Uncharted Horizons

Solace in routine

The elevator pings on the 20th floor, ending what feels like an eternity of stops and starts. She steps out into the chill of the December air, a harsh contrast to the perpetual summer of Durban she left behind. Seeking refuge, she hurries to her apartment and turns on the heater, letting the warmth envelop her like a gentle hug. As she sheds her day's stress under a refreshing shower, Sabrina Claudio's soulful melodies fill the air, calming her frazzled nerves. She slips into warm, fuzzy pajamas, the soft fabric a comforting respite from the world outside. In the kitchen, she scans the fridge for leftovers, but finding none, decides to cook – her trusted therapy.

Lamb chops sizzle in red wine, mashed potatoes simmer, and glazed carrots surrender to the tender heat. Each sip of Merlot dissolves her worries, carrying her to a place of serenity. Cooking has always been her sanctuary, where the world's chaos melts away. She plates her meal, refills her glass, and settles onto the couch with the bottle, the latest Hlomu series novel, 'Mess', beckoning her. Menzi's thoughtful gift transports her into Lale and Mqoqi's tangled lives, shutting out the world's din. This is her daily rhythm: teaching stubborn Koreans English by day a challenging task, akin to getting stubborn amaZulu to budge kuvele kungene ngala kuphume ngale, come back to her apartment, shower, read a book, fail grade 11 and retreating to her haven by night. Weekends bring a different cadence – braiding hair and doing nails for fellow South Africans seeking a taste of home.

Her phone buzzes, jolting her from Mqoqi's raging mind. Only her younger brother's texts pierce her digital silence. 'The Beat In Deadbeat just dropped,' his message reads, announcing the passing of one of their estranged parents. Her heart skips a beat. 'The man?' she types, seeking clarification. 'No, the woman,' his response comes swiftly. 'Damn, that's crazy. What happened?' she asks, her mind racing. 'Covid. Good thing Cupcake already has open graves for such,' he replies, using humour to deflect the pain. She smiles wryly, recognising their coping mechanism – turning heartache into dark humour. Their therapist has warned them about avoiding their emotions, but this is how they survive.

She switches to a call, needing more than texts to process the news. Her brother's voice is laced with a mix of detachment and urgency. "You'll have to come back and handle everything. You're the next of kin and main beneficiary," he says matter-of-factly. She sighs, weighing her options. "You know I can't just drop everything, bro. Get the death certificate, and I'll sort out a visa."His response is nonchalant, predictable. "Varsity cup is in a few weeks. I need my head in the game." Rugby always took precedence – over family, over emotions. Their mother never stood a chance.

"Fine, handle the certificate, and I'll take care of the rest," she assures him. The line goes dead. He's gone, leaving no space for emotions, no room to grieve. She drains her wine glass, seeking solace, but her book now seems irrelevant. Her mind wrestles with the reality of her mother's passing. Five years of estrangement, and now it's permanent. The pain of their complicated relationship resurfaces. "It doesn't matter now, does it?" she whispers, tears welling up. "You were still my mother." The thought of breaking the news to her younger sisters, only in grade 8, tightens her chest. She'd shielded them from their mother's toxicity for so long, but now..."How could you leave such a mess behind, Mama?" she asks aloud, tears streaming down her face.

She wakes to the harsh reality, heavier than yesterday's. Tears have dried, replaced by determination. She types her resignation letter, emails it to the HOD, and dials her embassy contact. A swift response promises a visa in a week, contingent on obtaining the death certificate. Her brother ignores her calls, texting later that he's in class. She settles for texting updates, and he agrees to visit Home Affairs after class, qualifying his commitment with "no promises." The week blurs in a haze of anticipation. Saturday morning, packed bags in tow, she boards the shuttle to the airport. Emotions spent, she craves closure.