Harmonies and Brushstrokes

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2 Table of Contents Foreword Sebabatso Madibu - How to Make a Cyborg Tshegofatso Masokwane - Mommies and their Babies Tinotenda Mavata - Stolen Glances Nthateng Tloubatla - The Fight Nomonde Zondo - Unravelled

3 Foreword This anthology is a compilation of short stories, written by the listed students to showcase their writing projects for the Experimental Festival 2024. The students have employed the theme of ‘Harmonies and Brushstrokes,’ striking a comparison between the melodic and artistic nature of music, art, and literature. All pieces within the compilation are works of fiction, and any similarities to real-life characters or events are coincidental.

4 Sebabatso Madibu How to Make a Cyborg (Ero)

5 How to Make a Cyborg 03/08/2178 Hi Mama, Hi Papa. I just saw my first dead body today. It was cold; almost metal. But it was human. He was human. Running away from the Earth that once embraced him. He was not the first to try. Thousands have snuck into Lunar, desperate to sail the stars with the cargo on the ship. But none make it. They carried him through the Galaxy Room, where we waited for our next tour to begin. His head poked past Pluto and reached Mercury, where we were standing. The nostrils told us all about it, along with his ballooned skin which cratered like the moon below. Lunar was unforgiving, even for those who are part Ero, part human like me. Only full Ero are resilient enough to tolerate the inconveniences of changing gravities, void air, and dust. We were only visiting as part of Valley’s finest. The grade’s top four students were chosen for the trip. I was the only kid on scholarship; and the only one who needed a doctor’s clearance to get on the ship. Unfortunately, the breathing fits have been getting worse. Dr Tlale has tried everything, including requesting an upgrade to full Ero. But my scholarship will not cover it. They said it was non-essential, even after we explained the situation with my lungs. The human’s nostrils would disagree. Its last breath was for Lunar - Ero’s feat. It was a testament to its ingenuity. And the human only wanted to be part of it. He wanted the dignity of their living. But he was left behind. And I don’t want to end up like him. 21/08/2178 *** One leadership role. A cultural and academic one too. I can get away with Sports if I stay on the Environmental committee. But I must join the SRC. Only then will CYMIND be convinced. They’ve just opened a youth sponsorship program to fund becoming Ero. Full Ero.

6 She starts from the hands. A small chip containing ID numbers, parents, and profession is embedded under my wrist; consolidated into an electric dot. Next are the pumps (this one was added for my fits). They are small rods supplementing and subtracting pieces of my body to keep it functional. Then it's the head plates. They link one Ero to another so they can share their minds without speaking. Real solidarity. When I turn 25, I will have a metal exoskeleton to seal me in. The adjusting hearing aids are optional, but no Ero skips them - even if they can’t afford it. That is the golden rule on this side of town: Look like you can, even if you can’t. And maybe, one day, you will be able to. That is what Zuleka’s dad tells her, and she follows suit, but not in the way that makes him proud to have shared his wisdom. Zuleka is a friend from school. The revolutionaries, as we like to call them. It was the fourth time she was summoned to the principal’s office. This time it was for standing in a long line of girls holding posters that read ‘You strike a human. You strike a rock!’ I knew it wouldn’t achieve much beyond Valley’s borders, but I admired her willingness to try. Her father’s BMW SUV, with the CHP logo - the Committee for Human Preservation - was parked outside the school. They lived for human liberation. Well at least, that’s what the committee slogan said. Her dad did what he always did. He contributed to the school’s new Genetics Centre. He must have hoped she would find inspiration in the Epigenetics room or the Genomics library. They would be useful for our upcoming project: the Epigenetic treatment of Cystic Fibrosis. We were tasked to complete it in pairs, and I got Zuleka. I was hoping for Sine though. She is my roommate. She’s also half-ero, but a good Ero. And for my sake, I hope Zuleka will have enough room for both: the protests and the Petri dishes 31/08/2178 ***

7 A few days ago, I went by Zuleka’s room to check how far she was. She was hosting a meeting with other revolutionaries planning their next demonstration. She greeted me with a nod, and then a raised brow, which ascended after each question. ‘Is that all?’ Zuleka said, tapping her foot. I wrapped it up, deciding to catch her another time. That is when I heard her. ‘What did you say?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. But she came again. ‘Yeah no, she can miss me with this Biology project.’ This time, her mouth was not moving. That is how I knew it was her mind. Our metal plates. They protracted electromagnetic waves from our brains to a nearby CYMIND lighthouse. These were littered all over the city and used to guide the network of signals around us. Her wave found me, and I was grateful for a slice of her thoughts. I stayed up all night fighting my body’s fatigue. Caffeine was my weapon. So were the dance sessions. And together, we managed to finish the Epigenetic report with two hours to spare. Sine still has another 18 hours left on hers. She has the premium body package. Zuleka too. But she often slips into her flesh, forgetting to exchange the batteries tucked under her metal. Sine tried to help me, but she had her battles for the night - an essay about the role of human instinct in cyborgization. We spent our breaks discussing it. And other things, of course. Zuleka included. I haven’t heard from her in the past two days. Matron said she checked out of the boarding house because of an emergency. I wish I would have known. I would have used the two hours searching for her to sleep. Thank God her plate malfunctioned. That was God. Because come to think of it, I didn’t turn my plate on either. So I shouldn’t have been able to hear her. But I did. *** 11/09/2178 Zuleka’s dad has been suspended from the CHP for stealing from the community churches. This was the gossip around town. It was nothing new. Auntie tells me all about it in our

8 weekly phone call. But this time, one of the clerks came forward with irreconcilable bank statements. He was trying to make a statement. But the kind that was too dangerous to be said in words. So he used the numbers. And yes, they did not add up. But a lot of numbers don’t add up. Let’s take the State’s budget for instance. For years now, Ero has been chipping away at the humans’ numbers. But humans keep growing, despite the missing power and water. That’s why when the CHP pinches from the little cash humans have, humans look away. Money is no longer their currency. Food and drink is. And there simply isn’t enough. That must have been what the emergency was about. Zuleka has taken a break from the protests. She knows better: a disciplinary hearing coupled with a scandal would not withstand her father’s generosity. There’s only so much of God’s money the school can take. Or else humans will start to wonder why they pay for her to become a cyborg. ‘It's all greed,’ Auntie says. ‘Ero, humans. Nature always takes its course.’ The phone started crackling as I was updating her on my fits. My antibiotic pumps are struggling to keep up with my infections. That’s when she told me, with a gravity that brooks no argument, to go see Dr. Tlale again. That was also the only time when she sounded clear. *** 13/09/2178 As I walk in, Dr. Tlale assesses me with his gaze. Blood pressure, Heart rate, respiratory rate. They are all normal. It's the usual advice: keep working on your scholarship. "It is your only way out" He says this, despite the Ero news reports. A scientist’s top-secret report about CYMIND has just been leaked to the media. In it, she writes that the metal plates are a cover-up for a scheme to control Ero's mind. I tried to bring it up with Dr. Tlale, but he continued about school. He’s right. We can’t afford to reject Ero. But I also can’t pretend the report doesn’t exist. He also talked about the caffeine. He says it's worsening the stress. Talk. That was his advice to me. ‘Talk to someone,’ he says. But I told him I didn’t have anyone to talk to. That’s why I prefer journaling. I just don’t know how effective it is.

9 But maybe he is right (as always). Maybe the weight of things will be better shared with a vital ear. Or an aid of sorts. They are good at reading the pitch of prostration. They are also very good at silencing the world. *** 27/09/2178 Bra Jake's Taxi always tried to stay on Khumalo for as long as it could, before turning into the corner opposite my corner. It's a quick walk across the block, and then I am home. I have always loved the drive home. It's the longest trip I have ever taken. I have to pass a few gates, the biggest being the first one out of the city. Its walls demand every detail of your trek. The guards pat you down, first as a search, then as a release into the rest of Gauteng. In City Deep - the transitioning piece, the road begins to split; the buildings take their stance as they stunt to buffer Jozi. The guards too. But they disappear before Thokoza. There, the gravel simply begins. It eventually lifts into tar, but only momentarily, before disintegrating. But today, I don’t get off. I am going somewhere else. I am coming to see you. Today is the halfway point between both of your deaths. This way, I can avoid crying twice. I carry the cardamom seeds in my hand. They are my ‘flowers.’ I count them to be sure they are 21. That is how many we used to take for the tea we would brew. It is also how many I decide to buy. And yes, there are enough. 21. I also have my soap with the cloth in the bucket. Both will be discarded after cleaning the grave because as you know, it is bad luck to take the filth of the dead home. I turn away before Bra Jakes turns his final corner into the cemetery. I don’t need the teaser. I know my way to the site. It's straight, turn left, then left again before stopping at your home. 52 steps in total. I try to keep my eyes on the floor. There is something about a place like this. A place of remembrance and wounding. I have to find something to say, specifically today. You heard what Dr. Tlale said, but I am not ready to open up to those on the ground. They just won’t

10 understand. Zuleka, forget it. Auntie is only interested in the books. Gossip too. But that is as far as we go. And Sine, well I haven’t given Sine a real chance. Not yet. I arrive and drop the seeds into the flower bowl. It is almost full. It took a good 5 years, but we’re almost there. The tap is a little further out past the grave. I grab the bucket, dreading its density on the walk back. Kneeling, I sweep away the fallen leaves and then wipe away the layers of grime. It obscures your names, which are etched into maroon granite. Honoring the dead is a lost practice. I seldom see people at the yard, and often clean with one eye on the stone, and the other on the gate. It took me a while, but I’ve mastered it. One wipe, a quick turn, and then a dip into the bucket. But I have to make sure I steal a glance behind before I start again. It's harder when my breath gets short. I need to take breaks, but with my back alternating between the gate and the stone. I cannot wait for Ero to crack the code on the Epigenetic cure for Cystic Fibrosis. It will certainly shorten the time it takes to clean the grave. Maybe one day Ero will crack time. And I can go back to help you with the CF cure. I will start with Papa, and that will save Mama, who will be free from the stress. I will be fine because I would have already been cured. And I would not have to be Ero. We can avoid Valley completely. I will stay in Thokoza, while Papa homeschools me. We’d start every day with Cardamom tea, and this time of our lives will be remembered as a forgotten trial. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I don’t think you would use Ero’s cure. You didn’t even want their body. And when I asked you why, as you coached me through my Valley scholarship exam, you told me that you would rather die human than live as Ero. I then watched you reach for the forms for my new Ero parts. Hesitant, yet resolved to complete each line, you sent me to Valley. 30/09/2178 55%. At least it was a pass. ***

11 I imagined the number was different. Just so I could get through my Maths test. It was only when the bell rang after school, that was I freed from the illusion of passing. I bolted down to boarding before the shuttle to Rosebank left, and returned with a pack of energy drinks. I had to stay awake. Dr. Tlale will forgive me. I started with my Accounting. It was my next test. Ledger accounts, reconciliations, and assets. Next is Biology. I needed to make up for my marks in the exam. The nervous system, the digestive system. Oh crap, I’ve run out of post-it notes. And Rosebank is closed. The caffeine buzzes through my system, fueling each cell with vitality. I stand and pace in search for a solution. Yes; I think Sine has an unopened pack of notes which she did not use for History. But I’m not sure. I walk to the door to go confirm with her. On my way there, is a knock. And yes, I wrote out every word, so you knew where I was coming from. ‘Come in,’ I say, not caring for who it might be. The door clicks, and a head pops in. It was Zuleka. ‘Hey, you busy?’ ‘Yeah, kind of. What’s up?’ I open the door in full as she sneaks the rest of herself in. ‘I just wanted to ask, are you by any chance going home this weekend?’ ‘No, I’m staying in.’ ‘Oh.’ A pleading silence. I couldn’t help but respond. ‘Why?’ ‘We’re trying to make a documentary for the CHP. We wanted to honor the lives of humans lost. And I thought of your parents’ ‘I’m sorry, I have to study for the Bio exam.’ ‘It’ll be a quick in and out.’ Another pleading silence. ‘Pleeassee.’ ‘Dude, I’d love to. You know that. But I have to stay in. I’m in trouble for Bio. We got 55%’ I waited for her head to get it: Yes, we passed, but we did not do well. We have to do well.

12 But she didn’t. She shrugged; with her signature brow lift and remarked: ‘We’re fine.’ ‘You’re not worried about failing Bio?’ I asked, now genuinely concerned for myself. ‘Ugh, they only learn about us to use us against us. I don’t support that.’ I walked past her and into the corridor. I needed the Post-it notes more than I needed Zuleka to understand. She would not understand. And I did not have the time to make her. ‘Are you okay,’ she said, running after me. ‘I’m fine. I just can’t help you. Sorry.’ ‘Ugh Nandi, don’t be sorry. Do something!’ ‘Excuse me?’ I turned around, the caffeine swirling over me. ‘Do something. Doesn’t this piss you off?’ ‘Oh, I’m pissed.’ ‘Good, then do something. Help us.’ ‘Help you? I did help you. I finished a whole project on my own because I was helping you. And you’re welcome by the way.’ ‘I didn’t ask you to do that. You did that on your own’ ‘Because you were gonna do it?’ ‘Why are you attacking me? I’m on your side.’ ‘Oh my God Zuleka, I cannot do this.’ ‘We are honoring your parents. Do you not want this?’ The nerve. The literal nerve. ‘Please leave my parents out of whatever it is that you’re doing. Please, I will not ask you again.’ ‘Your parents are human heroes. You cannot ask us not to honor them.’ ‘I’m not asking us, I’m asking you.’ ‘I’m sorry Nandi. Maybe you don’t appreciate them but you can’t stop me from doing that.’ I slapped her. I started with her face. One hot slap. Followed swiftly by another. Zuleka swung her arm to hit me back. It was going to hurt, but I could take it. I had to. Then Sine got between us, her push throwing Zuleka off balance, her other arm holding me at bay. I saw then, how many girls had surrounded us, watching. Behind Sine, I could see Zuleka steadying herself, her hands balled into fists, getting ready to strike. I lunged towards her but fell right into Matron

13 who, at that exact moment, was stepping between us and saying “Girls!’ when I knocked her over. After recovering from her fall, Matron sent us back to our rooms. Sine followed behind me. The tears welled at floor of my eyes as I opened the door and kicked the bin beside me. I broke down. I don’t know how else to say it. But she was there. And so was the caffeine, quickly reminding me that I was at the very edge of my suit. Suddenly aware of the weight of my body against her, Sine’s arm loosened around me, letting me fragment out of her grip. The halo of her Afro disintegrated as Matron’s hurried footsteps warped into a distorted symphony. It was all fading away. At first, as a warning, and then as a promise. My suit finally stopped threatening me. It took action. And before I knew it, there was a silence where the world used to be. *** 02/10/2178 With a gasp, I awake. The brightness of the room is disorienting. Dr. Tlale hovered above me, his voice calm but distant. My lungs, now between a pebble and a quiet place, finally ingested the air as its rightful staple. He told me what happened, including the new upgrades. But they’re only temporary. I still needed to nail a scholarship to fix these fits. Anxious about the exams, I asked him to allow me to write. Or at least study. ‘It's okay. They moved you to the end of the year. You’ll have enough time to make it up,’ he said patting my shoulder. The promise of more time offered a small anchor in the vast sea of my troubles. I could still make it; I just have to work for it. *** 30/11/2178 I saw the pamphlet on the side of the road. It was adorned with solemn faces surrounding a picture of you both at a campus protest. It was from the time you were both lecturers at the University. Zuleka must have found these from the early CHP archives. She went ahead with it. The video was now a documentary titled "Echoes of Rebellion: Voices of the Anti-

14 Ero Movement." I traced my fingers over Mama’s cornrows. But I did not have time to caress her cheek. I was going to be late for my final paper - Biology. As I walked down the aisles of the hall, my stomach knotted. The air echoed with our lastminute revisions and silent prayers. I found my seat and took a deep breath before opening the test booklet. I recognized the first question. It was from a practice paper I completed the night before. The fourth one was from an exercise I found in an online forum. A calm settled over me as I realized I was armed with every piece of knowledge I needed. I occasionally glanced at the clock, but I didn’t need to. I unraveled every question before me, knowing it would be enough to nail the sponsorship program. I wanted to run and confess my arrogance to you. But I decided to wait for the pages of my journal. And then I saw it again, the pamphlet. The premiere was tonight at the Dean’s Theater. The dress code was casual. ‘Are you coming?’ one of the girls noticed I was staring at the pamphlet. I panicked. ‘I don't know if I have anything to wear.’ ‘I’ve got something if you need it.’ I glanced at her, surprised by the unexpected offer. "Really? That would be great, thanks." She smiled and motioned for me to follow her. As we walked towards her locker, I wondered if it was too late to say something. But I also hoped tonight could be a fresh start with Zuleka. You both know how much I hate conflict. We jumped across the sea of lunch bags and arrived at her designated metal blue block. She pulled out a mink sweater with jeans. Valley kids. I tried them on and took them off as soon as I realized I could zip the jeans up comfortably. "They fit perfectly!" I said, feigning excitement. "Thank you so much!’ She grinned. "I'm glad they work. You can just give them back tomorrow. See you tonight!" I stood outside the theater, staring at the marquee that boldly displayed Zuleka’s name. Like earlier, I found a seat in the auditorium and waited for the documentary to begin. I

15 caught Zuleka’s eye as she walked in. She looked surprised to see me, but then nodded, and I assumed she was relieved I had made it. I returned the favor because I was. The lights dimmed, ushering in the sound of cracking popcorn, and there you were. I cried. Beset by the image of your vigor, I cried and soaked the borrowed mink. I was quickly comforted by the pat of surrounding strangers until I gathered enough strength to tune back in. This time, A CHP member was speaking: ‘We must ask ourselves: How much is enough? How much will it take? Their decision was neither easy nor without consequence. They left people. People who loved them. But they also rejected the prospect of Ero and favored humanity. As the CHP, we admire the depth of their strength and commitment. It was a sacrifice that would forever be etched in our memory, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. They fill me with gratitude. They fill me with inspiration.’ We all rose to give a standing ovation. Praise sprung from one mouth to the next. I looked around, curious about where it came from. But I found no trace. The chorus ballooned into more congratulations. The applause rooted each word. I glanced once more, but most mouths weren’t moving. They were screaming. I caught Zuleka’s eye again. Her hands were cooled from the applause, her brow was raised in confusion. And I wondered if she could hear them too.

16 Tshegofatso Masokwane Mommies and Their Babies

17 Mommies and their Babies The first half of the work is devoted to the five types of mothers, of which yours, you are sure, was likely an amalgamation. You were seven years old when you last saw your mother and you were ten when you last spoke to her. The last conversation was when she told you, you were dead to her. Your mom swans the prison yards in and out, whenever she pleases. You have had almost a decade to come to terms with what happened and to rationalize the true reasons for the estrangement (because you are not gullible enough to believe her shallow pettiness was the real cause). What these sessions have managed to do well was label and explain the different kinds of unloving mothers and what drives their behavior. From the severe narcissist to the overly enmeshed, the control freak, the mother who needed mothering, and those who neglect, batter and betray, drug addicts and so forth. The hallmark of all these mothers is a lack of empathy, and their intense self-centeredness blinds them to the suffering they create. Each session nails both looming figure and the residual effect of the experience. Family counseling sessions are supposed to offer prisoners methods to heal and tactics to take in relationships with their family members. These sessions are meant to support prisoners to reintegrate into the family unit after release. Mom will not like this. But such is the world and the wonders in it. Like any other person, you would imagine that the maximum-security prison looks like a huge fortress in the middle of nowhere. Its walls are tall, with sharp wire on top. When the gates open, they make a loud, scary sound. Inside, it's cold and dark. Guards walk around all the time, making sure nobody tries to escape. The cells are small and have bars on the windows. Prisoners stay inside most of the day, feeling trapped. At night, it gets even scarier. You can hear people yelling or banging on things. That's what you normally see on TV. But the nest your mother seeks for shelter, like a home, is nestled in a lonely land, Pretoria central prison stands like a giant beast, hungry for souls. Its tall walls, sharp with wire, trap secrets and sorrow inside. Anyone who sees it feels cold fear creeping into their bones.

18 When you step through the heavy gates, the air turns thick with sadness. The halls are like crooked paths through a haunted forest. Inside Pretoria Central Prison, it's like the world forgets its rules. Cruelty rules the day, and everyone fights to survive, even against each other. The smell of decay fills your nose, mixing with the cries of those who've lost all hope. The scariest part of Pretoria Central Prison isn't the walls or the guards. It's the way it messes with your mind. Locked away from the sun, prisoners face their fears alone. The hearsay is that there's a hidden place called "The Pit," where darkness swallows you whole, and screams never end. You only knew about “the pit” because Belinda had been there for a week. The guards tell you it was a deal gone wrong. Who knew that things like a packet of noodles cost a life in prison, something so inconceivable? You and your social worker are on a little social experiment called her research project for her master's degree. You have heard Nia rave about the improvement of these women. She says the women she works with; these women are seriously disturbed. Some are even mentally ill. And when angered, they lose their ability to control their impulses. She always adds that rage takes over the abusive mother and her child is a stand-in for every person who hurts or disappoints her. The third session is about Closure. Not that you are gullible enough to think that’s what today’s session is about. It may also be about the heavy decision you must make before your next court appearance. The last time you were in court, the judge found you not sufficiently mature to decide whether to terminate your pregnancy. Yet somehow, you are presumably mature enough to carry the pregnancy to term, raise a baby if you choose, or give it up for adoption and risk losing your Oxford scholarship and the system's support. Of course, you recognize that you are still in school, don't have a job, and that the would-be father can't help to support you and the baby. *** You are not going to hold a burial for my “fantasy mother”, nor are you going to do roleplay exercises with your social worker, so you told yourself. That is not your bag, you would add.

19 Before your mom became a permanent resident at Pretoria Central Prison, and before you were shuttled between foster homes in Johannesburg until finally settling at Carl Sithole Children's Home, you thought it was normal for mothers to disappear. That was life in Durban Deep. When your mother first got arrested, you had just turned six on your birthday, and you would cry, 'Where are you taking my mommy?' 'They go to that horrible place called prison,' Koko would say. Koko, an old lady who lived across from your house, often shared her thoughts. She would add, 'Prison is a place where they keep criminals. Thieves, killers, and lawbreakers in general. And every morning the next day, she would take you to the family court up in Joburg. Your mother has never killed anyone, nor stolen anything from anyone. But she is constantly in trouble with the law because she loiters around the whole neighborhood. That's how she gets customers, especially at night. Exchanging sex for money is not a crime. An outdated piece of law, the Crimes Act of 1889, is often used against sex workers. This law does not criminalize sex work but rather the act of loitering in public for the purpose of prostitution. Now, it makes clear why the session is called CLOSURE. Location, Location, Location. As you sat with Nia on the hard metal bench, feeling nervous, the proverb "Umfundisi Ulindwa Ngengoma," which translates to "the priest is guarded with a song," resonated in your mind. The room seemed to shrink with every passing minute. Nia clutched a folder tightly, her demeanor serious and focused, almost like a priest meticulously reciting a sacred chant. The weight of her concentration was palpable, reminding you that, much like the priest who must follow prescribed formulas and specific reciting tones, any misstep could disrupt the harmony. There is a right and a wrong way, and mistakes, while not invalidating, could shift the balance. In that moment, you realized that both of you were crafting a delicate melody, guarded and guided by the need for precision and the hope embedded in every note. Minutes passed as you noticed every detail of the non-contact visiting area. Your eyes moved about the surroundings of the room, from the tiniest objects inside, like the glass

20 that separates the visitor and the prisoner. You are never observant, but you never looked at Nia, this time you glanced do you mean stared? at her. “She really is beautiful”, you thought. Anxiety does make one notice the tiniest things in the room. You also noticed the bold printing of your name along with your mothers on a tag on the side of the office file: LEBOGANG AND BELINDA BRITS. You heard the clinking of the chains as she walked, and it made you tense up. I guess this pastor didn't wait for anybody to sing for her. She looked tough in her tangerine outfit. and you knew today was not the day to mess with her. From the passageway, you watched her walk like a scene from a movie. As she got closer, a heavy silence filled the room. You and Nia exchanged a quick glance, both feeling a mix of curiosity and fear. But as Belinda's face drew nearer, Nia's unease grew. Because behind her was a guard. She finally reached the visitor's area, lowering herself onto the cold metal chair with a heavy sigh. Her presence seemed to fill the room, casting a weighty atmosphere that hung in the air. You watched in silence as she settled into the seat, her movements deliberate and controlled. Like this. When she spoke, she sounded weary. "Mmmmhmm," she said scanning you from top to bottom, bottom to top, and finally resting on your fully grown pregnant belly. Her gaze eyes met yours. Her gaze was resigned, even judgmental. This was amusing to you because her story went something like this: divorce, mild-tomedium drug addiction, inability to keep a steady job, possible mental illness, and ultimately fully realizing the life of a prostitute addict with completely unstable living circumstances. You remember being left in a Shebeen uptown Hillbrow, she'd be back in a few hours... only for days to pass before you saw her again. You can still taste the uncooked tin fish you survived on, the memory of hating every bite vivid in your mind. Yet today, she looks down at you as if that was her doppelgänger.

21 We may think we live in psychologically aware times, but we have not yet managed to shake off our mythical version of motherhood – the myth that says a mother is capable of love, protection, and kindness. But do not take my word for it. *** The early years are a murky haze, fragmented memories slipping through your grasp like smoke. Yet, some images are seared into your mind. Her face, twisted in fury, inches from yours. Her lips parting, not for a tender word, but to spit. The wetness hitting your cheek, then slowly sliding down, a trail of disgust. Good choice. “Spitting in someone's face is about as disgraceful as it gets. Spitting on someone is considered an assault. You could get arrested for it.” Nia got up just in time to hand you a tissue paper, her words cutting through the thick silence. “If you spit in someone's face, you’re a low life scum. I don't care what the excuse is. There are way better ways to show that you dislike someone.” It's a sensation that lingers, more vivid than any kind of words or soft touches you might have imagined. Even now, you aren't sure what’s real and what’s a creation of your troubled mind, but the feeling of her saliva—hot, stinging, a mark of her disdain—is something your memory won’t let you rewrite. Good. Belinda’s gaze bore into you, her expression unreadable. You met her eyes, trying to find any semblance of the woman who once might have been your mother. She opened her mouth, and for a moment, you braced yourself for another round of venom. Instead, she sighed. “So, you’re pregnant,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes flickered down to your belly and then back up to your face, a shadow of something passing through them—regret? Resentment? It was impossible to tell. Nia, ever the professional, sat back down, her presence a steadying force beside you. “This session is about closure,” she began, her tone calm but firm. “It’s important for both of you to address the past so you can move forward.”

22 Belinda snorted; the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Closure,” she repeated, as if the word itself were a bitter pill to swallow. “Do you really think sitting here, dredging up old wounds, is going to fix anything?” You felt a surge of anger, your hands clenching into fists in your lap. “It’s not about fixing,” you shot back. “It’s about understanding. And maybe... maybe finding a way to let go.” The words hung in the air between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken pain and years of silence. Belinda looked away, her jaw tight, as if struggling with what to say next. For the first time, you saw a crack in her hardened exterior, a glimpse of vulnerability that mirrored your own. Nia leaned forward; her eyes soft with empathy. “It’s a start,” she said “A difficult one, but a necessary one. Healing isn’t easy, and it doesn’t happen overnight. But acknowledging the hurt is the first step.” You took a deep breath, feeling a strange mix of fear and hope. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something new—a tentative step toward a future where the past no longer held you captive. Belinda finally met your gaze again, her eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite name. “Alright,” she said quietly. “Let’s get this over with.” Nia kept talking, her voice a steady hum, but your mind drifted away, slipping back to a different time, a different place. You were seven years old again, the morning sun casting long shadows in your small room. Your mother walked in with a tray of freshly baked scones, the aroma filling the air. She’d gotten them as a ransom for cleaning the church. “Here you go, my doctor or lawyer,” she said, setting the tray down with a smile that made her eyes crinkle. She started braiding your hair, her fingers deft and gentle. “Promise me,” she whispered, “you’ll become a doctor or a lawyer.” “I promise, Mama,” you replied, feeling the tug and pull of her hands weaving your hair. You made a string of promises, each one grander than the last. “I’ll buy you KFC every day. And a house with two pools and a car.”

23 She laughed, a sound that was like music, rich and full of life. That laugh had warmth, a sense of hope and dreams. As far back as you can recall, that was the last time you saw her smile, the last time you heard her laugh. Your mind failed you on many things, but it never missed any detail of that day. The way the light played on the walls, the scent of scones mixing with the faint perfume she wore, the feel of her fingers in your hair, the sound of her voice filled with dreams. A sudden clink of chains brought you back to the cold present. Belinda's hardened face replaced the loving mother from your memory. The contrast was jarring, a sharp reminder of how far things had fallen apart. Nia’s voice cut through the fog of your thoughts. “What would you like to say to your mother, Lebogang?” You blinked, trying to focus. Words caught in your throat. What could you say to bridge the chasm of years and pain? You glanced at Belinda, her eyes now avoiding yours, and wondered if somewhere deep inside, she remembered that day too. Sharp pain suddenly tore through your abdomen, startling you. You gasped, clutching your belly, feeling a wave of heat wash over you. The room blurred, voices fading into a distant murmur. Another contraction hit, stronger this time, and you doubled over, struggling to breathe. “Lebogang?” Nia’s voice was urgent now, her hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” You shook your head, unable to speak. The pain was intense, radiating through your entire body. You felt a rush of liquid between your legs, warm and shocking. Nia's eyes widened. “Oh my God, you’re in labor!” Belinda’s tough exterior cracked for a moment, her eyes widening in alarm. She stood up, the chains clinking as she moved towards you. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice unsteady. The guards sprang into action, calling for medical assistance. The room erupted in chaos, but all you could focus on was the overwhelming pain and the primal instinct to push.

24 The guards acted quickly, working together seamlessly. Before you knew it, they had you on a stretcher, wheeling you out of the visiting room. The harsh glare of fluorescent lights blurred together as you were rushed through the narrow prison corridors. *** Labor for you felt nauseating. It felt like your worst fear, pain, and adrenaline. You vomited. But let's start with your water breaking. For most people, it is more like a trickle that streams down your leg. But you experienced a gush. It flowed out of you as if you had turned on a faucet. Since you were 11 weeks (about 2 and a half months) from your due date, a strong primal panic set in, and you rushed yourself to the hospital. You felt no physical pain from your water breaking but intense fear. When you started having active labor, it felt like strong menstrual cramps. They were localized to your lower abdomen. You always thought they would be your entire abdomen, but it was very localized. And INTENSE. It felt like the worst menstrual cramps you've ever had in your life multiplied by 50. Then your abdomen would become hard and tight. Uncomfortably hard. Cervical dilation progression did not equate to more physical pain. Before you were ever past 2 cm (about 0.79 in), you were in the most intense pain you had ever experienced in your life. And you have had part of your finger smashed off. It was worse than that. It was worse than your back tattoo. It was worse than breaking two ribs. When the doctor realized you were truly about to deliver, they started you on IV magnesium. Magnesium FUCKS YOU UP. You couldn't walk. You couldn't move. It felt like your body was burning from the inside out. Your mind was spinning. You had already been on magnesium before when your water first broke, so you knew what to expect. But damn if it isn't still a bitch. IV magnesium is typically given to pregnant people when they have preeclampsia. But it is also given to people about to deliver a premature baby that is less than 32 weeks' gestation because it has been shown to reduce the risk of cerebral palsy in the infant.

25 You had been hoping to make it to 34 weeks (about 8 months). But your son was coming at 31 weeks (about 7 months). Too soon. The doctors have already informed you that you may not get any time with him. He may need to be resuscitated. You were terrified. You had never been so scared in your life. You vomited. They asked if you wanted an epidural. You said yes. You just didn't want to exist anymore. You wanted it to be a bad dream. You wanted to wake up and still be pregnant. You got the epidural - fentanyl. Relief. So much relief. You could then drift away and finally get some sleep. You had been up since midnight. It was now 8 am. You slept a couple of hours and pretended you weren't going into labor. A nurse woke you up a couple of hours later and asked if you had felt any contractions. You had dissociated long before you ever got the epidural. Your body was there but you were gone. Your mind left this world. The epidural forced you back into that world just enough to recognize what was happening around you. The nurse asked you again. You told her you had been feeling pressure. She did a cervical check. Baby's head was right there. She frantically called the OBGYN and NICU team. You felt nothing as you pushed. No physical pain. Just fear. Just being scared. But no physical pain. Three pushes and your baby arrived in this world at 3 lbs. 8 oz (about 236.59 ml). A voice said, "It's a boy”. Your mouth was wide open. Your eyes were even wider. You followed the surgeon and your son across the theatre to where they weighed him, checked his vitals, and so on. You have never experienced such wonder in your entire life as in those moments. Your eyes were welling with enormous tears, enormous, in an emotion you have no words for. Beyond joy, beyond wonder.

26 The nurse stepped back to let you get closer. And to this day you don't know why you did this. You never planned it. But you pulled your surgical mask down off your face and bent down and inhaled your son's very first breaths. And you felt this power not so much surge through you as just utterly fucking smash you. You felt his life force come into you. It was a physical thing, and you don't care if anyone believes it. So, almost sobbing, you inhaled those breaths, and they smelt like the ocean. Pure and open and immense and fucking unstoppable. And you experienced this... thing, neither a feeling nor a thought. Maybe it was an instinct. You don't know. But this massive thing went off inside of you, like an explosion, that said I WILL FUCKING DIE TO KEEP YOU SAFE. You felt that force then, and you can still feel it now. Life Force. You would do it all over again for him. Every part of it. The magnesium. The pain. The fear. The IV antibiotics that burned. The steroid shots. The blood thinner shots. All of it. You would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Later that day, back in a hospital recovery suite, your mom, Koko and your social worker came to visit. You were holding your beautiful boy, still literally and truly awestruck, when your mom walked in. She's not a demonstrative woman. She just walked up, held out her hand to shake yours, and the first and only thing she said, "do you see how you'd die for someone now?" She wasn't bragging or guilt-tripping or anything, she was talking to you woman-to-fuckingwoman. Fuck. You just broke down and sobbed. In that moment, everything she ever did to you crashed down on you like a tsunami. You had this woman there for your entire life, who would have sacrificed you in an instant, for 1gram of coke.

27 As your mother approaches, her hand extended, you’re momentarily frozen, your son cradled in your arms. The sterile smell of the hospital fades as memories flood back— memories of neglect, of longing for a mother’s love that was overshadowed by her addiction. You look into her eyes, searching for a hint of remorse, of understanding. Your voice trembles as you speak, “Do you see it now, Mom? The love you’re supposed to have for your child?” You gesture to your son, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. “He’s my world, my everything. I’d give my life for him without a second thought.” Your mother’s gaze doesn’t waver; it’s as if she’s seeing you for the first time. “I… I never knew,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.” Tears stream down your face as years of pent-up anger and hurt pour out. “You never knew because you never chose to be a mother to me! But I’m choosing differently for him.” You pull your son closer, protective and fierce. The room is silent except for the beeping monitors and distant sounds of the hospital. Your mother reaches out tentatively, her fingers brushing against your son’s blanket. It’s a small gesture, but in it, you see an echo of the love that could have been. “I raised you right, didn`t I?” she asked. You saw the way she looked at you. She looked pained, sad. It felt as though she were trying to get some validation from you that in the very least, she didn't mess you up as a child. You said yes. She raised you right. Because you get it now. Besides, you didn`t have the heart to tell her of all the times you wanted to kill yourself from the pain and longing you felt for a safe and understanding home. You didn't have the heart to tell her that growing up, you felt lonely and that you had no one to talk to when you were close to jumping off the edge. You didn'thave the heart to tell her that the only thing that stopped you from taking your life on the day she said you were dead to her, was Koko.

28 You didn't have the heart to tell her that you raise yourself, that you were forced to grow up because she wasn't there. You are nineteen years old and for the very first time in your life, you knew you were a Woman. Motherhood is the very bestthing that has ever and will ever happen to you. You're a single mom now. *** Well, everything shifts gears once you have a kid. Your priorities do a complete 180. Suddenly, it's not just about you anymore. Your time, your sleep, your plans—they all take a backseat to this little human you're responsible for. Your perspective on life changes, too. You start thinking long-term, planning for their future rather than just your own. And yeah, it's exhausting but amazing. You find this whole new reservoir of patience and love you didn't know existed. The next day, you told Nia that you are keeping the baby. It was a decision you felt deep in your bones, but as the weight of it settled in, so did the consequences which you hadn't fully considered. Losing your scholarship means losing your place at the children's home. You're not sure where to turn next. Koko, who you don't remember not being a part of your life, has always been there for you. Despite being in and out of different foster homes who? If it’s your protagonist make this clear. Could be confusing to a reader who doesn’t know this story., she's remained a constant presence, visiting you whenever she could. And now, she offers you something you never expected. "Come stay with me," Koko says, her voice gentle yet firm. "I know things seem uncertain right now, but you don't have to face them alone. We'll figure it out together." Her offer catches you off guard, but during your uncertainty, it's like a beacon of hope. Koko's always been your rock, your unwavering support. And now, as you navigate this new chapter of your life as a single mom, her offer feels like the lifeline you desperately need. Tears fill your eyes as you nod, overcome with gratitude. "Thank you, Koko. I don't know what I'd do without you." She smiles, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "You don't have to do anything alone, sweetheart. We're family, remember?"

29 *** He turns two today. He loves the outdoors. He loves tractors and excavators. He loves giving hugs and singing. Every single day you look at him and think how incredibly fortunate you are. Not everyone is as fortunate. This morning, while baking a cake for your son, you realized that you were confused by something because you made a bad basic assumption. Once you become a parent, some things about your childhood sprung into relief and you started wondering stuff like: How could she have treated you that way, when she was all, you had? How could she not have seen how the pain you were in every time she left for work? Why wouldn't she want to see into your world and really know you? You assumed she felt about you as you felt about your son. You assumed that she understood the responsibility being a parent entails. You were assuming that she had dreams for you and wanted to help you become the best version of yourself. But you have known for a long time that she expected you to make her feel loved. She did not look at you and see a bundle of hope and potential that it was her job to nurture. She saw you as an accessory, a doll, a love vending machine. She was 16 and had no help. The reality of a newborn was probably harsh. She was not mature, and you are certain she will never be emotionally mature. You don't think she had the capacity to be an attuned mother. That sounds self-evident (because if she did, wouldn't she have done so?). But it makes a little bit of difference to you, because you thought on some level, you figured she must have had a maternal instinct and must have just chosen to focus on the magic of it. You have no desire to let her off the hook. But understanding that she didn't have it in her relieves that part of you that felt you must have failed to be something or someone to deserve her best. Maybe you gave her too much credit, thinking that there was a world in which she COULD have, and WOULD have given you the care you needed. You are now convinced that given her life up to that point, her circumstances and who your father was, there was no chance of her having the capacity to be a good enough mother. A mother who needed mothering.

30 As these thoughts settled like dust in an old house, the shrill ring of the phone sliced through the silence of your contemplation. The cheerful chaos of birthday preparations faded into the background as an unfamiliar voice cut in, “This call is from a correctional facility”. The words hung heavy in the air as the operator continued mechanically, “Do you wish to accept the charges?”. In that moment, standing in your kitchen with flour in your hands and love in your heart, the weight of your past collided with the present’s urgency. Today was supposed to be about celebrating life, yet here was death calling, demanding attention. Even after death, the mother still needs mothering.

31 Tinotenda Mavata Stolen Glances

32 Stolen Glances “My husband had both his legs broken and the bastards still couldn’t catch him alive!” Ma Pelo laughed as she recounted a story to a young girl in the back of a taxi on an early morning. “Who was he running from?” the girl asked curiously as she shifted further to the edge of her seat. Ma Pelo smiled at the young girl's reaction and reached over her neck to fix the collar of her school uniform, “You’ve heard the story 1oo times Manana, don’t you want something new?” Ma Pelo giggled. “Please Ma” “He was running from the police, that man was born to be free, even in these times...he would run from the loan sharks hell- he was probably running before he could stand, nothing could tell him he couldn’t...Haha ,now here’s your stop little one, don’t be late for school and also make sure you greet your mother for me and tell her Boipelo isn’t coming to home group!” she yelled as the little climbed out of the taxi. As the door shut she reclined back in her seat and pulled out a note she had been carrying in her small leather clutch, “Arrive at 12pm” the note read , she checked her wrist watch, sitting in the back of the taxi she began swaying her head side to side in an attempt to see past all the heads Infront of her blocking her view of how far she was from her appointment. Right as all three arms of the clock crashed onto 12 o’clock, Ma Pelo was stood at the door of a Dutch style house in the suburbs of Roodepoort, she knocked on the door that slid open revealing a woman with dark rings around her eyes with poorly applied mascara, “Hello” The woman groaned before exhaling a cloud of cigarrete smoke, “You must be the house keeper otherwise this isn’t a safe place for you natives” She continued. “Hi, yes my name is Boipelo Modise, but you may refer to me as Ma Pelo, I’m your new housekeeper.” she said, standing solid and unintimidated. “Jy praat?” the woman asked looking down at Ma Pelos well-kept Tommy shoes before lifting her eyes level with her. “Ja, Ek het goed afrikaans praat” Ma Pelo responded avoiding eye contact.

33 “I am Helen Oosthuizen, you can call me Helen, You’ll be taking of duties for my family, my husband Johan and my daughter Charisse.” The two walked into the house and a young girl with long brown hair and deep green eyes stood in the kitchen, Ma Pelo walked past her before stopping in her tracks, at her age she’d grown accustomed to greetings from children in her community, Ma Pelo swallowed the scoff that began to slip out her mouth to avoid direct engagement with her new boss’s daughter. The same evening on her first day of work Ma Pelo was introduced to Helen's husband Johan when he stumbled into the house at night during dinner. He was a towering figure with lifeless brown eyes, his collar was flared and his police uniform untucked. The mere sight of Ma Pelo brought him to a sober stutter as he pointed at her with no words escaping his teeth, “Evening baas, I’ve prepared your dinner” Ma Pelo announced, bowing her head. Johan stood silent, gazing down at a diminutive figure he couldn’t recognize, “Uhm, Food is ready my love, come-come sit.” Helen called nervously as she ushered her husband to his seat. Charisse was sitting at the dinner table watching the entire exchange. “I’ll eat in my office.” Johan groaned, before turning and shuffling away to zero resistance. Ma Pelo turned to capture Helen's reaction to his request and surveyed the content on Charisse and Helens faces as they continued to eat without him, she adopted the same behavior to assimilate in the houses strange practice. Johan sat in his office chair Infront of a panel of alcohol. “Leave!” Johan erupted when he saw Ma Pelo place the food Infront of him, she quickly turned and exited the office startled by his roar. “He can be fussy” Helen said, smirking at Ma Pelo, “You’re better off not getting in his way when he’s drunk, some have learned harder than others” She continued, turning to Charisee pointing at Charisse with her thumb.

34 Ma Pelo laid her palm on her chest softly, in a disguised attempt to slow her racing heartbeat. Helen stood from the dinner table and grabbed a bag she had laid under it, she pulled out a stick of red lipstick and applied it to her lips. “You’re lucky, it could’ve been pretty bad for you.” Helen scoffed, as she tried to hold a giggle back. “Where are you going Madam?” Ma Pelo interrupted. “Make sure the office is clean when he wakes up.” Helen replied, leaving the house. Ma Pelo turned to a young Charisse with her eyebrows frowned, “Where is your mother going love?” “Leave!” the little girl demanded. Ma Pelo stood. She inhaled a deep breath through her nose with her eyes fixated on the Dutch designs on the ceiling. “Ok.” she whispered as she left the room. The next morning, Ma Pelo followed instruction and went back to Johan's office, fumes of whiskey poured out from the dark office as soon as the doors opened, the tobacco from his pipe had drenched the wooden ceiling in a film of smoke and there he was, mouth opened, reclined in a drunken coma. Out of fear of waking him, she cleaned around him and left the room without shifting him from his sleep. While she was cleaning Ma Pelo turned her attention to the door and noticed an eye poking out the edge of the door before it turned away. She followed out of the office and found Charisse standing alone, her hands tucked into her chest. “Please don’t wake him up” Charisee squealed. “Why?” A silence consumed them both, Ma Pelo gazed down at Charisse watching as she hesitated and winced. “Alright...I’ll leave him alone.” she whispered leaving the office. “Thank you...Miss-

35 ” “Ma Pelo, you can call me Ma Pelo- it's fine” “Thank you, Ma Pelo.” Charisse confessed looking up to make eye contact for the first time with Ma Pelo. Charisse's eyes lit up at Ma Pelos' reaction to her request. Ma Pelo felt Charisse defrost in the tone of her voice and the glitter in her eyes when they locked sight. “I-I wanted to say I'm sorry for yelling at you last night” Charisse confessed lowering her head in shame, “My Pa, he yells all the time, and it scares me, I don’t want to make you scared too...I’m sorry” she continued. Ma Pelo squinted her eyes in disbelief, she’d never expected it from Charisse. Charisse's innocence resembled the same innocence she found on Manana's face, or the other black children in her community, she hadn't thought she could feel that same innocence from a white child, especially not one from a racist family. “I’m going to the park; would you like to accompany me?” Ma Pelo requested, “Yes please”. Ma Pelo embarked on her walk with Charisse, as they walked Charisse rushed Infront of Ma Pelo walking backwards in clumsy reverse. “My Pa told me that people like you are no good, he says you’re not to be trusted” she panted, Ma Pelos newfound good mood melted to a frown at her words- “But you don’t seem so bad...My mom would never take me to the park, she's always going to pastor George’s house or Mr. Kerns, she’s often not around.” “That’s adult discussions darling, leave those talks to us adults” Ma Pelo reasoned. The pair arrived at the park and Ma Pelo sat in a soft patch of green grass and Charisse followed suit. They sat watching a train track that spilt out of the horizon in the distance, Ma Pelos curiosity with Charisse ‘s innocence “We’re not bad people” Ma Pelo spilt as they sat, “Your father sometimes can be wrong, he doesn’t know all of us.” Charisse turned to Ma Pelo “Why does he hate you all so much, He’s a police captain you know, so he’s in charge of many-many police men...he sends so many of his police to beat people who do bad, he punishes them.” Charisse turned her eyes to Ma Pelo, “If you all

36 were not so bad maybe my Pa wouldn’t have to send so many police” she continued to rattle. “I know the police your father sends to the townships” Ma Pelo rebutted, “They only come to scare and hurt people, they are terrible people, but you wouldn’t understand those types of people at your age.” “They hurt and scare people like Pa does to me” Charisse exhaled, as she sighed. Ma Pelo turned to Charisse with her words tied behind a thin veil of suspense, she hesitantly reached over to stroke Charisse's hair to comfort her but stopped before she could get her fingers on her golden-brown locks of hair. “Sometimes I wish I could run away” “You shouldn’t say that. Your parents would be hurt if they knew you were saying that” Ma Pelo interjected shaking her head in slow swings. “My father could kill me, the way he is with me and my mother- he sometimes beats us, when my mom is away, he beats me. I almost died many times, but he hasn’t killed me, I don’t know how?” Charisse continued. “You wonder how what?” Ma Pelo questioned “How I survive it. If God really loved me like he loves my mom he’d let me die”- “God loves everyone, not just your mom”- “My mom always says that, but she’s the only one who gets to escape the house when she wants. I can’t.” Ma Pelo covered her lips in a poor attempt to hold back her tears. They both sat staring at the train tracks in the distance. “I used to be married.” Ma Pelo confessed, “to a wonderful man from Malawi called Ropafadzo, He taught me about freedom.” “How Ma Pelo?” “He’s from Malawi, there’s no apartheid in Malawi, Black people there are free from oppression, to go wherever they want, they’re safe. I met him at a train station one day, he was dressed in this dashing yellow suit that made his dark skin glow like it was soaked in oil.”

37 “He sounds like he was pretty” Charisse giggled, “He the prettiest man I had ever seen” Ma Pelo laughed back, “He attracted so much attention, he dressed like a slick fox, everybody used to ask me ‘where does he come from?’ because his entire aura was free from the ideals of this place, we fell in love in that train, we didn’t trade any words, he was attracted to my nature to learn and i loved his sense of adventure, he wasn’t like all the other south Africans, he was free, I wanted to be like him. He always used to travel for his work, and he’d take the big yellow train that runs those tracks you see in front of us.” “What happened to him?” Charisse said, interrogating Ma Pelo further. Ma Pelo broke into a lecture; she told Charisse about her husband's fashion sense that always got him in trouble as he would always stand out, and his nature to rebel. Ropafadzo was a man who habitually disregarded the law, he’d be involved in scams, fighting policemen and never carrying his pass. Ma Pelo at a young age was addicted to the young man's sense of freedom as he could never be caught, he seemed to always be right above the law. They got married young and because of her husband's nature moved from city to city often, Ropa would promise Ma Pelo one day they would leave south Africa and use the big yellow trains to buy a ticket and leave. Years into their marriage Ropa one day made a fatal mistake when a deal he made with thugs went wrong because he stole money, money he was going to use to buy him and his wife a ticket. The thugs chased after him province after province and so did the police, in the end Ma Pelo heard rumors he fell off a moving train running from the thugs and police, he broke his legs on impact but was never found. Ma Pelo always liked to believe she could work long enough to one day save up enough money to get on the big yellow train ride it all the way to Malawi to be reunited with her husband. Charisse laughed, listening to Ma Pelos life unfolding in front of her. The day out ended with Ma Pelo returning home as the sun set. As they entered, they arrived at the front door, Helen opened it in a teary-eyed rush.

38 “Mrs. OOSTHUISEN!” Ma Pelo cried attempting to grab Helen as she sped past her. “Pa is home” Charisse muttered to Ma Pelo as she pulled her back from stopping her mother who continued running until she had vanished. “Where were you?” the voice of Johan erupted from the empty house, Charisse walked into the house, closing the door behind her, Ma Pelo stood outside in fear of the horrors the little girl might’ve walked into alone. The next morning Ma Pelo opened the house door slowly and silence ran throughout the entire house, she walked into Johans office and almost gasped seeing an exact reenactment of his day before, he was reclined, mouth open with a jury of alcohol beside him. Ma Pelo immediately thought of Charisse. She turned around to see Charisse standing right behind her, her bottom lip was swollen purple, with blood that had dried over her right eyebrow. Ma Pelo dropped the cleaning supplies she had carried in her hands and rushed to Charisse kneeling Infront of her. “Oh-no my baby” she cried, “What happened when I left” “What always happens- ” Ma Pelo pulled Charisse between her arms. “Can we go to the park again?” Charisse requested, Ma Pelo looked stood up and reached her hand out to Charisse who stared at her palm suspended Infront of her, Charisse smiled looking at Ma Pelos palm before grabbing it and so began their trips. Ma Pelo would begin going to the park regularly with Charisse. They’d spend so much time together that Charisse would pick up some Tswana from Ma Pelo. Ma Pelo began to teach Charisse about leftist ideology, the ideas of racial harmony and Charisse would enjoy listening. Charisse would tell Ma Pelo about the drama breaking out in her school classes as well as listen with polished ears as Ma Pelo would spill spicy gossip that was circulating the township. Charisse laid her head on Ma Pelo’s chest as they both stared at the train tracks. Hours would go by.

39 A huge yellow train would pass and they’d both giggle looking at each other, each passing train they’d develop a game of guessing where it’s going and who's the lucky person who finally got their ticket to run away. They’d tell stories of a poor township boy who killed a racist cop and used a false identity and money he stole from pickpocketing to run away. Stories of an adulterer who goes from country to country spreading his devious seed, too slippery to be caught by the law and too smooth to be resisted by the white woman of Pretoria. Their favorite story was the one they about these 2 pretty girls who are fugitives of the law, who killed their mean husbands and joined forces to run a money laundering cartel that gave them so much money that they bought the train and used it whenever they pleased. Charisse and Ma Pelo would arrive home one day after their routine time out and find Johan in the house in the beginning of his drinking, “You should leave Ma, He’s drinking.” Charisse whispered while she pushed Ma Pelo out of the house. Ma Pelo held Charisse's arms, “I’m never leaving you alone again.” She rebutted. Charisse stood speechless, “Come let me take you to bed.” Ma Pelo continued as she ushered Charisse into the house and into her room. Charisse laid in her bed looking up at Ma Pelo, as Ma Pelo bent hung over Charisse tucking her into her bed, she took a soft yet deep sniff of Ma Pelos scent before closing her eyes in a satisfied groan. “You’re better than my mom” Charisse said as she opened her eyes to stare at Ma Pelo, “Your mom tries her best, don’t disregard her.” Ma Pelo responded, “My mom is gone again, she’s always gone, but you’re always around. You make me see that my dad was wrong, you are all great people, plus your language is fun ha-ha, I love you Ma” Charisse added. Ma Pelo could barely hold back her smile. “If you ever save up enough..., can I come?”

40 “You can’t your parents would search the entire world for you, also how would a black woman cross the border with someone else's white child, sounds like suicide. You have your mom who will miss you. Ma Pelo sat next to Charisse's bed, “I’m sorry, I can’t be your mom” Ma Pelo continued as she tucked Charisse further. “You Amaze me, you make me have hope that the world will be better” Ma Pelo confessed rubbing her hands. In an exploding rush Johan burst into the room and before Ma Pelo could react, she was slapped onto the ground, Johan grabbed Charisse by the hair and pulled her out of the bed. As she screamed Ma Pelo crunched into a ball and turned in an attempt to hide from Charisse's screams. Ma Pelo pictured the image of the first time she saw Charisse smile and immediately stood at her feet. “Johan let her go!” Ma Pelo screamed while she swung her boom stick at Johan, “This is none of your fucking business, go home!” Johan spat back “Your shift has ended you can go home.” Ma Pelo swung her broom stick and it was swiftly caught by Johan. Who tried to pull it out of Ma Pelos' hands. Charisse ran away from her father's grasp in the rush and stood behind Ma Pelo. As the two wrestled Ma Pelo stood tall, yelling at Charisse to get behind her as she tussled with the drunken brute. “Ma!” Charisse yelled waving a tiny piece of paper in her hand. Ma Pelo turned back to investigate and was quickly overpowered by Johan who pushed her to the ground, Joahn turned behind him to pick up a bottle he had just finished. As Ma Pelo attempted to stand, he pushed her and she fell on her stomach, Johan lifted his bottle charging up his swing, Ma Pelo shut her eyes sealing a fate she felt had been decided for her. A thunderous band erupted and the sound of glass knocking against the wall splattered all over the room...A loud thud followed. Ma Pelo opened her eyes expecting to be dead or at the very least be brutally injured, instead she saw Charisse laid Infront of her, in the rush of the moment Charisse dived in to protect Ma Pelo and she got hit on her head. Both Johan and Ma Pelo froze in silence. Charisse didn't so much as twitch, Ma Pelo crawled towards Charisse and felt her body, tense and stiff.

41 “She’s dead.” Ma Pelo reported to Johan in a lifeless monotone. Johan dropped the bottle, and it shattered on the ground, he began to gag standing over them both. “I-I... I didn’t mean to-” Johan stuttered, Ma Pelo winced as tears fell. She refused to look up. She noticed the piece of paper in her hands and pulled it out; after unfolding it she uncovered a stickman portrait of what seemed to be Ma Pelo and Charisse holding hands standing Infront of the big yellow train with the words ‘MALAWI TIKET’ at the top of the paper. MA Pelo quickly closed and covered her mouth to seal up her howls. “I’m so sorry my baby” Ma Pelo cried to herself holding Charisse's hand feeling the blood in her palms grow stagnant and still. “My baby, my baby, I love you too, my baby she mourned. Johan collapsed to his knees behind them, he began yelling but Ma Pelo could barely hear it as she brought Charisse closer to her chest. Ma Pelo stood up with the piece of paper. “I’m going to arrest you for making me do this” Johan groaned. Ma Pelo ran out of the house before Johan could stand. She ran until her figure sank into the dead of night. The next morning the sun rose to a Ma Pelo who stood at the park, shivering from the cold she pulled out Charisse's drawing to examine it further, she noticed a small text written at the bottom of the page, ‘If security ask why you’re travelling with me, I'll just tell them you’re my mom’. As the sun sat at the base of the horizon on its rise, the yellow train burst from behind it breaks screeching. Ma Pelo neatly folded the paper away before exhaling a deep breath. “We have a train to catch” She whispered.

42 Nthateng Tloubatla The Fight

43 The fight This may be hard to believe, coming from an acclaimed fighter, but no man is scarier than the one who never fights back. For years my father and I have grown estranged, disappointment marring our interactions with every failed test result. In truth, it has always meant more to him than it does to me: graduating. I stare at the loading screen, my nervous fingers tapping against the phone. My pacing halts at the foot of the wooden chest of drawers resting in the corner of the room. A framed picture of Coach and I at the gym stands atop the chest; the first boxing match I ever went to watch. The screen clears and a bold fail streaks across it. Regardless of my hard work the final exams had been like every other test I’d written throughout my high school career, long, confusing, and hopeless. I didn’t want to admit to them but, even if, by some miracle, I did well, I couldn’t substitute the marks I missed in the prelims. I swallow down the lump in my throat and refresh the screen. It clears, and the letters grow bolder— I failed matric. I slump onto the bed, head in my hands, pain suddenly piercing across my head. How do I tell him this? I crawl into bed, my eyes shut to quiet my thoughts, weighing my options. The morning tussles on, marked by my restless mind, and before I know it, the clock calls for breakfast. Mama wears an apron over her uniform and lays an array of plates on the table. Toast and tea for herself, toast and eggs for me, and the usual coffee and bran flakes for him. He sits silently in his neat, Nedbank uniform, reading another news article. To him, knowledge and order are the only true marks of excellence. Mama sits beside him and he places his phone down, their eyes brightening with pride. They haven’t looked this happy in a long time, at least because of me. I see his mouth moving, going through the speech as though he’s rehearsed it a million times before today. He closes off with the one thing I’ve always longed to hear him say, “We’re proud of you, son,” he says. Ouch. They are proud of me.

44 I cast my eyes down at my lap, considering the gentlest way to announce this. I focus on my fidgeting hands, take a deep breath, and say, “I failed.” When I lift my eyes to meet theirs, they gawk at me, disbelieving, smiles dissipating, and hands separating. “You what!?” Says Mama, her eyes wide. “I failed,” I say quieter. Mama releases a deep sigh, moves across the table, and pulls me into her arms, “it’s okay Nana, you can rewrite,” she says. She rubs my back. “Right, Papa?” She says while glancing at him. He pushes the plate of food away and clears his throat, “Right,” he says, nodding. It’s a good plan; find a learning center, apply, and rewrite. I know that’s what they want to hear me say— I’ll do it: the extra lessons and endless study sessions, the shame of going backward, while everyone else moves forward. It’s a good plan, a sure plan, it will make them happy. I take a deep breath, peel myself out of Ma’s embrace, cast my eyes down, and then up at him, “What if. What if I don’t rewrite?” I say. I hold his gaze, reading the brewing outburst, “ I could go pro,” I say. He shakes his head, “Fighting doesn’t make a career! It doesn’t build a life, Moagi,” he says, trying to drill it into me for the umpteenth time. I turn my head to Ma, seeking support. “Coach did it, and—” I say, but she shakes her head, “Thapelo quit fighting for a reason, Mo; It’s not safe,” she says. I look back at him but his gaze is fixed on Ma in solidarity, “Tima,” I say. He stands up, the chair screeching against the tiles as he does, “You’re rewriting,” he says, grabs his laptop bag, and walks out.

45 The bang of the door echoes across the room with resounding finality. Soon after that, Ma leaves for the hospital. Although she tries to be supportive, she has never been a fan of boxing, a fear that causes her to tense at the sight, or mention of violence; conveniently keeping her away from every match I’ve ever had. After clearing the kitchen, I start my run to the gym, desperately needing to escape my mind. Thirty minutes later I’m tightening my glove straps and throwing myself into the ring. Coach stands in the corner, arms folded over his chest, “Late!” He says, expression simmering. He reaches out, tightens my second glove, pushes me into the ring. The sparring session is tedious. Every blow like a punishment for the failures I can never reverse. The left hook to the ribcage, landing solidly for my shame. The jab at my chin— not nearly as hard as it should be. The left hook right cross to my head, connecting, and sending me plummeting to the ground. I lay on my back, blinking away the blurriness, my chest heaving, tightening. My eyes sting, stuck on the staggering white ceiling light. I squeeze them shut and remind my body of all the steps — deep breath in — one, two, three — deep breath out — one, two, three; repeat. The tightening loosens, finding a quiet rhythm again. I open my eyes, the blur now cleared into a silhouette of Coach, towering over me. “Mo!” He says, scanning my face. I knew the second my knees hit the ground that the next few hours would be hard. A hit like that needs an explanation, but how do I explain this feeling? I let everyone down. I ruined everything. I deserve this. “Where’s your head?” he says, lifting his eyes from loosening my gloves. I divert my eyes, staring at the ground, “I’m fine, just, tired,” I say. I know that I can trust him; our relationship is built on honesty, tell no lies, and keep no secrets; that’s the rule. He tosses the glove on the ground, nods, and starts removing the second one. I lift my eyes, watching him focus. I’ve told him everything else, every other failure, this time shouldn’t feel so different.

46 I release a breath, “I failed,” I say. He stops, his wide eyes meeting mine, “Hade Mfanaka,” he says, pulling me into a hug. I deflate into his arms and for a second everything feels alright. He pats my back, “it’s okay,” he says. We spend the rest of our time talking, and I walk him through the plan, tell him what my parents said, “I could go pro, like you,” I say. He releases a deep breath and nods, his eyebrows creasing as he considers the idea, “Your mom is right, this isn’t safe, and you—” “—I’m a fighter,” I say, holding his gaze. “I need to do this, they don’t understand but I. I thought you would,” I say. He leans back into his seat, folding his hands, “You’re good. You’re fast and strong; you’ve got heart, but ‘heart’ doesn’t make a champion, discipline does,” he says, a subtle jab at my recent choices. He’s right, if I do this, I have to be all in, and with the demanding schedule of school finally out of the way, there is, nothing standing in my way. We walk out of the gym lighter, a tinge of hope rising inside me, maybe I can do this after all. The walk home is slow and quiet, my circling thoughts finally still. I spend the rest of the day watching dated matches, some of the best I’ve ever seen. I wonder, what does it feel like to win at something? What does it look like to do something you love? What does it take, to become a champion? Will I ever get to find out? Hours pass in a blink, and soon the sun starts to set. I look out my bedroom window, watching my father’s car pull into the driveway. He climbs out, crisp suit disheveled, tie loosened; a long day at the office. I listen as he enters, footsteps walking past my room toward theirs. I have to tell him tonight, I know I do, but perhaps it isn’t the right time yet. A soft knock interrupts my thoughts, and before I can reply the door squeaks open. “Boy,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed.

47 I straighten my shoulders, preparing myself for yet another argument. He starts, but instead of the usual anger, he is calm, his tone light and eyes gleaming with understanding, “What if you study part-time, and do this fighting thing on the side?” he says. He’s calm, he’s conversational— no anger; this is the perfect time to tell him, perhaps I can make him understand. “It’s not a ‘thing,’ Tima, It’s who I am. And I’m good at it; if I spend enough time training, and working harder, Coach thinks I have a shot,” I say. He shakes his head, “You can’t fight for the rest of your life; you need a real job, Mo.” “Fighting is a real job,” I say quickly, my tone rising in frustration. He sighs then nods. “Your mom and I just want what’s best for you, but clearly, you’ve made up your mind,” he says. He stands up, walks to the door, and stops, his hand hovering over the door knob. He turns to face me, a muscle in his jaw jumps. “Nobody is living in my house with no qualifications,” he says. He walks out, the door clicking closed behind him. A devastating silence settles over the room, I watch the plain door, my mind going blank at the realization — I can’t stay here anymore. For years I’ve tried to please him, to no avail, until finally, I grew accustomed to his anger. I never thought we would get to a point where he didn’t want me anymore. I never thought I could let him down enough to lose the honor of being his son, of being in his home. I pull a duffle bag out from the bottom drawer; and shove handfuls of clothing in. It is clear that no matter what I try, I will never be enough for him. I leave before Mama comes home, saving myself from the confrontation. He sat in the room the entire time, refusing to face me. What will he tell her? I know she won’t like this. If anything, it has to be the worst thing I could do to her. A family works things out, they don’t walk away, ever.

48 I spend hours walking around aimlessly. First I go to the park, thinking of all the simple times I spent here as a young boy. Then I go to the gym, sitting in the parking lot, trying to figure out if I could find a way to sleep inside. Finally, I arrive at Coach’s house, pushing the buzzer of the tall gate. The intercom bings, “Hello,” he says, in a raspy, tired voice. “It’s me,” I say. It bings again, followed by silence. A minute passes, feeling like an eternity, and then the gate slides open. I release a breath, walking in to see him standing on the porch in his pyjamas. He clicks a remote, walks back into the house, and the gate closes behind me. I follow him in, scanning the place as I walk. I’ve only been here once, years ago, with Mama, it’s bigger than I remember, with new art decorating the walls. I walk through the living room, into the kitchen, where he is leaning against the counter, looking at his phone. I drop my bag on the floor, remove my beanie, and sit on one of the bar stools, “Did you see the time?” He says, placing his phone down on the counter. “I’m sorry. I just. I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet his. “He kicked me out,” I say. After hours of processing, I still can’t believe it, but saying it out loud makes it feel real. The statement settles over us like a dark heavy cloud. He sighs, shakes his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose, “what happened?” He says. I recount the conversation for him, needing someone to see my side, “He hates me,” I say. “He doesn’t hate you. Go back, try to fix it, your mom is probably worried sick,” he says. I hold his gaze, and his expression shifts as it dawns on him what I want him to say, what I would like him to do. “No, Mo, you know the rules, I can’t let you stay,” he says, taking the thought straight out of my mind.

49 He’s right, I do know the rules, and I know the chaos that would ensue if Ma found out, but they aren’t her rules, they’re his. “Please, coach,” I say. He shakes his head, “Mo,” he says, intently watching me. A moment later he releases a sigh, “Fine,” he says, breaking his gaze and walking past me, “You can have one of the spares. No training tomorrow, you can rest.” I release a relieved breath, “Ta, coach,” I say after him as he walks down the hallway. I find my way to the spare bedroom soon after that. It’s cold and empty, with crisp, all-white sheets— how do you sleep on those? I toss my bag on the ground and fall into the bed. I spend a restless night, haunted by a bed that isn’t mine, and the idea of a life without my parents. I puff up the pillow again, and turn to my other side; it doesn’t help, so I sit up, releasing a defeated sigh. I convince myself that the problem lies with the pillow because admitting the truth, even to myself, is too big a conversation to have right now. I open the wardrobe, spotting extra pillows on the top shelf, behind a grey shoe box. I pull the box out— too light to be a pair of shoes. I place it on the bed and remove the lid, exposing a collection of items: boxing medals, movie tickets, a mouthguard, a gold chain, and I’m about to put it back when I spot, a picture of Ma and Coach at a matric dance. I pull the picture out, running my finger across it. Ma is wearing a long purple dress, and her best smile, while Coach wears an oversized grey suit, his eyes strictly fixed on her. I sit on the bed, a slight smile spreading across my face— I’ve never seen Ma look that happy. She and Coach don’t get along, they never have, constantly bickering about everything, or, completely ignoring one another in public spaces. It hasn’t always been this way, they grew up together, and went to the same schools— the way he’s looking at her makes me wonder, could Coach have seen Ma as more than just a friend? I place the picture back into the box, carefully examining the other items as I return them, and position them exactly as I found them. The pillow works wonders, and soon I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep. My body rises early the next morning, too accustomed to the early training sessions to let me rest. I stay in bed, and minutes later, I hear footsteps pitter-patter down the hallway. The fridge

50 opens, soft music plays, and dishes click against each other. The front gate opens in the distance and I peek through the window to see Mama’s car pull in, parking securely behind in the garage. He walks out with a cup of tea, meeting her in the driveway; they hug, small, polite smiles spreading over their features as they walk to the garage. I dart to the door, pull it open, and tiptoe outside. Hushed voices travel toward me, growing clearer with every step. I stand in the corner, hidden from their sight, but close enough to see as Coach reaches out, pulling Ma into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking into her eyes with the same, enamoured gaze from the picture. She steps back, sighs, and shakes her head. “Him being here is making everything worse. I’m tired of fighting, Pelo,” she says. She walks around him and leans against the car. He stands across from her. “Maybe. Maybe this is what Mo needs; time away?” he says. She lifts her eyes to meet his, a scowl overtaking her features. “Right, you would know all about that,” she says. He pauses, swallows deeply, and nods, casting his eyes down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” “—No, no, you’re right. When I had to choose, I chose wrong. I left you and missed out on the best years of our son’s life; of our lives. I know what it is, what it does,” he says. Ma holds his gaze, nodding as she lets the statement settle, “I don’t want to lose him,” she says. He reaches out, taking her hand in his, “He’s not going anywhere,” he says. He lifts her hand to his mouth, planting a soft kiss. Ma pulls her hand out of his and looks down. “Don’t,” she says. She clears her throat and takes a step back. “He can stay until after the match,” she says. Coach beams, “Thank you!” he says.