PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

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

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Three-Lobed Burning Eye (3LBE) is a speculative fiction magazine published online twice per year and print anthology (every other year). Each issue features six original stories, some with audio readings. 3LBE was founded by editor Andrew S. Fuller in 1999.

Please read some issues of the the magazine to learn what they published, and read the full guidelines before submitting ficition.

Fiction Guidelines
What they Publish: Original speculative fiction.
Word Count: Short fiction 1001–7500 words, Flash fiction ≤1000 words, (2000–5000 preferred length)
Simultaneous Submissions: No. (Do not send to another publication simultanteously.)
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Reprints: No. (Do not send stories previously printed, posted online, audio, or via Patreon.)
Language: English (Translations are welcome from around the world.)
Pay Rate: $100 for short fiction, $30 for flash fiction; + 1 print annual
Rights: They purchase first world electronic rights, with non-exclusive archival rights, optional first audio rights, and non-exclusive anthology rights for the annual printed later. Payment is made within 30 days of publication via PayPal.
Response Time: Within 90 days

Submission Status: They are currently open to submissions. All submissions through May 21, 2020 have been read and responded to. Please query if you haven’t heard back.

Our Needs
What They Are Looking For
Original speculative fiction: horror, fantasy, and science fiction. They are looking for short stories from across the big classifications and those shadowy places between: magical realism, fantastique, slipstream, interstitial, and the Weird. They will consider suspense or western, though they prefer it contain some speculative element. They like voices that are full of feeling, from literary to pulpy, with styles unique and flowing, but not too experimental. All labels aside, they want tales that expand genre, that value imagination in character, narrative, and plot. We want to see something new and different.

They believe in diverse characters and points of view in fiction; and encourage authors of every race, culture, creed, gender, orientation, expression, status, age, and ability to submit their work.

Their issues include audio readings. If your story is accepted, you will have the opportunity to record your story, have a colleague do so, or one of their narrators.

They prefer that contributors wait two issues before submitting again. If your 3LBE story is later reprinted in another publication, they will appreciate a mention.

What They Are NOT Looking For
They are not interested in fan fiction, novel excerpts, or memoir. They do not publish poetry or non-fiction (reviews, essays, interviews). They are not currently considering reprints or outside artwork.

They are not looking for extreme horror. Please avoid excessive descriptions of violence or gore.

They do not publish erotica per se, but won’t mind some hotness in context of the story.

Though 3LBE’s title echoes a line from an H. P. Lovecraft story, their publication is not a Cthulhu Mythos-themed venue. They are open to the occasional “Lovecraftian” short or cosmic horror tale, though they prefer that you make the story your own.

For legal reasons, writers must be at least 18 years old.

How to Submit
They only accept electronic submissions via their online form. They do not accept email submissions or attachments, your story will be pasted into the online form. If after 90 days you do not hear from them, feel free to query.

If you receive a rejection, please wait a minimum of seven (7) days before submitting again. Please do not respond to rejections, even to say thank you, or resubmit revisions of rejected stories. Also, please limit your submissions to a few in a calendar year.

Cover Letter
Brief cover letters are appreciated, no more than a single paragraph, please. Include your top three or four publishing credits and any experience relevant to the story. Please refrain from summarizing your story.

Formatting
Please format italics with surrounding underscores. Indicate section breaks with # symbol, do not add extra manual line breaks. Single- or double-line spacing does not matter. Proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation are characteristics of a professional manuscript.

Advice
Read a few issues of 3LBE to see what they publish. Write something better. Explore, challenge, be original. They only want your best.

Read widely in the science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, and other genres. Beware clichés, overused language, hackneyed plots, cheap thrills, thin characters, and wish fulfillment. There is nothing wrong with tropes and trends like vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies, serial killers, faeries, superheroes, or aliens; but we are interested in new explorations of ideas. Don’t rely on cleverness and twists. Strive for depth, texture, and imagination.
Click here to submit your work
https://www.3lobedmag.com/submissions.html?utm_campaign=shareaholic&utm_medium=email_this&utm_source=email

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Get in touch with PUBLISH’D AFRIKA for:

1. Editing
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*E-mail: info@publishdafrika.com
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Nash’s Return – The Incomplete Ritual

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“Nashitsevhe lost everything. He got terribly sick. Over the years he has brought many other girls to Kajengo, in a desperate bid to get his life back, his wealth and influence. It was all in vain. Kajengo kept telling him the same thing. He has to find you and bring you back. Do the ritual all over again. He said you are his key.”

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Grace, look!” Moesha says urgently, motioning with his eyes. “Across the street.”
I follow his prompt, and I am shocked. There she is again, standing against the fire hydrant and watching the salon like a hawk. I sigh in chagrin, and shoot a real, enraged glance at her across the street. She is undaunted. She stares right back at me. The scorching sun wouldn’t move her, so a dirty look is as futile as drowning a fish.
“You can tell us, Grace,” Moesha begins, popping a pout and rolling those eyes burdened with thick mascara. “Just let the cat out of the bag.”
“Tell you what?”
“If you are now batting for the other team. We won’t judge.”
I click my tongue disdainfully. Moesha has always thought I am gay, because he has never seen me with a man in the three years I have worked with him.
“Moesha, I told you, I have never seen that woman in my life. You are still the only homosexual in the room, thank you very much.”
“Well, then maybe she has a crush on you,” he says, absent-mindedly yanking the client’s hair with the comb. “It’s the fourth day she comes around just to stand there and gawk at you. And each time you accost her she does a Caster Semenya. Talk about a run-away bribe.”
“I know that woman,” the client I am working on suddenly blurts out. I quickly turn the chair around so she would look directly at me. She rolls her eyes at me, and chews the gum worse than a cow masticating curd.
“You do? Who is she?”
“I don’t know her name,” she exclaims, wide-eyed. “She is not my friend or anything.”
Suddenly, her face looks as if she has caught a whiff of something rotten.
“She is one of the ladies who sell cheap weaves and wigs near Capitec Bank downtown,” she continues. “She is from Zimbabwe or something. These ladies claim to sell genuine Brazilian. Feels like steel wool the crap they sell, if you ask me. After just a day of wearing it, it starts looking like a roadkill that has been in the sun too long.”
“And that is why you are sticking with us, isn’t gal?” Moesha says with feigned excitement. “Because you my dear, have got good taste.”
“You know it, gal,” the client says, giving Moesha a High Five, then she looks at me, and sulks. “Zim. You got some friends, Grace.”
“I knew there was something familiar about you, Grace,” says Moesha, his hands on his hips. “You are Grace Mugabe wena, in hiding from Uncle Bob, and that woman is a Zim Secret Agent sent to find you and bring you home.”
“Moesha, please!” I scold him. “Does Zim even have a Secret Service?”
Raptous laughter fills the salon. I cast a glance across the street again. She is gone. Just like that.
“What the hell!” I exclaim. “Where did she go now?”
“Uncle Bob’s spy,” Moesha hisses. “Poof! Now you see her, now you don’t!”
“Gal, stop or I will shove this hot comb down you throat.”
“Grace, if you really want to find your friend, just go by downtown,” the client says. “Botha and Escombe Streets. These ladies are there until late. Unless the cops chase them away. In any case, they have the memories of chickens. The cops chase them away daily and an hour later they are back on the very same spot. Not even an hour. Five minutes.”
I avoid downtown like it is a quarantined sector. It is always packed, any day of the month, and there is always that likelihood of literally stumbling upon someone from a past you wish to forget and leave buried behind you. But this time around, I have no choice. I need to find this woman and squeeze the truth of why she is stalking me out of her.
The hawking business is huge in downtown Witbank, and because most of the hawkers are illegal immigrants in breach of municipal bylaws, they don’t have stalls. They pound the pavement with their wares in their hands for easier retreat and cowering should cops pounce.
Should you not find what you are looking for in the wares he is carrying, his fellow countryman pounding the pavement on the other side of the street will surely have it. If that too fails, then he will ask you to wait a moment, and he will stride a short distance to either a rubbish bin or the storm water drainage. He will fish out a large carrybag with the rest of his stock – merchandise storage vaults that even cops still know nothing about.
I spot her as soon as I turn out of Escombe Street. Dressed in tight jeans and a cream, sleeveless top, her dark skin glistens with sweat under the unforgiving sun. She has a demonstration bust on one hand and a weave on the other, and targets women passing on the sidewalk with a sales pitch that is more of a nag than anything else to some. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that most women opt to walk off the sidewalk and into the road, just to avoid her and the other traders altogether. The traders own almost every pavement and sidewalk in downtown.
“Nayi le wig oyifunayi, sesi,” she recites her pitch in a tell-tale Zim accent, as she blocks the way of one woman. “And ingakufanela kanjani. Only R350, sesi. This is real Brazilian. Elsewhere, you will pay R3500. Only factory prices la kimi mama.”
“No thank you,” says the woman, visibly annoyed, and tries to brush past her. She blocks her way again.
“At least try it on, ke,” she is so persistent she won’t take a NO for an answer.
“Excuse me,” I say, patting her on the shoulder. She turns around, a big smile on her face. Then the smile vanishes, replaced by appalled recognition. She takes a step back, preparing to bolt again.
“I know where to find you now, so running won’t help,” I tell her. “Who are you? What do you want from me? Why are you stalking me?”
She stares at me, now panting as if she has difficulty breathing. She suddenly seem utterly petrified.
“You really don’t remember?” she asks. “Mashonaland West, Zimbabwe, five years ago?”
“Nice try,” I retort. “I have never been to Zimbabwe. Not even Beit Bridge. Now tell me the truth. Who are-“
“Your life is in danger, Grace!” she cuts in, still panting. Now she looks as if she will break down and cry. Her eyes dart around, unsettled, as if she expects someone dangerous to loom out of the pedestrian traffic.
“What?”
“Nashitsevhe is looking for you.”
“Nashi who? What are you talking about …” I cut myself short, a terrifying realisation hitting home like a ton of bricks. “Nash? Why would Nash be looking for me? How do you even know that poor excuse for a human being? Who are you?”
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” she says, with genuine empathy in her voice. “My name is Abina Moyo. Do you remember the ritual at inyanga Kajengo’s homestead at Kariba Sbhilobhilo, in Mashonaland, five years ago? I was one of the maidens who helped during your cleansing.”
“Cleansing?” I ask, bewildered.
“You had to be cleansed, so you would be as pure as a virgin,” she persists, as if she assumed I understood the basics of what she is talking about. “To remove the souls of any man you have ever slept with.”
I suddenly feel dizzy. I feel her grabbing my arm as I tether on my feet. She sits me down on the pavement. I look up at her.
“I was in Zim?” My brain is still battling to process the abrupt influx of information about so many gaping holes in my past.
“You were in the heart of Mashonaland,” she says, rubbing my shoulder gently. She was still gazing around cautiously. “Grace, something went horribly wrong with that ritual. Nashitsevhe lost everything. He got terribly sick. Over the years he has brought many other girls to Kajengo, in a desperate bid to get his life back, his wealth and influence. It was all in vain. Kajengo kept telling him the same thing. He has to find you and bring you back. Do the ritual all over again. He said you are his key.”
“Me?” I ask, confused. “Just wait. How come you are here? Have you been sent to find me?”
She laughs. “No dear. I fled from that place a year ago. Kajengo wanted to make me his 13th wife.”
“That sick old bastard,” I laugh along with her, the light moment easing the tension. “Anita, what exactly did they do to me there?”
She sighs, and gazes afar. “Do you know what is ‘ukuthwala’?”
I feel my heart sink, and heave a deep breath. “That’s when these greedy bastards make blood sacrifices in order to get stinking rich. Is that what happened to me? I was a blood offering?”
“Not exactly,” she says. “Tell me, when was the last time a man asked you out on a date? Any man. Even a lowly, dirty homeless scum.”
I purse my lips, reminiscing. “About five years ago. Anyway, after the Nash incident, I made a decision to stay as far away from men as possible.”
She snorts knowingly. “Grace, you are a beautiful woman. Men would dig you up from under a Muslim frock. But they stay away from you because … you no longer have … that thing. It was taken away from you that night, and transferred to Nashitsevhe.”
“What? Are you saying I am cursed?”
“I am saying you are a hollowed out shell,” she says. “Everything that makes you a woman, not your breasts and vagina, but your core. Your aura. It is gone. Nashitsevhe has your woman’s aura.”
I chuckle in disbelief. “That’s nonsense.”
“Let me put it this way, and maybe you will understand what has happened to you,” she says, warming up to the subject. “Men would do anything for a woman. They would give you the moon if they could. Kajengo takes your core as a woman, and imparts it into the Nashes of this world. The business deals he keeps scoring? It is not because of his brilliance or unmatched business acumen. The powerful men in those boardrooms just can’t help it but dish out all the contracts to him. So year after year, he brings a beautiful woman to Kajengo, so his aura can be replenished.”
“How many women has he brought in the past, before me I mean?”
“I know of five, at least that’s the number of years I had been at Kajengo’s homestead,” she says. “Grace, he started doing this from a very young age. Early 20’s. I have seen many other men here in Witbank and in Jo’burg, who were regulars at Kajengo’s homestead. Each I see them with young beautiful women, my heart breaks, because after the ritual, the ladies are as good as dead. They become empty vessels, living for the sake of being alive. Like you.”
“Can’t this be broken?” I ask, out of pure desperation than anything else. “Surely, there must be muthi that can reverse -“
“You can’t,” she interjects firmly. “No inyanga or sangoma is as powerful as Kajengo. His spells are iron-clad.”
She is silent, pensive. “Except …”
I look at her, curious. “Except what?”
“There is another way,” she says, but seems reluctant to cough it up. “You have to kill him. You have to kill Nashitsevhe.”
Pause. Even traffic seem to be on mute.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult, because he is no longer as powerful and strong,” she says. “I saw him. He is here in Witbank too …”

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Page Turner Awards Is Calling On All Writers Aged Between 18 And 25

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The Page Turner Awards offers writers the chance to enter the first 10 pages of a completed, unpublished fiction or non-fiction manuscript, where a group of literary agents will read the work. Last year three writers won a literary agent, five writers won a publishing deal, and thirteen independent authors won an audiobook production.

This year, Page Turner Awards has five award categories namely, a Writing Award for unpublished, completed manuscripts, a Young Writer Award, for writers aged between 18 and 25, a Writing Mentorship Award, for uncompleted manuscripts, a Screenplay Award for scriptwriters with a completed screenplay and a Book Award, for authors with a published book, mainstream or independently published.

Of course, writers of all ages are welcome to enter of our other 4 awards, which are for writers of all ages.

Please share to any younger writers you know as we have several judges who are particularly looking to launch the careers of younger writers.

Learn More > https://pageturnerawards.com

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA CORPORATE INFORMATION

E-mail: info@publishdafrika

Call / WhatsApp: +2783 487 4440 or +2784 311 8838

Web: http://www.publishdafrika.com

Sign Up, Submit, Publish And Get Paid

That’s how easy it is to get paid for your poetry, prose or letter to the editor. Payments vary from $10 per line of poetry to $150 for prose, and you can submit your work throughout the year, as long as it is previously unpublished work.
What kind of work is Poetry Foundation looking for?
We examine all work received and accept that which seems best. We consider original works written in the English language as well as translations of poetry into English. We regret that the volume of submissions received and the small size of our staff do not permit us to give individual criticism.

Does Poetry Foundation accept previously published material?
No. We cannot consider anything that has been previously published or accepted for publication, anywhere, in any form. Work that has appeared online is considered to have been previously published and should not be submitted.

Does Poetry Foundation pay money?
Yes. Payment is made on publication at the rate of $10 per line (with a minimum payment of $300), and $150 per page of prose, for first serial rights. All rights will revert to the author upon publication. Authors will also receive two contributor copies of the issue in which their work appears.

How do I submit my work to Poetry?
As of July 2013, we no longer accept paper submissions. We now have an online system for you to send us your work. It will securely send our editors your work and e-mail you a confirmation that it has been received. When you are ready to submit, please visit our submission system at poetry.submittable.com. Your account will be set up during your first submission. There is no need to create an account beforehand.

Once you have submitted your work, you can check the status of your submission by signing into your Submittable account.

What file types can I submit?
Under the “Poetry” category, submit files in one of the following formats only:

Word document (.doc) files
Rich Text Format (.rtf) files
Text (.txt) files
Portable Document Format (.pdf) files
Word Perfect (.ppf) files
We now also have a “Visual Poetry” category which accepts the following: JPEG, TIFF, PNG, PDF, and Word document files.

Please note that submissions are limited to four poems (1 file), and should not exceed ten pages. Poems should be submitted in a single file, with poems separated by titles or page breaks. Please include all writer contact info on the first page of the submitted file.

When can I submit to Poetry?
We accept submissions year round. We ask that you do not make multiple submissions: please wait for a response to your submission before sending new work.

How soon can I expect to hear about my submission?
Out of respect for poets, we are doing everything we can to minimize response time. We will do our best to respond within seven months from the day of receipt, but are sometimes slower in responding. Please be patient! It is our goal to make sure each submission gets a good read. Adhering to our single submission of four poems or fewer at a time will help insure a timely response to your work.

Please ensure that you set your e-mail spam filter to allow mail from both poetryfoundation.org and poetrymagazine.org; otherwise notification regarding your submission may be marked as junk mail.

Do you still accept standard mail submissions?
As of July 1, 2013 we will no longer be accepting paper submissions.

Who can I contact if I’m having trouble using the online system?
Please contact Submittable by e-mail (support@submittable.com) or by phone: 855.467.8264.

Anyone contemplating a submission is encouraged to examine the magazine before sending a manuscript.

SUBMIT A LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Poetry is looking for thought-provoking responses to work published in the magazine, as well as letters that raise new questions about the state of contemporary poetry. To send us your letter, please fill out the form here.

If we choose to use your letter, we will notify you by phone. If you have not heard from us within two weeks of sending your letter, you may assume we will not be using it. All letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may appear online, in print, or both.
Go to http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/submit

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American Author Eve Fairbanks Speaks In Soweto

If you have always wondered what the book, The Inheritors: An Intimate Portrait of a Brave and Bewildered Nation, is all about, then your opportunity to pose questions directly to the author has literally landed on your stoep.
Author Eve Fairbanks will be at the Soweto Book Café, 1023 Mafumbu Street Zondi 1, on Saturday, 6 May. She will be chatting with Daily Maverick scribe Sipho Hlongwane about the book, which is set in South Africa, Meadowlands to be precise.
The book was published in the US last year and it has just been published in South Africa by Jonathan Ball. A dozen years in the making, The Inheritors tells the stories of three ordinary South Africans, trailing their journeys in a country still finding its footing after yanking the yoke of apartheid and white supremacy.
“The Inheritors is a story of three people – Christo, Dipuo, and her daughter Malaika – living through a time in South Africa that both afforded massive change and that often feels totally stuck, not moving fast enough,” said Eve. “Dipuo and Christo were born around 1970, and they were teens both fighting apartheid on different sides – Dipuo as an activist in Meadowlands and Christo as one of the last white men drafted to fight for the apartheid military. In 1992, on her twentieth birthday, Dipuo gave birth to Malaika. Actually, Malaika’s given name was Lesego, but when she was about four, she told Dipuo she wanted a different name. Dipuo told me she went to the requisite government office to change it because “I respected her.” That encapsulated a lot of the hopes around the “born free” generation–that they would have unprecedented opportunities to choose their lives or make them from scratch. These are the three main characters. I worked with them for many years, and I tried to portray them as seriously and intensively as journalists often portray a famous politician or musician. Because so many more people deserve that depth of portrayal.”
The book has been shortlisted for the PEN America Literary awards (non-fiction) and one of the Washington Post’s 50 most notable works of non-fiction for 2022.
“I’m a writer who’s been living in South Africa since 2009,” said Eve. “I left Washington D.C. to move to Cape Town, then Bloemfontein, then Thohoyandou, then Johannesburg after spending three years as a journalist covering the U.S. presidential campaigns for a political magazine.”
“I’ve been told this book reads like a novel, and I think anybody who loves Dudu Busani-Dube or Tsitsi Dangarembga or even Deon Meyer might love it. It has some tough material, as adults’ lives do, but anybody 16+ can read it. It took many years in part because that’s how long it takes to gather a fiction-like level of detail and intimacy with people who are real, rather than imagined. I also hope it’s a book for people trying to make sense of South Africa’s contemporary political problems and how those show up in their own electricity-less, often frustrating but also glorious lives. It really talks about what real people wanted out of 1994, the sometimes conflicting things they hoped for, and what they really want right now. It talks a lot about power, and why in South Africa, power can corrupt. And also, the people currently in charge of the government are “ordinary people,” too–they were forged in the same crucible as the book’s three main characters.”
The event will commence at 1pm, at Soweto Book Cafe. To RSVP, email mazibuko.thami@yahoo.com

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: Her Damages

Written by Bongiwe Chonco

I had always been mesmerised by his brown, muscular body. It was what had attracted me to him. The thought of his proud, handsome face had always put a silly grin on my face, but as I looked at him as we stood in my small hut, his handsome face illuminated by the dim candlelight, his manhood hanging limply between his legs, his face didn’t mirror any pride. In its place there was a confused and almost pleading look as we listened to my mother’s incessant knocks.

“Nomcebo, I said open this door right now!”

It had all started when I met Bhekifa Khumalo on my way to visit my aunt, who lived near his home. He had seemed to come out of nowhere, his tall, lithe body blocking my path. His brown face was smooth and handsome. He reminded me of those black and white pictures of Shaka Zulu I saw in my history books.

“Awu gege la gege, ntaba ziyangigegela, Dudlu,” he had said.

Even though I knew what his intentions were, I had feigned some sort of ignorance as was expected of a Zulu maiden. I had just turned seventeen and at the prime of my youth. Younger girls than I already had boyfriends, but I had been keeping myself pure for someone special. The minute he stopped me, my stupid heart told me he was the special one.

“Awu kodwa bhuthi please get out of my way,” I had said, trying to sound angry and uninterested. That day after praising my beauty, he had let me go on my way but had continued courting me afterwards until I could not hold back anymore and gave in to him. Months later, against my better judgement, we consummated our relationship.

It was after I had avoided going to uNomkhubulwane, a sacred event where the maidens are tested their virginity, that my mother found out about my relationship with uBhekifa, and that I was no longer pure. She had been angry at first. She beat me up a few times, all the while lamenting the fact that I did what I had done because I knew my father was gone.

“Had your father been still alive, he would have killed you, noNdindwa. What is this shame that you have brought on me, Nomcebo?”

My father worked in Johannesburg in the mines at the then kwa Teba, and had passed two years earlier due to a problematic heart. I had been the apple in my father’s eyes. He always used to say I was the most beautiful girl in our village.

“MaShezi, you bore me a beautiful princess,” he would say. “My girl will not marry a commoner; she will marry into royalty.”

My mother’s anger had subsided when she learnt that the culprit was Bhekifa, the only son and heir of Zenzele Khumalo who was our village Induna and closest confidante to our Chief. Zenzele Khumalo had a huge, round belly like a pregnant woman who was at the end of her last trimester with twins, and walked about with the use of a walking stick. It was not an affliction of some sort but this was an indication of his immense wealth. His kraal boasted of over a hundred herds of cattle and goats. My mother decided there and then that she didn’t mind to be related to such an esteemed and wealthy man. Though Bhekifa wasn’t from royalty, it was close and she would take what she could get.

As was customary, she had to take me to Bhekifa’s home to demand damages. She had invited my aunt and our neighbour, MaMthembu, to accompany her to the Khumalo homestead, but upon our arrival Bhekifa had vehemently denied sleeping with me, let alone taking my virginity.

“Bhekifa, so you say you don’t know this girl?” his father had asked looking at me, disgust scrawled all over his face.

“Mntungwa, yes I have seen her around, but I swear I have never touched her Baba,” he said, his eyes playing hide and seek with mine.

I sobbed and thought of all the times he had looked deep in my eyes while he was on the brink of orgasm, how he would contentedly sigh afterwards with his head cradled between my breasts and would profess how much he loved me, yet now he was denying knowing me in front of our parents.

“Yeyi wena mfana, are you saying that my daughter is lying?” my mother roared at Bhekifa. 

“MaShezi, MaShezi you are not going to shout in my house, Mameshane!” Bhekifa’s father said to my mother. For an uncomfortable minute they held a glaring contest between the two of them. Then in a low, threatening voice, he said, “You heard what my boy said. He doesn’t have anything to do with this girl, so please take your filth and get out of my house!”

He pointed towards the gate with his Iwisa.

My mother was the first to get up. I could see in her face that it was not because of the fear of Babu Khumalo’s iwisa. I know from stories told by my aunt that she and my mother used to herd their father’s cattle in their youth since my grandfather never had any boys, and so they would get into fights with boys in the mountains. My mother often came out victorious. This is how I knew it was not because of fear but because of anger, because of pure blinding rage.

“Kulungile we will leave, kodwa wena mfana, yeyi, ngithi yeyi uze ulibambe lingashoni!” my mother said to Bhekifa.

She cried unstoppably on our way back home. “Awu yeyi ngiyazisa mina, now I will be the laughing stock of this whole village. Nomcebo, I ask you again, what abomination is this that I won’t even get my umqhoyiso?” she kept repeating herself.

To say my mother was angry would be an understatement; she was livid and her dignity was bruised. I on the other hand was humiliated and heartbroken by Bhekifa’s denial of our love affair and more so, by the rumours that followed us of his impeding engagement to a girl from our neighbouring village. Unlike me, she was a virgin.

True to her word, my mother and I became the talk of the village. I was the girl who gave away her virginity to a ghost since Bhekifa had denied taking it, and my mother, the woman who had a loose daughter. I imagine that I was used as an example by mothers to caution their young girls about the dangers of sleeping with boys. Every time I passed a group of girls from my village, a chorus of laughter would follow me and then they would get on a song and dance.

“Uyozsholo wena, Uyozsholo wena, ukuthi why ubuntombi ungasenabo”, which loosely meant, You will explain it all to the elders why you no longer have your virginity.

When I questioned Bhekifa, he said that it was only because he feared what his father would do to him had he admitted to deflowering a girl. He told me he was being forced by his father to marry the girl and that he didn’t love her. He assured me that he was still very much in love with me and begged me to not tell my mother.

We resumed our relationship in secret, but that meant we couldn’t visit each other. My mother was watching me like a hawk. Days passed and my mind started working. I devised a plan. When my mother told me about a vigil they were to hold at a neighbour’s house that particular night, and my plan came together beautifully. 

I invited Bhekifa over and told him that my mother would be back the following day. We had missed each other so much. We both agreed that he would have to leave at dawn to avoid being caught. He was overjoyed.

That evening I heard his knock and opened for him. I brought him his bath water like I always did. After his bath I tidied up everything and picked his clothes from the floor, but as I went to hang them by my single bed, I mistakenly dropped them in the basin with the bath water.

“I’ll take them to the kitchen and leave them by the wood stove,” I said. “By the time we wake up, they will be dry.”

After we got in bed that night, I reveled at how his body could bring me so much pleasure even though I was so bitter inside. I had heard that the delegation had been sent to his future wife’s home, but what could I do because as they say, the heart wants what it wants. We pleasured ourselves until at last we slept in each other’s arms, spent.

At dawn we were jolted awake by my mother’s voice and her knocks.

“Nomcebo open this door, I know you are in there with that Khumalo boy!” she hollered. “You see today, this boy will know who MaShezi is. Open this door right now, Nomcebo!”

Bhekifa and I could hear that she was not alone; there were two other voices with her, that of my aunt and Mamthembu our neighbour, urging her on. 

Bhekifa got out of bed and paced around my small hut. He was beside himself with fear. Who wouldn’t be? He was caught with his hand right inside the proverbial cookie jar that he had denied seeing. The anger of the women outside was palpable.

“I need my clothes, Nomcebo!”

I explained to him that his clothes were a wet heap outside. I had forgotten to dry them.

“Awu Nomcebo, you have ruined me, my father will surely kill me today,” he said.

I caught him sizing up the window a few times, looking for an escape route, but my window was too small. I got dressed and went to open the door – only partially.

“Mama, please calm down,” I pleaded with my mother who was now threatening to break my door. Bhekifa was right behind me clutching a blanket to cover his body. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

“Open the door Nomcebo, that boy and his father were very rude to us and now he must come out and explain himself,” my aunt said.

 “All I need from him is to tell me what he is doing in my house, that is all,” my mother shouted angrily.

You could tell then that she was in her element; she had managed to trap her enemy. The neighbours who were laughing and gossiping about her would now be forced to sit down and take notes from her.

“Mama please, uBhekifa is naked. You cannot come inside.”

“Ihhehhe ntombi KaKatshana, so you are telling me that this boy is naked in my house, my house. Sister, are you hearing what I am hearing? Isn’t this the boy who denied knowing my daughter?” my mother asked, clapping her hands dramatically and roaring with sinister laughter.

“It is the same one, my sister.”

“MaMthembu, hurry and send for this boy’s parents,” said my mother. “Tell them to come get their dog and his mother to bring him some clothes. Oh, and tell that rude Khumalo to bring my cow for umqhoyiso and while at it bring another one to cleanse my house.”

I could feel Bhekifa shaking behind me. He was still hiding behind me like a scared little boy.

A devilish smile lingered on my face. I hadn’t known that revenge could taste so damn sweet. Bhekifa Khumalo had messed with the wrong women.

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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