The Lesson
I’m not angry... not at you, not at fate, not at the knife you slid between my ribs, slow, deliberate, like a lover’s hand tracing the spine of a dying romance.
Identity
The Lesson
By MoAfrika Skotch Ntilane — 15 May 2025
I’m not angry... not at you, not at fate, not at the knife you slid between my ribs, slow, deliberate, like a lover’s hand tracing the spine of a dying romance. Each movement, precise, measured, and yet somehow intimate. You did not scream, nor shout, nor demand, you merely existed in that moment, and I felt the echo of your presence more than the pain itself.
You only taught me what I needed to know, that trust is a borrowed cigarette, lit in the wind, smoked too fast, burning out before warmth ever settles. I thought I could hold it longer... I thought I could bend your heart to the rhythm of mine, like water shaping stone. But water, as gentle as it is, cannot force stone to yield. And you were stone. And I... I was only ever water.
I should’ve known better... now I do. Your betrayal wasn’t a wound, it was a mirror, showing me where I had built walls too high, where I had given love in silence, where I had sacrificed presence for endurance.
So I stand, finally, unburdened, in the stillness of my own being, a witness to my own survival. The lesson is no longer yours to deliver... it has become mine to embrace. And in this, I have found peace, not triumph, not victory, but a gentle, enduring quiet that speaks louder than any anger ever could.
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