https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHMseUg41GsQZemCkvU9qew

Washe Communications, Market Street, Bronkhorstspruit (2026)

03/12/2025

CHAPTER 24
The road to Harare shimmered in the afternoon heat, the city rising out of dust and memory. My cousin sisters flanked me in the back seat, fussing with my headscarf, giggling as they practiced my new surname in singsong voices. “Mrs. Manaka Satamu,” Chipo teased, and everyone burst into laughter. My mouth smiled but my stomach churned. I pressed my palms together, knuckles white, as we turned into the wide, jacaranda-lined street of Manaka’s family home.

Everything looked impossibly grand tall iron gates, lush hedges, and a driveway that curved like something from a magazine. I barely recognized myself in the tinted window, lips trembling with nerves. We’d been singing in the car, but now my throat was dry.

The front door swung open before we even knocked. Manaka, radiant in a crisp shirt, ran out and lifted me in a quick, dizzying hug. “Welcome home, Mibi!” he grinned, then kissed my forehead in front of everyone. My cousin sisters cheered, waving their handbags.

Inside, laughter echoed off marble; the scent of roasting meat threaded the air. I hadn’t met all of Manaka’s family before. I smiled and bowed politely, feeling eyes on me, measuring, weighing. I was introduced to aunties, uncles, cousins, names slipping past me like water. Then, the room stilled.

A tall man in a navy suit stepped forward. I knew that stride, the authority in it. My heart stopped. Andy.

He looked older than the last time I saw him, grayer, somehow, and his eyes flicked to mine with a flash of recognition. I nearly dropped the tray I was carrying.

“Mibia, this is my dad,” said Manaka, voice full of pride. “Dad, meet my wife.”

Andy reached out, his handshake firm, his gaze unreadable. “Welcome, my daughter,” he said, voice smooth as always. There was a current between us, something too sharp, too private. I heard the driver, Tendai, cough quietly in the hallway. He knew, too.

Was he angry? Did he regret it? I kept my smile fixed and my hands steady. I forced myself not to look at Andy again as I followed the other women into the kitchen. My mind spun. He’s Manaka’s father. All this time. And we never knew.

Later, as I unpacked gifts in the guest bedroom, my cousins whispered, “He’s so nice, your father-in-law! You’re lucky, Mibi!” My hands shook. Lucky. What was I supposed to do with this secret? Should I tell Manaka? Wait for Andy? Every time I heard Andy’s voice in the corridor, my skin prickled.

That first evening, we gathered in the living room. Uncles poured drinks, and Gogo, sitting regally by the window, beamed at everyone. I sat beside Manaka, but my eyes kept finding Andy’s. He said little, but I saw the tension in his jaw. After dinner, he caught my eye. “Mibia, a moment?”

I followed him to the veranda. The air was thick with night-blooming jasmine. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

“I never expected this,” Andy said, his voice low. “But I’m glad you’re here. You must tell Manaka…about the scholarship. Not everything. Just that.”

I nodded, heart pounding. “Will you be okay?”

He gave a small, sad smile. “It’s your story now.”

Sleep was impossible. I sat on the edge of my bed, replaying the years, emails, wire transfers, and the hope in every message. He’d always insisted I finish my studies. I owed him my education, my chance, but I owed Manaka the truth.

The next day, as we walked through the garden, picking wild guavas, I touched Manaka’s arm. “There’s something I want to tell you,” I said, breathless.

He stopped, brow furrowing. “What is it, love?”

“Your father… His company paid for my studies. My scholarship. I didn’t know he was your dad until yesterday.”

Manaka blinked, then laughed, a bright, shocked sound. “What? You’re joking. That’s… wow.” He rubbed his jaw, shaking his head. “Dad never said. But I’m glad. He’s always supported education. I guess he gave me a wife and didn’t even know it.” He pulled me close, his eyes shining. “Thank you for telling me.”

Relief swept through me, cool and sweet. For the first time since arriving, I could breathe. In a few days we began to put everything together for the wedding. We decided to do it at Manaka's family house. It was big and beautiful enough to be a wedding venue. I hardly did anything; Manaka's mother and his siblings took it upon themselves to do the planning.

The wedding was small, just family and a few friends, but the room pulsed with love. Gogo ululated, scattering white rose petals, and Manaka’s mother wept openly as we exchanged vows. Andy gifted us with a beautiful mansion in Gletwin Shawasha Hills, apartment in Wellingborough, a plot in Chegutu, GD6 and Range Rover Evoque. He literally told Manaka, that I was God-sent and ancestors were in agreement. I knew what he meant ! He begged us to later come back and run his businesses but we still wanted to explore and grow on our own. It was like a dream because I was raised in an environment where I had no options. It was either poverty or poverty. But now, it looked like the heavens were only focused on me.

My mother could not believe it that the girl she gave birth to dumped in the village was married into soft life and money. I could see her trying to be fake and pretending to be close to me but I was not ready to forgive and forget. We danced in the garden, laughter rising into the dusk.

Soon after the wedding, we went back to leave Gogo in the village bought her everything she wanted and, we left for the UK.

The twins arrived on a late spring morning, one wailing, one blinking in quiet wonder. We named the boy Andy, after the man who’d changed my fate in ways neither of us could have guessed, and the girl Angela, for the grandmother who’d carried me through everything.

Gogo later joined us in the UK, her suitcase bulging with dried fish and groundnuts. She took to London’s chill with a thick scarf and a louder laugh, declaring, “This cold can’t beat a Mutoko woman!” She was the happiest woman alive. Her visa was not even a hustle to get. It was a smooth process from start to finish.

Gogo sang Shona lullabies in our tiny flat, her voice wrapping the babies in stories of mango trees and summer rains. I watched her rock them, tears in my eyes, gratitude blooming in my chest. For the first time, I felt safe.

My mother called, her voice syrupy and urgent. “I must come to Britain. I need to see my grandchildren. I am your mother, after all.” Her WhatsApp picture showed her in a new wig, posing with my step-siblings. They sent messages, too, as if we were suddenly a family.

I answered politely, sent money when I could, but kept my heart locked. The only woman who mattered was here, humming by the oven as she baked sweet potato bread, smiling at the twins. Gogo, who had never let go of my hand, even when I didn’t know I needed holding.

Back in Mutoko, Gogo’s house glowed with blue paint and new hope. I paid for solar panels, a borehole, and a fence strong enough to keep out stray goats. “You must never want for anything again, Gogo,” I told her, and she cried, holding my face in her warm, work-rough hands. We hired a married couple to look after the place.

Some nights, I sat by the window, the twins asleep, Manaka’s arm around me. I thought of the road from Mutoko to Harare, the secrets that wound between us, and the way love could surprise you, sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once.

I was not just the girl from Mutoko. I was now Mibia Mabhiri Satamu, daughter, wife, mother, and granddaughter. I had built a life from the ashes and secrets, and in the circle of Gogo’s arms and the laughter of my children, I was finally, truly home. About my dad, it is story for another day !!!

THE END

As usual handibhadharise all I am askih for is pliz subscribe to my Channels
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03/12/2025

Mbavha Dzawanda Kudarika Vanhu .

02/12/2025

Chapter 23

The first time I stepped into Manaka’s new house, suitcase in one hand and my heart in the other, I didn’t believe the space was real. White walls glowed with the late sun; a breeze teased the curtains, carrying the scent of cut grass and blooming lavender. I paused in the narrow entryway, shoes soundless on the tiles, and stared at the living room. It was all so unlike the small, crowded places I’d ever called home. My whole body tensed, waiting for someone to tell me I didn’t belong there.

Manaka came up behind me, his keys clinking on the granite counter as he grinned, arms open wide. “Welcome, Mibi. This is our place now.” The words fluttered in my stomach, strange and exhilarating.

I dropped my bag and let him lead me through the room. First the kitchen, then the tiny garden where purple pansies stretched toward the last rays of sun. I let my fingers trail along the smooth wood of the bannister, the unfamiliar comfort of it all making me giddy. Each step echoed with a silent promise. My home. Ours.

We cooked together that first night, bumping elbows, laughing over the too-hot stove and the way I burnt the rice. I tried to memorize the lines of his face in the kitchen’s yellow light, the way his eyes softened when he caught me watching him. After dinner, he disappeared into the bedroom and returned, kneeling clumsily at my feet, holding out a velvet box.

“Mibi,” he whispered, voice trembling, “will you marry me?”

I froze, hands pressed to my mouth. My heart hammered so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear it. He opened the box: a ring, gold and delicate, glinting softly. My answer tumbled out, shaky, laughing, almost a sob. “Yes, Manaka. Yes!”

He slid the ring onto my finger, and I reached for him, nearly knocking us both over as we tumbled to the floor in a laughter of tears and hope and disbelief.

Later, in the hush of the bedroom, I let myself be vulnerable, truly, fully, for the first time. I felt his hands, warm and careful, his voice a low reassurance as he whispered my name. Our bodies moved together, awkward at first, then with a growing certainty. Lying side by side on the new sheets, our bodies found each other for the first time in a clumsy, beautiful dance. There was shyness; my breath caught, and his hands were hesitant. I closed my eyes, feeling the world shrink to the space between us, to the rhythm of two hearts seeking harmony in the darkness. My mind fluttered between fear and desire as he kissed me, whispering my name like a blessing. The world narrowed to warmth and breath, soft skin and gentle laughter when we fumbled. When it was over and we lay tangled together, my face pressed to his chest, he stroked my hair and murmured, “You’re safe, Mibi. I love you.” I clung to him, letting the warmth seep through me, the future blooming quietly in the dark.

In the morning, I woke before him, sunlight filtering through the curtains. I watched his face, peaceful in sleep, and felt a strange, quiet fluttering below my ribs, a happiness so raw it made me almost ache.

Weeks passed. I tried to focus on my studies, but life had shifted. I found myself humming as I swept the kitchen, smiling for no reason, savoring the simple routines of life with Manaka. The morning coffee, the sound of his laughter in the shower, his arms around me at night. But then, change crept in.

Two months later, the world felt subtly, insistently changed. I sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the small calendar in my hand. The circled dates stared back one, two missed cycles. My heart thudded as I pressed trembling fingers to her stomach.

The changes had been gradual. I felt tired all the time, her skin glowed oddly, and her moods swirled, laughter one moment, then tears over a dropped spoon the next. At first, I blamed the stress of exams and the pressure to succeed, but now the truth seemed impossible to ignore.

One afternoon, as I packed my books in the library, Gogo’s voice rang through a WhatsApp call, “Mibi, you look tired. Are you eating?” The question lingered even after she hung up, haunting my steps.

It started with a subtle ache in my back, a strange glow to my skin, and an exhaustion that sleep could not erase. I snapped at Manaka for forgetting to buy bread, then burst into tears when he brought home roses. My periods, always punctual, simply didn’t come. One week, then two. My heart counted days as if the future depended on it. Maybe it did.

It was my friends who noticed first. One afternoon, at noon, Gogo’s WhatsApp call buzzed as I hunched over my books. Her voice leapt from my phone, sharp and familiar. “Mibi, you look different, eh? Your skin, it is shining. Are you eating too much of that British food?” Her laughter was a balm, but her words stuck.

Manaka’s cousin, visiting for a weekend, watched me over her teacup, head cocked. “You’re glowing and grumpy at the same time. Is it exams or something more?”

I tried to brush them off, but their questions burrowed under my skin. I bought a pregnancy test, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped it on the way to the bathroom. I stared at the lines, two pink slashes like slivers of fate. My knees buckled. My breath came in shallow bursts. I pressed a hand to my flat belly, and a wild, impossible hope bloomed.

Days trickled by. I became quiet and withdrawn. I snapped at Manaka for leaving his socks everywhere, then hid in the bathroom to cry. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, or Gogo, or even Andy. The secret grew heavier each day.

One evening, I sat at the kitchen table, head in my hands, as my friends gathered for tea. The sun set in gold bars through the window, dust motes swirling in the glow.

“Mibi, we can see something’s changed,” Vatusia said, voice gentle but firm. “Tell us, please.”

My mouth went dry. For a heartbeat, I wanted to run.

“My friend, are you okay?”

The dam broke. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

The room froze. Vatusia's eyes widened in shock. She took a step closer, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Everything will be alright."

I nodded, unable to speak.

Natalie took my hand, her eyes soft. “Have you told Manaka?”

I shook my head. “I’m scared. What if he doesn’t want this? What if Gogo is disappointed? I can’t tell Andy; he’ll take away my scholarship. And my mother… she never cared before. Now she only calls when she wants money.”

Vatusia's laugh was soft. “Mimi, you must tell Manaka. He will be happy. And Gogo will be proud. But Andy and your mother… you can decide when you’re ready.”

Lavanya agreed and said, “You can’t carry this alone, Mibi. Manaka loves you. Gogo will understand. I am sure, Andy, you don’t have to tell him right away. But you must tell Manaka.”

That evening, I found Manaka on the porch, staring out into the garden, his elbows on his knees.

I stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the curve of his back, the soft light on his hair. I cleared my throat, voice tight. “Manaka?”

He turned, smiling. “Hey, love. You look serious.”

I stepped forward, heart hammering. “I have something to tell you. I’m… I’m pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, his face was blank with shock. Then, slowly, the disbelief melted into joy, raw, wide-eyed, and unguarded. He stood, crossing the distance between them in two strides, and swept her into his arms.

“You’re sure?” His voice trembled, his hands shaking as they cupped my face.

I nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sure.”He laughed, a deep, astonished sound, and pressed his forehead to hers. “We’re having a baby. Mibi, we’re going to be parents!” He spun me in the air, the garden spinning with them, and when he set me down, his eyes were shining. “We have to do this right. I have to go see your family. Pay your dowry. Make us official." I wiped my eyes, breathless. “Yes. You have to. And you must come to Zimbabwe with me. We’ll tell Gogo together." I knew this was going to be one of the hardest conversations I would ever have. But I also knew it was necessary for our future.

“We’re having a baby? Mibi!” His eyes shone. “I want to marry you in front of your family.”

Relief crashed over me, mingled with terror and joy. I nodded, tears running down my cheeks, and clung to him as the stars blinked awake above us.

The weeks raced by: exams, doctor’s appointments, whispered prayers at night. I answered Andy’s messages with bland reassurances, my heart pounding each time his name flashed on my phone. I sent my mother small sums of money, ignoring her half-hearted WhatsApp calls. She only wanted to talk when she needed something; I answered with polite, short replies. Things were a bit rough back home because of the economy. All of a sudden she wanted to be friendly and close to me, but I remained distant, as I couldn't forget how she had treated me before.

Finally, the day of our journey arrived. We landed in Harare, the heat thick and sweet, jacaranda petals dotting the roads. We spent a nervous night in an Airbnb, the air alive with the hum of mosquitoes and hope.

The next morning, Manaka went to get a car from his parent's place, and we made our way to Mutoko. We stopped by at Mutoko center and bought a load of groceries for my grandmother. I could not wait to see my grandmother after so many years chatting and talking over the phone. My grandmother’s house waited at the end of a winding path, its blue walls faded but proud. As we stepped from the car, Gogo burst from the house, ululating so loudly the chickens scattered. She crushed me in her arms, her laughter thick with tears.

When she turned to Manaka, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You are the one, eh? Welcome, welcome.” She switched to English for his sake. “You must learn proper Shona, my boy. Your accent is…” She broke off, howling with laughter at his mangled greeting. Manaka grinned, blushing, and tried again, “Makadii, Gogo?” His vowels tangled, and Gogo laughed until she had to wipe her eyes. She kept staring at my stomach as if she could tell that I was pregnant. I wasn't ready to share the news just yet.

She wanted to cook for us, but we stopped her because we had brought takeaways from the city. I could see that my grandmother was happy and proud of the woman I was becoming. We ate outside under the old mango tree, chips, chicken, burgers, and stew warming my belly. Gogo told stories of my childhood, her pride shining in every word. Manaka listened, nodding, sneaking glances at me when Gogo’s back was turned. Manaka had to go back to Harare to prepare his people for the dowry and a mini wedding. I was both excited and nervous for what the future held.

That evening, Gogo pulled me aside. “Is this the man?” Her eyes searched mine. I nodded, unable to stop smiling. I wanted to tell her about the baby, but the words tangled in my throat. “He is good to me, Gogo. He wants to marry me.”

She squeezed my hand, her voice fierce. “Then we will do this the right way.”

The next days blurred with preparations. Manaka had returned to Harare to arrange the lobola ceremony; I stayed behind, scrubbing floors and repainting Gogo’s house with paint. My fingers blistered, my back ached, but pride swelled in my chest each time I stepped back to admire the gleaming blue walls.

My mother called, her voice sharp with nerves. “Your father must be there for the marriage. But he is nowhere to be found. What do we do?”

Gogo’s answer was swift, her voice resolute. “Mibia will marry, with or without him. He has never been part of her life; he will not stop her now.”

When the day of the marriage arrived, I woke to a house alive with laughter and song. White tents billowed in the breeze, and tables groaned with platters of food. Neighbors peeked over the fence, eyes wide as shiny cars filled the dusty yard. Gogo ululated at random, clapping her hands and lifting her arms to the sky. “God is good! My granddaughter! Look what she has done!”

I dressed in a new chitenge, my belly fluttering with nerves. I caught sight of myself in the cracked mirror, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, ring glinting on my finger. I pressed a palm to my stomach, feeling the secret heartbeat of the life within.

The marriage party arrived in a convoy of expensive cars, engines purring, dust swirling behind them. As they poured out, I froze. There, among the men in dark suits, stood Andy’s driver, hands clasped behind his back.

My breath caught. I stared, heart pounding, as Manaka greeted us with a grin. Later, in a quiet moment, I cornered Manaka. “How do you know him?”

He shrugged, smiling. “He’s my dad’s driver.”

I frowned, confusion knotting in my chest. “Your dad?”

Manaka just laughed, then swept me into a hug. The world spun, the lines of family redrawn in dizzying circles. He did not quite get where I was coming from with my questions. He was too happy to be drawn to put everything together.

The elders gathered in the shade. Manaka knelt before Gogo, offering thick blankets, tins of oil, and a stack of crisp bills. Gogo’s tears fell freely as she blessed us, her words tumbling over each other in a rush of pride and relief. “You have brought honor to our family, my child. You have made me proud.”

Villagers began to dance, their bare feet kicking up dust, laughter ringing in the air. Manaka joined them, his awkward steps earning cheers and applause. Gogo clung to my arm, singing praises, her voice rising above the crowd.

As dusk fell and lanterns flickered in the tents, I slipped away to the mango tree. Manaka found me there, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his hands gentle on my belly.

“We’re home, Mibi. You, me, our child. This is our beginning.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the laughter, the music, and Gogo’s voice raised in prayer. I pressed my hand to his, feeling the flutter of new life, the future pressing close and bright.

I wasn’t just the girl from Mutoko anymore. I was a wife, a mother-to-be, and a bridge between families and worlds. The journey had been long and difficult, but as I stood under the stars, my husband’s arms around me, Gogo singing her blessings into the night, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.

************* ****************

01/12/2025

CHAPTER 22

The months passed. I threw myself into my studies, burying my pain in textbooks and lab work. I joined new clubs, went on trips, and spent more time with my friends. I laughed again, though sometimes the laughter felt thin and shaky.

Sometimes, late at night, I still thought of Manaka, especially his smile, his promises, and the way he made me feel special. But each day, the pain grew a little less sharp, the memories a little less bright.

I learned to walk alone through the busy campus, head held high. I learned to love myself again.

Three years passed, and I was in my fourth year. I was older, stronger, and busier than ever. My days were packed with placements, research projects, and endless revision for the final exams.

One rainy afternoon, as I hurried across the quad with my umbrella, someone called my name. “Mibia!”

I froze. That voice hadn’t heard it in years. My heart stuttered. I turned slowly.

There he was. Manaka. Taller, broader, and dressed in a sharp suit with a crisp white shirt. He held a black umbrella, rain dripping down his cheeks.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. My mind raced. Was I dreaming?

He grinned sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s really me.”

I stared at him, shocked, angry, and confused. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step closer, his eyes soft. “I’m working with a construction company, one of the biggest in Europe. We’re building a new science wing here, at your university. I… I wanted to see you.”

I shook my head, my heart pounding. I could not even respond. I had no words for him.

He looked down, ashamed. “I messed up, Mibia. I know I hurt you. There’s no excuse. I was lost, lonely, and far from home. I made mistakes. But not a day went by when I didn’t think of you. I wanted to come back, but I didn’t know how.”

My hands shook. “You broke my heart, Manaka. I believed in you. I trusted you. And you just… disappeared.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. Truly. But I want to make it right, if you’ll let me. I’m here for three years, and this project is huge. I want to buy a house in Manchester. I want to build a future with you.”

I stared at him, my emotions swirling. Part of me wanted to run into his arms. Another part wanted to scream. "I need time to think," I finally managed to say something.

That night, I met my friends at our favorite café. I told them everything. Natalie frowned, stirring her tea. “You can’t just let him walk back into your life, Mibs. He might hurt you again.”

Lavanya nodded, her eyes worried. “People don’t change that easily. Be careful.”

Vatusia leaned in, her voice gentle. “You have to protect your heart.”

I listened, feeling torn. I wanted to believe Manaka had changed. But could I risk my heart again?

A week later, Manaka asked to meet. We sat in a quiet park, autumn leaves swirling around us.
He looked into my eyes, his hands trembling. “I know I hurt you. I can’t change the past. But I want to be honest, Mibia. I want to try again. I want to build a life here in Manchester with you. I want to start a family.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m scared, Manaka. You left me once. I’m afraid you’ll do it again.”

He shook his head, his voice earnest. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll prove it to you every day. I want you to know me. I want to earn your trust.”

I looked away, my heart pounding. “I need time. I want to focus on my studies. I can’t risk failing now. If we try again, it has to be on my terms.”

He reached for my hand, his eyes hopeful. “Anything, Mibia. I’ll wait for you. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He kept his word. He met my friends again and won them over with his kindness and honesty. He brought them gifts from his travels and helped Natalie fix her leaky sink. He cooked for us, laughed with us, and listened. He truly went above and beyond to show that he cared.

One evening, as we walked through the city, lights twinkling in the rain, Manaka stopped in front of a cozy house with a red door.
“I want to buy this house, Mibia,” he said, his voice trembling. “I want to build a home here. With you. If you’ll have me.”

Tears filled my eyes. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill my lungs.

“I’ll give us another chance, Manaka. But this time, it’s on my terms.” I looked into his eyes, steady and sure. “We go slow. We talk about everything. We will never hide our feelings again.”

He smiled, relief flooding his face. “Anything, Mibs. I promise.”

I smiled, too, feeling hope blossom in my chest. Maybe love was about falling apart and finding your way back together again. I reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Let's do this right, together," I whispered, feeling a sense of determination wash over me. Manaka nodded, his grip tightening on my hand as we both silently vowed to make it work this time.

SORRY FOR THE DELAY BUT ZVEMAHARA ZVAGARA ZVINODHURA 🤣

We are 3 chapters away kuti ipere.

03/11/2025

CHAPTER 21
The months after Paris flew by in a blur of lectures, late-night studying, and chilly Manchester rain. I woke early every morning, shivering as I pulled my woolly socks over my feet, and hurried through the misty air to my classes. College life was busier than I ever imagined. There were assignments, lab reports, quizzes, and endless reading. I learned to walk fast, to eat my lunch while flipping through my notes, and to laugh even when I felt like crying from tiredness.

But in the middle of this new life, there was a new rhythm: messages from Manaka.

At first, every morning, my phone would buzz with a cheerful “Good morning, sunshine!” from Manaka. His words made me smile, even on the hardest days. We sent pictures of our meals, silly faces, and the beautiful places we saw around campus. Sometimes, when I was too tired to talk, he sent me voice notes, his voice gentle and warm: “Don’t forget to eat, Mibs. Promise me, okay?”

I promised. And I kept my promises.

We tried to meet up when we could. We tried once or twice a month, if we were lucky. Sometimes I took the train to Oxford, my heart fluttering the whole way. Manaka would be waiting at the station, his green scarf easy to spot. He always had a new story about his engineering projects or his wild Nigerian roommate, Ayo. We would walk arm in arm through Oxford’s ancient streets, talking about Zimbabwe, dreams, and sometimes, our fears.

But college kept us apart, too. Most weekends, I had lab work or group presentations. Some days, it felt like Manaka was a hundred miles away, not just a few hours by train. I missed him. I missed his laughter, the way he listened, and the quiet strength in his eyes. But I was busy, too. There were nights when I fell asleep with my books spread all around me, phone buzzing with his messages unanswered.

We told ourselves it was just for now. When holidays came, we would see more of each other. We made plans for summer trips. Sometimes in Scotland, maybe Wales. We dreamed together.

But life didn't always go as planned.

In the spring, Manaka’s final year at Oxford grew even busier. His coursework doubled, and he started applying for jobs in Europe and Australia. He sounded tired on our calls, his voice duller, his jokes slower.

Sometimes, he didn’t reply to my texts for hours or even days. I tried not to worry. I told myself, “He’s just busy, like me.” But sometimes, the silence crept into my heart and made me feel cold.

One evening, I sat in my room, rain tapping the window, phone glowing with old messages. I stared at our photos from Paris, the sparkling Eiffel Tower, our group in silly hats, and Manaka and I with shy smiles. I missed the warmth of his hand in mine. I missed him.

I tried calling him. The line rang and rang, then clicked to voicemail. I left a quick message, my voice trembling. “Hi, Manaka. Just checking in. Hope you’re okay. Miss you.”

He didn’t call back that night.

As the days went by, we spoke less and less. When we did talk, it was quick: “How are you?” “Busy.” “You too?” “Yes, exams.” Then silence.

Every day, I told myself it was just the pressure of school. But sometimes, I felt something slipping away, like sand through my fingers.

In June, Manaka finished his degree. I went to Oxford for his graduation. The day was bright, and the campus buzzed with excitement. Manaka’s mom and two cousin brothers came from Australia, laughing and hugging him. His mom hugged me, too, her arms warm and soft. Her face looked familiar, but I couldn't place where I knew her from.

After the ceremony, we walked together for a while. Manaka was quiet, looking out over the crowd that was dispersing. “Mibia,” he said, “I got a job offer in Sydney. My family wants me to come home. They miss me. I have been here for too long."”

My heart thudded. “But… what about us?”

He squeezed my hand. “I don’t want to lose you. We’ll call, we’ll text, and we’ll visit. I promise.”

I nodded, blinking back tears. I was speechless. That came out of nowhere. I was not ready for that kind of message. I wasn't sure if I believed him, but I hoped he was being sincere.

That night, we held each other close, whispering promises until dawn. And I fell asleep in his arms, feeling more loved than ever before. But I couldn't shake the feeling of doubt that lingered in the back of my mind.

In a few days he was gone.

At first, we tried. We really did. We sent long emails and set times for video calls. We talked about everything: my busy classes and friends, his new job, and the hot Australian sun. But the time difference made things hard. When I woke up, Manaka was going to bed. When he had free time, I was in the middle of a lecture or a lab.

Slowly, the messages grew shorter. Sometimes, I waited days for a reply. Sometimes, I stared at my phone, feeling a dull ache in my chest.

One day, I scrolled through Manaka’s social media. He was posting photos at the beach, smiling with new friends. There was a girl in many of the pictures. She had bright red lipstick and a laugh that looked loud, even in photos.

I felt a sharp pain, like a cold knife in my chest. I texted him, “Who’s she?” But he didn’t reply for days. When he finally did, his answer was short: “Just a friend. Don’t worry.”

But I did worry. I tried to talk to him and tried to make things right. But it felt like I was shouting into a storm, and he was already too far away to hear me.

One night, I waited up for his call. He’d promised to call after work. Midnight came, then one, then two. I stared at my phone, fighting sleep, my heart pounding. But the call never came.

The next morning, I saw a new post from him. He was at a party, arm around the girl with the red lipstick. The caption read, “New beginnings.”

My hands shook. Tears burned my eyes. I sent him a message, “What’s going on, Manaka? Talk to me. Please.”

No answer.

The days turned to weeks. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was him. But it never was.

One afternoon, I sat on my bed, staring at the wall. My heart felt heavy, like a stone pressing down on my chest. I scrolled back through our messages, the sweet words, the promises, and the late-night dreams. All gone now. I realized I was alone.

With trembling fingers, I blocked his number. I blocked him on social media, too. Then I curled up under my blanket and let myself cry, loud, heaving sobs that shook my whole body.

My friends Lavanya, Vatusia, and Natalie found me like that. They held me, let me cry on their shoulders, and made me hot chocolate. Lavanya brushed my hair back and whispered, “He doesn’t deserve your tears, Mibia. You are strong. You will heal.”

I nodded, but it felt like a lie. My first love had broken me, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be whole again.

*TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU READ*
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