"I'm sorry, baby. I just pounced. Something happened and I needed answers. I jetted off to the old woman without even thinking—I forgot I was supposed to be home when you arrived. I've just been so preoccupied. You know this isn't me."
I had to humble myself. Ayanda was upset—and rightfully so. She had waited for me, probably hoping to spend the evening together. But I never came home. She even thought I might've gone back to drinking heavily. It wasn't that. It was the concoction.
Whatever was in it did a number on me—took me out for two whole hours. I was completely off the grid. Hence the late-night apologetic phone call.
I wanted her with me. She wanted to be there too. But it was too late—she had already gone back home.
"You really have to get your act together," she said. "You're not the first sanusi."
"I just hoped you'd understand," I replied. "I need answers. The dust will settle, and we'll have our time. I actually have something to tell you, but I don't know if you're going to like it."
I was really worried. Ayanda had become my world—my anchor, my support. The only person I could truly speak to. About almost everything. The thought of losing her—it's not something I could swallow easily. Sometimes I'd just sit and count my blessings, realizing how rare she was.
To find a partner that progressive, someone with that much clarity... Ayanda, despite growing up in a village, had this global way of thinking. She wasn't chained by tradition—she was propelled by it.
Now I had to tell her something important. And I knew it wouldn't be easy to say, or for her to accept.
We had been through so much, and so much had already come to the surface. I had already changed a lot.
And now, there was more.
"Hello? Are you still there?" I asked, hearing nothing but silence on the line.
"Eish... I forgot to charge—where's that charger again?!"
Moments later, I was back on the phone with her.
"Sorry about that... and thank you for finally answering—after my fifth attempt to reconnect."
"I just don't understand how you can be so selfish," she snapped. "I'm here, Nkuli! God knows I'm trying, but you just won't let me in! I don't know if it's because your ex hurt you or what, but I'm not her. I'm nothing like Zinhle."
Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I didn't know what to say, or even how to breathe in that moment.
"Baby... I'm really trying to let you in. And I mean that—for real. You're so important to me. I see the effort you put into this, into us, and I truly appreciate it. I swear I do. But... I don't know how to be more vulnerable than I already am."
There was a pause. The kind that stretches time and messes with your heartbeat. I couldn't tell if she was breathing heavily or holding back tears.
All I knew was that I didn't want to lose her. Not now. Not like this.
"No, it's fine, Nkululeko," she finally said, her voice colder than before. "I should just stop putting so much faith in you. After all, you're still a man."
That one stung.
"Now... what is this thing you wanted to ask? I'm really tired. I just want to go to sleep. I wasn't even planning to talk to you tonight, but five missed calls? This must be something serious."
And just like that—I told her. The whole thing. No point holding back now. It was do or die. I wish there had been another way. A softer route. But there wasn't. Not for this. I couldn't afford to lie or sugarcoat it. She had to know.
The silence that followed was thunderous.
"You can't be serious!" she finally burst out. "How am I supposed to trust you with this? This is not cool, bro! Of all the things you could've said—this is what you bring to me? I'm not sure, Nkuli. Even if it's tradition, you can't just ask me this!"
She was right to be upset. I had no solid reason to expect her trust, not after how things had gone. But there was no alternative.
What I had asked of her wasn't ideal.
And now the future of our bond hung in the balance.