Wings of Goodbye

Siphosethu Zulu

I barely slept that night, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. The light in my room offered no comfort—it only reminded me that it was the night before my flight, and I hadn't slept a wink.

Not because I'm scared of flying. Please, I'd fly to the ends of the earth if it meant chasing my dreams. But how can I close my eyes when Sbusiso is right beside me, his small body curled up in blissful slumber? My heart is tangled, wondering how I'll survive without his little feet kicking my ribs at night, or the warmth of his tiny hand always reaching for my face in the dark. I'm used to the sounds he makes—his soft breathing, the little mumbles that only make sense to him. But now, the silence feels heavy, pressing down on my shoulders.

As I get up, bathe, and get dressed for what feels like an impossible adventure, my mind races. I pack the last of my things: my toothbrush, Mama's treasured Bible, and a tiny, faded photo of the three of us—me, Lwandile, and Sbusiso—sitting outside our home, smiles wide, as if we had never known pain.

I'm really leaving. Really flying. Really going to university.

The taxi arrives at 6 a.m. sharp. I sit on the small, old sofa that was Mama's favorite, lost in thought, until soft footsteps pull me back to reality. It's Sbusiso, rubbing his eyes, hair tousled. In that moment, he looks like an angel of innocence. I can't help but scoop him up into my arms, that little bundle of joy that brings so much light into my life.

"Uyaphi sisi?" he asks, his baby voice sweet and untainted by the world.

I want to say something grand, something that captures the enormity of what I'm about to do. "To save the world," I want to tell him. But all I manage is:

"To school, Sbuda. A big school. Far, far away."

He nods, the seriousness of his gaze piercing my heart, then presses his small hand against my cheek.

"Uzobuya?"

I hold his gaze, emotions swelling within me: love, fear, hope.

"I promise," I say, determined.

"Uyangithembisa?" he asks again, his voice a sweet melody that's somehow both simple and profound.

"I promise," I repeat, feeling a knot of emotion tighten in my throat as I realize just how much I mean those words.

Outside, the sun begins its ascent, spreading pinks and golds across the sky, as if the heavens are celebrating this moment. It's a bittersweet reminder that today is unlike any other day.

I step out, and there's Papa, his figure by the gate. He's wearing a clean shirt—a sign of hope. He's shaved, and, most importantly, sober. Just weeks ago, we had watched him battle his demons, wondering if this day would ever arrive. We didn't believe he would stop drinking. But here he is—proof that change is possible. The beer bottles have disappeared, and our home has regained some semblance of normalcy.

When our eyes meet, the air thickens with emotion. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and I feel a lump forming in my throat.

"I'm proud of you, Siphosethu," he manages, his voice rough yet steady.

I'm taken off guard when he pulls me into a hug. Unexpected, but the moment I feel his arms around me, I sink into it. It's not just a father's embrace; it's a promise of support.

"I failed you and your mother," he murmurs into my hair, each word layered with regret and love. "But I'm starting again. Because you're starting."

I nod into his chest, soaking in this moment, this connection. We're both trying to start anew, to find hope in the uncertainty of life.

Lwandile comes down, carrying my suitcase with confidence.

"UP won't know what hit them," he says, pride radiating like sunlight. "Go make noise, future Doctor Zulu."

A small laugh escapes me, yet my heart aches at the thought of leaving them behind.

"Look after them," I whisper, urgency lacing my words.

"Always," he promises, determination etched across his face.

As I climb into the taxi, Sbusiso's cries erupt, loud and painful. My heart shatters a little; I wish I could ease his sorrow. I stretch my hand out the window, and he grabs it tightly, that fierce grip reminding me just how loving he can be. Papa lifts him into his arms, and for the first time, I see Sbusiso truly held by our father. It's a moment that feels almost sacred, like a bond mending right before my eyes. Something has healed at the gate, something we've all been waiting for.

When the taxi pulls away, I glance back at Sbusiso, and instead of tears, a smile breaks across his face.

"Bye-bye, Sipho!" he shouts, waving vigorously. "Love you!"

In that moment, I realize how precious this goodbye is. It's not just a farewell; it's a beginning—an opportunity for something beautiful to blossom.

The airport is a world built of steel and chaos, cold and unwelcoming. But as I stand among the throngs of people, I feel warmth blossoming in my chest. The flight is noisy and vibrant, filled with chatter and excitement.

Just as we take off, my heart does a little dance—scary and exhilarating. My ears pop, tears prick at my eyes, but this time, they're tears of hope.

As I gaze out the window, I watch houses shrink to dots, people fade into oblivion, and my worries—the heavy weights I've carried—stay behind on the ground, forgotten. For the first time in forever, I believe in a new beginning.

Mama would be proud of me. This flight isn't just about physical elevation; it's a journey of soaring high in life itself. I'm ready to embrace the unknown.

And as I take a deep breath, releasing the last of my fears into the wind, I whisper to myself: I'm flying. I'm finally free. And I know we are all going to be okay.

Lwandile Zulu

I carried her suitcase that morning. The sun was still lazy, barely stretching across the yard. She stood by the gate, handbag hugged close to her chest, wearing her best jeans and the same grey hoodie Mama bought her two winters ago.

She looked terrified.

I wanted to say something brave, something big. But I just lifted her bag and placed it gently on the ground.

Then he came out—Papa. Sober. Clean. Shaved that morning. Even a shirt with buttons. He held Sbusiso like the world had given him a second chance.

He walked to her, slow, like every step carried the weight of years lost to the bottle. His voice cracked when he spoke:

"Ngiyethembisa, Siphosethu. I'll be better. For Sbu. For you. For your mother."

She just stared, eyes wide with the ache of wanting to believe.

"You've said that before," she whispered.

"I know. But this time, I mean it."

She nodded slowly, not in full trust, but in hope.

I stood beside her, watching the two people I love most try to meet each other halfway, one with promises, one with silence.

Then the taxi turned into the street. She turned to me and tried to smile.

"Ngiyabonga, bhuti. For everything."

I pulled her into a hug, tight and long, like I could hold back time.

"I'll miss you every day," I said.

"Then don't miss me. Just make sure Sbu gets to Grade R without ever crying for a father he doesn't have."

I smiled. She had Mama's fire now.

As the taxi drove away, I stood at the gate long after it disappeared. Papa went back inside with Sbusiso asleep on his shoulder.

I watched the dust settle. My chest ached with pride, sorrow, fear, and something softer, something like peace.

Sipho didn't go in a plane, but she flew. And she's going to shine so hard, Pretoria will have to look twice.