Suprise date

Siphosethu Zulu

The message came at 10:47 a.m. sharp.

Luyanda: "No questions. Just be ready by 2. Flat shoes. Hair tied. Trust me."

I stared at the text, heart fluttering like a ribbon in the wind. I tried to reply with something sassy, something smart—but my fingers just hovered. He always knew how to spin my mind into knots with his simple magic.

I braided my hair back neatly, letting two soft curls fall over my forehead. The weather was warm, and the air felt full of secrets.

When Luyanda arrived, he had that smile—the one that looked like he had already won the jackpot.

"You look amazing," he said, opening the car door for me like I was made of something sacred.

I couldn't help but blush. "And you look suspicious."

He laughed. "Trust, Sethu. That's the only instruction."

The drive was peaceful, music humming low, the uber driver understood the assignment.

"Are we going to a museum?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Picnic?"

"Mm-mm."

"The theatre? Jazz night?"

He just smiled. "You'll see."

But as we turned off the main road, I saw the signs.

Stadium Road.

And then the flags.

The vendors.

The crowd.

The stadium.

I stiffened just a little. My hand, which had been resting lightly on my lap, tensed.

"Wait," I said carefully, forcing a smile. "What's happening here?"

Luyanda grinned like a kid. "Surprise! Bafana Bafana vs. Nigeria. National game. I got us seats near the front. I know how much you love energy and noise."

I laughed lightly, but something in my chest fluttered—and not in a good way.

"Oh..." I murmured. "Soccer."

He didn't notice the pause.

He was already so excited, practically bouncing in his seat, handing over the tickets like golden passes to the best day ever.

As we walked into the stadium, I tried to relax. Tried to tell myself: This is fine. You're here with Luyanda. Just enjoy the moment.

But inside, the wave of memory hit me—flooded me.

The noise.

The jerseys.

The stadium lights.

It all reminded me of him.

Katlego.

Of all the things I had buried, the sight of those bold green and gold jerseys pulled at something raw.

I swallowed hard, clinging to Luyanda's hand tighter than necessary.

He turned to me, his thumb brushing the back of my hand. "You okay, sthandwa sami?"

I smiled, too quickly. "Yeah. Just... overwhelmed."

The kickoff started.

He was cheering, jumping, pointing at every pass like a boy on Christmas morning.

And me?

I sat there, trying not to fall apart. Not because I didn't love Luyanda.

I did.

But the ghosts still lingered in places I never thought they would.

Every time a cheer erupted, I flinched a little inside.

Every time someone yelled a name from the stands, I remembered him yelling mine from the side of the field once.

How unfair is it... that a beautiful moment with someone new could still be haunted by the ruins of something old?

I leaned into Luyanda's shoulder midway through the game, burying my face briefly.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He looked down. "For what?"

"For choosing this. For thinking of something that excites you. I know this makes you happy."

He turned, gently lifting my chin. "But does it make you happy?"

I paused.

"I'm trying," I admitted, my voice cracking just a little. "I want to be present—for you."

His eyes softened.

"I know you've been hurt, Sethu. I'm not trying to erase the past. But I want to build something new. With you. Even if we start at zero."

Luyanda Dhlamini

From the moment she stepped into the stadium, something in her changed.

Sethu smiled—yes—but it wasn't that open, eyes-sparkling smile she usually gave me. It was the kind of smile you wear to make someone else feel better. Soft. Polite. Just... off.

At first, I told myself I was overthinking it. I didn't want to ruin the moment. I was excited, you know? My girl. Me. The national game. It was all lining up like a movie montage.

But I watched her closely.
Every cheer? She flinched just a little.
Every whistle? Her eyes darted away like she was chasing memories.
And even though her fingers were laced with mine, her grip was faint. Like she was here in body but elsewhere in spirit.

I knew that look.
I've seen it in the mirror before—after my father left us when I was fifteen. The kind of expression where your body's in the room but your soul is replaying a scene from long ago.

Later, after the game, when she tucked herself against my shoulder in the car, I wanted to believe everything was okay.

But love doesn't just believe.

Love sees.
Love listens.
Love learns.

So I waited until the silence felt soft and safe before speaking.

"Sethu," I said gently, brushing my thumb across her hand, "you don't have to smile through what's heavy."

She looked at me, startled, but didn't speak.

"I saw it. I saw you—trying to be present for me. But something was off."

She blinked rapidly, eyes shimmering in the dashboard light.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to make it weird—"

"No," I interrupted softly, "don't apologize. You don't owe me a performance. You owe yourself peace."

She let out a shaky breath.

"It reminded me of... someone," she admitted. "A part of my past I thought I'd buried. But being there brought it up."

"I understand," I nodded. "You don't have to explain more unless you want to. Just... thank you. For showing up anyway. For trusting me with the parts you're still healing."

And here's the thing.

I don't want Sethu to force anything for me—not laughter, not dates, not touches.

I want her as she is: complicated, layered, healing.

I want to earn her safety, not expect her smiles.

She was worth it.

Every pause. Every storm. Every silent moment between words.

Siphosethu Zulu was worth it all.

Katlego Moekstsi

The stadium roared around me.

Floodlights painted the night in gold and silver, the crowd a blur of noise, colour, and celebration. My teammates tackled me in wild joy, our sweat mixing with grass and adrenaline as the scoreboard flashed:

2 :1

I had done it.

I scored the winning goal.

My name thundered through the speakers, echoed in chants, became a pulse in the veins of everyone wearing green and gold.
This was what I worked for. Trained for. Bled for.
And for a split second, I felt like a god among men.

Until I looked up.

Until I saw her.

And my heart—my stupid, foolish, faithful heart—forgot to beat.

Siphosethu.

She was standing in the front raw, hair braided in long, intricate strands, draped in elegance. The kind of woman who had learned to carry her scars like medals. Strong. Soft. Still. Ethereal.

But she wasn't alone.

There was a guy next to her.

Well-dressed. Laughing with her as if they shared memories I could never rewrite.

I blinked, stunned.

Was I hallucinating?

I rubbed my eyes, but there she was—clapping politely, eyes distant, smile faint. Not the way she used to beam at me, not the full-lipped joy that once made me believe I could outrun pain.

She looked older. Wiser. Happier.

Without me.

I took a shaky breath and swallowed the lump in my throat as my name continued to echo through the stadium.

But suddenly, the victory felt hollow.

Because years ago, I held her heart—and let it slip through my fingers.

And now someone else was holding her hand.

The locker room was a blur of high fives and interviews. Coaches shouting. Reporters calling. Cameras flashing.

But my mind was stuck in that single moment.
Her eyes.
Her smile.

"Kat, what's going on?" Tlotli asked, tossing a towel at me. "You just won us the damn game and you look like someone stole your boots."

I laughed, bitterly. "Maybe someone did."

He gave me a look. "That serious?"

I didn't answer. I just pulled out my phone, scrolling through the notes she once sent me—the playlists she made when we were still us. When I was the boy with the dream, and she was the girl with the soft voice and hard questions.

I played "If I Ain't Got You" by Alicia Keys, and leaned back on the bench.

Maybe it was too late.

Or maybe—just maybe—I still had one last shot.

Because no matter how far I ran, or how many goals I scored...

Sethu was the one goal I never stopped chasing.

And maybe...
Just maybe...
I still wanted her to notice me again—off the field this time.
As a man.
Not as a memory.

Siphosethu Zulu

The door closed behind me with a soft click.

I stood in the middle of my room, shoes still on, jacket still zipped, heart... completely, utterly undone.

Outside, campus had returned to its usual buzz. The echoes of laughter, engines, and the distant sounds of students letting go of their own burdens filled the air—but in here, it was just me. Me and the memory of a voice I hadn't heard in years.

Katlego.

I pressed my back to the door and slowly slid down until I was sitting on the floor. My chest rose and fell with the rhythm of uncertainty, of things long buried bubbling to the surface.

I had seen him.

Not in a dream. Not on a screen. In person.

He was just across from me—famous, celebrated, taller, more filled out, a man now. And yet... the moment our eyes met, I didn't see "Katlego the soccer star." I saw the boy who used to walk me to res, the one who danced with me in empty kitchens and called me "the light in his storm."

But I wasn't his light anymore.
And he wasn't my future.

Because that future had dropped me off moments ago.

Luyanda.

He had walked me to my room gently, fingers brushing mine. I still remembered how he paused under the lamp post, his eyes catching the yellow light, filled with something soft and terrifyingly real.

He took a breath like he was diving.

Then said, "I love you, Sethu."

And I—
I froze.

I wanted to say it back.
I needed to.
He deserved it.

But all I managed was a faint smile and a "Goodnight, Lu."

It killed me.

Because I do love him.
But at that moment, all I could think about was someone I had tried so hard to forget.

And that wasn't fair.

To Luyanda.
To me.
To anyone.

I curled up on the edge of my bed, shoes now kicked off, staring at the small silver earrings he had once given me. The stethoscope ones. For the girl who listened to everyone else's heart—except, maybe, her own.

How do you explain that the past doesn't knock before it barges in?

How do you tell the boy who's holding your heart now that a shadow from before just brushed against your ribcage?

How do you stop guilt from suffocating your joy?

I heard a soft knock.

Nthabi peeked in. "You okay, babe?"

I nodded. Lied. "Yeah."

She narrowed her eyes, then came to sit beside me. "You saw him."

I blinked.

"You saw Kat, didn't you?"

My breath shook. "He looked... happy. He looked like a stranger. And like a memory. At the same time."

She sighed, pulling me into a hug. "You don't owe him anything, you know. Not anymore."

"I know."
I whispered it like a prayer I wasn't sure I believed.

She pulled back and studied me. "But you do owe yourself the truth. And Luyanda, too."

I swallowed hard. "I didn't say 'I love you' back."

"Do you love him?"

I looked at my trembling hands. "Yes."

"Then let Kat go."

I didn't respond.

Because letting go of someone who once held your world in his palms... that's not just flicking a switch.
It's peeling yourself open.
It's grieving a version of yourself that once believed in that person.

And maybe I wasn't done grieving yet.

Later, I found myself whispering to the silence.

"Ngiyakuthanda, Luyanda."

Not loud.
Not to his face.

But maybe that's where it starts.

And maybe, when I say it again... it will be where he can hear it.

Because the past visited.
But I don't live there anymore.

And if love deserves anything—it's honesty.