Choice Assorted

Chapter 3: Unspoken Rules

The house was silent except for the ticking wall clock and the hum of the fridge. Dodo stirred a teaspoon of honey into her rooibos and kept her eyes low. She didn’t want to meet Portia’s gaze just yet.

Portia sat across from her, her long legs folded under her like a yoga teacher. Her eyes—so like Dodo’s own, just a little clearer, a little less worn—watched her mother with quiet precision.

“You going to talk about it?” Portia asked.

Dodo gave a half-shrug. “There’s not much to say.”

“Ma,” Portia said gently, “he read your journal. That’s a big deal.”

Dodo finally looked up. “It is.”

“And you kicked him out?”

“I did.”

Portia leaned forward slightly. “Was he wrong, though? About you hiding how you feel?”

Dodo flinched. “So you’re taking his side now?”

“I’m not taking sides. I’m just saying… you don’t really talk. You write. You smile. You joke. But you don’t really say.”

Dodo opened her mouth, then closed it. She reached for her cup again.

“You always leave before people see the real you,” Portia continued. “I think… maybe you’re scared they won’t stay.”

Dodo’s throat tightened. The worst part wasn’t the accusation—it was that it came from her daughter, and it wasn’t wrong.

She smiled, weakly. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve been watching you since I was three. Maybe even before.”

Later that day, Dodo drove the short stretch to Umlazi, the sky a soft blue behind peeling billboards and uneven tar roads. Ma Gloria’s house stood in quiet defiance of the wear around it—neat lawn, repainted gate, windows that gleamed like polished glass.

Dodo stepped out of the car and inhaled. She could already smell the leftover lamb curry and warm scent of steamed bread drifting out of the kitchen window. A comfort and a challenge in one breath.

Inside, the leather couches in the lounge shone under a fresh coat of polish. Ma Gloria’s Bible sat open and heavy on the glass coffee table like a legal document. The doilies hadn’t moved in fifteen years.

“Afternoon, Ma,” Dodo said.

“You look tired,” Ma Gloria replied, not unkindly.

“I am.”

“Sit. I’ll make you some tea.”

When she returned, she handed Dodo a cup with a slightly chipped handle and sat down across from her, already bracing herself for whatever judgment she was about to serve—steeped in scripture and a lifetime of hard conclusions.

“I heard about the last one,” she began.

Dodo sighed. “From who?”

“Jesus and f*******:,” Ma Gloria said dryly. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you’re jumping from man to man like it’s your calling.”

Dodo chuckled without humour. “Not quite a calling, Ma.”

“Then stop answering like it is.”

“I’m not trying to collect men, Ma. I’m trying to find something that makes sense.”

Ma Gloria shook her head. “Real doesn’t come from men who believe in both God and ancestors. Or from men who lounge in your flat like they’ve earned the right. You want real? Let a proper man from church speak to the minister. Let him come correct.”

Dodo looked up slowly. “You mean one of those awkward brothers who stares at me through worship like I’m the burning bush? One who never speaks, never smiles, but one day sends word through the pastor that he wants to marry me? We haven’t even shared a proper hello and I’m supposed to say yes to a lifetime?”

“That’s the way of the church,” Ma Gloria replied firmly. “A man must go through the proper channel. That’s order. That’s obedience.”

Dodo leaned back. “Ma, it’s not a job interview. It’s marriage. A lifetime. I want someone I can talk to. Laugh with. Cry with. Not just someone who can quote Psalms and fill out the right forms.”

Ma Gloria narrowed her eyes. “The heart is deceitful, Dodo. That’s why we follow the Word. You keep choosing men with shiny words and confused beliefs, and look where it’s gotten you—”

She paused, her voice laced with frustration and something that almost sounded like disappointment.

“—with your Choice Assorted children as tangible proof of your assorted choice in men.”

Dodo froze.

The words echoed in the room like gunfire. Choice Assorted. Her own words—once said in private jest—thrown back at her like stones.

Her eyes burned.

“Wow,” she said softly. “You really went there.”

“I didn’t mean it cruelly,” Ma Gloria said.

“You never do. That’s the problem.” Dodo stood, walking toward the window. “You speak like love is correction and discipline and Bible verses. But sometimes it’s just listening, Ma. Just… hearing someone without condemning their whole life.”

“I’m not condemning you,” Ma Gloria said sharply. “I’m trying to stop you from repeating your mistakes. From raising children who will one day ask why their mother kept chasing broken men.”

Dodo turned. Her voice shook. “I’m not chasing. I’m searching. There’s a difference. You want me to marry someone I don’t even know because he went through the ‘proper channel’? That’s not faith. That’s submission without thought. I’m not built like that.”

“You’re not built at all,” Ma Gloria shot back. “You’re patched together by wounds and defiance.”

Dodo closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, her voice was quieter.

“I know I haven’t always chosen well. But I also know I want more than just to be someone’s church wife. I want to be seen, Ma. Known. And loved. All of me—not just the parts that kneel in prayer.”

Ma Gloria’s lips thinned, then softened. Her hands went to the Bible on the table.

“You think I don’t understand,” she said after a long silence. “But I do. I once wanted what you want. I just… didn’t trust myself with it.”

Dodo’s eyes widened. “You wanted more too?”

Ma Gloria didn’t answer directly. She just said, “I chose obedience. And stability. Happiness came in pieces.”

Dodo sat again, slower this time. Her anger began to ebb, replaced by something else—something like… compassion.

“Maybe I want my pieces arranged a little differently.”

Ma Gloria gave her a look—not quite approval, not quite rejection. Something in between.

“Well,” she said, lifting her cup, “don’t stop praying. Even if your pieces are jagged.”

That night, back at home, Dodo opened her journal and wrote:

*“My mother sees my mistakes in full colour. But maybe what she doesn’t see is that I’m still building. Still trying to love in a way that’s honest. Not inherited. Not rehearsed. Just… real.

Portia sees me too. Clearer than I expected. I owe her better. Not perfection—just presence.

I don’t want to be someone who walks away every time love asks for my full truth.

Maybe next time, I’ll speak before I write.”