APHIWE: AND THE NEVER-ENDING SUFFERING

 

I lay awake that evening, my heart pounding out of my chest as I tried to make sense of what had happened. Never before had I felt such conflicting sensations—my feet grew colder while my body burned hot and weak, as if I were walking through the South Pole while trapped in hell. I thought about the decision I had made that day, but the very memory weakened my knees and hollowed my soul. Perhaps a glass of water would calm me down.

As I stood to fetch it, I was startled by the reflection of my face in the mirror across my bed. What stared back looked like a monster who had feasted on innocent souls. Yet, in that instant, I knew I was becoming the very man I had feared becoming since childhood.
“Is this truly me? Is this what I’ve become?” I whispered, moving closer to the mirror, touching my face in disbelief at the red glow in my eyes, as if I possessed Superman’s powers.

I stared into the mirror until the world around me began to tremble. My first thought was that judgment day had arrived. I heard serpent-like voices whispering to me. My soul seemed to detach, slipping away, as though time itself had slowed and paused. Blood rushed violently through my veins, as though it wanted to escape my body. I longed to scream, but laughter from neighbors outside stopped me. I feared their judgment. Known as a silent man who rarely spoke, I could not risk becoming the subject of gossip—that I had gone mad. Yet in that moment, madness felt very near.

Suddenly, everything stilled. A beeping noise began—soft at first, then louder and louder. No matter how I tried, I could not escape its grip. My focus was trapped, my body frozen as though posing for an artist sketching my image.

Then, a shock wave tore through me, like resurrection itself. The beeping cut off, and I felt my soul leave my body. For a brief moment, I thought I had gone to visit my grandmother in heaven—or perhaps my ancestors had come to me. Everything in my room shrank, as though I were growing into a giant. Not that space was ever plentiful—I could reach the fridge, the stove, the wardrobe, and the TV remote without leaving the bed. It was a prison, though one I paid for. A prison disguised as freedom.

I had always loved my little room. It was my sanctuary, my meditation space, where I could strip away the world’s burdens, walk around naked, and puff on my holy herb without fear of judgment. But now, as it shrank before my eyes, I saw the truth: the clutter, the suffocation, the absence of dignity. Perhaps my space was no different from the cages lions occupy in zoos—trapped, confined, taught to accept the unnatural until they forget the wild.

For so long, I had conformed to injustice, ignoring the bigger world beyond my walls. I had lived without dreams since losing my grandmother. But now, I felt her presence. I smelled steamed bread, hardbody chicken, and kidney bean soup—the meals she made with such love.

I missed her stories, told on cold winter nights around the coal stove. If she were still alive, she would have helped me understand these strange happenings. She was my wisdom, my courage, my strength.

My grandmother had been a beacon of hope. Born into the brutal era of apartheid, she walked fifteen kilometers daily to attend school in rural Eastern Cape. She became a nurse, and later an entrepreneur, building one of the first successful supermarkets in our township. She did all this while being black, while being a woman, and while being constantly undermined. She faced crime, intimidation, threats to her life, and riots that targeted her business. Yet she persevered.

But her success attracted envy. Rumors followed her like shadows—that she practiced witchcraft, that she was an apartheid spy, that she had gained wealth by sacrificing others. When a child was found dead, mutilated, the mob claimed she was responsible.

That night, their voices rose outside our home:
“Uzofa umthakathi namhlanje! (The witch will die today!)”

My grandmother’s eyes, usually strong, were trembling with fear as she packed a bag for me. “Thixo ndibenze ntoni aba bantu bengandifuni kangaka? (God, what have I done to deserve such hate?)” she cried.

She pressed the bag into my hands. “Run, Aphiwe. Hide in the bushes. They will not stop until they see me dead.”

I pleaded with her to come, but she refused. “This is my fate. Yours is to survive.”

Through tears, I kissed her forehead, then slipped into the tall grass as the mob stormed the yard. Petrol bombs ignited the house. I froze as a teenage boy pointed toward her, shouting, “Nangu umthakathi!” My grandmother struck him with her shovel and pushed me to run.

I hid as flames consumed the house. Her screams, swallowed by fire, still echo in my soul. I wanted to save her, but returning meant death. When a man with a panga nearly spotted me, I ran as far as my legs could carry me. That night I lost everything.

Now, in this tiny room, I survive as best I can. I rolled a joint, inhaling its comfort. “Beautiful herb,” I whispered, “friend of Moses, freeing minds from chains.” The smoke dulled my pain, and I drifted into uneasy sleep.

But my peace was short-lived.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Vula! Police!”

I stumbled to the door, confused. “Yes, I’m Aphiwe… how can I help you?”

“You are under arrest for the murder of your supervisor.”

“What? I didn’t kill anyone! You’re mistaken!”

“Chief, open up or we break this burglar bar.”

“I’ll get dressed,” I replied calmly. Inside, I reached for the rat poison I had long hidden. With trembling hands, I swallowed it, dressed in my tracksuit, and stepped outside. The cuffs snapped around my wrists. As they shoved me into the back of the van, I felt the weight of fate pressing down again—just as it had the night I lost my grandmother.

 

The END

___________________________________________________________________________________

The written content you have just viewed is the original work of the author and is protected by copyright law.
No part of this work may be reproduced, adapted, distributed, or used for commercial purposes—including music, film, or performance—without prior written permission from the author.

Licensing, collaboration, or usage requests are welcome and must be agreed to in writing.