August woke up. It took him a while to actually realise that he was not in his own room and to also realise that Kholwa’s scary friend was by his side. When he tried to move away, his arms were bound to his sides. The blanket was wrapped around him like a cocoon. How did he even end up in Mzamo’s room? Why was he tucked in so much?
He squiggled and bounced as he tried to get free.
“Stop moving,” Mzamo grumbled, turning his back to him.
What was happening? Was he being held hostage?
In his panic, he fell off the bed. Being free at last, he rushed to the door. He pulled, only being frustrated even more. It was locked.
He turned around, ready to jump out of the window, but saw Mzamo’s scary eyes instead. When did he get out of bed? With a hangover, and almost no memory of last night, he screamed. It seemed like his worst nightmare was coming true.
“Did you sleep well?” Kholwa asked, smiling up at August. Mzamo noticed how he was being ignored and scowled, pushing August out of her sight.
“You know I’m not used to sharing a bed,” He said, ignoring August’s glares. He sat on the table and awaited his food to be served. “Your friend here farts in his sleep too.”
“I do not!” August defended. Kholwa just smiled, knowing that even though Mzamo didn’t say it, he was growing fond of August.
“For breakfast, hangover soup. Have it while it’s hot.” Kholwa said, first serving Mzamo a bowl of cereal and then August his soup, who seemed to appreciate the gesture more than Mzamo.
“You know I prefer something meaty in the morning,” Mzamo complained.
“Mmm, but August here has a hangover.” She said, smiling as August seemed to enjoy her soup.
“It’s nice.” He smile, ignoring Mzamo’s glares.
“I want meat.” Mzamo pouted, playfully banging his hands on the table.
Kholwa frowned at the childish behaviour, but the frown fell and was replaced by a smile.
“I know you do, you caveman.” She put a plate of grilled beef and eggs on the table in front of him.
“That’s more like it.”
“That’s more like it.” She repeated, smiling at her two boys enjoying her food.
They had their breakfast, Kholwa only having a bowl of cereal. She spoke a lot during breakfast, easily alternating between the two boys. Mzamo spoke when spoken to, insulted August a handful of times, and then when he was done with breakfast stood up and went to his room to prepare for work.
“Will your roommates be okay with you sleeping over?” Kholwa worriedly asked, walking August downstairs because the taxi they had called was on its way. “I feel like they won’t be and it’s my fault.”
“If I hadn’t stayed last night, something bad would have probably happened.” He chuckled. “You know once I started poll dancing in a club and my roommates made sure to film that embarrassing moment. They use the videos against me all the time.”
She chuckled, “you’re a terrible drunk.”
“I am, but that’s why I seldom drink.”
Kholwa’s phone rang. It was Mzamo. She pouted, wondering if something had happened during those few minutes that they were gone. She answered.
“Kholwa Dludla,” his voice sounded on the other end, “your boyfriend made headlines again.”
“I’ll send you the link.” And then he hung up.
Kholwa awaited the text, and as promised it arrived less than ten seconds later.
She opened the text, pressing the link. Her eyes widened. “It seems you really are a bad drunk, August.”
“What is it?”