Captivity is broken hope 🌻

~★~
Zoey
~★~

Risk it all, my father used to say. Risk it all and hope again.

Hoping never got me anything but heartbreak. The type of heartbreak that marked you, the cracks becoming a part of the design of your heart. The type of heartbreak that stayed with you  no matter how far you ran or tried to hide, it was always there because it was yours. It was you.

The heartbreak that lingered over everything you did and said.

The night before my eighteenth birthday, as I laid in bed,staring at the ceiling my heart was wide awake, hoping.

The room was bathed in darkness, windows  open as the night air blew  through the curtains in gentle waves. I couldn't fall asleep with the windows closed.

The scent of the  night went through my nose and down to my beating heart. This broken, bleeding shattered heart that pulsed through the night, alive.

Pulsing with hope.

It would be my very first birthday without Zolani. Without his smile and laughter, without his constant teasing. Without meeting his eyes that were so similar to mine. Without…

Life kept taking and taking from me, leaving me bared naked left with nothing but my shattered heart.

What was I Zoey, without Zolani.

I thought a lot about Zolani that night. If he was scared because I knew that his birthday would be spent being taken from juvenile prison to an adult prison.  The tears of frustration fell from my eyes  and  wet the pink pillow I slept on. My heart burned with these stirred up emotions and I felt like yelling.

I cried a river for Zolani but these tears could bring no comfort. I was absolutely useless in the heartache he was going through.

I wanted him free. I wanted  him with my mother and I. The house was so empty, so lifeless without him. All the joy and the laughter seemed to have been arrested along with him.

How could I hope?

When he would spend fourteen more years in jail, when everyone was moving on without him but my life felt stagnant.

I couldn't carry on without Zolani.

We weren't the clingy, overly affectionate twins but he was my first best friend and I was his.

Some people have to go out and find their best friends out there in the world but I was miraculously born with mine.

I was the fish and he was my chips, just like my father had said.

I cried hard into my pillow, but none of these tears could save him.

I hated crying with everything in me. It brought out the weakest parts of me that I would die before letting anyone see and it made me vulnerable.

Vulnerability didn't sit well with me. It was an emotion that I could safely tie with a beggar. There was something pleading about being vulnerable, you were broken and there's something in you that wanted the comfort of a loved one, of a stranger, of anyone who would listen.

Vulnerable people were needy and I didn't want to need anyone.

I didn't want to need anyone like I needed my father, dependent on him, heart and soul.

I didn't want to need anyone like I needed Zolani, dependent on him, heart and soul but I did.

I needed him.

Hope beyond all hope, my father used to say and I tried.

I tried with everything in me, well all that was left of me, all the shattered and broken pieces.

I hoped, wiping the tears off my face and took in a deep breath, breathing in the night that reminded me, that there was still life in me, no matter how dead I felt.

It lasted, the hope settled in my heart warm and new, and I held on to it for a moment, smiling.

It lasted  as long as my heart could take it, which wasn't that long. Broken hearts can't hold anything, not even hope.

It settles into the heart but soon it slips through the cracks.

Suddenly, my heart drummed with this unexplained fear. It was overwhelming, making it harder for me to breathe with ease.

I placed my hand on  my chest and felt the unease settling in my heart.

The rhythm of my heart kept rising into this unexplainable pained way and finally after a moment the dread of the revelation settled over me.

Zolani was scared.

He was scared, I couldn't explain how I knew it but I just knew.

The next day he'd be transferred to a prison for men and although he was eighteen, it still felt like the both of us turned twelve just yesterday.

My eyes flashed to the clock that sat by my white bed stand and it was one minute to twelve.

One minute till my birthday.

One minute till our birthday.

One minute till our fates were sealed with this suffering that locked both of us in,  in more ways than one.

There was one minute left to hope, to find something to look forward to in this season of my life.

One minute to hold onto hope and not start this new era of Zoey and Zolani with expecting all of the worst and a cherry on top.

My heart drummed, as I stared at the clock. The same shattered heart beating, yearning and wanting so much more.

It's like I could hear my father's voice, as the wind whirled in  the room.

"Risk it all and hope again."

And I did. The clock striked twelve and a smile broke forth on my face, the tears trailing down my cheeks.

I looked up at the white ceiling breathing, deeply reminding myself that I was alive. Alive for another year.

“Happy birthday Zolani.” I whispered into the night, hoping the wind would carry my message to him.

                               ~★~

I felt the brightness of the sun behind my closed eyelids, I tossed, turning to the side and opened my eyes. The whole room was aglow with the warm morning sun, promising a beautiful day.

I waited a little while for the door to creaks open. I waited for her. Every birthday my mother would be the first one to wake me up, showering me with feathered kisses and sweet words. It was a rare affection Zolani and I both basked in because my mother was a woman who kept her emotions to herself.

Like a rock she concealed all the emotions within her, hiding it like a diamond.

I sat up, a little bit impatient and I stared at the closed white door of my bedroom. I waited for her.

My heart drummed this persistent rhythm, awaiting her arrival with  a deep yearning. We lived together but it had been months since I felt like my mother was with me. I missed my mother and although I knew today was heartbreaking because this would be the first birthday Zolani and I spent apart.

This would be the first birthday Zolani spent in jail.

All I wanted at that moment as I waited was for her to show up and give me some love because that's what my lonely heart yearned for, everyday since my mother closed up into a hard shell of herself.

I couldn't keep waiting no matter how much I wanted to, so I got up off the bed, and started getting ready for school.

I met my brown eyes, in the mirror's reflection of me as I gathered my long braids into a neat bun.There I was, dressed in my uniform, grey pants, white shirt, tie  and the white blazer adorned with all my merits. I looked, adorned with confidence, the gold lining made my eyes pop.

In the depth of my brown eyes, I could see the pain I was concealing. It was silent, not calling for any attention but it was there openly  vulnerable, easy for anyone to see, if they wanted to.

I looked away not bearing to witness myself at this moment.

"Zoey!" My mother called out, from outside of my room and my heart almost leaped out of my chest, my eyes brightening immediately.

"Y-yes." I waited with a bated breath.

“Hurry up, you'll be late for school.”

I held my breath, my heart tense.

“Zoey,” she called out again.

“Y-yes,” If she listened closely she would hear the cracking in my voice.

“I said hurry up, did you hear me?”

“ I heard you, mama.”

I heard her loud and clear. I heard her distance as she decided to not even step into my room, to see my face. I heard her when she left breakfast on the table but was nowhere to be seen. I heard her when I told her I was going to school and I waited, hoping, wondering if maybe she forgot.

It was clear that I was hopelessly hoping. I left the house, suppressing the overflowing emotions of pain from what I heard my mother say, the morning of my eighteenth birthday.

What was I, Zoey without Zolani?

I heard you mama, loud and clear.

~★~

On the 27th of April 2012, while people celebrated the public holiday, Freedom Day, the grade 12’s  were instructed to come to school.

It was all in preparation for the new school event that was happening. The Grade 12 Market Day.

Every year all the Grade 12’s who did business studies would organise a market day which involved lots of money, planning and was very important for our grade.

After a thirty minute walk from home, just around the corner from anything, my eyes took in the sight of the High School.

Corner girl's High School, was weaved into the design of the tall white gates, before me. The buildings in the school were tall red bricked buildings that were designed with prestige.

The green grass was freshly cut everyday, and I could see the fountain of the cement dove that stood in front of the office from here, spewing water from the dove's beak.

The white gates of the school enclosed the school in a space of its own. It was a whole world of its own.

The security by the gate, opened up the white gates and as I stepped in breathing in what felt like my last breath, I felt the bones of my back tighten. I felt the softness of my heart harden and I felt the misery on my face morph into what could be called an almost smile.

The Head Girl always arrived prepared and ready. The Head Girl always arrived with expectations thrust on her so she could not falter or stumble. She had to be strong even though everything in her life echoed how weak she was.

The school was close to empty that day, a stillness settled over the whole place and it felt like I was the only one there. I made my way further into the school, walking past the fountain.

Finally I made it to the courtyard of the school, where the four storey floors of  hallways stared at me, dauntingly. I climbed up the staircase, tired by the second floor.

It had been almost half a year now but I still hadn't gotten used to climbing all the way up to the top. The grade 12’s had most of their classes at the top, fourth floor and it meant all of us were bound to lose weight one way or another.

It also meant that  the pens down celebration felt more alive up there.

“Haibo! Mariam, you can't just reject two thousand rand!”

I always heard my friends first before I saw them. They were loud like that, in a way most people thought was annoying and forward but it was genuinely just them.

They were loud in their joy and their complaints, and they greeted me with such enthusiasm everyday, you'd swear I wasn't the Head girl but the president.

I walked down the close to empty hallway, a small smile forming on my face from the conversation I could hear literally from the steps.

When I pulled open the classroom door, a hush fell over the class and what was once screams became whispers. I chuckled the moment they realized it was just me.

“Why do you open the door like a teacher?” Asanda looked out of breath, her lightskin cheeks puffy red like she had just ran across the classroom to make it to her seat.

I simply laughed in response, and Asanda pouted, running her fingers through her long black dreads as she tried to catch her breath.

Mariam, on the other hand, could care less. She sat near the window, where the sunlight hit her coloured skin in a glow, her legs lifted on one of the desks on the table, her arms behind her head. She looked prim and proper in elegance like she always did, her hair pulled into a nice slicked bun, baby hairs laid and her brows arched beautifully.

“Happy birthday!” Mariam squealed, once she realized that it was me. She leaped off her chair, made her way to me in a half run and half walk.

She engulfed me in a tight hug, her sweet scent reaching my nose, she swayed us left to right and when she pulled away, she was beaming.

"You're  even glowing! Tell me who he is." she spoke, her Afrikaans accent faint.

I raised my brow at her statement.

Depression.

"It's nothing, Mariam.” I said instead.

Before I knew it Asanda pulled me into a hug screaming, “ Happy birthday!” in my ears

Laughter escaped my lips, blissful. “The big one, eight.” Asanda continued as she pulled away.

“You're an actual woman now,” Mariam teases, as she walked back to her seat.

“How does it feel?” Asanda looked at me, a smile playing on her lips.

Very depressing.

“I don't know,” laughter, “ I feel very womany.”

Mariam snorted.

“That's exactly what a woman would say.” Asanda commented.

Asanda and I walked to where Mariam sat, both of us sitting on either side  of each other.

We talked so much , so loud until the heaviness in my heart became lighter, less domineering and more faint. We laughed, loud goofy  laughs that filled our hearts with joy, filled my heart with joy.

With them I could forget.

I could forget about my problems and my pain. I could forget about it all and just laugh like I had no cares in the world.

“ —Anyway  look at these headshots some of these male models have.”

Mariam held her  old purple BlackBerry for both Asanda and I to see. We all had the same purple BlackBerry, since the ninth grade, convincing our parents to buy it as a symbol of our  two year long friendship.

It was  four years, then.

Mariam clicked the button in the BlackBerry with her little thumb, and the picture switched. It was handsome guy, after handsome guy.

All of them the same in one way or another, some exotic and each time Mariam swooned like the boy crazy girl that she was.

Asanda laughed at Mariam's reaction each time. Really this was just for Mariam's entertainment. Asanda and I weren't as boy crazy as Mariam was, we both acknowledged that boys were a species and they existed. It ended there.

“Let's play the WWYDFH game?” Mariam suggested.

Asanda and I shared a look.

Not this again.

The what would you do for him game in short WWYDFH was a game that Mariam introduced to us in the eighth grade.

Since she wanted to be a model from the very beginning she always had a million pictures of headshots  to learn from and soon she turned it into a fun game we could play.

The key word was 'fun' because it  was exactly the opposite.

We had to look at a picture together and say what we would do for them. It went something like this:

*See a photo of an attractive male model

*Gasp!

*What would you do for him?

*I'd sell my family members for him.

It was a very shallow, dumb game and I don't even think it should be called a game because there was no winner or loser.

“ I hate that game.” Asanda complained,“It's dumb and it only entertains you.”

Mariam huffed, and turned to me as if I would defend the matter.

“ That game is for eleven year old girls who've never talked to a boy out of their family.”

Asanda snorted, lifting up a hand for a high five that I gladly reached for.

Mariam clicked the button on her Blackberry and showed Asanda the picture.

“What would you do for him?

Asanda’s  cheeks almost flushed red.

It took everything in me not to roll my eyes.

Asanda wasn't as boy crazy as Mariam but she was very much still a girl who had been in a girl's school all her life. She didn't know of any boy except for her cousins and my brother Zolani so sometimes she fell into the traps of this silly game.

“I would not eat peanut clusters for a month for him.”

I gasped,  Mariam and I shared the same look of disbelief.

If there's one thing Asanda loved more than anything, it was peanut clusters. A perfect mix of chocolate peanuts and biscuits, heaven on earth to my dear friend Asanda.

“He's that handsome?”  I questioned.

“I,” Mariam placed her hand on her chest, “would quit school for him.”

“You're insane,” I laughed along with Asanda.

“Let me see his picture,” Mariam brought it too close to my face.

“He looks like he sells drugs for a living.”

“But handsome, right?” Mariam smirked.

“He looks like he changes girls every month.”

“Zoey, that's not how you play the game.”

“I know,” my lips curved into a teasing smile.

“Come on,” Asanda cut in,” just one thing you'd do for him.”

I rolled my eyes. “ Fine..I would,” I racked my brain for something but I couldn't think of a thing.

The man was very much handsome but so were millions of other guys. I would do everything to keep him away from me.

“You're taking too much time,” Mariam complained, “we have to go to the next guy.”

“Whatever. I wouldn't do my homework for him but only for a day. One day.”

Asanda laughed, her hazel eyes crinkling as she threw her head back.

Mariam faked annoyance but a smile grew in her face.

“Okay, this guy.” Mariam showed the picture to Asanda then me.

“I would,”Asanda bit her  bottom lip, thinking,” talk back to my mother for him.”

We all laughed.

Asanda's mother was as strict as they got. She set the bar, she's the picture you found when you searched ‘strict’ on the internet. She taught our mothers what they know. I could go on.

“That!” Mariam exclaimed, “ is how you play the game, Zoey.”

“What would you do for him, Mariam?” Asanda asked.

“I,” she placed her hand on her chest again, “ would go to jail for this man.”

That ticked me off in more ways than one.

I felt this stirring anger build up inside of me and I wanted to yell at Mariam for being so ignorant. For being so…

Mariam.

How could she say that?

“Zoey, are you okay?” Asanda stared at me, concern etched on her face.

“I've been asking you the same question five times now, you sure you okay.” Mariam asked, and her voice annoyed me.

I sighed, releasing the frustration. As much as I wanted to be mad at Mariam it wasn't fair. She was clueless on what I was going through and it was all pure fun for her.

We all knew that Mariam wouldn't quit school even if school was deemed illegal. She was intelligent like that but boys made her dumb.

“ I'm fine.”

“So what would you do?” She held up her Blackberry, displaying the picture.

Once again, he was handsome but what irked me was the arrogant look in his dark eyes.

“I'd kick a soccer ball for him.”

Mariam chuckled. The game went on and Mariam's and Asanda's answers got crazier and crazier. It all amused me and kept my thoughts away until.

“Won't Zolani be back for his birthday?” Asanda suddenly asked.

“Uhmm…no he's still at the soccer academy.”

“Yoh,” Mariam raised her arched brows, “he likes soccer that much.”

“He's dedicated like that.” I answered, wanting us so badly to go back to playing WWYDFH.

“—He’s been away for months. He didn't even spend Christmas with you last year.”Asanda continued to press, her eyes holding mine as if beckoning me to open up.

“Zolani's happy ok and that's all that matters.” The lie felt bitter on my tongue and punishing in my stomach.

“With all this time he's spending away with his family,” Mariam cut in , “ he better come back a soccer super star.”

“Yeah,” I smiled, “ he better come back.”

~★~

The day was unfortunately short, after  my friends and  I  finally started brainstorming what we  would sell on Market Day we met up with the other girls in our grade later on and the teachers briefed us on how we could plan and prepare.

I walked back with Mariam and Asanda, stalling the time, enjoying the feeling that laughter brought but they both had places to be. Home was a place of rest for them while home was a place I wanted  to escape from.

I took the long way home, lost in my thoughts as I walked home. There was this tense peace that settled in my heart, tense because I knew that it would be taken away from me. Tense, because it wasn't there to stay.

After stalling for long enough, I finally made my way home and stepped into the door of my home.

My mother, still in her pajamas, seated on the grey couch, watched the television, with not much enthusiasm on her face. She seemed to be in a whole different world.

The hope within me was barely hanging on but I held on to that barely.

“I'm back from school Mama!”

“Mmh,” she didn't even look at me, waving a  tired gesture with her hand that was supposed to be hello.

My  heart deflated as I walked past her and she didn't spare me a glance.

While walking down the hallway, my eyes caught sight of something in the kitchen and it made me halt.

On top of the round  dinner table  that was layered with a white beautifully designed cloth there was a small cake.

I took steps further into the kitchen.

The cake was white frosted, with eighteen candles squashed on the cake.

Although beautifully designed, the cake itself looked incomplete. It was lacking in everything. Maybe it's because I knew that right next to this carrot cake was supposed to be a chocolate cake with the name Zolani on it.

I closed the kitchen door, shut the curtains that let in the rays of the sun and the place was as dark as it could be.

I pulled open the kitchen cabinets searching for matches and once I did, I made my way to the table, settling on the chair.

For a moment I just stared at the cake, letting the fact that I was eighteen years old sink in.

I had never actually felt my age, it felt like my age was faster than my feelings. I was as miserable as a forty year old with the heart of a twelve year old.

But life was telling me that I was eighteen.

I felt the tears threatening to spill from the loneliness that encompassed me in the darkness of my kitchen. It clawed at my throat stopping anything from coming out.

This was when I had to say my birthday prayer up to God but I could barely whisper.

It was my father, Kevin Mandela who brought in the tradition of changing wishing to  praying. He told me that wishing was a shot in the dark that would never aim for anything.

He told me  birthday prayers  were bringing your desires to the right person at the right time.

Why did God let this happen in the first place?

If there was anyone I didn't want to talk to, It was him.

So I stalled, taking up the matches and lighting up eighteen of the candles.

Once they were all lit, the little fires illuminated the kitchen a little. I looked to the two empty chairs that were supposed to hold the people that I loved dearly.

I was alone on my birthday.

Alone in more ways than one because I couldn't share my pain with my friends because then they would find out and —

No, I couldn't share myself with anyone in the entire world because no one would understand me or look at me the same once they knew the whole truth.

I want to die.

The thought invaded my mind, new and unfamiliar but it made sense. It felt right. I needed to escape the torment of my past and present. I wanted to die because I couldn't take it anymore.

I was eighteen but I don't think I wanted to live it out and see nineteen.

Risk it all, my father's voice echoed through my dark thoughts like a candle in my mind.

“God,” my breath halted, “ Please set Zolani free.”

I sent up the prayer with my eyes wide open like I had done seventeen other times.

This time, I was waiting for God to do exactly the opposite. You see God also had expectations thrust upon him.

We expected him to do good for us and he went and did the exact opposite.

I used to say, If you  want something bad enough just wait and see how God will break your heart and never let you get it.

There comes a point in your life where everything has been taken away from you and you're left yelling at God. “ What else do you want to take?!”

There comes a point where hope is hopeless and giving up makes so much sense.

My hope was broken and shattered, with the bruises and warnings that hope from the past brought.

I hoped that my family would stay the same.

I hoped that my father would not lose his life.

I hoped that Zolani would never need to protect me.

I hoped that he would get out of jail.

I hoped…

My father used the right word when he said risk.

Risk, indeed.