PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

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

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

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

Deadline: December 15, 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ISBN: 978-0-6397-4568-8

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

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

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

Yours, Truthfully
Your Father

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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

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

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

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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: “WHEN THE PRAYING STOPS”
Written by Ntsarane Nelson Molapo

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

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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: THE LAST TRUMPET
Written by Kaluwe Haangala

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

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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: 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