PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY COMPETITION – JUNE 2023

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: TARIRO (HOPE)
Written by Simbarashe Zimuto

According to the doctors, Tariro was brought into the hospital two weeks ago. Her legs were broken beyond repair. A plaster was holding the last remains of her left minced, butchered hand and her right hand clasped a blood-soaked diary. Half of her face had been marooned by iron shrapnel in the midst of the tragedy. She was the sole survivor on the day of the tragedy but today she breathed her last.
I am happy she died, heaven was her only chill spot and peaceful place. That leaves me to reminisce about the life of my daughter who died full of grief.
She was born on a stormy night, August 17. The clouds were pregnant and this was symbolic of a great soul she would grow up to be. We named her Tariro. My daughter was the kind of joy that came to heal my wounds after scars that were left by her father, an evil spirit who put me in the Intensive Care Unit every day. Tariro was once my smile keeper, but the gigantic jaws of death caught up with her.
My daughter was an African teenager who depicted the struggles that every teenager faces under the forces of demanding parents who expect her to live up to their values. She had good days and mostly bad ones too. The good days were brought by my mythical thoughts clinging onto the dream of becoming the next Tsitsi Dangarembgwa.
“You do not see an open window with academics in this type of a country”, Tariro’s father said to her once. However, deep down Tariro knew her father was partly correct because life in a country within the dark depths of Africa was not life. It was just living in a place where political cries and the economic crisis surged.
Keeping her head above the water seemed to be difficult when she was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Girls Tariro’s age were living lavish lives by sleeping around with old men, but Tariro kept her head high, burning the midnight lamp studying. What was my daughter’s driving force? Competition was once part of her values, but it vanished the day a local ophthalmologist from Harare diagnosed Tariro with an eye condition called Keratoconus. From that day, she never pictured herself within the counsel of leaders. Her esteem became shattered. Who would want to follow a partially blind leader? Seems like every straw she held onto was crumbling. Why couldn’t Tariro, my daughter, just let herself drown in the deep waters? Academics were the only Plan “A” within Tariro‟s radar. Without the value of excellence, Plan “A” became worthless. Plan “B” had been decided by her father; he was to marry Tariro off to an old man if ever Plan “A” failed. According to Tariro’s father, our daughter had to be made ready for such a marriage through female genital mutilation [FGM].

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“It is just a prick to safeguard your virginity and appease the gods,” the sangoma assured Tariro, “the might of the gods will bless the holy matrimony you are about to enter.”
Her fate had been sealed. Like a sacred spring, blood gushed out between her legs, and that night she drowned in the pool of her own blood. All because of her father’s firm doctrine; Tariro would not live to see the dawn. Tariro’s father stood nodding approvingly to the sangoma’s incarnations as he rubbed herbs onto my daughter’s womanhood and showcased prowess in knifing skills. The herbs gave Tariro a burning sensation followed by excruciating pain from the cutting rusty razor blades. Why couldn’t they just let Tariro rest in peace?
That night, Tariro reminisced about her dreams and goals for the last time. I audibly heard my sniffles as the pain of being a mother crept up my emotions. I stared in horror at my only daughter lying on a blood-soaked leopard hide. The sangoma scrapped pounds of flesh and he grabbed a thorn to start sewing parts of Tariro’s womanhood for a quick recovery. The razor blade was partially blunt, and his bony fingers scurried in the dark for a knife. Flies buzzed around Tariro’s womanhood and kept on distracting the sangoma. My insolent husband seemed more content with the procedure, yet the sangoma was now dismayed. Why cling to an ancient tradition at the expense of your own daughter? Anxiety was killing me, wondering what it is like on the other side because there is nothing left for Tariro in this Motherland. Traditional cycles ought to be cut. My devil husband had made our only daughter a victim of the ancient primitive tradition. Why?
“Devil!” the sangoma cursed at his old dog as it licked the blood off the surgery kitchen knife. He threw the pounds of flesh scraped from Tariro’s womanhood to send off the dog. In the final touches, the kitchen knife dissected the womanhood. On this fateful night, Tariro was supposed to bear farewell to us in a way that would haunt everyone eternally, but she survived. Fate had almost answered my wishes of Tariro dying so that she rests in peace.
Whenever I opened my eyes, I saw my daughter’s broken dreams and shattered hopes. It was hard to live a life knowing that one day from here she would be changing an old man’s diapers and warming his cracked skin patch. Fast forward, Tariro was married off to an old man. Life had been throwing punches at my daughter. Her life was like an unbreakable cycle that repeated itself over and over. I was unfortunate to see it with my own two eyes when I visited my daughter. My two-week stay at my daughter’s house was hell on earth. Tariro’s home was a kickboxing arena. Like father, like son, my son-in-law was a treacherous devil.

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“These are just the aftermath of teen menace,” Tariro always said when l asked the reason behind her missing front two canines and a fragmented molar. The gaps in her mouth never hid the nightingale smile as her laughter boomed across the house. Luckily, the mask was ever present to refuge the goalposts in her mouth.
Out of the blue, the heavy footsteps opened a new chapter. With the official closing of beer halls, it was no surprise to see Tariro’s husband get drunk with tea. As soon as my son-in-law’s hefty body got in the picture, our mood changed like a chameleon’s colours. His tobacco-stained teeth made him look like a monster out of a horror movie. When he caught a glimpse of Tariro, his fists yearned for a punching bag.
“Why is my sadza not yet ready?” he asked looking for petty issues to evoke a fight.
Tariro’s tears scourged the pretty black skin. Her make-up the following day was intensive just to hide from the world a shame of a man she cared for. Was there another hell for my daughter in the afterlife since she already was in one? Like father, like son! My daughter and l shared the same fate. We were human punching bags. The broken nose and stuffy face showed the ugly woman Tariro had become. Her vintage teen photos showed she was once a lovely testimony to the infinite artistic capabilities of Mother Nature. Welcome to the life of my daughter, a sixteen-year-old who is bashed by a mad son-in-law. This is not a great environment for a pregnant Tariro. Her skeletal figure bulldozes a swollen belly, maybe carrying a triplet pregnancy. The devil of a man she was married to was not concerned about her health. He just saw a punching bag and a baby-making machine. Consequences of child marriage.
One time the doctors outlined the odds of Tariro waking up from a coma. She had been escaping the jaws of death after every head injury operation but this time, it would not be possible. My mad son-in-law was just waiting for my daughter to wake up and continue his fighting scheme. Was l wrong for congratulating Tariro for finally making it towards death? The world did not deserve her, and heaven was Tariro’s only chill spot. Please bear with me. As an old woman, l could not man up to the six feet old goliath who pounced on my lovely daughter. The only choice was to cower in the corner and sob mercilessly. Was there another hell for Tariro, my daughter, in the afterlife since she was already in one?
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I have reminisced through the memory lane remembering all the moments my daughter, Tariro had. I look at her corpse in the hospital mortuary and tears well up in my eyes. Out of the blue, Doctor Manyama hands me a tattered diary believed to be Tariro’s. It is the same diary I gave her as a gift a day before she was married off to the devil. Deadman tells no tales. Fortunately, Tariro’s diary lives to tell the tales of the Cyclone Idai horrors and the Higherlife Foundation men and women she kept murmuring about.

Sunday 24 March 2019
Do you see the twenty-metre-deep debris? The Higherlife Foundation rescue team retrieved me from underneath there. They found me on the brink of death. Twenty-four hours before this photo was taken we were a happy family of seven. A normal family with a red modern house made from farmhouse bricks. The rain came and everything became history. If only we knew this was our last supper.
We retired to sleep under the eyes of the angel of death, dark clouds. Little did l know it was the last time giving my five daughters sweet lullabies hearing their laughs boom across the house. The joy in our village would be robbed and with grief. In the middle of the night, ear-splitting lightning and screams awoke the village. The walls were shaking and swerving like a reed in a thunderstorm. Abruptly, the roof was hit by the cyclone. That is when the drama began. I still vividly see the gruesome death of my devil and daughters. The walls crushed on their minute figures. My devil husband died holding my petticoat tightly. Squash! A quick death, no groans or screams of pain. That was the last of them.
It was raining rock boulders. Rock boulders were tossed around. There was pandemonium everywhere. The water current was carrying cars, cattle and houses. I ran around madly looking for the remains of my daughters. Rock boulders landed on a helpless me. That was the last of me. I heard the shattering sound of bones in my legs as they were ground into dust by the boulders. Could l escape death by a whisker?
I remember waking up from a coma. It was my first time hearing the name, Higherlife Foundation. Around the camp, people were murmuring ‘Higherlife Foundation’. Their men and women in blue were clasping hands tightly, whispering prayers for the wounded and dead bodies on the ground. The traumatic memories of Cyclone Idai’s aftermath hovered over the camp.
We were forced to bury the dead in makeshift coffins. Some people never found their loved ones. Would their bones be recollected from the mixed debris in the mass graves? It was horrific. Human remains and cattle carcasses flowing in the current, rubble from smashed homes and stone boulders were a reminder. Water supplies and food were scarce. Out of the blue, Higherlife Foundation brought its calvary – trucks loaded with blankets, food and water supplies flooded the camp.
I remember the moment. The moment l caught a glimpse of the distant five corpses. Five dismantled torsos lay on the ground. I could recognise the tattered clothes my daughters wore from last night hanging onto the shattered bones. The men and women in blue comforted me. I had peace of mind; my family was going to get a proper burial from Higherlife. Higherlife Foundation, a stitch in time saved nine. A helicopter arrived in the nick of time and whisked us, the wounded, to the hospital. From the sky, what was once a massacre and death zone had been rekindled with hope. Bones were scattered and mixed up over mother earth. The men and women in blue scurried over the mountains and beneath the debris looking for survivors and retrieving our beloved remains.
By opening this diary, you opened fresh wounds. Wounds that will haunt and torment survivors. You will find them still living in makeshift poles and dagger shelters, even though Higherlife Foundation channeled funds towards Cyclone Idai victims. Whoever finds this, these are my last words. Thank Higherlife Foundation on my behalf. Thank Higherlife Foundation for the lives they saved and for trying their best to save my priceless life. Their relentless efforts saved multitudes. Higherlife Foundation, a philanthropic giving you made enabled me to achieve peace of mind on my deathbed.
Higherlife Foundation, you could not be here to see the smile they put on my butchered face, but they showed a different meaning of philanthropic giving. There is more to the money and donations. We will flourish in their love and compassion. They would sing lullabies for us in the makeshift tents, drying the tears off our cheeks. Feeding the infants who had been robbed of their mothers by the floods. If ever l die, my spirit will hover over the Higherlife Foundation men and women in blue.
Mom, if ever you read this, do know I have finally made it into a peaceful place. I cannot wait for you to join me. I cannot wait for the day you will be united with your five granddaughters. I will surely tell God to forgive my father and husband for they did not know what they were doing.
Diary by Tariro
Tariro’s last dying wish trembles in the core of my heart. In her last breaths, she remembers not the devil husband or female genital mutilation that pounced on her but love. A stitch in time saved nine. A small act of giving made a soul attain peace of mind as it breathed its last. She is one of the many victims who are grateful for the higher love from a Christian-based organisation in the midst of such horrors. Philanthropic giving, transforming lives.
Since that time the wise men of Africa have been blubbering that youth just like Tariro are the future of Africa. I have shown them the other side of the lives of the so-called “Future of Africa” that hinders their progress and positive impact. Wake up and smell the coffee. My daughter Tariro underwent female genital mutilation, butchered like a cow at an abattoir during the process. She was married off to the devil and bore him five daughters. Today she has finally rested in peace and lost everything in her life.
Tariro, is a tale of hope to the girl child.

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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

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: TOO MUCH TO HANDLE
Written by Busisiwe I. Ngwenya

Siba waited anxiously for his wife to finish the consultation with the doctor. He hadn’t joined them as he was scared that the news might be devastating. She had been throwing up for days and couldn’t handle anything, even liquids. He had insisted this morning that they visit the doctor as she hunched over the bathroom basin.
He relaxed at her almost celebratory tone as she came out and was even more relieved by her elated face.
“Do you want to break the news?” the doctor queried.
Lindi shook her head and dragged Siba out of the doctor’s room.
“Bye, doctor Mosse. See you next month as discussed.”
“Bye, Lindi and Siba.”
Lindi headed to the car with Siba following, still lost and wishing someone could shed the light. This morning his wife was knocking on heaven’s stairway and now was bouncing around as if she hadn’t scared him. He opened the door for her before jumping in on the driver’s side. She just sat there and commented about the weather and everything else except the burning issue at hand.
“What’s the diagnosis?” he asked, unable to wait any longer.
“I will tell you at home.”
The matter was closed, just like that. He could tell by her set jaw, so he followed her lead and drove on.
“Shall we pass by the shops please?”
“Why? We bought groceries just last Saturday.” Times were tough what with rising petrol, food, and electricity costs. They couldn’t afford unnecessary spending.
“Dietary changes as per doctor’s orders…”
“You must be seriously sick then. Why weren’t you referred to the hospital?” Anxiety was chortling him like rags in a tumble dry.
“I don’t require hospitalisation. You can park right here. I will be back shortly.”
Siba was lost and wishing he could figure things out on his own but failing. It certainly couldn’t be the big C or pregnancy as chances of that happening were zero. He just had to hang tight until Lindi was ready to talk.
She came back with one plastic bag, which was surprising as she was a known shopper.
“That was quick.”
“Yeah, I didn’t need a lot. We can go now.”
They spent the rest of the journey on trivia with Lindi avoiding the burning incense in the car.
“Do you want coffee?” Siba was shocked by the delaying tactics.
“Later. What did the doctor say?”
“It was good news. Congratulations, sweetheart. You are going to be a daddy.”
Siba was horrified and couldn’t hide it. He shivered in broad, sunny daylight and had to muster everything in his being to contain the brewing anger. The overriding emotion was of hurt made worse by the casual and happiness-driven announcement, as if the news was worth celebrating. He was sweating and needed to sit down.
“Run that by me again, Lindi. You are what?”
“Pregnant. Imagine our first child after eight years of marriage. I know we both said we didn’t want babies, but I cannot help being overjoyed by the unexpected news.” She beamed as she cuddled on Siba’s lap, oblivious to the gathered clouds.
He slowly pushed her away and went to grab bottled water from the fridge. He needed to marshal his thoughts and calm his rage, which might lead to silly mistakes being committed. He didn’t want to be made someone’s hussy yet even though prison was calling his name at that moment.
“So, tell me dear. Who is the baby’s father?”
Lindi was shocked to silence and sat frozen on the couch like a wet chicken.
“I am waiting,” he prompted for a response as he wanted the matter out in the open and to know which person to kill before dumping her for making a mockery of their marriage.
“What do you mean, Siba?” she stammered with dismay. “The baby is yours.” She was lying with conviction and innocence worthy of an award.
“It is not possible, dear. I had a vasectomy many moons ago…” Siba watched as blood left Lindi’s face.
“That can’t be; there must be an explanation,” she stated eventually.
“Nope. So, I couldn’t have impregnated you.”
“And you didn’t tell me about the vasectomy before, why?” she asked, recovering somewhat.
“I didn’t see a need as we both didn’t want babies.”
“You lied to me…”
“No, I omitted to tell you about that aspect of my life which is not the same as you sleeping around…”
“I didn’t sleep around! I am carrying our child.”
“Stop lying!” he roared, enraged by her denials.
He took the car keys, stormed out of the house and drove off as he needed to calm down before he throttled her. He still needed the name of the scoundrel who had touched his wife and soiled their marriage. He couldn’t stay committed to her or their marriage after this. The betrayal cut so deep he was barely able to hold it together. He parked on the side road as the boiling anger escalated to road rage.
South Africans could drive a sane person mad with their atrocious driving and worst was the number of drivers with bought licenses on the road, who had no clue about driving and road signs. Sighing deeply, he turned the car around and went back home. He needed answers and wanted them now. At least he was somewhat calmer now.
“You came back?”
He observed her staring at him with those oval eyes shining with shed tears. He needed to calm down and not distress her, which might result in premature birth or a miscarriage.
“Look, I am sorry for not coming clean about the vasectomy. I will stand by you until the baby is born. We can then do DNA testing to determine its parental lineage.”
“What? You don’t believe that I have never cheated on you?”
Huh, Siba was lost for words. There might be a scientific reason behind the pregnancy, which is why he was open to exploring that possibility.
“I would like to believe you. You have never given me a reason to doubt you, until now. So, I will wait it out until the baby’s arrival…”
“No!”
Siba stared at her amazed.
“I would rather we do pre-natal DNA testing now…”
Oh, that was unexpected.
“Is that safe for the baby?” he asked, unsure about the rush. He was mad at her but didn’t want any calamities to befall the baby. He still loved her very much despite the blot hanging over their heads.
“Yes, technology has made many things possible. I just want to prove that this is our baby. I don’t want us having this cloud hanging over us and for our baby to be born to bitter and angry parents.”
Siba nodded. The sooner the matter was dealt with, the better and they could move on with their lives again.
An appointment was set up with a selected Clicks Clinic for DNA sample collection to be conducted. They spent the next five days walking on eggshells, knowing that the results could either break or strengthen their marriage. Siba tried to convince himself that the vasectomy might have somehow reversed itself, which was highly unlikely, but as you know miracles do happen, although common sense dictated otherwise.
The results were finally in, which ruled him out as a father. To say Lindi was devastated was an understatement, and she kept repeating that “it is not true” and wanted to do another test “at a reputable facility this time”. But Siba shot her down. He requested that they wait for the baby’s arrival as he felt that it was too soon to put themselves through that process again.
He stuck around and supported his wife the best he could, even though he could no longer touch or look at her beyond the neck. The swelling tummy was a grim reminder of Lindi’s infidelity and dishonour to their marriage. He bailed out within a year of the baby’s birth when three more DNA tests came back negative. He moved into a nearby townhouse complex as he still wanted to support her during the early years of childbirth. However, the marriage was doomed and the writing on the wall was clear as water that they were headed towards a divorce. Lindi’s repeated infidelity denials were jarring on the nerves and his only wish was that she could tell the truth and release them both from the lies.
“That’s it. I am all packed and ready to go. You know how to reach me should you need anything.”
He had hugged her goodbye but couldn’t bring himself to look at the baby. The strangest thing about the situation was that everybody, including his mom, were so convinced that Rowan was his son. They kept stressing how alike they were and couldn’t comprehend what had happened between them to result in the separation, and he couldn’t find it within him to betray her.
“I know we have been over this so many times Siba, but the baby is yours. The scientific results are incorrect; that’s my truth.”
“Lindi please, we have been over this so many times…”
“I know, but I don’t want this misrepresentation of facts over my head. I know the truth and hopefully one day I will be absolved so that my child would have his father fully in his life.” She bade him farewell and went back to the house to tend to the crying baby. Siba was torn between science and his wife. However, he couldn’t look past the fact that she played him.
He consulted with his doctor to determine whether the vasectomy might have reversed and found that everything was still intact. He went and sourced two more opinions just to be sure, which came back with similar results, sealing the matter closed.
“What’s happening between you and Lindi? She tells me that you are headed for a divorce and that she is emigrating to Iceland.” Trust his mom to meddle in his affairs.
“Yes, I’m divorcing her,” he replied resignedly whilst shocked by the emigration news.
“Why?”
“The baby is not mine…”
“Are you mad? Lindi would never cheat on you! That’s your child.”
“But the DNA results show that…”
“Do another one.”
“But Ma…”
“Please son. I can give you a good referral,” she said pleadingly.
“Okay,” Siba agreed, exhausted with arguing.
He never bothered because he was tired. Lindi packed and left after the divorce.
Life moved on until one day when he received a frantic call from the doctor.
“Siba, I have been trying to get hold of Lindi…”
“She left and lives in Iceland now.”
“Oh, do you perhaps have a number for her?”
“Yes, I will send it through.”
“Thank you. Can you come through now please?”
“I’m kinda busy. Can’t we do this over the phone?”
“No, this needs a face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
Siba went through.
“Please sit. I don’t know how to break the news to you,” said the doctor, avoiding eye contact. “Your case has bothered me so much that when I heard of new technological advancements in DNA testing, I re-submitted your leftover samples.”
It turned out that Siba was a chimera who had eaten his twin in utero, resulting in him absorbing its DNA. Siba was stunned. The news sounded like a badly written Hollywood script.
“What does this all mean? I am lost.”
“The baby is not yours. You are its uncle.”
Wild. Siba was shaken and almost keeled over his chair as the doctor clarified further. How was he going to face Lindi? He had to make amends. He placed that remorseful call to a hostile Lindi who was shocked but elated.
“Whoa! Are you telling me that you ate your twin in the womb only to ejaculate it years later?” she asked, laughing and crying with amazement. “Bizarre.”
“That’s what science says. I’m still in shock.”
“What a relief to be finally exonerated. I can walk with my head held high again. Thank you for this, Siba. Bye…”
“Wait! We need to meet.”
“Why?”
“The baby…”
“He is not yours and never was. You were just a conduit. Bye Siba,” she said, leaving him floundering.

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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

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE GREATEST LIFE LESSON
Written by Yandisa Krobani

Grandpa is an avid admirer of nature. Whilst neighbours are competing over who has the prettiest and smartest pavement on their yards, he has decorated his with various flowers. When entering his gate, one is greeted by the fragrance of sweet-smelling flowers surrounding the grass where the path for people and cars is. The whole yard is a marvel to behold and a genuine representation of a small paradise.
“Do things differently and you will see the results differently.”
It sounds clichéd but this is what he usually says to me whenever I ask him why he cannot just put pavement on his yard like most residents. But an exquisite yard is not the only thing Grandpa is known for in the neighbourhood of Campsight. Not far from his house which Grandma, with the assistance of Veronica, has turned into a home, he has a small garden. In it he plants mostly vegetables such as carrots, spinach, and cabbage. He also plants legumes such as peas, fruits such as tomatoes, and lastly carbohydrates such as potatoes. When his produces are ripe and suitable to be cooked for human consumption, he gives them to the maid Veronica, which he instructed me to call a helper rather than a maid.
“But Grandpa, why trouble yourself when you can buy these foods in various supermarkets?” I asked him.
“Linda, apart from being healthier, these produces save us a lot of money. And working in the garden keeps me fit. It is my method of exercising,” he replied.
When there is a surplus of the harvest, Grandpa gives it wholeheartedly to the community soup kitchen. This kind gesture has made him a popular old man in the neighbourhood of Campsight.
It was the holidays and, as usual; I visited my grandparents. Early in the morning I heard a knock at the door of my room and it was none other than Grandpa.
“Prepare yourself; we are going to town today,” he said, closing the door behind him.
It was no surprise really. Whenever he woke me up in the morning, I knew what it meant. We would go to town by a minibus taxi. It was a habit for him to wake up early in the morning when his car will not be in use.
“Grandpa, where is your car?”
I deliberately asked him the question to which I already knew the answer. He laughed calmly before answering. My unnecessary questions always amused him.
“It is in the garage.”
“Is it broken, or has it run out of fuel?”
“Neither. It is alright. I am just saving fuel and minimising the intensity of global warming. And, Linda, do you know we are exercising as we are walking this short distance?”
I nodded in agreement. Grandpa has a mannerism of turning everything into a lesson. His intellectual, learned responses silence me.
As we were on our way to the taxi rank, to my annoyance, he greeted everyone we came across. This is another reason I despised walking alongside him when I had to go someplace.
“Be weary of indifference towards your neighbours, Linda. They are the first people whose help you need when faced with danger.”
At a distance, I saw Father Khuzwayo in his pyjamas leaning on his front gate and looking outside the street. He was sipping tea as usual. I became reluctant for this meant it would take forever to arrive at the taxi rank. Father Khuzwayo is one of the closest friends of Grandpa and they will talk politics, the weather, and the indolent youth of today in their lengthy conversations. And they will be laughing warmly to jests only themselves can understand as adults.
At last, we arrived at the taxi rank. There were different kinds of activities happening, and everybody seemed occupied with something. There were the women seated next to their fruit and vegetable stalls, and some with buckets full of vetkoeks and muffins for the convenience of passengers who had had not time to breakfast at their places. There were men with crates in front of them laden with ten rands pirated DVDs. Energetic young men, shouting at the top of their voices, moved from one minibus to the next selling goods through the windows. Grandpa and I progressed towards the side where minibus taxis going to town were lined up. And alas, the line with other passengers seemed as long as the one during the first democratic election in South Africa in 1994 which Grandpa frequently talked about! My indignation exacerbated on witnessing that the line progressed slowly. And this was because the minibus taxis rotated that whilst others were going to town, others were returning to fetch the other passengers left behind. I shrugged, exasperated. Grandpa saw this and was quick to comment as usual.
“Patience, Linda. Patience. Make it one of your principles. Impatience is the reason most people are rotting in jail and others paralysed whilst breathing their last breaths on deathbeds.”
I nodded, once again appreciating the lesson that Grandpa was giving me.
Finally, our turn to board arrived after many tedious minutes of waiting. I boarded next to the driver whilst he joined the other passengers. Whenever I travelled to town on a minibus taxi with him sitting next to the driver was a duty he had assigned to me. As uncomfortable and overwhelming as it was, I obeyed this order. And to make matters worse, mathematics is my least favourite subject. I despise everything that has to do with numbers as a result. And it is a custom that whoever sits next to the driver counts the money paid by passengers and gives back change when needed.
“Linda, you must learn to place yourself in uncomfortable situations. You will think critically and be responsible from an early age.”
We travelled around town purchasing tools needed for gardening to replace the old and dilapidated ones, and some items such as a wool which Grandma needed for her knitting.
“Can you see how populated this town is, Linda?”
Oops… here comes another lesson!
“Yes, Grandpa,” I replied.
“Well, you will not believe me when I say a quarter of these people are here to buy things they do not need. Believe me, others could have planted at the comfort of their own homes. Needs and wants, Linda. Know the difference between them. The world would be a wonderful place if people stopped wasting resources buying stuff they do not need.”
Our next stop was the Chicken Lady where mouth-watering fried chicken and chips are sold. Their prices are affordable. I ordered two pieces of chicken, a mini loaf of bread and an orange juice. Grandpa ordered the same. We sat at a table as I indulged on the food. He did not touch his. “Needs and wants, Linda.” I recalled his words. And then it dawned on me that my dear grandpa had ordered his food so as to not make me feel bad. It was just junk food for him, and junk food was not a need. I finished mine and he asked for a take-away for his as we rose to go.
Just outside Chicken Lady, a hobo tried snatching the takeaway from him, but its contents merely fell. The hobo picked up the fried chicken, the bread and the chips hastily before running away. Grandpa picked up the juice and chased him. I rushed behind them flushed with humiliation. I cast a why-cannot-you-just-let-him-be look at Grandpa. He did not want to eat the food anyway.
“Do not worry, Linda. I just want to teach him a lesson he will never forget,” he responded as though he read what was on my mind. But I still did not understand his ‘wanting to teach a lesson’ to a hobo over mere fried chicken, bread, and chips. Grandpa can buy that any time but not the same can be said about a homeless person trying to have something inside his stomach to survive, although this was not the best of ways to do it.
The hobo was hell-bent on getting away and Grandpa showed no signs of quitting the chase either. So there I was, watched by the entire town as I ran behind them. There were many curious eyes watching us. Others were dying with laughter and looked puzzled as to how the old man had the strength to run so vigorously.
Nobody seemed willing to help him catch the hobo. Some feared the hobo might be dangerous but Grandpa taught me to never make assumptions about people based on their appearances. To use a cliché, he taught me to never judge a book by its cover. This had transpired after I had related a story to him of how, on seeing a dirty vagabond coming my way, I had changed direction. But on seeing how hurt and humiliated the vagabond seemed to be by my gesture, I felt bad. I had assumed he might rob or hit me based on his ‘unpleasant’ appearance, and the fact that he was homeless.
The chase was taking forever and the laughter by the spectators became louder, to my vexation. My chest was burning from the ceaseless running. But then something happened. Out of nowhere, a young man caught the hobo.
“You, rude boy! What have you done to the old man?” the young man asked of the hobo, enraged. Grandpa and I came towards them. The young man almost punched the hobo when Grandpa asked him to stop.
“Do not do that. I want to teach him a lesson he will never forget his whole life. But I want to do it my own way.”
A crowd immediately assembled in anticipation of ‘the lesson’ to be taught. The hobo trembled from fear. We all watched with zeal and curiosity, ready to witness the kind of lesson the hobo will be taught. But to our disappointment, Grandpa merely gave the hobo the juice on top of the chicken, the bread and chips he had snatched and only told him to ask the next time. People went about their businesses, disappointed. They had assumed the lesson would involve a beating. As we walked back to the minibus taxis, Grandpa explained the lesson to me.
“Linda, sometimes people do things they are not proud of because of their situations. The hobo knew it was wrong of him to snatch the food from me, but he was desperate. And it is not because I am making an excuse for his action though. We ought to show people kindness instead of judging them. If all people in this world were kind, the hobo would not have snatched the food from me. He would have asked politely knowing if he could not get it from me, he would get it from someone else.”
Out of all his lessons, this one about the hobo is the most eye-opening and amazing lesson Grandpa has ever taught me. It is my greatest life lesson.

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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

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: “GRAVES ARE IMPERMANENT…”
Written by Kaluwe Haangala

The young man entered the dark hut crawling on all fours. He sat down as the old man looked at him squarely in the face. He didn’t dare explain why he hadn’t come earlier because rumour had it that the man knew everything. Another rumour he hadn’t quite garnered the strength to verify was whether the old man truly was blind because as innocuous as the movements he made, the man’s eyes seemed to track him.
In the blink of an eye, a blue flame sparked up the room. He flinched as though this ritual was new to him, yet he had witnessed this several times before. The old man even knew that this visit always signaled some call to action regarding a son of the village. When the flame subsided, he knew it was time to speak. He cleared his throat quietly.
“Wasamunu ulu siyile (Wasamunu is dead).”
“Naziba, hape yamubulayile nimuboni (I know, and I have seen who killed him).”
An LED-like screen materialised in the middle of the flame, which eerily and creepily wasn’t heating up the room like a normal fire should have been. It showed a beautiful woman sitting in a car, watching a funeral.
“Cwale lukaeza cwani? (What are we going to do?)” asked the young man, fearful of watching things happen.
“Namutisa kwahae onafa (I’m bringing him home in a moment).”
The screen vanished and just then, the blue flame plumed into dark smoke, that despite filling the room, was odourless and didn’t choke them. The young man took this as a cue to leave, before getting on his knees to crawl out of the dark room backwards (you didn’t dare stand up in front of the old man). He clapped hands in the way it was customary for only men of the land to do. He then said he had brought the white goats and white chickens as required.
“Kihande. Kufelile? (It is well. Is that all?)”
“Niya kwakuyo lukisa ze siyezi (I’m heading to finish off the rest of it).”
He clapped his hands again and crawled out. When outside, the men accompanying him stood still, bowed and clapped their hands before all retreated out of the old man’s compound. Once outside the wall surrounding it, they entered into the luxurious Range Rover that would take them back to the palace. He took out his phone and initiated a mobile money transfer to the old man’s grandson who was at a university in the city…

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Far off to the east at a private cemetery in the same city, Namariah sat in a car some distance away from the throngs of mourners. She felt a twinge of guilt being at Wasamunu’s funeral. She actually liked him, and unlike most of her ‘assignments’, this was the most deadly: killing a man for what he knew. The dossier she had received, read like some espionage type masterpiece. The more she read, the more she begun to question her own sanity.
Wasamunu was a lawyer on his way to the very top. Stellar grades, blooming win rate and of course, a burgeoning career in politics. The call from her ‘handler’ would begin his impending ecclesiastical end. She had looked at a picture of him, rather innocent looking, but with a wry twisted smirk that was quite telling. Initially, she believed him to be guilty, but in this age of misinformation, just a pinch of suspicion sufficed. She read that he stood accused of taking an under the table payment and leaked some information. The redacted document enclosed just mentioned an operation called “THE ZERO OPTION PLAN”. He had opened his mouth about something he ought not to. She had the task of closing it – permanently. What he had seemingly leaked would remain a mystery to her. She always cross checked both sides of the story. This time, however, she had been told exactly what to do and what not to look into. She knew better than to start asking questions she wasn’t getting paid enough to die for, hence, she did her job. Getting close to him had been easy, killing him by spiking his drink with undetectable poison, more so.
As she watched, a niggling feeling kept sweeping over her. She recognised most of the people she saw in her scope from what she thought was a hidden vantage point. Unbeknownst to her, there was a couple of binoculars trained on her as she sat in the car. They too were checking proceedings with a keen eye. She looked at Wasamunu’s young wife and children in the gazebo by the side of the grave listening to the preacher, rehashing the time-tested speech about God taking the best flowers for himself into the heavens. She damn near shed a tear because it was the first time her assignment had taken as much a toll on her emotionally. Of course, physical intimacy never bothered her but like they say, taking a man’s life can change you.
Just then, she thought she heard an eerie, hissing sound. On looking up, she saw the people near the grave start to move back and scamper! From inside the grave arose the mother of all whirlwinds! It swirled and blew the immediate surrounds of the grave asunder, roused up into the sky, all the while punctuated by screams as though the biblical apocalypse had come to Earth. Violently, the wind started moving slowly, then swiftly westwards, wrecking havoc and destruction in its wake. As suddenly as it had started, a strange calm returned as though nothing had happened. She spotted the men watching her and drove off. What she didn’t know was that the unnatural wind had taken Wasamunu’s lifeless body out the grave, back ‘home’. She also didn’t know that her retribution was nigh…
It was just another Tuesday, another assignment, client meeting to be precise. She punched the throttle of her Misano Blue Peugeot convertible onto the main road after making sure the coast was clear. Sunday just before midday meant traffic was light and she shifted through the cogs in a way a rally fan would have been proud of. She crested up a hill and a fly over bridge loomed large onto her screen. In seconds, she had crested and ascended the slope, caressing her foot on the brakes as her cruise control hit the 140 km/h she had set it at.
“Waterfalls Mall in 10 minutes max,” she said to herself.
She had always been a goal getter from childhood and when it seemed as though all would be naught, an opportunity too great to miss laid itself afore, and into her now fat bank account. Someone had told her the combination of beauty and brains she possessed would open any doors, including gold plated ones. Her PR degree then became not only her backup but the raisin d’être for the jobs she accepted: infiltrate groupings and clubs of influential people, gain the trust of a specific target, leech them of information. It paid really well, and certain times, her commitment and work ethic meant she needed to scale some jobs back to do the perfect job. Today’s assignment was one of those that would pay her rent for the next year if she did it right. Wasamunu’s death bothered a little less as she was prepping for this meet and greet gig.
Had she been glancing in her rearview mirror the recommended once in 18 seconds, she would have noticed by the time she was getting to next roundabout that the black late model Lexus LX570 had been tailing her and what seemed like a trailing in her wake, was actually a great attempt at not arousing her suspicions.
As she cruised past the Natural Resources Development College and was readying to floor it as soon as the nondecrepit smoke bellowing Toyota in front took the next exit, her phone cut through her music jam session.
“Hello darling,” she cooed not unlike a crooner.
“Hey Baby, don’t come straight to the mall; pass through Palm Drive to pick me up, okay?”
“No problem Hun. Can’t wait to see you.”
As the music started back up, she signaled to get into the outer lane. The left she would take at the massive water tank loomed; the Lexus zipped past at a speed that made her curse loudly at it…
Behind the darkened windows of the Big SUV, an operative of the secret government wing, The Government Complex, relayed that the target was turning left into Palm Drive. He was asked to reconfirm whether the target had so much as had the inkling that she was not talking to the lover that she was due to meet in a few minutes. The operative rudely responded that he knew his job better than anyone else.
On being reminded of the hierachy, he simply said: “We spoofed his line and so she thought he was calling. We also used a voice synthesiser that exactly replicated his voice.”
“Good work, Dragon 1. Make sure you confirm the accident with me.”

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Banda had had a truly wild night. The pounding in his head would herald the mother of all hangovers and he would have none of it. The music that had called out to him the previous day was already blaring. Its call was one he headed because according to him, his demons slept better that way. Having done what he considered enough of a balancing drunk act of having enough not to get drunker and just enough so he would not suffer a hangover, he walked the short distance home. At the main road, Palm Drive, he turned right and he hummed along to his heart’s content. It was a quiet day and what seemed to cut through that was just bird song.
He saw it immediately after he heard it, the unmistakable sound of a car that had inadvertently cruised over a hump at high speed.
“Women,” he muttered to no one in particular. The screeching and bungling he heard next, was of the most horrific accident he’d ever witnessed. It sobered him up instantly.

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Namariah cursed as she struggled to bring the car under control, but it was too late! She veered left, and right, and noticing that she couldn’t possibly control it, she just let go of the steering wheel, held her head with both hands and screamed! She felt herself get flung through the air and she opened her eyes in horror!
Before everything went black, she thought she saw the Black SUV that had zipped past her…

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Banda could not decide which state of inebriation or mental wildness was affecting him at that moment – delirium, hallucination or just downright madness.
The blue Peugeot zigzagged the entire breadth of the road, the drains and the greenery outlying the palatial homes. He could hear the lady occupant of the car screaming, chorused by the revving sounds of the engine on full song. As the car swayed for the third time, it heaved up into the air.
What he saw next sobered him up, verily. Had there been only he on the street, he would for a second have told himself he was seeing visions, of the biblical kind. As the car nosed high up, the car’s occupant seemed to have been flung from her seat, the car came crashing into the drain, flipped over about twice, all the while creating crashing, rending noises of breaking glass and bending metal, loud sounds reminiscent of a horror crash in a movie scene.
Amidst all the crashing noises that’d wake the street, what looked like a creature out of Jurassic Park looped swiftly into view just about the moment the lady was being flung out of the car. It deftly plucked her up with the grace of a fish eagle and promptly vanished, westwards.

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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

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE FRUITS OF UNGRATEFULNESS
Written by Isaac Tlaka

“Two rand scone! One rand fat cake! Two rand scone! One rand fat cake!”
That’s the shouting everyone who frequented Jane Furse Taxi Rank was familiar with; the shouting from the hawker as he tirelessly advertised his products to taxi drivers and commuters.
Bohlale started that business five months after his parents were laid to rest. His parents died from a lightning strike while they were collecting firewood in the nearby bushes. They had seen a heavy rain developing, but they took it lightly, thinking that by the time it started raining, they would already have left the bushes and taken shelter in their house. Unfortunately, that developing heavy rain sent a lightning that claimed their lives on the spot.
The fact that Bohlale had lost those whom he depended on compelled him to drop out of Grade 11 with the intention of starting something out of which he could make a living. That was the decision to which he had come after he had declined to be fostered by some of his relatives. What he wanted was to fend for himself. Because his parents never had a stable income, there was no money they had left him with when they departed this earth. The only thing he had inherited from them was a modest four-roomed house for which he was grateful.
‘At least, my parents have left me with a house in which I can take shelter. This is way better than nothing,’ he would console himself.
To survive, he did odd jobs in his village, odd jobs that included cleaning yards and making bricks. Those odd jobs gave birth to his business, which was in its fifth year of operation when he met Precious, a young lady who one day approached him as a customer. Just like Bohlale, Precious hailed from a disadvantaged background. Out of all young ladies who had been approaching Bohlale as customers, Precious remained the only young lady in whom Bohlale had taken interest.
At first, Precious played hard to get, which was something Bohlale had taken notice of. So no wonder he didn’t give up; he rather remained patient until the right time for Precious to let him in came, and their relationship didn’t take long to blossom.
Later that same year in which they became lovers, on a Sunday when Precious paid Bohlale a visit, she asked him if he was serious about what he had said to her two days earlier when they spoke on the phone.
“I was dead serious, my queen. I want to make you my official wife. I can start by paying lobola before the end of this year, and then as time progress, we can arrange a wedding. A white wedding,” Bohlale’s reply was sincere.
“Don’t you think it’s too quick, my love? I mean, we are still young and don’t wholly know each other that well to can get married. So I suggest we take one step at a time. Plus, I’m eager to study radiography. Although my parents don’t have money to secure me an opportunity to study that course, I’m optimistic that one day things will go well.”
For a moment, Bohlale looked down, his forehead thrust in his left palm. He was probably giving a careful thought to what Precious had just said to him. He raised his head and looked into Precious’ face.
“How much does that course require? Perhaps I can contribute.” As someone who trusted his pockets, Bohlale was quite sure he could contribute to what Precious was eager to study. The business he had been running for five years now might seem modest, but it generated a handsome profit for him, thanks to his frugality.
“Really?” Precious couldn’t believe her ears.
“My queen, I really don’t mind sacrificing the little that I have to make you happy.”
Precious grinned with pleasure and, without hesitation, mentioned the overall amount required for a four-year, full-time radiography course she was eager to study. Not shaken by the overall amount Precious had just mentioned, Bohlale asked if that amount covered registration fee.
“No, registration fee is three thousand rand.”
Holding his chin, Bohlale nodded continuously as if thinking. He then said, “Okay, I will make sure next year you study that course, my queen.”
“Thank you, my love,” said Precious, giving Bohlale a tight hug.
“I just want to do what’s best for you,” whispered Bohlale while they were still hugging.
The next day, Bohlale visited his friend Moeletši, and told him about the decision he had taken, which was the decision of assisting Precious financially so that she could go to university. Moeletši frowned and asked Bohlale if he was still in his senses.
“What do you mean?” said Bohlale blankly.
“Bro, do you think that girlfriend of yours will acknowledge you as soon as she acquires a graduate job? Don’t you think she will grow wings and fly away?” Bohlale didn’t say anything. He just shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Moeletši’. “Mark my words: as soon as she has acquired a graduate job, she won’t stick with a hawker that assisted her financially so that she could go to university. She will go for her class,” Moeletši assured Bohlale.
“No, not my Precious,” said Bohlale defensively, the pace of his headshake increasing.
“Bro, can’t you see what’s happening under the sun today? People get disappointed by those in whom they put their trust. These days, putting trust in human beings is equivalent to standing relaxed against a wooden pole which has been damaged by termites.”
“Is there any problem when I make the one I love happy, bro?” asked Bohlale, ignoring Moeletši’s philosophy. “I mean, Precious is from a disadvantaged background. So as her boyfriend, I don’t find anything wrong in taking the responsibility to help her further her studies. That’s why I decided to sacrifice the little that I have to make her dream come true.”
Smirking, Moeletši said, “Believe it or not, the sacrifice you are about to make is equivalent to digging your own grave.”
Without saying anything in response, Bohlale rose from the couch and walked out of Moeletši’s house. At that moment, he considered Moeletši a jealous friend, and that was the end of their friendship.
While Bohlale embraced his business which had developed to the extent that he even managed to build an attractive stall at Jane Furse Taxi Rank, Precious made sure she didn’t waste each year of her studies.
At twenty-five, Precious completed the radiography course. It didn’t take her long to find a job at the nearby hospital, and that was when her relationship with Bohlale began to disintegrate. Perhaps that was the manifestation of what Moeleši had said to Bohlale six years earlier pertaining to what Precious would do to him as soon as she had acquired a graduate job, as she seemed to be apathetic in her relationship with Bohlale. Such situation subjected Bohlale to anxiety that he even lost focus on his business.
There was a day when Bohlale visited Precious at her home and confronted her in front of her parents, saying ever since she found a job, she no longer gave him attention.
“Now you overlook me as though I’m not the one who paid for your university studies,” he further said.
But Precious defended herself by saying something her parents corroborated: “You are just overreacting. Nothing has changed with me.”
Shaking his head, Bohlale left Precious’ home without saying goodbye.
It was Sunday at 11: 25a.m which marked two days after Bohlale confronted Precious when he went to Jane Furse Shopping Centre to clear his head, as Precious was not on speaking terms with him. As soon as he came out of the bottle store, where he had bought himself a quart of beer, he saw Precious sitting next to a certain guy in the front seat of a car, which was parked in front of a restaurant. Wondering what Precious was doing in that car, Bohlale approached it, stood at the passenger side and waved his hand to Precious in a gesture of greeting. Precious rolled down the car window and flashed a smile before she said, “Hi,” to Bohlale, in a less energetic voice.
“What are you doing in this car? Who is this guy?” asked Bohlale sharply.
Preserving her smile, Precious rested her hand on the guy’s shoulder and easily said, “Oh, this is Paul.”
Paul was a mining surveyor who had fallen for Precious when he was accompanying his mother to collect her high-blood pressure medications at Precious’ workplace. Courageously, he had expressed his feelings towards Precious, who had found it hard to resist his handsomeness, and quickly responded to him by saying the feeling was mutual. What Bohlale was witnessing at that moment of his bewilderment had been happening for months without his knowledge. All along Precious had been uncomfortable to say it to Bohlale’s face that she had found a replacement for him. But this time it seemed she had gathered enough courage to do that.
“Let him introduce himself to you,” added Precious, removing her hand from Paul’s shoulder.
Paul stepped out of the car, walked over to Bohlale and extended his hand towards him, “I’m Paul, bro.”
“What is my girlfriend is doing in your car?” asked Bohlale gravely, ignoring Paul’s hand.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Bohlale looked at Precious, who didn’t hesitate to say, “That’s the guy I prefer to spend the rest of my life with, Bohlale.”
“What?” Bohlale exclaimed with his heartbeat skipping.
“You heard me.”
“Say you are joking, Precious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” said Precious, giving Bohlale a serious look.
“Is that what you decide to do to me after what I have done for you, Precious? Is that your way of thanking me for paying for your university stu-”
Cutting Bohlale off, Paul said, “Eh, chief, Precious and I have some important things to discuss. So, please leave us in peace.”
“Bro, where were you when I sacrificed my hard-earned money to pay for this lady’s university studies?” Bohlale asked, pointing his index finger at Precious.
“Were you doing that to control her life, bro?” asked Paul with a smirk.
Pause.
Paul, turned his head, looked at Precious and asked, “Sweetheart, did you point a gun at this guy and forced him to pay for your university studies?”
Precious shook her head without saying anything.
Paul looked at Bohlale, shrugged and said, “You see? Bro, in life you have to accept a loss and move on.”
This pressed Bohlale’s anger buttons that he quickly put his quart of beer down and attempted to punch Paul across his face. Not shaken, Paul held Bohlale’s hand tightly.
“Look, chief, you don’t have to be a sore loser. Precious is not in love with you anymore. So accept that and move on,” that’s what Paul said to Bohlale before he shoved him. Bohlale just stood there, looking sternly at Paul who entered his car and drove off with Precious.
That night Bohlale suffered insomnia, haunted by memories of what Moeletši once said to him pertaining to the outcome of paying for Precious’ university studies: “Bro, do you think that girlfriend of yours will acknowledge you as soon as she acquires a graduate job? Don’t you think she will grow wings and fly away? Mark my words: as soon as she has acquired a graduate job, she won’t stick with a hawker that assisted her financially so that she could go to university. She will go for her class.”
Shaking his head, Bohlale got out of bed, switched the light on and looked at the wall clock, which struck 1:45 a.m. He knew it was still early for Jane Furse streets to sleep. He knew Jane Furse streets were nothing but bases of various criminal activities. So he quickly got dressed and fed his hip pocket with some bank notes. He hit the streets, hoping to acquire something he considered a carrier of the fruits he was willing to serve Precious. He knew which side of Jane Furse streets he should head to so that he could acquire what he needed at that moment, and his attempt was successful.
He didn’t go back home, but rather killed time by chilling out at a tavern called TWENTY FOUR SEVEN, taking care of his two quarts of beer. At a crack of dawn, he left that tavern, tipsy and tired. He caught a taxi to Precious’ village, which is known as Mochadi.
Precious was getting ready to go to work when she heard a sharp knock at the sitting room door. Attending to the knocker, she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Bohlale!” she said, gaping at her ex-boyfriend, who was completely a broken man at that moment. “What are you doing here?”
Bohlale burped heavily and said, “I have come to serve you the fruits of your ungratefulness.”
“I don’t get you,” said Precious, perplexed.
“Yes, you don’t get me,” Bohlale said, nodding lazily. He then pulled a gun on Precious and added, “But this is what you are going to get.”
“Please, don’t do that, Bohlale. I’m begging you,” Precious entreated with her hands up. But that didn’t help, as Bohlale shot her twice. She fell on the veranda and succumbed to two gunshot wounds to the head and chest.
Precious’s parents, who had been dragged out of their bed by the two gunshot sounds they had heard outside, rushed out of the house and became incredulous at the sight of their daughter. She was lying on the veranda, blood seeping out of her head and chest. In unison, they looked at the murderer, who was at that moment standing near the body of their daughter with a gun in his hand. Showing no regret for what he had done, the murderer pointed a gun at Precious’ parents, retrograded and climbed down the veranda. He turned the gun on himself, fell to the ground and succumbed to a gunshot wound to the head.

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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

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THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: SHADOWS OF ENVY
Written by Elsa Khoza

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows over the dilapidated streets of Germiston City. The town’s forgotten buildings stood like specters, their windows shattered and doors unhinged, as if weary from the weight of time.
Zodwa, a woman of relentless curiosity and unwavering empathy, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Germiston City with a sense of purpose. Her vibrant auburn hair cascaded in waves around her face, framing eyes that held a captivating mix of determination and compassion. Beneath her cloak, she carried the weight of past mistakes and the burning desire to help others find redemption.
Eyes gleaming with a glint of curiosity, Zodwa cautiously approached the shadowy figure leaning against a decaying lamppost. Her footsteps echoed through the silence, her heart pounding in anticipation. The stranger’s eyes were hidden beneath the brim of a tattered hat, but Zodwa could sense a fiery intensity emanating from within him.
“You’re looking for something,” she ventured, her voice barely audible against the melancholic melody of the night.
Alvin’s lips curled into a sly smile, revealing a glimpse of teeth as sharp as obsidian daggers. He straightened himself, his form towering above Zodwa like an ominous specter.
“And what business is it of yours?” he retorted, his voice a velvet growl laced with intrigue.
“I’ve seen that look before. The hunger in your eyes, the thirst for something unattainable. You’re haunted by the shadows of envy,” she declared, her words cutting through the darkness like a double-edged sword.
“Envy?” he echoed, his voice laced with bitter irony. “You speak of things you know nothing about, girl. These shadows that follow me are the echoes of a forgotten past, a destiny once within my grasp.”
Zodwa stepped closer, her gaze locked with his, refusing to waver. “But destiny is fickle, and the shadows it casts can shape a man’s soul. Tell me, what do you seek within these crumbling walls, concealed within the very essence of this forsaken city?”
Alvin’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if burdened by an unseen weight. His eyes glistened with a blend of sorrow and longing.
“Redemption,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, as if sharing a secret with the night. “I seek absolution for the sins that have stained my hands, the envy that consumed my every breath.”
Zodwa reached out, her hand trembling as it brushed against the stranger’s weathered cheek.
“Redemption can be found, even in the darkest corners,” she whispered, her voice carrying a faint glimmer of hope. “But you must confront the shadows that haunt you, face the envy that gnaws at your soul. Only then can you find solace.”
Alvin’s eyes bore into hers, searching for sincerity amidst the chaos of his emotions. Slowly, he nodded, his walls crumbling like ancient ruins.
“Perhaps you are right,” he conceded, a newfound determination flickering within his gaze.
Their path led them to an abandoned warehouse, a relic of the town’s once-thriving industrial past. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the roof, casting ethereal beams that danced upon the debris-strewn floor. The air hung heavy with anticipation, as if the very walls of the warehouse held a tale waiting to be unraveled.
“Tell me,” she urged, her voice tinged with both curiosity and empathy, “how did you become ensnared in the clutches of envy? What shadows haunt your soul?”
Alvin’s face contorted with a mixture of anguish and defiance. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his voice laced with the weight of remorse.
“Once, I was consumed by envy,” he began, his words punctuated by the echoes of his past. “Ambition drove me to forsake friendships, betray trust, and pursue power without regard for the consequences.”
Zodwa leaned against a broken crate, her gaze fixed on the man, her eyes mirroring his torment.
“But what triggered this descent into envy?” she probed gently, allowing the warehouse’s stillness to wrap around her words.
“It was love,” he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. “Love unrequited, love turned to bitter longing. I watched as another claimed the heart I yearned for, and envy seeped into my soul like poison.”
“Love has a way of warping us, of unearthing the darkest corners of our hearts,” she whispered, her voice a delicate lullaby. “But it is never too late to break free from its grip.”
“And how do we escape the clutches of envy?” he asked, his voice threaded with both desperation and determination.
“We confront it head-on,” she declared, her words like a rallying cry against the shadows. “We search for the truth buried within these forgotten streets, unmask the secrets that feed envy’s insatiable hunger. Only then can we find the redemption we seek.”
As they ventured into the underbelly of the city, a peculiar presence beckoned them. The entrance to an ancient underground passage materialised before them, its entrance adorned with intricate symbols and carvings, worn with age and bearing the weight of forgotten rituals. A chill wind whispered through the narrow tunnel, as if warning them of the trials that lay ahead.
Guided by an unyielding thirst for absolution, Zodwa and the man embarked on a relentless quest to unearth the truth hidden within Germiston City’s darkest recesses. The city’s labyrinthine alleyways became their domain, each step propelling them deeper into a realm of forgotten whispers and tangled memories.
As they pressed onward, the passage widened into a cavernous chamber adorned with ancient artifacts and symbols. Soft light filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the remnants of forgotten rituals. Zodwa reached out, her fingers tracing the carvings, her touch a connection to the mysteries that lay dormant within. Suddenly, the air around them crackled with energy, as if the very fabric of reality trembled in anticipation.
In the cavern’s dimly lit depths,they stood transfixed before the enigmatic altar. As their eyes locked onto the pulsating glow emanating from its core, a hush fell over the chamber, anticipation crackling in the air.
In a resounding burst of light, the altar sprung to life, casting vivid and haunting images upon the rough-hewn walls. The scenes unfolded like a tapestry woven with envy’s tendrils, unfurling the stories of lives irrevocably altered by its poisonous touch.
As the visions projected upon the cavern walls unfolded, they were transported to the past, where envy had wreaked havoc on countless lives. They witnessed the devastating consequences of jealousy, the bitter rivalries that tore apart once unbreakable bonds, and the shattered dreams born out of unquenchable longing.
But amidst the chaos of these memories, a realisation began to crystallise within their souls. Envy, they understood, was not an external force that had ensnared them; it was a reflection of their own inner turmoil, a choice they had made in their darkest moments. It was a path they had willingly walked, blinded by their own desires and the belief that attaining what others possessed would somehow bring them happiness.
In the midst of this revelation, a single scene emerged, vivid and haunting. Zodwa’s heart skipped a beat as she watched her father’s final moments unfold before her eyes. The scene played out with painful clarity, revealing that Alvin, the man standing beside her, was the one responsible for her father’s tragic demise.
Zodwa’s breath caught in her throat, the weight of this revelation threatening to crush her. A maelstrom of emotions swirled within her—grief, anger, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Alvin, too, was consumed by guilt, his eyes filled with remorse as he confronted the truth he could no longer deny.
But in the depths of their shared anguish, something unexpected bloomed. Zodwa felt a flicker of empathy, a glimmer of understanding that defied logic. She looked into Alvin’s eyes, seeing the torment etched upon his face, and realised that he had already carried the burden of his actions for far too long.
Tears welled up in Zodwa’s eyes as she reached a momentous decision. With a trembling voice, she uttered words that echoed with a strength borne of forgiveness.
“Alvin,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of compassion, “I forgive you.”
Alvin stared at her in disbelief, his anguish mingling with the hope that blossomed within his soul.
“Zodwa,” he choked out, his voice thick with gratitude, “I can never undo the past, but I promise you, with every fibre of my being, that I will spend the rest of my life seeking forgiveness and redemption. Your forgiveness means more to me than words can express.”
At that moment, they embraced their shared journey of redemption taking on a renewed purpose. They understood that forgiveness was not an easy path, nor did it erase the pain of the past. But by choosing forgiveness, they freed themselves from the suffocating grip of envy and opened the door to healing and transformation.
As they emerged from the depths of the cavern, their hearts alight with the power of forgiveness, they found themselves bathed in the warmth of a breathtaking sunrise. The sky, ablaze with hues of gold and pink, painted a canvas of hope and new beginnings.
Hand in hand, they stood on the precipice of a world transformed. Their journey through the shadows of envy had forged an unbreakable bond, built on the pillars of understanding, compassion, and redemption. They had faced their past, confronted their inner demons, and chosen forgiveness over bitterness.
At that moment, a gentle breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it a symphony of promise and resilience. The wounds of the past were not forgotten, but the scars that marked their souls served as a reminder of their capacity to heal and grow.
Zodwa turned to Alvin, her eyes filled with a radiant light. “We have been given a second chance,” she said, her voice brimming with gratitude. “Let us make the most of it, not only for ourselves but for all those whose lives have been touched by envy’s darkness.”
Alvin nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun continued its ascent. “Together, we shall be beacons of light,” he proclaimed, his voice strong and resolute. “We will navigate the storms of envy, offering forgiveness and guiding others toward the path of redemption.”
And so,they embarked on a new chapter of their lives, walking hand in hand through the tapestry of existence. With each step, they shared their story of transformation, inspiring others to release the chains of envy and embrace the liberating power of forgiveness.
Their journey became a testament to the indomitable human spirit, to the capacity for growth and renewal even in the face of darkness. Their love, forged through trials and redemption, blossomed into a beacon of hope, illuminating the lives of those who had lost their way.
In the embrace of forgiveness, they discovered the true essence of their being—a boundless reservoir of love, compassion, and resilience. Together, they would create a world where envy could be transformed into empathy, where scars became badges of strength, and where redemption offered solace to wounded souls.
And as they walked side by side, the echoes of their journey reverberated through time, whispering tales of forgiveness and redemption to all who would listen. Theirs was a story of healing, of rising above the shadows of envy, and of finding the beauty that lies beyond the darkness.

In the end, they found not only redemption but also a love that had been forged in the crucible of their shared past. They stood together, basking in the radiance of the sunrise, ready to embrace the infinite possibilities that lay before them. And as they gazed into each other’s eyes, they knew that their love, fortified by forgiveness, would be the guiding light that would lead them toward a future filled with joy, purpose, and unbreakable peace.
Through their transformation, the city itself began to change. Germiston City, once marred by the specter of envy, started to heal. Broken bonds were mended, abandoned dreams rekindled, and a sense of unity replaced the fractures that envy had caused. Their journey had not only brought personal redemption but had also sparked a renaissance within the very heart of the city.

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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: MEETSENG
Written by Naume Selowa

I yawned looking in my mother’s direction while she read a book.
“I am sleepy,” I said.
“Go to bed,” she replied without acknowledgement, almost dismissive. But I knew better because we had been through this before, so I pushed.
“Mama!” I nagged, pouting my lips and folding my arms on my flat chest.
She sighed, closed the book and took off her reading glasses. “Let’s go then, but I have to come finish up this chapter or I will be left behind at our next session.”
I excitedly got up the couch and followed her to my room.
My mother had joined a reading club that held sessions once a week in one of their members’ houses. She always carried a book with her and that made me love reading from a young age because children copy what adults do anyway.
I was 13 years old and had just started high school, curious and always looking to fill my head with ideas, and all the reading I had been doing helped me create mysterious fictions even I was sometimes afraid of.
Earlier that day, I had been asking my mother about her childhood. I wanted to know the kind of life she led before having her own family. Unfortunately, she never loved talking about it and I think she decided to relay tales to me so I could have something to ponder on and not bother her. I don’t think she understood my need to know if life for her at my age was the same as it was for me.
We got to my room and I hopped into bed since I had already put on my pyjamas. She made sure it was the long-sleeved warm ones so when I kicked off my blankets at night, I would still be warm.
“Once upon a time in the village of Meetseng,” she started off and I giggled at the way she embellished her voice like professional storytellers. “There was a well so clean you could see your reflection as it is when looking at it. The well served the village with a 24-hour water supply, cool during the hot seasons and warm during winter—defying nature and never running dry. Meetseng was a peaceful village; no theft thanks to the rule that stated if you steal, you and your family would be banished.”
I always interrupted her with questions, my eyes glued on her as she illustrated with her hands.
“But that’s unfair, why banish the whole family for the sins of one?”
She cleared her throat, and with her smooth voice, not once complaining of my questions, she replied, “The remaining family members would obviously want to avenge the banishing of their own and the King didn’t want that; neither did the villagers who were used to living in harmony.”
I nodded with a smile, a sign that she could proceed. It made sense.
“A river flowed above the village, split into two to surround it and further connected below to flow as one into the neighbouring villages. The King lived beneath the division, the well stood in the middle and below was the land for cultivation. They all went there during sowing season, men and women altogether; and the women would go home to prepare food while the men remained in the field. When they finished and came home after washing in the river, the women and their children would go have their turn to wash then return to eat dinner.”
I started dozing off. She sighed and got up from the chair, then tucked me in before kissing my forehead and walked out.
I would hardly see my father return from work, but it was his tradition to kiss me in my sleep and I would sometimes slightly open my eyes as he talked to me. This little act would be embedded in my mind for when I woke up and found him already gone. It was how I knew he came home the previous night.
My days at school would feel like a drag as I looked forward to being in bed and listening to my mother’s stories, but of course it was important that I get educated or I wouldn’t be able to tell this story today.
After school I would sprint home like a runner approaching the finish line and get inside the house with my shirt already unbuttoned. By the time I got to my room, I would be totally out of my uniform and ready to hop into my casual clothes immediately after opening the door. This worked well for me because I was always alone after school.
I did most of the chores and left a few for my mother so she wouldn’t take long on them and tire before bed. On the days when she did the laundry in the evening, I would help hanging the clothes on the washing line behind the house while she cooked. If there was no laundry, it would just be cooking, which she would find the pots already on the stove when she arrived.
Sometimes I did not need to yawn to alert her I was ready for the continuation of the story; she would just take my hand and lead me to my room after we had had dinner.
“To ensure safety for women and children, the King gave a rule that only women would fetch water from the well and if a man was found roaming around the well or at the river during the time when only women were washing, he would be killed,” she continued from where we stopped last night.
I gasped at the word ‘killed’. The only thing I had ever seen being killed was a chicken and my mind was trying to replace that with a human being, which was not such a good sight.
“That is awful, I think I am going to have nightmares tonight.”
My mother chuckled. “The King did this for he knew only men from outside Meetseng would try to endanger the lives of women and children of Meetseng when the Meetseng men were out to work.”
“He must have been a wise man?”
She smiled. “He was intelligent, but he was also human.”
“What does that mean?” I enquired.
“Human beings are prone to mistakes,” she calmly replied.
I yawned. “Can we pause here for tonight?” I felt tired; it must have been all the energy I used up running home.
She stood up, kissed my forehead and tucked me in. “Good night!”
That night when my father arrived home, I opened my eyes but remained under the blankets. He sat on my bed and whispered into my ears before kissing my forehead. He reminded me how of much he loved me, how I would grow to be successful and how worthy of beautiful things I was. I dozed back to sleep feeling all sorts of good.
The next morning my mother was not going to work. She looked gloomy even though she tried to hide it with a faint smile. I was still thinking of what might be wrong with her when a thought crossed my mind: if I was going to find her at home after school, then maybe she could finish up the story before we went to bed.
School hours went past in a speed of light that day I don’t even remember what happened during the lessons.
“It won’t feel the same as when I tell you during bed-time,” my mother argued when I asked her to continue the story.
“You have already done everything and I don’t have any chores. What will I be doing until then?” I cried until she finally gave in, allowing me to join her in bed because that was where I had found her when I arrived.
“The village of Meetseng had earned its name from the water bodies surrounding it. There were big rocks a few metres from the well where the women could sit while waiting for the one filling the buckets to finish. The well was quite deep and to draw water, one had to kneel on the flat stone balancing with one hand on the stones on the side of the well and reached inside with the other hand holding a calabash bowl.”
I laughed. “It must have been a real work-out for the arms.”
“It was, plus the ploughing of fields with hoes—the people of Meetseng sure had strong arms.”
She sighed and I could sense pain in her breath.
“One day a woman from the neighbouring village came into Meetseng and asked to speak to the King. She was a beautiful woman with darting eyes that seemed to have seen more than they have lived, and she smelled like flowers even though she wore dirty clothes. The King immediately took a liking to her and did not bother listening to what brought her to Meetseng, but offered her a place to stay in the village after hearing she survived a kidnapping.”
I felt sad for the woman but happy that the King did not also turn his back on her. Like the King, I did not think much of why she smelled good yet was dirty.
My mother started coughing and she got off the bed and went to the kitchen.
“Are you okay, mama?” I asked following after her, and she could only nod her head because she was still coughing. It sounded like her chest was tearing up.
We settled on the couch in the dining room after she had water and she continued.
“The woman lived happily with the Meetseng villagers but she would still leave, sometimes not returning on the same day or returning late in the evening when the men would be washing in the river. She would hide behind the thick grasses and watch until they finished, then waited for the women to come then join them as though she had just arrived. During the day she would walk around the village secretly peeking into houses such that in a week of her being there, she already knew a lot about everyone. No one ever took notice of her until the day she vanished.”
I gasped. “Did the kidnappers finally find her?” I was hoping not because I didn’t want to imagine what they would do with her.
“No! There were never kidnappers to start with, she had lied to the King. On that day it was after a heavy rainfall and the river was overflowing. No one would go to the well and her plan would work perfectly. She made her way there at noon, met with men from her village who had come for her using a secret path and then she poured a colourless liquid in the well and took off with the men.”
“She poisoned the well?”
My mother smiled, “It was only after a few days when the land was drying up that the villagers needed the water from the well, and they started getting sick. By the time they realised the problem, half of them were already dead and the other half on their way to their last resting place too.”
I sighed sadly. I had fallen in love with the well’s description and how life was like in the village. I blamed the King for allowing the woman to live in the village, but he was dying or already dead, so it was pointless.
“After a few months when everyone was gone, the neighbouring village was to come and take up the land as planned. The woman was then taken by her village King as a third wife, and they started their journey to the village of Meetseng where they would start a new life. All these actions were driven by jealousy and greed because they were not suffering. Upon arrival, they barricaded the well so no one could come into contact with the water, and they started building their houses. But the Meetseng villagers had been buried in the ground they were to cultivate, the water from the well had made contact with the soil and the poison would still be easily attainable. But of course, no one ever thought of this; they enjoyed their stay while it lasted and that is the end. What did you learn?”
“That I should not trust anyone,” I shrugged.
My mother chuckled at the uncertainty of my response. “The well is your heart, the river your guards, the village your body, the King your mind and everything else a bit of you.”
“I don’t think I understand,” I admitted honestly.
She stood up from the couch and sighed. “I should go lie down now. I feel tired. ” And on her way she went while coughing some more.
My mother passed on during my final year in high school. She had fought a good fight with the disease I only got to learn about during the last few months of her life, and on her last few days she reminded me of the Meetseng story.
I had been thinking of it for all those years and each time I replayed it in my mind, a new message was being brought forward.
She held my hands that day when I saw her for the last time and said, “Your heart, mind and intuition are the most important parts of your existence. You will not always get it right, but ensure these three work together all the time. You can always change your mind, and your heart always accepts but your intuition does not change. It is your guardian and will always keep you safe. Do not let your eyes fool you like the King of Meetseng; believe what is true and not what you see. I love you and you are going to reach your dreams with or without me.”
After all these years, I still kick my blankets off at night and my father hasn’t lost his tradition even in old age. I miss my mother, but knowing she is part of my guardians—therefore my intuition, makes me feel better.
I want to believe the village of Meetseng does exist, but I’m scared to find out because I will want to go and it might be risky. However, I am grateful for the life lessons my mother left me with, and for the confidence my father instilled in me, hence today I am able to tell this story like I own it.
I am Mapula; mother of rain, and this is the story of Meetseng as told by my beautiful late mother.
Tales always have personal messages. I got mine. What is yours?

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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: BEFORE THE LAST AMEN
Written by Peace Moalosi

One night, towards the end of July, a young boy named Joseph grabbed a knife and repeatedly stabbed both his father and mother, and sat next to their dead bodies ‘til the next morning.
This is the story of how we got there:
Joseph was about 10 months old when his birth mother abandoned him. She left him for the dead in a deserted trashcan, or so the ladies working at the orphanage always whispered. Rumor had it that he was found two days later. And from that moment on, it was like his whole world was coated in black.
Throughout his entire young life, Joseph kept to himself and barely said a word because not everyone can express their pain for the world to see, to understand. Joseph remained so mute that he could no longer recognise his own voice. What was the reason for speaking, crying or screaming if is no ear listening? You only ask for help if you believe there’s help to ask for.
Living in an awful orphanage that always lingered pain and hunger, Joseph always kept to himself. He didn’t bother playing with other kids or making any friends. What was the point? He also didn’t say anything to anyone even when the first predicament befell him.
All Joseph could remember was The Father’s disturbing loud moans as he pleasured himself. He could also remember the fear and disbelief he felt when he forced himself on him. Terrified. Yes, that’s the right word to describe exactly how he felt. The old man was supposed to protect him, feed him and close that void. But he didn’t.
The next year brought an end to Joseph’s torment as he fortunately got adopted by Tim and Maria Tulane. The couple was good to him. They gave him so much love that he didn’t know what to do with it all. He had never been given love, so he didn’t know how to receive it. The couple fed him, clothed him and even enrolled him into a good private school. Joseph thought his silent prayers had been answered and he finally got to that light at the end of the tunnel.
But that feeling of happiness and being content, too, was short-lived. Just as his life was. Maria got pregnant and nine months later, had a bouncing baby girl whom she doted on more than she did Joseph. As did Tim. They never dreamed they would have children, but a miracle happened and she had Betty.
And then the second, maybe third predicament befell him. By that time, Joseph was going on thirteen and Betty was a year old, still crawling. Tim was with Joseph and his little sister, Betty, playing on the lush green grass at the back of their house, when he had to go to the bathroom. So he went inside to relieve himself while Tim stayed back with Betty.
Joseph had just washed his hands and was about to leave when he slipped because of the water he’d splashed on the tile. He yelled out for his father because he’d hurt his wrist. Sprained it. Tim came running to him, asking him what had happened and then started massaging his wrist.
Moments later, they heard a car screeching outside. Tim immediately rushed out to the front and upon seeing what had happened, a sudden weakness settled over him, crippling his legs. He slumped on the ground, feeling numb, and his hands dropped weakly to his sides as he looked on at his daughter.
Betty was lying lifeless under the car in a pool of blood. Her head had gone under Maria’s car tyre and splattered on the pavement. Maria was on her knees on the pavement, crying and screaming. It was a heart-wrenching scream, reverberating from somewhere within her. Her chest heaved as she continuously let out the most inhumane, vicious, sobs.
Joseph just stood there, frozen, looking at the gruesome scene. He suddenly felt nauseated. Vomit rose in his throat but he fought it back, leaving a putrid taste in his mouth. The neighbours and passers-by came to see what had happened and what the commotion was about. They gasped and covered their mouths. Some cried and unlike Joseph, some did puke. Within a few minutes, the ambulance and the police arrived.
The Tulanes’ front gate had a latch but if you moved it just right, it would open. That’s most probably how Betty got out of the yard and ended up squashed under Maria’s car. Tim was supposed to fix the gate, but he always postponed whenever he had to do it.
They told Joseph that Betty had died… And from that moment onwards, everything changed, and it felt like he was back at the damned orphanage.
That day at the dinner table, Maria was a complete mess. She took Betty’s death the hardest and the guilt that she’d run her over didn’t help. Her eyes were red and swollen when she spoke to Joseph.
“If you hadn’t called out to your father, Betty would still be alive,” she shouted and threw a plate of food in Joseph’s direction. “She’d still be here with us. You should’ve been the one who died. It’s all your fault! You killed her!”
Joseph ducked – cowered – and the plate smashed against the wall. He was sobbing, really hard.
And then she added, “From today onwards, we will only clothe you and feed you. But don’t think we’ll ever love you, Joseph. You are our shame, disgrace and flaw. I curse the day we decided to take you in.”
She wiped off her tears and never cried again. She didn’t even cry at Betty’s funeral, which Joseph had to sneak into to attend. But none of it was really his fault. They just crucified and put the blame on him because they were too gutless to admit and accept what they’d done.
From that moment on, they never talked to him unless they were hurling insults. The first time Tim hit Joseph was because he was talking to some girl while taking out the trash. The second was because he’d slept in until 9am on a Sunday. Everything snowballed from there. Sometimes they wouldn’t dish for him or allow him to bathe. It got to a point where they didn’t give a damn about his existence entirely.
That went on to the next four years. And living at the orphanage seemed like paradise compared to living in that house.
One day when Joseph was tired of the life of slavery and abuse, he thought the only way to escape was to search for his birth mother. So he did.
Joseph hated his birth mother. Actually, it was deeper than that. Loathe? Yes, that’s the word. He loathed her for birthing him and then leaving. He loathed her because of the promises of motherhood she made and wasn’t there to keep. He spent his entire childhood wondering why she’d do that. Was he so unlovable? Or did she simply not want him like everyone else?
Despite his feelings of hatred, he still searched for her because he thought she would save him. She would also give him answers to his questions.
And find her, he did. It didn’t take much sweat to find her. But she was nothing like he could have imagined. If she was a drug addict or some prostitute who slept with men for money, he would have understood, because then, how could she love him when she didn’t love herself? Or maybe if she was sick, he would have understood the idea of her not being able to take care of him because she would not be able to take care of herself.
But she was neither of those things. No, his birth mother was a beautiful, successful woman who lived in the suburbs. She was married and living her best life. How?! How could she have gone to live her best life when all he ever wanted was to see her suffer more than he did?! What about those nights when The Father had his way with him?! And what about all those nights when he had to go to bed hungry with blisters and wounds caused by Tim’s belt on his back? He had a strong urge to confront her but what was he to say?
Feeling dejected and defeated, Joseph returned to his hell hole. He found Maria waiting for him by the door when he got back home that evening.
“You’re past your curfew,” she said, her leg bouncing impatiently.
Joseph looked at his wristwatch, then back at her.
“It’s past seven. My curfew is eight.”
He pushed past her and walked into the house. He went to the kitchen to get some water. Maria followed behind him.
“I hear you’ve been snooping around, asking about your mother.” Joseph didn’t reply and she added, “So tell me, are we not good enough for you that you’ve started asking about your real mother? The one who abandoned you, might I add.”
At seventeen, Joseph was very fit and tall. The woman was no match for him, and Tim wasn’t around so he said, “Of course, you’re not good enough. You’re a terrible mother who killed her own child and put the blame on another, so take your little insecurities and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“What did you just say to my wife?” Tim roared, suddenly appearing in the kitchen.
Joseph’s whole body tensed when he heard his voice, and he mumbled a prayer. He prayed to God to finally end him right then. He couldn’t take anymore beatings. This couldn’t be what he was born for, he thought. This wasn’t what life is supposed to be.
“You stupid idiot!”
Tim grabbed the hem of Joseph’s shirt and slammed him against the wall. The first strike was excruciatingly painful. He hit him with so much force he could feel his skin burning. The second strike was worse that the first because he hit on the same spot. The third and forth strikes were fuelled by nothing more than utter hate.
Joseph couldn’t fight a man as big as Tim, so he tried to curl himself into a ball to lessen the pain. But Tim straightened him and gripped his throat tightly. He blocked his throat so tight that not even one molecule of air passed through to his lungs. Tears threatened to escape his eyes as Joseph tried to fight Tim in vain.
“You should’ve been the one who died. It’s all your freaking fault!” he seethed as he choked him.
Maria just smiled looking directly into Joseph’s frightened eyes, so she didn’t notice as his hand groped for a lethal-looking knife on the kitchen counter. He held it firmly and plunged it in his father’s abdomen, claiming his life. He heard it slice his flesh. He saw the pain and fear in his eyes.
Tim’s grip around Joseph’s loosened.
Maria gasped and fell back on her bottom, then covered her mouth with her palm in shock, and stopped the scream that was threatening to escape her mouth. She cried as she watched Joseph remove the knife and plunge it again for the second time. Tim fell to his knees, groaning, and a red-coloured substance gurgled out of his mouth and oozed from his wounds before he fell on his back on the ceramic tile with a soft thud.
Maria let out a piercing scream and scrambled to her feet, trembling with fear. She tried to run but she wasn’t quick enough. Joseph took a few quick hate-filled steps towards her and grabbed her arm before plunging the same bloodied knife in her womb three times.
Joseph then sat down with his legs crossed and placed the knife beside him. He sat there the whole night, replaying the events that just transpired. But he wasn’t crying or scared. He was just feeling numb, and numb, he knew, was far worse. But the deed had been done, his spirit was broken and most importantly, his whole life was ruined. But that didn’t matter because his life had been ruined from the moment he was born.
He sat there, in complete silence, cursing his existence. When morning came, he called the police and told them what he’d done.
Sitting with cuffs on his hands and feet in an interrogation room, Joseph tapped his fingers on the desk in front of him in a rhythm. That is, until a man who seemed to be in his mid-thirties entered the room and sat across him.
“Hello, Joseph,” the man greeted before sitting down. Joseph just stared at him. “My name is Aaron and I am a psychiatrist.”
“I know.”
“The police told me about what you did. Why did you kill them?”
“I was defending myself. Nothing more. Nothing personal,” he said as a matter of fact.
“Jo, listen to me-”
“It’s Joseph.”
“Okay, Joseph… you’re sick. You have delusions that aren’t real.”
“No,” Joseph replied.
“That’s the truth,” Aaron pressed. “I came here to help you. Tell me, what is the exact reason you killed them?”
Joseph sighed deeply and removed his shirt. There were large wounds and scars on his body and that seemed like they were caused by burns and slash from a sharp knife.
“You see these scars? These wounds? They were inflicted by Tim and Maria.” He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment before speaking again, “I thought I would not experience pain again after they adopted me. But all they did was hurt me more. That night they tried to inflict more wounds on me, so I killed them.”
“And you didn’t complain from the first time they hurt you?” Aaron asked.
“Yes, I didn’t. They threatened me. They said that I will be the one that will suffer more, not them,” Joseph replied.
“Did you try talking to anyone about this? Did you try to ask for help?”
“Yes. But they didn’t believe me. I once called the police for help. And they did nothing, because Tim was part of the police.”
“And you think killing them was the solution?”
“Yes.”
“You know, Joseph, you committed a crime. You killed them.”
“No, that’s not it. I killed them before they killed me.” His voice went an octave higher, “Why can’t you understand?”
“Don’t you at least feel remorseful?” Aaron asked calmly.
“No.”
Three years have passed since that day. Joseph was executed by hanging on his 18th birthday, for killing the couple that killed him every day. Everyone thought that he shot the gun, but he only dodged the bullet.
Throughout his whole life, Joseph had lived a somewhat unfulfilling life. And who was to blame if not the God he was taught to worship? So, in his last moments, he prayed to whichever God would be listening and raised a middle finger right before he said his last Amen.

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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 MELTING POT
Written by Asive Vukaphi

Life is a journey; it is never a destination. To some people, it is hard. To some, it is a walk in the park. Life has its uncertainties but it is better if you meet all those uncertainties on the road of life, not where you were birthed and nurtured. It is hard to withstand the trials and shamefulness that comes with life’s uncertainties when you get to experience them in a place called home, in a place where you should feel loved and cared for. In a place where you expected to feel the warmth of home and run to when life has you on choke hold.
For years, I had to endure being ill-treated. My parents never saw me as their precious cargo as daughters are affectionately labelled these days. It’s as if I was not what they envisioned me to be. It’s like they had a different idea of the daughter they wanted and boom, they were surprised with a curly haired caramel girl. Much to their annoyance, God created a carbon copy of my father.
Surprisingly, I am brilliant, just like him. I possess so much of his attributes. I have his character and my whole persona is a replica of him, his exact duplicate, his carbon copy – that is what I am. The only difference is that I am a girl. Almost all my life I tried impressing them and that… that made me to be not as free as I would have liked to be as I had lived under their shadows for most of my life.
Living under their shadows never impressed them nor did it ever made them to love me. If there is anything it did, it was to infuriate them.
“You’re an annoying bastard, Sakhe,” he, the one I came from his scrotum, would say without flinching and this would crack up his wife and make her have her fair share of rants.
“Mkruu! Andizange ndizale ndabola amathumbu apha,” she would say. “Akasoze abento yanto lomntwana yiva ndikuxelela.”
Every time she’d say this, my heart would break into a million pieces. It would shatter and dissemble itself and scatter around my intestines. I would carry it with my stomach until it gathers enough strength to assemble itself again and locate itself in its designated place.
My life revolved around being validated by them and for the love of God, they never saw the need to, and I kept shackled up and the need to liberate me from all these shackles they tied me with never aroused in them.
I grew up with so much resentment in me. It’s funny how, when you’re a victim of circumstances – the victim of birth in my case – you’re seen as an easy prey by predators. I got raped – not once, not twice but numerous times – and I never told anyone about those ordeals. I didn’t even tell the people who brought me on this earth. How was I going to explain how I rebelled and gave myself away to rapists? This is the narrative they’d take in all that I would tell them.
“Siyithini thina into yokuba uhambe wayozoneka emadodeni wakho uzenz’idini? Hay, susifundekela thina.”
My rape stories would be trivialised and reduced into me being promiscuous. I could’ve never let myself go through that heart-wrenching phase after experiencing such traumatic pain. Unguarded bitch, that’s what my parents viewed me as. A bitch that went above all else to show her promiscuity to the world. I don’t know how they came to that conclusion, but I remember that I got into a fight with one of the girls in my location because of a minor glitch and the gossipmongers fabricated lies about what we were fighting about. They said we were fighting over a boy. I used to laugh at this story until it latched on my back and had my parents calling me all sorts of derogatory names.
Hiding the fact that I was raped never gave me peace; it tormented me. Day in and day out, I got consumed by it like slow poison in my body. Every day, I woke up with my sheets and blankets drenched in urine.
“Ulixelegu elizichamelayo, usisinyemfu, ulinuku,” these words coming out from my parents’ mouths felt like daggers lodged in my heart and slicing it into pieces.
My confidence went straight to the dust because everybody knew how my bladder couldn’t contain urine for a long time, for I always relieved myself prematurely. “Sakh’okuhle, you’re an embarrassment,” my mother would say. “Have you ever seen an old woman like yourself peeing on themselves? Ulihlazo maan, phu!! Hamba apha, lento le enuk’umchamo. Kwawena ungu Sakh’okubi ngoba akho kwanto endakha ndayakha yantle oko wabakho. Ungumgqwaliso unezothe.”
And her husband would back her up like she has uttered the most beautiful and melodic verse ever. “Into ayaziyo kukuphuhla nokuncanca umnwe kodwa mdala. She’s indeed an embarrassment. Singamahlazo kwalapha endaweni ngenxa yakhe. Isidima sethu usirhuqela phantsi nxx!”
My heart would divide itself into two. I wouldn’t know what to say nor what to do. My mind would be on standstill and refuse to function well while my eyes cried rivers and dams.
Life for me was just a dusty, rusty stairs with cracks and holes. I had no back-up to fall on. Some days I would just wish I’d drop and die. I never understood why I had to live such a dissatisfying and distasteful life. I never understood why I was born in the first place.
The bipolar diagnosis made me this delicate person. I just didn’t know how to express myself thoroughly, yet I had so many questions. I didn’t know why I had to be on this earth to live a miserable life. I didn’t know why I had to descend from my mother’s womb only for her and the man she happily made me with to dismantle me and make me this person who is viewed as crazy and unwell by the society. I didn’t understand why I had to be aborted by the scrotum that made me and the womb that carried me. Every day I would wake up with tons and loads of unanswered questions: “Did I come on earth to endure all these trials of life? Abuse, rape, bipolar, loveless parents? What else was I set to endure? What else was lurking in the shadows waiting for me so I can also endure it? What else was set to come my way? What other storms and calamities I was to await to dive and dip into?”
These questions would brew in my mind like an already to be drank Mqombothi every day and unfortunately, they’d go unanswered. I wished and prayed for a miracle every second of the day, every minute, every hour, every week, every month and years and none would come. A miracle from whom isn’t seen by the physical eyes would have cheered me up, but things do not always go as we hope and wish for. Unfortunately, that’s the lesson of life I came to understand.
I earnestly prayed for a change. A change at home. I prayed for love; I wanted to be loved by my parents and be accepted by them for who I was. I prayed relentlessly for my mother to make me her best friend. For my father to lend me his ear whenever he can and give me warmth and let me into his bosom, engulf and envelope me with a prideful hug from time to time. I prayed for him to love me and be happy for my grades. I wanted him to be proud of me and boast to his friends about how I took everything from him, even his brilliance. I prayed for my parents to heal from whatever pain I caused in their lives that made them to narrow and point their animosity guns at me. I prayed deeply for everything but dared not to pray for sudden death. Dying was never on my prayer item. I only visualised it when the going went tough and I would chastise myself firmly after realising that I had given suicide some thoughts. Bendikoyika ukufa! Ndiyakoyika ukufa! Period.
I didn’t understand the deep-rooted hatred my parents had for me. Whatever I mistakenly did even if it was as small as the ant’s hill, it was made to be long and tall like the Kilimanjaro Mountain. I paid a hefty price for everything, even for things that weren’t done by me.
I didn’t understand why I had to carry the yoke of others just because I am older. I never understood the notion of being a stirrer only because I am older.
“You should learn to lead by example. Bafunda ntoni abantwana apha kuwe? You’re an unguarded and a ratchet bitch. I don’t even know what to call you because you just… you disgust me. Uyadika. Unezothe. Unegqemfe. Sies! Uyinja nje!” This was one of the favourite utterings by my parents when I had defended myself for being beaten for something that wasn’t my fault. I paid the hefty price, always. I paid a price for not stirring my siblings into the right direction and I didn’t understand how I would do that when I was a lost cause myself.
You’d think I’d get used to the beatings, derogatory words and insults but every time those would happen and be said, my soul would prematurely leave me and would gallivant in the realm of the dead and be subsequently pushed back by an unknown force. It would vigorously land in my ribcage and swiftly down itself through the right pipes and wind itself on in my body.
Life was nothing close to amazingly beautiful for me, but I lived and loved. Perhaps I pretended to live and love while I only existed. I cannot stand here and lie and say I turned out normal after all these predicaments, trials and tribulations I endured. My parent’s treatment wounded me, but I tried not to let all those to swallow me. I am still a melting pot waiting to be moulded and nurtured by the gentle porter. I believe I endured all these to one day tell a story of a melting pot that changed into a golden pot. My story is that of David and Goliath. I will triumph at the end and the Glory of the Lord will rise again.
She wiped the tears that were cascading from her eyes and cutting furrows down her face. She kept wiping them with both her hands while smiling and laughing. She was proud of herself and what she has achieved despite all the things she went through growing up. She was proud that she was able to stand tall and narrate her story while inspiring people to persevere.
Sakh’okuhle beautifully and proudly narrated her story to the masses who were watching television and listening to the radios, and those who read newspapers and all the people who attended the launch of Sakh’okuhle Foundation at the regional hall where the launch was held. She was now a happy soul who has accomplished a lot of things and had accumulated enough wealth to keep generations and generations to come afloat. She was expanding her legacy. She already had set up the Melting Pot Foundation and other developed foundations, but now introducing Sakh’okuhle Foundation and she saw the need to first introduce the melting pot and how the name came about.
Her speech left all the masses with teary eyes and her parents were wallowing in guilt and misery, but their daughter had long moved from that.

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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