“What do you mean that girl is pregnant?” My mother asks, the next morning as I prepare for work.

Zandile left about thirty minutes ago.

“I meant I’ll be a father, and you, a grandmother,” I pack my lunchbox.

“You’ve brought shame upon our name. Your father would be devastated,” my mother cries.

“Nonsense! Father would be happy to be a grandpa,” I protest.

“Son, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” she says stepping closer.

“I’m tired, ma. I’ll be moving out,” I tell her.

“What? What do you mean?” she takes three steps back.

“I’m moving out. I want to be with my family,” I tell her, throwing my work bag on my shoulder.

“But, I am your family,” she says.

“I can’t let my pregnant wife sleep in the same house as you. I don’t trust you,” I spit.
There’s hurt in her eyes.

“Son, I’m sorry for protecting you,” she cries.

I shake my head, “you don’t get it, do you?”

“Go ahead! Marry her! But, I want you to know, you’ve killed me,” my mother sobs and marches to her bedroom.

I get to work, and I’m stressed out. I can’t decide whether to side with the love of my life or the woman who gave birth to me.

Nine months down the line, my mother still hasn’t accepted my engagement to Zandile, and we’re now renting a two bedroom house. She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, whom we gladly named, Sinqobile.

We are happy. Yes, my mother didn’t and couldn’t accept her, but I love her, and that’s what matters.

People still think she’s cursed, but we both know she’s not. I can’t wait for the day these people will learn that vitiligo isn’t a curse.

***

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