Broken Chain

The envelope was thin. Too thin. Mandla slid it across the table like he was doing me a favor. Like he wasn’t ending three years with a handshake and paper money. “R2,500,” he said. His voice was flat. The same voice he used when his friends asked if I was his girlfriend and he said, “She’s just my helper.” I stared at the envelope. White. Crisp. The corners were sharp enough to cut. Outside the KFC, cars were hooting. Someone was playing Amapiano from a window. Life was moving. Mine had just stopped. “You’re serious,” I whispered. Not a question. My throat was too dry for questions. Mandla leaned back. Gold chain caught the light. The one Amelia picked for him last month. “I am. We’re done, Nonhlanhla. I’m marrying Amelia. She’s pregnant.” The word hit me like cold water. Pregnant. Amelia. His wife. But Mandla was infertile. Doctors said it three years ago. I’d held his hand in the hospital while the doctor said, “No solution.” I’d cried for him. I’d prayed for him. Now this? “How?” My voice cracked. “The doctors said—” “Doctors lie,” he cut me off. “Or miracles happen. Either way, it’s not your business anymore.” He pushed the envelope closer. R2,500. That was the price of three years. Of cooking for him when he was broke. Of lying to his mother when he didn’t come home. Of being “Nana” when he was annoyed and “helper” when his friends were around. I didn’t touch it. “Three years, Mandla,” I said. “Three years I called you when you were drunk. Three years I covered for you. And you’re paying me like I’m a maid you’re firing?” His jaw tightened. “Don’t make this ugly. I’m being generous. Some girls get nothing.” Generous. The word tasted like bile. I thought about my aunt’s house. About counting slices of bread in the morning. About wearing the same dusty pink crop top to every family function because it was all I had. About Mandla promising “one day” while he drove past my street without stopping. One day. R2,500. Same thing. “You don’t love me,” I said. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a fact I’d been too scared to say out loud. Mandla didn’t blink. “I never said I did. You assumed.” The air left my lungs. Three years. And he never said it. I picked up the envelope. It weighed nothing. That was the worst part. My heart, my time, my 22 years… weighed less than a Stoney bottle. “Fine,” I said. I stood up. My legs shook, but I stood. “Keep your money.” I dropped the envelope on the table. It slid and fell to the floor. Money scattered. R200 notes on the dirty KFC floor. Mandla’s face changed. For a second, he looked scared. Like he’d expected me to cry. To beg. To take it. I didn’t. I walked out. Past the counter. Past the smell of chips and disappointment. Past the girl I used to be. The door swung shut behind me. Cold air hit my face. I didn’t cry. Not there. Not where he could see. I walked three streets to my aunt’s house. Counting my steps instead of bread. One. Two. Three. When I got home, aunt Nora was at the stove. She didn’t look up. “Food’s finished,” she said. “You’re late.” I went to my room. A mattress on the floor. One blanket. No lock on the door. I sat there until dark. Then I took out the dusty pink crop top from Mr Price. The only nice thing I owned. I folded it carefully. Tomorrow I would wake up. Tomorrow I would be 22 and broke and thrown away. But tonight, for the first time in three years, I didn’t wait for Mandla to call. I didn’t check my phone. I just lay down and stared at the ceiling and thought: _R2,500. That’s what I was worth to him._ The last thought before sleep was ugly and sharp: _One day, I’ll be worth more than he can afford._ Outside, a car hooted. Probably Mandla, going home to Amelia. To the baby that wasn’t his. To the life he chose. I closed my eyes. The chain had started there. With R2,500. And one day, it would end with me.