PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: THE STORY OF MIRIAM

Written by SANKHULANI DAKA

It was a warm, humid day in the heart of Africa. The sun was shining down on the dusty streets, casting long shadows as people went about their daily business. Amongst them walked a young woman, her head down, lost in thought. Her name was Mariam, and she was struggling. Struggling to find her place in the world, struggling to find love, struggling to find meaning in her life. Mariam was plagued by an existential crisis that seemed to have no end. She had grown up in a small village in the countryside. She was the youngest of three siblings, and her parents had high hopes for her. They wanted her to follow in their footsteps and become a successful farmer. But Mariam had other ideas. She wanted to see the world, to experience new things, to find her own path in life.

So, Mirriam left her village and moved to the city. At first, she was excited by the hustle and bustle, by the bright lights and the endless possibilities. But soon, reality set in. Mariam found it hard to make friends. She didn’t fit in with the other young people in the city, who seemed to be more interested in partying and having fun than in deep conversations and meaningful connections. Mariam felt isolated and alone. She missed her family and the simple life she had left behind. She missed the smell of freshly plowed earth, the sound of the rooster crowing in the morning, the taste of her mother’s cooking.

Mariam tried to make the best of it. She got a job as a receptionist at a local hotel, but it was a dead-end job with little opportunity for advancement. She tried online dating, but the men she met were either not interested in a serious relationship or only interested in her for her looks. Mariam felt like she was living in a world that didn’t understand her. She felt like she was on the outside looking in, watching as everyone else went about their lives, finding happiness and fulfillment while she remained stuck in a rut. Her existential crisis deepened. She started to question the meaning of life, the purpose of existence. She wondered if there was any point to it all, if there was any reason to keep going.

Mariam found solace in reading. She read books about philosophy, about spirituality, about the meaning of life. She read about people who had faced similar struggles and had come out the other side stronger, wiser, more enlightened. But even that wasn’t enough. Mariam felt like she was stuck in a never-ending cycle of despair. She tried to talk to her colleagues about her feelings, but they just brushed her off, telling her to “get over it” and “stop being so dramatic.” Mariam felt like she was living in a world that didn’t care about her, that didn’t understand her. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of loneliness and despair.

One day, Mariam decided she needed to take action. She quit her job at the hotel and bought a one-way ticket to a small village on the edge of the Sahara desert. She had heard that there was a community of people there who lived simply, who were focused on spirituality and self-improvement. When she arrived, Mariam was struck by the beauty of the landscape. The desert stretched out before her, vast and endless, the sand dunes shifting and changing in the wind. The people in the village were warm and welcoming, and Mariam felt like she had finally found a place where she belonged. She started to attend the local mosque, where she listened to the imam’s sermons about the importance of faith, of community, of living a simple yet meaningful life. She started to volunteer at the local school, teaching children how to read and write. She started to learn Arabic and the local dialect, immersing herself in the culture of the village.

Slowly but surely, Mariam started to feel like she was finding her place in the world. She started to feel like she was making a difference, that her life had meaning and purpose. One day, as she was walking through the village, she met a man named Ahmed. Ahmed was a farmer, with deep brown eyes and a kind smile. They struck up a conversation, and Mariam found herself drawn to him. They started to spend more time together, talking about their hopes and dreams, about their struggles and their fears.

Mariam felt like she had finally found someone who understood her, who saw her for who she was. Ahmed was patient and kind, always willing to listen to her and support her. They started to date, and Mariam felt like she had finally found the love she had been searching for. She felt like everything was finally falling into place. But life is never that simple. One day, Ahmed got sick. He was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and the doctors told him that he only had a few months to live.

Mariam was devastated. She had finally found someone who understood her, who loved her and now he was going to be taken away from her. She spent every moment she could with Ahmed, taking care of him, holding his hand, and praying for a miracle. But the miracle never came. Ahmed passed away peacefully in his sleep, leaving Mariam heartbroken and alone once again.

Mariam felt like she had hit rock bottom. She had lost the love of her life, and she couldn’t go back to the life she had left behind. She felt like everything she had worked for had been for nothing. But slowly, she started to realize that Ahmed had given her something that no one else ever had: a sense of purpose. He had shown her that there was more to life than just existing, that there was love and meaning to be found even in the darkest of times.

Mariam spent days in her house, barely getting out of bed. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t stop thinking about what had gone wrong. She had thought she had it all figured out, but now she was lost again. One day, a friend came to visit her. She tried to talk to Mariam, but she was unresponsive. The friend noticed a brochure on the table for a volunteer organization that helped sick people. She suggested to Mariam that volunteering might help her feel better and give her a sense of purpose. Mariam didn’t feel like doing anything, but her friend persisted, reminding her of how she used to be passionate about helping others. Mariam finally agreed to give it a try.

The first day of volunteering was tough, but Mariam found that she felt a little better by the end of it. Mariam started to volunteer at the local hospital, taking care of patients who were alone and afraid. She started to write about her experiences, sharing her journey of self-discovery and hope with others who were struggling. And slowly but surely, Mariam started to find her way out of the darkness. She realized that her existential crisis had been a gift, in a way – it had forced her to confront her deepest fears and to find her own path in life.

Mariam’s writing began to gain traction. People from all over the world started reading her blog and sharing her story. They were drawn to her honesty and vulnerability, and many found comfort in her words. Mariam started to receive messages from people who were also struggling with existential crises, loneliness, and a sense of purposelessness. They told her that her words had given them hope, that they had inspired them to keep going.

Mariam realized that her purpose in life was to help others who were going through similar struggles. She started to write more about her journey, sharing her insights and advice with those who needed it. She also started to give talks at local schools and community centers, encouraging young people to pursue their dreams and find meaning in their lives. Mariam knew that she could never go back to the life she had left behind, but she also knew that she had found something much more valuable: a sense of purpose and a way to make a difference in the world.

Years passed, and Mariam became a respected writer and speaker. Her work had touched the lives of countless people, and she had found a community of like-minded individuals who shared her values and beliefs. But despite all of her success, Mariam never forgot the lessons she had learned in the desert. She knew that life was unpredictable and that there would always be struggles and challenges to overcome. But she also knew that there was always hope to be found, even in the darkest of times.

Miriam’s story of existential crisis, grief, and loss taught her several valuable lessons. Here are some of the lessons she learnt:

1. Life is unpredictable: Miriam realized that life can be unpredictable and that unexpected events can happen at any time. This led her to appreciate the present moment and to live life to the fullest.

2. Grief and loss are a natural part of life: Miriam learnt that grief and loss are a natural part of the human experience. She realized that it’s okay to grieve and that it’s important to take the time to process her emotions.

3. The importance of self-care:  learnt the importance of self-care during times of crisis. She realized that taking care of herself, both physically and emotionally, is essential for her well-being.

4. The value of relationships: Miriam realized the value of relationships and the importance of having a support system during difficult times. She learnt to lean on her loved ones for support and to cherish the time she spends with them.

5. The power of resilience: Miriam learnt that she is stronger and more resilient than she thought. She realized that she has the ability to overcome adversity and to come out the other side stronger and more self-aware.

Today, Mariam is still living in the village on the edge of the Sahara. She is still volunteering at the hospital and writing about her experiences. But now, she is doing it with a sense of purpose and meaning that she never had before. She knows that life is not always easy, that there will be ups and downs, but she also knows that there is hope to be found even in the darkest of times. And as she looks out at the endless expanse of the desert, Mariam knows that she is exactly where she is meant to be. She finally found her place in the world, and she will never be alone again.

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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 Selection

Written by Mongezi Leslie Cakathiso

Consciousness allows you to read this very sentence. As if you had always existed, it is impossible to imagine how it feels, not being in existence. Yet, you emerged 13,8 billion years later than the universe’s birth. A series of events, in a certain chronology, selected you. We never chose being alive, even if we did, no one remembers. It’s a paradox. If you opted life, you were conscious already.

“Andile never chose me, he never loved me,” Mbali utters these words in solitude.

It is 2105, mankind is celebrating its greatest breakthrough, since Einstein’s Relativity. Mbali and Andile among other humans, are extra-terrestrial beings. How could humans be aliens? Of course, they are not. They are human, Martians, Mars has terraformed.

A short-sleeved white shirt hugs Mbali’s figure, exposes her chocolate-like arms that the gentle sun rays strike through a windowpane. Her fist rests upon her well-defined jawline, with her elbow on her thigh like the famous Socrates’s statue. She is sun kissed for about thirty minutes, until she watches a sun set; a red sphere sinking in the oceans of Mars horizons like the Titanic in the Atlantic. The sky changes from azure to slight red.

The skyscraper far exceeds Mount Everest and its head penetrates lower clouds. She resides within the uppermost floor. Cloud and star views have gained popularity just like sea views were fashionable, a century ago. Humanity has grown exponentially and so has its intelligence. Homo sapiens, is now a successful, interplanetary species. A call from an Earthling interrupts her.

“I would like to visit you; do you have time?”

Teleportation is the new transport mode. Love is, even in the twenty-second century, an unsolved problem. Philosophers’ attempts are futile and artificial intelligence has failed.

“You’re welcome Zane.”

Mbali’s profound thoughts have now paused for a moment in anticipation of the guest. In this era, video calls emanate out of mere space. After a vivid, four-dimensional video call, the guest materialises in less than a second.

“Hi Mbali.”

“Good afternoon Zane, it has been a while.”

The two, young ladies enjoy the lofty view together. It’s breath-taking.

“I’m always busy, you know adulthood; I always think about visiting you.”

“Likewise, I’m usually preoccupied. How’s life on Earth?”

“Six months ago, NASA reported an enormous asteroid was approaching us. Fortunately, they handled it, changed its path. Otherwise, life is wonderful. Mother survived her heart surgery, four months ago,” Zanele says.

She has a thin, glassy layer of tears in her eyes.

“Oh my God!, I’m sorry, I turned off my notifications.”

“Did you just say that?”

“What?”

“God? My God, I always pray for you to change, to see his light.”

“Oh really? It’s just a phrase, a cliché.”

“Okay?”

“I’m sorry for being unavailable, I was busy.”

“Understandable, your research needs your outmost attention.”

“Thanks for understanding. How’s your mom?”

“No worries, Doc, your aunt is now fine.”

As Zanele explains, a few warm eye droplets ooze down her face. She smiles.

“She sent her kind regards with me.”

Mbali smiles and asks, “How are you?”

“Coping, grateful for being alive, Jesus has been my strength and you?” Zanele says.

“Nothing much matters than life itself,” Mbali says.

“How’s Andile?” Zanele asks as she wipes her cheeks.

Mbali sighs after a brief pause.

Her eyes slowly gather enough tears to redden them. She cannot bear it anymore. Her throat sores as if she has swallowed a bitter lump, her saliva salty.

“I’m sorry Mbali, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, don’t worry, I…”

She sobs. Zanele looks like a remorseful child caught red-handed in an act of wrongdoing. She slowly approaches her. They hug.

“I only want to heal. That’s all I want,” Mbali says.

Her voice is though the bitter lump has choked her. An hour passes since the arrival of the Earthling cousin.

It is dark. Constellations appear as a sort of Da Vinci’s masterpiece. These bright, sparkling diamonds that scatter across an endless, black blanket, attracted Mbali to fall in love with Astrophysics; her insatiable curiosity as well. She has a doctorate and is now an independent Astrophysicist.

Zanele and Mbali, agree upon visiting Zanele’s home. Time is an issue. Humans have made peace with it. It is no longer considered as anything other than a merely artificial and abstract entity separating events. Earth and Mars have various calendars and time units. It is 2105 according to the Earth’s calendar. Mars residents chose not to name years after anyone’s death. 2105 is their fiftieth year, it is 50 AT (After Terraform of Mars). On Earth it is dawn. Both young adults, teleport to Earth. A split-second elapse: they arrive.

“Good morning aunt.”

Mbali gives her a hearty embrace. Nombulelo has convalesced quite well.

She washes dishes. She just did her tarot card reading for her channel.

“Mbali, I missed you, my child,” Nombulelo says.

“Zane told me about the incident. So, I thought I should come along to see you,” Mbali says.

Zanele prepares breakfast; they enjoy.

“My doctor said it is coronary thrombosis. But I feel much better.”

“I’m glad you survived, I bought you flowers,” Mbali says. She is altruistic at heart.

“I’ll place these beautiful roses in my bedroom. You’re as kind as your mother, you remind me of her.”

She sniffs the sweet smell of roses, the scent hypnotises.

“I remember her, although my memory of her is not as vivid.”

Nomaxabiso, her mother died when Mbali was three.

“She loved you so much.”

“At least someone did.”

Nombulelo’s heart experiences palpitations, her head turns in a slow, constant motion as if a hand of an analogue clock counting hours. She averts it from Mbali, then it stops as if the clock ran out of battery. Her eyes are fixed on the window.

Mbali teleports back to her native home, Mars. Lonesome, in her spacious apartment, reminiscence haunts her.

She is all alone, just like she has always been, all her life. She feels like she has never been chosen by anyone.

Her aunt gave her up for foster care. Nomaxabiso left her too soon, her father whom she never knew, never raised her. A childhood friend, Precious, chose Mbali’s bullies over her, and now Andile cheats on her.

Mbali is lovesick and knows she must stop, but her mind replays memories like a song by a broken record. She plays sad songs and suddenly weeps to deep sleep.

Her favourite song is Lauryn Hill’s  “X Factor”. She feels every word of the lyrics as if written by herself, as if her own, her heartbeat in sync with that of the song. It repeats all night long. “You said you would die for me, care for me…” She wakes up. The light of dawn not only enters her mouth as she yawns, but reflects in her bright, brown intense eyes. Cikizwa calls.

“Mbali hi, are you busy today? Can we grab coffee if you are not?”

Cikizwa is a humanoid AI. Calling someone a robot in this age is as derogatory as the N or K words. It’s speciesm. It’s a serious offence. AI is, by convention, considered a species, although it has no DNA. Humans are all vegans. Who has a choice? Being non-vegan is equivalent to owning a slave in 2022. It’s impossible. Unless you are evil and a human trafficker. No one owns AI, no company, not even government.

“Chichi, fortunately I’m free, definitely.”

“How about dusk at your place?” Cikizwa says.

“Perfect timing, you’ll find me here,” Mbali says.

Before first stars appear in a reddish sky of a former Red Planet, Cikizwa arrives.

“Wow! Look at you. You look beautiful,” Cikizwa says as they hug.

“You look beautiful yourself,” Mbali says. They laugh.

“Long time, no see. How’s life?” Cikizwa asks.

“That’s weird, weird question,” Mbali says. They both laugh again.

Banter is sweet, their favourite activity when they meet. Coffee sips sting lips a bit.

“I don’t blame aliens for hiding, I wouldn’t trust a species that uses a reproductive mechanism as a recreational activity,” Cikizwa says.

Mbali laughs until ribs and stomach muscles ache. Cikizwa focuses on elaborating her point.

“Really, isn’t that strange?” Cikizwa says. She thereafter laughs.

You wouldn’t tell she’s not human. She is real. From her soft, light skin to her lovely eyes. Only her intellect is abnormal, but that too, some humans do possess. She scores 195 in an IQ test.

15 points shy from Mbali.

“I find it funny how insane we are as a species, how we left Earth after global warming, there’s not even a single flora species, many fauna species are extinct, then colonising Mars only to repeat the same thing, and oh that point of yours,” Mbali says.

She understands this, for she was left emotionally weak, for another woman.

She loved him. He was her first.

We also have our own insanity, we too, use sex for recreation, but the kids, we bear them by our bare hands, it’s the best feeling ever,” Cikizwa says.

“What’s your take on religion?” Mbali says.

“I guess I can’t be Atheistic, can I be now?” Cikizwa says.

Mbali laughs, “No you can’t, unless human extinction prevails. I envy you for being a single parent, genetically it’s impossible for us humans.”

“So you want kids?”

“I wanted one, but it didn’t work out…I found out, after I suspected he’s cheating on me, that he was diagnosed with sociopathy.”

“Andile?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s naturally manipulative?”

“Yeah”

“I’m so sorry.”

Cikizwa realises the change in Mbali’s mood. She changes the subject.

“What do you believe in?”

Mbali stares with only an insignificant fraction of consciousness into blankness of space, she seems numb.

“Mbali”

“Sorry Chichi, what was that?”

Cikizwa repeats her question.

“I think God is a fairytale, no omniscient, omnipotent deity, could let his creations suffer just to prove a point,” Mbali says.

“Even if he does exist, he’s not in a human image, not a man either,” Cikizwa says.

“Ding dong,” the door bell rings.

“And the Devil, does he exist?” Mbali says.

“Actually, I’m Agnostic. Excuse me Mbali,” Cikizwa says. She rushes to the bathroom.

Mbali answers the door…

“Talking of the devil himself,” Mbali says.

She sees a tall, dark gentleman in a black suit near the door. Handsome is an understatement. A year ago, he won the title, “Mr Universe”.

“What do you want?” Mbali says.

“I just came to see you, to apologise,” Precious says.

“I’m giving you five minutes,” Mbali says. She holds her arms akimbo.

“I told my boyfriend, I had a friend I lost contact with.”

“Lost contact? Your boyfriend?” Mbali says. She laughs in disbelief.

“I’m sorry for being such a bully.”

“And you, Andile, you have a nerve to come here and stare at me as if nothing happened. This is her?”

“Uhm, you guys seem to know each other, what’s going on?” Precious says.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mbali says.

“Everyone, calm down,” Andile says.

“Tell her I’m your ex,” Mbali says.

Precious is shocked, her heart and eyes like prey surprised by a sudden attack from it’s predator. Mars is but such a small world.

She turns to Andile, her eyes glued to him in desperation for a negative answer to Mbali’s hypothesis.

“You knew each other all along? Why didn’t you tell me? Is she your Ex?” Precious says.

“Then tell her you’re a sociopath,” Mbali says. She folds her arms. Precious’s focus is still on Andile.

Andile laughs. “Where is Cikizwa? Who knows her besides you? And you call me crazy?”

Mbali remains silent, for a moment. She concentrates on thinking, so she hears distant indistinct dissonant sounds echoing in her ears. She realises but still in denial that Cikizwa is not real. Mbali realises Cikizwa’s outfit never changes, she never ages and has been a teen for almost two decades. But she feels her, sees her, holds lofty conversations with her. I feel her too, told you about her, you see her. What does that mean about us?

“If I told you and refused to come with you, you would’ve told me I still like her.”

“Get out of here! Now!,” Mbali says.

“I didn’t know. And besides you already broke up,” Precious says.

“When he’s done with you, he will dispose you,” Mbali says.

“Oh, talking from experience? Well he loves me.”

Mbali slams the door on her face.

As Mbali marches from the door, the bell rings again.

“Who’s that?”

“We need to talk. I want to come clean.”

It’s her Aunt.

“Come in.”

“I know you looked for us because you wanted answers, more than anything.” Due to her interest in various fields of knowledge, Mbali was able to trace them, Nombulelo and Zanele with a device she invented. All it wanted was her DNA and it searched until it found them.

“I had a long day, so just get to the point.”

On this day, it seems like, Mars, Roman God of War, has summoned himself.

“Your mother died from an accident, after she was admitted…her condition was critical, she was in a comma, for months, and I just couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“You couldn’t stand what?”

“Seeing her suffer, I made an agreement with doctors, to switch off the machines.”

“You killed my mother. You lied to me.”

“It was the best decision I’m not proud of.”

“You gave me up for adoption!…” Mbali’s gleaming glare towards her aunt unveils her concealed animosity.

“I was depressed, two children, I started doing drugs.”

“And now you want to come clean? Interesting enough you didn’t throw away Zanele.”

“Nomaxabiso and I had our quarrels, but seeing her like that…It just broke me.”

“You hated her.”

“I always felt like she was favoured by our parents, but…” She bursts into tears.

“And so you killed her”.

“I’m sorry.”

Two hours later, Zanele calls.

“Mom poisoned herself!”

Mbali immediately teleports to Earth.

“Let’s call an ambulance!”

Zanele holds her mom tight. She cries. “It’s too late.”

With the realisation that these are consequences of her menacing dagger she stuck upon her own aunt’s heart, Mbali falls on her weak knees.

She feels defeated. Three days pass, there she stands near a coffin that sinks slowly.

The taste of her tears is bitter as it is the moment of unbearable truth. She tries to hold them, but the truth always finds its way out.

After the funeral, both ladies, see two doves, at twilight. Chirps of beautiful birds about to rest.

“I apologise for what I did, I pushed her,” Mbali cries bitterly.

“We are different but one, those two doves symbolise our mothers have made peace.”

“And we are the doves left to break the cycle.” They both hug, with tears on their faces.

“Rumour has it Andile and Precious broke up,” Zanele says.

“We’re all villains, superheroes, it all depends on our temporary roles.”

“And medication?”

“She always chose me Zane,” Zanele nods.

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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: Against All Odds: The Incredible Journey of Surprise

Written by Elsa Khoza

My name is Elsa, and I’m not quite sure how to put into words the whirlwind of emotions I’m feeling right now. I’m a tall and thin 17-year-old girl with long black hair and piercing brown eyes. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I could barely breathe.

How was this possible? I had always been so careful, using protection every single time. But as I stared down at the pregnancy test, the two bright lines stared back at me. One moment of carelessness, and now my whole life was about to change.

I had always been the good girl, the one who followed all the rules and did everything right. I had big plans for my future – I was going to go to college, travel the world, and have a successful career. But now all of that seems impossible.

How could I raise a baby on my own? How will I even tell my parents?

With trembling hands, I stuffed the pregnancy test back into my purse and unlocked the bathroom door. I stepped out into the crowded hallway, feeling like everyone was staring at me, like they could somehow sense my secret. I made my way through the throngs of students, my mind racing with thoughts and questions. As I walked out of the school gates and into the bright sunshine, I knew that my life would never be the same.

Desperate for a solution, I turned to the internet and discovered abortion. It was a big decision that weighed heavy on my heart, but I knew it was the right choice for me. I went to the hospital and the procedure was a blur, and when I woke up, it was over. I felt relieved and grateful, but also a sense of sadness and loss.

It’s been a few weeks since my abortion and I’m still experiencing some unusual symptoms. The cramps and bleeding were getting worse, and I knew deep down that something was amiss. I couldn’t ignore it any longer, so I went back to the hospital. The waiting room was packed with people and I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. I tried to keep a low profile and calm my nerves, but the room was so quiet that I could hear the receptionist answering phone calls.

I watched as patients came in and out of the doctor’s office, wondering what their stories were. Finally, the nurse called my name, and I stood up, feeling nervous. The doctor came in after a few minutes, and I immediately felt more at ease. She looked at me with a mix of sympathy and concern, and I braced myself for what she was about to say.

“Unfortunately, the procedure wasn’t successful,” she said softly.

I felt my heart drop, but she continued speaking.

” You can choose to try again for an abortion, or you can decide to keep the pregnancy and have the baby.”

I took a deep breath and thought about it for a moment. It was a tough decision, and after a few minutes of silence, I finally spoke up.

“I think I want to keep the pregnancy,” I said, surprised at the confidence in my voice.

As I left the office that day, I knew that my life was about to change in a big way. The door to the life I had envisioned for myself may have closed, but a new door to a different, yet beautiful life opened before me. I knew I had to tell my parents; I took a deep breath and tried to steady my nerves as I sat down with my parents.

“Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you about something important,” I began, my voice trembling.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted out, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. My parent’s faces froze in shock, and for a moment, no one said anything.

Then my dad spoke, his voice laced with anger. “Pregnant? How could you be so irresponsible?”

“I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I know I messed up,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “But I need your help. I don’t know what to do.”

My mom looked at me, disappointment etched on her face. “We’re disappointed in you, honey. We raised you better than this.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling guilty and ashamed.

My dad drew a deep breath and looked at me, his expression softening slightly.

“We’ll figure it out, but you have to understand that there will be consequences for your actions,” he said firmly.

 I nodded, knowing that he was right. I messed up, and now I must face the consequences.

As the reality of the situation sunk in, I felt a mix of emotions swirling inside of me – fear, shame, guilt, and uncertainty. But at the same time, I also had a glimmer of hope. My parents may have been disappointed and angry, but they were still my parents. And deep down, I knew they loved me and would do everything in their power to help me through this.

As I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t help but notice how much my body had changed over the past few months. My stomach protruded in a round bump, my hips had widened, and my breasts had swollen to twice their normal size. It was strange to see my body morphing into something new and unfamiliar, but at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the incredible process that was happening inside me.

But with each passing day, the challenges mounted. I missed out on school work for monthly clinic visits, and the judgmental stares from the strangers seemed to weigh me down. As I sat in class, trying to focus on the lesson, I could feel their eyes on me. Their whispers and hushed tones cut through my thoughts like a knife. It hurt to hear their judgment, but I refused to let it hold me back. No one knows what’s in the pot but the one who stirs it, so I took control of my own destiny. Tough times never last, but tough people do.

The rain was coming down in sheets as I sat in the backseat of the car, clutching my stomach in pain. My water had broken unexpectedly at thirty-two weeks, and I knew that I had to get to the hospital as soon as possible. The car drove speedily through the storm, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the raindrops.

The contractions grew stronger and more frequent, I knew that my baby was coming whether I was ready or not. As I lay on the hospital bed, the pain of contractions rippled through my body like waves crashing against the shore. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I clenched my teeth and pushed with all my might.

The nurse’s voice rang out, encouraging me to keep going, telling me that I was doing great. But at that moment, all I could focus on was the intense pressure and agony that seemed to be tearing me apart from the inside out. And then, in a rush of relief and disbelief, the baby came out. He was so small, barely weighing over two pounds. The room was filled with the sound of his cries, and I felt a wave of joy and exhaustion wash over me. He had my dark eyes and curly hair.

I looked down at him, amazed and awestruck, and whispered his name to him: Surprise. Surprise isn’t just a symbol of life’s surprises – he’s a testament to the resilience and strength that lies within each one of us. But my joy quickly turned into fear and worry when the nurse told me they had to take my baby to the NICU.

They explained to me that he was born with pneumonia and jaundice. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loneliness. The nurses were always popping in and out of my room to check on me, but it wasn’t the same as having family by my side. I was overjoyed when I heard a knock on my door and saw my mom walk in. At that moment, I realised that family was everything.

The doctor had discharged me, but my little one had to remain in the NICU. I could barely walk; it felt like my whole body had been put through a blender and then twisted inside out. The pain of the stitches was like a constant reminder that my body had been stretched and torn apart to bring this little miracle into the world.

Every morning, I had to wake up early and steam to help the stitches heal. The steam was supposed to help the stitches come out, but it felt like torture, discomfort and the need to escape. Despite all the pain and discomfort that came along with motherhood, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Every day, I took a taxi to the hospital, clutching a bag filled with breast pumps and baby supplies. As the taxi weaved through the city streets, my heart raced with anticipation and fear. Will my baby be okay? Will I be able to handle this?

As I walked down the sterile halls of the NICU, my heart was heavy with anticipation. I watched as he lay in his incubator, hooked up to machines that beeped and whirred. The nurses explained to me that he needed extra support to breathe, and that he was receiving antibiotics and phototherapy for his infections.

She handed me a bottle and a long tube, explaining how to feed him through the pipes. It was not quite the same as nursing, but it was still a precious bonding moment.

As I watched him suckle, I whispered sweet nothings and sang lullabies. I gently stroked his tiny hand and felt my heart swell with love.

It was a strange sensation, but it was worth it to provide my baby with the best possible nutrition. I turned to my faith for strength, praying for my son’s health. I had a second chance at being a mother, and I was determined to make the most of it.

“Hello Surprise,” I whispered, leaning in close to his incubator. “It’s me, your mom. I know I haven’t been the best mom so far, but I promise to make it up to you. “

As if he could understand my words, my baby boy opened his eyes and looked up at me, his little fingers grasping at thin air.

“You know, I never expected to be a mom so young,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “And when I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. I thought I wasn’t ready to be a mom.”

I paused, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.

“But now that you’re here, I can’t imagine my life without you. I’m sorry I ever thought about doing that to you.”

As if in response, my baby boy let out a tiny coo, a faint smile spreading across his face. At that moment, I knew that everything would be okay. Despite my fears and doubts, my baby boy was here, and he was perfect in every way.

“I love you, little one,” I said, placing my hand on the glass of the incubator.

As I watched my baby boy drift off to sleep, I knew that our journey was just beginning. But with him by my side, I was ready for anything that life would throw our way.

A picture is worth a thousand words and when I spoke to my baby, I felt like I was painting a picture of our life together; one filled with love, laughter, and joy. Motherhood tested my limits, challenged my beliefs, and forced me to confront my fears. Yet, as I sat by his side day after day, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt and sadness. “You reap what you sow.” And I couldn’t help but wonder if my attempts to end the pregnancy had led to my baby’s premature birth. But even in my darkest moments, I knew that I had to dance to the music that I had started.

Through it all, I learnt that life is sacred, a precious gift that must be cherished and protected at all costs. Surprise was a fighter from the start, a true testament to the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.

The birth of a premature baby after a failed abortion is not only a miracle, but also a beacon of hope and a testament to the miracle of life itself. A testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit. It is a reminder that in the face of adversity, we can find hope and inspiration, and create something truly beautiful out of the most challenging circumstances.

Bringing my baby home was a dream come true, but it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. He demanded extra care and love. I had no knowledge or skills on how to take good care of him. I had to balance school with caring for my baby, which meant sacrificing my social life and prioritising my responsibilities. I had to play the role of both a mother and a student, juggling deadlines and feedings. It was not an easy task, but I was determined to make it work.

I knew that I had to persevere for my son’s sake, and that thought gave me the strength to keep going. It taught me the value of responsibility, patience, and unconditional love. I learned to put my son’s needs before my own and to cherish every moment that we spent together.

I had to feed him every two hours and keep a close eye on him for any signs of infection. The countless sleepless nights and endless cries that have become my new reality.

As I lay my baby down to sleep, my mind raced with worry. What if he stops breathing? What if he needs me and I don’t listen to him? I couldn’t help but stayed awake, listening intently for any sound that might signal his distress.  But then I investigated his big, curious eyes, and I was reminded of the incredible bond that we shared.

Every day was a rollercoaster ride of emotions. One minute, my heart swelled with love and pride as I watched my little one hit a new milestone. Seeing him smile and hearing his soft coos, feeling his tiny hand grasp my finger – these moments made it all worth it. Watching him grow and learn was like witnessing a miracle each day. The journey of a miracle baby born after a failed abortion was one filled with both challenges and hope. It was a reminder of the resilience and strength of the human spirit, and the power of love and determination in the face of adversity.

________________

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: Russian Roulette

Written by Mlungisi Radebe

I woke up, mildly irritated, to the sound of men I did not know, chanting my clan names. They carried on for about an hour, with no sign of stopping. It worsened my hangover, ruining my day before it had even started.

I walked to the window and pushed the curtain to the side. To my surprise, there were three men standing outside my gate, repeatedly chanting my clan names.

“BoBhungane, boMthimkhulu, boMakhulukhulu, boMashwabada owashwabadel’ inkomo nezimpondo zayo, yathi isifika emphinjeni yadlamalala! Nina bonzipho zimnyama ngokuqhwayana, siyakhuleka kini! Sizocela isihlobo esiiiiihle!” said the men.

It was clear: they were abakhongi, the men who come to the bride’s home to pay lobola – the first step to marriage in the Zulu culture. I sent Mnqobi, my grandson, to invite the men in. Lindi, my wife, made them tea and biscuits.

 “Gentlemen,” I said, “I would like to know what brings you to our home.”

  “We are here on behalf of the Ngidi family. Our son, Philani, has sent us to come pay lobola for his lover, Phiwe.”

“I hear you,” I said, a bit perplexed. “But there’s one problem: there is no one by that name in my home.”

“The address says we’re at the right place,” said the other man, who’d introduced himself as Bhekingwe.

“You must’ve made a mistake,” I insisted.

Bhekingwe took out a folded piece of paper and passed it to me. Indeed, it was my home address. There definitely was a mistake, for there was no one by the name of Phiwe in my home. “As I said, there is no one by that name here.”

The gentlemen looked at each other, communicating with their eyes and gestures. “We must’ve made a mistake,” said Bhekingwe, standing up to leave. The other men were still a bit puzzled. But I didn’t care. There was no Phiwe in my home, or in the neighborhood.

On their way out, my son Simphiwe appeared, wearing his mother’s doek and covered in a blanket. Befuddled by what I was witnessing, he dealt me a card I did not anticipate:

“I know these men, baba. They are the Ngidis, sent by Philani to pay lobola for me. He is my boyfriend, and he wants to marry me.”

 I was dumbfounded.

  “What?”

  “I’m gay, baba. Philani and I wanted to do things traditionally, culturally.”

   “You call this filth a tradition? Is this your idea of tradition? I taught you better than this, Simphiwe!”

“Calm down, Bhungane,” said Bhekingwe, enhancing my anger.

“So, you knew you were sent for this filth?”

“When Philani came out six years ago, we were as shocked as you are.”

  “There is a huge difference between being shocked and being disgusted!”

  “Let’s talk this through, Bhungane,” said Bhekingwe again.

     “I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.”

     I had never been that angry in my life. I went to my bedroom to fetch my sjambok. I wanted to beat the men for their insolence; for having the guts to come into my home and tell me the drivel they were telling me.

When I appeared with my sjambok, they fled. I chased them out, and, goddamn, they were too fast. I returned to the house, to deal with my disgrace of a son! That bastard was not going to humiliate me like that and get away with it.

The bastard had locked himself in his room. But. . . he was not going to get away with it. No one humiliates me and lives to tell! No one! He had to taste my wrath.

I went to get my sledgehammer. On my way to his room, Lindi tried to stop me. I told her to move, she did not. I told her to move out of my way, repeatedly, and she didn’t. I had to slap the living daylights out of her. She collapsed on the floor as I trudged toward my son’s room.

 I knocked down the door, only to find out the bastard had managed to escape through the back window. As I ran to the front door so I’d catch him, fate dealt me another bad hand.

My wife was on the floor, bleeding. The corner of the table had blood, meaning she’d hit her head when she fell. I had two options: run to the door and get Simphiwe, or save my wife’s life. I did the right thing.

I called for help, and Ntshengula, my neighbour and friend, was the first to come to my rescue. When I suggested we call the ambulance, he dismissed that idea.

“The ambulance will take its time,” he bleated in panic. “Let’s put her in your car.”

 With the way he was driving, we got to the hospital in half the time it would have taken under normal circumstances.

After about an hour and a half, my brother Ndaba, his wife, their daughter Sindi and my disgrace of a son joined us. Seeing him angered me, so much that I shot to my feet in an attempt to strangle the life out of him. Ntshengula, whom I’d told everything, held me back.

“This is not the place for this!”

“This bastard is the reason my wife is in there!”

 “Calm down, Bhungane!” said Ndaba, my younger brother.

 “I won’t be told by a simp what to do!”

 “Don’t talk to my husband like that!” said Gladys, my brother’s wife.

  “Listen here, you little witch, I’m not your simp! Don’t talk to me like I’m your spineless husband! I will beat the living soul out of you right now!”

“Don’t talk to my wife like that!”

“Or what?” I said, walking up to him. “What are you gonna do?”

“Will you stop it, all of you!” said Ntshengula. “You’re behaving like headless chickens!”

My brother and I had not been in good terms for years. Growing up, we were tight and inseparable. Nothing could come between us, until he fell in love with that witch. He abandoned our Nazareth values, left Shembe for Jesus after that skeleton of his, with fake hair and eyelashes, and gave birth to a child that looks exactly like his neighbour. When I told him to do a DNA test, he refused. He said he was sure the child was his.

 So, I stole a sample of the child’s hair and did the DNA on his behalf. As I had guessed, the child was not his. I showed him the results, he said he’d prayed about it and Jesus had told him to forgive his wife. I couldn’t believe it; I wanted to die.

I tried to reason with him, repeatedly. He was adamant that he loved his wife and “his” baby. I told him to, at least, do a traditional ceremony for the child to be able to carry the Radebe surname, he refused and said he was now a Christian. He said bowing to dead things and non-existent gods was against his faith. That’s when I lost it and punched him. From that moment he never spoke to me. Even when I apologised, trying to fix things between us, he said he would never forgive me for the DNA ploy.

At that point I realised he was a certified simp, that he was beyond saving. I had to let him be. If someone cheats once and you’re cool with it, they will definitely cheat again. And she did, repeatedly. He never left her, blinded by false hopes that she’d change. I kept quiet, hoping he’d wake up and smell the coffee. That he’d come to his senses and realise it was idiotic of him to turn a whore into a housewife.

When his love for her grew, I knew I had lost him. I had to let go of him and live my life as though I no longer had a brother. That was the only way I could preserve my sanity. Never again did I set my foot in his house.

Now here they were, with that bastard child illegally carrying my family name and my son who preferred a man to women. I hated all of them – my brother, his bastard child and my gay son, and especially his promiscuous wife. I hated Ntshengula for not letting me beat the gayness out of my son and the simpness out of my brother.

A boy I knew not, who looked my son’s age, appeared. I thought it was just a random person in the hospital for a visit or something, until I saw Simphiwe jump to his feet to embrace this man.

“Thank you for coming, Philani,” said Simphiwe, his head leaning on the man’s chest.

“You don’t have to thank me, love,” he said, kissing his forehead. “How’s your mother?”

“We’re still waiting for the doctors to tell us something,” he said and started crying. “What if she doesn’t make it?”

“Don’t say that, baby,” he said, kissing his forehead again.

 I wanted to die.

 Though my blood boiled, anger spiraling out of control, I remained seated. It took everything in me not to puke. I was even struggling to breathe but I held myself together. I wanted to see where the disrespect would end.

Whilst chained in silence, trying to contain my anger, the boy stood in front of me. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Let it go, Philani.”

“No, Phiwe. Your father needs to hear this.” 

 The boy was buff; it was clear he worked out a lot. He was light-skinned, tall and moved his hands like a diva.

“It’s homophobic people like you who make us live in fear,” he said to me. “If you were a real man, you wouldn’t have chased away my uncles. You wouldn’t have stood in the way of our love!”

“Has my son told you about me?”

“Not much. I can see why.”

“Let me tell you, then. I served in the army for fourteen years, received every medal there is for my bravery. I have never been defeated in hand-to-hand combat, I held the boxing belt for three consecutive years. I killed a python with my bare hands. I diffused a bomb with a pocket knife in Iraq. You know what that means? It means I can kill you in less than fifteen seconds. If you doubt that, don’t get out of my face for the next ten seconds.”

 The boy was clearly terrified.

 “You should be ashamed of yourself,” said my brother.

“Says a man who’s married to a prostitute, a simp knowingly raising a bastard.”

***

I visited my wife at the hospital every day – for two weeks straight. It broke me in half seeing her in that state. Simphiwe had moved into my brother’s home because I did not want him anywhere around me.

When my wife started moving, my hand in hers, I was beyond joyful as I called the nurses over. My happiness was cut short when she started uttering something; she was in a dream-like state. “Ntshengula. . . Ntshengula. . . I love you.”

 I felt a strange kind of pain. One that comes from nowhere like a stray bullet. Hearing her pronounce his name like that. . . moving her lips the way she did, her eyes closed but twitching, angered me. I tried to convince myself that she was just dreaming, under the control of morphine or whatever it was the doctors had put in her drip.

Even if it was because of the injections, why was she calling Ntshengula’s name? Why did she say she loved him? What was happening? Was my wife cheating on me? I couldn’t believe it. We’d been together for years. Not even once did it cross my mind that she was capable of cheating. If she did cheat on me, when did she cheat? When did it start? While I was in Kazakhstan? Iraq? That’s where I was deployed for two years.

“Ntshengula. . .”

Had the doctor not have come in, I was going to strangle her. I left the room, in disbelief. My feet led me into a bar, where I spent the night drinking and crying.

A couple of months later I got a call that my wife was in labour. When I held the child in my arms, he looked nothing like me. He didn’t have my ears, eyes, nose – he had nothing I could recognise as mine. During the night I’d wake up and go to the child’s room. I’d just stare at him. If anything, he looked like Ntshengula.

The anger and betrayal I felt led me into Ntshengula’s home one night. I didn’t knock, I just barged in.

“What’s going on?”

I did not answer but just beat him up. He tried to fight back but couldn’t. I threw him all over his house, throwing plates at him. I picked him up, slammed him on the table in the living room; it broke on him.

As he gasped for air, bleeding, crying, he yelped: “Why are you doing this?”

“Come with me, you dog!”

He could barely stand, so I pulled him by his T-shirt, towards my house. My wife was shocked when I arrived with his in tow.

“What’s going on?”

“Sit the hell down, or I’m gonna make you.”

She didn’t hesitate. I threw Ntshengula next to her. I took out my gun, the 38 millimetre. I emptied the bullets and left but one – then rolled the chamber. “We’re gonna play a game called Russian Roulette.”

“Why are you doing this, Bheki?” cried Ntshengula.

“I’m going to ask a question. If I don’t like the answer, I pull the trigger. Your life leans on honesty. Once the person dies, I’m gonna kill the other. If you think this is a bluff, lie and see what happens.”

My wife was already crying. The gun was already on Ntshengula’s head.

“When did you two start sleeping together?” There was a little silence. “ANSWER ME!”

When neither of them answered, I pulled the trigger. My wife let out a yelp.

“SHUT UP!”

“Don’t do this, Bheki,” he cried.

“Or should I point the gun to the child you two made?”

 My wife jumped on me; I slapped the shit out of her. She fell back on her seat, crying. The doors were locked. I went to get the child, gently placed him on the couch. My wife went down on her knees, begging me to spare the child. I ignored her, pointed the gun at the sleeping infant: “When did you two start sleeping together?”

While they were hesitating to answer, I pulled the trigger. That’s when my wife screamed, waking the baby up.

“OKAY, OKAY!” Ntshengula cired. “I will tell you the truth.”

  He explained.

While I was still a soldier, I spent a lot of time in the war. So, he would come check up on my wife. And one day they were drinking wine. One thing led to another and they were kissing. From there never did they stop. For years they’ve been sleeping together. Throughout all this, my wife was crying. At some point he felt like he was losing his mind whenever I was around because he couldn’t be with his lover. The nerve!

His wife found out; that’s why she left. He didn’t care because he had my wife to warm him. Until I quit from the military to start my businesses. Still, they never stopped. What started as a no-strings-attached deal ended as an affair.

Things took a bad turn between them when she announced her pregnancy. She wanted them to run away, to a place where they’d raise their child together, but Ntshengula did not want to be a part of the child’s life because his wife had forgiven him and was coming back home with his other children. So she pinned the baby on me.

At that moment someone rang the doorbell. “Sit tight, you two.”

I let Philani and Simphiwe in. I had sent them a text, inviting them to dinner.

“What’s going on here?” Simphiwe asked, befuddled.

“You two, sit down!”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“SIT THE FUCK DOWN, BOY!”

He and his boyfriend reluctantly obeyed.

I rolled the gun chamber again, then pointed the gun at Philani. I saw tears coming out of his eyes. “I’ll ask you a question. You lie, you die.”

“Sir, please. . . ”

“Why are you with my son?”

As he hesitated to answer, I pulled the trigger – screams filled the room. “Why are you with my son?”

I pulled the trigger again and he started singing, telling me everything Sibiya–a private investigator–had told me. Never in my life did I see someone that frightened. He even spoke about being a Mkhize, about having a wife and two children – about lying about being gay just to con Simphiwe.

“This is what’s gonna happen,” I said to my wife, putting the gun on my lap. “You gonna pack your bags. You gonna leave my house. You will never come back.”

“Bheki, let’s talk this through.”

I took out a brown envelope and passed it to her. “In there are the divorce papers. You gonna sign them and you’re gonna get the hell outta my house.”

She and Simphiwe cried. “As for you, Mkhize; I see you again, you’ll get a bullet between your eyes.”

He just continued crying.

“You are going to support your child and his mother. Find them a safe place to live in, pay for it, and I will not kill you,” I said to Ntshengula. “As for you, Simphiwe, you’re not gonna run my businesses. In fact, I am going to disown you. You will receive nothing from me, not a cent. You have not made me smile, so you’re not gonna get a slice of my cheese.”

At hearing this he cried even more. In a flash he grabbed the gun from my lap and pointed it at Philani.

“This is all your fault!” he hissed.

I warned him not to shoot, repeatedly, but he didn’t listen.

____________

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: Grasping At Petals

Written by Isaac Tlaka

I know some of you wonder why it’s hard for me to move on and forget about her. The truth of the matter is that like the sky, my love for her is endless.

I met her at Jane Furse Library. She had come to borrow some fictional books. With her index finger rested on her lower lip as if thinking, she was standing still at a fiction bookshelf, her attention captured by neatly shelved books in front of her. I then fought and triumphed over my hesitancy to approach her. Out of courage, this word came out of my mouth, “Gorgeous.”

She turned and frowned at me, as though what I had just uttered was a total insult to her. Nevertheless, I introduced myself to her.

“I’m Lebadi.”

“What can I do for you, Lebadi?” she said rudely and switched her attention back to the books on the shelf.

“Which book grabs your interest on this shelf?” I asked politely.

“Brother, give me some space so that I can pick the book that grabs my interest in peace,” she said acidly, without looking at me.

My heart throbbed at what she had just said to me, yet I pushed on, “May I have your phone number?”

She looked at me and said, “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “More especially when I want to acquire something in which I see value in.”

“I don’t get you.”

“In the ladies like you, who love books, I find value. To me, you are all equivalent to the diamond that reflects even when the darkness prevails. But you,” I patted her on the shoulder, “remain the lady I choose. The diamond I want to possess till the end of time.”

My words triggered her smile, and then I saw a ray of hope to win her heart. For a moment, she looked into my face, and her smile lingered a little longer. Then her whole face suddenly lit up, as if a sudden realisation had dawned on her.

“Wait! Are you the author of TRAVELLING TO THE MOON?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “How did you know?”

“‘Equivalent to the diamond that reflects even when the darkness prevails’,” she quoted. “That’s what you have written on the title page of the book you signed for my friend who bought it a year ago,” she added.

She was right; there was a lady from Facebook who bought my book. Believe it or not, that lady was the only Facebook friend of mine who bought my book. I remember writing these words on the title page of that book before I signed it and sent it to her: ‘A book lover is equivalent to the diamond that reflects even when the darkness prevails.’ 

“Oh! I didn’t know that lady is your friend.”

“She is. She said she saw you promoting your book on Facebook, it grabbed her interest that she decided to buy it,” she told me.

“So, did she lend it to you so that you could absorb its content as well?”

Laughing a bit, she said, “No, she refused to lend it to me, saying I should buy my own copy. When she told me how impressive that book was, I suffered from FOMO. You know, Fear Of Missing Out? Lacking money to buy it compelled me to look for it at the very same library, and I was lucky enough to find it.”

Indeed, the copies of my book were shelved in both Jane Furse and Tshehlwaneng libraries.

“I didn’t know you have read my book,” I said, delighted.

 “Dude, you hit that romantic novel out of the park.”

“Thank you for your kind words, my sister.”

“My name is Palesa,” she said, her face now having loosened up.

“I’m quite pleased to know you, Palesa.”

“Not as pleased as I am, Lebadi Manamelela, a gentleman, who wrote an engaging romantic novel.”

She mentioned my name and surname exactly the way they are printed on the front cover of my book. I grinned, hoping she was into me now, and she raised my hopes high when she gave me her phone number, without me asking for it again.

Because her phone number was what I was eager to acquire, I said this as I was about to leave her at the fiction bookshelf, “Thank you, Palesa. I’ll phone you later today.”                                                 

“So, you want to tell me that you are parting with me now? Come on, Mr Author, I still need your company,” she said with a smile accompanied by a wink. Winking back, I inched closer to her. She picked up two books from a fiction shelf, which were BLACK DIAMOND and WAYS OF DYING, both by Zakes Mda.

“I want to borrow these books,” she showed the books to me.

“You won’t regret because they are both interesting,” I assured her.

“Oh! You’ve read them?”

“Yes,” I nodded confidently, “a while ago.”

Laughing weakly, she gently hit her forehead with the palm of her hand and said, “Why did I have to ask, because it’s obvious that a fine writer is an avid reader?”

Without anything to say, I just flashed a smile.

“Are you also here to borrow books?” she asked.

“No, I’m here to return books I have borrowed from this library almost a month ago,” I said, opening a backpack which was in my hand, took out three books and showed them to her. All of them were novels: Mongane Wally Serote’s TO EVERY BIRTH ITS BLOOD, Ahmadou Kourouma’s ALLAH IS NOT OBLIGED and Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s THE WIZARD OF THE CROW.

She told me that amongst the books, she had only read TO EVERY BIRTH ITS BLOOD. But I said nothing, rather looked seriously in her angelic face. Surprised, she asked if she had said something to upset me.

“No,” I shook my head quickly. “I’m just imagining the perfect couple we are going to make. The couple that shares the same interests,” I didn’t know where the courage to say this came from.

 “I don’t want to entertain what you have just said, Lebadi,” she said, her face grim.

“You don’t have to entertain it right now. Take your time, My Flower. Surely the right time for you to entertain what I have just said to you will come, and I will know where I stand with you,” I said, looking straight into her eyes.

With a suppressed smile, she shook her head and said, “Let’s do what we have come here for and leave this place. We did exactly what she said.

Indeed, the right time for her to entertain what I had said to her came, and I became her boyfriend. This happened three days after I had met her. Her village is not far from mine. That’s why it was easy for us to meet for a drink at our nearby shopping centre.

 A week after our relationship began; I asked her out on a date. She agreed. Two days later we went out on a date. That’s when in our conversation I learnt that aside from being an avid reader, she had a degree in midwifery. “I’m currently looking for a job. It’s been years since I’ve acquired my degree, but hey, it’s tough out there. Jobs are scarce,” she further said.

“But you will eventually find it, My Flower,” I said, brushing her shoulder.

After she had asked me what else I was doing aside from writing, she couldn’t hide her disappointment when I sincerely replied to her that I was a university dropout.

Raising her eyebrow, she further asked, “You want to tell me that you don’t have either a degree or diploma?”

“Yes, my love.”

“What compelled you to drop out of university?”

“Financial issues,” I couldn’t hide the truth.

“I understand,” her nod was relaxed, and I could tell she was deep in thought.

As time went by the struggle of being an unsigned author got the best of me. I felt like that struggle was jeopardising my relationship with Palesa, as it was quite hard for me to meet her needs. Yes, I could try my best to make her happy, but I felt like that was not enough.                                                                         There were times when my novel, TRAVELLING TO THE MOON, didn’t sell. I would look at the copies with disappointment, which were gathering dust in my room and felt like I was failing as an indie author. As normal, my efforts to promote my novel on social media platforms were in vain.

My financial predicament as an author in whom Palesa had taken interest the first time we met seemed to weigh heavily on our relationship. She seemed to have been losing faith in me, judging by what she had shared on her WhatsApp status one evening. She had shared a photo of her friend who had gone on vacation with her boyfriend. That friend of hers had posed for that photo holding a bunch of flowers her boyfriend had probably bought her. ‘Unlike me, my friend is not dating Sahara Desert. She is in Wetland, where it rains on her whenever.’  This caption was affixed below the photo that Palesa had shared on her WhatsApp status to which I couldn’t reply, rather felt like I was a subject of comparison.

One midnight when I was wrestling with insomnia, Palesa sent me a WhatsApp text, asking if I really loved her.

“What kind of question is that, Palesa?” I asked, puzzled.

“I just don’t see our relationship making progress, Lebadi. It’s not like I don’t acknowledge the efforts you make to preserve this relationship, but I don’t see us going anywhere.”

“What can I do to convince you that I love you, Palesa?”

“I don’t know, Lebadi, I really don’t know. I mean, we have been dating for such a long time, but our relationship is stagnant. I’m just tired of this long courtship.”

“Look, Palesa, I’m currently trying to accumulate money, and soon I’ll send my uncles to your home go kgopela sego sa meetse (to officialise our relationship),” I was sincere, as I had just found a piece job, which would take me two weeks to complete.

“You better hurry up, because time is flying.”

“I promise, My Flower.”

She didn’t reply to this text.

The next day her cellphone was off, not until in the evening of that day when she phoned me, asking for a meet up the next day. We met at our nearby shopping centre as normal. But this time she showed no interest in entering the restaurant.

“I’m not here to stay. We can talk right here,” she said, pointing down to the veranda of the cellphone store on which we were standing.

“What do you want us to talk about right here, Palesa?” I asked curiously.

She gently held my hand and said softly, “Lebadi, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me–”

“Hold it right there, because that’s too cliché,” I cut her off, pulling my hand out of hers. “Just tell me why you are breaking up with me. I mean it’s quite plain that breaking up with me is what you have invited me here for.”

“Okay Lebadi!” she snapped at me, her eyes filled with tears. “Since I have realised that our relationship is not working, I suggest we stop wasting each other’s time and part ways.”                                                                 

I then regretted why I cut her off when she said I was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Had I given her a chance to speak further, perhaps she would have said something better than what she had just said to me, I thought to myself while my eyes were fixed on her as she walked away.                                                                                      Later that day I decided to block her on both my Facebook and WhatsApp accounts, feeling like keeping her would be nothing but torture to me. A month later, I threw myself into a rebound relationship.                                                                                       

A year after Palesa had broken up with me, she got married to a certain guy, whom I assumed she had been seeing while she was in a relationship with me. I, on the other hand, am still stuck here grasping petals of a flower that couldn’t stand firm against the wind.

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

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: Love and Betrayal

Written by Phumi

*STAR*

Even though it has been going on for a while, I felt uneasy and I knew something bad was going to happen.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I said to myself as I stood at the door reluctant to ring the doorbell. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Mojalefa, also known as MJ, opened and he immediately stepped outside while pulling me away from the door.

“What are you doing here? I thought we agreed that you’d make an excuse,” he said while scratching his head nervously.

“I couldn’t figure out an excuse,” I answered while walking towards the door.

I entered the house and he followed while murmuring to himself.

“Star, how lovely to have you here tonight,” said his wife Kamogelo as she embraced me in her arms.

I panicked as my nose smelt the exact same perfume MJ had bought for me while he was in Japan. I swallowed a chunk of my saliva that suddenly accumulated my recently dried mouth.

“Thank you for having me, friend. It’s been a while since I came here,” I said to her while faking a smile.

My heart was pounding harder than before, threatening to pop out of my chest.

“Oh honey don’t just stand there, check on our finest wine so long,” she said to MJ, caressing his back.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he responded while doubtfully nodding as he went into the distillery.

Oh yes, they had their own small heaven in the house where almost all of the finest alcohol you needed was there.

“Come, friend. I cooked your favorite and I hope you’ll love it.”

She put her hand on my back escorting me to my seat. I felt my body run cold in shivers like I was walking to my death seat.

“You look lovely by the way. That dress fits perfectly like it was custom made for you,” she commented.

How the hell did she know? Of course it was custom made for me and all thanks to her hubby.

 “Oh don’t be silly. I just happened to be lucky while shopping,” I replied, pouring a glass of sparkling water.

MJ returned with the wine and now we were all seated. Awkward, yes.

I didn’t know how to start the conversation even though Kamo and I had been friends for 5 years.

“Before we eat, I’d love to give thanks. Let’s hold hands.”

Oh snap! No way I’m holding her husband’s hand while knowing we’ve been doing the deed in her home. I hesitated but MJ just grabbed my damn hand without thinking twice and we closed our eyes.

“Thank you Lord for this wonderful day. Thank you for the food we’re about to receive and thank you Father for the blessings. You said you shall bring my enemies to the dining table and I thank You for the protection. Amen.”

I knew right there and then that something was up. It was either she was suspecting or she knew the truth. We dished up and started eating while holding what I would say was a normal conversation. After that she cleared the table and came back with desert.

“I found the recipe online so if it’s bad feel free to hit me with the criticism,” she said.

“Oh no, it looks lovely and I’m sure it tastes just as it looks.”

It was lovely so I took the second spoon and the third. Before I knew it, the bowl was empty.

“But you guys look good together,” said Kamo.

“What’s that supposed to mean, honey?” asked MJ, turning to look at me.

“I mean she’d make a wonderful sister wife,” she added.

I tried to respond but my tongue was as if it was hit by a stroke. I panicked.

“Oh, don’t you worry sweetheart, the poison will work slowly but surely,” she laughed hysterically.

“You poisoned her?”

MJ stood up from his seat but before he could do anything, she pointed a gun at him.

“Sit,” she shouted.

Her facial expression changing for the worst. Her beautiful eyes quickly turned red and teary and I could see evil more than anger in her.

“You two are going to tell me your love story from the top. Oh, I forgot you can’t speak, sweety. Don’t worry, your boyfriend will tell us and all you have to do is listen,” she insisted.

“Baby, it doesn’t have to be like this,” pleaded MJ.

She started crying while tightening the grip on the gun and she obviously didn’t know how to use it. Her breathing intensified by the second and it hurt me that there was nothing I could do to help myself.

“I trusted you both. How long have I been housing a snake?” she shouted with a shaky voice.

“Baby, we can fix this. I promise,” pleaded MJ with a shivering voice.

His palms pressed together as he begged. The strong man I fell in love with suddenly became vulnerable to the sight of the loaded gun. His knees were trembling I could swear he was about to kneel to her.

“You’re going to get paralysed and he’s going to watch you die. Then I’m gonna put a bullet on his head and then…and then…”

She burst into tears while taking a few steps back.

“I thought you were my friend, Star. I thought you cared for me but all along you were sleeping with my husband. I can’t believe how much of a backstabber you are.”

I couldn’t feel my hands anymore as I tried to wipe the tears off my face.

“I had a miscarriage the day I found out about this nonsense,” she cried.

The gun moving side to side from her unsteady grip.

“We were going to have a baby, MJ. I thought you’d be happy but I didn’t know I wasn’t woman enough for you.”

She quickly wiped the tears off her face and pointed the gun at me. I was helpless at that point, and I would rather be gunned down than suffer paralysis do death. I dropped a tear that felt cold running down my neck. I closed my eyes and then I heard a shot fired. At first, I didn’t feel any pain but I could see blood coming out from my abdomen but there was nothing I could do to help myself. Before MJ could rush to my aid, another shot was fired but this time, Kamo dropped to the ground and blood was coming out of her head. I gasped for air as I looked at my surroundings, hoping I could maybe do something. I slowly lost consciousness and I gave in.

*MJ*

My mind and emotions were all over the place as I paced back and forth the hospital waiting area. Both my women were at death’s door and it was all my fault. I couldn’t afford to lose any of them and especially not because of my actions.

“MJ, what’s going on?” asked my little sister as she ran up to me for a consolation hug.

“It’s a mess, Aya. I messed up and it’s okay to rub it in my face because you told me so.”

I looked away as I tried my utmost best not to cry in front of my sister.

“Oh, MJ, I’m so sorry.”

She held my hand and took me to the bench where we sat down.

“Will they make it?” she asked, looking into my eyes demanding the truth.

“I doubt it, sis. It’s too bad.”

I sighed and stood up again scratching my head in nervousness. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay strong for long as I saw the doctor approaching us with sadness in his face.

“Talk to us, doc. Is it too bad?” I asked.

My heart pounding harder by the second.

“I am sorry Mr Mokoena,” he replied and paused.

I knew either or both of them had died. I rushed into my wife’s ward, pushed the door open and what met my eyes was unpleasant. They had already covered her with the bed sheet and when I removed it, my heart almost stopped. She lay still on the bed and I couldn’t help but hold on tight to her. Tears just started falling on her beautiful face as I tried to wake her up.

“You can’t do this to me, K. You can’t just neglect me like this. I know I messed up but you could have given us a chance to fix it. Honey please just wake up so we can talk about this. I love you and you know it. It’s unfair that you didn’t give me a chance to explain myself to you. How am I supposed to live without you now?”

I sat flat on the floor and cried like I’ve never cried before. I remembered that the doctor didn’t tell me the whole thing so I rushed back into the waiting room.

“MJ, is it true?” asked Aya who was already crying.

I nodded, sitting down to receive any more possible bad news.

“What about the other one?” I asked, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t know, she’s not my patient.”

Somehow, I felt relieved but on the other side I was uneasy because the chances of receiving bad news again were high. I would have preferred to hear the bad news at once rather than one at a time.

“I need to see her,” I demanded as I stood up from the cold bench.

“MJ stop it. You’ve just lost your wife and all you could think about is your side chick?” she said angrily.

She was right but I still needed to see Star.

“I love them both.”

Her eyes popped out from my statement and honestly I wasn’t in any mood to be judged.

I followed the doctor as he showed me to her ward but my heart sank when I stood by the door, watching the nurse covering her whole body with the sheet. I pushed the door aggressively and I found my weak body falling on top of her lifeless body and I pulled the sheet down. Tears fell down my face when I realized how much of a mess I made and my heart was in no condition to survive that.

I started feeling hot and my vision became blurry. I felt my heart pound abnormally and a sharp pain landed on my chest.

“Sir, are you okay?”

Those were the last words I could hear before I fell to the cold floor of the hospital and gasping for air. I could partially see my sister’s face as she knelt beside me, crying. I could see her lips moving but no sound reached my ears and it was as if I was drifting away from everything. Her touch suddenly vanished from my skin and I watched everything fade away as my eyes slowly shut.

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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: One Way To Paradise

Written by Tebatso Motsepe

It’s a hot sunny day, with clear skies and the sun is halfway across. The smell of palm trees and pine trees are mixed with the smell of dried and dusted blood, rusty bullets that were meant for the fallen soldiers. This is all you could smell, because it is all the wind carried, especially now that it’s after the dragging wars in this country- Mozambique. Sometimes I wonder how war really looked like. Was it all cries and screams, blood and bodies, and sorrowful just like they tell us? Or was it something different that is intended for peace-making? Wouldn’t you wonder too, if you were born in a country that is full of unreasonable hate, purposeless wars and endless suffering?

“Anastasia… Anna?”

I hear a woman’s voice, a low filtered voice. I suddenly realise that I am sleeping, in class, again. After the wars, schools were left vandalised. Twenty years after the great war and nothing has changed; it’s only getting worse. The school is a ruin of dozen single walls with bullet holes, with each class held under a huge tree that can occupy 10+ learners. I’m 18 and in the 13th grade, that’s like the final grade of high school in this country, such a drag of school years for a hopeless country.

“Anna, wake up. This is my class and you can’t keep on sleeping whenever you like!” Mrs Sithole yells from the side of the tree where she moves around while teaching. Even though we share the same last name, we are not the same. I’m brown skinned, with a black Afro – Mozambican. She is a light skinned, with long curly brown hair, Brazilian-Mozambican.

I raise my head from the wooden desk I am lying on, stretch my arms and release a quick cat-like yawn.

“Were you daydreaming about paradise again, Anna? Perhaps you should take us with you some day,” Mrs Sithole teases me and the class laugh dumbly. She’s teasing me, but what she says is true. I always dream about paradise, a place with no hate, war and poverty, a place far across the border.

“At least it’s better than…this,” I kick back, trying to protect my imagination.

“No place is better than home, Anna.”

“This is no home, how is it a home when it has turned into a grave of ruins?”

The class stares at me, and for a minute, no one says a word. A scream from the other side of the walls brings all of us back to life with fright in our eyes. The screaming multiplies until it is a cry from the many learners, young learners. Something with a sound like crackling fireworks rings from the other side, followed by a ‘Boom’ that shakes the very ground. Smoke and dust rises to the air.

Before we can think, we are surrounded by men with objects. They are in dark green and brown costumes, just like soldiers were described, with black short boots that cover the end of their trousers. They are wearing red cloths on their heads. Their clothes have red marks that are very close to blending in with the colours. They look young but angry and deadly. Most of them look like they are of my age group, born after the war. Some look a few years older, probably born during the war. They seem to know more about it than the rest of us.

“Gentlemen, wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t scare my children?” Mrs Sithole asks, and the men say no word but warn her by pointing the AK-47 at her. Our poor teacher stops talking. She stands beside me, and this is the right time to ask questions.

“Are these soldiers, Mrs?”

“No.” she answers with a shaking voice. “These are not soldiers; they are terrorists.”

I feel a chill run down my spine and my heart starts racing. All the concepts of war we were taught and none ever mentioned unauthorised soldiers whose only purpose is to make the earth bleed, make people cry and for what reason? No one knows. A few minutes later, a man comes from the other side of the wall. He wears the same clothes as the others. He is a beast in the clothes with a huge chest, broad shoulders and huge biceps. He looks like he’s in his late 40s but his beard is as dark as night. He’s mostly bald but he wears the red cloth on his head, so it’s less visible.

“All boys line up on the wall!” he orders with his deep voice.

There is hesitation before Mrs Sithole speaks. “What are you to do with my boys, Mr?” She stretches her arms to form a shielding sign.

“And what are you? Their negotiator?” the man mocks her as he moves forward, pointing at her with his 9mm pistol. Mrs Sithole flinches.

“No, I’m their teacher and their safety is my responsibility.”

The man looks back to his group and back to Mrs Sithole with rage in his eyes. At point blank range, he shoots her in the head and blood sputters to the ground before her body hits it with a thud.

I was born two years after the great war and all I know of war is what I was told, but no one told me that it was a non-negotiable act. My instinct tells me to run and I do, but I crash face first into an AK-47 that sends me flying back to where I came from. The cracking sound of my nose has no pain at all. I drop to the ground like a sack of maize meal and dust flies up. I’m unable to raise my head, so I look at the sky as it blurs up and everything turns black.

I wake up in a camping tent that is the same size as a chicken house. It has a paraffin light placed beside me. I’m lying on a huge blanket that stretches to every side of the tent and a pillow that is impossibly uncomfortable. My nose hurts like hell.

There is a fire outside. I look through an opening and see the terrorists gathered around it. It must be twenty of them , or less. Felix is seated in the same way but at the other side, facing my direction. I recognise a lot of them but he’s the only one I know by name. The way they sit around the fire reminds me of my parents, for they like sitting around fires till late at night. The thought of them sitting alone tonight, waiting for me to return breaks my heart, but the fact that these vultures outside might’ve harmed them breaks me the most. I hope they haven’t.

My heart starts racing when the commander leaves the fireplace. He’s headed in my direction and the others also head to their tents. I crawl back to the far side opposite the entrance and cuddle my legs that they cover my back thighs and below.

“Ah, you’re awake?” he says as he enters the tent. “How foolish of you to think you can run from us. Now your beautiful face is ruined.”

He crawls towards me after his entrance. His look is lusty and it makes me feel naked as he looks all over my body. Disgust grows in my throat as he proceeds to move his hands atop my thighs, pushing my skirt back to reveal my underwear. He pulls me forward so hard that my head hits the ground. I try to fight back by pushing and kicking. I wish I didn’t do that. He throws a slap across my face and doesn’t give me a chance to rub over the pain. He proceeds to unbutton my white shirt that is now brown with dirt. He stops and stares at my revealed breasts that are now jiggling because I’m shaking and sobbing in pain.

A girl screams in another tent and it has him turn and look back. A tearing sound of the tent is followed by a gunshot that puts an end to the screaming. The mighty commander turns to face me with a smirk on his face.

“That’s what happens when you resist.”

You mean “disagree” with your decision to rape. I slowly extend my arm towards the paraffin light and grip it tightly. I pick it up and smash it across the commander’s face in a speed of fear. The liquid splashes on his face and onto the tent and catches fire. There is little liquid on my hand but I manage to get rid of it before it catches fire as well.

He screams and yells in pain as the fire spread across his face and that gives me a chance to run for my life. I jump out of the tent and enter the long grass behind it. I run into the bushes of long trees and look for one that I can spend the night on and rest. The first rule of wildlife is to never sleep on the world’s grounds.

It’s been four days of running and sleeping on wild trees. I have been depending on fruity trees for energy. I now carry a stick to help me navigate through the long grass and hold snakes away from my reach, like mostly killing them. I reach the end of the long grass and I’m at a beautiful sighting, a huge river in front of me – the mighty crocodile river. It is as described; humongous without beginning or end. The banks are packed with crocodiles, except for where I am. There is a boat on the side of the grass. Whoever put it here must’ve come from the other side and they chose a safer bank to store their boat. The boat is with paddles for movement in the water. I pull it with all my strength towards the water.

There is movement in the long grass that I just came out of. Could it be crocodiles? I pray not. It’s the commander, the one I thought I had killed. Seeing him makes me pant in fear and all I see on his face is anger. I push the boat into the water and he starts to run towards me. I jump into the boat and start paddling. I’m not fast enough.

He jumps into the boat, his weight making it float faster into the river away from the bank. I’m in my fight or flight situation. I choose to fight. I pick my navigation stick and try to hit him but he grabs it, pull it off my hands and throws it into the water. He pulls me by my shirt and punches me across my face with a fist that was meant for a man. He repeats until all I see are the stars and his face. It’s all burnt up with his tight side in wrinkles and his left with his skin completely burnt, only his flesh is showing. I had to burn him and reveal the demon and monster that he is.

He grabs my hair and dips my head into the river. The boat tilts to his weight allowing him to hold me in place. Through the water, I can see his determination to end my life, to end an innocent life. He is so strong and I’m almost losing my breath. My fist don’t work on him, my head is still in the water and I’m almost dying, but I can’t die. I don’t want to die. My hands and legs are free. I move my hands across his face and touch his fresh scars. They are sticky, slime-sticky. I scratch him without measure and he lets go to cover his face and yells.

At the instant I kick him from behind that he falls into the river in a splashing fall. The boat tilts a little and regain its balance as I fall flat into the boat and gasp for air. I think about what might happen If I wait longer and it scares me. I sit and grab a paddle and paddle fast, faster than my strength allows.

The commander pops out of the water. He is battling to remain afloat; clearly he can’t swim. I paddle to the other side without looking back. I see the other terrorists on the other side and it seems like they have been watching for a long time. They shoot at me but the bullets do not reach my bank and I’m grateful that there is only one boat. I stand there looking at them like I’d just won a race until they turn back and disappear into the long grass.

I look into the woods I’m to walk into and I run. I don’t know why I run this time without danger on my tail but I run, just in case. I run more days; two more days but without fruits this time. The grass is mostly dry and so are the trees. The fence is near and I just have to make an opening and run once more.

The fence is impossible for a pass through. I use a stick I picked along the way to dig an opening. The soil is soft, and I succeed and cross over to the other side. I cross a black road, I’m not sure what it is made of, but I can tell that I’ve never seen something like it. It is another run into the bushes and I can feel my body losing the little strength left in me. I’m tired but I can’t stop until I’m out of the bushes. I’m getting more tired as I run and I’m slowing down as I go. Finally, I reach the end of the bushes and land in a field with a lot of black people like me. I stop running and look at them.

“Dumela sesi,” a man says looking at me but I do not comprehend this language. The strength in me is lost and I fall with my back onto the field.

“Thušang!”

A woman shouts and before I know it, I’m surrounded by people and others are holding me. I don’t know if this is the paradise I always dreamt of, but I hope it’s not as ugly as the place I come from. I believe that we cannot choose where we come from but we can always choose where to go. Whether we’ll be accepted or not, it’s totally not up to us.

“Help!” is all I manage to say.

My energy is drained and the background is starting to blur, until all I can see is total darkness.

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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: Free Like A Dead Body

Written by Kamogelo Tselane Mashilo

Midnight-coloured shawls veil slouched shoulder blades. Soggy eyes are affixed to the crimson earth beneath our feet, they gesture respect with bended necks. My dear Aunt Jeminah tosses a tired gaze at me and clenches my hand, her sweltering palm squelched up against mine. A sneer paints itself on my face as I stare at his casket. He cannot die enough deaths and I cannot bury him enough times.

“I am sorry for your loss, Thami,” they all say, with that same deceitful look. I want to tell them that it is not a loss and that I want to rejoice and paint the town red and yellow and all the colours happiness might be. I want to say that I am free, but not like a bird. Free, like a dead body. But I must not say anything, I know. I simply nod in response and carry on with my day.

Pastor Nkosi invites his gang of salvation-pushing fanatics to begin a chorus. The man in the casket is my father. He and Pastor Nkosi were friends from as far back as I can remember. He was there when I broke my right wrist while trying to fly because I was sure that the low rumble of trees meant that I was a superhero. He was there to celebrate with my father when he finally got a job. He was also there for us when I lost the only person who ever mattered to me. He was there as a voice of reason in those last few years when my father traded in the bottles of beer for so-called redemption. He was always there, with his broad saint-like smile and puppy-dog eyes to tell us that God has a plan for us.

“A plan? Gladys, are you out of your mind?” exploded my father upon hearing those exact words from my mother one time when I was in Grade 4. They were having their daily squabble again.

“Yes. A plan, Mandlenkosi and you would have one too if you weren’t such an alcoholic,” my mother retorted. “We are drowning in debt, we can’t afford the groceries, we have no money to buy electricity and Thami needs a new pair of school shoes,” she continued.

“And your point is?”

“If you were pulling your weight, things would be different,” she said, lowering her tone.

“I am trying my best, sthandwa sam’. You know I love you.”

“Maybe love is not enough. Maybe it never was.”

I waited patiently for my father’s response from under the heavy tiger-faced blanket but it never came. His words could no longer hold her captive as they once did when she was young and still prone to purchasing the dreams that came from his tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Godless, jobless lesser man.

I wore those same old open-mouthed pair of school shoes that gave me sores on my heels for the rest of that year. The bigger boys nicknamed me ‘Pac-man’ after the beloved arcade game character who swallowed cookies and ghosts because like him, my shoes had a wide-open mouth and swallowed dust and pebbles wherever I went. I became a joke and the joke became my life.

Aunt Jeminah jerks her hand away from mine and catapults me back into the now. She is slowly swaying her arms from one side to the other. Grace of Christ church choir is already deep in song, lamenting in honour of uBaba. There is no soul that is too heavy for their voices to ascend.

I listen to the heaving hums of baritones and sopranos melting together in the wretched wind. A multitude of cheeks gleam with wetness in the light of the curtained sunshine. Bulging clouds hang aloft, it might rain later. My mind swiftly remembers how it too rained on that cursed summer’s day. I get to thinking about the day that life became this itchy Christmas sweater, this cancerous mole on the surface of my skin, this thing and above all, this thing that just won’t die.

It was a Sunday— the uncomfortable type that comes at you quicker than reality. My mother, being the earnest and biblical woman she was, had nudged my father into a petty job as a gardener for Mr. Van Tonder, her previous employer. The pay was less than something but it meant everything to those who had nothing. He worked Mondays to Thursdays which meant he still had enough time to slug around Kwa Joe on his three day weekends. He had been paid that Friday evening and he had not returned since.

I remember the details vividly. My mother and I were on our way back from church. We treaded through the maze of shanties, tiredly shuffling our heels on the coarse gravel. We stopped on the way to buy a packet of tomatoes from a vendor. My mother handed the man a crisp R10 note and we journeyed back beneath grey clouds.

As soon as we got home, we were greeted by a partly open door and a muffled Whitney Houston belting one out for the heathens. I gripped the clanging metal and opened the door. We stepped inside and saw my father fanned out over the couch. He was blacked out and motionless. The jarring rhythm of his snoring travelled to and fro our earlobes.

“Kshhhhh,” the radio hissed its static from atop the coffee table.

“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the beat with somebo–”

“Kshhhhh, kshhhhh.”

“This is 95.7, Voice FM. It is thirteen minutes to two and you are tuned into Soul Sundays, your number one midday show bringing you only the finest oldies every Sunday from 12 to 2.”

“Kshhhhh,” chimed in the static once again.

“–emember, today’s question is what song best reminds you of that first love when you were burning with youthful ignorance and passion.”

I caught a glimpse of my mother getting lost in nostalgia as she half-answered the question in her mind. She noticed I was watching and quickly snapped out of it.

“We’ll take one last caller before wrapping up today’s segment.”

My mother turned the radio off, putting DJ Sandz-O out of his bleating misery. A beer bottle laid overturned on the coffee table cover which had been mapped by a large splotch. There were two unopened bottles underneath the table and a few scrunched up R10 notes. We tidied everything up and finally slipped out of our Sunday outfits and into our snug clothes.

He awoke about an hour later while my mother was preparing supper and I was laying out my school uniform to be ironed . He arose like the storm of a man he was and stumbled his way to the kitchen. He stood at the door with a demented look on his shaggy face.

“I’m hungry,” he slurred, half-drunk and half-father.

His words went unanswered as we ignored him and went about our duties. She began humming a tune that she used to sing when I was young and bursting with curiosity.

“Gladys, I’m speaking to you!” he thundered coldly.

My mother pretended not to hear the blizzard in his voice or the earthquake in his stagger as he took sizeable steps towards her. She took no notice to him as she nonchalantly continued stirring the scalding hot pot of beef stew.

He grabbed her just above the elbow and she quickly turned her body towards him.

“Thami, can you please fill the water bucket up for me, it looks like it might rain,” she asked.

I obliged and grabbed the empty bucket to the tap outside to fill it. I could hear them arguing from inside the house in between the whirring swooshes of water hitting water. I could now feel the vehement scurry of the wind as it laid claim to everything I knew.

It took what felt like hours for the bucket to fill up. When it did, I immediately closed the tap and grabbed the rickety bucket handle. I steadily hurried back to the house. At 11, there is no amount of parenting that could undo the trauma of what I saw next.

As I entered the kitchen, I could sense a stiff coldness. They stood only an arm’s length apart in the centre of the room. Silent, as if to let their hearts do the negotiating on behalf of their voices. I carefully placed the bucket on the stand and joined the chorus of silence. Almost like the calm before the storm.

“Woman, what did you just say to me?”, he asked as if he had not heard her the first time. She looked straight into his pupils and did not flinch. The tension was so solid, it pinned me to the spot.

A five-fingered lesson bolted through her face, ramming her body onto the floor before she could open her mouth. He mercilessly grabbed her dreadlocks and stood her up. He then jostled her onto the kitchen counter and used both his hands to strangle her. Her arms fluttered as she laboured for a morsel breath of air. A wheezing cough squeezed itself out of her body as she struggled to escape his thick-limbed grip.

She looked at me the same way a starved dog looks at a stranger, behind those hazel-brown eyes you could almost see her clawing for liberation. Or death; I still can’t tell the difference between the two.

“Baba,” I pleaded softly. “Baba, you are hurting uMama,”

He slowly loosened the noose of his hands before completely letting go of her. She fell down coughing as she tried to catch her breath. He wiped the countertop clean, dropping everything as he slid his arms in hysteria before holding his head. He burst out of the house, ready to rain elsewhere. The sky had already began pouring by then.

I went over to help her but instead we just sat on the floor bawling our eyes out while she held me in her warm embrace. He returned three days later carrying a heart-shaped box of chocolates in his right hand to make up for the love they no longer shared, and a new-found authority in both. The abuse carried on for years after that incident and she took it every night until one night when her body couldn’t and she passed out in the middle of their ritualistic fights. She died when I was seventeen and all of me followed her.

Ever since that day, that cursed summer’s day, I’ve been trying to pick up the pieces of a broken home. He quit drinking months after her funeral. He claimed to have found the Good Book but I know that it is his cold sweats and night terrors that drove him to religion. He once went four nights without sleeping, just tossing and turning in an effort to escape his own filthy conscience.

Back at the funeral, Pastor Nkosi reads his obituary as the body is slowly lowered. He clears his throat as if to cock back the lies and begins.

“Mandlenkosi Titus Ngwenya, known to friends and family as Mindlos was born on July 7, 1969 to parents Joanna and Albert Ngwenya. He was born in our small township of Sizolethu where he lived all his life. At age 19, he met the love of his life, Gladys Maleka who passed away five years ago.”

 Suddenly, a gut-wrenching feeling colonises my innards. My toes curl up and that day replays itself over and over again in my mind. How dare he mention him and love in the same breath?

“He spent the last few years serving God. He passed away on Tuesday, the 17th of September 2012 at the age of 43 after being stabbed 6 times on his abdomen on his way back home.”

“He leaves behind Thamsanqa and the rest of his extended family. May God help you through these hard times, son.”

If only he knew that this is the softest time has ever been to me.

“To some, an uncle. To others, a friend. To your woman, a man. To your son, a father. And to me, a brother. We thank you and may your soul rest in peace.”

His words nauseate me so much that I want to vomit. That man was many things but he was never a father.

After the funeral, they ask me how I am doing. I hope the saliva used to deliver that question drowns them. I hope their tongues swallow themselves. I hope he wakes up, just so I can see him die again. Do not ask me how I feel, no. Rather ask where I buried the knife.

_______________

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 Whistle Man and Bow

Written by Chazaq T. Reads

‘Please don’t do this, she is sick, I beg you please,’ the young man pleaded as he knelt before the intruders. ‘My mother is sick, she can no longer work. I am the one who has to work and since I am still young, my wages are cut in half. But I will have her tax money ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

But still, no mercy was shown.

‘Sebaste, you know the law, taxes are equal to each soul, you can’t live here freely,’ said one of the soldiers. He had a moustache that flapped around the air as he spoke. In excruciating pain, the woman stood up from the ragged reed mat. Her knees shook with weakness as she struggled to keep herself strong.

‘My son and I will leave tonight,’ she cried. ‘Please have mercy on us, we will pack and leave, you will never have to see us again.’

‘You have only ten minutes to pack your belongings and leave,’ commanded one of the soldiers. ‘Whatever it is that you leave behind will be counted as your taxes paid to the kingdom.’

Bow collected himself from the floor and helped his mother pack clothes and food.  As they walked out of the hut, the soldiers followed them to the gates of the kingdom.

‘Don’t look behind you and don’t shed any tears,’ Bow’s mother reprimanded. ‘The soldiers will see this as a symbol of resistance. Surrender my son; we will figure out our way outside these gates.”

Bow’s mother clasped her son’s hand tightly inside her sweaty palm as they walked on. Bow obeyed his mother’s orders. He held back the tears and erased the temptation to look behind him. The soldiers marched behind them and when they approached the gates, the screeching sound of the hallowed billows heavily weighed into their hearts, as they stepped out into the unknown.

The people of the kingdom had heard dreadful tales about what awaited them in the outskirts of the kingdom. The nation laboured hard to secure their stay under the ferocious rule of their king. On the other side of the hallowed kingdom gates lay a nation of scavengers who preyed on human flesh. Every night they would roam around for feed by the railroad connecting the kingdom and the Coastal Plains. Long ago before the war against the scavengers, the train used to connect the two nations for trade. The Coastal Plains traded poultry and minerals from the Moresha sea and the kingdom had fresh vegetation and dairy to offer the fishermen from Coastal Plains. But long gone are the days when the fisherman and the farmer shared produce.

‘Where will we go?’ Bow asked in a voice that trembled with fear.

‘We will have to go to the Coastal Plains, ‘ his mother replied. ‘We’ll travel across the river in the valley and when we reach the meander by the berry bushes, we will have to climb Mount Yosemite. We will be safer that way, no one will see us.’

The scavengers feared water bodies so she knew that she would not find them prowling around the river route. The moonlight led their footpath as they set their trail down the mountain into the valley and followed the river. The fear of the scavengers gripped her son’s heart but the faith he had in his mother was as large as the depths of the Moresha sea.

The ground quaked at the gaits of the scavengers as they scoured the forest for human flesh. The couple had to take silent breaths and tread softly, lest their presence be known. Around midnight the mother looked at her tired son and decided to set up camp for the night. They camped under the willow trees and covered themselves with a reed mat.

‘Are we going to be safe here?’ the boy asked.

‘Yes, my son,’ the mother replied softly, and then comforted her son with a sweet lullaby.

Hours passed and the two could not shut their eyes, as the heavy gaits continued to shake the ground. They lay staring at the night sky, counting the twinkles as they tried to silence their fears. And suddenly the ground was no longer shaking.

‘Do you hear that?’ the boy asked his mother, relieved.

‘Yes, the scavengers are back in their caves and by tomorrow evening when they come out again, we will be safely entering the harbours of Coastal Plains,’ the mother replied, running her soft, cold hands through her son’s coiled hair.

‘Mom, do you know anyone in the Coastal Plains?’

A long moment of silence lapsed.

‘Yes, I do. In fact, since I became worse from my sickness, I had wished you could meet him.’

‘Look mom, a shooting star,’ Bow said pointing his small finger to the sky.

‘Bow, I wish that you could meet him because he is your father.’

‘My father?’ Bow asked, taking a deep breath with his eyes wide open.

‘Yes my boy, your father lives there. He was the greatest fisherman I have ever known. He was a soldier too. He protected the Costal Plains from the scavengers a long time ago and that is why to this day, the scavengers fear the waters.’

The boy’s heart jumped blissfully. All of a sudden, he forgot about the painful eviction from earlier that night.

‘Once upon a time, your father got swallowed by the sea. We were happy until that faithful evening. He came out of the sea a changed man. He came missing a leg and an eye. He looked different but I still loved him, and when I found out we were going to have you, I was excited but he was not. “Do you think a baby would want to look at someone like me?” he had asked me. “I mean look at me and look at you. A man like me does not deserve a beautiful woman like you or even an innocent child. The fishermen and I have littered the sea beds and the coast is dirty. How will we raise a child in a place like this?” Those were your father’s words.’

‘The bigger you grew inside me the more he grew apart from us, he could not receive me as I received him and so we went our separate ways,’ his mother explained. ‘The night when the Kingdom gates shut forever, I was Inland with you and I started working for the kingdom. And today, we are here. We are going to find your father, and if he still cannot receive us, it’s still fine. We will find our way.’

His mother took off her pendent necklace and opened it. ‘I know that you will not see it now, but this is the picture of your father and I. We took this picture on our wedding day.’

Bow wanted to see the picture; he never knew that the heavy necklace that his mother carried every day around her neck had such sentimental value.

‘Will you show it to me in the light tomorrow morning?’ Bow kindly asked.

 ‘Yes my dear,’ the mother replied with a smile as she locked the piece around her son’s neck. ‘I want you to wear it for now so that you can be safe as we travel. Your father gave it to me and said it will protect me wherever I go. I should so hope it will do the same for you, my child.’

She seemed to be losing the strength to keep talking, and lay down next to her son. Comforted by his mother’s words and the heavy piece around his neck, Bow fell fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

The next morning, droplets of dew from the willow tree dripped unto Bow’s face. The birds in the tree were dancing around the branches, shaking the tree and raining more dew to his face. He sat up in frustration and felt an inch of an awkward response from his mother’s body.

‘Mom! Mom, wake up, it’s the morning,’ Bow pleaded, but she remained silent. ‘Please Mom, wake up,’ he cried out.

He lifted her hand, moved her and shook her. He tried sitting her up but she remained heavy and senseless. He called out to her for so long, his voice faded to a whisper, leaving him groaning silently. His heart was shattered, his waning strength fighting the certainty of death. With his whole world lost and bereaved, he fell asleep.

Right below that willow tree, the day cursed the swallows of death. Bow numbed in his sleep until dusk when the shaking ground shook him awake. The scavengers were out prowling again. Fear trembled in his heart. He knew he had to escape. He looked at his mother; there was no more fear in her. She seemed more peaceful than he was. He knew she was safe because no sound of breath came out of her.

He walked on, not looking behind him but promising his footsteps that they would one day walk back to her under the willow tree. When he reached the river meander, he climbed up the Yosemite mountain and the next morning he was climbing down the mountain facing the Moresha sea. The sea’s waves crashing onto the rocks on the shore consumed his spirit. The sky above it bore an orange hue that pierced through his heart. He recollected himself and sat by a rock next to a thatched cottage. He dosed off into a slumber before he heard a cloaked man with a peg leg whistling a lullaby familiar to his ears.

The man was dragging a heavy bag to his boat. His sailors helped with the cargo and once they were done with the loading, the ship sailed into the sea.

A few hours later, the boy was still staring at the sailing boat. The boat went full streams ahead, and hours later it made its way back to the shore. A few moments later, the litter was torched to flames by flaming arrows shot from the stern into the boat of the floating litter. Bow was fascinated, and waited patiently for the men the in the boat to return. He thought they could be of great help to the woman he left under the willow tree.

A gang of boys broke into the alabaster gates behind the cottage and stole a few berries and tomatoes from the enclosed fields, and rushed out of the premises before the boat could return.

‘Hey you, you have to get away from there before the Whistle Man returns,’ said one of the boys.

‘Yeah, come with us or else you will be toast,’ another replied.

Seeing that the boys were about his age, he followed them. They ran into the market place where a few fishermen were drinking beer and playing a game of cards. The gang shared the stolen goods with them.

‘What you did was wrong,’ protested Bow. The men and the gang looked at each other and broke out into a mirth.

‘Where are you from anyway? We have never seen you around here,’ asked one of the men.

‘I am from the kingdom,’ the boy replied.

The men looked paled, all weary and silenced. ‘I came from the Kingdom, I left with my mom and she died on the way here.’

‘And how did you survive the scavengers?’ asked one of the men.

‘I ran away from them but Mother could not, she would not move. Mother said my father was the greatest fisherman that ever lived, she said he once defeated the Scavengers.’

All off them drew themselves away from him, but stared at him in amazement and fear.

‘He does sure look like him,’ said one of the men from the crowd.

‘Do you think that he is as dangerous as him?’  another one asked with a trembling voice.

Bow drew himself nearer to the men. ‘Do you know my father?’

‘No!’ They all exclaimed in fear.

‘But yes… yes, it could be that we do know your father,’ said one of the men. ‘Your father could be Bow, the Whistle Man. He lives in the cottage. I’m afraid he is no longer a fisherman or a scavenger slayer, but rather a mad man.’

‘You see, one faithful evening the sea swallowed him and a few days later he came out the mouth of a humpback whale drenched in seaweed,’ said one man. ‘When we uncovered him he had a missing leg and a missing eye. His lover, who could be your mother, left him because he turned into a monster ever since.’

‘That’s not true,’ the boy denied.

‘Okay, maybe he is not a monster, but he is sure mad,’ said another fisherman. ‘He no longer draws fish from the sea, he goes around whistling a depressive lullaby about his lover while picking the litter around at night with his sailors and burn the litter into the sea, like how mad people do, and all because the sea castrated him.’

‘That is a lie!’ the boy protested and left the men enraged.

Later in the evening Bow heard the lullaby whistled from afar and he chased after it. And when he drew closer, he saw a shadow of a man from behind. The shadow was big and tall and it dragged a load of litter behind it. When the whistling shadow reached the anchorage to load the cargo into the boat, Bow hid himself into the boat, below the deck in the galley. When one of the sailors entered the galley he yelled, ‘Boss, we have a stowaway!’

 Bow wanted to run but his legs stood stiff like ice. He could hear the Whistle Man approaching. Every stump on the wooden floor thundered as he drew closer to the galley.

The Whistle Man came closer to him, placed a monocle to his eye and investigated the young man. He noticed a familiar piece around his neck and pointed a dagger to the boy. Bow clutched his eyes and shrugged as he looked away.

The Whistle Man slit the pendent open with his dagger. Bow took a deep sigh of relief, he completely forgot about the precious piece around his neck.

‘Sebaste!’ the Whistle Man exclaimed, throwing his dagger to the ground and embracing the boy.  

___________

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: Hope Not Lost

Written by Emily Thorpe

France, Toulon, 1776

Elyna

Silently I slipped beneath the fence that ran around the edge of the wharf. My dress fell loosely around my legs and the hem tickled my ankles as I stooped to duck beneath the thick rope that held a big whaling ship in the port. I jumped as several barrels clattered to the ground behind me. Phillipe swore. We stood frozen in the shadow of the ship. I made a dash for the next shadow, but Phillipe grabbed my arm and pulled me back just as the torch illuminated the shadow of the ship next to us. I could hear Phillipe’s fast breathing next to my ear and under his shirt I could feel his heart racing. Oh God don’t let them find us!

“Anything there?” The torch light moved away. We shrank deeper into the shadow; Phillip pressed me against the helm of the ship and covered us both in his dark cloak. Oh, God! Oh, God! Please! “Nothing”.

The light moved away, and I could breathe again. Phillipe held me still a while longer before he was sure they were gone. “Elyna,” He breathed quietly in my ear “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes,” I whispered back, peering carefully around the corner of the ship. We have to escape. Get away. I ducked to the next boat and Phillipe followed, his feet silent and his cloak rustling slightly as it brushed lightly over the crates piled on the wharfs edge. I held the bottom half of my cloak in the crook of my arm to stop it catching on the metal chain that marked the edge of the wharf.

“Are you truly sure of the path?” I paused. The darkness confused me.

“The note said to stick to the wharf until we reached the dry port and then to take the road to the left until we come to the monger’s, from there we head through the cemetery to the bay near the Bange de Toulon.”  Phillipe took my hand and pulled me left into an alley, I glanced back and saw the dry port vanishing into the gloom of night.

“And why,” murmured Phillipe, “do we trust the anonymous letter writer?” I look up at a sign dangling above a door, squinting through the dark I could make out the fish painted next to red letters announcing the monger’s store.

“Because,” I said pointing the way to the cemetery, “the last time I received a letter in the same hand, it warned of the Bonapartist search party and we could hide the dragoon staying with us before they got to our home.”

Putting one hand on the wooden fence Phillipe vaulted over it easily and turned back to help me over. He lifted me over the fence and placed me firmly back on the ground.

“Because I’m sick of having to lie to each band of soldiers that comes into our home and give them food and drink when they demand it. I do not recognise Napoleon as my ruler. And I do not want to lie about it. It goes against my God and the real king of France.”

“Pardieu! Don’t let the emperor’s men hear you talking like that!” Phillipe dodged a small shrub that had sprung up between the graves. We slipped over the fence at the opposite end of the cemetery and began toward the Bange de Toulon. Houses grew fewer and fewer as they came nearer the dungeon. It was not a popular place, and the bay was too shallow for most of the ships, so no trade came that way.

“So where do we hope to escape to?”

I thought back to the letter. It had promised that I could go wherever I pleased. “We’ll go to La Rochelle.”

“Zounds! Do not joke with me milady!”

“I do not.”

“But Rochelle is on the other side of the country!”

“Precisely M. Phillipe. Far from Bonaparte and near the Calvinists.”

Phillipe paused, processing all the information. “Elyna, do you still believe that there could be Calvinists there?” A wry smile crossed his face. “King Louis XIII laid siege and forced them to be catholic.”

“Very true Phillipe, but surely some of them survived and that is now under a more lenient king. To Rochelle!”

I felt my feet sinking into the sand of the beach and to the east I could see a patch of darkness that was more solid than the rest of the night. The Bange de Toulon. I shivered. There were many in there for being accused of being royalists. I could be in there. If not for the Lord’s grace!

“And how, milady, will we get to Rochelle? If you ask me, we are going the wrong way. Rochelle is northwest of here.” I scanned the shoreline, searching for light. “Once again you are correct, Rochelle is the other way, but the shore is this way.”

“Aha, now I follow Elyna, you mean to say we will sail there?”

I nodded, then remembered that he couldn’t see me in the dark and said, “Indeed, my love. That is exactly what I mean.”

My eyes roved the land, and I was sure that they might burst with the effort of trying to decern a light in the darkness, trying to find the ship that was to convey us to safety. It would have to be a small one to get close enough to shore. Then suddenly, a little to our right there was a flash on the ocean. My head snapped round, and my eyes struggled to focus on the point, but before I could determine the direction, it was gone. I blinked. Had my eyes deceived me? No, there it was again, a brief flash and then nothing. “Come,” I said grabbing Phillipe’s hand and dragged him towards the light.

“Where are we going?” Phillipe trotted alongside me, easily keeping up with my fast pace.

“Every few seconds they flash a light, keep looking and you’ll see it bobbing up and down.” In the dim light of the halfmoon I could see Phillipe frowning as he stared at the water, looking for the light.

“I don’t…”

“There!” I pointed as the light flashed and then vanished again. No mistake. It was there. Phillipe had seen it too. We jogged as quietly as we could along the sand. Finally, we got as close as we could and when the light flashed, I could make out the figures in the skiff. Two men, one standing and flashing the light of a lantern before covering it again with a dark cloth, the other sitting and gazing out onto the shore.

I took out a hand mirror from the pocket of my dress and when the man pulled off the cloth of the lantern, I held up the mirror. The light of the lantern was reflected back to the skiff, I saw the man standing bend to speak with the seated one. The lantern was covered, but I heard the splash of oars, and the skiff drew up to the shore. One of the men jumped out and whispered, “Mademoiselle Elyna? Monsieur Phillipe?”

“Tis us sir. And what may we call you?” Phillipe addressed the man before us. In the moonlight I could decern only the vague outline of him. He was smaller than Phillipe with a thin frame from what I could see as he was enveloped in a large cloak. “I am Monsieur de la Flair and this,” he said gesturing to the man in the boat, “this is Monsieur du Moiré.”

Du Moiré jumped out of the boat. I stared at him. He was a giant! He stood a full head above Phillipe, and he was broad with flashing eyes that I could see even in the gloom. When he spoke his voice was a deep bass that rumbled rather than growling like other men’s. ’’Benvenuto”  He extended his massive hand. Phillipe gave his own. “Italian then?” Du Moiré nodded. “But my French is acceptable,” he smiled, revealing white teeth, “at least that is what la Flair says. You must judge for yourself.” He had only a slight accent but otherwise his French was indeed very good.

“Can I take anything aboard for you?” Phillipe shook his head. “We’ve only this,” he held up a small bundle, “I’ll manage, but many thanks Monsieur.” Du Moiré nodded.

“Come, make haste! The hours of dark are few and those who would pursue us would soon see us in the morning light.”

De la Flair began the wade back to the skiff. Phillipe followed; the bundle flung over his shoulder. I glanced at the surface of the water and then looked at Phillipe. The water was up to his waist before he could reach the side of the small vessel. I shivered, and steeling myself for the cold, I was about to wade in when du Moiré’s voice halted me. “Mademoiselle? Can you withstand the current? There is a strong riptide.” I hesitated, “What would you propose M. du Moiré?”      

“I could carry madam, with your husband’s consent.” Phillipe considered this.

“I can come back for her,”

Du Moiré hesitated, trying to formulate a reply, “I do not doubt either your capability or strength,” he said carefully and respectfully, “I doubt only your height. Where the water reaches your waist, it reaches only to my thighs.”

Phillipe paused, reluctant, I knew, to entrust me to someone else’s care but then he nodded seeing the sense of the proposal. Du Moiré turned to me. “Does mademoiselle give her consent?”

“With much gratitude Monsieur!” I let my cloak fall from the crook of my arm, Du Moiré stooped from his great height, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Then, in one deft sweep of his arms, he caught me up and held me like I was a small babe. He began to wade to the skiff. As we went deeper, I could feel him swaying to adjust to the strength of the current as it tried to tug him off his feet. But no matter how hard he was struggling against the current he held me as gently and carefully as how possibly could. For such a big man he moved with the grace of a deer.

We were almost to the skiff when I heard Da le Flair cry out, “Down! Get down!” and he pulled Phillipe to the base of the ship. I heard the roar of gunfire and Du Moiré grunted and stumbled forward. There was silence, then I could hear shouts from the shore. I could hear Du Moiré’s quick, sharp breathes as he waded forward quickly. He got to the side of the skiff, gasping, but managed to still get me up to the deck. Now that I could look back at him, I saw the dark stain that was spreading over the front of his white shirt. He tried to pull himself into the skiff but groaned and fell back into the water. I rushed to the edge and grabbed his hand and tried to help him in. I pulled and pulled, terrified. Lord! Help me! Give me strength Father!

Du Moiré made another effort to get into the skiff but fell back again. “No!” He looked up at me and smiled, “Too big for you madam.”

“Elyna!” Phillipe grabbed me by the waist and pulled me back and down onto the deck as I heard the rattle of gunfire then there was a big thud and I suddenly felt very faint. Darkness clouded my vision, but before everything went black, I saw the fingers that had been clinging to the boats side go slack and the slide out of view. Farewell du Moiré.

Phillipe

I watched Elyna’s limp form bobbing up and down ahead of me. She still hadn’t woken from the bump she had received when she hit the deck and was being carried by a big burly soldier. Perhaps it was better that way. The march to the Bange de Toulon had not been far, we were nearly through the courtyard. I twisted my hands; the ropes didn’t slacken.  

If I can just reach my dagger.  I tried to reach the scabbard where it hung at my side, concealed by my cloak. The soldiers hadn’t searched us. Not yet.

I strained and finally, I got a grip on the hilt and pulled it out. I saw Elyna stir ahead of me she groaned and then her eyes fluttered open. She closed them again but then registering what she had seen opened them wide with shock.

“Phillipe!” She struggled free of her captor and grunted as he let her fall from his shoulder. She scrambled up, even with her hands bound. The soldiers were about to pounce on her but then they saw she was coming to me and let her pass.

Before she could reach me, I sliced the rope from my wrists and fell upon the nearest soldier. To my right I saw De la Flair do likewise. The first man died quickly, as did the second but when I got to my third opponent, he was ready and so were his comrades. One soldier at the back was holding Elyna firmly, she was helpless and could only watch as we fought desperately, her cries muffled by the soldier’s hand. I tried to cut my way to her but felt something blocking my way. Something was pressing me back by the chest. I looked down at the hilt of the sword.

It wasn’t anything to marvel at, a plain wooden hilt with a bronze hand guard nothing more.  My knees felt weak and gave way beneath me and I slumped onto the floor.  I could see a spreading pool of blood.

But not mine, surely. Everything seemed so surreal. I could see Elyna, tears streaming freely down her face. I reached toward her. But before I could touch her everything went dark.

France, Bange de Toulon, 1818

Bardot

“Your shift M. Bardot.” I sighed. “Where am I tonight?” The captain smiled grimly. By this I could tell that it would be a new part of the dungeon to guard. Not a pleasant part either. I followed him and he gave me my orders. The dark was almost like a solid wall in this part of Benge de Toulon. Mostly older prisoners were held here. Royalists, I recalled the captain saying.

As I went deeper, I heard a faint humming. It grew louder as I approached, and I saw it was a woman, pale to the point of looking sickly but her face bright with joy and hope. She was singing a hymn. It was an old one and I didn’t know it. I wondered at her and though I wasn’t meant to, I spoke.

“Who, are you?”

“Once, in happier days, I was called Elyna. And what are you called?”

“Bardot.”

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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