Chapter 1:My Sister
Everyone in Mamelodi thinks Amahle is my girlfriend.
They are wrong. She is my best friend. Like my sister.
At least, that's what I tell people.
"Yho Lerato, your wife is here!" Mama from the tuckshop shouts when Amahle walks in with a plastic of tomatoes. She is wearing that yellow sweater I know so well, her curly hair tied with a blue doek, no makeup.
Amahle just laughs. "Mama, this one? I can't marry a boy who still burns pap."
I pretend to be offended. "Amahle! I don't burn pap anymore!"
"You burnt it last Sunday," she says, dropping the tomatoes on my small table. My one-room is a mess. Clothes everywhere. She doesn't even ask. She just starts folding.
This is us. Since Grade 1. Since she shared her lunchbox with me because I forgot mine. Since I walked her home when boys were following her in high school.
We know everything about each other. She knows I am broke before month end. I know she cries when she watches those Nigerian movies.
But today something is different. Today Naledi is coming.
Naledi is my new girlfriend. Beautiful. Instagram 5k followers. She wears wigs that cost more than my rent. My friends say I leveled up.
Amahle stops folding when I say her name.
"Naledi is coming for lunch," I say, trying to sound casual.
Amahle's hands freeze on my t-shirt. Just for a second.
"Oh. Okay," she says quietly. "The Instagram girl?"
"She's not just Instagram," I defend quickly. "She's... you know. She has goals."
Amahle nods and continues folding, but her smile is gone.
A knock. Naledi.
She walks in like she owns my room. Sweet perfume. Short dress. She looks at Amahle from top to bottom.
"Oh, you have a maid?" Naledi says, smiling at me.
My stomach drops.
Amahle stands up slowly. She holds my t-shirt tight.
"I'm Amahle," she says.
Naledi giggles. "Okay, maid Amahle, you can finish later. Me and my man want privacy."
I should say something. I should say "She is not a maid, she is my best friend." But my mouth is dry. I just stand there like a fool.
Amahle looks at me. Just looks. Her eyes are asking: _Are you going to let her talk to me like this?
I say nothing.
Amahle drops the t-shirt on the bed. "Okay. Enjoy your lunch," she says. Her voice is calm, but I know that calm. That's her hurt calm.
She walks out. She doesn't slam the door. She never slams.
Naledi is already sitting on my bed, scrolling. "Babe, why is your room so small? And why is that girl so comfortable here?"
I look at the door where Amahle left. My chest feels tight.
Outside, I hear Amahle's sandals walking away. She left the tomatoes she bought for me.
That night, Naledi posts us. Caption: "My king and his small house. We will build together lol."
No tag. No respect. The comments: "Sis you can do better."
I am sitting alone, eating the tomatoes Amahle bought, raw, because I don't know how to cook them without burning them.
My phone buzzes.
Amahle: "Did you eat?"
After what happened, she still asks if I ate.
I type: "Yes."
She: "Liar. Come fetch food at my place. I made enough."
I want to go. But Naledi said "Don't let that maid girl cook for you again."
I put the phone down. I don't go.
At 10pm, there's a knock. It's Amahle. With a lunchbox. She doesn't come in.
"For tomorrow," she says, and leaves.
I open it. Pap. Perfect. Not burnt. And chicken stew. And a small note: "Don't let anyone make you feel small in your own room."
I sit on the floor and eat, and for the first time I ask myself: Why does Naledi make me feel small, and Amahle makes me feel like a man?
