Oyama: Her Story

CHAPTER 15

Today, I’m meeting his mom, the whole day. I have been stressing the whole day, because now he’s saying I should pack a toiletry bag as well, because there’s a chance, she’ll want us to spend the night. He assured me, of its not something I wanted, I should stand firm and tell him so we can leave. Now we in the Rolls Royce and I’m sitting in the back, and Mogale is sitting in the passenger. Every time I see the two next to each other, I get the creeps at how identical, they are. Like I said before, they even sound the same, walk the same, only differences, earrings, and one smokes and the other drinks. They are almost dressed identically too. I have also realized, Slacks are their preferred pants, not even one pair of Jeans. He does have shorts but like only 5 or 6 pairs. Sweaters, Shirts and t-shirts, plain colours too, no print on either of them, maybe an emblem, but nothing more. Then lastly their jewelry. OMDs. He has so many watches in different colours and different patterns, it’s not even cute, my favorites have been, the one he’s wearing now. Its an AP, and no it wasn’t ruined, by diamonds, its Black, like Matte Black. He has an entire cupboard of watches just spinning in the display. Then his chains, I was surprised when I saw he didn’t have anything other than a Gold and a Silver. He also wears a Signet they both wear signets. The two are just sitting in front, talking to one another, he told Mogale about our dinner and he laughed at him, he still hasn’t looked me in the eye though. I can understand why, if I’m being honest.

I sit in the back, hands resting on my lap, trying to steady my breathing. I can feel my nerves bubbling under my skin. Meeting his mom, spending the night... it feels too soon, too much. But he’d been insistent—"You'll love her," he said. "She’s going to love you." I’m not so sure.
The car glides smoothly over the road, almost like we're floating, which only adds to my unease. Everything about this family feels too polished, too perfect. Mogale’s laugh from the front pulls me back to reality. His laughter is deep, almost identical to his brother’s, but I notice it has a rougher edge, like he doesn’t let it out as often.
They continue talking as if I’m not here, which is fine by me. I steal a glance at Mogale, taking in the similarities that always send a chill down my spine. The same sharp jawline, the same piercing eyes. Even their postures are the same—relaxed, but in control. I wonder if it’s something they were taught, something their mother and father drilled into them from a young age. The Rolls Royce hums gently beneath us, and I look out the window, my reflection staring back at me. I try to steady my thoughts, reminding myself of his words: "If you don't want to stay, we can leave. Just say the word." But will I be able to stand firm if it comes to that? Or will the pressure to make a good impression on his mother override everything?
His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Are you okay back there, love?” he asks, turning his head just slightly. For a moment, I’m caught off guard by the softness in his voice. The way he’s so different from the stern persona he puts on in front of others.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
Mogale glances at me briefly through the rearview mirror, his gaze unreadable. He looks away just as quickly, making me feel like I’ve been dismissed.
As we pull up to the mansion—because there’s no other word for it—I feel my stomach knot even tighter. The house is huge, cold, and intimidating. The tall gate swings open, there’s even a security box outside. Even guards as well, only 3 though, holding assault rifles, they are walking on the grass. We continue driving on the driveway, as we get closer, the house keeps getting bigger and bigger. Dammit its huge. I feel like an ant, when we are underneath the entrance. The two brothers step out of the car with an air of practiced ease, almost like they belong to another world. One I’m just visiting. He opens the door for me and helps me out, his hand warm and steady against mine.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over my fingers, “It’s going to be fine.” But I can’t help but feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den. The front door opens, and I look over. She’s stunning—tall, elegant, her posture is regal, and almost demanding of respect, she’s wearing a Black top, and red pants with heels. She’s so beautiful. She has streaks of white hair, in her afro, while in other people it makes them look older, it makes her younger.
“Ekse Ou Lady” says Mogale, with a informal tone. What the hell is going on?
“Ou lady ke mang wena son” she says sternly, but then starts laughing and walking towards us. She hugs him, “I have missed you so much my boy, how have you been?” she squeezes him.
What the heck?
“I have been good, uphi uyihlo?” he asks.
“You know your father” she says and he walks into the house. Leaving us both outside.