Lwando Mbana

Before Ayola

What is a fairy-tale?

I’d be spinning a yarn if I claimed to grasp its essence. Me? I’m just a bloke, fairytales being more in the realm of the fairer sex, and I don’t bother myself pondering such things. Given my tight schedule and all, where would I even find a moment to indulge in daydreams about fairytales?

My upbringing diverged greatly from the norm, you see. Unlike other kids, I didn’t have the privilege of growing up in a cozy family home with parents whose lives revolved around me. None of that rings a bell. I never tasted that experience. At some point, I genuinely believed my folks despised me, and maybe they still do. However, now that I’m older, I couldn’t care less about them or their affection.

I always sensed I was cut from a different cloth, always felt like an odd fish among the other kids, and it used to trouble me to a degree. I can recollect one specific day at school. It was after the break when I returned to class and found my desk in disarray. By “messed,” I mean there were papers strewn about my space. Strangely, I didn’t react as your average Joe would. I ended up getting my first dose of punishment that day. My parents, or rather my mother, felt the need to have me examined by a specialist due to my reaction. The verdict? Bipolar disorder coupled with OCD. As if dealing with Bipolar wasn’t enough, fate decided to toss in something equally challenging.

Thanks to therapy and my prescribed meds, I reckon I’ve reached a point where I can claim a modicum of normalcy. My connection with my parents is tenuous at best. After all, a pastor can’t afford to have a Bipolar son; it wouldn’t do his hard-earned reputation any favors. I reside in East London with a nanny who goes about her business while I tend to my own. As for my parents? Well, they’re somewhere in this vast world or maybe even the country. Frankly, I don’t know, and I couldn’t care less.

“Mr. Mbana, Siphe is here to see you,” Buhle’s interruption in the lounge pulls me away from my thoughts. I’ve returned home for the holidays from the United States, where I completed my degree. Now, I’m back in Cape Town, continuing my studies and interning under Mr. Majola’s company while juggling a side hustle.

“Let her in,” I respond, and Buhle offers a slight bow before leaving the room. I’m lounging on the couch, engrossed in a TV show, with my phone in hand as I chat with a friend.

“Hey,” Siphe greets, standing in front of the TV and bending forward, obscuring my view. “Hi, baby,” I reply, pulling her close to me.

“How are you?” she asks, but I don’t answer. Instead, I draw her in for a kiss. Siphe and I have been seeing each other since my return, and it’s been three months now.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you in a week,” I mention, and she smiles.

“It’s been hectic, babe, but I’m done with exams, and you have me all to yourself,” she says with a grin, and I chuckle.

“Glad to hear that. Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest, and she gets up, extending her hand to help me stand. We make our way upstairs to what I’ve affectionately named the pleasure room. Don’t judge me; I’ve always been into rougher encounters, or rather, the BDSM scene, and let’s just say Siphe shares my enthusiasm.

“I noticed we passed your room,” she remarks.

“I know, but I haven’t seen you for a week, Siphe,” I explain, and she doesn’t respond. Once inside, I lock the door. No words are needed for her to understand that she should undress.

“I can’t stay for long today; my father is around,” she confesses nervously as she disrobes, and I watch her intently.

“I’ll drive you home,” I assure her with a smile. Now she’s naked, and I’m in just my shorts after removing my t-shirt. I place my shorts neatly on top of the chest of drawers in the corner and retrieve a flogger, moving closer to her.

“Lwando, you’re scaring me,” she says in a quivering voice.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” I inquire, walking up behind her. My tone is neutral but cold enough to send shivers down her spine.

“F-find out w-what?” she stammers, and I can’t help but smirk.

“You really want to play dumb with me, Siphe?” I ask, giving her a swat on the rear. She bends forward slightly before trying to straighten up again.

“Lwando, I don’t know what you think I did,” she says, her voice trembling with fear. I chuckle darkly and deliver a firmer spank than before.

“Siphe, there’s nothing you do that doesn’t come back to me,” I inform her. “Maybe you might want to reconsider that answer?” I ask, but she remains silent, her light sobs falling on deaf ears and blind eyes.

My emotions have always been locked down because I’ve learned that women can only hurt you if you allow their manipulation to victimize you. Right now, this girl is doing her best to manipulate me, but I don’t yield easily. I strike her again, this time on her back, making her flinch. I move around to see her tear-streaked face, relishing the sight of her in this vulnerable state. Her tears provide me with a sick pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” she cries out. I chuckle darkly and strike her once more on the side of her stomach.

“Lwando, please, it hurts,” she pleads between her sobs.

“Tell me the truth, Siphe,” I demand, gazing into her tear-filled eyes.

“I didn’t know what to do, Lwando,” she confesses, realizing that her puppy-dog eyes won’t sway me. Instead, they only seem to give me a certain, unexpected reaction.

“What did you do, Siphe?” I ask, delivering a harder blow to the same spot.

“I was four weeks pregnant, and I had an abortion. I’m sorry,” she admits.

3 years ago

“Honey, where are you?” I shout, walking further into our apartment. I’ve just returned from work. But there’s no response.

“Thandi,” I shout again, and still, there’s no answer. Thandi recently lost her mother a couple of months back, and she hasn’t been handling it well. She’s been struggling with the loss, and it seems that her mother’s death triggered her schizophrenia. I didn’t even know she wasn’t well until her mother passed away. I’ve been urging her to see a professional because I’m not equipped to handle a condition like hers, especially with my own occasional struggles.

I walk into our bedroom, and there she is, holding a knife and standing in front of the mirror. Her appearance is disheveled; it looks like she hasn’t showered today, her hair’s a mess, and so are her clothes. She’s talking to her reflection.

“Honey,” I say, but she doesn’t respond. I walk over to her slowly.

“My love,” I say, trying not to scare her further, but she still doesn’t react or acknowledge my presence. I touch her shoulders, but she doesn’t stop mumbling whatever it is she’s saying to her reflection in the mirror. I turn her to face me gently.

“Hey, beautiful,” I say in a calmer tone, but she’s still absorbed in her own world.

“They won’t stop talking to me,” she says, leaving me confused.

“Who?” I ask as I try to take the knife from her.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, moving back with the knife.

“Thandi, please. You need to see your doctor,” I implore.

She shakes her head. “NO! She’s going to send me to that place, and I don’t want to go there.”

She’s referring to the mental institution. I walk closer to her. “Please do it for me,” I plead, and after a moment’s thought, she nods.

I search my pockets for my phone but can’t find it. I must have left it in the kitchen when I walked in. I hurry out and locate it on the counter. I find her doctor’s number and call her. While on the call, I catch a whiff of burning fabric, and the smell sends my senses into high alert. I tell her doctor to come as soon as possible and hang up to attend to Thandi.

I find her staring at the mirror, burning her clothes in front of it while muttering incoherent things to herself. She still has the knife in her hands.

“Thandi,” I say slowly, walking toward her. She turns to me with the knife, and her movements are swift.

“Don’t come any closer,” she yells, and I freeze at the door.

“Thandi, hand me the knife. Dr. Heid is on her way,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“NO! I don’t want to see her. Call her and tell her to go back,” she demands, pointing the knife at me.

“I cannot do that, honey. She’s on her way to help you,” I plead. At this moment, I’m more concerned for her well-being than for myself.

“If you come any closer, I will kill you,” she threatens, but I walk up to her anyway. She swings the knife at me, and I manage to duck and grab hold of her from behind.

“Let me go!” she yells, trying to break free from my grip, but I’m stronger than she is.

“Your doctor is coming, okay?” I say into her ear, but she can’t hear me. She’s fighting to get out of my grip.

“LET GO OF ME OR I WILL KILL YOU,” she threatens, but I don’t release her. I walk us away from the spreading fire and move to the lounge with her still struggling against me.

“Thandi, I need you to calm down,” I plead as I put her down. She turns to me and tries to stab me, but I step back.

“You want her to take me, don’t you? So that you and Siphe can continue where you left off, huh?” She accuses. Siphe is a woman I had an affair with whenever I was in East London. It wasn’t serious, just a casual fling. Yes, I cheated on Thandi with her, but Siphe knew the boundaries. She once called Thandi to inform her about us, and I had to end things with her. Somehow, she managed to convince me that I couldn’t let her go. Siphe is different from Thandi in certain ways, especially when it comes to our physical relationship, and I couldn’t easily let her go.

“You want to go to her, don’t you? I know you and her have been plotting to get rid of me,” Thandi accuses, but I haven’t seen or spoken to Siphe in months. I’ve been loyal and committed to Thandi.

“No! I’d never do that to you,” I protest. Thandi stands on one side of the counter, and I’m on the other. Her expression is murderous and frightening. I’ve never seen her like this before. Could it be that Siphe did something? Siphe is capable of scheming, perhaps she sent old pictures, texts, or even called her. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“You’re lying! You were with her this afternoon!” Thandi exclaims, and I shake my head.

“I would never do that to you again, Thandi, I swear on my life,” I promise.

“I saw the pictures. The messages. Siphe called me, and I heard you two...” Her voice breaks, and I’m stunned by this revelation. What is she talking about?

“You lied to me,” she cries out. I walk closer to her, but she swings the knife at me. I manage to grab hold of her, and we struggle with the knife. She manages to graze my arm, but I don’t let go. I’m scared of hurting her, but I need to get hold of the knife before she hurts herself. We wrestle with the knife, and it ends up stabbing her in the stomach.

“Oh my God,” I say in shock, unable to believe what just happened. I take her into my arms and pull the knife out.

“Thandi, please don’t leave me,” I plead. She touches my cheek.

“I love you,” she says. “I love you too, baby. Please don’t leave me. Please stay with me,” I implore, holding her in my arms. There’s a knock on the door, which then opens to reveal her doctor accompanied by two paramedics.

3 Months later

I step out of the mental institution, the weight of the past pressing heavily on my shoulders, each step a reminder of the tangled web I find myself in. Sliding into Mr. Majola’s car, the leather seats feel cold against my skin, as if mirroring the icy shards of guilt and confusion that pierce my soul. The engine purrs to life, but the silence between us is a suffocating entity of its own.

“How are you?” Mr. Majola’s voice cuts through the thick air, a beacon in the fog of my spiraling thoughts.

“Getting there, I guess,” I respond, my voice carrying the weariness of a man who’s stared into the abyss and found it staring back. Three months of confinement, locked away for an act that haunts my every waking moment. Mr. Mbana’s influence, a lifeline I never thought I’d clutch, navigated my legal labyrinth, painting a canvas of my shattered sanity.

“How is she holding up?” I venture to ask, the words barely escaping my lips, heavy with unspoken regret.

“She is getting the help she deserves,” Mr. Majola offers, his tone laced with a gravity that suggests more lies beneath.

PRESENT

Presently, I’m a confluence of contradictions—a computer scientist with a penchant for accounting and architecture. My expertise, a patchwork quilt stitched together by relentless nights of self-taught mastery, each skill a shield in the unpredictable battlefield of life. At a mere 24, my youth belies the harrowing odyssey I’ve weathered. Bipolar disorder and OCD, unwelcome companions since childhood, have sculpted a jagged path, fracturing the familial bonds that should have been my anchor. My father’s stoic disdain, a pastor’s inability to reconcile faith with a flawed son, banished me to foreign shores. Yet, here I stand, scars and all, waging a daily war against the tempests that rage within.

Ayola Majola-Mbana—her name a melody that courses through my veins, igniting a firestorm of emotions I can scarcely comprehend. From the moment our worlds collided, she became my sanctuary, a tempestuous force that swept away the detritus of my fractured past. Her passion, her fervor, transformed my grayscale existence into a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Ah, but don’t mistake her gentleness for weakness; she’s a force of nature, a beast in the most intoxicating sense.

Initially, she was to be my respite, a fleeting distraction from the cacophony of inner demons. Yet, like a moth irresistibly drawn to a flame, I find myself ensnared, entangled in a web of emotions too potent to resist. For Ayola Mbana didn’t just enter my life; she redefined it, shattered preconceived notions, and dared me to dream of a reality where love eclipses all. I am Lwando Mbana, and what unfolds is my confessional, a raw, unfiltered account of a soul laid bare.