My Muse

Mama I made it

Felicity wasn’t ready.

Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not even practically.

Her nails were chipped. Her heels were too high. Her dress was too tight around her tummy because someone (Amahle) had convinced her to try shapewear she couldn’t even breathe in.

But she was here.

Standing outside the Aula at UP, in full graduation regalia, sweating through her makeup, stomach growling from nerves. Her wig was starting to lift a little on the sides. Her lace wasn’t melting—it was sliding.

Still… she had made it.

“Stand in line, please. Alphabetical order,” a marshal called out.

She adjusted her sash. It felt too tight around her neck. Maybe everything just felt tight because she was anxious. Or maybe because she hadn’t eaten all day. Or maybe because the thought of walking on stage in front of all these people made her want to faint and throw up at the same time.

Behind her, a girl was crying into her phone. “Mama, I made it. I told you I’d do it, neh?”

Felicity swallowed hard. She hadn’t even told her parents she was attending. They thought she skipped it to focus on honours.

And maybe that was true.

But maybe it was also because she wasn’t ready to be looked at. To be celebrated. To stand up and claim space in front of a hall full of people.

“Next name… Felicity Thuliswa Khumalo.”

Everything went quiet in her head.

She stepped forward.

Heels shaky. Arms stiff. Eyes focused on the stage floor because looking at the audience would make it real.

She took the scroll. The Dean smiled and said something polite. She smiled back automatically. Her lips felt dry. Her body felt like it wasn’t hers.

And then—

“THAT’S MY BESTIE! YES, FATS! SCIENCE DEGREE THINGS!”

Amahle.

In the back of the hall. Screaming.

Some people chuckled. One guy clapped louder. Felicity wanted the ground to open up and swallow her.

But under the embarrassment… was something else.

Pride.

She laughed. Just a little.

A real one.

She walked off the stage and Amahle met her outside with open arms and eyes already watery.

“You did it, Chommie. You actually did it.”

Felicity bit her lip. “I didn’t think I would.”

“Well, you did. You made it through all those chemistry labs, late-night tears, wearing the same two bras for three years and not giving up.”

“Please. Don’t make me cry. My setting spray was R80.”

They laughed.

They stood together on the UP lawns, gowns flowing, surrounded by proud parents and picture-taking families. Felicity didn’t have a bouquet. Or balloons. Or a poster that said “My daughter did it.”

But she had this moment.

Her scroll.

Her smile.

Her peace.

And Amahle handed her a McFlurry with extra Oreos like it was a trophy.

“You ready for Chezima tonight?”

Felicity looked down at her phone.

No messages from her mom.

No missed calls.

But that was fine.

“I’m ready,” she said.

And for once, she actually meant it.