CHAPTER 2: UNEMPLOYED FOR TOO LONG

CHAPTER 2: UNEMPLOYED FOR TOO LONG

Morning doesn’t arrive in this house.

It announces itself.

Cynthia’s pots collide in the kitchen like weapons. Cupboards slam. A kettle screams longer than necessary. Every sound is intentional — a reminder that I am awake later than she approves of.

I open my eyes before she calls my name. She never does. She doesn’t need to.

The ceiling greets me again, that same cracked line stretching across it like a scar that refuses to heal. My body aches from the floor, but I welcome the pain. It’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be a concern.

Above me, Thandeka is already awake, scrolling through her phone. Her face is tight, guarded. When our eyes meet, she forces a small smile — the kind you give strangers in elevators.

“Morning,” I say softly.

“Morning,” she replies, already looking away.

That’s how conversations end now. Before they begin.

I fold the thin blanket and push the mattress into the corner, careful not to make noise. Cynthia hates noise that comes from me. The door creaks as I step out, and immediately I feel it — her presence. Not in the room yet, but hovering, listening.

I wash my face in the bathroom sink. The mirror startles me. I look thinner. Older. My eyes carry a heaviness I don’t remember earning. I used to recognize myself immediately. Now I study my reflection like it belongs to a man I once knew.

In the kitchen, Cynthia stands with her arms crossed.

“Ah,” she says, without looking at me. “You’re awake.”

The way she says it makes it sound like an accusation.

“Good morning,” I offer.

She hums dismissively. “Must be nice,” she adds, pouring herself tea, “to sleep without responsibilities.”

I swallow my response. Hunger twists in my stomach, but I don’t reach for food. Breakfast is a negotiation in this house, and I am always outvoted.

Thandeka enters quietly, takes a mug, and stands beside her mother. There is a space between us now — physical and emotional — wide enough to fall into.

“I have interviews today,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself.

Cynthia finally turns to look at me. Her eyes scan my face, slow and deliberate.

“Interviews,” she repeats. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

The words land exactly where she intends them to.

I nod. “I’m trying.”

She laughs — short, sharp, humorless. “Trying doesn’t pay for electricity. Trying doesn't buy food.”

Thandeka shifts uncomfortably. “Mama—”

Cynthia raises a hand. “No, let him hear. Men need truth. Especially men who stay too long.”

Too long.

I remember another morning, another kitchen, years ago. Marble countertops. Sunlight pouring through tall windows. My phone is buzzing with messages from board members waiting for my approval. I remember signing a deal worth more than Cynthia’s house without even sitting down.

Back then, silence followed my words.

Now my silence is expected.

I grab my jacket and step outside before the conversation turns into something worse. The air is cold, sharp against my face. I stand by the gate and check my phone — emails, applications, follow-ups. Nothing. No replies. Just automated rejections dressed in polite language.

We regret to inform you…

I sit on the pavement, staring at the road like it might offer answers. Cars pass. People move. Life continues, indifferent to my collapse.

By noon, I’ve walked the streets aimlessly, rehearsing explanations I may never need. By afternoon, my feet hurt and my hope feels thinner than the mattress I sleep on.

When I return, Cynthia is waiting.

She always is.

“Back already?” she asks. “Or did they finally see your potential out there?”

Her sarcasm is sharp enough to cut.

“I’m still looking,” I say.

She clicks her tongue. “A man who wants work doesn’t come home empty-handed every day.”

Thandeka avoids my eyes.

I retreat to the room. The walls feel closer than they did yesterday. I sit on the floor and open my laptop, refreshing job boards like prayers. Nothing changes.

Time stretches cruelly when you have nowhere to be.

In the evening, Cynthia calls Thandeka into the kitchen. I hear my name through the thin walls.

“…men like that,” Cynthia says, her voice low but deliberate, “they start strong, then they drain you.”

Thandeka responds softly, words I can’t hear. Her tone carries doubt.

I press my forehead against the wall, my chest tightening. This is how she works — not loudly, not aggressively. Slowly. Patiently. Like erosion.

At dinner, there is food for everyone except me.

“Oh,” Cynthia says, noticing me standing there. “I didn’t know you’d be eating.”

“It’s okay,” I replied quickly. “I’m not hungry.”

The lie tastes bitter.

That night, as Thandeka lies on the bed above me, I speak into the darkness.

“I wasn’t always like this.”

She sighs. “I know.”

But her voice lacks conviction.

“I’m still me,” I insist.

Silence answers.

I turn onto my side, facing the wall. Something stirs inside me — anger, maybe, or grief — but beneath it is something else. A question I’ve avoided my whole life.

Who am I when everything is taken?

My mind drifts to my mother. To her refusal to speak of my father. To the way she’d stiffen whenever I asked. To the surname I carry like borrowed clothing.

A strange thought settles in my chest:

What if this isn’t just bad luck?

What if something — someone — has been waiting for me to notice what’s missing?

From the living room, I hear Cynthia speaking on the phone, laughing softly.

“Yes,” she says. “Some men just don’t know when they’ve overstayed.”

Her laughter crawls under my skin.

I close my eyes, heart pounding, and for the first time, I feel it clearly — this fall isn’t finished.

Something worse is coming.

And I have no idea how to stop it.