"50520 Maya Street, Orlando North.
Very humble beginnings!!!"
Smanga is going to be so excited to see me. I just hope they cooked something! I didn't tell him I was coming—it's better to be safe than sorry. You know the drill. Smanga, my friend of so many freaking years. He taught me so much growing up. I looked up to him. I remember imitating his handwriting when we were kids—it still makes me laugh thinking about it. Eventually, of course, I came into myself, became my own person.
Tomorrow, I'll have to surprise Zinhle. Gogo Nomusa told me not to say anything. The spirits advised silence. That's usually how we communicate with them. In soft tones. With respect. We lower our voices when we speak about such things.
Soweto looked even cooler than I remembered. The music, the energy—it still had that vibe. Amapiano had revived the local dance scene. And knowing Smanga, we'll probably hit a local tavern, but not a hot spot—we can't afford to compromise ourselves. He's always been sharp like that.
Funny how Mlotshwa never knew Smanga was part of our team. To him, Smanga was just the football star. The staunch Seventh-day Adventist. But in truth, Smanga was one of our biggest planners. A quiet qhawe. More of a strategist than anything else. Charismatic. Athletic. Calculated.
Our friendship went way back. I still remember how we loved playing snooker. We were both equally talented at the table. But now, his house was empty. No Smanga. Not even his old woman was around. They must still be out chasing down Mlotshwa. I figured I'd better call.
He picked up quickly.
"Ukuphi?"
"I'm on my way back home. Wena ukuphi?"
"Just checking in, mfana. Long time."
"Three years is something, neh? I'll have to call you back—someone's at my gate."
"Okay, no stress."
Then suddenly,
"Hhawu, Nku!"
"I dropped the call on you just to speak to you? How come you're here? Shouldn't you be jumping over a fire in KZN?"
Typical Smanga. He loved mocking KZN like that.
"Stop it with that, bro. You need to embrace your spirituality."
"Say no more, hold that thought. We can't stand at the gate like we used to when we were kids. Me running from my chores, you... scared my mother would think you were the bad influence."
We laughed. Then walked through the front door.
Smanga would be alone for the weekend. His old woman had gone to attend a funeral in Balfour, Mpumalanga. A perfect time to get up to no good.
"Let's go get sloshed. What do you think?"
"Same old Smanga. Drunken master on Friday, strong Mzalwane on Saturday."
"Jesus made wine, bro. Don't blame me."
I laughed, then shifted gears.
"Have you seen Zinhle lately?"
He paused. His face changed—uneasy. The mood shifted.
"Not really, why?"
"Just curious. I'd like to talk to her. If given the chance."
"Eyy, you still like living on the edge, neh?"
He teased, but I could sense his concern.
"I've got some things I need to discuss."
"You travel all that distance just for that girl? What a lucky girl. I just hope she appreciates it."
"It's not even close to what you think," I replied. "I just… need to know some things."
We had another round. Smanga was louder now, laughing that half-drunk laugh. But something was off. Like he was keeping things to himself. The beer was clearly kicking in—I was getting tipsy too, doing my best to stay sharp.
"Wena ngathi awuphuzi," he said, annoyed I wasn't drinking much.
I smiled. If only he knew—I'm on a mission.
He'd drifted in some way. The signs were there. His behavior had changed, more relaxed, but also more careless. This bro had personal demons. Funny how well he masked it when he was sober. But now? You could tell. He was drowning.
I need to help him. That's what happens when people avoid their African spirituality—they become consumption zombies. And I'm not judging. I've been there too. It's never too late. Smanga will come to understand this is just a phase. He'll find his way.
The church, man… it also needs reform. That's why he drinks like this. The sermons aren't as fulfilling as they pretend to be. People go to church and still need medication. Is that liberation? Or is it just obedience?
I hit the bathroom. Needed to take a piss— the sign I was also getting drunk. Still, it felt good. No Ayanda. No nagging. Just me. Here, I could breathe. The beer was making me rebellious. bet that's why she hated me drinking—because I stopped being manageable.
As I stood there, my eyebrows began to itch. Weird. Then I heard something—someone in the next stall, on the phone.
"I'm telling you… it's him."