Thapelo sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the dimly lit room that had become both his sanctuary and his prison. The walls seemed to echo with memories of his sister’s piercing voice and the weight of her controlling presence. Life in that house felt like walking on shards of glass—one misstep, and he’d be cut deep.
His sister, Naledi, ruled the household with an iron fist, wielding food as both weapon and currency. She had a knack for trading meat for favors, always calculating what she could gain from every piece she handed out. Thapelo had learned quickly that nothing came without strings. On the rare occasion he managed to take a piece of fish or meat, her wrath would descend like a thunderstorm, her voice loud enough to rattle the windows, ensuring Bafana and anyone nearby could hear the commotion.
“You think you can just take without asking?” she’d shout, her words dripping with venom. Thapelo often wondered if she found satisfaction in humiliating him.
The fridge became a symbol of power in the house—a place where Naledi controlled not just the food but the dynamics of their relationship. Thapelo vividly remembered one afternoon when he heated up two pieces of chicken and pap. He stepped out briefly, only to return and find one piece missing from his plate. Naledi sat at the table, her salad brimming with meat, pretending nothing had happened. When Thapelo’s eyes met hers, she shot him a death glare that froze him in his tracks. He never dared ask why.
Cooking in the house was another battlefield. Naledi would deliberately use the smallest pot to make pap, fully aware it was the only thing Thapelo ate. Bread was off-limits too. Once, when her friends were over, she loudly announced, “Thapelo, don’t touch the bread! It’s for Thabang’s lunchbox,” followed by laughter that echoed through the living room. Humiliated, Thapelo left without even making the tea he’d come for.
The worst moments weren’t just about food, though. They were about how Naledi manipulated everyone around her, creating a façade of sisterly love whenever others were present. “Thapelo, my brother! My one and only brother!” she’d exclaim in front of guests, her voice sweet as honey. But the moment they were alone, the stinking looks and cutting remarks would return, like clockwork.
Thapelo thought about the countless times he’d sought refuge at Thembisa. It wasn’t perfect there—Karabo had her quirks—but at least he could eat in peace without feeling like a burden or a servant. At home, Naledi’s dominance extended beyond the kitchen. She dictated every aspect of his life, even interfering in his relationships. No girlfriend was ever good enough. Thapelo was 34 years old, but it felt like he was trapped in a perpetual state of adolescence, unable to have a life of his own.
The memories of Mahlatsi cut the deepest. Thapelo had been happy with her, or so he thought, until his family tore them apart with accusations of witchcraft. “She’s bewitching you,” his mother had said, echoing Naledi’s manipulative words. Thapelo had sought answers from spiritual leaders, only to find the claims baseless. But the damage was done. His heart was broken, and the trust he once had in his family was shattered.
Thapelo’s voice trembled as he spoke to himself in the quiet of his room. “They don’t see me. They don’t hear me. To them, I’m just a shadow, someone to control and blame.”
He thought about the future, about the kind of life he wanted to build far away from the chaos. A life where he could eat without fear, love without interference, and exist without the constant weight of judgment. He dreamed of having his own family, a place where kindness and respect weren’t commodities to be traded but values to be cherished.
But for now, Thapelo knew he had to endure. He would save every penny, work tirelessly, and plan his escape. The road ahead was daunting, but he was determined to reclaim his life.
As he lay down to sleep, the house was eerily quiet. Yet, even in the silence, Thapelo could hear Naledi’s voice echoing in his mind. “You’ll never be free,” it seemed to say. But deep within, another voice—his own—whispered back, “Watch me.”
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