Before

Do you know what's annoying—no, aggravating is a better word. Anyway, do you know what's aggravating? Finding out your boyfriend of (almost) two years has been two-timing you with your cousin, that's what. And it's not like our relationship was on the rocks or anything. It was good—it seemed good. Guess I was wrong. Sure, I wasn't the perfect girlfriend, but I tried my best. For him, my best wasn't enough.

Even though I've titled this account of my actions 'The Revenge of Delilah Nzimande', it's not just about what I did to my ex and snobbish cousin. I guess you can say it's about the events leading up to what I did.

It was the week before our two-year anniversary. He was sick. I wanted to do something special and surprise him with my father's chicken soup (he loved it). Jabu's (my ex-boyfriend) family was out of town for the weekend so I knew he'd be alone.

With a Tupperware dish filled with soup in my hands, I pressed the front doorbell. After a few seconds, I pressed it again. After two minutes, I knocked loudly and started to call his name. I thought he was asleep so I gently kicked over the 'Welcome' mat and retrieved the extra key that was kept there. Keeping it there wasn't particularly smart, but without it I would probably still be dating him.

So I unlocked the door and went inside. The first thing that alarmed me was the loud gqom music blaring around the house. The source of the music obviously came from upstairs. Clicking my tongue, I shook my head. Even when sick, he had enough energy to listen to loud gqom.

Personally, I'd never been a fan of gqom; it was repetitive and annoying (still is, to be honest). I took off my combat boots, revealing my burgundy socks, and made my way to the carpeted staircase. Each step I took, the music only became louder. It gave me a headache.

By the time I was standing in front of his door I was ready to pound on it, telling him to switch it off. Before I could, I heard something strange. It was high-pitched—like a giggle. You should see where this is heading.

I didn't knock. The thought had crossed my mind, but it was a sliver of a thought—nothing too big.

"Jabu?" I said as I opened his bedroom door.

And there. The sound of priceless china shattering—yes, my heart. It felt like I was stuck in a cliché teenage movie and I couldn't find my way out. Let me draw the scene for you: my topless boyfriend on his bed with my petite cousin wearing nothing but lace undergarments. What a scene it was.

They froze like statues, limbs tangled, hair messy, breaths heavy.

My eyes met my cousin's first. Hers were wide with shock. I didn't see the shame that I expected. But when my eyes slithered over to Jabu, I noticed his eyebrows were furrowed and he was gnawing on his bottom lip. He was ashamed . . . he had the audacity to be ashamed!

I don't really remember what happened after that. It was all a blur. I felt tears sting my eyes like I hadn't closed them in a while and the next thing I knew I was throwing lukewarm soup over them. Maybe there was arguing in between.

On the walk back home, I held the Tupperware dish close to my chest. I had never been so confused. I felt sad and angry and disappointed. Really, I felt wronged. There was a deep part of me that wanted to right that wrong.

I stopped walking when the idea struck me. I was in the middle of crossing the street but there were no cars.

Revenge. I had to get revenge.

And I guess this is where the story really starts.

The first step of my revenge plan was to tell my parents that my cousin was sleeping with Jabu. And how did that benefit me? Well, the thing about African parents was that they could not keep their mouths shut. Not even a minute after informing my parents about my situation, I heard my mother call her sister and tell her about her 16-year-old daughter doing very naughty things with my 18-year-old ex.

Aunt Zama was the epitome of a devout Christian. She was practically a nun. Knowing her, she wasn't going to let Yandisa out of her sight until she turned 25. And maybe she'd get a few whippings.

After my mother's heated conversation with Aunt Zama, I heard her say, "Maryanne! You will not believe what your son did to my daughter!"

Maryanne was Jabu's mother.

Even though the first step of my plan was a success, I couldn't bring myself to smile. The wound was still too fresh. By Monday, I planned to get over it. I had to.

On Sunday afternoon, I told my friends about what happened on Saturday. I knew they would shun Jabu. Looking back at that, it was a little cruel but at that moment in time I didn't care. I wanted him to hurt; I wanted my cousin to hurt. It was fair, wasn't it?

After finishing my homework, I decided to write down my revenge plan into my diary. I hadn't written in my diary in almost five years and in all honesty, I didn't know where it was. I settled for a piece of wrinkled paper that I'd be able to carry with me. In my room, there was a window that overlooked the street and the house next to ours.

I plopped down on the cushiony window seat and began to jot down ideas. It took me a solid half an hour to think of anything good.

Nibbling on my pen, I began to criticise my plan. It was good, but something was missing—a link to make this possible. Then I heard a car pull into my neighbour's driveway.

Distracted, I looked out the window. Leaving the car was the Moore's. They were a typical, suburban family. They reminded me of those families you'd find in not-so-funny sitcoms.

There was the father. He was a tall, lanky man who wore thinly rimmed glasses. He was a doctor. The wife was bubbly, blonde and beautiful. It was obvious she was a pre-school teacher.

The little girl was no older than thirteen, but she wore clothes that were a bit too revealing for her age. She was a spoiled brat and was nothing like her mother. She did share the same blonde hair though.

Then there was the boy. He was in my school, but in a higher grade. He was quiet and . . . I guess you could say different. He had '90s Leonardo DiCaprio hair, but black and he wore glasses. Guessed he got his dad's poor eyesight.

For some odd reason, some girls thought he was hot. I couldn't see it. Every time I saw him at school, he was hunched over a book or walking with his head down.

Shaking my thoughts away, I observed the Moore family. The mother and father were taking out the groceries from the boot. The girl was typing away on her phone, ignoring the world around her.

The boy, however, was bouncing on his heels and wiping his hands on his black jeans. Curious, I leaned closer to the window. He said something to his dad. The father nodded and reached into his back pocket. He handed something to his son. The boy smiled and ran back to the car.

Ah, I thought, they're car keys.

He climbed into the driver side of the car and a few seconds later the car started. He reversed out the driveway and drove down the road. Cool, he had a driver's license.

Realising that I was being a creep, I leaned away from the window and looked down at my piece of paper. It was then that the idea struck me. The only reason why the plan wasn't complete was because I didn't have a ride to get me to certain places. I was still sixteen, so driving wasn't going to be possible.

But there was a boy next door who could help me. I just prayed that he would.

I quickly scribbled down: in order for this to work, I need the Moore boy!