“I’m worried about you, Xola. Your grades have dropped drastically in the last six months. I’ve noticed that you’re quite withdrawn lately. So, I have to ask…is everything OK at home?” my teacher asked me, as I was leaving class to study.

“Yes, ma’am,’ I replied half-heartedly, keeping a straight face, “everything is fine.”

She didn’t seem at all convinced by my reply. “Come on, boy. You can tell me anything. You can trust me,” she said, placing her hand on mine.

“No, really. Everything is fine,” I said, with a smile.

Believe me when I say, I wanted to tell my teacher what was actually going on in my home. I wanted to tell her so badly. I wanted to just confess everything and cry on her shoulder and tell her that my father had turned into this hideous beast with no remorse whatsoever.

He wasn’t always like this. We were once a happy family. He was a good man that protected and cared for us. He used to work at a factory in Crown Mines that specialises in manufacturing stationery. The job paid him enough to support us through the year. Unfortunately, the factory fell on hard times and had to retrench some of their staff. Dad was left with no income.

Since then, he would drown his sorrows in alcohol, drinking day and night at a nearby shebeen. At first, he would get into heated arguments with my mother about his addiction. My mother had to work at a hotel that paid her peanuts and my father’s constant drinking was in no way helpful to our financial situation. He would, on occasion, hurl insults at her, and would always remind her that he was the head of the house. I still remember the first day he laid his hand on my mother. How she cried out for help every time she was struck. Then as time went on, he transformed into a violent maniac, always looking for a punching bag. Then he started to hit me too.

When he was drunk, he would always find a reason for hitting us, over and over again. I remember how embarrassed I would be going to school with a black eye. I could hear them whisper behind me. If anyone dared to asked what happened, I’d simply come up with a feeble excuse about how I ran into a pole, or how I fell and bruised my arm. The cycle of violence would continue.

As I entered the house, I found him sitting in the lounge. This was quite odd to me because usually he would spend most of his time at the local tavern. He looked quite lucid, not in his usual drunken state.

He slowly turned his head to look at me. “Where have you been?”

I looked at the digital clock on the shelf. It showed 16:30. School was dismissed at 14:30 and I had remained behind.

“I was studying,” I replied, in a soft tone.

“Come here, boy,” he said, with an eerie calmness.

At first, I hesitated. I wondered what he wanted from me. Was he planning to hit me again? This was the first time in years that I’d ever seen him sober. I slowly went closer and closer to him.

“Where’s my money?” he asked.

So, that’s why he was home early today. He must’ve lost the money he always stole from my mother’s purse. The sad thing about this was that my mother couldn’t confront him. If she dared question his authority, she would pay for it in bruises, cuts and tears.

Tell us: What do you think will happen next?