by Lindsay Katchika

First runner up in the 2025 Makewana Short story competition

I.

The mansion reeks of fresh paint and stale perfume—scents that don’t belong here. Too clean. Too staged. My fingers clamp around my bag strap as I step inside, scanning the grand entry way. The chandelier still drapes from its rightful place, a cascade of pearls and glass spills emerald and silver light. But the walls—they betray me.

Once, portraits of just my mother and me lined them. Now, another family stares back. The Bishop grips Beulla in every frame, his children positioned carefully beside them, their smiles identical, practiced. Where my photo once hung, a wooden cross glares down. A silent erasure.

“Mwana wanga, you’ve arrived!” Beulla’s voice rings out—bright, artificial, stretching a warmth she does not feel. She stands poised as always, every strand of her straightened hair pulled into a low obedient bun.

Footsteps echo down the stairs—slow, deliberate. I glance up and meet her eyes. Patience.

Beulla says Patience is only a year older than me, but nothing about her looks young. A long bodycon skirt clings to her curves, a blazer cinches her waist. A matching bonnet swallows her hair as she chews gum lazily.

She gives me a once-over, slow and deliberate. Her nose wrinkles—just slightly, like she’s picked up on something sour in the air.

“You must be Ruth.”

I nod, my mouth dry, like a mouthful of chikondamoyo with no water to swallow it down. “You’ve got your mother’s face,” she muses.

“Same body too.”

I know what she means. She’s curvy where I’m straight, soft where I’m sharp. She’s a lazy brown, almost fair. I am dark, my mother’s “black beauty,” as agogo always said. Not an insult, just an observation. But my skin prickles anyway. I force a smile.

The maid snatches up my suitcase. I follow, but my mother is already on a call, leaving me alone in this mess.

“You changed the room.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Patience flicks a manicured hand, her neon-pink nails flashing. “Yeah, just made it… my own. You wouldn’t have wanted it the way it was, trust me.”

I step inside. The scent of floral lotion and cheap cologne clings in the air. My bookshelves, once stacked with novels, now spill over with perfume bottles, flea-market makeup, and tangled jewelry. The desk where I once poured in my journal is cluttered with open tubes of lip gloss and hair products. Everything feels smaller, like the walls have caved in.

“Looks different, huh?” Patience leans against the doorway, watching me. “Yeah. Different.”

She shifts, like she’s trying to piece something together. Then shrugs. “Well, welcome home.” Home.

When Beulla married her second husband, she had at least told me. She had called me into her room, clasped my hands, and told me Mr. Tambala was her answer to twenty-one days of prayer and fasting. They had known each other for only two weeks, but God had spoken.

This time, I received no such warning.

A blur of movement pulls me from my thoughts. My two stepbrothers dart past the door, a soccer ball ricocheting between them. One kicks too hard, and the ball slams into my side.

“Iwe!” I snap, gripping my ribs. “Sorry,” one mutters before they vanish.

Beulla doesn’t even glance at me. She’s checking her watch, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “I have to go. The women’s conference is starting soon. I’m speaking on raising children in faith.”

She doesn’t ask how my junior year went. She also doesn’t ask how I feel about any of this. “I told you I wanted to go to agogo’s house,” I mutter.

“It wouldn’t be polite,” she says briskly. “Besides, you should be here with family.” What family?

I tug my sleeves down over my wrists, letting the fabric bunch in my palms. The wool is soft, should be comforting, but it feels tight, clinging, like a second skin I can’t shed. I squeeze the cuffs between my fingers, grounding myself in the feeling, as if holding on to the sweater means holding on to myself.

Beulla barely looks at me when she speaks. “We’re having dinner out this evening,” she pivots towards the door. “Wear something nice. No sweaters”

I swallow, pulling the sleeves tighter.

Patience reaches for Beulla’s handbag, but she refuses. Then she’s gone, heels stabbing against the tiles.

Patience lingers a moment longer, smirking. “I’ll be in the kitchen”

I say nothing. Just turn, close the door behind me, and lean against it, exhaling slow.

The restaurant Beulla picked glows dimly, its golden light gleaming off polished silverware. Servers glide between tables in crisp vests, their movements precise, rehearsed. I’ve been here before—two years ago, when Beulla was recovering from Mr. Tambala.

Two years. That’s how long it took her to erase the man who drank in secret, then read scripture to us like he was pure. Two years to forget the three children he had hidden elsewhere. And now, here we are again.

The Bishop insists we pray before eating. He has the kind of presence that swallows the room— broad, towering, his black suit stretched tight over his stomach, buttons straining. His afro sits too sharp to be natural. He plants his elbows on the table, thick hands reaching outwards.

“My father, my God” he intones, voice hoarse yet firm.

Beulla shuts her eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. I lower my head but keep my eyes open. My phone buzzes. A message from Daniel.

When are you leaving?

I slip the phone under the table, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Dinner commences. Across from me, Patience butchers her chicken with a death grip on the knife, sawing through meat like she’s breaking down a carcass. A chunk slides off her plate, plopping onto her lap. She picks it up with her bare hands, unfazed.

Laughter escapes before I can stop it. A sharp, short sound. Patience’s gaze snaps up, narrowing. “What’s so funny?” “Nothing.” I shake my head, grinning.

The table stills. The younger boys pause their loud chewing, forks frozen mid-air. Beulla’s gaze flicks toward me, a quiet warning. But Patience only smirks, undeterred.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?” I shrug. “Not better. Just… different.”

Patience nods slowly, “Yeah. You are different.”

The Bishop clears his throat, shifting in his chair. The leather groans beneath his weight. “Love is patient. Love is kind. We must not look down on others,” he says.

Beulla sighs, folding her hands neatly. “Amen, let’s all try to get along. Ruth, be nice.”

I grip my fork tighter, my appetite souring. The Bishop doesn’t even glance at me. Just reaches for his youngest son, ruffling his hair, his focus locked on his own children. I may as well be invisible.

A waiter refills our water glasses. I exhale. Patience turns back to her phone, smirking at something on the screen. The boys resume their noisy chewing. The Bishop leans back, patting his stomach, satisfied with a meal he barely touched. Beulla, cuts his steak into pieces for him before tending to her own plate.

I sit there, the outsider. The intruder. II.

Daniel waits a few blocks away from the mansion when I slip outside. Patience’s loud snore fills the room, but I move carefully, easing the door shut behind me. It creaks. She doesn’t stir. The night air presses cold against my skin. I pull my jacket tighter, walking briskly. My mind swirls. Suddenly, Patience’s murmurs break through the silence. She sleep-talks, her words disjointed, strange: “He’s watching… It’s all in his eyes.”

I freeze in the doorway, my pulse surging, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. For a moment, I hesitate. But I shake it off. I don’t have time to question it.

When I spot Daniel’s car—an old, faded Toyota Corolla—relief washes over me. The chipped paint, the peeling bumper stickers, the sagging seats… it’s nothing like the shiny cars the boys at school flaunt. But I like it. It’s real. He’s real.

I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cracking beneath me. The car smells like stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey. Fada Moti’s Kutali hums through the speakers, the amapiano bass vibrating under my skin. I lean back, letting the music drown out the mansion and everything inside it.

Daniel doesn’t look at me right away. His red-rimmed eyes flick toward the windshield, unfocused. His afro stands wild, like he hasn’t touched a comb in weeks. He wears old baggy shorts, a faded T-shirt thinned from too many washes, and Crocs that have seen better days. He’s nothing like the clean-cut boys at school, the ones who swagger around in skinny jeans and bomber jackets.

Still, there’s something about him. Something steady. Something solid, even when everything else is falling apart.

He finally looks at me, eyes slow, a little unfocused. “Hey, babe.”

His voice slurs slightly. Not enough to stumble. Just enough to tell me he’s been drinking.

That’s odd. He only calls me ‘babe’ when he’s sober. When he’s drunk, it’s just ‘Ruth’—said like an afterthought.

I don’t mind.

“You okay?” Daniel’s eyes flick toward me, softer than most ever are. More careful.

I nod, but the knot in my chest tightens. “Everything’s a mess,” I murmur. “She’s at it again. My mom. Patience… I don’t belong there.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts in his seat, the car creaking under his weight. A pause. Then, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled cigarette pack, shakes one loose with a practiced ease.

“You got any cash on you?” His voice is rough, like it always is after a long night. “I’m a little short.”

I stare at him. I shouldn’t. Not after everything. Not when I know exactly where the money goes. But I don’t argue. Just reach into my bag, pull out a few wrinkled notes, hand them over.

He doesn’t thank me. He never does. Just slides the money into his pocket, like it’s owed to him. Like it’s nothing.

I watch his hands—rough, calloused, worn down from the kind of work I’ll never understand. I’ve never told him how much I hate when he asks me for money. How it makes me feel like something small, something dispensable.

But he listens. He listens in a way no one else does. Not like Thandi, my roommate, who adores Beulla.

“Your mom is so inspiring, Ruth,” she says, eyes wide with admiration. “I wish my mom was like that.”

She shouldn’t wish that. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand.

I glance at Daniel, watching the dim streetlight flicker across his face. He looks tired. Worn-out. He’s not the guy I thought I wanted when I was younger—but he’s real. The boys at school, with

their expensive sneakers and curated Instagram lives, don’t know what it means to struggle. To be lost.

I met him at sixteen, my first year at university. He was older, a senior, but different from the other guys. More grounded. He talked about real problems, things I understood. He never tried to impress me with money or looks. That meant everything.

When he asked me for sex, I didn’t hesitate. My mother had already taught me what a woman should do to keep a man—about waist beads, about tseketseke. I never thought I had a choice. Maybe that’s why I never said no.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I whisper. “I feel like I’m stuck in this loop. Like I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Daniel nods, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. He already knows.

“You don’t have to go back there,” he says. His hand finds mine, warm, solid. He squeezes gently. “You’ve got a choice. You can leave anytime you want.”

I want to believe him. I want to feel like I could walk away and never look back. But I know better.

I always go back.

III.

Christmas Eve. The plastic Christmas tree leans to one side, the ornaments a mismatched mess. The lights flicker like they’re struggling to stay festive. Beulla adjusts a ceramic angel, nodding as though it’s perfect. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

I remember Christmases before everything changed—before the divorce, before the emptiness crept in. I remember Christmas with Agogo. Her house was small but warm, the smell of roasted chicken filling the air. No flashy tree, but a love that felt like fire, always burning.

I remember telling Agogo how Mom spent Dad’s tuition money on Mr. Tambala’s kid, buying expensive toys while I went to bed hungry. I thought she would understand, but instead, she held me and said, “Your mother has been through a lot. You must learn to respect her.” The words hit hard—not because they weren’t true, but because I knew they weren’t just about Beulla. It felt like Agogo had become part of the script, too.

That morning, I struggle with my bra straps, trying to ignore the ache in my chest.

The door flies open. Patience stands there, eyes sharp. “The carols are starting soon,” she snaps.

I don’t answer. I tug my dress over my head, fingers fumbling, willing myself to focus on anything but the pressure building inside me.

She steps closer. The air shifts. I glance down. My sleeves are pushed up, and the scars are exposed. My breath catches.

Patience freezes, her eyes wide. “That’s what you’ve been hiding, isn’t it?”

Her voice softens, almost to a whisper. “I… I used to do the same thing when my mother died” My heart sinks. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.

But she doesn’t stop. Her hand reaches toward me. I step back. And then, without thinking, I ask it. “How did she die?”

Patience blinks. “What?”

I swallow, my throat tight. “Your mother. How did she die?”

Patience hesitates, shifting on her feet, her eyes flickering with something I can’t name. Then—

A scream. Loud. Piercing.

It rips through the house like a jagged knife, cutting through whatever moment we were about to have.

Patience and I freeze.

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. A sickening thud. I run.

Down the hallway. Past the flickering light in the corridor. Toward the staircase. And then I see her.

Beulla.

On the floor.

Blood pools beneath her, thick and spreading, soaking into the cream tiles. Her arms are sprawled out, her breath a ragged, choking gasp.

And above her, at the top of the stairs— The Bishop.

His hands grip the railing too tightly, a bloody knife dangling from his fingers. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his chest heaving. His gaze flicks from Beulla to me, then to Patience, as if calculating something.

Patience exhales sharply. Her lips part, but no words come. The walls feel closer now, pressing in, suffocating.

I look at Patience, my fist slamming against my ribs.

“He… He did this. Just like he did to my mother,” she whispers, her voice hollow. IV.

The sky is too blue, too bright. It shouldn’t be.

The sun glares down at us, indifferent to the weight pressing against my chest. The wind stirs through the trees, rustling the dry grass around the gravesite. Women in purple and white cloths wail, their voices rising and falling, blending into the murmur of prayers.

Agogo stands beside me.

They lower Beulla into the ground. The coffin settles with a dull finality. I don’t cry. Not at first.

I just watch. Watch as handfuls of dirt slip from people’s fingers, scattering across the polished wood. Watch as the priest murmurs his last words. Watch as the soil begins to swallow her whole.

She is gone.

For a moment, it doesn’t feel real. And then it does.

A sob breaks free from my chest, sudden, violent. I clutch my arms, trying to hold myself together, but I am unraveling.

I miss her.

I shouldn’t. But I do.

I miss the way she hummed when she tied the straps of her heels. The way she chewed on pen caps when writing in her journal. The way she pulled me into church every Sunday, even when I hated it.

I miss the mother I wanted her to be. The mother she never was.

Agogo does not comfort me. She does not wipe my tears or whisper that everything will be alright. She simply watches.

And then, quietly, she says, “I should have seen her for what she was.” I blink at her.

“She was my daughter, yes,” Agogo continues, voice heavy with something that isn’t quite regret, but close. “But I should have known. I should have stepped in. Maybe then, this—” she gestures to the grave, to the mourning crowd, to the fresh wound that is now my life— “would not have happened.”

A lump rises in my throat. I don’t know what to say. Agogo sighs. “This was her journey. And now, it is over.” She turns to me, “Yours has just begun.”

I wipe my face with the edge of my sleeve. A journey.

Away from Beulla. Away from the mansion. Away from the weight of a life that was never really mine.

I don’t know where I’m going.

But for the first time I know I can leave.