For the love of my roomm

A young man’s heartbreak lands softly, though reluctantly into the nest of friendship that he has built with his favourite sibling

There were so many of us growing up in what was initially a three-bedroom house. Five kids, two parents and whatever cousin needed housing close to town for school or work.

When I got too big to share the master bedroom with our parents, your double bed and denim duvet were swapped for two three-quarter beds that wore my My Little Pony and Bratz Doll sheets. Your football boots, socks and shin guards had to make way for my doll house, arts and craft kits and my imaginary sold-out solo concerts.

I was nine and you were 12. For a good year, we had sparring matches until we found our footing around one another. I would make the beds if you agreed to keep the light on until I fell asleep. I would cover for you when you missed your curfew, but only if you gave me a good two hours to perfect my Mariah Carey notes after school.

When no one was looking we would talk about our crushes, swap MP3 players, build forts and play WWE wrestling. I would always win. You became my first best friend.

This worked for the three years until there was enough room in the house for us to have rooms of our own.

It's been 17 years since we were roommates. You moved out of home a while ago and when I thought you had had enough of having me as a roomie, you randomly texted me. “Dude, move in with me?"

“Enge? Why? What's up?"

“I need a new roommate. You talk about needing your space and I have that space. Plus you'll still be with fam."

“Awe, o serious?"

“Yeah Zawi." “Roommaaaaaaaaaaates!"

*

It's Monday, about 6am, and I'm starting to get ready for work when I have to let you into our apartment.

After a shower I wake you from your nap and iron my clothes.

Once you're dressed, you prep the things for breakfast while I make the beds.

I open the blinds and windows while you boil the water and take out the mugs. Two coffees and two sugars for me. Two rooibos teabags and four sugars for you.

I watch the first half of Adventure Time and eat with you before leaving you to wash the dishes.

Each task is punctuated with me pressing to see if you are okay and where you spent the weekend.

You get the house keys, I pack the lunches and we leave before I get answers to your teary eyes and threeday absence and silence.

Still, we get on the same bus to the train station. You unnecessarily walk me to the Gautrain door and I turn to face you for the routine check.

“O tswere everything?"

“Ja. Lunch, purse, all my cards, notebooks. Everything."

“O sure?"

“Wanna check?"

You shake your head, put your headset on before you komba for a local taxi to your workplace.

“Bro bro, o shapo mara? You weren't your full self this morning. Please let me know dintsang. But only when you're ready" is the text I sent to you while at work. The two ticks stayed blue.

“Me and my chick broke up, dude." I'm making a quick stir-fry and doing a barefoot two-step when you address my “what's wrong" chorus.

“Well, she called it off with me. She said I'm not supportive. After five years, the support I gave her was fokol."

With a handful of shock, an equal understanding of both sides and not wanting to hurt your bruised feelings, I struggle to respond with more than a half-assed “Askies. I'm really sorry bro bro. Wanna talk?"

You comply and I listen to your long outpouring about how things got to this point. Feelings were hurt, ultimatums were given and no one was bold enough to go back on their word.

We sit on the kitchen counter and I only stand up to get forks that we use to pick at the vegetables until they're cold. “Where do I go from here, Za?"

It’s hard to think of a world in which your good-boyfriend title is removed. I struggle to think of a world in which you're just as unreasonable and apathetic as the men