Sometimes belonging begins in the most unexpected moments.
The suit had spent more time waiting than he had.
It hung at the back of the cupboard, behind two shirts he no longer wore and a jacket with a broken zip. The plastic cover from the dry cleaner had yellowed slightly at the edges.
He took it out only for interviews.
That morning, before the rest of the house was properly awake, Kabelo stood in front of the open cupboard and held the jacket by its shoulders.
For a moment, he simply looked at it.
Then he carried it to the bed.
Outside, a taxi hooted twice on the road.
Somewhere nearby, a gate scraped open.
His mother’s radio was already playing softly in the kitchen.
Kabelo checked the collar of his white shirt. There was a crease near the left sleeve.
He ironed it.
Then he ironed it again.
Not because it needed it.
Because there was still time.
On the chair beside the bed lay a blue folder containing copies of his CV, his certificates and the reference letter from his last job. He had arranged them the night before, but he opened the folder anyway.
Everything was there.
He checked his phone.
7:03.
The interview was at ten.
He checked his email.
Nothing.
He closed the app.
Then opened it again.
Still nothing.
From the kitchen his mother called his name.
“Tea?”
“Yes.”
He put the phone in his pocket and picked up the suit.
His mother looked at him when he entered the kitchen.
“You’re leaving early.”
“Traffic.”
She nodded.
She had made eggs for herself and tea for both of them. Kabelo sat at the table, careful not to lean too far back in his chair.
“You have everything?”
“Yes.”
She looked towards the folder under his arm.
“CV?”
“Yes.”
“Certificates?”
“Yes, Ma.”
She smiled.
“Okay.”
He smiled back.
She did not say Good luck.
Neither of them liked saying it before interviews.
It had begun to feel like tempting something.
Instead, when he stood to leave, she said:
“Travel safely.”
“You too.”
She looked at him.
“I’m staying here.”
That made them both laugh.
It was the first time he had laughed that morning.
The first taxi was already crowded.
Kabelo found a seat near the back and held his folder against his knees.
The driver pulled away before the sliding door had properly closed.
Outside, the morning moved past in fragments.
Schoolchildren in uniforms.
A woman balancing shopping bags against her legs.
Men in reflective jackets waiting at a corner.
A security guard unlocking the gate of an office park.
People carrying coffee.
People looking at watches.
People going somewhere they had gone before.
Kabelo had once disliked routine.
At his previous job, he used to complain about waking up at the same time every morning, taking the same route, seeing the same faces in the lift.
Now he watched people disappear into office buildings and wondered what it felt like to know where you were expected.
The taxi stopped at a robot.
A man selling phone chargers moved between the cars.
The light changed.
Everyone continued.
The building was cooler than he expected.
The receptionist gave him a visitor’s badge and asked him to sit.
There were three other people waiting.
One was wearing a navy-blue suit.
Another had brought a leather briefcase.
A woman near the window was reading something on her phone and mouthing the words silently.
Kabelo looked at the clock.
9:37.
He crossed one leg over the other.
Uncrossed it.
Looked again.
9:41.
A door opened.
A man called his name.
“Mr Mokoena?”
Kabelo stood.
“Yes.”
The interview lasted just under forty minutes.
They asked about his previous work.
He told them.
They asked how he handled pressure.
He answered.
They asked him about a problem he had solved.
He told them about something that had gone wrong at his last job and how he had stayed late with two colleagues until they found a way through it.
One of the interviewers wrote something down.
Another smiled.
At one point they asked where he saw himself in five years.
Kabelo paused.
Then smiled.
“Hopefully working,” he said.
For half a second, nobody spoke.
Then one of them laughed.
The others did too.
“So,” Kabelo added, “hopefully growing with the company.”
That sounded better.
When it was over, the man at the centre of the table stood and shook his hand.
“You’ve got a good background.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Outside, Kabelo stood beneath the shade of the building for a moment before walking towards the taxi rank.
The sun was already hot.
He loosened his tie.
Then checked his phone.
Nothing.
He put it back in his pocket.
The interview had gone well.
He thought it had.
Sometimes, we do not put on new clothes to become someone else. Sometimes, we put them on to remember who we have always been.
That evening, his younger sister came home later than usual.
She worked at a pharmacy across town and often arrived tired, dropping her handbag onto the couch before she had even taken off her shoes.
She found him in the kitchen.
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Good.”
She opened the fridge.
“Good-good?”
He looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
She took out a bottle of water.
“They liked you?”
“I think so.”
“Then?”
“Then nothing. It’s an interview.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
A moment later, she said:
“You’ll get something.”
Kabelo opened the cupboard and took out two glasses.
“Don’t start.”
“What?”
“You know.”
She poured the water.
“I was just saying.”
“I know.”
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Then she told him about a customer at work who had argued with her over the price of toothpaste.
By the time she finished the story, Kabelo was laughing.
Later, when he went to his room, his phone was still beside him.
He checked his email before sleeping.
Nothing.
On Friday morning, one of his former classmates posted a photograph in their WhatsApp group.
He was standing beside a new car.
The caption read:
God is good. New chapter.
The messages began arriving almost immediately.
Congratulations, brother.
You deserve it.
Big things.
Proud of you.
Kabelo added a clapping emoji.
Then:
Congratulations, man. You worked for it.
The classmate replied with a string of praying hands.
A few minutes later, another message appeared.
Kabelo, and you? Still doing your thing?
He stared at it.
He knew the man who had sent it.
They had studied together.
There was no cruelty in the question.
That almost made it worse.
Kabelo began typing.
Stopped.
Deleted the sentence.
Typed again.
Still looking for the right opportunity.
He sent it.
A thumbs-up appeared beneath the message.
Then someone posted a joke.
The conversation moved on.
Kabelo put his phone face down on the table.
His mother walked past the doorway carrying a basket of washing.
“Are you coming to Auntie Nomsa’s on Sunday?”
He looked up.
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I might.”
She waited.
“Come for lunch.”
He smiled.
“We’ll see.”
She knew what we’ll see meant.
She continued down the passage without saying anything else.
The email arrived eleven days after the interview.
Kabelo was sitting at the kitchen table.
He had been changing a section of his CV for another application when his phone vibrated.
He saw the company’s name.
For a moment, he did nothing.
His tea stood beside him, untouched.
Then he opened the email.
He read it.
Once.
Then again.
Afterwards, he placed the phone face down.
The kettle had left a ring of water on the table.
He wiped it away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Then he picked up his tea and took a sip.
Cold.
He stood.
Washed the cup.
Rinsed it twice.
Placed it upside down beside the sink.
Only then did he go back to his room.
The suit was hanging where he had left it.
He stood in front of the cupboard for a while.
Then closed the door.
The next interview was three weeks later.
This time he left the house without telling anyone where he was going.
His mother was in the garden.
His sister was asleep after an early shift.
He put on the suit.
Checked the folder.
Locked the door quietly behind him.
The interview was on the other side of the city.
He took two taxis.
By the time he arrived, his shirt was sticking slightly to his back.
The reception area was larger than the first one.
There were chairs along two walls.
Eleven people were waiting.
Maybe more.
Kabelo took the last empty chair.
Across from him, a young man adjusted his tie.
Beside him, a woman held a folder against her chest.
Someone’s phone rang.
A receptionist asked them to silence it.
Nobody spoke.
Kabelo looked around the room.
For the first time, he wondered how many cupboards across the city held suits like his.
Suits kept for interviews.
Shoes polished for one morning.
Folders filled with copies of lives that people hoped someone else would need.
The thought stayed with him.
Then his name was called.
That Saturday, the boy from next door knocked on the door just after lunch.
Kabelo was outside, sitting on an upturned bucket while fixing the loose handle on the gate.
The boy stood on the pavement holding two pieces of paper.
“Uncle Kabelo.”
Kabelo looked up.
“What happened?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
The boy held out the papers.
“My CV.”
Kabelo wiped his hands on his trousers.
“You’re seventeen. What CV?”
The boy smiled.
“It’s for that youth programme at the mall.”
Kabelo took the papers.
The first page was crowded with words.
The second page was worse.
He looked at the boy.
“Did you write all this?”
“My cousin helped.”
“Your cousin hates you.”
The boy laughed.
“Come.”
They sat at the kitchen table.
For the next hour, Kabelo crossed things out.
Moved sentences.
Changed words.
Asked questions.
“What do you actually like doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I like computers.”
“Good. Write that.”
The boy hesitated.
“But I don’t know much.”
“Who asked you if you know everything?”
The boy looked at him.
Kabelo pointed at the page.
“Just say what you know.”
They worked through the afternoon.
Eventually, the boy leaned back.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I think it’s better.”
“It is better.”
The boy folded the papers.
Then, just before leaving, he stopped at the door.
“Uncle Kabelo?”
“Yes?”
“What if they ask me why they should choose me?”
Kabelo was quiet for a moment.
Then he pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
The boy sat.
“First thing,” Kabelo said, “don’t panic.”
“Okay.”
“Second thing, don’t try to sound like someone else.”
“Okay.”
“Tell them what you can do.”
The boy frowned.
“But what if it’s not enough?”
Kabelo looked towards the window.
Outside, a taxi passed slowly down the street.
He could hear music coming from somewhere beyond the houses.
He turned back to the boy.
“That’s their question to answer.”
The boy looked at him.
Then nodded.
They practised until the sun began to go down.
That evening, Kabelo stood in his room with the cupboard open.
The suit was there.
He took it out and hung it over the chair.
The boy’s interview was on Monday.
Kabelo looked at the jacket.
He noticed a loose thread near one of the buttons.
He found a small pair of scissors and cut it off.
Then he hung the suit back inside the cupboard.
Carefully.
As always.
Outside, someone called a child home.
A gate slammed.
A dog barked twice and then stopped.
Tomorrow, Kabelo would probably check the job sites again.
There were still applications waiting to be completed.
A company he had emailed the week before had not responded.
Another deadline was coming.
The week would begin as weeks had begun before.
He closed the cupboard.
The suit disappeared behind the door.
And somewhere next door, a seventeen-year-old was practising how to answer questions about his future.
Sit with these questions for a moment.
Notice which question stays with you.
You don't have to answer it today.
Stay with this story for a moment.
Have you ever found yourself waiting for something that seemed to take longer than you expected?
“After my divorce, I kept asking when life would feel normal again. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t lost – I was simply learning to travel a different road.”
Zanele
Gqeberha
What helps a person hold on to their sense of dignity when life is not moving in the direction they hoped?pause and reflect to the story
