The Third Wedding: The Fall of Musa Mseleku’s Bloodline

Musa Mseleku stood at the edge of his empty living room, the silence so thick it felt like velvet suffocating his lungs.

The walls, once adorned with laughter and family portraits, now echoed only the hollow thud of his own heartbeat.

He had not attended his sister’s wedding.

Not the first.

Not the second.

And now, not the third.

Each absence was a wound, but this—this was an amputation.

His phone vibrated, a serpent’s hiss in the darkness.

A message flashed: “She’s married again.

You missed it.

The words sliced through him, brutal and cold, like glass pressed into skin.

Mamgobhozi, his sister, the wild bird who refused any cage, had tied herself to another man, another promise, another cycle.

He remembered her as a child, eyes blazing, defiant even then.

She had always danced on the edge of storms, courting chaos like a lover.

But weddings were supposed to be sacred, a ritual of continuity.

Three times?
It felt unnatural, a glitch in the family’s DNA.

The community whispered.

They said Musa was losing control.

They said the Mseleku bloodline was cursed, unraveling at the seams.

He could feel their judgment, heavy as a shroud.

He had built his reputation on tradition, on stability, on the unbreakable bonds of family.

Now, the world was watching him falter.

His hands trembled as he poured himself a drink.

The liquor burned, but not enough to cauterize the ache.

He remembered the first wedding, years ago.

She wore white, but her eyes were already searching for escape.

He had tried to warn her.

He had tried to stop her.

But she was a storm, and he was only a man.

The second wedding was quieter, almost a secret.

No music, no dancing.

Just vows spoken in whispers, like confessions or crimes.

He didn’t go.

He couldn’t.

He told himself it was for her own good.

But the truth was uglier.

He was afraid.

Afraid of what her choices said about him.

Afraid of the mirror she held up to their family.

Now, the third wedding was everywhere.

Reality TV shows.

YouTube thumbnails.

13,207 views and counting.

The spectacle of their private shame, broadcast for strangers to consume.

He saw her face in the video, radiant and reckless.

She was laughing.

He wondered if she was happy, or just playing her part in the circus.

The comments were hidden.

Restricted Mode.

But he knew what they would say.

They would tear her apart.

They would tear him apart.

He felt exposed, like a king stripped naked before his court.

No crown, no scepter, just vulnerability.

He remembered the stories his father used to tell.

About pride.

About legacy.

About the weight of a name.

He had always believed he could carry it.

But now, it felt like a curse.

He stared at the wedding photos online.

Her new husband looked nervous, as if he knew he was stepping into a haunted house.

Mamgobhozi’s smile was sharp, almost predatory.

She was the spider at the center of her own web.

He wondered what she wanted.

Was it love?
Was it escape?
Was it revenge?
He thought about reaching out.

He thought about forgiveness.

But the distance between them was a chasm, filled with years of silence and disappointment.

He felt the world shifting beneath his feet.

The traditions he had clung to were crumbling, swept away by the flood of modernity.

His sister was not the only one breaking rules.

Everyone was.

He was just the last to admit it.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember her laugh, before the weddings, before the scandals, before the world turned their pain into entertainment.

He tried to remember who he was before all this.

He found nothing.

Just echoes and shadows.

He wondered if Mamgobhozi felt the same.

Or if she had found something he never could.

He wanted to hate her.

He wanted to blame her.

But all he felt was envy.

She was free.

She was fearless.

She was willing to burn everything down for a chance at happiness.

He was still trapped, still performing, still pretending.

The phone rang.

A reporter, hungry for a quote.

He hung up.

He was tired of being the villain in someone else’s story.

He looked at his reflection in the window.

He saw a man unraveling, a dynasty collapsing.

He saw the end of something ancient and sacred.

He saw the beginning of something terrifying and new.

He wondered if anyone would remember his name.

He wondered if it mattered.

He wondered if, in some other life, he could have been the hero.

Or at least, the brother.

He poured another drink.

The night pressed in, thick and relentless.

He waited for the storm to pass.

But he knew it never would.

Not for him.

Not for Mamgobhozi.

Not for the Mseleku bloodline.

The world was watching.

And the show was far from over.