Chapter 19: Close, but not quite
838 Words
The email pinged in with a subject line that read, "Approved – Let's Begin!" Dodo read it twice, then grinned so wide her cheeks ached.
Ghostwriting. Two full blog contracts—one for a lifestyle coach in Cape Town, another for a dietician targeting corporate women. Small gigs, but paid. And more importantly, the kind of work that didn't require her to lie, hustle, or wear her dignity thin.
She did a little dance in the kitchen, a strange mix of shoulder-shimmy and heel-tap that made Henry glance over from the lounge.
“You okay?” he asked, warily.
“I got work,” she beamed. “Like, real paid work. Writing gigs. Two of them!”
Henry gave a lopsided smile. “Congrats.”
She walked over, sat beside him. “And… I’m paying you back first thing next week. Interest included.”
He blinked. “Interest?”
“Yup. R20 extra. Consider it emotional damages.”
Henry nodded slowly. “I accept.”
They bumped fists, and the moment held—fragile, but intact.
Her phone buzzed. Ma Gloria.
Dodo took a breath before answering.
“Ma.”
“You sound awake for a change,” Ma Gloria said. “That’s good. You’ll need the energy. I’m making chicken stew Sunday. Come for lunch.”
“Okay,” Dodo said. “We’ll come.”
“Bring the girl. No excuses.”
“We’ll try,” she hedged. “She’s still…”
“Stubborn. Like you. I know.”
A pause.
“And before lunch,” Ma Gloria added, voice casual like it wasn’t a loaded weapon, “we’ll pass through church. Pastor Themba asked about you.”
Dodo’s heart sank. “Ma…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to go to church right now.”
“Why?”
“I just…” She glanced toward the ceiling, searching for a lie soft enough to be swallowed. “I feel like ever since I turned down Phumlani, the pastor doesn’t look at me the same. Like I wasted something.”
“Because you did.”
Dodo sighed. “I didn’t love him.”
“Love can grow.”
“So can rot,” Dodo snapped, then immediately regretted it.
Silence.
Ma Gloria cleared her throat. “Fine. No church. But come early. I don’t want the food to wait.”
When Sunday came, the sky threatened rain. Portia stayed in the car, scrolling through her phone. Dodo didn’t push. Henry went to the stoep, already bonding with a neighbour’s grandson over a shared disdain for rules.
Dodo and Ma Gloria sat in the kitchen, two mugs of tea between them—one bearing faded wildlife, the other Jesus.
“You always had too much pride,” Ma Gloria said, sipping. “That’s why you don’t ask for help until it’s too late.”
“I learned that from you,” Dodo replied, without heat.
Ma Gloria blinked.
“You learned to be strong from me,” she countered.
“Strong,” Dodo echoed. “Or silent?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying… I was never allowed to feel what I feel. Or say what I think.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“I listen plenty. But when you’re wrong—”
“I’m not asking you to clap for me, Ma. I’m asking you to hear me.”
The pause that followed wasn’t explosive. It was quiet. Cold. Like winter coming through an unlatched window.
“You think you’re better than me?” Ma Gloria finally asked.
“No. I think I’m trying to break something you didn’t get the chance to.”
Outside, Henry laughed. Ma Gloria stared at the sink.
“Portia is stubborn like you,” she said at last. “But she’s smart. I see it.”
“She gets that from you,” Dodo replied.
A small smile came and went. A moment passed.
Close. But not quite.
---
That night, Dodo journaled by phone light in bed. Her handwriting was jagged and uneven on the screen, but the words came clearly.
> I grew up in a house where words were weapons or walls. Not bridges. Not shelter.
I couldn’t say what I felt. I had to feel what was acceptable. I couldn’t have ideas unless they matched someone else’s.
Even now, I still can’t say to Ma what I really want to say. That she scares me sometimes. That her disappointment clings to my skin like old smoke. That even when she helps, it comes with a sting.
But I look at Portia. At Henry.
They speak. They cry. They challenge. They make room for themselves.
They’re angry—but not afraid.
They are more empowered at fifteen and thirteen than I’ve been all my life.
That must mean I’m doing something right.
Dodo closed her journal, set the phone down, and exhaled into the darkness.
It wasn’t peace yet.
But it was the beginning of something.
- Writer
