my life in 5 minutes

Thandiwe is sitting on the edge of her bed when she decides that her life would make more sense if it were fiction.

The thought makes her laugh.

Not because it is funny, but because she has reached the point where laughing is sometimes easier than crying.

Her phone is in her hand. The screen is bright against the darkness of her room. Outside, the night is quiet, but inside her head, everyone is talking at once

Her mother.

Her sister.

Her grandmother.

Her cousins.

Her uncle.

The men she has loved.

The man she should never have trusted.

She opens her notes and begins typing.

Hi, it's me again.

She stops.

She stares at the words.

Deletes them.

Then she starts again.

Do you remember me?

She laughs softly

“Of course you don't,” she says to herself. “You don't even know me.”

She puts the phone down and leans back against the wall.

“But I have a lot to tell you.”

That is the problem.

There is too much to tell.

She could start with her love life. That would be entertaining. Pathetic, but entertaining.

She could start with her mother, who is no longer alive but somehow still appears in every important part of her life.

Or her sister, who she is still learning to forgive.

She could start with her cousin.

No.

Not that cousin.

The other cousin.

The one who was supposed to be her sister.

Then again, there is the cousin she trusted, who raped her.

And his mother, who looked her in the face and somehow made the whole thing her fault.

Thandiwe closes her eyes.

“Where do I even begin?”

Her phone rings.

She looks at the screen.

GRANDMOTHER AGNES.

Thandiwe stares at the name for a moment before answering.

“Hello, Granny.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

“I knew it.”

Thandiwe smiles.

Her grandmother used to be a completely different woman. At least, that is how Thandiwe remembers her. Hard. Difficult. Stubborn. The kind of woman who could hold a grudge for longer than most people could hold a conversation.

But now she prays.

She smiles more.

She apologizes sometimes.

She has changed so much that Thandiwe still struggles to understand it.

“Why aren't you sleeping?” her grandmother asks.

“I'm thinking.”

“That's dangerous.”

Thandiwe laughs.

“You're funny now.”

“I've always been funny. You people were just too stubborn to notice.”

Thandiwe shakes her head.

“Goodnight, Granny.”

“Goodnight, my child.”

The call ends.

For a moment, Thandiwe holds the phone against her chest.

She misses her mother.

Not in a loud, dramatic way.

The grief is older now.

It has learned how to sit quietly.

But it never leaves.

Her mother is gone, yet she still finds her everywhere.

In her grandmother's voice.

In her own smile.

In the way people sometimes tell her, You are just like your mother.

Thandiwe never knows whether that is a compliment or a warning.

Her phone vibrates again.

This time, it is a message.

CHISOMO: Can we talk tomorrow?

Thandiwe stares at it.

Her sister.

The relationship between them is complicated.

Maybe all families are complicated.

Or maybe that is what people say when they don't know how to explain the pain.

Thandiwe has spent a long time being angry.

She still is.

But anger is exhausting.

Forgiveness sounds easier than it actually is. People talk about forgiveness as if it is one decision. As if you wake up one morning, smile, and suddenly nothing hurts anymore.

Thandiwe is learning that forgiveness does not always arrive all at once.

Sometimes it comes in small pieces.

Sometimes you forgive someone on Monday and hate them again on Tuesday.

She types:

Yes. We can talk.

Then she puts her phone down before she can change her mind.

A knock comes at the door.

Thandiwe freezes.

It is late.

She slowly walks towards the door.

“Who is it?”

“Open the door.”

Her body stiffens.

Uncle Joseph.

She opens the door.

He is standing there with the same angry face he has been wearing since their argument earlier that day.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“I want to know why you embarrassed me.”

Thandiwe folds her arms.

“I told the truth.”

“You think you know everything.”

“No,” she says. “I just know enough.”

His eyes narrow.

“You have become disrespectful.”

Thandiwe laughs without humour.

“People always say...