The next morning we had to walk from our home in Mandela Park to Site B. We had no money to catch a taxi and my mom had borrowed our travelling money from a lady that stayed there. We walked for two hours, from our house to hers. My mother was determined and I was starting to regret having agreed to this.

Everywhere we went we were asked for the new results. My heart pounded nervously every time. My results were not pretty and being rejected after coming all this way… I didn’t think I could survive that. My mom was calm; she had always been like that.

I was told I would hear from them in a few days’ time. I was nervous but also relieved of having to have taken the first step. Walking around UWC, I saw how the students looked so stylish and happy. They looked beautiful and so free. I felt like I wanted to belong there. I needed to get in.

I admired the diversity of the institution. I observed as we walked to the administration office, how everyone spoke English, and I was amazed by how fluent they were. I wasn’t fluent or confident in my English, but I didn’t care, I would speak Xhosa when I was there, I told myself. And only speak English to those who couldn’t understand.

My mom saw my admiration, disguised as disgust, when we passed a group of Xhosa girls rolling their tongues so effortlessly.

“Yazi, nawe uzoba nje ngabo xa ulapha, you’ll also speak like that when you’re here,” she said smiling.

“Hayi andicingi, never!” I said confidently as we left the university grounds.

The waiting for a response was torture. They never really bothered to let us know of the decision. And online the statuses were still pending. I had expected to have their answers earlier since I had applied earlier but things were never like that.

My mother got tired of waiting. Again, I think she feared that I would fall into my old routine. She told me we were going to apply at private colleges. “At least you’ll get to study, instead of sitting at home wasting more years,” she said, when I protested saying college courses cost a fortune.

As soon she had gathered more travelling money, we were on the quest again.

“Iduru le college, this college is expensive,” I whispered to my mom as we were looking at one of the broachers.

“Buza uba singayibhatala qho ngenyanga na, ask if we can pay in monthly instalments,” she simply answered, clearly hiding her shock pretty well.

We would starve if I attend here, I thought to myself. We all depended on her salary, me and all five of my brothers and we would suffer if she did that. But being my mother though, she was determined to do whatever it took to get me to where I wanted to be. While it would have been wonderful to study the course I wanted – psychology – at a fancy, fully-equipped college, I sure didn’t want to get her into debt.

So, to put her off the college idea, I brought up some concerns. If I did courses at the college, would I get accreditations at university the following year? Would I be able to progress to second year if I did first year subjects at the college?

“Suka, kutheni ungayobabuza nje, why don’t you just go and ask them?” my mother lashed out at me. My moods were taking a toll on her and she was stressing.

So I made another trip to UWC. I was happy to be out of the house, to breathe the university air, to mingle with the students, to pretend like I was one of them, to hope that I could belong.

To my disappointment, I was told the course I wanted to do was full. I felt like dying in that instant.

The faculty administrator informed me when he checked on my application again. “But there is a way you could get in,” he said smiling. “I’ll be right back. I’ll check what you need to do,” he said and disappeared behind the doors for what felt like a long while.

My heart was now pounding. All I could hear was doom doom doom coming out of my chest.

The administrator came back holding a form in one hand. He went towards the computer before coming back to me.

“As I’ve said, the course is really full. But there is an opening. Only one last person to get in on this one, what do you say?”

“What is it?” I was getting excited. “Is it Political Sciences?”

“No, Political Science is also full,”

“Yhooo!” I said without thinking and everyone in the queue looked at me.

Embarrassed of the people looking at me, I turned quickly to the window and looked at the man behind the glass.

“The course is BTH,”

“BTH?” I repeated after him.

“Yes, Theology,”

“What is it about?”

“The Bible. Let me give you the flyer. So, what do you say?”

My heart slumped.

“I need to call my mother and ask,” I said, trying not to hide my disappointment.

“Well, one slot is open. So make it quick. Next,” he said, already dismissing me.

“Yithathe, take it. Just so you can get in,” she said firmly over the phone.

“But andiyithandi mna njena, I don’t like it!” I complained.

“Yintoni oyifunayo kanye-kanye, what do you want exactly?” my mother lashed out over the phone. Ubungatsho ufuna ufunda, didn’t you say you wanted to study?” she yelled so loud that I was afraid that other people could hear her.

I looked away, my eyes full of tears, as though she was standing right in front of me. I hung up. I didn’t want anything else. Political Science would have been way better than this BTH, I thought to myself. At least I liked politics, it would have been way better.

I waited for the person who was being served to finish, thankful for the time I had to compose myself. I nodded looking at the administrator, who then gave me a form to fill.

On my way home I was so disappointed and hurt. Why must I get everything the hard way? Why must things always go wrong for me? I hated my life. The thought of not doing what I loved broke my heart.

I still had to go home and face my mother.

***

Tell us: Is Nosie being unreasonable not wanting to take she doesn’t want? What would you do?