My Muse

Let's party

By the time they got back to res, Felicity's feet were on strike.

She peeled off her heels like she was removing shackles.

“If heaven feels like taking off heels after five hours, I’m ready,” she muttered, collapsing onto her bed.

Amahle was already unzipping her gown, carefully folding it like it was designer.

“I told you you'd cry.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You almost cried. I saw your chin do that thing.”

“My chin was cold.”

“Your chin was emotional. Just admit it.”

They both broke into laughter—the kind that comes from relief. It was over. Graduation was done.

But the night? Far from it.

Around 19:24. the girls started preparing to head out

Chezima opened at 8, but Amahle said the goal was to be there before 10 to “secure vibes.” Felicity wasn’t sure what “vibes” meant exactly, but Amahle had a full plan.

The makeup was already melting thanks to the Pretoria sun. The foundation needed powder. Edges needed saving. Shapewear needed to be... re-negotiated with gravity.

“I can’t breathe in this, Ahmz.”

“That means it’s working.”

“I’m serious. I think my kidneys are touching.”

They laughed as Amahle fished through a drawer for her glitter gloss and a forgotten pair of lashes.

“Why am I even going?” Felicity asked, as she attempted a winged eyeliner with a shaky hand.

“Because I said so. And because you’ve had the same routine since undergrad. Home. Lab. Campus. Eat. Repeat. Tonight you’re being hot and mysterious. Just follow my

On their way to the club, the Uber driver had bright blue lights on the dashboard, and a speaker that rattled every time bass dropped.

Amahle was already posting boomerangs.

Felicity was staring out the window like she was being kidn*pped by someone with good intentions.

“What if I get tired?”

“Then we sit. You’re not here to twerk on tables, babe. You’re here to be seen. Preferably by someone tall with car keys and commitment issues.”

“God forbid.”

“Okay fine, just vibe.”

They both laughed as the car pulled up outside Chezima.

The bouncer glanced at their IDs, gave a slight nod, and let them through.

The place was quiet at first. Neon lights hummed. The DJ was setting up. Waitresses floated around wiping tables and adjusting menus. The air smelled like citrus, cleaning spray, and anticipation.

“See? We’re early,” Amahle said, proudly leading them to a corner table near the back.

Felicity sat down and exhaled.

“My shapewear and I thank you.”

By 9:30, the cocktails arrived. Bright colors. Crushed ice. Straws with too much attitude.

“Cheers to graduating!”

“Cheers to survival,” Felicity replied, clinking glasses.

The drinks were dangerously sweet.

The music got louder.

The room started filling in like water in a bath.

Heels clicked. Perfume clouded the air. Voices lifted. Laughter bubbled.

By 10:30, Chezima was alive.

Just as Felicity started relaxing—legs crossed, drink in hand, genuinely enjoying herself—her phone rang.

Mom.

Of course.

22:43.

“Yhoo…” Felicity groaned, flipping the screen down.

“You’re not gonna answer?”

“She’ll hear the music. Then she’ll cry. Then she’ll pray. Then she’ll guilt trip me about how ‘girls who drink cocktails don’t get funding.’”

Amahle snorted.

Still… guilt won.

Felicity grabbed her phone and stepped out toward the side door, near the emergency exit where it was quieter.

“Hello?”