Soft Days After the Storm

Siphosethu Zulu

After everything that happened that morning—the shouting, the voice note, the confiscated phone—I thought the whole of December would be soaked in awkward silence and thick tension.

But surprisingly, it wasn't.

Once the anger faded, home returned to what it had always been: loud, warm, stubbornly loving.

Lwandile apologized in his own strange way. Not with words, but with grilled wors, pap, and chakalaka on the braai stand by midday. He said, "Kudla kusemoyeni, uthanda ukudla wena," and passed me a full plate. That was his way of saying, I'm sorry. And I took it, because I knew my brother loved me—he was just scared for me.

He started sharing stories from university. The wild late nights he swore weren't wild, the lectures that humbled him, the time he flopped a test and cried in the shower. We laughed until our bellies hurt.

I even got to share my side—how some days made me feel invisible, how I missed uMa when I couldn't figure out laundry settings, and how I met people who were kind, brilliant, and different from anyone I'd ever known.

I didn't mention Luyanda, of course. Not after everything. But I carried his name quietly, tucked between my ribs.

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

On Christmas morning, we all went to uMa's grave.

It was tradition.

We walked with buckets, brooms, and fresh flowers from the street vendor. The sun beat down gently, and even though grief never disappears, it softened that day. Like God pressed pause on our ache just for a while.

Lwandile pulled out a small bottle of polish and polished her tombstone like he was handling gold.

"Ma would've shouted at you for getting so dark," I joked, squinting at him under the sun.

"She'd shout at you for still not knowing how to braid hair," he shot back.

We chuckled. Even that was healing.

We placed the bouquet of yellow lilies and roses at the head of the grave. I bent down and traced her name with my fingertips. My chest ached. Christmas wasn't the same without her.

And yet... being there together, all of us—me, Lwandile, Sbusiso, and Baba—it felt full. Not complete, but not empty either.

Sbusiso, my baby brother, was a constant burst of sunshine.

He could not stop talking.

"I'm going to be a bus driver," he declared after lunch, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"A bus driver?" Lwandile asked, pretending to be shocked.

"Yes! But only for buses that go to school. Because I want to make sure all the kids are never late. I'll hoot like 'toot-toot!' and if they don't come out, I'll just shout their names!"

We laughed so hard, tears formed.

That was the thing about home—it didn't need to be perfect to feel good. It just needed small pieces like this: a joke, a loud brother, the smell of umnqusho from the neighbor's yard, the sound of radio in the kitchen, and baba humming old maskandi songs.

Evenings were my favorite.

We'd sit outside, warm tea in chipped mugs, and I'd watch the sky change.

One evening, Baba looked at me and said, "Sethu, angizange ngithi ungazithandi izinsizwa. Kodwa khumbula: umhlaba uyazonda, kodwa wena uzoze uhlonipheke uma ugcina isithunzi sakho. Umemulo wakho—uyisiqalo. Ayisona isibopho sokuvinjelwa uthando, kodwa isikhumbuzo sokuthi uphelele."

His voice was calm. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just honest.

I nodded. I didn't have words, but I understood.

It wasn't about Luyanda.

It was about me—about preserving my dignity, my dreams, and yes, the memulo they were planning, even if I hadn't fully wrapped my head around it yet.

At night, I'd lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

The quiet would creep in. And so would memories.

Luyanda's voice. His laugh. His words. His stethoscope earrings.

I missed him.

But I also needed this space.

To remember who I was before him. To figure out who I was becoming.
I still loved him. Maybe more now than ever.

But I had to find myself outside of us too.

Because if our paths cross again, I want to meet him as a whole woman. Not someone torn between duty and desire. Not someone who flinches every time love knocks.

Just me.

And that would be enough.

Luyanda Dhlamini

I haven't heard from her . The silence? It's loud.

Blocked. No more good morning texts. No sunflower emojis. No "Luyanda.." whispered through voice notes. Just... gone.

The voice note from Lwandile still rings in my head:

"Suka kuye... ngizokubamba."

I get it—he's protecting his sister. But I wasn't trying to hurt her. I was trying to love her. Gently. Fully. Patiently.

And now, I'm left with memories: her laugh, the earrings, her smile under jacaranda trees.

It's Christmas. There's noise, food, cousins, but it all feels empty without her. I sit outside, hoodie on, staring at the sky, wondering:

Is she thinking about me too?

Gogo asked, "Uyaphila, mntanam?"

I nodded. Lied.

Maybe she'll come back.

Not because I beg—
But because she wants to.

Katlego Moeketsi

The plane touched down on the red soil of Gaborone just after midday. Warm air flooded into the cabin the moment the doors opened — familiar, grounding, home. I inhaled deeply. The scent of home is a strange mixture of heat, dust, roasted maize from vendors outside the terminal, and the distant buzz of laughter.

After months in Cairo, everything about Botswana felt softer — from the breeze to the voices around me. The rigid discipline of research life in Egypt now gave way to the warm, easy chaos of Christmas at home.

I adjusted my backpack and made my way out of the airport, the familiar sound of Setswana echoing in the crowd. It didn't take long before I heard him.

"Kat man!"
Tlotli, arms wide, grin bigger than life,He came earlier with my parents. he is now part of my family, My bestfriend , my once co-conspirator in chaos. Our bond had healed — finally — after that mess with Sethu. A hug sealed it. Nothing more needed to be said.

We drove through the streets of Gaborone in my late grandpa's dusty bakkie, windows down, the December sun kissing our arms. I told him about Egypt, the silent nights in my apartment, the matches we played, bond with my teammates... and Sethu.

Always, it came back to her.

"So, you're still thinking about her?" he asked, glancing sideways.

I laughed. "You'd think flying across two continents would erase her. Instead, I found her gift in my drawer before leaving. Wrapped in silver. Still unopened."

He didn't tease me. Just nodded.

Later that night, I finally unwrapped it — a small box with headphones and a tiny playlist card scribbled in her handwriting:

"For when the world is too loud — just listen and think of me."
Love always,
Sethu

I listened on the flight. Every song was a memory. A moment. A soft brush of her fingers against mine in the campus library. Her teasing smile. The last time we spoke before it all crumbled.

When we got home , the house buzzed with relatives, kids, bowls of freshly chopped salads and the unmistakable scent of food. My mother came running with her arms wide, pressing my face against her shoulder as if I were still her boy who once got lost in Game City.

"Katlego, You've lost weight, ai!"

My father, tall and regal, stood in the corner shaking his head. "You're back, but where's your real companion? The ghost girlfriend we never saw?"

Laughter exploded in the kitchen. Even the aunties joined in.

I groaned. "Ga ke na ghost girlfriend, Papa. Sethu was real."

"Re ne re sa mmone!" my mother teased. "We heard about her. But see her? Never."

Before I could defend myself, Koko — my grandmother — made her entrance. Wrapped in her shawl, glasses hanging off the tip of her nose, eyes sharp as ever. She looked at me the way only grandmothers can: as if she saw right through me.

"Katlego. When are you marrying? You're nearing thirty. O batla ke swe ke seka ke bona ngwetsi ya gago?"

My jaw dropped. "Koko! Ke sa tswe kwa airporong!"

She ignored my protests and started pouring tea.

"I've spoken to Pastor Lekgowe. His daughter, Boipelo, is beautiful. God-fearing. An accountant. Still a virgin," she added proudly, eyeing me like she'd announced gold.

Tlotli nearly choked on his juice. I bit back a laugh.

"Koko!" I managed. "You want to arrange a matchmaker? Is this Skeem Saam or my life?"

She ignored my sarcasm. "Boipelo can cook. And she sings in church choir. A lioness in the kitchen, but a lamb in the streets."

"Koko!" I was laughing now. "This is why I never bring girls home."

"You don't bring girls home. That's the problem."

My mother joined in. "Ghost girlfriend number two coming soon."

That night, I lay on my old bed — faded posters on the walls, the smell of washing powder and pine floor wax settling around me. The house was filled with joyful noise. My baby cousin, wouldn't stop talking about the drone he got for Christmas. "Kat! Kat! Wanna see how it flies? It has lights!"

His joy was pure and uncomplicated — the kind I had lost.

I stared at the ceiling, earphones in. The last song from Sethu's playlist played. A song in Zulu, soft, aching, honest:

Ngiyazifela ngawe...

My chest ached. Not painfully — but deeply.

Koko knocked lightly on my door before bed.

She entered slowly, sat beside me and rubbed my back.

"You still love her, ne?" she said quietly, in Setswana.

I nodded. My throat tight.

She kissed my head. "Love her the right way. But remember, love doesn't mean forgetting who you are."

"Thank you, Koko."

She paused before leaving, then added, "Just don't marry someone who can't peel a butternut."

I smiled. "Noted."