards and sweat peas and wallflowers didn’t seem to live harmoniously on people’s walls. It was like a ghost town, as though nothing with a pulse had ever taken a breath around the place. At evening. . . that is when you start seeing people — lots and lots of people, gallivanting — doing things we only do at noon in my country.
For breakfast we had bread, which was dryer than the Sahara desert; after every bite I had to check if I still had teeth. The way it was so dry, you could land a person in a comma by just throwing it at their head. Only the tea, coffee, juice, wine, and water would make up for the less enjoyable breakfasts. For lunch and dinner, we’d consume lots and lots of pasta. Sometimes they’d put cheese in it, sometimes tuna, sometimes olives, sometimes things I knew not by name.
That amount of pasta was not good for my health. I had a lot of difficulties adjusting, which prompted me to scout for a supermarket. With the assistance of our tour guide, I found one. The cashier only spoke Italiano; he did not know even a single English word. As the language barrier grew thicker, a girl with a smile as wide as my grandmother’s heart walked to us. “Ciao,” she said, waving at me.
“Hello.”
“Ah, Inglese?”
“Yes, yes.”
“My English. . . eh. . . not so good,” she giggled, beautifully. “I speak fifty-fifty.”
“Help me out. I want to ask him if I can use my MasterCard to buy groceries.”
“Ah, groceries!”
Her eyes radiated with excitement, emitting a warmth I could feel on my face. It was as though she’d been waiting a millennium to put her English in the conurbation of dialogue. She said something to the guy in Italiano; he nodded. So, I thanked her — and she smiled, and continued with her shopping. Her eyes were, like, two little pearls; she had the glow of ten thousand sapphire crystals.
I did not find anything to consume, besides chips and a can of Coca Cola. As I marched to the till, there she was again. She grinned. “What is your name?”
I hadn’t expected the question to come that sudden, in that accent. I knew she would never be able to pronounce my first name, so I gave her another — a nom de plume. “Erik. I’m Erik.”
“Guiliana.”
“Nice to meet you, Guiliana.”
“Where you from, Erik?”
“South Africa.”
“You come for the festival?”
“To dance, yes.”
“In Florinas?”
“Different cities. But on the thirteenth, we’ll dance here in Florinas. By the church.”
“Fantastic! I will come see you dance.”
“Would you like an ice cream?”
“Ah… okay.”
And that was it — the beginning of our friendship. She was mesmerising, angelic. I had to speak slowly, for her to get what I was saying. I loved how her eyes emitted their perfection in a poetic way, how she bit her nails when she could not find the right English words; how she would bury her face in her hands when she struggled to explain something.
On the hours I was free, we went for ice cream dates, movie nights. Sometimes, I would struggle to say something in her language and she would laugh at me until there were tears in her eyes. But, slowly, we grew to understand one another — not just in the lingo, but in every sense of the word. We became compatible, in-synch — our hearts began to beat as one, a spectacular union.
One night our performance went so well that she was dancing up and down, congratulating us on a job well-done. I am not sure if it was by accident, or impulse, but she kissed me. I froze, she froze. For five seconds straight neither of us spoke. Slowly. . . awkwardness began to creep in, thickening in the air. As she was about to seek pardon, I kissed her back. She froze.
“Take my hand, darling,” I said to her, extending my hand to her, “the moon is ready to sing for us.”
Our relationship was hotter than her city in the afternoons, intense. Its flames were as colourful as the rainbow after a drizzle, so hot it would intimidate lavas and make furnaces budge. The romantic movie nights, the late-night walks through the city landscapes, the way we’d embrace one another in the middle of the street like we’d been brought into this world to live for one another, how we’d dance to melodies coming out of each other’s heart throbs, were all a savoury memory — one worth revisiting, reliving. She would hold me with care, as though I was something brittle, something made of paper. She would tell me it was her first time falling in love with someone genuinely, that deep — wholeheartedly.
On our two weeks anniversary, we enjoyed a lovely dinner. I bought candles, had roses scattered all over the table. I had paid my roommates to make themselves distant. I cleaned the whole place like I was planning to see my reflection on the floor and walls. I added an African touch on the pasta — her favourite meal — and she finished the plate like she’d been hungry her whole life. She called me the “culinary Picasso”, which made me laugh.
A relationship that perfect, that novel-like, was ruined by a single moment of recklessness. She had raised the inevitable, the fact that time was running out for us yet there I was, making her fall too deep when I was going to leave her in the end. We fought, so much that I left her apartment in tears. It was as though I had lost control over my senses — my ears weren’t functioning, my heart thumping.
When sense returned, the car was too close — it was impossible to outrun fate. A reckless driver ruined everything for me — for us. I saw her looking at me, saying something. Even in that moment, I admired her beauty — her perfection. Slowly, her voice dissipated. . . her face, too. I woke up to my mother’s tearful eyes, her hands warming mine. As soon as she saw me looking at her, she closed her eyes — as would a person in prayer. She expressed her gratitude to God, for bringing me back to her. I thought, for a moment, I had lost my mind. Why was I seeing my mother, whom I’d left in South Africa when I was supposed to be in Italy, Sardinia, Florinas, with my Giuliana?
“Giu . . . Giulia. . . where’s . . .”
“For days, you’ve been saying that name,” said mother, curiously. “Who is this Giuliana you speak of?”
“Where am I?”
“You are home, in South Africa. When they brought you home, they said you had been hit by car.”

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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: AN EXCHANGE
Written by Leonard Maero W

Crossing her legs over the green sandals, she put the mobile phone on the stool beside her, gazing at the gateman as he trimmed flowers around the home. He was a tall man, dark like coal with a black cap that never left his head. Zainah intertwined her fingers at the back of her head, looking at the sky that was covered with a few patches of high clouds.
It was at lunch time when the housemaid, having laid the table came to call her from the study room upstairs where she was playing with her daughter. Leaving the room, Zainah walked with Natah to the dining room. The maid walked away thereafter to the kitchen.
They had hardly swallowed the food in their mouth when a gateman came over, panting as if he had been chased by a deadly viper.
“Madam, there is a man at the gate!” he exclaimed, tapping his button on the left palm, “He claims that he knows you, but…”
Zainah put the fork down, fastened her eyes on him and asked, “What are you saying?”
“He says he is the brother of the boss. Should… Should I let him in?” he asked, scratching his head.
She remained silent for a while, perhaps thinking on whether to let him in or tell him to come when her husband who was away returns.
“Mother, is it Uncle Daudi? You said he always forgot to flush the toilet after using? You also said that he stole your money when he slept here?” Natah asked, holding a spoon midway between her mouth and the glass plate.
Zainah put her finger on her lips, signaling her to shut up.
“Is he the one whom you said eats a lot of food thinking he is in a hotel?” she went on, looking at her mother keenly. She had now put the spoon on the plate, her small elbows on the mahogany table.
She signaled him to go out.
“Mum, you should stop talking when I’m talking with an adult person, uhh!” Zainah said after turning to Natah before pinching her nose gently.
Natah nodded though she didn’t look convinced. Zainah walked to the gate, having lost her appetite.
Daudi was there outside the gate, smiling broadly, feasting his eyes on the house, wondering why his brother, Khasavuli, had not carried that big house to the village where he had a small one. He was a short muscular man approaching his forties, clean shaven with a broad nose. He was in a white shirt, a black trouser with blue plastic shoes. His oversized shirt looked like it had been snatched from the mouth of a cow just before it could be swallowed. A small plastic bag hung over his shoulder. He was a man of straw.
“He’s there, Madam. I told him that you were eating and you didn’t want anyone to distract you but he insisted on seeing you. Am I lying? No Madam,” said the gateman. He unclamped his dry lips when she gave him a stern look.
Daudi smiled the moment he saw her, then put the bag that he had been carrying tightly under his armpit.
“Ahh, sister-in-law. I thought I will find you already asleep. You know the way vehicles from the village behave. Today it is healthy tomorrow it gets sick, but I’m here now,” he said with a toothy smile.
He loved his brother and his family.
Zainah asked him if he had talked with Khasavuli before he came. Of which he replied: “Has he stopped being my brother now? Ahh, mayi1 hasn’t told me anything like that of late. For your information, she sent me with a lot of greetings and said you people should go and visit her.”
The last time Daudi had visited, she had had to contend with a lot of things to tolerate him. That evening, the maid, having the timetable glued on the wall, had gone ahead and prepared rice with beef stew according to what they usually ate on Fridays. When he was asked to go to the dining room, Daudi insisted his food to be brought in the sitting room, saying that he was watching a movie and he didn’t want to miss any detail. It took the intervention of Khasavuli to convince him, but not before a struggle of words.
And when he was offered the food, he insisted that rice was a meal for the sick. He went on revealing his biceps to indicate the way he was healthy, and he was not going to taste that food lest he falls sick. For the first time since the house help had started working there, she was asked to prepare another meal for him.
When the food was brought to him, he complained that the ugali2 was little and a few sprinklings of vegetables would make him hungry since he was used to eat food and not tasting as he was being forced to.
Who doesn’t welcome a visitor on the first day with open arms? The gateman opened the gate and let Daudi in. He left his shoes at the door and walked into the house in socks that had several holes.
“Uncle Daudi, how are you?” said Natah, waving at him from the dining room.
He turned and craned his neck to see her. He wondered why Khasavuli had not taught his daughter to be shaking hands of elders when greeting them. He looked at her and waved back. There were plates of food scattered about her, she had been tasting every dish and push the plate away. She looked wasteful like a hen.
Daudi remembered the Spartan life in the village. Children played outside most of the time with their peers and would only come to eat, empty the plate they had been given before dashing out again. And none would dare hang around the house when there was a visitor. And asking the visitor certain questions was deemed being disrespectful apart from saying your name when asked. When they came into the house in the evening, they would be covered in dust and extremely dirty. No one could tell the original colour of their clothes. Are children not what you make them?
Zainah went back to her seat and continued eating though her appetite had flown away when she had gone out. She was forcing dry leaves into an already filled bin. More food was in the kitchen, but she told him that they had just prepared food enough for them and they hadn’t thought he would be calling at them at that time. According to her, giving food to Daudi was going to strain the sewage system of the house.
When she pulled off a glass lid from one of the hot pots, he caught a sweet aroma of food that wafted into his hairy nostrils. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how hungry he was.
“How I wish I had eaten those boiled amapwoni3 which mother had prepared,” he thought desperately, shaking his legs a little.
“Are you hungry?” Zainah asked, getting Daudi surprised.
“Uhm, my in-law, no,” he replied quickly.
Zaina had no inkling that he was starving.
Back at home in the village, food was always prepared in plenty. His mother cooked more food not because they ate a lot, but because they expected a visitor to drop in any time of the day because food was shared in any talk. Asking a visitor whether they were hungry was a grave insult.
Daudi was eating using his eyes while they clacked and clicked their plates with spoons and forks. Later, Zainah called the maid and asked her to give him a bottle of soda from the fridge.
When he saw the housemaid, he stopped watching and a smile played on his cracked lips. She placed the Coke bottle on the table before him. She then remembered she had not brought it with an opener and a glass.
“Let me bring you an opener and a glass, please,” she said gently and walked away.
“There’s no need for that,” and having said that, Daudi grabbed the bottle and popped it open with his strong stained teeth. The froth was almost escaping from the bottle before he took a gulp, reducing the contents halfway.
“Ehh, you think I will allow you to miss your destination. Not me,” he whispered.
Tapping the hand of her mother, Natah asked, “Mum, why has Uncle Daudi not waited for the bottle opener to be brought?”
Zainah ignored her.
By the time the maid returned, the bottle was almost empty.
She stood a few metres away, her hands in air, her eyes darting from Zainah, then turning to Daudi, bewildered at his action.
“Oh, I thought you…” she said before words froze in her mouth. She walked way hastily before Zainah could scold her.
“I have my special opener in my mouth,” he said and broke into laughter.
“Uncle Daudi, why didn’t you wait for Aunt to bring you a glass?” Natah asked, smiling.
“Soda is much sweeter when I take from the bottle than from the glass. When you pour into a glass, some of the sweetness gets stuck in the glass while some evaporate, you see,” he laughed and pinched her dimpled cheek a little, tickling her.
Zainah looked down pretending to be busy with eating, but her mind was wondering why Natah, who was not that talkative had decided to verbal diarrhoea. She was like a cricket that had been put in a bottle but suddenly the bottle had been opened, giving it freedom to jump and chirp.
Unperturbed with what was going on in the mind of Zainah, Daudi heaved himself from the couch and walked across the room to the fridge and took two more bottles of soda.
“Hey, my in-law, you really know how to take care of a visitor,” he paused before he popped the bottle top open with his teeth. “You kept all these for me? How did you know I will be coming today? That’s why I love you people. All this full machine with drinks inside, just for me?” He walked back and sank into the couch, reached for his bag on the floor and pulled out a guava.
“Uncle, why are you eating with your mouth open?” Natah asked, looking into his eyes.
Zainah got charged up, bile rising in her throat and felt like she was carrying a heavy weight on her chest that was going to consume her if she didn’t let go. Feeling he had stepped on her, she walked from her chair into the sitting room and stood in front of him, hands on her waist. She had reached her boiling point.
Just before she opened her mouth, Natah asked, “Mother, why has Uncle put his legs on the table? Dad said it is bad manners.”
“Am I the only one feeling hot in this palace?” Daudi asked, removed his shirt and started fanning himself with a small table mat, revealing his hairy chest that was glistering with sweat. Removing his black socks, he stretched his legs back on the table.
Scratching himself on the head, he could not understand how Natah had the audacity to question his dressing instead of playing outside. He was not going to be crushed down like a louse between two fingers while he could do something to save his image in his brother’s house. He retreated like a wounded bull and pulled his hairy legs off the table. He was taking the last gulp from the third bottle when he was hit with another bullet.
“Mother,” Natah said, holding her nose, “has a whiff like a rotten egg that was found in the cupboard the other day got in your nose?”
Before Zainah could decide on how to reply to her, she detached herself and walked to the side he was sitting, her small fingers still on her broad nose.
“It’s Uncle Daudi’s socks. Look, he has placed them on the mat!”
He remained restraint, speechless like a stone in spite of vile manner he was being handled. He kept his feelings in his heart. He would not open the can and pour out venom that would break the family of his brother.
“Ahh,” Zainah lost her words, dived into her shadow when the gateman stood by the door, his hands on sides of the doorway. Without any delay, he said, “Madam, I’m through with pruning flowers. Is there anything else you want me to do for you?”
“Give me a break!” she shouted, her eyes widening, put her hands on her head and climbed the concrete staircase to the bedroom.
“Oh! Why is she asking for a break? Has she become a car like the one my brother drives? You never stop to amaze me. But I love you people…” Daudi cut short his words when he realised that Natah was sitting beside him.
She asked him if she could take his bag to the bedroom, but he stopped her gently. Having stayed indoors for close to twenty minutes, he decided to take a walk outside.
Daudi didn’t trouble himself by going around the concrete footpaths that led to the swimming pool on the left of the house. He walked straight, injuring some flowers and massacring others that could not withstand his weight, leaving behind a trail of corpses. He sat beside the swimming pool, his legs playing with the cold water, lonely like a leper. His thoughts ran back.
***
He should have seen the other side of the coin when Zainah’s friendship with Khasavuli was on the rocks. When she was grappling with putting her marriage on toe, Zainah begged Daudi to talk to his brother when they fell out and he had decided to throw in the towel. He used to visit Khasavuli when he had just started working and he had not even bought for himself a bed.
When Khasavuli asked him that he was at foot lose to choose between Zainah and another woman for marriage, Daudi had advised him to take Zainah.
When Khasavuli asked him what he would do with all the gifts that the villagers would bring during his wedding, Daudi had dived into his thoughts and said, “Tell the programmer to announce that the newlyweds will only receive gifts from the hands of their parents. The rest of the visitors to put their gifts at the place that has been set after noting their name on the gift so that you will know whoever brought. You can appreciate them later.”
Khasavuli, a jovial and happy man, smiled and did exactly what Daudi had suggested. While they went for their honeymoon with Zainah, Daudi took the initiative of arranging the presents in the sitting room as they were living in a two-roomed house they had rented. He arranged gifts neatly before he started opening the envelopes, one at a time, record the amount of money and the name it had come from before throwing the empty envelope in the dust bin.
There was this white envelope among the white he had picked, for him to open and only find a coin. Daudi almost laughed it off but then wondered why someone would take the expense of buying an envelope and present it with such kind of gift. When he checked the other side, the name was missing. He shrugged, recorded the envelope number, recorded the amount and threw it away into the bin. Then he picked a khaki envelope that looked a bit packed.
“This one must have come from his best friend,” he smiled, moistening his thump before he opened it carefully. Alas!
There at the bottom was some red soil holding itself tightly as if it was afraid of being found. Daudi dug his index finger into it trying to disturb it. Suddenly his finger became numb.
He pulled it out and felt like a sharp pain on his finger though there was no presence of blood. Daudi didn’t record anything on the number of that envelope but marked it with a dash. He had started to feel dizzy when he closed it and threw it in the bin before he burned the trash outside that night.
One day Khasavuli told him that Zainah was not gifted with culinary skills and he was afraid if visitors would come, it would be washing her linen in public. Daudi told him not wise to reveal her weakness.
So, whenever they had a visitor, Zainah would start the preparation of meals then, sneak back into the sitting room and signal Khasavuli to go and continue while she keeps the visitor company. The arrangement blended in perfect harmony and no one knew their secret except Daudi.
A bite from marauding mosquito brought Daudi back into reality. The golden orange rays from the sun were fading and the cold bit against his bare skin but he remained there like a statue, not knowing what to do with himself.
***
Khasavuli was getting worried about his younger brother.
Daudi had quit his job immediately after Khasavuli came back with Zainah from the honeymoon.
He had asked him the reason for quitting his job, but Daudi said that he didn’t feel like working anymore. And the worst was how Daudi told his fiancée off that he was no longer interested in marriage.
“What could have happened to my younger brother?” Khasavuli asked himself, looking outside through the window of his office. He saw two insects crawling on the wall, carrying one of them that he assumed could have been injured because one of its wings was missing.
“I miss you, my brother. When will I set my eyes on you? I need to come home and see you,” he whispered then remembered the previous day going through the notebook that Daudi had recorded the gifts he had received on his wedding day. He had looked at it keenly but when he reached the fifth number, there was no name or the amount of money instead there was a dash. He had ignored it but the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to dig more and get the exact information from Daudi.
Without telling his colleagues he was leaving, he walked out of the office and slid into his car before he drove off to his home.
Daudi was now in the sitting room, looking like a fruit that had been squeezed out of juice, his bag by his side, tapping his fingers on his thigh as if he was waiting for someone who was delaying him. Although he was a man who enthralled people with many stories, he was silent like a grave. Zainah had glued her eyes on the laptop on the other table at the window. Shifting her eyes away from the laptop, she took a newspaper and calmly ruffled through it. She seemed to have dipped herself in what she was doing.
Natah came to sit beside him, clutching her doll. She asked him how Grandmother was. He told her she was well and was waiting for them to visit her in the village.
“Uncle Daudi, I told mother to bring me, but she said I will get sick when I drink water from the borehole,” she said and turned to look at her mother, “Mum, did you say that?”
Zainah looked at them and glanced away.
She asked him if he was going to sleep with the house help in her bedroom because the two empty bedrooms up upstairs were for visitors. Although he was enraged, Daudi hid his anger, smiled fondly at his niece and said. “Don’t worry, I will just close my eyes and sleep the way a rabbit does.”
She went on to ask him if he had children and why he hadn’t brought them to assist her carry the doll. He laughed a little and said his daughter was still breastfeeding and he could not travel with her.
The honking of a horn outside told him Khasavuli was back. Taking his bag, he walked outside.
“Why did you remove the potted plant that was here?” Khasavuli asked the gateman immediately he climbed down from his fuel guzzler.
“It’s Madam. It’s Madam who told me,” the gateman replied ludicrously, hands at the back.
His reply exasperated Khasavuli. He was going to ask him for more details when he heard Daudi calling out for him.
“Brother, I have really been waiting for you,” Daudi said when Khasavuli turned towards the house from the garage.
“Ehh, look who is here,” he turned his gaze from the gateman.
“Bro!” Daudi stammered in amazement.
“Hey, brother. Welcome home. When did you arrive at this place?” Khasavuli shouted, spreading out his arms.
Daudi walked away from the balcony, dropped his bag on the well-kept lawn and they hugged.
They gazed into each other’s faces for a while, tears of joy falling from Khasavuli’s eyes.
“I’m happy to see you are doing fine, brother. I know my sister-in-law is taking good care of you,” Daudi began after the hug and laughed exuberantly, tapping him on the shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, brother. How are you?” he asked enthusiastically.
Zainah came out with Natah.
She remained behind as Natah ran forward to greet her father. With his strong hands, he lifted her in the air, placed her down then held her hand.
“I’m happy that I have seen you too,” Daudi said, rubbing his palms.
“Why haven’t you taken your bag inside? Have you just arrived at this place?” Khasavuli asked, turning pale.
“Hmm, you can ask the question again,” Daudi laughed. “I came here when the big torch in the sky was there,” he paused, pointing to the sky with his right hand. “I have toured around. You didn’t tell me you have a fish pond though I didn’t spot any fish, not even mud fish like in the river at home. I would have come with my hook. Do you remember those days we used to fish in River Mubere?”
“That’s a swimming pool, brother,” Khasavuli said, wondering if Daudi was fine.
“Let’s go in the house. Why is your bag outside? There is much we need to catch up,” Khasavuli said. “You know my house is also your house and everything I have here is also yours, apart from…”
Natah interrupted him.
“Daddy, why then was Uncle Daudi not given your food in the microwave?” she asked and added, “Will you eat with him?”
A moment of silence swept between them.
“Ehh, brother. You know I just wanted to see you. I have confirmed you are alive with your family, and I want to leave,” Daudi said, clasping his fingers, looking down.
“Yeah, who doesn’t want to live? I hope mayi1 is also doing well,” Khasavuli said although he missed what Daudi had said.
Then Daudi picked his bag and pushed his feet in his shoes like the way someone pushes grass into an already filled sack.
He insisted that he was to go and assist their mother to split firewood since she had no one to assist her. Moreover, he had to cut grass for the cows which of late had increased their appetite.
“Welcome in, food is ready,” Zainah offered.
“Ahh, my sister-in-law. My stomach is full. I don’t want it to burst open the way one of the calves suckled excessively and then died. Thank you,” he said, certainty in his voice.
“Are you leaving now?” Khasavuli asked dazedly.
“Yes, brother,” Daudi responded emphatically, lingering his gaze towards the gate.
“What’s wrong, brother?” asked Khasavuli, creases appearing on his forehead as he tried to figure out what had happened. “We have more rooms in this house for all of us. I insist you stay even for a night, please,” Khasavuli implored him, but he could not change his mind.
“Thank you, but I must leave right now,” he said with finality, fastening the three buttons of his shirt.
Khasavuli dropped the car keys and brought his hand to his face.
‘What could have happened to him? He has never been this way before. Could he be ailing?’ he thought, his eyes closed momentarily.
“Let me drive you home then,” he offered, picking up the key.
“Don’t bother yourself. You need to rest. I will find my way back to town and take Mawingo bus. It will take me home,” he said, waving to them.
“Uncle Daudi,” Natah called out for him and broke from his father’s grip.
He hesitated in his steps towards the gate when he heard her. She gave him the doll and asked him to take to his baby.
“Thank you,” he said and pinched her shiny nose gently. His face lit up with a smile for a short while.
“Brother, brother Daudi,” Khasavuli said in a pleading tone, “I need to ask you something.”
“We can talk as you walk me outside the gate,” he replied, walking away.
Khasavuli’s eyes became teary. He closed his eyes to wipe away a drop of tear that wanted to escape from his eyes.
Daudi walked past the gate that was still open. Darkness that was slowly forming swallowed him.
Turning to Zainah, who looked shocked, Khasavuli asked, “Did you do something to him?”
“I…” She stammered as the howling wind blew away words from her mouth.
When he looked at the gate, he couldn’t see Daudi!
“Daudi, I need to…” Khasavuli’s voice died away as he heard the barking of dogs from a distance.
END

GLOSSARY
1 mayi: mother.
2 ugali: a meal prepared from maize flour.
3 amapuoni: sweet potatoes.

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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: Sunset At Noon
Written by Edwell Zihonye

The day the sun set at midday lingers in my mind every day. I realized that life had no meaning at all. One minute it was there, the next it had vanished. It was like the proverbial shadow. As the sun disappeared, so did the shadow. The realisation hit me like an arrow from an experienced archer. I had long forgotten. I had taken everything for granted. I took everything in strides…
Up to this day, I still vividly recall what I was doing when it happened. Every detail of the occurrence is deeply embedded in my memory. It was a moment out of this world. I lived with my family – my parents and three siblings. Ours was a modest house in a middle-income suburb. Life was good – at least that’s what we believed. Both our parents worked. My mother worked at a local bank and my father worked for a mining engineering firm. I was the second born and at high at Fletcher High School. My elder sister, Sakhile, was at Regina Mundi High School. Two of my siblings were at primary and kindergarten school respectively. We lived in Shurugwi, a small mining town in the Midlands Province in Zimbabwe. I was proud of my upbringing – my parents’ love, Selukwe Primary School, my siblings. We lacked nothing in real terms.
I was ambitious. My father’s words always echoed in my ears. My father always talked about moving up the social ladder. My sister was my inspiration. She led by example and we were closer to each other, more than anyone could imagine. My young brother, Jayden and my baby sister, Chantel, were way down but the bond was strong. The smiles we shared were real. The understanding we had as siblings, gave our parents peace of mind.
As I sit here, in my aunt’s house, I can’t help recall the good times we shared. I remember the many shopping trips to Gweru, about thirty-three kilometres away. Our parents had a tendency of spoiling us and we loved it. We walked the length and breadth of the City of Progress. Usually, we would spend the whole day and only return home in the evening. That was then…
On the fateful day, I had just returned from the shops. I was with Jayden. He had some packets of fresh milk and some tomatoes. I had two loaves of bread, some eggs and meat. We looked forward to a hearty meal together. It was not the meals – it was the spirit of togetherness we always looked forward to. It made us feel special. We walked past the service station and along the main road to the provincial capital. We were in high spirits. How ironic!
When we got home on that sunny August morning, breakfast was quickly prepared. We were at table together and our talk was animated, at least the majority of us. Chantel, who had been toying around with her food until my father reprimanded her, was sulking. I did my best to cheer her up, but it didn’t have the desired results. She nibbled at her food and appeared absent-minded and distracted; by what exactly, I couldn’t say. Our father tried to tickle her, but she remained sullen and uninterested. We let things be and continued with our meal. My mother, for some strange reason, was unusually quiet. It was as if there was something wrong with her food, as well.
After the meal, my sister and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. As we did, we shared some jokes and all was fine. My mother was in her room and Father was reading the newspaper in the living room. I overheard him talk to a friend over the phone. The children were watching television. We finished the dishes and dried them. We neatly packed them in their respective compartments. We cleaned the sink and tidied the room.
As per routine, we went into our rooms to study. Our parents always insisted on balancing schoolwork and leisure time. During school holidays, like now, we only watched television in the evening. This was part of the way up the ladder, my father always said. We couldn’t disappoint! I was studying Pride And Prejudice and The Merchant Of Venice. Literature had always been my favourite subject. I would study History and Geography later. That was my plan. If only I had known!
As early as half past eleven that morning, my mother started cooking. My father was leaving at one o’clock that afternoon, with a friend. He had a business trip to the capital city, Harare. The meal to be ready by then. Our mother called us intermittently to assist with one or two things. We, however, continued with our studies in our rooms. Sakhile was in her final year at high school and was doing Business Studies, Accounting and Mathematics. Her efforts were visible for all to see. I envied her work ethics. She never complained. She was more than a sister to me. She was like my mother. She was my inspiration. I told her that. She thanked me heartily then we continued our studies. Thirty minutes after we had left the kitchen, we heard a loud explosion and a piercing scream. At once, we were galvanised into action. Our minds were paralysed by both fear and anxiety.
When we got into the corridor, we could barely see anything. It was filled with thick smoke and there was the acrid smell of burning material. Oh, my God! The house was on fire and the flames were spreading fast. The fuel in the garage! My mind whirled as I groped my way to what I thought was the living room. I collided with my father who was heading for the kitchen. The children were now in their room. I thought Sakhile was somewhere behind me. I got to the living room and struggled to locate the children. Things had happened so fast. I could hear them coughing and choking. I finally found my way into their room and took them to the kitchen – that was our only way out of the house. The main door was usually locked and there was no time to look for the keys in this commotion.
My father didn’t find mother in the kitchen. He went to Sakhile’s room and dragged her out. She was in shock. He left her at the door and came back for my mother. She was nowhere to be found. The children started screaming and running about in panic. I lost them and went back to the living room. For the second time, I bumped into my father who told me to leave as he was in control of everything. I tried to argue with him, but it was pointless. He searched the two bathrooms but found nothing.
It was at this point that a second explosion rocked the house. It propelled me into the air and out through the door. I landed outside and then there was total darkness. I must have blacked out. When I came to, I was about five metres from the door. There were many people around me. The noise around me was confusing. There was pandemonium. There were several shouts from all over the house. Someone was talking to me but I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was saying. Where was Sakhile? Where were my other siblings? What about my parents? In the din, I could see people pouring water on the angry flames. Some were splashing sand on, all in a vain attempt to douse the flames which were devouring everything in the house.
As my senses were coming back, I could see people frantically on their phones. I believe they were calling the police, hospital and fire fighters. The rest were watching helplessly as the flames engulfed the whole house. At that moment, I saw Sakhile. The pain I saw on her face was indescribable. I ran into her arms screaming and lamenting the destiny that was staring us in the face. Onlookers were silent and tearful. When the fire fighters arrived, the tragedy deepened. They were ill-equipped and their system malfunctioned. Angry residents shouted insults at them and heaped blame on them for their legendary incompetence. The audacious ones threw a few stones at them in the heat of the moment.
The arrival of the police and an ambulance crew didn’t help matters. There was shock and disbelief all over. Our parents and the kids were still trapped inside. Sakhile collapsed under the mango tree and soon three women from the neighbourhood were busy attending to her. The roof of the eastern side of the house caved in and there were sounds of terror from the onlookers. A medic joined in the attempt to revive Sakhile. She lay prostrate on the dusty patch. Eventually, the fire was put out but all hope of getting any survivors from the smouldering ruin was lost. It was as if my heart was in liquid fire. To expect miracles was unthinkable. I stood rooted to the spot, supported by Mr. Tom, our neighbour.
The fire fighters made their way into the house. We held our breath and waited. Everything had happened so fast. It was like we were watching a horror movie. Instinctively, everyone moved closer to the house. The heat was dissipating. The people were silent, powerless and their bodies were moving as if on their own. There was a sombre atmosphere as a sullen body of human sympathisers waited – melancholic and depressed. After what seemed ages, there were movements and people’s eyes were reverted to the kitchen door. The fire fighters asked for blankets from well-wishers. This was it! They didn’t have to confirm it at all. This granted, they disappeared into the house or what remained of the house. When next they emerged, they had four bodies of my family members. They were burnt beyond recognition. They were found, we later learnt, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen. My heart and mind ceased. I was numb with grief. I experienced some convulsions, and for the second time, I lost consciousness.
The funeral was an affair out of this world. Four coffins were paraded before us. My sister and I sat like statues close to our aunt – teary and gloomy. Buckets of tears continued to fall. Our hearts had been split into pieces which couldn’t find each other. We had wept ourselves to a standstill. As the funeral proceedings continued, our eyes were almost dry. They were red – lack of sleep and crying. We were like moving ghosts. We followed the events like robots. It was, to us, like a mechanical process not meant to involve us. The world clock had stopped and all was in turmoil. It was as if we were living outside of ourselves and watching ourselves from outer space. When at last the coffins were lowered into the ground, we felt as if we were falling into a bottomless pit. Darkness embraced us. We knew not what was happening around us and what would happen.
The funeral over, we held onto our aunt, our only solace in a world of strangers. We walked into a void and a dark cloud descended upon us. We, the two survivors, without anything to our names, stood like stumps gazing into the western horizon. Our future seemed to follow the fading sunset. It wasn’t up to us. Our future hung precariously on a thin thread. That thread was Aunt Naomi. All we could do was hope. Our sun had set at noon…

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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: Why Him?
Written Mongezi Leslie Cakathiso

Perhaps, a wrong father birthed me. This thought drowned me into deep oceans of hatred and curiosity. What mechanism selected and bestowed me to my parents? Is a person’s consciousness restricted to their genetic material they inherited from their parents? What makes me, me? Imagination embraced a multitude of possibilities; to be a child to other biological parents but still maintain this consciousness. But reality denied, left me with this father. The urge to escape this man’s cruelty led me to this absurd thought.
Last night, my father came home intoxicated. His speech blurred into dissonance as a radio with a bad signal. Eyes hardly opened. He woke up still with the pungent alcohol stench all over himself this morning.
“Thando, where’s my money?”
I took him to bed. We staggered together, but God knows I didn’t search his pockets. After a violent door knock, I opened the kitchen door, let him and his friend in, and gave him his food. My sister placed it in the microwave just before she left the house at dusk. He was conveyed in his friend’s car upon his arrival. Uncle Andile, who was also slightly drunk, brought him home; time for cricket choirs and the twinkling stars arrived, so human animal primitiveness was out hunting for the species so that it self-destructs. The sooty, dingy streets were infested with drug-made zombies prepared to confiscate lives to hand over to their master, addiction.
“I said where’s the money?”
His gaze lightened up the whole room. A crimson-eyed cruel creature; a devil with eyes seemingly plunged in blood.
“Dad, I didn’t take it.”
His intense, dreadful, negative energy inflated my eyes such that I stared with a gleam from tears of fear. As he neared, I reversed in an attempt to evade him. With his huge, hairy hands possessing a power grip as firm as an ape’s, he gripped my neck and lifted me up, off the ground. He panted. His warm, stinky breath blew my face and goose bumps grew. Alcohol, old sweat, armpits, and yellow teeth with plaque all formed a strong odour that nauseated me. He fiercely threw me, down to the floor, precisely where he spitted his bolus with contempt, yesternight. The morning mist flew as the dawn’s sun chased it away. I landed not with my head but my back. Nonetheless, I still felt agony.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I invited a slap. As I opened my eyes, the blood’s acrid odour irritated me. The sun rays that penetrated the windowpane, burned my skin. He gave me a semi-coma.
“Thando, my goodness! Are you okay?” My sister, returned from her boyfriend’s home. I felt a sharp stinging pain in my nose. As I caressed the nose, I suspected I was smearing it with blood. My hand met my eyes to confirm. I panicked as I saw coagulated blood. I wiped it with my T-shirt.
“Who did this to you?”
“Your father.”
My heart palpitated with animosity. Warm tears crossed my face to my chin like rivers meeting at the ocean. I wiped them off with a tight fist. She stretched out a hand for me to grab, but I shook my head. My eyes ascended from her rejected, weighed-down hand to the curve on her belly that grew from flatness, almost to a sphere over the past five months.
“Don’t feel sorry for me!” Nolwazi knew I didn’t mean that and replied with a sigh. I guess it is what men do to ease themselves from shame of being seen as weak. The grumpy old man was definitely at his oasis to quench his thirst again.
I limped through the corridor from the dining room, to my bedroom. As I stood before a sideboard mirror, I saw the consequences of the painful disaster my face endured; a hill on the mouth, a mountain on the forehead. Pain, why do we feel pain? It is a defence mechanism, it hinders us from hurting ourselves, but when we do self-harm, it means life is more painful than the pain we ought to put ourselves through, for death. I had enough of this life. I wanted to end it. If I would be numb in my attempts, I would end it, casually, easily, at a snap of a finger.
The five-digit trails which were a result of a slap that thundered on my face, triggered a malicious thought. I wished he had died, not Mom. In 2010, I woke up on a pattering midnight, to an argument between my parents. I curse that day!
“Did you expect me to understand when you impregnated your student, Sibusiso?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. We don’t have skeletons in the closet; skeletons are within us, they support our very being. It all made sense, they lied to us! The Department of Basic Education dismissed him; he didn’t resign as we, my sister and I, were led to believe.
My bedroom is adjacent to theirs and given how father yelled and the nucleated houses, it was impossible not to hear. I’m certain the whole neighbourhood heard clearly. They knew everything. In townships, news travel faster than light, something my introvert mother hated.
“So you were retaliating, huh?” Sibusiso said. He shouted with his coarse voice. Beneath my blankets, buried as a corpse, I only prayed the tension ceased.
“No, I didn’t say so,” Cikizwa said. Cikizwa is my mother. As her name implies, she was adorned with beauty. Nolwazi is her duplicate – she resembled her mother’s dark complexion, golden brown intense eyes and a calm temperament.
“But you retaliated! Who’s the father?” Father cried bitterly.
“Please don’t do this, I’m sorry,” Cikizwa said. She sobbed.
Three shrill gunshots that emanated from their room pierced the night’s chaotic atmosphere; transformed it into serenity. Tears filled my eyes. Wailing sirens of police cars interrupted the momentary silence. How could he shoot a woman with children, his children, like that? Even if he felt remorse, it was too late. Mom gradually lost her warmth, forever. That’s how our home lost its breath.
We held numerous conversations with my sister, but not how and why mother died. We would debate about consciousness, existence, evolution, religion, but not about mother’s death. Illegitimate pregnancies conceived, one by mother and another by my sister at sixteen. Unwelcomed karma came knocking and kicked in. Most teenagers bear children nowadays; it might be an evolutionary trait; it ensures the species continues to exist. Adultery is polygamy and ensures variation. Only in my father’s absence was I allowed to say such a thing. I was hurt too, at least by a single incident. Nolwazi was expelled from school due to her pregnancy. Mother’s case on the other hand, excited me; a slight possibility I could not be this man’s son. He returned yesteryear, in 2018, from prison. Peace permeated this house in his absence, for eight years.
When the sun hid its face from Earth, the monster crawled out of its pit, back to our home, its territory, its house. The door knock persisted.
“Vulani maan, this is my house.”
The moment I undid locks on the kitchen door, my hands shook like an old person’s. Nolwazi was about to finish cooking. Her chicken stew’s aroma caused me excess salivation. I swallowed constantly. I ushered him in, his eyes glazed but he stood on his own. Andile’s car roared as it drove off. The pleasant smell beckoned Dad, but he didn’t forget his daughter didn’t sleep at home.
“Nolwazi, where did you sleep?” She was on exile. Whenever father returned, someone turned to a punching bag. The man needed no reason, but this time he had an excuse.
“Are you mute?”
“No Father,” Nolwazi said. Her fidgeting tiny hands started sweating. Tears engulfed her eyes.
“Then answer me!” That hellish fire ignited his eyes once more. My blood boiled, my body burned.
I already prepared for the day, the war. I wanted to avenge Mom, my sister and I. The endless throes. I clenched my hands into tight fists.
“Leave her alone!” I witnessed my pregnant mother’s death; I didn’t want that happening to my sister.
“People are talking, you are pregnant!” he aggressively flashed his yellow teeth and winced. He pointed me with a trembling first finger. “And you, you stole my one thousand rand; Andile saw you.”
Why did Andile lie? Maybe, he stole it himself. Sibusiso never bought us groceries or anything. We sustained the home with piece jobs, but he had the guts to tell me I was a thief? They were both unemployed, but Andile drove a luxurious, latest Audi. I heard rumours he was a drug dealer, certainly he used Dad to sell. Father always had money, but he spent it on booze and women.
The finger returned to Nolwazi. “You are a slut, just like your mother.”
An invisible dagger stabbed my heart as I saw Nolwazi’s head hung down and tears flowing like a stream. A few drops hit the floor. We all stood, Dad and my sister, near the table with cutlery and a stove with the glistening pot of chicken stew on top of it. Father grabbed a sharp, shiny knife. It made a clicking sound as he drew it and made a gentle collision with spoons and forks. Nolwazi shivered. He slowly approached her.
During the wee hours, when he was one step away from her, I pulled the trigger, the barrel pointed towards my own father. Three cracking sounds of fireworks. Rat-tat-tat. Each bullet for each person I love including myself.
“Like father, like son,” I said. Nolwazi cried, shouted for help with her eyes shut and her ears covered. Her father’s blood smothered her white, loose dress. A mutilated corpse on the floor; three holes on his forehead, blood oozed after it spurted. I saved her. I saved myself, us.
What was Mom thinking? Why did she cheat? Why did father cheat in the first place? Why do people cheat? Cheating is natural and most species in Kingdom Animalia prove it. Every organism increases chances of its gene pool survival and transfer by increasing its number of partners. As humans, we deem things we practice the most as immoral. It’s amusing that we define love as something other than what it truly is – selfishness. Both romantic and platonic love. No one wants to be cheated on, but many people cheat. We expect love to be something magical, while our very own selfish actions defile it.
I was surprised by how Father reacted to Nolwazi’s pregnancy. He did exactly the same thing to someone’s child. That’s pedophilia. Not even a single day have I thought how Mom is, where she is if she still continues to exist as a life-force. I was bothered by how her absence made me feel. Isn’t that selfishness? Probably it’s because I don’t believe in supernatural beings; that I don’t consider her a life-force.
I am convinced that consciousness is limited to biological factors. That there’s no escape. Your biological constituents; a sperm cell and an egg cell that resulted to the final product that is you, are the only factors which could ever result to you and this consciousness you have. This would disprove reincarnation if true. I need to prove it, and when do we become conscious, before or after birth? Is consciousness energy? If it is, it could justify reincarnation. Consciousness could be the greatest form of energy that observes itself, other energies and matter. Thus, it can neither be created nor destroyed but transferred from one body to another. I hope Sibusiso does not awake.
Nostalgic childhood memories resurfaced on my gallery of imagination. Nolwazi recited her poetry.
‘Does God Exist?
A dream
We are subconscious
Natural is not real
Supernatural is the perfect existence
At sleep, we perceive
Existentia not as this real
Events chaotic, reasoning not impressive
Awake to vividly think and feel
Likewise, after death
We think and feel realer than in this world
Comprehension of the truth
The truth about the existence of GOD
The dead know He is no myth
While we ask ourselves, “Does God truly exist?”’
Existentia, a word she coined; everything that exists whether a living or non-living organism. A compelling artwork for a seven-year-old. Her performance blew my fourteen-year-old mind. She believes there are three levels of consciousness and existence; that God exists more than we do; He is more conscious. She swayed from left to right as if a pendulum, heartfelt every word from her art piece. Her face beamed with innocence and excitement. Those were the days; when father still bought us sweets, read us stories. Love turns to pain, pain to hate; the more you love, the more you hate.
Just like how police and forensic vehicles did nine years ago when they took Dad and Mom’s corpse away. They formed an alliance of kaleidoscopic flashing lights and siren symphonies. Nolwazi carried her hands over her head, her face gleamed with tears. My life was over. But that’s not how I viewed it. Handcuffs set me free, I found a better way; escapism from my sorrows and woes.

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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: Little Nights
Written by Andile Dube

I was too drunk to even notice my little girl leave with her mother. I only remember the squeal of our only suitcase scratching against the door. Layla, my little goddess, placed a drawing on my belly before she walked out. I couldn’t make out what it was at first but as the substances wore off, it began to look more and more like the giant white doll we had spotted in town the week before. She usually drew the things that she wanted the most.
My wife heard that I was getting my act together and she offered me a lifeline back to Layla’s life again. Having almost burnt down the one room we were renting with Layla inside during one of my escapades, seeing her once was more than I deserved. They were both staying with another man, a better man than I would ever be. I couldn’t compete. I was actually proud of my wife.
I got on the bus to the big city to see my daughter for the first time in a year. I was broke for the entirety of the twelve months but I couldn’t go empty-handed. That is why for two days and two nights prior to that trip, I had been working on a farm as Gogo Sebata’s nurse aide. I had enrolled into multiple nurse aiding courses before but fell out along the way in every one of them. Amongst the papers my wife had left was a pamphlet about a free nurse aiding course which offered as a courtesy by one of the ambitious politicians in my neighbourhood and so there I was, back in the fold again but this time, I finished.
Monica welcomed me to the farm. Her eyes looked through me in a very disconcerting manner. I was caught up in her artistic wrinkles I didn’t even notice the farmhouse filling my peripheral. I stretched my neck to take in its vastness. Not a spot but my fingers stained the oil paint. Monica stopped talking altogether.
“You will tell me when you are done,” she said.
“I’m done,” said I.
“The petrol for the generator is over there,” she pointed.
We walked into the house and again, she weighed me with her sharp stare. There were tiny thuds coming from above the ceiling, very haphazard in their nature. They kept ticking in my ear until Monica spoke again.
“I called for a female nurse aide,” she said before we walked into the open living room.
Gogo Sebata was folded into her wheelchair, facing an array of portraits.
“They bring her peace you know?” Monica said, “That is Naledi, her daughter.”
I only nodded.
We walked into a long corridor. At the end of it was a bed, on the other, a traditional artwork in the form of a spiral. I walked away from it before I turned and walked back towards it with the same fascination as Layla when she first ran her fingers through my beard.
I placed my hand on the spiral. It was gentle yet gritty on the fingertips. It felt like reed but lighter. A maize leaf it was. I pressed my hand on it a bit deeper and all the days came back to me in a rush. The ward sister looking at me with disgust when I held my baby for the first time. The security guard asking me to wait outside because the alcohol might affect the premature babies. The days rushed back even more vividly. My father-in-law giving me money to buy Layla some diapers after I had ran through my moonlighting pay at the local shebeen.
“I don’t have all day,” Monica called out. “Over there you will find lighters for the gas stove. One of them is faulty but the other is okay.”
“My apologies.”
“This will be your room,” she said pointing to the bed at the end of the corridor. “I know there in no privacy, but you have to see her choke on her dentures or fall from the wheelchair at a distance.”
I felt naked the more I took in the openness of my room. The view gave me solace, however. It was the maize field. Ever green in Monica’s words. It was so vast it curved with the earth.
“The Sebatas had so much money from this field that they were able to fund a whole insurrection during the colonial days. After that they mainly used it to fund the Naledi foundation.”
“Naledi Foundation?” I asked.
“Her daughter took her own life,” she said handing me a journal.
“Can’t imagine myself without my Layla,” said I.
“Hm,” she replied. “That will be everything. I will be back after three days. Just fill your name in this journal.”
The journal had a long list of names, mostly women’s names. The list was a reflection of the time Gogo Sebata had been ill.
“Three days?”
“I have a family matter to attend to, you will only be paid after that.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I know you heard them,” Monica said.
“What exactly?”
“The thuds from the ceiling.”
I had long forgotten about them, until now. Only then did I hear them more clearly.
“We have cat-sized rats roaming the ceiling boards. Downside of keeping corn,” she said. “Don’t let them scare you at night.”
Gogo Sebata only blinked, no more or less. She didn’t even flinch when I pressed the insulin against her veins, but her fingers moved slightly. I took out her dentures and fed her porridge. I put them back in and changed her diapers and the rest of the day was just me waiting for the day to end.
The first night was uncomfortable as any first night anywhere away from home should be. I stayed up until midnight, twisting and turning on the single bed. I got up and placed Layla’s drawing on top of the dusty wardrobe before I went back to bed again. I finally found the sweet spot which gave me the view of the sky reaching maize stalks swaying back and forth against the night.
When that spot became uncomfortable, I sat up to the view of the long corridor and right there at the end of it, wearing the night gown I had slid onto her before I slept, was Gogo. She was facing the spiral. My tongue rolled as I tried to scream. The hairs on my skin stood tall and when she placed her hand on the spiral, I slammed back onto my bed with an intense whiplash.
From above, the tiny thuds got louder than my heartbeat; hundreds of them. It felt like a very short moment before I sat back up again and on the end of the same long corridor was nothing but the spiral and the morning sun.
Gogo was still where I left her the evening before, but I couldn’t shake the feeling from the previous night. My body was heavy on my back and there was an itch I couldn’t quite place until I agonisingly bent down to put my crocs back on. My toenails were filled with mud and right from my room were muddy footprints which ran all the way to the outside. I followed them with a mop, and they disappeared into the thickness of the maize field.
I felt the previous night’s dream stinging into my every thought. I went back to feed Gogo her breakfast. Her stare on this particular day was uncomfortable. She opened her mouth and held the spoon tight with her dentures.
“Let go,” I pleaded with her, but she held on. She slowly turned her head and spit it out in the direction of the door. I dialled Monica to understand Gogo’s behaviour, but she never picked up. I went outside to dispose of the rest of her porridge. Against the pristine wall was a hoe and a digger. It wasn’t an alarm with the place being a farm before anything, but those footsteps were there, all around the tools.
Halfway to the big city was a mall. I walked past a kids’ shop on my way from the loo and it called out to me, certainly, the giant white doll. I looked closely at the price tag but my reflection at the shop’s window jumped at me. I was bent. My arms were hanging on my shoulders. The bus’s horn snapped me out of the sorry view, and I ran back to it. The doll, against my will, kept me at the farmhouse for the second night. Toiling for the money to buy it was the least I could do for my daughter.
That day had been rough. I couldn’t walk a room without bending over my knees to rest. When you sleep without properly studying for an exam, you usually have a nightmare where everything is falling apart. The question paper is too heavy, you cannot open it. The time is rolling away too fast, and your pen has run dry. I had a similar nightmare. Gogo was begging for her insulin, and I couldn’t open the refrigerator to get it. In another instance, the vials were stone frozen. Her screams for the insulin got louder. There is a point in the dream where you realise that it’s just a dream. I came to that realisation and the reality that I passed out without giving Gogo her insulin.
I snapped out of my sleep right into the chattering of my teeth. Above me were the stars and I was involuntarily ploughing the ground with a hoe. The maize stalks were so tall I couldn’t tell where I was. I forced my fingers to let go of the hoe but there was still digging all around me. Making my way through the stalks, I met a very short person or thing ploughing. One in front, another beside and all of them everywhere, quietly ploughing away. They were in sync as if in a hive.
They all stopped at once and started marching. My bones were stone cold, running was out of the picture, I just walked fast in front of the short things. At some point I started running towards the lights in the distance. It was the house. I burst into the door and Gogo was lying flat on the floor right beneath the spiral. I packed my bag and stopped. I did not need the clothes. I tried to reach for my daughter’s painting above the wardrobe, but it was just too high for me until I hopped on the bed and retrieved it.
Gogo was still there, cold on the ground. I thought of the crime I was committing by walking out of the door. I was potentially throwing away any chance of ever seeing Layla again, so I ran back to her and felt for her pulse. She was still there, barely. I sat her on the wheelchair and ran across the house to the refrigerator to get insulin but the door between myself and the insulin was the one from outside. It went open with a loud screech and the short creatures marched through with their muddy footsteps. I did not find the heart or the courage to jump over them. I got scared and ran back to Gogo whilst covering my ears to block the hundreds of wet thuds. Her temperature was dropping fast.
Maybe I should leave the witch and disappear into the world, I thought. Why am I trying to save her? I wondered.
I took the petrol and sprayed it all over the living room carpet and the corridor. The lighter couldn’t go off. I dropped it on the floor to go and look for another one.
“You are not going to take this field away from me,” a voice said from behind. I turned and a hoe handle ran across from face. I could feel my nose on my chin. I was dragged across the corridor and in the darkness, I could see the small creatures climbing through the trap door into the ceiling. The bitterness of blood filled my mouth. I spat out a few of my teeth before I was back into it. I was heavily fastened into Gogo’s wheelchair.
“There was a reason why I called for a female nurse aide. They never forget to give her the insulin to last her the night.”
It was Monica. The beautifully aged caretaker of the farm. Gogo’s body was lying beside me on the ground. Her fingers were still moving but she was wasting away.
“I served this family when I was still a child. The very moment they could afford better people than myself, they kicked me out, but I had lost all the days of my youth toiling away, young man. Rich people take and take, and they never give. It was my turn to take so I took Naledi away from her and used her blood for a ritual which would make me forever rich, and you tried to take that away from me.”
The more she spoke, the louder the ceiling rumbled with the thuds. Finally, a flick. Gogo, in her miserable state, got the lighter I had dropped to work. The flame ran across the carpet to the corridor then to the wall with spiral. When the spiral went ablaze, a yellow glow came from the outside. The whole maize field was ablaze.
Monica ran outside, lamenting, “You won’t take this away from me!”
I propelled myself with my feet and fell through the door to the outside of the house still fastened to the wheelchair.
From inside the house, people’s cries came. It was mostly screams from women, hundreds of them. Even more. Monica took sand by the buckets and poured into the field but the flames blazed even taller. Eventually she sat on the ground then wiped her tears before she stood again.
“Untie me I won’t say a word,” I begged, “I just want to see Layla again. Don’t take that away from me.”
She stood and walked towards me with a blank face. She knelt and undid the ropes she had tied me with. She walked slowly to the edge of the field and stood there for a while.
“Don’t do it,” I tried to save the real witch.
She walked into the flames and disappeared into the glow.
I finally got to the big city. My wife was with her new husband and Layla. It was her smile with the missing teeth that made my eyes water.
“Daddy, you look shorter,” she said before she gave me a tight hug.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “I couldn’t get you the doll that you wanted.”
“What doll?” she asked.
I took out the drawing and she giggled.
“That is not a doll daddy, that is you in your nursing uniform.”

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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: A Letter To Belinda
Written by Sifiso Makwakwa

I remember her very well, the first day I got introduced to her presence in this world. She was talking and laughing with her friends, our grade ten classmates. We were without a teacher, everyone was wild and noisy talking about their own crazy life experiences. However, my mind and focus were silent as my thoughts revolved around her. I don’t know why, but I knew I wanted to get to know her at all costs. She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. A beautiful and cute girl that never existed in my wildest dreams of a perfect woman.
What I loved about her was how bubbly and outspoken she was. I knew she would always talk her mind and we would get to know each other very easily. She was a little bit taller than me, and had a little body. Her tiny figure made me go insane that I made a lot of assumptions about her. She was light-skinned and always had her lips shining with a glossy lipstick. She was my ideal American model reincarnated as my future Sicelaumusa High School girlfriend.
One day we were changing classes, this came after we were given a proper one to formally start our yearly lessons. That was when I approached her. I offered to carry the desk and chair she had as she was alone and mindless of what to do. She got the shock of her life that someone had paid attention to her, a weirdo out of all. A boy who was short and thin, who wore an oversized uniform had approached her. I looked as if I was tired of myself, and didn’t understand the world around me. I looked like I was forced to go to school, like I never wanted to be there. After that shock, she burst out with laughter.
“You really want to share a desk with me?” she asked, laughing.
By that time, I was trying to remain in a good posture to look cool to her. But if she was a mirror, I would have seen how embarrassing and stupid I looked.
“It’s okay if you already have a partner.”
“A partner?” she asked and laughed again.
Her laughter reminded me of how I often wasn’t taken seriously. I saw everyone who has ever done so in the past playing before my eyes.
“I’m kidding, nobody has asked me yet so we can sit together,” she said. “However, if someone does then you’re on your own.”
She had agreed. I had done it! It felt like I had successfully asked her out. We carried our desk together and went to our new class. Finally, I was close to her, and I’d be for a while. That was when I decided to relax and get to know her better.
Her name was Belinda, a name I’d have chills and shivers of excitement every time it was called. Months passed and we became friends. Little by little we shared our school days and outside of school experiences with each other. She’d try to advise me to update my looks to look better, but my grandmother was old school, and she knew better.
“Josh, your father lost focus in high school because of girls,” the old woman would say. “Now you’re going there too, and I will make sure that you don’t get attracted nor attract girls to yourself.”
I think she intentionally got me dressed ugly so that no girl would accept me if I were to love someone. But that didn’t stand in our way because Belinda had already fallen in love with my personality and values. I was gold hidden in a dumpster. Belinda had a rough side; she’d often keep giving me light slaps on the face to make me do something I’d refuse to do for her, like letting her copy my work and disagreeing with her. She’d send me for water all the time, and throwing away my books and stationery, kicking me off the table every time we had a disagreement. A part of me began to dislike her, however another part of me was addicted to her slaps and ill-treatment. I felt it to be what gave us a strong bond, and her slaps were the rare moments she’d touch my skin. She wanted me to be submissive to her and it felt like being loved deeply by her.
She’d also call me names. It’d hurt me since I respected her so much and expected the same from her. But I blamed myself for loving her dearly. She slowly shattered my motive to tell her how much I loved her. Her treatment reminded me of my primary school bullying experience and brought back those ugly feelings I had forgotten.
One day during break time, a boy I went with to the same school the previous year entered our class. Belinda’s friends kept whispering his name and Belinda’s. She quickly got up and went to him. She said some words to him, and they went out. I had never seen her being so gentle with a guy to the extent of being shy at his presence.
Her friends looked over to me and said, “So you’re scared?”
“Scared of what?” I asked.
One of them insisted they stop, and so they did and continued chattering about their own business. I decided to go out to the toilet, but just as I exited the door, I saw something I shouldn’t have seen behind me. I quickly rushed to the toilet and stayed there for a while. I was heartbroken, Belinda was on the guy’s hands and she was staring into his eyes. I had got out the exact moment they kissed. My world had shattered. After all the hard wok I had put to win her, someone else had done it first and easily. That could’ve been us, but I knew very well that when a girl has decided to place her heart on someone, no second guy stood a chance. I guessed that she never saw what I saw in her; to me we were more than just desk mates.
I waited inside. That day I ignored the toilet’s unpleasant smell. I felt like the floor, full of scars and being stepped on all day and without being mopped for a whole week. I sat there up until the bell rang calling everyone back to class. I got myself together and went back, and found he already had left. And there she was seated. She called out to me.
“Where have you been? we don’t have any water,” she said. “You saw that I was busy, and you should have gotten water.”
She wanted me to get water with the same bottle she’d wipe a thousand times before drinking If I had done so before her.
“Do it yourself,” I harshly replied.
I knew what was coming next – a beat down. She shouted on my face, threw my bag away. She threw a packet of Banana peels that she had eaten at me. This time her friends helped me and stopped her. I remember the gentle words Samantha said.
“If only he knew how bad of a person you were, he wouldn’t have asked to sit with you Belinda.”
What she did to me that day changed me; I no longer enjoyed her mistreatment. And going to school turned into a burden. I intentionally went to school late, just so she could fail to copy my work. I no longer covered up her flaws, she then would be in trouble with school work.
One day, she was in very good mood. We talked while she held my hands. It was the first time she did so without hesitation. She would give me random hugs and was always on my face, as if she knew something about me and then had to make sure to never lose me. This went on for several months that we were even thought to be in love with each other by the whole class, the teachers included. Well, I was but she wasn’t. She even volunteered to give me her number, and we would talk till midnight.
One thing I realised during that period, both our school marks dropped drastically. We would even laugh at ourselves when one had gotten less marks than the other. This brought back the love I had for her twice than when I first saw her, and I was aware that she might have possibly realised that. She no longer had any boys coming to class for her. That was when I decided to ask her about the guy I saw her kiss.
“We are relatives,” she said.
“I saw you kiss, so don’t lie.”
She looked at me, bewildered, “So that’s why you were acting up.”
“What?”
She had caught me, my secret had been discovered. That I love her. She kept quiet for a while, and then spoke again.
“We broke up, he wasn’t my type.”
I got relieved, but little did I know that it meant that all that treatment she was giving me was just to fill the void she had after their break-up. I was her emotional rehabilitator. Those hugs, holding hands, touching my face and being all over my body. She was drunk with a heartbreak, and I was helping her to get sober. I gave her advice on how disastrous dating can be for her, a copy and paste from my grandmother.
“Once you fall in love with someone, the world becomes small. Your world starts revolving around that person that nothing else is important. You can quit school just to have time to love that someone. You’d abandoned yourself and family just to run after that someone you think you love so much. Love is an illusion, and not everyone recovers from the damage love has caused them.”
As I said those words to her, I heard them talking to me as well regarding the love I had for her. She was an illusion, and I no longer cared about anything except her.
“So, you’re an illusion!” she shouted at me.
An illusion? I asked myself. Does that mean she loves me? She suddenly started to beat me up like always. That time she even kicked me. That was when I realised that Belinda wasn’t a normal girl. She was someone I couldn’t love. And from that day without hesitation, I decided to keep the love I had for her to myself, my illusion. I began scouting for a friendship. The only friend I had was Belinda, but I wanted to be free from her. So, I had to blur my focus and thoughts of her.
Luckily there was a guy who was a loner, but a genuine genius. His name was Lebo. I approached him. We talked regarding school stuff. I didn’t hide it from him what I wanted us to have. I asked him to be my friend, and he was more than happy to accept me. We became friends, and in a week we felt like we’ve been friends for over three months. We had a lot in common that our friendship was perfect.
Belinda felt a bit of jealousy, and she would always be moody around me. She would even spend the day without talking to me, but we shared the same desk. I lost faith in her; she wasn’t a good person. She held herself important than me, and never valued me. But I think I hurt her, and even if I did, she wouldn’t let me know but it’s clear she wanted me to care. She was trying to lure me back into being her punching bag and her slave.
But I already had my freedom – Lebo. He had important values and respect and I was part of it. My school marks began to rise and I got an average ranking. Belinda started to respect me. She really knew her boundaries when it came to being recognised as one of the hard workers. The teachers would often compare us with each other and say that I had realised how I was to fail and worked hard, but Belinda didn’t and was going to fail.
I felt sorry for her, but she had become a liability to me. I couldn’t waste my time, and for that I’m sorry I failed you, Belinda. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well, and I really loved you.
The end.

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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: “REST”
Written by Pamella Amethyst Brown

My mother’s cries were the last thing I heard every night since my brother went MIA. It was heart wrenching seeing my mother loose against grief like that. We as kids had always seen our parents as impenetrable walls of strength. My mother unraveling at the seams not only was breaking her up to her atomic components, but it was also tearing the family apart. She had been figuratively the glue that helped keep the house together. My father was neck deep inside a beer bottle. I was a mess of emotions. But the one emotion that took the front seat was jealousy.
Yes, jealously for my brother.
It’s weird I know, but I was jealous of my missing brother. He’d been the golden child. Our parents clearly loved him more than me. I was their last born and only daughter but they worshipped the ground he walked on. When I say they gave him everything, I mean they gave him everything. He had his first car when he was 16 years old. They sent him to a private integrated high school, because they wanted the best education for him. When my time came for high school, my mother sent me to a township school that wasn’t even doing that well in regard of their passing mark. I never even cared about how fancy the school was. They could have at least sent me to a school that was strict and had a good passing rate.
No, not them. The best was always reserved for my brother.
Seeing them lose themselves when he went missing sent me up in flames. Even when I started getting reckless, they never noticed. I wished that they cared for me half as much as they cared for him. Even when he was gone – or in our case missing – they totally erased me out their view sight. I found myself sometimes for a spit second wishing that he was gone, permanently. That was a bitter possibility that my mother refused to accept.
My brother was in the South African National Defence Force navy, and his ship had gone radio silent somewhere around the Bermuda Triangle. A total of 321 men and women just gone like that, as if they had been ruptured or something. We hadn’t even known that he was that far away from home. Why was even our army that near the Americas? Was there something everyday people like us were missing?
We found out one warm day when two army brown cars drove up our long dusty driveway, their wheels pushing up dust and making it look as if a pack of wildebeests was stampeding across our front yard. Some of the downsides of staying in a farmhouse just a kilometer and a half outside the city was all the dust we had to deal with.
The cars pulled up in front of the house. My mother was already at the door. I assumed she was hoping it was her son, as we hadn’t seen him for a year up until that day. Instead, they gave her the bad news. It was like they had stampeded on her heart. She cried for days and as much as I was jealous of my brother, I felt for mother. She had given so much of her heart to him. Now there was a possibility that he had sunk to the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean along with her heart. It was a fate far worse than death, for my mother. What is worse than a mother losing their child? I’ll wait…
***
I don’t remember much about the accident. What I could not get out my ears was the ringing. It was as if a phone was ringing right inside my ear. I don’t remember how I got out the taxi, but outside the world was ending. Smoke seemed to have taken up all the space, and a person could barely see two feet in front of them. The screaming. Jesus, the screaming was overpowering the ringing ten-fold. I navigated myself around the smoke and finally found the edge of it. I sat down and watched the wreckage as if I were watching an animal giving birth on the National Geographic Channel. It was an out of body experience. I could not take my eyes away from it. The image held me hostage the same way a pimple popping TikTok video did. There was just something about the burning people that just made me pause and watch everything in slow motion as the smoke cleared.
A woman was screaming her lungs out being held back by a boy in a school uniform same as mine. I didn’t recognize him. She was trying to get back to her baby who was inside one of the burning cars. She was bleeding profusely and close to death, but her motherly adrenaline was keeping her body just alive enough for her to witness her child being burnt alive.
A man walked out of the clearing smoke, as the hero would in an action movie, carrying the child. The women saw this and recognized the child in the man’s arms, and she stopped screaming and relaxed in the boy’s arms. I still didn’t know him. He looked to be in my grade or a year younger, but I just couldn’t place him. The man was limping badly as one of his legs was damaged to what seemed like beyond repair. He made his way to the woman. The mother took one look and smiled, as if she was satisfied with what she was looking at. She then just stopped. She stopped moving. The boy and the man looked at each other and a moment of silence felt like hours. It was an unbelievably unique moment to witness that happen in the middle of a car pile-up.
I would have probably witnessed the child waking up in the man’s arms, but the wailing of ambulances made their debut into this saga, redirecting my attention to then. They sounded as if a bunch of Banshees were screaming. Maybe that is what Banshees sound like. It’s just that we think it’s the ambulances that make the sound. Now isn’t that food for thought.
One ambulance stopped a few metres from me. People in green jumped up and whooshed past me. They attended to the motherless child, the man whose leg was long gone, the boy I didn’t recognize, and the newly deceased mother. I watched as more green dressed EMTs jumped to action to help other people who were still alive and holding on by doll hairs. It was a miracle that I had walked out without even a scratch. God must have had me on His lap when the accident happened.
Not a moment too soon, more fire trucks than ambulances made it to the scene and got to work trying to stop the fires. A field near the road was already up in flames. The crops were an inferno and those poor men and women in red had their work cut out for them. If the fire got worse, it would reach the city, and nobody wanted that. I felt someone place their hands on my shoulders.
“Pudding,” came a whisper.
I froze. Only one person called me that and right now he was most likely swimming with fish at the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean.
“What!” I jumped up and faced him.
He looked bigger than I last saw him. He looked healthier and happier. I jumped on him, attacking him with a hug. The resentment and jealousy were out the window. My big brother was home.
“Slow down tiger before you strangle me,” he laughed, prying my arms from around his neck.
“Sorry, got too excited,” I grinned and tried to keep my knees from giving way. “Why are you here?”
“Well, the car couldn’t cross over due to this….” he gestured to the accident. “…so they dropped me off here. Are you okay? Were you involved in this?” he asked checking my whole body.
“Yes, but I’m totally fine,” I said, looking myself over to make sure that I was really fine.
“Are you sure? You don’t want the medics to check you?” he blinked and pulled a smile.
I smiled back. I never realized how much I had missed his smile. Even though our parents had treated him like Cinderella’s stepmother had treated her daughters and me like she had Cinderella, I and my brother had gotten along fine. He’d even taken my side a few times and spoke back to our mother, and as always, she never saw wrong in what she did to me, and she never reprimanded my brother for speaking against her or going against her wishes. The golden child always won.
“I’m fine. Let them attend to people that need the help more than I do.”
I took his hand and looked back. The mother was covered in a foil blanket, the child was being carried by a female medic away from the scene, the man was on a stretcher being attended to, and the boy was nowhere to be seen.
“Then can we go home. I could use the walk. I need some time with you.”
“What does that mean? You can’t be going back. You got lost at sea. I can’t lose you again.”
I held back tears. Not today’s tears. This was not your day. Maybe tomorrow, but not today. I’ve seen too much to cry now.
“No, I’m just… I’m just saying I don’t know when we’ll ever get time just the two of us.” He had teary eyes. He was fighting them as much as I was fighting mine.
“We’ll have to make time, you are home now…”
We walked away from the wreckage. I didn’t even know how many vehicles had been involved. Where on earth was my backpack even? At that moment I could care less. My mother was going to lose her marbles when she sees him walking through the gates. Maybe this time she’d see me too. She’d see that I had brought her baby back, and maybe give me a hug.
It was a very blissful moment of walking in silence. I felt so at peace. I had never felt this light in my life. Our farmhouse slowly came into view. Our father’s van was driving down the driveway heading for the gate, which was already open. The car flew the two yards to the gate and they didn’t even stop to close the gate. They always left the gate closed when they left the house. The car zoomed past us, as if neither of them noticed us on the side of the road.
“Where are they rushing to?” I watched the dust they left behind them as the car disappeared in the direction of the accident. “They didn’t even see us. Anyway, let’s go inside,” I said and shrugged. “They’ll see you once they get back.”
I started walking towards the gate, but he didn’t follow me.
“What’s the matter?” I looked at him. He was fiddling with the army uniform he was still wearing. “What?” I started to feel a pit in my throat.
“Pudding, look…” he sighed, “…Mama never despised you.”
“You can tell me all that inside, come.” I walked back to him and grabbed his arm. “Come.” I pulled but he didn’t as much flint.
“She loved you,” He sniffed. “She loves you.” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“No,” I shook my head. “Let us head inside please.” I pulled, nothing.
“She just had a colourful way of showing it.”
“Bhuti no.”
I remembered who the boy was. He was the boy that had gotten me pregnant.
“Pudding.”
“Bhuti.”
We were on our way from school to tell my parents. We had already told his. They hated it. They wanted me to send it back to heaven. I didn’t know what I wanted. I had thought telling my mother would help. In hindsight, that was probably the worst idea in the history of ever.
“Pudding, our road ends here.”
The boy had pulled me out of the taxi hardly alive. I was bleeding from my stomach.
“You never made it out The Bermuda, didn’t you?”
“None of the 321.”
I swallowed the lumped and I felt sick to my stomach. My stomach. I held it and felt a headache brewing. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream louder than any Banshee had ever wailed.
“Come on, let’s go rest. You must be tired… I know I am.”
He flashed me that one-million-dollar smile of his. I smiled back. I didn’t feel better, but rest did sound nice. I really was tired.
Aren’t you?

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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