Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Day Beekay and Liz Abandoned Their Mother for No Good Reason
Let’s set the scene.
Two hungry kids. One chaotic supermarket. One unsuspecting mother. Zero common sense.
It was a regular Wednesday after school. The sun was out, birds were chirping, and we were sweaty, dusty, and HANGRY (hungry with attitude). Our mother—known to the local moms as The Brave One Who Still Believes in Discipline—decided to stop at OK Supermarket on our way home.
Beekay and I (Liz, the reasonable one, depending on who you ask) were around 6 and 7, which in child years means we had the combined logic of a sock.
“Just five minutes,” Mom said.
Five. Minutes.
That was her first mistake.
She left us standing next to the till while she got in line to pay. Now, standing still was NOT one of our strengths. We fidgeted. We danced. Beekay sniffed the bubblegum shelf. I tried to count the grains in the sugar packet. Then he leaned in and whispered like we were plotting a bank heist:
“Let’s go.”
I blinked. “Go where?”
“Home.”
He said it with such confidence, I thought maybe we had homes of our own now.
“We don’t have money,” I reminded him.
He waved that off like I’d suggested something silly. “We’re kids. Kids don’t need money. They just cry and people help them.”
And that… made sense at the time.
So we walked. Not ran—WALKED—right out of OK. Past the security guard who was too distracted by a man arguing over expired polony to notice the two toddlers casually exiting the premises like they had important meetings in Sandton.
Outside, the taxi rank was buzzing. Taxi marshals were shouting things that sounded like war chants:
“Naleli! Motimposo! Thamae straight!”
“Mama with the plastic! Get in, don’t be shy!”
We spotted a taxi labeled “Khubetsoana.” Beekay pointed like he was Moses. “That’s ours.”
We hopped in, sat at the back like we owned it, and waited. The driver turned his neck halfway and gave us a side-eye so sharp it could cut onions.
“Where’s your parent?”
“She’s… shopping,” Beekay said.
“Where’s your money?”
Silence.
Then Beekay, without blinking, said, “We’re orphans.”
I gasped. “What?! Since when!?”
He nudged me. “Shhh. It’s part of the plan.”
The driver sighed like someone who had seen too many soapies. “You’re serious? You just left your mom to go home?”
I nodded like a motivational speaker. “She said we must never get lost. So we didn’t. We came home.”
The man stared at us, his soul visibly leaving his body for a second. Then he laughed. And laughed. And DROVE US HOME FOR FREE.
When we got home, we let ourselves in like we paid the bond. Beekay even made tea—bad tea. We changed into pyjamas, watched cartoons, and when the kettle whistled, we said, “Tea’s ready, ma!” like she was in the next room.
Meanwhile, at OK, my poor mother had just realized her children were missing. She shouted our names down every aisle. She threatened the cashier. The manager. The fruit. She nearly started a prayer circle in the frozen food section.
Security was called. Announcements were made over the intercom. “Beekay and Liz, your mother is waiting for you at till number 3.”
Spoiler alert: We were already sipping tea.
She got home four hours later looking like she’d fought three lions, crossed the desert, and negotiated with a dragon.
“WHERE WERE YOU?!” she roared.
Beekay, cool as ever, said, “You said if we’re lost, we must come home. We did. You’re welcome.”
Her eyes twitched. The sandal came off. The rest is history.
We got whooped, grounded, and baptized in Vicks, but we survived. And even today, every time we pass OK, Mom just shakes her head and says, “Never again.”
Moral of the story?
Never trust two broke kids with big imaginations.
