Love Life

Siphosethu Zulu

Love was blooming in my life like spring in full colour.

With Luyanda, life wasn't just something I was living—it was something I was feeling. Every day was a little lighter, and every morning started with a "Good morning, sthandwa sam' 💛" text, sometimes with a cute selfie of him brushing his teeth or making oats that he swore was gourmet-level.

We'd go on the most spontaneous dates—once he picked me up in a hoodie and sweatpants, no explanations. I thought we were going for coffee. Instead? We went to a strawberry farm an hour away. We picked fruit, fed horses, and laughed until our cheeks hurt. He kissed me under the shade of a willow tree, and I swear the earth paused for us.

Another time, it was a late-night picnic under the stars outside his res room with fairy lights, juice boxes, and vetkoeks. I'd never felt so spoiled and so seen.

And he always listened. Like really listened.

"Are you okay, baby?" he'd ask, tracing small circles on the back of my hand when I got quiet.
Even when I didn't say it, he knew.

Sometimes he'd whisper, "You don't have to be strong all the time, you know. I've got you."

I swear my heart would fold into origami when he said things like that.

Back home in KZN, the preparations for my umemulo were heating up.

Ngithuke, kodwa ngiyajabula.

My father was working overtime trying to make sure it would be a beautiful day. Aunties were sewing my ibheshu, while gogo was already instructing the girls on the traditional dances we'd perform. I'd be wearing white beads, isigcebhezana, and carrying my spear like a true Zulu woman.

"Ungakhohlwa ukuthi lo suku usiphathela igama lakini, Sethu," my dad said one night over the phone.
("Don't forget this day represents your family's name, Sethu.")

I didn't forget. I couldn't.

Even Lwandile had put the whole phone-confiscation drama behind us and was sending me screenshots of umemulo dress ideas. I was shocked, but grateful.

At home, love looked like family.

But here, in pta, love looked like Luyanda.

We'd study at the library then sneak out to his room and pretend to "watch a documentary," only to end up cuddling under a fleece blanket and arguing over who would make tea. He would always lose. And still get up to do it.

One Friday evening, after a long week, he pulled me close and whispered, "Let's run away."

"To where?" I giggled.

"To a future where you're mine for real. Where we don't need res wifi, only each other and soft music and a view."

I giggled, melting in his arms. "You sound like a poet now."

He kissed my forehead. "I don't need poetry. You're my soft."

But it wasn't just perfect.

There were moments I'd go silent—thinking about Kat. Wondering if love really could last.

And every time, Luyanda would just hold me. No pressure. No panic.

He was teaching me that love isn't just fireworks—it's peace.

One evening, as we danced in his small room to an old romance songs, I looked up into his eyes and just knew—

He would be the one at the front row during umemulo, beaming with pride.

He would be the one I'd turn to when the singing and praise dancing was done.

He would be the one I'd whisper to, "I saved myself... for more than tradition. I saved myself for love."

For him.

Ngiyamthanda.
Ngiyazi manje.
Uyangihlonipha, uyangiqonda.
Uyangithanda ngendlela engeyona eyomhlaba lo kuphela.

I no longer feared love. I was living it.

And it looked a lot like movie nights, voice notes that started with "Hey beautiful," forehead kisses, and bead fittings back home that made me feel like a princess in the making.

Love was soft.

Love was home.

Love... was him.

Katlego Moeketsi

There's something about home. The air hits different. It smells like open fields, fresh bread, and firewood. Like childhood memories you thought you forgot.

My grandmother's house hadn't changed. The peach tree still stood proudly outside her gate. The metal gate creaked the same way it had since I was eight, and the dogs barked as if to say, "O kae, Katlego?"—where have you been?

I carried a bag and a tired heart.

After seeing her... Sethu. At the stadium. Laughing, blooming, glowing... and holding someone else's hand. I'd tried to convince myself that I imagined it. That maybe it wasn't her. But I knew her. I knew that smile.

And I knew that wasn't me beside her.

"Katlego, o tsena jaaka motho a sa je lentswe," Koko said as I walked into the kitchen. (You look like someone who hasn't eaten a rock.) I smiled weakly.

She was making magwinya. Her way of telling me we're going to talk—deeply.

Later, we sat under the tree where she used to shell peanuts with her friends. She handed me warm rooibos and said, "Now talk, ngwana wa me."

I looked at her, her kind eyes, the same ones that raised me when Mom and Dad were hustling in Gabs. I sighed.

"Koko... I think I'm in love with someone I let go of."

She raised her brow. "Motsadi o ntse a phela?"

"She's alive," I chuckled sadly. "But she's with someone else now."

She leaned back in her chair and gave me that long look.

"Tell me everything."

And I did. From how I met Sethu, how she brought light into my world when I didn't even know I needed it. How we grew close, and how things went north, resulting to my departure to egypt. How I thought she'd wait. But she didn't.

I told her about the gift I found in my flat. The playlist she made. The letters she never sent.

And the smile she wore that wasn't mine anymore.

Koko listened. Quietly. Carefully. Then said, "Ngwana wa me, love is not a thing you trip and fall into. It's something you choose. Every day."

I looked down. "But Koko... she's moved on."

Koko's voice was soft but firm. "O dumela mo loratong lwa nnete?" (Do you believe in real love?)

"Yes."

"Then fight. A man doesn't let love walk away and say nothing. Go tell her. Show her."

I hesitated. "What if she says no?"

Koko touched my hand gently. "O tla bo o itse gore o dirile sotlhe se o ka se dirang." (Then at least you'll know you did everything you could.)

She paused and added, "Katlego, ga go monate go senya monyetla ka ntlha ya letshogo. O ka latlhegelwa ke sengwe se se molemo."
(It's painful to lose a chance because of fear. You could lose something beautiful.)

Those words broke something in me.

Because deep down, I wasn't afraid of rejection—I was afraid of not being enough for her.

"She's strong, Koko. Brilliant. Kind. And she's always known who she is. What if she outgrew me?"

Koko smiled. "Then grow with her."

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I played her playlist again. Read her letters. One line echoed in my heart:

"I never stopped believing in you... even when you forgot how to believe in us."

Sethu Zulu.

My ghost of the past.

My maybe for the future.

Koko was right.

I had to fight.