Thandiwe



The past two years have been a haze, days blending into one another as I lay confined to my bed. It was as if a part of me had died on that fateful day when I lost my precious baby and found out that I am now paralysed. The pain had left me numb, an empty vessel drifting through life.

I caught glimpses of Sbonga at the funeral, my heart yearning to approach him, to beg for forgiveness and express the depth of my remorse. But every time I summoned the courage to bridge the distance between us, I body froze, and he never once glanced in my direction. The opportunity slipped through my fingers, and I never saw him again.

His letter, weathered with time, became my solace. I held it delicately, its creased and tear-stained pages a testament to the countless times I had read and reread his words.

Thandiwe,

You were the first woman I loved, and I told myself that one day, I would have you. And I did. For a while, you were mine. After the ordeal with the lecturer, I thought we would be together forever.

But you shattered that dream, didn’t you? Maybe I was no longer enough for you. I loved you enough to let you go, not because I stopped loving you, but because the pain you inflicted became unbearable.

This time, I’m leaving for good, hoping that you find the happiness you seek with the person you have chosen.

I choose myself this time, just as you have been choosing yourself.

Goodbye, Thandiwe.

His words echoed within me, etched onto my soul. I had lost a remarkable man because my pursuit of money and material possessions overshadowed the love we shared. The weight of my mistakes crashed upon me, and I wept uncontrollably, the realisation settling in that Sbonga was gone, never to return.

His departure was my fault, a bitter truth that couldn’t soften the blow of loneliness that enveloped me. I had ruined everything good thing in my life, and now I stood alone, jobless and adrift.

Sello had become a distant memory, the catalyst that had set my life on this catastrophic course. Whenever I tried to speak of what had transpired, the words felt foreign, as if I am speaking an unknown language . My attempts to write down the events proved futile, my mind refusing to cooperate every time. Eventually, I gave up trying to explain, offering a vague explanation of an unfortunate accident to those who dared to ask.

Days turned into weeks, and I found myself at my daughter’s tombstone, tears streaming down my face as I pleaded for forgiveness. Yet, the ache in my heart remained unrelenting.

Mam Mavis, who had shown me unwavering patience, urged me to pull myself together. She insisted that I needed to confront my circumstances head-on.

And so, today, I find myself no longer buried beneath layers of blankets but rather putting on my formal attire. Through Mam Mavis’s intervention, I secured an interview at the nearby supermarket. It is a small victory, but a step towards rebuilding my life, as she had reminded me.

I am no longer wallowing in despair; instead, I am determined to gather the fragmented pieces of my existence and forge a new path forward.