Growing up as the middle child, sandwiched between an older and a younger sister, I often felt like the negotiator in the family. My dad had this rule: the only time any of us would leave his house was on the day we got married. For a long time, I genuinely thought I’d be living with my parents forever.
When I started my corporate career, I was still under their roof. My life felt like a juggling act, especially since most of my gay friends lived in Pretoria. Visiting them meant spinning a web of little lies to my parents about where I was going and who I’d be with. Back then, I didn’t feel like I had another option.
One friend, Alice, had a dog named Michael. That small fact became my lifeline. When I wanted to visit Pretoria for the weekend, I’d tell my mom, “I’m staying with Alice and Michael.” In their minds, Alice and Michael sounded like a nice, straight couple. It worked, and for a while, I was able to live this double life.
Eventually, though, my dad gave me the green light to move into a flat in Fourways. It was liberating but also daunting-finally having my own space meant stepping out from under the protective shadow of home and family expectations. Around that time, I met someone. Bev worked at a restaurant, and between her night shifts and my 9-to-5, finding time for each other wasn’t easy. But we made it work.
One night, I was staying with Bev in Pretoria. She wanted to go dancing, but I’d decided to skip it-I had to be up early for work the next day. I went to bed, planning for an uneventful night. That plan shattered just after midnight when someone came running down the passage, waking me up. Bev had been in a car accident.
She was in a hospital somewhere in Pretoria, and I needed to get to her. I scrambled to pack my things, throw them into the car, and head out. As I drove through Sunnyside, I passed a church engulfed in flames. The scene burned itself into my memory-apparently, squatters inside had knocked over a candle, sparking the fire. It felt like a surreal backdrop to an already chaotic night.
When I finally got to the hospital, I learned that the seat Bev had been sitting in was the one I would’ve taken if I’d gone with her that night. That realization hit hard. It could’ve been me in that hospital bed. It could’ve been my parents getting a call in the middle of the night, completely blindsided, finding out I was in another city, injured, with no idea how or why I was even there.
That night was a turning point for me. I remember sitting there, trying to process everything-the lies, the double life, the risks I was taking, and the people I was keeping in the dark. What was I doing? And more importantly, who was I becoming? It wasn’t just about the lies anymore; it was about the kind of life I wanted to live. Did I want to keep hiding? Did I want to keep bending the truth, not just for my parents but for myself?
That night, I made a decision: no more lying. It was time to start living authentically, no matter how uncomfortable or complicated it might be. Looking back now, I’m grateful for that wake-up call. It wasn’t just a close call; it was the universe giving me a nudge (or maybe a shove) to take a good, hard look at myself and make a change. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.
Life has a way of teaching us lessons when we least expect them. That night in Pretoria taught me one of the most important ones: the lies we tell to protect ourselves often end up hurting us the most.