Zamageda his heart

chapter 5

Zipho recounts my experience, his anger palpable, but I'm no longer listening. I'm still reeling from him calling me 'umkami' - a term of endearment that flatters me and makes me chuckle, imagining the reaction Lihle and Liz will have when we discuss this over mimosas. But the fear of losing any of them creeps in again, and I quickly compose myself as the captain offers to escort us to the morgue. The other officer trails behind us, his presence a reminder of the somber task ahead.

As we enter the morgue, the captain opens the door, and a chill runs down my spine. This place has never intimidated me before, having worked in the pathology department during my internship. But today, it's different. Fear engulfs me, making my bones shake, as I'm about to confront the unthinkable. My heart races, and my breath catches in my throat. I feel a sense of impending doom, like I'm walking into a nightmare.Zipho places a reassuring arm over my shoulder, whispering, 'I'm right here, ungasabi' . But even his comforting words can't calm the storm brewing inside me. We approach a table with a covered body, and the assistant removes the foil. I don't need to see her face; her well-manicured feet, painted white, confirm my worst fears. I remember her words, 'Nothing says spring like a short summer dress and white toes, sana lwam' (you know, my friend), when Lihle teased her about white being so 2015. The memory hits me like a ton of bricks, and I feel my world crumbling around me.

He takes my hand, walking me out as I cry my eyes out, overwhelmed by the thought of a life without Liziwe. She's been more than just a friend - a confidante, a partner in crime, and a constant source of comfort. I remember how she welcomed Lihle and me with open arms when we arrived, making us feel at home. I was a mess, struggling with depression, but she was always there for me, even when I pushed everyone else away. She'd hug me tight, and I'd let her, even though I'm not fond of physical touch. She drew the line at words of affection though she'd just smile and say 'suzenza ezozinto bhabha' (don't do such things, sister) whenever I expressed my love for her. Memories flood my brain - her infectious laughter, her bright smile, her ability to light up a room with her presence. She was the social butterfly, always flitting from one friend to the next, spreading joy and love wherever she went. I remember how she'd organize impromptu sleepovers and game nights, bringing people together with her effortless charm. Her passing leaves a gaping hole in my life, and I feel my knees weaken as grief washes over me like a tsunami.

When I've calmed down, Zipho drives me home in silence, his presence a comforting constant. He stops at the gate, lowers the window, and waits for the guard to scan his face before letting us in. He parks outside my house, rushes to open the door for me, and walks me inside. I leave him downstairs, knowing he'll make himself comfortable while I take a nap. But first, I need to inform Liziwe's family.I take a quick shower, trying to wash away the tears, but they keep coming. I remind myself that I need to be strong for her family. I slip into my pajamas and dial her father's number, avoiding her mother's emotional response. Her husband will know how to break the news gently."Nontombi?" her father answers, "Ewe, Tata, ninjani?" I ask, trying to hold back tears."I swekile nje, eqha exakileyo," he says,  This is exactly why I didn't want to call her mom.I gently break the news, and he lets out a heavy sigh, responding in a voice filled with grief, "O yhini ngephelo lami?". The weight of his loss is palpable, and I can feel his pain through the phone."