PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: SILENCE

Written by Nala Nxumalo

“The voices in my head – they are getting too loud…”

Those were the last words my father said to me. It was the 23rd of April when my gut told me to call him. I asked how he was doing and that’s all I got from him before the call disconnected. The next morning, I was told that he had committed suicide. I knew what he meant when he said the voices in his head were getting too loud; it happens to me too. It had been an ongoing battle with my dad. He couldn’t cope with the hallucinations and the ongoing psychotic episodes. He tried everything to help himself, I’m talking medication and even therapy, but none would help. In fact, the medication made it worse, that’s what he said.

After mom passed away, he succumbed to depression. Oh, that damaged his soul. As much as he was in an ongoing battle with Schizophrenia, he tried to be his jolly self just like before he got diagnosed, but when depression made him its next victim all of that was gone.

For the past six years I have not seen a smile on my father’s face or the sparkle in his eyes when mother was alive. Out of my four siblings, I was the one who understood what it was like to be in his shoes because I too, was diagnosed with Schizophrenia in my early teenage years. It was minor at first because the only symptom I had were hallucinations and they weren’t too bad. I would just see things that were never there.

I remember the time I saw a cat on a really tall tree, holding on to a branch for dear life. I wanted to save it. I needed to save it because it looked young and scared. I didn’t want to leave it alone. I remember running back into the house shouting at the top of my voice for Mom and Dad to come out and help me. They rushed out of their room ready to see what was causing me to make so much noise. I was too emotional to explain so I just grabbed their hands and led them outside to where the cat was. I pointed to the tree, and I remember them looking at me with confusion in their eyes.

“The cat! The cat is in danger can’t you see? Save him!” I screamed while shaking my dad. “He’s crying, please help him.”

“What cat? Sweetie, there’s no cat,” Mom said.

I remember my dad saying, “Oh no”, under his breath and sinking to the floor. I was confused, why they wouldn’t save the cat. Why was Mom saying there was no cat and why was Dad looking like he just had a bad realization? Those were all the questions that were running through my mind but the voice that overpowered them all was telling me to save the cat.

I started climbing up the tree but as soon as I reached my hand out to save the cat, I fell. To my luck, Dad was there waiting to save me should I fall. When I looked up, the cat was gone. That was when the voices in my head started. I couldn’t make sense of some but I remember it driving me insane. I kept on hearing, “You are a failure!” They started getting louder, I covered my ears and screamed for them to leave me alone with tears rolling down my cheeks.

That’s what people think everyday life with Schizophrenia is, but it’s not. Imagine being a fourteen-yea- old and hearing multiple voices in your head getting louder by the minute for the first time, would it not tear you apart like it did me?

That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling trying to recall the events that occurred. I didn’t understand how the cat could just disappear. Could it be that it wasn’t there? A knock on my door interrupted my trail of thoughts.

“May I come in?” he asked.

I gave him a slight nod and he let himself in. He sat at the edge of my bed and took a deep breath. He looked as if he had a lot on his mind, like he wanted to talk to me but didn’t even know where to begin.

“Come here kiddo. Come sit here next to me,” he said patting the space on his right side.

I got out of the covers and sat next to him. He gave me a tight hug and I rested my head on his shoulder. He took one more deep breath and began to speak to me. I remember him telling me that he had been living with a mental disorder known as Schizophrenia for almost ten years at that time, and that it affected his ability to think, feel and behave normally. He told me that the symptoms included hallucinations, which means seeing, hearing, or even feeling things no one else does. At the mention of that I started to see where this conversation was heading.

“Just like how I saw that cat today?” I asked. “Yes, just like that cat you saw today.”

He mentioned how sometimes you can hear voices in your head. By then I had concluded that there was a high chance of me having Schizophrenia. Delusions are also one of the symptoms, episodes of psychosis, catatonia being the inability to move correctly, having difficulty concentrating and it affects your memory. The reason he told me the symptoms was so that I could be aware of the ones I had and the ones that could come later, or not. He promised to be there for me through every step. He proved that by taking me to a psychiatrist the next morning who did an evaluation on me and later diagnosed me with it. I also found that it has no cure and for me, I felt as if it was the end of the world.

My perspective on the condition got worse when I started experiencing more of the symptoms. I didn’t notice what was happening until my mom and siblings pointed it out. I had them telling me that what I was seeing was not real but what they failed to understand was that to me it felt real, it was my reality. It was only Dad who got it because he knew how it was like to live with it. Sometimes I can’t eat because the voices in my head get so loud I have to stop what I’m doing and just sit in silence listening to them go on.

My dad was my solace. Whenever it all got too much, all I had to do was call him and I would feel better again but after mom died, he started to pull away. I had to constantly visit him just so that he didn’t felt alone.

It breaks my heart to be looking at him in a coffin right now, but he looks so peaceful. He got the chance to silence the voices and cut off the depression that was slowly eating him away. It sounds like it was worth it, I hope it was. He is finally laid to rest next to the love of his life. Some may think that my dad lost the battle between himself and the voices, but if you really think about it, you’ll see that he won it greatly because he got to shut them up forever.

I, too wish to do the same but I have a daughter that is dependent on me; she has no one else but me. Sometimes I wish Dad wasn’t there to catch me on that day, and that I fell off that tree, cracked my skull and died. I wouldn’t have known about my mental illness, it wouldn’t have gotten worse and I wouldn’t have a daughter to live for as of this moment. I remember when I was pregnant with her, I would sometimes see her father who died in a car crash when I was three months pregnant. I would imagine that he was with me in all the moments that mattered to me the most. He was there when I first felt her kick and he held my belly. He never missed an appointment and he could not wait for her birth. Everything was perfect, until he didn’t show up to the hospital the day our daughter was born. I stopped seeing him and that killed me because it took me back to grieving. When I couldn’t see him, it was like he had died all over again, but I got through it with my dad’s help. I wonder if I’ll start seeing him too or hear his voice.

This thing is unpredictable. Instead of making me see my dad, I think it’s trying to make me follow him. I hear them whisper and giggle over how weak my father was, and pushing all the right buttons just for me to want to kill myself. These days I’m in my head just feeding off these voices.

One day they made me see my father and I thought, ‘finally, one good thing this week.’ Only for it to be an illusion of my father trying to convince me to come with him, and I knew what ‘coming with him’ meant. It took everything in me to tell myself that it wasn’t real and that my papa would never ask such of me. I’ve landed in the hospital twice because my siblings didn’t know what was going on with me, that I was going ‘crazy’ again as they would say.

In the two times of being in the hospital I escaped the second time. That’s what I was told but I don’t remember it. I saw a video that was circulating on social media of me walking around in a hospital gown shouting at cars and screaming while looking up into the skies. I was walking around on busy roads not caring whether one would hit me or not. I think it was my first psychotic episode if I haven’t had more that I just do not remember at all.

Seeing that video doing the rounds, having people who do not understand what it means to have Schizophrenia, calling me a mad woman, hurt me. It felt like it was the last straw. Like I simply could not do it anymore. Not for me, not for my dad, my siblings or even my daughter. That is what it has gotten to, this illness has driven me to the edge. It feels like I’ve reached a dead end or like I’m in the middle of the ocean with no ability to swim while trying not to drown, that’s how I feel.

The voices in my head have won. I am a failure, I am weak, I have amounted to nothing and I’ve lost a battle against voices in my own head. I have to do it, I have to take my own life. My daughter? She’s with me right now. I have made her favourite meal and she just got back from school. Earlier on while cooking, I carefully poured in a poison in our food and stirred it nicely.

“Are you enjoying the food, nana?” I ask.

She looks at me with a smile, “Yes mama.”

“I want you to know that mommy loves you and that everything she does is all for you.”

I kissed her forehead.

“Mama,” she says with her eyes partly closed., “I feel sleepy.”

I hold her hand. “Let’s sleep baby. Good night.”

She rests her head on the table and so do I.

“You win.”

My eyes shut and everything goes black.

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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: Tears That Never Really Dry

Written by  Kaluwe Haangala

His pudgy little cute face made me want to smile. My little man is going to be a handsome heart breaker, is what I would have had in mind if he hadn’t just unburdened of his woeful thoughts.

“I hate children. I hate them so much!” he said it with so much venom I could tell he was close to biting his lip to stop himself from crying. That stung me because it made me realize there were things not even my mother protective hen instincts could protect my little angel from. It hurt most because our little conservative rural town was scathing and unforgiving of the unconventional. To this rural enclave that was stuck in the precolonial times of yore, family meant father, mother and children. Here I was with no husband and a mixed race child. Talk about being dealt the worst hand!

I will readily admit my whirlwind romance that blossomed towards the end of my university days was magic. It had bloomed into a beautiful marriage that lasted all of three years. Actually, it was five years. I don’t count the last two because they were wrought with his philandering  and a difficult set of miscarriages that eventually abated, bringing me some light, solace and some semblance of happiness. Lizazi is what I decided to call him, ‘the sun’ in my local dialect.

My, as far as you’re concerned as regards this story, unnamed husband was happy for maybe a few seconds before the little happy pod we were disintegrated like a hive of bees doused in vinegar and garlic. A tale of forbidden love that was initially exhilarating then, but a woeful faux pas in the present. We loved each other, a whole lot. My initial apprehension about what we could or couldn’t be was glazed over by his sunny demeanour and happy-go-lucky attitude that made me feel safe that his family would not be an issue. That seemed to change as time passed and he was given more responsibility as what was a tiny Information Technology firm minted Gold when an app they helped fund proved to be a game changer. It was then that his people thought he would do better with a lighter skinned woman, not the complexion I wore proudly but that they described as the dark side of the moon.  

Here I was a couple of years on, nursing the hurt of facing a very inquisitive child that had so blatantly and painfully learnt he was different from others. Though he spoke the dialect most commonly used in the locality, anyone hearing him speak English immediately knew he was not a local breed. After his father left, and later met an untimely death, I opted to take up a position in this, the most rural of corners of the country to rebuild a life that revolved around an uncluttered work schedule and full attention to a son that, in equivalence, was worth the inquisitive nature of an entire kindergarten class. This episode though was something else.

We had pretty much covered “the birds and the bees” much earlier than we should have, but not in more detail than what I deemed a five-year-old could handle. So, his latest question had me scrambling for answers.

“Why do people die?” asked he, serious faced and matter of fact ‘give me an answer immediately’.

“Um,” I started with a stutter trying to buy time. “Why do you ask?”

“The bullies in class laughed because you are not married and my father is dead.”

“Tell me what happened, exactly how it happened…”

“Teacher gave us some work to do and I was first to finish because I am fast. So she said I should help others, and pointed at that big fat bully!”

“Hey!” I interjected, “What did we say about name calling and body shaming?”

“No name calling because it is mean.”

“What else?”

“Who he angers you, uhm…” he trailed off stifling a giggle, knowing he was not saying the expression right.

“He who angers you controls you,” I corrected while pulling him into a bear hug to hide my smile of pride.

“But why do I have to be nice when others are bullying me? And their mothers do not say anything or even shout at them!”

“Well, I am not their mother, and I want you to grow up to be a fair and decent man. Now, tell me what happened,” I plodded, bring us back to the dilemma at hand.

“As I was helping him see that he was writing letter ‘b’ as ‘d’, he said that his cousin told him that nerds like me never get laid. I reported him to teacher who then sent him to the head’s office. What does getting laid mean? Teacher said never to use language like that.”

The question threw me off balance. I knew for a fact that the said bully spent inordinate amounts of time with his grown cousins. Satellite television was their favorite pastime and, glaringly so, all the glut a child his age should be shielded from is what passed for day to day conversation. I was not going to get in the middle of that sort of thing he was bringing into the discussion, neither was I about to be the reason my son learnt that type of language. Were I as light as he was, my blush pink cheeks would have given me away. I swayed the conversation to stave off the question that would for now remain unanswered.

“Baby boy, teacher was right. And you should not copy that kind of language, okay?”

“Yes mummy, I am sorry,” he said and punctuated that by hunching his shoulders in what I always read as contriteness. I hugged him again hoping against hope that I was drowning him with a halo that would shield his innocence from the murk of the world he had to grow up in.

“Are you going to get married to someone else?”

They say that life is what happens when you are busy making other plans. Or even that at times, life comes at you so fast that you barely have enough time to get up off your behind before the next crisis flattens you on your back.

“Have you heard?” Came my mother’s impatient voice on the other side of the line when I picked up her call after initially ignoring it during the pep talk with my son. I was eager to let him stew for now because of the bits of this tricky conversation I wanted to avoid.

“Heard what?” I repeated, trying not to sound irritated at the abrupt context less question.

“Your in-laws have produced a prenuptial agreement you allegedly signed, and a will after all these months. Apparently, he left nothing for you or his son because your marriage didn’t last five years!” She screamed, almost making my head explode from the bombshell this was.

Calmly, I said I had something urgent to handle and would call back. I had neither the will nor the desire to get my weakened demeanor chop off my power of will at the moment my son needed me. I needed my wits about me and all the strength I could summon to appear strong and able to handle the life of a five year old whose solution to tiny people problems was crying and name calling. Life had way bigger evils and he had to continue seeing me as a strong pillar of a super mom he saw always, not knowing my 3 AM thoughts made me cry worse than he did. The little respite I felt did not last much longer because he pounced before I could breathe easier.

The question of why people die is one I never gave much thought to. My own parents died quiet early and the woman I call my mother was actually an Aunt. I pretty much breezed through life minus giving much thought to such philosophical pursuits, largely due to the fact that I preferred to suppress the pain. But hearing my son ask why his father died wrung me back to the reality of a fact I had to face.

“Baby boy,” I began, doing my best to veer from my real thoughts about his father. “Sometimes, bad things happen to good people, but I assure you, wherever he is, there is no pain.”

I noted to myself mentally that I had just sounded like a spin doctor to a child who would soon be thrust into the deep end of the worst of humanity. Describing his father among good people was a gross misrepresentation, as the fateful call from my mother would later bear out. In fact, the last thing I said to his Father the last time I met him was that he could go rot in hell for all I cared. Yet I was not ready to throw his father and his people under the bus just yet because the little man doted on his father so.

“But why would anyone laugh at me if my Dad was a good man who is in a better place?”

“Listen, you see how I always tell you that you’re smart and better than anyone who laughs at you or bullies you? That is because not everyone is as you are, and because of that, most of them do not have the sense to realize that some things should not be said. Now it is up to you to be like them, become a mean bully, or be different and, remember what I always say about the change you want to see?”

“To be the change I want to see in the world!” He responded with pride and held his hand up for a high five, to which I acceded with much fanfare.

“Just because someone is different does not mean that you should also laugh. If anyone laughs at you though, just say it doesn’t matter if you’re different, because you have a Mommy that loves you.”

“I love you too Mommy, thhhiiiiisssss much!” He said with a smile as wide as China and stretching his little boy wing span as far as he could.

I smiled back, took a little bow and held my hands to my heart and signed the words I love you too in American Sign Language, something I taught him so we could have private conversations in public without anyone snooping in or knowing why we were laughing. The beautiful moment seemed paradise like.

Reveries, be they good or bad, can only last for so fleeting a moment. I was brought back to earth simultaneously by a phone call from my lawyer and a loud knock on the door. Lizazi ran towards the door excited screaming that it had to be Doris knocking. The girl, who was a few months older than him, lived close by. I didn’t mind their friendship because she was the only kid within the tens of kilometers radius that had parents more of my ilk than most. She stormed in and came to stand in front of me, arms akimbo. I knew I was in for it.

“Mum says I cannot have a boyfriend and neither can Lizazi have a girlfriend because we are too young!” she blurted out. 

Neither question nor statement of request or permission, but the look she gave me told me I was supposed to be on her side on this, or at the very least, be on Lizazi‘s side. Before I could gather my thoughts as to how best to handle this, she hit me with words that broke a part of my heart I will never get fixed.

“At least I won’t do to him the things that Aunty Febby does to him when she thinks I am taking my afternoon nap!”

“What!?” I asked in horror hoping what I was thinking was just another reverie, albeit a bad one.

“Doris! You promised not to snitch! Aunty Febby said it was all my fault and she is just helping me!” he yelped, tears immediately streaming down his face.

One second was all I needed to piece it all together, that my worst fears had fruited. My son, my sun was facing abuse I had absolutely no inkling of! I looked from one to the other, and as they both raced into my outstretched arms, I knew that the tears forming in my eyes would never really dry…

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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 owl Reaper

Written by Nisah Ngomane

Time flies when it is moving towards your demise. That was the case for me. I should’ve figured out the details of my fate when Gogo was telling us the story that night. When she told us the terrifying story of the owl, I should have known that she was condemning me. I was the sacrificial lamb she was handing over to death.

I should’ve known but even if I did, what difference would it had made? What difference would it have made if her voice was less eerie? Would I not die if her laughter wasn’t crackling with the fire? All these thoughts are just spilled milk and crying over it won’t make a difference. Maybe she didn’t damn me, maybe she was just warning me of what was yet to come.

I don’t remember the story at all, my sister can’t either. It’s weird because I remember all of Gogo’s stories, even the boring ones. All I remember are these words, ‘The owl calls your name when it’s your time to die’. What’s weird is that my sister’s memory seemed to be more blank than mine.

All I remember are the cries of the owl. It’s as if it was in my room but I could not see it. Before I knew it, I was on the phone with my frantic mother on the other side of the call. I was hysteric and not making enough sense for her to be calm too.

“Mom! I want to come back home,” I exclaimed.

“Why, what’s wrong?” I couldn’t care enough for her panicking.

I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I dropped the phone.

“Why are you so jumpy?” Zinzile asked me.

“Why are you creeping up on me?!” I bit her head off and I still don’t regret it.

“Why are you crying?” I hated her pitiful eyes. They annoyed me even further.

“I heard the owl call my name,” I simply said.

There was silence in the room, but her laughter pierced it and it popped like a balloon. My balloon. I cried in disbelief. No, it wasn’t disbelief; it was anger. It was rage. I just didn’t know who to be angry at, so I decided to project it to the only other animate thing in my room other than myself.

“I’m glad you think this is funny. Of course, when I die, you get to be the only child!”

“What are you talking about?” It was clear that she was trying very hard not to laugh.

“I heard the owl.” I rubbed my itchy eyes.

“I heard it too but…” she let out a snicker and I grabbed her aggressively before she could finish her sentence.

“You did? What did it say?” I was shaking her body vigorously.

“It didn’t say anything, it was just its usual hooting.” She looked at me as if I was crazy.

“I’m not crazy, I know what I heard.” I must admit I was starting to doubt myself.

“What exactly did you hear?” I knew she was mocking me, but I thought I would find comfort in telling her.

I turned away from her so I wouldn’t cry if she laughed at me again.

“It would call out my name a few time and then it would tell me that I will die here, so I have to leave.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in superstitions.” There wasn’t any hint of humour in her voice. I was almost tempted to turn around and embrace her.

“I guess I’m Thomas, then. To see is to believe,” I said in a low voice.

“Not that I believe any of this, but wouldn’t death find you wherever you are if it’s truly your time to go? It’s not a physical force you know.”

I found myself wishing for her condescending laughter. What she said hit home way too hard and I was now feeling hopeless.

“I’m leaving. I won’t just give in. I’ll give death a run for its money. We’ll have a death race…” my voice failed me and I staggered to the floor. She came to my aid but I refused her help. I shooed her away.

I ran away from Gogo’s house in the dead of night. The owl came again. It twisted its neck slowly to look at me. I saw despair in its eyes but I kept on. I figured It was coaxing me into giving in, but I wasn’t going to let it win that easily.

I snuck into the school through the hole in the fence that we used to sneak out during lunch time. I set my alarm for 4am and I got some rest. I woke up before the alarm went off and freshened up in the bathrooms. I made my way to my mother after that.

I used the money I stole from my grandmother as a taxi fee to the big city. A city I had never been to by myself. Zinzile always knew what to do and where to go and without her guidance I was clueless. The owl was frustrating me, even in the heat of the day. It must’ve been witchcraft.

The hustle and bustle was too much for me. The heat, the owl – it was all too much. The many voices were driving me mad. Then I saw the owl with its majestic wings and immobile eyes lurching towards me. I ran as fast as I could, but it was as if I was running in a dream. My legs couldn’t carry me and the only thing I remember was the collision.

I woke up in a hospital bed all bandaged like a mummy.

“Thank goodness, you’re finally awake,” the nurse smiled at me with so much relief.

I returned the smile whilst wincing.

“We were so stressed we couldn’t find your relatives,” she explained to me and the relief never left her.

 “Please call my mother,” I said. My voice was hoarse.

I gave them my mother’s details and it took forever for her to reach me.

When she arrived she was with my sister and my grandmother. I was so annoyed with her; I refused to speak with her. The doctor came in with the nurse and he looked so desolate. Of course, the death note. Couldn’t they let me have a little bit peace of mind before throwing me into a tornado again.

“I’m glad that we’re all here, this is the entire family right?”

Everyone nodded except for me.

“Just say it,” I told him as soon as I saw his pitiful eyes. I had not fully accepted my fate but it was whatever.

“We…” he took a deep breath, “You have a brain tumor….” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

My sister and my mother froze. My grandmother walked over to my bedside to comfort me. I had never felt such ease as she held my hand. I had never felt so calm. I wished that she was the reaper so she would pass me over to the other side with ease and not pain. She knew, she always did. I sobbed as I silently apologized for blaming her but a part of me still did.

If she knew all along, why didn’t she try to save me. She felt my animosity and she moved away.

“No! don’t leave!” I swear my voice was loud enough to destroy my vocal cords but she seemed to not hear me. Then it hit me, I was trapped in my mind. My voice was only loud for me. It was trapped and echoing deep in the caves of my lungs. I was dead and she was here to finish me off.

A week later my sister came to visit me. Her remorse didn’t move me at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What’s that going to do, save my life?” my tongue was as slimy, slippery and oh so venomous like one belonging to a snake. It was just that mine couldn’t kill and that one true fact irritated me.

“I…”

“You’re nothing. I’m dying! It’s me who’s dying. They can’t help me! You can’t help me! I just want to die in peace. I want to go to my mother.”

I sobbed but I still didn’t want her to embrace me.

“Mom said you’ll be going home after being discharged. She’ll be there,” she informed me.

“I’m not going there,” I said.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” she said.

“I’d rather you laughed, looking back now that was so much better. It gave me relief. My big sister finding news of my death to be funny.” I looked away from her. Tears were threatening and I didn’t want to fall apart in front of her again.

“This is no laughing matter.”

“Didn’t seem like it the last time. What changed now?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! Exactly, so your crocodile tears mean nothing to me. You are nothing to me. You and your Gogo wanted me to die, so here we are.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Why don’t you laugh? I want you to laugh.”

“Nandipha please…”

I glared at her with my angry red eyes and she saw it fit to leave.

I was discharged and sent to Gogo’s place against my will. Being a minor there was nothing I could do. I sulked and sulked. I starved myself and refused any help whatsoever. I refused to speak to anyone. I hated all of them, I hated them for having a life. I hated them for their pity eyes. I hated the owl for picking me. I hated life for giving up on me.

I hated them till my death. The owl came to claim me. Its feathers were shiny and golden brown. Its immobile eye seemed friendly as my soul left my body.

They gave me a “proper” send off, as they like to say. Dignified and respectful, they said. How ready they were for my send off. Policies and what nots. I’m mad, I’m really mad even in death. Why? Why does death come so swiftly in the night like a professional thief? Why does life make a pact with death with our lives? I was so young. I had dreams and ambitions. I had so much to live for but what can one do with borrowed time.

I could not and I still cannot accept my death. I only could accept that the life was never mine. It was borrowed to me. There is no choice in this life that we’re living. It is taken, at such a tender age and I wonder I always wonder how those who take their own life. Is life truly worth living if it’s going to be taken.

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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: Crooked Cromwell and Crooked People

Written by Lovelorn Happy Khumalo

Residents of the Cromwell building were vulgar as the building, they walked with bent backs and sighed every time before they entered the building. The tilted label written ‘CROMWELL’ depressed them more; it reminded them of the dreams that made them walk away from their homelands, it reminded them of the harsh wind at the back of open vans; it whispered warnings about the city they were headed to but they ignored the warnings.

When they lay on cold floors, surrounded by strangers with brittle hearts which were broken by the city, the wind came back and whispered again but they took their dreams and used them to block away the wind’s warnings.

Their abandoned dreams swayed like the label, wanting to be chased after with naïve smiles and eager eyes but the owners of the dreams were chasing after a paper that didn’t want to be caught.

Lwazi would watch the scowling and dejected adults with disinterest, he’d count the days until they reached Friday. On Friday, the street would be abuzz with men cradling brown bottles like lovers, windows would quiver from the music busting from the cars, the fetid air smelled different; it bordered between sweet and sour as the women passed with fragrant perfumes, their sly hands pulling down skimpy dresses as they walked to their lovers’ places with tiny bags.

The people of Cromwell joined in on the Friday festivities with a shyness, as if too afraid for the world to see that the city had infected them with its uncouth ways.

Lwazi was amused by his father who never looked at the label apologetically, he gave it a fierce and determined glance as if telling the label that one of these days he’d leave and never look back at it. When Lwazi had seen what he eagerly waited to see, he’d go back to his tiny desk and listen to the shuffling on the other side of the door before his father opened the door.

“I’ll leave this place. I’ll get us out of here. I am better than this!” his father would say after closing the door with his foot.

Lwazi would hold his breath and hope that his mother would not snort at his father’s statements. He never reached number six when he counted under his breath, waiting for his mother’s snarky response.

She’d scoff before saying, “It’s been ten years ever since you said this is a temporary residency, you said we’d leave after you make enough money, where’s the money Mthunzi? Where is the money? All you ever do is make promises that you can’t keep. Making promises when you can’t even buy a piece of meat, when last did our teeth get rubbed by meat?

All I want is meat! Inyama, Mthunzi, inyama!”

A ferocious look would cover her eyes, the thought of not having meat angering her more.

“Stop dreaming and accept that you’re stuck, this is where it’ll end. What you came chasing after does not want to be caught so stop it. Give up!” she continued and pointed around the cramped room that served as a kitchen and a living room, the worn out studio couch was Lwazi’s bed by night.

His father’s lips would crease and his broad shoulders shook as he followed the movement of her hands, the mention of this room being his dying place pumped him with so much fear that soon turned into anger.

Lwazi leaned against the wall and tapped his fingers on the cluttered desk as he watched his father beat his mother, he’d impassively look at her writhing on the floor.

Being on the floor did not stop her from saying foul words.

“You foolish man! You use… useless man!”

The thin walls made it hard for him to not pry at the noises coming from his neighbors. He heard the ragged cries of a man and tiny whimpers of a woman.

“Leave her! Leave mama alone! Mama, mama, mama! Mama let’s go!” the voice he recognized as Mbali’s shouted.

Lwazi envied her will to fight and shout on behalf of her mother, he thought of his mother as an enabler of such abuse. If only she would keep quiet and let his father talk about his dreams to leave this raunchy place, he wouldn’t have to fight his demons through her.

The yelling, plummeting and weeping would go on until midnight, the building would rest in a few hours long sleep before everyone awoke and collected a part of themselves from the floor; their blood and tears.

Everything would return to the way it was-ignoring dreams and chasing paper with a face of a smug man.

Many Friday’s passed of his father glaring defiantly at the sign, his mother poking him, his neighbors whimpering, crying and shouting until another one came. Lwazi decided to excuse himself from the rowdiness of his home, he skipped down the steps wanting to escape the same noises that came from every door he passed.

Angry men with callous hands wanting to roughen their delicate wives, some other women like Lwazi’s mother were too tired of listening to the promises of their men that left their stomachs growling and other men scraped and scratched the flesh of their women’s thighs as they searched for their egos that had been stomped on by white men and all they could say was, ‘Yes baas, stomp on it, I do not need an ego.’

Lwazi reached the bottom of the staircase and looked around the deserted lobby, the out of service sign was attached to the elevator doors for as long as he could remember.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him turn around and look at the person. Mbali galloped down the stairs.

They both looked at each other impassively.

She said, “Let’s go.” And Lwazi shook his head, his hands digging into the pockets of his sweater as if he would retrieve something from them.

“What will you do here?” she questioned him while darting her eyes around the empty lobby that only had a counter.

He also looked around and thought of what he would do since he escaped from his home and did not wish to see his mother poking his father’s demons and dancing with them until his father got tired and wept like a child and his mother would lay his head on her bloodied bosom. Proud that she arose and wrestled demons on her own.

He decided to follow her out of the night and they were immediately greeted by noise from drunken people who tried to sing along to the loud music but ended slurring words of the lyrics, crying as they recalled past lovers and cursed love.

Lwazi hurried his pace as he tried to catch up with Mbali’s fast gait when they passed by a group of boys who were kicking and hurling obscene expressions at a man. The man was curled up in a fetal position.

“We’re running from violence, only to be met by it again,” she accompanied her statement with a dry chuckle.

Lwazi kept quiet and thought of his relief from not being stopped by the group of boys and possibly getting beaten up. Lord knows he was just a lanky boy who did not have the strength to fight off a group of savage boys.

The pair stopped next to a man who was grilling chicken feet and gizzards.

“Do you have money?”

Lwazi replied by shaking his head, Mbali sighed in disappointment and they’re walked away from the hunger inducing scent. Mbali looked back evilly.

When they reached the less rowdy end of the street, their feet began to drag and their steps became slow.

“I wish she was like your mother. I want her to fight back and curse him,” Mbali said lowly that Lwazi could have confused her voice with the whispering of the passing wind.

She took Lwazi’s silence as a go ahead to continue.

“Why does she lay there and allow him to beat her like a punching bag?” she asked, “She could scream for help, you know?”

“No-one would listen to her?” Lwazi finally talked.

“Hey, how sure are of that?”

“My mother used to scream for help but no-one would come, now she just lets it happen,” he said.

“Maybe she didn’t scream enough.”

“You know I listen to mama Nkosi’s pleas for help? I crank up the volume of the TV and hope someone assists her but no-one does.”

Lwazi was too ashamed to admit this so he looked at the humble lighting from the street pole, the image of the pole took him on a quick jog on memory lane.

When he was younger, he would look at the poles and his heart would thump painfully against his chest because they looked like they were swaying in the air, ready to crush his tiny and bony body- the thumping had dulled over the years but the fear remains.

“Why don’t you get up and help her?” Mbali asked after a minute long silence, making her neighbor retract from staring at the pole.

The question tickled Lwazi more than his father’s silent conversations with their building’s sign, the boy laughed, bent down and smacked his skinny and sharp knees that were poking out of his ripped jeans. The concept of ripped jeans worried his mother; if one wanted to walk around naked then they should do that instead of wearing torn clothes, she always thought to herself.

“You’re a funny person, did you know that?” he asked after recovering from the belly clenching laughter, “If you have not noticed, this is the city. Everyone is concerned with running away from the demons that chased them from their homelands, not other people’s problems, so tell me why would I go there when my own mother is facing the same problem and I can’t help her out?”

Right after Lwazi stopped talking, a gunshot sounded at distance, startling the two teenagers but they soon recovered as this was a norm like how Shaka Zulu was used to the sound of a spear penetrating flesh.

Mbali sighed and said, “Let’s go back.”

“Who do you think died? Do you think it might be someone you know?” Mbali questioned Lwazi.

The boy simply shrugged.

“Someone I might know? Maybe. They all know each other-humans, I mean. The person that just got shot at might be a stranger I bumped shoulders with on a train or the one who held my bag on a bus as I struggled with standing or the man my father shared a cigarette with. I don’t know but all I know is that we’ve all met before so I might know the person.”

Mbali took in his words or not, maybe she inhaled the delicious smell of meat as they passed the man selling chicken necks and gizzards.

“If we know each other so much then why do we hurt each?”

“It angers us to see people who look like us, if they look like us then that means that they’re as clueless as you are about what we’re doing here.”

_________________

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 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.

______________

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.

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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: 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