The rest of the day passed in a haze. The uncles eventually left, murmuring their goodbyes and promising to "help make the arrangements." Mazwide moved through the yard, washing dishes, hanging laundry, humming softly under her breath like nothing had changed.
His father sat on that same couch in the living room, reading the newspaper, the pages rustling with a kind of calm that infuriated Mthunzi. How could he be so still? So normal? As if he hadn't just rewritten the entire course of his son's life.
The sunlight faded from gold to grey, stretching long shadows across the walls. The house smelled faintly of boiled mealie and polish. Every sound ,the scrape of a chair, the chirp of a bird , felt too loud, too sharp.
Mthunzi sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The words wouldn't stop replaying in his mind. You will marry a wife for your brother. Bear his children. Build him a home.
Each sentence felt like a chain being wrapped around him, link by link, pulling tighter until he could barely breathe.
He couldn't say any of this to his father. He could never say anything to his father. His father's word had always been law ,the kind of word that didn't invite questions, only obedience.
He rose abruptly, needing to move, to breathe. His feet carried him toward the kitchen, where Mazwide was folding dry washing into neat piles. Her eyes lifted when she saw him.
"Ma," he said, his voice breaking before the words even formed fully. "I can't do this."
For a moment, she froze , her hands pausing mid-fold, her expression unreadable. Then she set the clothes aside and took his hand gently, squeezing it once before pulling him outside, away from the house, toward the far end of the yard where his father wouldn't hear them.
The afternoon light fell soft on her face, accentuating the creases around her eyes , lines carved by years of endurance and quiet strength.
"You can do this," she said softly, searching his face. "You are strong, Mthunzi. You are a man. And if you do this, your father will finally see that. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
Her words landed heavy in his chest. He turned away, jaw tight. "Yes," he admitted after a long pause. "I want my father's love… but not at this cost. Not like this."
Mazwide sighed, looking down at the dust beneath her feet, as if searching for the right words in the earth itself. "Do you remember when your mother died?" she began. "I was exactly where you are now , a girl with a head full of dreams and a life of my own. But I gave it all up to marry your father, to keep the fire burning in my sister's home, to take care of you."
He stared at her, stunned. "It's not the same, Ma," he said finally, shaking his head. "I have a life in Johannesburg , a wife. She would never understand any of this. You know her"
Mazwide's eyes softened with both empathy and resignation. "She will," she said quietly. "You will make her understand."
Her voice was gentle but final, as if she had seen too much of life to believe in happy alternatives. She reached up, her thumb brushing a tear he hadn't realized had fallen.
"Sometimes love," she whispered, "isn't about choosing what we want, but carrying what we must."
Mthunzi swallowed hard, blinking back tears. He wanted to scream, to reject this, to tell her , to tell anyone ,that he was done being the dutiful son, the man who always carried everyone else's burden. But instead, he stood there in the dimming light, surrounded by the quiet hum of the evening, and said nothing.
Because here, in this place , his father's home, his brother's shadow, his mother's memory , silence had always been the language of survival.