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 Sandisiwe Lwando Mbana
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LM - Prologue
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 Before Ayola

What is a fairy-tale?
I'd be spinning a yarn if I claimed to grasp its essence. Me?
I'm just a bloke, fairytales being more in the realm of the
fairer sex, and I don't bother myself pondering such things.
Given my tight schedule and all, where would I even find a
moment to indulge in daydreams about fairytales?

My upbringing diverged greatly from the norm, you see.

Unlike other kids, I didn't have the privilege of growing up
in a cozy family home with parents whose lives revolved
around me. None of that rings a bell. I never tasted that
experience. At some point, I genuinely believed my folks
despised me, and maybe they still do. However, now that
I'm older, I couldn't care less about them or their affection.

I always sensed I was cut from a different cloth, always felt

like an odd fish among the other kids, and it used to trouble
me to a degree. I can recollect one specific day at school. It
was after the break when I returned to class and found my
desk in disarray. By "messed," I mean there were papers
strewn about my space. Strangely, I didn't react as your
average Joe would. I ended up getting my first dose of
punishment that day. My parents, or rather my mother, felt
the need to have me examined by a specialist due to my
reaction. The verdict? Bipolar disorder coupled with OCD.
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 As if dealing with Bipolar wasn't enough, fate decided to
toss in something equally challenging.

Thanks to therapy and my prescribed meds, I reckon I've

reached a point where I can claim a modicum of normalcy.
My connection with my parents is tenuous at best. After
all, a pastor can't afford to have a Bipolar son; it wouldn't
do his hard-earned reputation any favors. I reside in East
London with a nanny who goes about her business while I
tend to my own. As for my parents? Well, they're
somewhere in this vast world or maybe even the country.
Frankly, I don't know, and I couldn't care less.

"Mr. Mbana, Siphe is here to see you," Buhle's interruption

in the lounge pulls me away from my thoughts. I've
returned home for the holidays from the United States,
where I completed my degree. Now, I'm back in Cape
Town, continuing my studies and interning under Mr.
Majola's company while juggling a side hustle.

"Let her in," I respond, and Buhle offers a slight bow

before leaving the room. I'm lounging on the couch,
engrossed in a TV show, with my phone in hand as I chat
with a friend.

"Hey," Siphe greets, standing in front of the TV and

bending forward, obscuring my view. "Hi, baby," I reply,
pulling her close to me.
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 "How are you?" she asks, but I don't answer. Instead, I
draw her in for a kiss. Siphe and I have been seeing each
other since my return, and it's been three months now.

"How are you? I haven't seen you in a week," I mention,

and she smiles.

"It's been hectic, babe, but I'm done with exams, and you
have me all to yourself," she says with a grin, and I
chuckle.

"Glad to hear that. Let's go upstairs," I suggest, and she

gets up, extending her hand to help me stand. We make our
way upstairs to what I've affectionately named the pleasure
room. Don't judge me; I've always been into rougher
encounters, or rather, the BDSM scene, and let's just say
Siphe shares my enthusiasm.

"I noticed we passed your room," she remarks.

"I know, but I haven't seen you for a week, Siphe," I

explain, and she doesn't respond. Once inside, I lock the
door. No words are needed for her to understand that she
should undress.

"I can't stay for long today; my father is around," she

confesses nervously as she disrobes, and I watch her
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 intently.

"I'll drive you home," I assure her with a smile. Now she's
naked, and I'm in just my shorts after removing my t-shirt.
I place my shorts neatly on top of the chest of drawers in
the corner and retrieve a flogger, moving closer to her.

"Lwando, you're scaring me," she says in a quivering

voice.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" I inquire, walking up

behind her. My tone is neutral but cold enough to send
shivers down her spine.

"F-find out w-what?" she stammers, and I can't help but

smirk.

"You really want to play dumb with me, Siphe?" I ask,

giving her a swat on the rear. She bends forward slightly
before trying to straighten up again.

"Lwando, I don't know what you think I did," she says, her
voice trembling with fear. I chuckle darkly and deliver a
firmer spank than before.

"Siphe, there's nothing you do that doesn't come back to

me," I inform her. "Maybe you might want to reconsider
that answer?" I ask, but she remains silent, her light sobs
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 falling on deaf ears and blind eyes.

My emotions have always been locked down because I've

learned that women can only hurt you if you allow their
manipulation to victimize you. Right now, this girl is doing
her best to manipulate me, but I don't yield easily. I strike
her again, this time on her back, making her flinch. I move
around to see her tear-streaked face, relishing the sight of
her in this vulnerable state. Her tears provide me with a
sick pleasure.

"I'm sorry," she cries out. I chuckle darkly and strike her
once more on the side of her stomach.

"Lwando, please, it hurts," she pleads between her sobs.

"Tell me the truth, Siphe," I demand, gazing into her tear-

filled eyes.

"I didn't know what to do, Lwando," she confesses,

realizing that her puppy-dog eyes won't sway me. Instead,
they only seem to give me a certain, unexpected reaction.

"What did you do, Siphe?" I ask, delivering a harder blow

to the same spot.

"I was four weeks pregnant, and I had an abortion. I'm

sorry," she admits.
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 3 years ago
"Honey, where are you?" I shout, walking further into our
apartment. I've just returned from work. But there's no
response.

"Thandi," I shout again, and still, there's no answer. Thandi

recently lost her mother a couple of months back, and she
hasn't been handling it well. She's been struggling with the
loss, and it seems that her mother's death triggered her
schizophrenia. I didn't even know she wasn't well until her
mother passed away. I've been urging her to see a
professional because I'm not equipped to handle a
condition like hers, especially with my own occasional
struggles.

I walk into our bedroom, and there she is, holding a knife
and standing in front of the mirror. Her appearance is
disheveled; it looks like she hasn't showered today, her
hair's a mess, and so are her clothes. She's talking to her
reflection.

"Honey," I say, but she doesn't respond. I walk over to her

slowly.

"My love," I say, trying not to scare her further, but she still
doesn't react or acknowledge my presence. I touch her
shoulders, but she doesn't stop mumbling whatever it is
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 she's saying to her reflection in the mirror. I turn her to face
me gently.

"Hey, beautiful," I say in a calmer tone, but she's still

absorbed in her own world.

"They won't stop talking to me," she says, leaving me

confused.

"Who?" I ask as I try to take the knife from her.

"Don't touch me

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" she says, moving back with the knife.

"Thandi, please. You need to see your doctor," I implore.

She shakes her head. "NO! She's going to send me to that

place, and I don't want to go there."

She's referring to the mental institution. I walk closer to

her. "Please do it for me," I plead, and after a moment's
thought, she nods.
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 I search my pockets for my phone but can't find it. I must
have left it in the kitchen when I walked in. I hurry out and
locate it on the counter. I find her doctor's number and call
her. While on the call, I catch a whiff of burning fabric, and
the smell sends my senses into high alert. I tell her doctor
to come as soon as possible and hang up to attend to
Thandi.

I find her staring at the mirror, burning her clothes in front

of it while muttering incoherent things to herself. She still
has the knife in her hands.

"Thandi," I say slowly, walking toward her. She turns to me

with the knife, and her movements are swift.

"Don't come any closer," she yells, and I freeze at the door.

"Thandi, hand me the knife. Dr. Heid is on her way," I say,

but she shakes her head.

"NO! I don't want to see her. Call her and tell her to go
back," she demands, pointing the knife at me.

"I cannot do that, honey. She's on her way to help you," I

plead. At this moment, I'm more concerned for her well-
being than for myself.

"If you come any closer, I will kill you," she threatens, but
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