Becoming Amaranth Chubby Hun"

🌸 Becoming Amara By Yolanda Nkosi Episode 1 The Weight of Words The sun rose over Madadeni, Newcastle, spilling golden light across the small RDP houses lined close together. Roosters crowed, taxis hooted in the distance, and the smell of burning paraffin mixed with early morning porridge filled the air. Inside one of those houses, Amara sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers resting lightly on her stomach as she stared at her reflection in a cracked mirror. She was twenty-two, with warm yellow-brown skin that glowed even without makeup, round chubby cheeks that made her look younger than she was, and a body shaped like the soft curves of a river thick thighs, small hips, a belly that refused to flatten no matter how hard she tried. Her friends used to call her “Yellowbone,” but lately, the nickname had turned into a whisper of mockery. She could still hear her aunt’s voice from the weekend before: “Hai, Amara, you’re getting fat instead of losing weight. Don’t you care how you look?” The words had cut through her like glass. Amara lived with her mother, a strict and outspoken woman who carried the exhaustion of years spent holding a family together. Her two sisters, Zanele and Lihle, were everything Amara was told to be — slim, confident, and beautiful. Zanele worked at a salon in town and always came home with gossip and new hairstyles. Lihle was a nursing student with big dreams and an even bigger attitude. Then there was Thabo, their youngest fresh out of varsity with an IT degree and the pride of the family. He was the first to graduate, and everyone praised him constantly. At home, the air was often heavy with comparison. “Zanele’s boyfriend is taking her to Durban for the weekend,” her mother would say. “Lihle’s lecturer says she’s one of the best in her class.” Then she’d turn to Amara. “And you, my girl? Still no job?” Amara would nod silently, pretending the question didn’t sting. She had finished her business management course almost a year ago and sent countless CVs. Still, no one called back. Every day felt like another reminder that she was failing not just herself, but her whole family. Sometimes she wondered if her appearance had something to do with it. When she walked into offices to hand in her CV, she saw the way receptionists glanced her up and down before faking a polite smile. When she scrolled through job posts online, she thought, They want confident, well-presented women. Maybe that’s not me. That morning, her mother’s voice broke her thoughts. “Amara! The kettle is boiling over. You just sit there daydreaming while things burn!” Amara rushed to the kitchen. The house was small — two bedrooms, one for her mother and sisters, and one shared by Amara and Thabo. The walls carried every argument, every sigh, every prayer whispered late at night. Her mother stood by the stove, fanning the boiling kettle. “You can’t start your day like this, Amara. You need discipline. How will people take you seriously if you can’t even wake up properly?” Amara bit her lip. She wanted to say she had been up since dawn, rewriting her CV and checking her emails for replies that never came. But she didn’t. There was no use arguing — her mother’s words always became weapons, even when she didn’t mean them to. After breakfast, Amara left the house with a folder of CVs in her hand. The spring air was warm, and the township buzzed with life. Kids chased one another barefoot in the dust. Women sat by the spaza shop, laughing, gossiping, and peeling mangoes. When Amara walked past, a few heads turned. “She’s such a pretty girl,” one woman said. “Yah, but she’s let herself go,” another added. “If only she’d lose some weight.” Their laughter followed her down the road. Amara’s heart sank. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it. She had been hearing comments like that since high school — from classmates, teachers, neighbours, even relatives. Each time, she’d tell herself not to care. But their words always stayed, layering over her confidence like dust that refused to wash off. By the time she reached town, her shoulders were already heavy. She dropped off her CVs at a few shops and small offices. Some took them with forced smiles; others simply said, “We’ll call you.” They never did. That evening, she walked home with aching feet and a heavier heart. Her younger brother, Thabo, sat on the couch coding something on his laptop. “Hey, sis,” he said without looking up, “any luck today?” Amara forced a smile. “Not yet.” “Don’t worry,” he said casually. “Maybe try that company where my friend works. They like girls who are confident — you just need to look more... professional, you know?” The word “professional” hit like a quiet insult. Amara looked down at her simple outfit — a faded blouse and jeans — and wondered if “professional” meant “thinner,” “richer,” or simply “not me.” Dinner was silent that night. Her mother kept glancing at her, opening her mouth to speak, then stopping. Finally, she said, “Amara, you need to do something with your life. You’re too old to be sitting here waiting for a miracle.” “I’m not waiting,” Amara said softly. “I’m trying.” Her mother sighed. “Trying doesn’t feed anyone, my girl. You have to be strong. Life doesn’t feel sorry for anyone — especially not a woman.” Amara nodded, even though her throat burned. After cleaning the dishes, she went to her room and sat in the dark. She thought about her father — the man she’d never met, whose name was barely spoken in the house. Sometimes she wondered if her emptiness came from him, if she had inherited the habit of disappearing. She whispered into the quiet room, “Why am I never enough?” No one answered. Outside, laughter echoed from the neighbours’ yard. Inside, Amara wrapped herself in her blanket, trying to silence the noise in her mind — the words that called her lazy, fat, and lost. She wished she could wake up in a world where she didn’t have to explain her worth. But for now, all she could do was survive tomorrow. 🌸 Becoming Amara *By Yolanda Nkosi Episode 2: When Home Feels Heavy The next morning came with grey skies. The air was heavy, almost warning that the day would not be kind. Amara woke up to the sound of her mother shouting her sisters’ names, calling everyone to get ready for church. It was Sunday — the day her mother believed everyone had to look their best, even when they didn’t feel their best. Amara brushed her hair in silence, trying to flatten it into a neat bun. Her dress was simple — a long navy one that hugged her curves more than she liked. From the mirror, her sisters’ laughter echoed from the next room. Zanele strutted in first, fixing her lipstick. “Yoh, Mara, you’re still wearing that dress? It makes you look bigger, babe. You should borrow one of mine.” Amara forced a smile. “No, I’m fine.” Lihle followed, phone in hand, snapping selfies. “You know, you’d look so nice if you tried some makeup, sis. Like, just foundation and lashes. You can’t keep going around looking tired.” “Tired?” Amara repeated, her voice quiet. “Yah,” Lihle said casually. “It’s like you’ve given up or something.” Before Amara could reply, her mother’s voice called from the kitchen. “Girls! Come dish the food before we go!” Amara put her phone in her bag, trying not to cry. She knew her sisters didn’t mean to hurt her — they thought they were helping — but their words always reminded her that she didn’t fit in. Even in her own home, she felt like the odd one out. At church, the pews were full, and the air smelled of perfume and incense. Amara sat quietly beside her family as the pastor preached about “purpose and discipline.” His voice was firm, echoing across the hall. > “Some of you are sitting at home waiting for blessings instead of working for them. God helps those who help themselves!” Amara stared down at her hands. Every word felt like it was meant for her. After the service, people greeted one another outside. Her mother stood proudly, talking to other women from the congregation. “You see my son, Thabo?” she said with a smile. “Fresh from varsity — IT degree! Now he’s just waiting for a job.” The women nodded approvingly. “And your daughters?” “Zanele works at the salon in town,” her mother said quickly. “Lihle’s studying nursing.” Then came the question that always made Amara’s heart stop. “And Amara?” Her mother’s smile faltered for a moment. “She’s still... looking,” she said quietly. Amara stood nearby, pretending not to hear. But she saw the pity in the women’s eyes, the way they tilted their heads slightly — that look that said “shame.” On the walk home, her mother was quiet. Finally, she said, “You need to do something with your life, Amara. You can’t keep embarrassing me like this.” “Embarrassing you?” Amara asked, stunned. “Yes! People keep asking me what you’re doing. You’re 22, Amara. You finished school, you finished college. What now? Do you plan to sit at home forever?” “I’m trying, Ma,” she said softly, her voice shaking. “I send CVs every week. I’m—” Her mother cut her off. “No one is going to hand you a job. You must make yourself presentable. People notice how you look before they even see your papers.” Amara felt her chest tighten. “So because I’m fat, I’m not good enough for a job?” Her mother froze, eyes wide. “Don’t twist my words. I’m saying, take care of yourself. You’ve gained too much weight, and people talk. You think I don’t hear them?” Her sisters walked ahead awkwardly, pretending not to listen. Amara whispered, “You think I don’t know what they say? You think I don’t hear it every day?” But her mother didn’t answer. That night, Amara didn’t come out for dinner. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart heavy. She could hear her family talking in the kitchen — laughter, clattering dishes, the TV playing loudly. She felt invisible. Her brother knocked softly. “Hey, Mara. You okay?” “I’m fine,” she said, even though her voice cracked. He paused. “You’re not fine.” Amara turned her face away. “I just want to be alone, Thabo.” “Okay,” he said quietly. “But... I believe in you, you know? Don’t let them make you forget who you are.” She smiled faintly as he left. He always tried to protect her, but she knew he couldn’t understand. When the house finally went quiet, Amara opened her old diary. The pages were wrinkled and full of ink smudges. She began to write: Dear me, today I realized that home doesn’t always feel like home. Sometimes it’s the place where the noise in your head becomes louder. I wish I could disappear — not die, just vanish — until people forget what I look like. Maybe then I’d finally be free. She closed the diary, tears staining the paper. In the dark, she whispered, “God, please, just give me a sign that I’m worth something.” Outside, rain began to fall, soft and steady — almost like an answer, or maybe just comfort. 🌸 Becoming Amara By Yolanda Nkosi Episode 3: The Search for Something More The rain had stopped, but the cold that followed stayed for days. The township was quiet that week — just the usual taxi horns, dogs barking, and the chatter of neighbours. Amara stayed mostly in her room. She told her family she was tired, but really, she just didn’t want to face the world. Her mother had stopped nagging — at least for now — but that silence hurt even more. It was the silence of disappointment. Each morning, Amara would sit by the window with her phone, scrolling through job posts and motivational quotes that no longer motivated her. > “Keep trying.” “Don’t give up.” “Your time is coming.” She would whisper, When, though? The days felt endless — washing clothes, helping her mom with chores, cooking supper, sending more CVs. Nothing changed. Her sisters went out often, laughing and dressing up for their lives outside the house. Her brother was preparing for interviews. Everyone was moving forward, except her. One afternoon, as she was hanging laundry outside, Zanele’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Ma, we need to talk about Amara.” Amara froze. “What about her?” her mother asked. “She’s been in her room the whole week,” Zanele said. “She’s not doing anything. Maybe she needs help — or a push.” “Help?” Lihle laughed. “She’s lazy, that’s all. We all have problems. She just sits there sulking.” Amara’s stomach dropped. Her mother sighed. “I don’t know what to do with her anymore. I’ve tried everything — shouting, talking nicely — nothing works. Maybe she must go live with her aunt in Durban. A change of place might help.” Amara stood still, a shirt dripping water in her hand. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry there. She finished hanging the laundry, walked quietly past the window, and went back to her room. Her diary waited on her bed. She opened it and wrote: They’re tired of me. Maybe I’m tired of me too. That night, she didn’t eat. Her stomach ached, but food didn’t matter anymore. She stared at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to leave — to just pack her things and go somewhere no one knew her name, her body, her story. But where would she go? The next morning, she woke up early, dressed neatly, and decided to walk to town again — maybe hand out more CVs, maybe just get some air. The sky was pale blue, and the streets were waking up. She walked past a few familiar faces, each smile reminding her of the people who once said, “You used to be so pretty.” At the taxi rank, she stopped to rest. That’s when she noticed a bright poster stuck to a street pole: “Youth Empowerment Project – Volunteers Needed!” Learn skills, gain experience, and grow together. Her heart thumped. She took out her phone and quickly snapped a picture of the contact number. Maybe — just maybe — this could be something. The next day, Amara called. A friendly voice answered. “Hello, this is Ayanda from the Youth Empowerment Project.” “Hi,” Amara said shyly. “I saw your poster. I’m looking for work experience. I can volunteer.” “That’s wonderful,” Ayanda replied warmly. “We’re holding a meeting this Saturday at the community centre in town. Come through. We need young people with ideas and energy.” Amara thanked her, heart pounding. It wasn’t a job, but it was something. When she told her mother that evening, the reaction was less enthusiastic. “Volunteer?” her mother said sharply. “So you’re going to work for free now?” “It’s experience, Ma,” Amara explained. “Maybe it could open doors.” Her mother frowned. “Doors don’t open when you waste time on unpaid work. But do what you want. You’re old enough.” The conversation ended there. Still, Amara decided she would go. Something inside her — small but stubborn — told her this might change something. Saturday arrived. Amara dressed in her best outfit: a floral blouse, jeans, and clean sneakers. She tied her hair neatly, put on a little lip gloss, and whispered to herself, You’re trying, Amara. That’s enough. When she reached the community centre, she saw about twenty young people seated in plastic chairs. A woman stood in front — Ayanda — tall, dark-skinned, with natural curls and a confident smile. She spoke with energy. “We’re not here to wait for opportunities,” Ayanda said. “We’re here to create them. You might be unemployed now, but that doesn’t mean you’re useless. You have something to offer. We all do.” Amara felt her throat tighten. No one had ever said that to her before. After the meeting, Ayanda approached her. “You’re Amara, right? You look familiar. I’m glad you came.” Amara smiled shyly. “I almost didn’t.” “Well, I’m glad you did,” Ayanda said. “We’re starting small — workshops, skills training, community events. If you stay consistent, this could lead somewhere.” Something in Amara’s chest lifted — a small flicker of hope she hadn’t felt in months. That evening, she came home with a different kind of energy. She told her mother about the meeting, about Ayanda, about how she might help organize workshops. Her mother listened, half distracted. “Hmm. As long as it doesn’t make you forget to clean this house.” Amara smiled softly. It wasn’t approval, but it wasn’t anger either. That was progress. That night, she wrote in her diary again: Today, I met a woman who spoke to my spirit. She said we all have something to offer. Maybe mine is buried deep, but it’s still there. Maybe I just need to dig harder. She closed the book and felt a strange calm. For the first time in a long time, she looked forward to tomorrow. 🌸 Becoming Amara By Yolanda Nkosi Episode 4: Love in Unexpected Places The community centre became Amara’s second home. At first, she was shy — sitting at the back during meetings, avoiding too much eye contact. But slowly, she began to bloom again. Ayanda noticed. “You’re quieter than most,” she told Amara one afternoon, “but when you speak, everyone listens. Don’t hide that.” Amara smiled, her heart warming. No one had ever said she had a voice worth hearing. They spent days planning youth events, cleaning up the neighbourhood, and teaching children computer basics. It wasn’t a paying job, but it gave her something she hadn’t felt in a long time — purpose. Among the volunteers was Sibusiso, a tall, kind guy who always brought laughter into the room. He was studying part-time and helped set up the project’s website. The first time he spoke to Amara, she nearly dropped her notebook. “Hey, you’re Amara, right? I’ve seen your work. You’ve got a good eye for design.” She blushed. “Oh… thank you. I’m still learning.” “Then we can learn together,” he said with a grin. Weeks passed, and their friendship grew naturally. They’d walk home together after meetings, talking about everything — music, family, their dreams. Sibusiso had a soft way of listening, not interrupting or judging. When he laughed, Amara felt lighter. But back home, things hadn’t changed much. Her mother still frowned when she left the house. “You go there every day,” she said one morning. “Are they paying you now?” “Not yet, Ma. But I’m learning.” “Learning doesn’t feed anyone,” her mother snapped. “You’re wasting time.” Those words — wasting time — echoed in Amara’s chest. She tried to shake them off, but they stuck. Every time she laughed with Sibusiso or felt proud of her work, guilt would creep in. Maybe she really was wasting time. One evening, as the volunteers were closing up, Sibusiso called out, “Hey, Amara — wait up.” He handed her a small notebook. “You always write things down. I thought you’d like this. It’s just a gift.” Amara opened it — the cover said ‘For New Beginnings’ in gold letters. She looked up at him, smiling softly. “You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to,” he said. “You inspire me, you know. You keep showing up even when things are tough.” Her eyes stung, and she looked away quickly. “If you knew what home felt like, you’d understand why I need to keep coming here.” He didn’t ask more. He just nodded — like he understood anyway. That night, Amara wrote in the new notebook: > Sibusiso reminds me that kindness still exists. But I’m scared. Every time something good finds me, it disappears. The next few weeks were good — too good. She and Sibusiso were spending more time together, and soon the others started teasing them. “Lovebirds!” one of the girls joked. Amara laughed, but part of her heart fluttered nervously. Love wasn’t something she trusted easily. Then one Friday, Sibusiso didn’t show up. Nor the next day. When Amara finally asked Ayanda, she sighed. “He got a job offer in Johannesburg. Left last night. He mentioned he tried to call you.” Amara’s throat tightened. She checked her phone — a missed call she hadn’t seen. For the rest of the day, she went quiet. The centre felt empty without his laugh echoing through it. That night, she cried for the first time in months. Not because he left, but because everything seemed to leave her. She wrote in her notebook: > I shouldn’t have let myself feel. Every time I love something — or someone — it goes away. Maybe that’s my curse. Her mother noticed her silence. “Did that boy hurt you?” she asked one night while folding laundry. Amara didn’t answer. Her mother sighed deeply. “Men come and go, Amara. You can’t let them break you. But you’re stronger than you think — I just wish you’d see it.” That was the first kind thing her mother had said in months. Amara felt tears sting her eyes, but she hid them with a smile. Days turned into weeks. Amara threw herself into her work again. The project was growing — Ayanda even suggested she lead a new programme teaching young girls digital skills. “Me?” Amara asked, shocked. “Yes, you,” Ayanda said. “You’ve been through enough to teach others how to rise. You’re ready.” Something inside her shifted — a soft, glowing feeling. For the first time, she didn’t doubt it. At the next community event, Amara stood in front of a group of teenage girls. Her voice trembled at first, but then it grew stronger. “I know how it feels,” she told them. “To be judged, to feel like you’re not enough, to wake up wondering what your life is even for. But you can build yourself again — piece by piece. No one can take that from you.” When she finished, the girls clapped. Ayanda smiled proudly from the back. Amara realized she was no longer the girl crying over rejection letters or broken promises. She was becoming someone Love isn’t always romance. Sometimes, it’s purpose. Sometimes, it’s showing up for yourself when no one else does. Maybe this is what healing feels like — not loud, not sudden, but slow 🌸 Becoming Amara By Yolanda Nkosi Episode 5: The Day of Departure The morning sun filtered weakly through the thin curtains of the Newcastle home, but Amara didn’t notice it. Her stomach twisted with unease as she moved quietly around the small kitchen. The smell of burnt toast and maize porridge lingered in the air, but the usual morning chatter and laughter that she had grown used to over the years were absent. Even the street outside seemed unusually still, as if the township had sensed the weight of the day. Her mother stood at the counter, methodically stirring a pot of porridge, her face unreadable. Amara could sense the tension in the room like a thick, tangible fog. She had a quiet instinct, a premonition that this day was different — that something was coming she was not prepared for. “Amara,” her mother said abruptly, without looking at her. The tone carried a weight that made Amara freeze mid-step. “Sit down.” Amara obeyed, her knees brushing the wooden chair. Her sisters barely glanced up from their phones, absorbed in scrolling, while her younger brother, Thabo, shifted nervously, unsure of what was coming. The silence between them stretched painfully. “I’ve been thinking,” her mother began, her voice steady but sharp, “you’ve been here too long, sitting around, trying things that don’t work. You’re 22 now. It’s time for a change. You need to start taking your life seriously.” Amara’s stomach tightened. She swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat. “A change? What… what do you mean?” “You’re going to stay with your aunt in Durban,” her mother said, her voice cutting through the room like a knife. “I think it’s best for you. Durban has more opportunities. You can’t stay here being useless. Maybe being away from this town will force you to grow.” Her chest tightened. The word useless slammed into her heart, sharp and unrelenting. She wanted to protest, to explain all she had been doing — her volunteering, her teaching at the Youth Empowerment Project, the small victories she had fought to achieve — but the words lodged in her throat. Nothing she said could match the finality in her mother’s eyes. “I’ve been trying,” she whispered, her voice shaking despite her efforts to stay composed. Her mother shook her head, almost impatiently. “Trying isn’t enough, Amara. You need to step out of this place. Face the world. Durban will give you what Newcastle cannot. You leave tomorrow.” Amara’s mind reeled. She wanted to shout, to cry, to run, to demand to stay. Yet she sat frozen, the weight of disbelief and fear pinning her to the chair. She felt a strange mixture of anger, shame, and helplessness. Her body trembled, but no tears came — not yet. The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Her sisters didn’t speak, barely acknowledging her presence. Zanele rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath about how Amara always overreacted. Lihle snorted at a joke on her phone, completely detached. Only Thabo seemed to notice the storm brewing inside his sister. He offered her small, nervous smiles, squeezing her hand briefly when their mother’s gaze was elsewhere. Amara’s mother spoke little for the rest of breakfast, only occasionally giving sharp instructions. “Finish your meal. Pack your bag. Don’t waste time.” Her words were practical, but every syllable carried judgment, like she had already decided that Amara’s life was a problem she needed to fix. After breakfast, Amara went to her room. She had packed lightly over the past week, but she now reviewed her bag: a few clothes neatly folded, her journal carefully tucked on top, and her small laptop wrapped in a sleeve. She touched each item gently, as if holding onto memories she was about to leave behind. She sank onto the bed, hugging her knees. The room smelled faintly of perfume, detergent, and dust — familiar scents that reminded her of laughter, of arguments, of late-night cries no one else had heard. Her eyes stung, but she blinked rapidly to hold back tears. She was supposed to be brave. She had to be brave. Sitting there, she tried to remind herself why this change could be a chance. Durban was bigger, louder, full of people she had never met, opportunities she could explore. But fear clung to her chest like lead. What if I fail there? What if I’m alone forever? When the taxi arrived, the house felt impossibly small. Her mother helped lift her bag into the trunk, fingers lingering briefly on her shoulder — a rare gesture of care in a day filled with harshness. “I hope you make the most of this, Amara,” her mother said quietly, softer than she had all morning. “Don’t make me regret sending you.” Thabo hugged her tightly, whispering, “Be strong, sis. Don’t forget who you are.” Her sisters remained silent, absorbed in their own worlds. Amara realized she had to rely on herself now, not them, not anyone. Stepping into the taxi, she felt the familiar streets of Newcastle blur past her. Each corner, each shop, each dusty alley seemed to whisper goodbyes she wasn’t ready to say. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, breathing in deeply, whispering a quiet promise to herself: I don’t know what awaits me in Durban. But I have to go. I have to try. And I will be enough. The engine roared to life, carrying her away from everything she had known. Fear, sadness, and hope tangled in her chest. Newcastle faded behind her, and with it, the first chapter of her life. Ahead lay the unknown, but also the beginning of her journey — a journey she would walk, step by step, finding strength she didn’t know she had. Amara closed her eyes, letting the city hum beneath her, and whispered one last affirmation: I am ready. I am strong. I will rise.