CHAPTER 30: THE ROAD TO DURBAN

 Narrated by Mapaseka Mokoena

The call came on a Thursday evening. Qondanisa's voice was warm and excited on the other end of the line. "Nkosazana, I want to take you to Durban. I want you to meet my mother properly."

My heart skipped a beat. "Really?"

"Yes. It is time. She keeps asking about you. She wants to meet the woman who has stolen her son's heart."

I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. Meeting his mother was a big step. It meant he was serious about me.

"When do we leave?"

"Saturday morning. We will drive down. It is a long trip, but we will make it fun."

"I will be ready," I said.

After we hung up, I immediately called Relato.

She answered on the second ring. "Mapaseka! What is the good news?"

"I am going to Durban! Qondanisa is taking me to meet his mother!"

There was a pause. Then Relato screamed.

"Yoh! Mapaseka! This is huge! You are meeting the in-laws!"

I laughed. "I know! I am so nervous."

"Please pack me in your suitcase! I will be quiet, I promise! I will not even laugh!"

"Relato, stop! You cannot come! But do not worry, we will go together next time."

"Fine, fine," she said, still laughing. "But I am so proud of you, friend. Look at you—you gave love a chance. Now you are going to meet your in-laws! I cannot believe it!"

I laughed. "I cannot believe it either."

"Friend, do you remember when you first met him? You called him a dirty mechanic! Now look at you—driving to Durban to meet his mother!"

"Relato, do not remind me!"

"I am just saying! Life is funny, hey? One day you are judging a man by his overalls, the next day you are going to meet his family!"

I laughed. "You are impossible."

"But you love me."

"I do. Now let me go pack."

The next two days were busy. I had to make sure everything at my company was in order. I scheduled meetings, delegated tasks, and made sure my staff knew how to reach me if anything went wrong.

"I will be available online," I told my assistant. "I will check in every morning."

"Enjoy your trip, Mapaseka," she said with a smile. "You deserve it."

Meanwhile, Qondanisa was doing the same. His staff was reliable, and he trusted them to handle things while he was away.

"That is the beauty of dating a businessman," I thought to myself. "You can go whenever you want."

On Saturday morning, Relato came over to help me pack.

She walked into my bedroom with a bag of snacks and a big smile.

"So," she said, "what are you taking?"

"I am not sure," I said, looking at my open suitcase. "I packed warm clothes—it is winter, after all."

Relato looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"Mapaseka, Durban is warm! Even in winter, it is warm! The sun is shining, the beach is calling. Pack summer clothes! Sundresses, shorts, light tops. Bring one or two warm things for the evenings, but you do not need all of this!"

I laughed. "Okay, okay! You are the expert."

She helped me repack. We laughed and talked as she folded my clothes and placed them neatly in the suitcase.

"Bring a nice dress for dinner," she said. "You know Qondanisa will take you somewhere fancy."

"Good idea."

"And bring a swimsuit! You cannot go to Durban and not swim!"

"Relato, I am going to meet his mother, not go on holiday!"

"Mapaseka, it is Durban! You will swim. Trust me."

Qondanisa arrived to pick me up. He looked handsome in a simple white shirt and jeans. His smile was wide when he saw me.

"Ready, nkosazana?"

"Ready."

He took my suitcase and loaded it into the car. I said goodbye to Relato.

"Call me every night!" she said. "I want to hear everything!"

"I will," I promised.

"Tell his mother I say hello!"

I laughed. "I will."

She hugged me tightly. "I am so happy for you, friend. You deserve this."

"Thank you, Relato."

We drove out of Johannesburg, the city skyline shrinking in the rearview mirror. The road stretched ahead of us, long and open.

Qondanisa was in a playful mood. He kept making jokes, and I could not stop laughing.

"Why are you so funny today?" I asked.

"I am always funny. You just do not pay attention."

"I pay attention! You are just usually more serious."

"Maybe I am excited," he said. "I am taking my woman home."

I blushed. "Your woman?"

"Yes. My woman."

He reached over and took my hand. His fingers intertwined with mine, and I felt a warmth spread through me.

"I cannot believe I am finally taking you home," he said softly.

"I cannot believe I am finally going."

We drove for a while, the landscape changing from city to countryside. The hills were green, the sky was blue, and the air felt fresher.

"Tell me more about your mother," I said. "What should I expect?"

"She is warm," he said. "Very warm. She will hug you the moment she sees you. She will feed you until you cannot move."

"Yoh! So I need to be hungry?"

"Yes. Come hungry. She will not let you leave without eating."

"And your father?"

He was quiet for a moment. "He would have loved you. He would have sat you down and told you stories about me. All my embarrassing childhood moments."

I smiled. "I would have loved that."

"Me too," he said softly.

We stopped at a garage to fill up the car. Qondanisa went inside to pay while I stood by the car, stretching my legs.

He came back with two cold drinks and some snacks.

"I thought you might be hungry," he said.

"You know me so well."

We stood by the car, eating and drinking. The sun was warm on my skin.

"Are you nervous?" he asked.

"A little," I admitted.

"Don't be. My mother is going to love you. I know it."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I love you and she trusts my judgment."

I smiled. "That is sweet."

"Also," he said, smiling, "you are beautiful, successful, and you make me happy. What is there not to love?"

"Okay, okay," I said, laughing. "You are just saying that."

"I am not. I mean every word."

We got back on the road. The drive was long, but it did not feel long. We talked, we laughed, we sang along to the radio.

Then Qondanisa reached for his phone and connected it to the car speakers. A maskandi song started playing—the guitar picking, the drums beating, the voice deep and soulful.

He started singing along, his voice warm and smooth.

"Uyabona lowa manje nguye, nguye ubambolwami..."

He glanced at me, a smile on his face. He reached over and took my hand, his thumb brushing softly across my skin.

I felt my heart melt.

"Did you understand that?" he asked.

"No," I admitted. "But it sounded beautiful."

"It means: 'You see this woman right here? She is the one for me.'"

I squeezed his hand. "I love it."

"One day," he said, "you will understand Zulu. And you will sing along with me."

"One day," I said, smiling.

We stopped again at another garage. This time, Qondanisa bought us some road food—bunny chow from a small shop near the petrol station.

"You cannot come to Durban without eating bunny chow," he said.

"Is this Durban's famous food?"

"Yes. You will love it."

We ate in the car, laughing as we tried not to spill the sauce on our clothes.

"Yoh!" I said, wiping my mouth. "This is good!"

"I told you," he said, smiling. "I know good food."

We stopped one more time—to use the restrooms and stretch our legs. Qondanisa bought us ice cream from a small vendor.

"It is summer in Durban already," he said. "You need ice cream."

"You are spoiling me."

"That is my plan. Spoil you so much you never want to leave."

I laughed. "It is working."

As we drove, he started telling me funny stories about his childhood.

"Mapaseka, let me tell you something. When I was young, my mother was burning rubbish in the yard. I saw that fire and my brain said—‘Bro, let's make this interesting.'"

"Interesting? Qondanisa, every time you say 'interesting,' someone ends up crying."

"Anyway—I found something explosive. I don't even know what it was. I threw it in the fire. BOOM! Mapaseka, the sound was beautiful! I was so happy—I felt like a soldier in an action movie!"

"Let me guess. That happiness lasted three seconds?"

"Exactly! Because next thing, my foot is burning. I screamed like a taxi driver who just got a fine—Eish yabona ke!’"

"oawa! So what did your mother do?"

"She came running: ‘ What's wrong?!' And me, with tears running down my face, I said: “ It's the fire, Mama! The fire hurt me!'"

"You blamed... the fire? For exploding your foot?”

"I stuck to my story! I never said I put anything there. I just kept crying: It's the fire, Mama! The fire hurt me!’"

"And she believed you?!”

"Mapaseka. My mother picked up a stick, pointed at my foot, pointed at the rubbish, and gave me that look, the one that says “ I know everything, I'm just waiting for you to confess.'"

"So what did you do?”

"I stopped crying, limped away slowly, and never spoke of it again... until now."

I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. 

Then I told him a story about my childhood.

"When I was little, I used to pretend I was a famous singer. I'd stand in front of the mirror with a hairbrush in my hand, using it as my microphone. I'd sing at the top of my lungs and imagine thousands of people cheering for me."

"Did you sing well?"

"No! I was terrible! My mother would hear me and say: 'Mapaseka, that is not singing. That is crying.'"

He laughed. "She said that?"

"Yes! I was so offended. But she was right. I could not sing to save my life."

"Can you sing now?"

"No! I am still terrible."

"Yoh," he said, smiling. "I will teach you to sing Zulu songs. It will be fun."

"I will just embarrass myself."

"Even better," he said. "I will be there to laugh with you."

The drive continued. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

"We are almost there," Qondanisa said.

I looked out the window. The hills were greener, the air warmer. I could smell the ocean.

"Durban," I whispered.

"Home," he said softly. "Our home."

He took my hand again.

"Thank you for coming with me, Mapaseka."

"Thank you for bringing me."

I looked out the window at the changing landscape—the green hills, the blue sky, the warmth in the air. I was going to meet his mother. I was going to see where he grew up.

And I was with him.

What more could I ask for?