BECOMING
CHAPTER 23
MESULI
The ceiling fan turns lazy circles above me, cutting through the same stale air it’s been pushing around for the last hour. I lie on my back, arms crossed behind my head, eyes fixed on the blades. When I stare long enough, they blur. My body is exhausted from this week’s activities. I also can’t seem to stop thinking about the stupid date Chulumanco is going to. Who is this man who asked my child’s mother on a date? My mind keeps replaying the “I’m going on a date” sound that she uttered yesterday.
I roll onto my side. The sheets are cool against my skin. The clock on the nightstand glows red: 00:47. It’s almost one. I should be deep in sleep now. Instead, my heart is thudding too hard, too fast, like I’ve just run up the stairs instead of lying here and doing nothing.
I reach for my phone. The screen lights up, blinding me in the process. I swipe to the call log. Monwabisi’s name is near the top. I hesitate, thumb hovering. It’s late. He’ll be pissed. But I need to hear someone tell me I’m not losing my mind.
I press call.
It rings four times. I almost hang up.
“Hayi, ndoda.” His voice is thick with sleep and irritation. “It’s one in the morning. This better be life or death.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “I just… I needed to talk.”
I hear him groan. I also hear what I assume to be bedsheets rustling. A woman’s muffled voice in the background, probably a one-night stand or one of his situationships—then I hear the sound of a door closing. He’s probably moving to another room for privacy.
“You sound like shit,” he says when he comes back on the line. “What happened?”
I swallow. My throat is dry. “She’s going on a date. Tomorrow night.”
Silence. Then a low, tired laugh. “Chulumanco?”
“Yeah.”
Another beat. “And you’re calling me at one a.m. because…?”
“Because I don’t know what to do.” My voice cracks on the last word. I hate it. “She told me tonight. Just like that. ‘I’m going out tomorrow night.’ On a date. And I stood there like an idiot holding our son in the pool, and I didn’t say anything. I just… froze.”
Monwabisi exhales through his nose. “I told you this would happen.”
The words hit like a slap. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t remind you that I literally said—weeks ago—that if you don’t make a move, someone else will? That no man is going to be okay with his woman living in the same house as her baby daddy forever? I told you, Mesuli. I told you.”
“I know what you told me,” I snap, louder than I mean to. I glance toward the door, lower my voice. “I know. But hearing it and watching it happen are two different things.”
He’s quiet for a second. When he speaks again his tone is softer but still edged. “So, what do you want me to say? That it’s fine? That you can keep pretending you don’t want her and she’ll just… wait? She’s twenty-seven, ndoda. Beautiful. Smart. Building her own thing. She’s not going to sit in your guest room forever hoping you grow a pair.”
I close my eyes. “I told her. The other night. I told her I have feelings. That I’m scared. That if it goes wrong, I lose everything.”
“And then what?”
“And then I apologised and walked away before she could give me a reply.”
He lets out a long breath. “Jesus, Mesuli.”
“I know.”
“You left her standing there with everything she wanted to say stuck in her throat.”
“I panicked.”
“You sabotaged yourself.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say.
“Look,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down. But you’ve got to decide, man. You can keep doing this—living in the same house, raising your kid together, acting like roommates—and watch her slowly start her life without you. Or you can risk it. Tell her you want her. Properly. Not some half-ass apology in the hallway at midnight. Take her out. Kiss her like you mean it. Let her decide if she wants to take the risk with you. Don’t decide for her.”
My throat is tight. “And if she says no?”
“Then at least you’ll know. And you’ll still be Kungawo’s father. That doesn’t change. But if you keep running, she’s going to stop waiting. And then you’ll lose more than a chance at her, you’ll lose the family you’re trying so hard to protect.”
I rub my face. “She’s going on a date tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he says. “She is. And you’re sitting in your room at one in the morning calling me instead of knocking on her door.”
I look at the closed door across the hall. Her light is off. The house is dead quiet except for the low hum of the air-conditioner.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
“Then don’t say anything tonight. Sleep on it. But ngomso uyeke uzimela. (tomorrow stop hiding). You show up. You be the man she’s already starting to move on from.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, ndoda.”
“Anytime. Now let me go back to sleep before lomntana kills me.”
He hangs up.
I drop the phone on the mattress. The screen glows for a second, then goes dark.
I stare at the ceiling fan again. The blades turn. Turn. Turn.
The clock says 01:13.
I sit up. My heart is hammering now, loud in my ears.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Stand. Walk to the door. Open it slowly. The hallway is dark except for the faint glow of Kungawo’s night-light spilling from under his door.
Her door is closed.
I walk to it. Stop. Raise my fist to knock.
My hand freezes.
What if she’s asleep? What if she’s naked? What if she opens the door and sees me standing here like a creep at one in the morning?
I lower my hand. Step back.
Then I think of this guy she’s going on a date with. Some guy I don’t know. Smiling at her. Buying her coffee. Making her laugh. Touching her arm. Taking her somewhere tomorrow night while I sit here pretending everything is fine.
My hand rises again. I knock. Soft. Three times.
Nothing.
I wait. Listen. No sound.
I knock again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
My pulse is in my throat now. I reach for the handle. Turn it slowly. The door isn’t locked.
It opens an inch. Then two.
Moonlight spills across the carpet from the window. The curtains are open. She’s lying on her side, facing away from me, sheet pulled up to her waist. Her back is bare. No T-shirt. No pyjama top. Just smooth skin, the gentle curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. A thin strip of black underwear peeks above the sheet. Her braids are loose, fanned across the pillow like dark rivers.
I stop breathing.
She’s beautiful. Not gym-beautiful. Not dressed-up beautiful. Just… her. Sleeping. Vulnerable. Real.
I should leave. Close the door. Go back to my room. Pretend I never opened it.
I don’t.
I step inside. Close the door behind me with a soft click.
The carpet is thick under my bare feet. I walk to the bed. My heart is so loud, I’m sure she’ll wake up from the sound alone.
I crouch beside her. Reach out. My hand hovers over her shoulder.
I touch her. Light. Just fingertips on skin.
She stirs. A small sound. Her lashes flutter.
“Chulu,” I whisper.
She frowns. Eyes open slowly. Confused. Then focused. Then startled.
She sits up fast. The sheet falls to her lap. She grabs it, pulls it to her chest. Her braids swing forward, covering one breast. Her eyes are wide, angry.
“Mesuli? What the hell?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. I… I needed to talk to you.”
“At one in the morning?” Her voice is low, furious. “You come into my room while I’m sleeping—naked—and shake me awake because you need to talk?”
I flinch. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…”
“You just what?” She’s sitting up straighter now, clutching the sheet like armour. Her face is flushed. “You just decided my bedroom isn’t private? That you can walk in whenever you want?”
“No. God, no. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I couldn’t sleep. And I kept thinking about tomorrow. About your date.”
Her eyes narrow. “So you came in here to ask about my date.”
“Yes.” I swallow. “I need to know… who he is. How you met him. If he’s safe. If Kungawo—”
“Stop.” Her voice is steel. “Don’t bring Kungawo into this. This isn’t about Kungawo. This is about you not being able to handle the fact that I’m going out with someone who isn’t you.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
She keeps going. “His name is Zola Skhosana. I met him at the gym. He’s a trainer there, and he also owns it. He’s thirty-seven, divorced, two kids. He asked me for coffee after class. I said yes. Then he asked me to dinner. I said yes. That’s it. That’s all you get.”
I feel the air leave my lungs.
“Zola,” I repeat. The name tastes like ash.
“Yes.”
I look at her. Really look. The anger in her eyes. The way she’s holding the sheet like a shield. The way her chest rises and falls too fast.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. And this time I mean it for everything. For walking in. For waking her. For the last week. For being too scared to stay and listen.
She watches me. The anger softens—just a fraction.
“Why are you doing this, Mesuli?” she asks quietly. “Why did you come in here at one in the morning to ask about a man I barely know?”
“Because I’m terrified,” I say. My voice cracks. “I’m terrified that if you go out with him, if you like him, if you decide he’s better, easier, less complicated… you’ll leave. You’ll take Kungawo. And I’ll be back to weekends and video calls. And I can’t… I can’t go back to that. Not after having you both here. Not after hearing him call me Tata every morning. Not after seeing you in this house, making it feel alive.”
She’s quiet for a long time.
Then, softly: “You think I’d take him away from you?”
“I think you’d take yourself away from me,” I say. “And that scares me more.”
Her eyes search mine. Something shifts. The anger isn’t gone, but it’s not the only thing there anymore.
“I’m not leaving,” she says. “Not right now. But I’m also not going to keep pretending I don’t exist when you’re scared. I’m going to dinner tomorrow. I’m going to see what it feels like to be wanted without five years of history hanging over my head. And if you can’t handle that, that’s on you. Not me.”
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
She looks away, toward the window. Moonlight paints silver stripes across her shoulder.
“Go back to bed, Mesuli,” she says quietly. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Properly. When we’re both dressed, and it’s not the middle of the night.”
I stand slowly. “Okay.”
I walk to the door. Pause. Look back.
She’s already lying down again, sheet pulled up, eyes closed.
I close the door behind me.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are shaking.
I open my phone. Scroll to contacts. Find the name I need.
I press call.
It rings twice.
A groggy voice answers. “Hello?”
“Monwabisi,” I say. “I need a favour. I need you to find information about someone. Zola Skhosana. He works at Pulse Fitness. Trainer. I need everything you can get. Background. Socials. Anything. Before lunchtime tomorrow.”
A pause. Then a low whistle.
“Damn, bro. You really waited until the last minute.”
“Just do it,” I say. “Please.”
He sighs. “I got you. I’ll call in some favours. But Mesuli?”
“Yeah?”
“When you get the info… don’t do anything stupid. Talk to her first. Properly.”
“I will.”
He hangs up.
I drop the phone on the mattress. Lie back. Stare at the fan.
The blades turn until I sleep.
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