Uluthando



“Uluthando, my child,” my mother’s voice came through the speakerphone, carrying a tinge of sadness. “You’ll have to come back home to the Eastern Cape.”

The world around me seemed to go silent, and my heart skipped a beat as I absorbed my mother’s words. “There’s no more money at home. You can’t continue your studies.”

Tears streamed down my face, disregarding the notion that men don’t cry, that crying is a sign of weakness. As soon as my mother ended the call, I broke down in sobs, the weight of shattered dreams pressing heavily upon me.

The vision I held of becoming a doctor evaporated before my eyes. I vividly remembered the overwhelming joy I felt when I first set foot on the grounds of the University of Pretoria.

Despite applying for financial aid and student loans, none had materialised. Instead, my parents had sold their two prized cows, which were meant to sustain them, just so I could pursue my education here.

I could still see the radiance on my mother’s face when she imagined her only child becoming a doctor, but now that dream seemed forever out of reach.

Anger surged within me, not directed at my parents, but at the system that had failed me and countless other children from disadvantaged backgrounds.

I had worked hard throughout school, fulfilling the promise I made to my parents.

In that very moment, Bokang walked in, his concerned eyes locking onto mine as he settled down on his bed. “What’s wrong, dude?”

I shrugged, the weight of my emotions threatening to crush me. Bokang could never truly understand. He didn’t come from the humble streets of Mdeni at Eastern Cape, he never experienced the hardships of growing up ezilalini.

He doesn’t know the pain of witnessing your parents struggle day after day, striving to make ends meet.

“You must study hard, Uluthando, so you can escape this place,” my father would always preach as I assisted him during school holidays, while shepherding the cows in the fields at the crack of dawn.

“I’m dropping out,” I uttered, the words feeling hollow and heavy.

“Why? You’re an A student.”

“My parents can no longer afford to keep me here,” I said, my heart fracturing with each word.

Bokang stared at me, at a loss for words, unsure of how to console me. And I couldn’t blame him entirely; he had never walked in my shoes, never felt the piercing pain coursing through my veins.

He has livid his entire life in a perfect bubble and was protected inside it, it is not his fault that he was born in a family that was doing well and I shall not hold it against me.

He didn’t offer any words of encouragement or told me things will work themselves out. We just sat in silence and I was more grateful to that.