THE INCARCERATED STRANGER

 

Chapter 23

 

RILEY

 

When she got home, she found her father sitting in the living room with her siblings. Their faces lit up with joy at her arrival, and they rushed over to greet her. Her father beamed with happiness, thrilled to see his little Cupcake after so long. Fortunately, her mother was away attending a funeral and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. This gave her a chance to relax and bond with her siblings, who were excited about the gifts she had brought for them.

After some lively playtime, the kids finally went to bed, leaving her alone with her father over steaming cups of coffee. 

“How are you doing, my Cupcake?” he asks, a warm smile on his face.

“I’m okay, Dad, really. How are you?” she replies

“I’m also okay when my child is okay,” he says, and they launched into a long conversation, catching up on each other’s lives. She shared stories of her adventures while he talked about his experiences overseas. They chatted late into the night, savoring their time together before deciding it was time to sleep. 

As she headed to her room, she threw herself onto her bed and grabbed her phone. First, she opened the message from Mangaliso and chuckled softly as she read it. She quickly typed back to reassure him not to worry about anything—she had a contraceptive implant. She  had gotten it when she started having engaging at 18 and had kept up with changing it as needed. Even though it had been years since she last had sex, she was glad she hadn’t removed it because now there was Mangaliso, who seemed to have a strong interest in intimacy.

They continue to chat for a while longer before exchanging goodnights, both feeling a mix of excitement and comfort as they drifted off to sleep.

She is still sleeping soundly in her bed when the door is kicked open with a loud bang, jolting her awake. Blinking against the morning light, she sits up straight.

“Usalele ngeli xesha!” Lulama’s voice rings out. Does she really have to come back this early?

“Molo nakuwe, Mama,” she replies, trying to shake off the sleepiness as Lulama pulls the blankets off her.

“Vuka vuka! Molo, yantoni? Awunazo inhloni! You’re still sleeping at this time when you should be up and cleaning the house!” Lulama exclaims, her tone sharp. Does she really need to yell like that?

Reluctantly, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and gets up. “I’m coming, Mama. Ndicela utshintsha kuqala,” she says, hoping to buy a moment to gather herself. Lulama walks out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her.

With a sigh, she quickly changes into the clothes she wore yesterday and makes her way to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. After feeling slightly more awake, she steps out and heads to the living room. It is still only 7:30 AM; most of the kids are still asleep, and some of her siblings are in their outside rooms, also snoozing away. But Lulama has decided it is time for her to wake up? How did she even know she is around?

Shaking off her confusion, she starts tidying up the kitchen and doing the dishes, determined to make the most of her morning despite being roused so early.

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“And then? What made you wake up so early to clean the house, wena?” Nosisi, the sixth-born, asks, staring her up and down.

“I Johann ikutshintshile, huh? Ucinga ukuba ucoceke ngaphezu kwethu apha ekhaya?” she retorts, questioning if she really thinks she’s cleaner than the rest of them.

As much as she wants to snap back at her, she decides not to waste her energy on Nosisi. She’s not worth it—not even a try. Nosisi is just a photocopy of Lulama.

So she finishes cleaning and tidying the dining area. The kids are now awake, playing outside. Her father walks into the dining area.

“I thought you were still sleeping, but I didn’t find you in your room. How did you sleep, my child?” he asks.

“I slept okay, Daddy. What can I say?” she replies with a shrug.

“What is wrong?” he asks, noticing that she seems to have more on her mind.

“My sleep was cut short by your wife waking me up to clean the house,” she says sadly.

“Are you serious?” he asks, annoyed. She nods and wipes her tears, surprised that they have started falling. Just then, Lulama walks into the house.

“What is exactly wrong with you, Lulama? Why are you mistreating Ayakha?” he asks, staring at his wife.

“Oh, so she ran to you to tell on me? What kind of girl child sleeps until the sun gets in her butt? I had to wake her up because I see she thinks she’s in Jo’burg here,” Lulama retorts.

“Out of the two girls in this house, you chose to wake her? Why is that?” he presses.

“Because she is the one sleeping inside. Nosisi and Zingisa sleep in the outside bedrooms. Their rooms were locked,” Lulama defends herself.

“And wasn’t she sleeping also? You had to wake her up, Lulama. When will you stop being mean to your own daughter? Ayakha is also your daughter, but you have been treating her differently from the others. Why are you so mean to her?” he asks. Lulama doesn’t answer; instead, she gives him a dead stare.

“So you came here to make me and your father fight because of you, mntwana ndina!” Lulama yells.

“Don’t yell at her! This child is here because I asked her to come see me, since soon I will be going back to work,” her father yells back at Lulama.

“You never talked to me this way, but today, because of this child, you’re yelling at me, Bradley!” Lulama snaps.

“That’s because I’m fed up with seeing and hearing my child always crying because of you. You hate this child for no reason! Does that make you a good mom, huh?” he retorts. Lulama chuckles bitterly.

“This child of yours, ever since she started working, has become selfish. She spends money feeding her boyfriends in Johannesburg and forgets she has a family here—siblings who need food, clothes, and other things! I always have to call her and remind her of all that!” Lulama complains.

“Does Ayakha have a child? Did she tie herself down to take care of you and her siblings? Don’t I send enough money for groceries, the kids, and you?” Bradley counters.

“It is not enough! These kids eat a lot! That’s why I always ask her to send us some money!” Lulama insists.

“Just because she’s a lawyer and earns good money doesn’t mean she shouldn’t send some back to us. I raised her!” Lulama asserts.

“So you raised her so she could pay you back with her money?” he asks, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I didn’t say that,” Lulama replies, but Bradley just chuckles.

“You still don’t know why you hate my child this much, do you? Or don’t you want to tell us?” Lulama rolls her eyes and storms off, leaving him standing there. Bradley watches her go.

“Come here, Cupcake,” he says softly, pulling her into his arms as she sobs against him. 

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing her back gently.

“Why is she like this to me, Dad? Am I really her daughter?” she asks, confusion and hurt lacing her voice. It feels impossible that a mother could hate her own daughter like this. Out of five siblings—excluding the little ones—why did she choose to target only her? Why?

“She is your mother, Riley, but I’m also struggling to understand why she treats you this way. I’m sorry, my child,” he replies softly. She shakes her head, tears still streaming down her face. Deep down, she longs for that motherly love; she wants to connect with her mother and experience what others feel when they’re embraced by their moms. But why does her mother hate her? Only Lulama knows the answer to that question.

What hurts her the most is that she loves her mother and respects her, no matter how she’s treated. But her mother can’t love her back, and it feels so unfair. Her father gently calms her down, taking her hand and leading her outside.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says, guiding the way. She wipes her tears away, trying hard to forget that look Lulama gives her—the one that clearly shows she doesn’t love her at all.

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