Remedy

1. The Falling

Raiah

Run down buildings in a city known for its innovation and architecture was precisely the irony I'd expected. I hated cities. Loud. Bustling vehemently with sounds of fast paced living and hasty decisions.

Despite my reservations about the place and its inhabitants, Chorale City boasted South Africa's most diverse cultural experience. It was the heart of musical theatre and had exquisite art galleries but most importantly, at the centre of it, stood the best university in Africa only ninth in the world.

My father expected no less from me than the best but couldn't help expressing his own excitement when I got accepted into Wakhile Institute of Arts and Technology, otherwise known as WIAT. It had been quite the feat to get there. Endless study sessions, all nighters, missed social gatherings, plenty of prayer nights and in the end I was proud to say it was worth it. I got in. I was a wakiki, like my father and I had always dreamed.

"Are you sure you didn't forget anything?" my father asked again. "Tata, I'm always forgetting something. But I'm sure that it's not important if I forgot it." "I'm not sending you money to buy something you forgot at home, Raiah." I kissed his cheek. "I know you'll send it to me before I even ask. But don't. To teach me to be more responsible and all that," I replied. "And all that. She thinks she's funny," Mbuso, my nephew, commented.

Mbuso was one year older than me. Parents did weird things to ensure your discomfort when introducing a man twice your size and a year older than you as your nephew. My parents had no business having a child in their fifties.

But there I was, fortunately healthy and kicking. A daughter with more than a 20 year age gap with both of her siblings. Mbuso was the son of my brother Misumzi, though I could never utter my brother or my sister's names out loud because of the aforementioned age difference. It was blatant disrespect. I was as young as their children. I was a glitch. That's what Mbuso called me.

"I'm certainly funnier than you'll ever be," I said to him. He took two steps closer to me and held his palm above my head as a sign of mockery. "I think Santa is missing one of his elves. You're even shorter than Okuhle and she's fifteen. Now that, I find funny," he said. "I'm tall enough to do this," I said before pulling his ear down and twisting it.

"Raiah, leave him alone. Mbuso I need help with this cello," my mother said. I released him immediately. Not because of my mother's request but because he'd be carrying an instrument so dear to me.

I'd fallen in love with the cello two months prior after discovering Hauser. If you knew Hauser you'd understand. My father hesitated for a while but ended up buying me a cello. The best part? It was matte black like most of my instruments.

My classical guitar, viola and violin were matte black. I couldn't find a black saxophone or flute but my bass guitar and keyboard were black. My mother thought I played too many instruments to add a cello to the collection.

Precisely why I had recieved honours, the highest and almost unattainable music achievement in my school, at the end of grade nine. My father finally had a reason to justify the collection of instruments to hide the fact that he wanted a musical protegé under his roof in his lifetime.

I had enough knowledge on the instrument. I'd be a self-taught cellist. "When will you find the time to learn this thing? Do you understand how time consuming and demanding uni is? Do you understand how much it takes to be a wakiki successfully? And you're in first year?" Mbuso inquired.

"She can handle anything, this one. Only God knows how," my mother pitched in. "Aww. Thanks, Mama. At least someone has faith in me," I said. "Blind faith," Mbuso said under his breath.