I Chose Me

Siphosethu Zulu

It was the first time.

The first time I gave my heart to someone with no second thoughts.
The first time I let myself believe that love could be everything they write about in songs.

And he? He was the best guy I had ever known.

Charming.
Protective.
Gentle — or so I thought.

I believed, with every inch of my soul, that he was the first and the last.
I didn't care about the five-year age gap. I didn't care what people said.
To me, that gap meant nothing. Because when he looked at me, when he held my hand like it was made of glass, I felt seen. Safe. Wanted.

I was ready to give him everything.

Even my virginity.
Even if memulo was still ahead of me.
Even if tradition said "Wait."
Even if my own father would have called it betrayal.

I was willing to ignore the whispers of the ancestors, silence the voices of my aunties, and wrap myself around his name — because he loved me. Or so I thought.

I even thought of giving him inkomo kaBaba.

Me, an 18-year-old girl, ready to step out of girlhood just to prove I was his.
To show him that he wasn't just some boy I liked — he was the man I chose.

But I was wrong.

Because love doesn't raise a hand and call it a mistake.
Love doesn't make you feel like the walls are closing in.
Love doesn't kiss your forehead in the morning and slap you in the evening.

I thought I could fix it.
I thought maybe if I just loved him a little more, stayed a little longer, kept quiet a little harder — he would come back to the man I fell for.
The one who sang to me.
The one who checked if I ate.
The one who made me believe fairy tales were possible in townships and back rooms.

But fairytales don't end like this.

Fairytales don't leave you sobbing into your own pillow, shaking from the confusion of "How did we get here?"
Fairytales don't involve blood in your mouth and lies in your inbox.

He slapped me.

The same hands that once wiped my tears, now caused them.
The same mouth that called me "my queen" now blamed me for his temper.

I gave him everything I could.
And I almost gave him what I couldn't get back.

But today... I chose me.

Not because I stopped loving him.
But because I started remembering who I was before him.

Siphosethu Zulu.
The girl with ink in her bones and fire in her chest.
The girl with dreams louder than heartbreak and faith deeper than her scars.

I don't regret loving him.
But I regret loving him more than I loved myself.

So no, I won't be giving him inkabi.
I won't be giving him the pride of saying he was my first, my last, my always.
He lost that privilege the day he touched me in anger.

From this day forward, I wear my memulo with pride.
I wear my scars as warnings — not weaknesses.
And I wear my name like a crown.

Because I may have fallen for him.
But I rose for me.

******************************

The knock at the door was soft, almost hesitant. I wasn't expecting anyone. and I had just come back from a walk meant to clear my head, not fill it again.

When I opened the door, there was no one there — just a cardboard box resting quietly on the mat.

My heart skipped.

Not because I knew what was inside.
But because something in my spirit whispered his name before my mouth did.

Katlego.

I carried it in carefully like it was made of glass. Placed it on my bed. Opened it slowly. And then... the air changed.

Inside was a bouquet of my favourite lilies — fresh, soft, and wrapped in brown paper with a string. There were all sorts of goodies: my favourite chocolate, Ferrero Rocher, big Bar Ones, sour worms, a pink mug with "You're Still My Person" written in cursive, and a candle that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms.

I didn't even notice the letter until the scent of the candle hit me.
There it was. A thick envelope.

Written in his handwriting.

Shaky. Rushed. Real.

I sat on the bed and stared at it for a moment. My hands didn't move, but my heart raced. It was as if the envelope weighed more than the entire box.

I opened it:

Siphosethu,

I know I don't deserve your time. Maybe not even your eyes on this paper. But I'm writing this anyway — because silence between us has become a noise I can't bear anymore.

First, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the pain I caused you.
I'm sorry for being everything you never deserved.

I know I messed up.
That day — the one that still lives in both your mind, my supposedly first betrayal—
It wasn't me.

It was Tlotliso.

I don't blame you for not believing me.
Hell, if it was me in your shoes, I would've left a guy like me a long time ago.

But Sethu... I need you to know, I was never unfaithful.
The strippers?
They were never my choice.
I didn't choose to be in that room.
that was so stupid of me to allow them touch me the way they did. Shameful.

And I know, it doesn't erase what you felt.
It doesn't erase that you cried, alone, in a room that once smelled like us.

But I hope it tells you this: I never stopped loving you.
Even when I was at my worst,
Even when I pushed you away,
Even when I couldn't stand myself —
You were the only calm I wanted to run to.

You didn't deserve the version of me you got.
You deserved the one who wrote you poems at 2 a.m.
The one who held your hand during your period pains.
The one who listened to your rants and loved your voice even when it cracked from frustration.
The one who wanted forever.

And I still do.

But this time, I'm not begging you to take me back.
I'm giving you a choice.

If I were you, Sethu... I would leave a guy like me.
I wouldn't wait for change.
I wouldn't risk heartbreak again.

So I won't blame you if you do.
I won't ask questions if you don't respond.
But I'll always love you.

Not because it's easy,
But because loving you taught me what it means to love at all.

Rato laka.
My love.
My always.

– Katlego

I didn't realise I was crying until my tears hit the paper, smudging the ink just slightly.

It hurt.
God, it hurt.

Because this was the version of Katlego I used to pray for.
The one who saw his flaws and named them out loud.
The one who took responsibility.
The one who didn't hide behind pride.

And now, when I finally had him... I didn't know what to do.

Part of me wanted to run to him. To forgive him. To start over.
But another part — the part he hurt — still stood tall, guarding what was left of my heart.

I placed the letter on my chest and closed my eyes.

There was no decision yet.
No answer.

Just a heartbeat...
And a truth:

He still loved me.
And maybe... I still loved him too.