Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
DK
“Ah, here’s the birthday boy,” my mother, Naledi Ramos, calls out as I step into the backyard. I’d been running errands all morning, ticking off my to-do list in preparation for my move. Anything to stay busy. Anything to quiet the thoughts of Luna.
Smoke curls up from the braai, thick with the scent of boerewors and marinated meat.
It’s been good staying here these last six months—back in my childhood room, surrounded by good memories, grounding myself in familiarity, reclaiming time I’d missed with my family since relocating to Washington seven years ago.
At least I’ll be close now. Less than two hours away.
My father, Angelo, waves from the grill, tongs in hand. Neo lounges nearby, nursing a beer and giving me that look. The one that says: those cryptic texts aren’t going to cut it.
Me: Glad I stayed. We had a great time.
Neo: And?
Me: And nothing.
Except I really meant everything.
But I need to stop obsessing, and talking about Luna isn’t going to help with that.
I take in the spread across the patio table. It’s a blend of both cultures: braaibroodjie, kare-kare, creamy coleslaw, mielies, and adobo rice.
“Smells delicious.” I kiss my mother’s smooth cheek, warmed by the sun. “What can I help with?”
“Go relax.” She pats my chest. “Today, we’re serving you.”
“I’ll sit back and be king then.” I grin, grabbing a beer from the cooler.
“You joke, neh?” my grandmother says as she comes up behind me.
I turn to Buhle Dlamini, almost eighty and vibrant, her hair wrapped in a multicolored headscarf.
Her eyes crinkled with pride. “Remember, you have igazi lobukhosi—royal blood—in you from long ago. Gumba Sihlangu, one of our ancestors, came from the Zulu royal house. He married into the family when the clans were merged. That history still walks with you.”
Then her mouth quirks. “But don’t let it go to your head. Even kings wash dishes in this house.”
“Ready to roll up my sleeves anytime, Gogo.”
“You’re a good boy.” The earned creases on her face deepen, telling a story of a life that has known both joy and pain. “A good helper. Not like some people who will not be named.”
“That’s cold, Gogo.” Neo feigns injury, clutching his chest.
“Nx.” She clucks her tongue, but there’s no real heat to it. She adores him. She just understands me better.
“Ngikufisela okuhle ngosuku lwakho lokuzalwa, mzukulu wami oyigugu,” she says, offering me birthday wishes and pulling me in for a hug. “Ngiyakuthanda.”
“I love you too, Gogo,” I murmur, hugging her back.
My brother unfolds his long body from the lounge chair. Twenty-six. Allergic to structure. Never held a nine-to-five or anything remotely traditional.
My summer jobs were typical—cutting lawns, bussing tables. His? Setting up a neighborhood car wash, putting the other kids to work while he collected the money. Not lazy. Just enterprising.
A serial entrepreneur whose latest venture involves buying up old homes and converting them into modern living spaces, with crypto investments and a stake in a sports betting lounge on the side—because that’s Neo.
I watch a slow grin travel across his face. We share our father’s eyes and mothers’s nose. He’s tall and lean like the Ramos side, where I also got the height. But my thick build is pure Dlamini.
“Happy Birthday, bro.” He hugs me hard, clapping my back, then lowers his voice. “So… did my present keep on giving?”
I shove him away. “You’re an idiot.”
He laughs. “No details?”
“What details, neh?” Gogo perks up. There’s not a thing wrong with her hearing, except when she wants there to be.
“Nothing,” I say, shooting him a death glare as my mother brings a gift bag to the table.
Gogo points a knowing finger at him. “Hhayi bo, tell me.”
“Just brother stuff, Gogo,” Neo responds with an innocent face, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
My grandmother frowns, nosey and unappeased, she lets out a sharp suck of her tongue—a skeptical nx—and narrows her eyes. She’s not buying it. She’ll try prying it out of one of us later. For now, the attention’s on my mother.
“Present before we eat,” Mom announces. “Open it up, ntanami.”
We all round the table beneath the large umbrella.
I pull the card from the envelope tucked inside the tissue paper.
On the cover, a little Black boy reaches for the stars, surrounded by words in bold colors and fonts: unique, special, smart, powerful.
I open the flap and silently read my mother’s handwriting.
My chest feels tight as I reach inside the bag and pull out the gift. A leather portfolio. Rich brown, soft but sturdy, DK embossed in the corner.
“Thank you. I’ll carry it well.”
Gogo takes my hand. “This is where you are going, neh? Not where you’ve been.”
“Yebo, Gogo.” I nod, understanding what she means.
“Neo, watch the grill,” my father says. “DK, walk with me.”
I follow him toward Gogo’s garden beds. He’s a quiet, steady man.
A civil engineer who migrated from the Philippines to South Africa for work in his twenties.
He met my mother at a church social and fell fast. She worried about their racial and cultural differences, about what people would say and do.
But he courted those fears away. They married within months and have been together for thirty-four years.
I’ve seen them battle the rough periods that strained their marriage, but love and respect for each other always pulled them through.
My dad’s a good man. A good father. The kind who read bedtime stories and tucked us in. The kind whose quiet presence never felt like absence. The kind who only talks when he has something to say. So when he speaks, you listen.
“Your mother and I worked hard to build a life in Gauteng and then here,” he says.
“We wanted to instill that ethic in you and your brother. Neo works on his own terms—he isn’t defined by it.
But you…” He exhales, the weight of it heavy.
“You worked yourself to the exclusion of everything else. I never wanted that for you.”
“I know.” The memory crowds my chest, the breaths squeezing through the guilty clutter. “It’ll be different this time,” I promise. “Smaller town. Smaller role.”
“The size of the role isn’t the issue, DK.” He looks at me squarely. “It’s what you give it—and what you keep for yourself.”
“I hear you.” I’ve had months of therapy. Months to reflect. I have tools… a game plan. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”
He squeezes my shoulder. Firm, caring. Still worried.
It wasn’t just me who experienced that crash and burn. None of us came out unscathed.
“Asidleni!” Gogo calls out, cutting through the moment. “The food is getting cold. I didn’t spend all morning cooking for it to be eaten like ice cream.”
“We better get back,” he says, “before Gogo hunts us down.”
Beneath the joke, he’s actually a little afraid of my grandmother. She didn’t approve of a Filipino man who spoke broken Zulu for her only child. But she’s developed an affection for him, seeing how much he loves his family. She just keeps it well-hidden.
After great food and birthday cake, I load my bags into the car. Gogo sends me off with enough leftovers to feed the town. There are goodbye hugs all around, and I make a sworn promise to be back in a few weeks for Gogo’s birthday.
While everyone waves from the porch, Neo jogs down to catch me before I climb in.
“You good?” he asks, rare seriousness breaking through his carefree demeanor.
“Yeah. Fresh start. It’s what I need.”
“And Luna?”
I shake my head. “One-time thing.”
“I saw your face when you brushed me off. Didn’t read over and done.”
“That’s what we agreed to.”
“So? Plans change. This kinda thing doesn’t work on a schedule.”
“Leave it, Neo.”
Luna’s already reached the shore and taken off toward something important—and I’m still treading water.
He studies me for a beat, fighting his instinct to push. I can see the moment he decides to let go. He nods and gives me one last hug. “I’ll come see you next weekend. Check out your new digs.”
“Sounds good.” I open the door and start the engine. Cue up my amapiano playlist for the hour drive, letting the syncopated beats of deep percussion, log drums, and piano fill the car as I point toward Bayside—
Putting distance between me and that one incredible night.