Between Kin and Sin

Bound by blood. Torn by desire.

By Mbali Mbatha
Between Kin and Sin

Copyright © 2025 by Mbali M.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the author, except in case of brief quotations or scholarly work.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either products of the authors imagination or used fictiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is
purely coincidental.

Author’s note;
This book marks a deeply personal milestone for me, my very first book!
This is my debut book, a journey that started as a whisper to my heart.
Writing it has been both a challenge and a revelation, I poured pieces of
myself into every page.
To the one who sparked this story; thank you. Your existence was the
beginning of a beautiful narrative I never expected to write.
And to you, dear reader, thank you for giving this story a chance. Your time,
attention, and imagination mean the world to me. May every paragraph
leave a petal in your soul.
With all my heart, and ink,
Mbali Mbatha.

Please do like and follow my Facebook page Petals and Paragraphs by

Mbali M.

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Prologue

They say I was born under a stubborn star, a child who never cried, only
stared. I remember things people say children shouldn’t. Like the way my
mother looked away when someone called me special, and how my
grandmother, Nomvula, would smile tightly and change the subject.
But the story doesn’t begin with me. It begins with Gogo.
At sixty-two, her belly began to swell. At first, everyone thought it was an
illness. A growth, maybe. Even nurses whispered “cancer”. But it wasn’t. It
was life. A miracle they called it. A scandal, some dared to say behind their
doors. A woman her age, bearing a child? It was unthinkable. Yet, there he
was. Umbilical cord and all.

My uncle.

Zwelinzima.

Five years older than me. A name heavy with meaning: born of hardship.

We were raised more like cousins than anything else. I was older in spirit,
he was always quiet, a shadow in his own story. Gogo adored him. Maybe
because she knew her time was borrowed, and he was her last chapter.

He didn’t grow up with us. After Gogo and mkhulu passed when we were
still small, he left with Uncle Bhekizitha, Gogo’s oldest son. I only saw him
once every few years. Long limbs, broad shoulders, his voice slower than
memory. He was always kind. But distant. Like a guest in his own home.
Back then, I never imagined he’d be the one to unravel my world.

Not yet.

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Chapter 1

Zamanje Mfeka

Phumzile, my mother, never had it easy, life was never kind to her. At
sixteen years old she was shipped off to the Mfekas. Forced to marry a man
twenty years older than her, My father. Out of all her siblings, she was the
only one who was never sent to school. She was domesticated, taught how
to be a wife.

I had to grow up watching my aunts, my father’s sisters, mistreating her.

She would always hide it from me but at times she cried.

When I was seven, my whole world changed. My mother was thrown out of
her marital home, chased out by my father’s family like a dog in the street.
She came back to eDumbe with nothing but a swollen belly and my hand in
hers. Pregnant with Vezamandla and carrying shame that was never hers to
bear.

We moved into Gogo and Mkhulu’s house, but it was no refuge. Mkhulu
never hid his resentment. He called Ma a disgrace. Lazy. A burden.
Umabuya emendweni. I heard the words, the slurs, the accusations. Every
day, she worked like a slave just to earn her keep in a home she was born
into. I watched her fold in on herself while still managing to make sure we
were clean, fed, and loved. She gave us everything, even when she had
nothing to give.

Every time Mkhulu came back with food, he would keep it for his wife and
son, Zweli. Gogo and Zweli would sometimes sneak food for Vezamandla,
and I when he wasn’t looking or not home.

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I was eight years old when Gogo and Mkhulu died. A big funeral. My aunt
and uncles had to make sure their parents got a send-off they deserved. It
was the first time we had eaten that week, the first time we had proper food
in months. Aunt Phumelele bought us new clothes for the funeral, we had
to look presentable, so we won’t embarrass her in front of her colleagues.

Zweli came to me after the funeral, we had gotten close this past year since
we moved back here. He held me and promised to never let me go.

I believed him.

After that, the house emptied. Aunt Phumelele and Uncle Skhundla went
back to the cities, back to their lives. Uncle Bhekizitha also left, he took
Zweli with him.

“I’ll come back for you, I promise!” He shouted from the back of the bakkie.

The first promise he broke.

They didn’t offer to help Ma. Didn’t look back.

We stayed. Just the three of us.

There were months we went to bed on nothing but sugar water. Ma would
take laundry from the neighbours, sometimes scrub floors at nearby farms.
Some days she came home with bruises and tears hidden under her doek.
Other days, nothing at all. But she never stopped trying.

That’s why I pushed so hard at school. Why I studied like my life depended
on it, because it did. I wanted to lift us out of that broken house with its
cracked walls and ghosts of family long gone. I wanted to give Ma a reason
to rest.

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And for a while, I thought I could.

Until the world reminded me, a degree doesn’t guarantee a job. And love
doesn’t always come gentle.

I’m a radiation oncologist by training, but for three years now, I’ve been
stuck behind this register in a dusty small town of Edumbe in KwaZulu-
Natal, scanning barcodes instead of scanning tumors. This is not where I
thought I would be at 26.

Yet despite it all, there’s that stubborn hope, a sangoma once told my
family that I’m the one who can change our fate. But with Gogo blocking the
way from beyond the grave, wanting the family reunited under her roof,
nothing ever feels straightforward. My mother, Phumzile, doesn’t want to
hear any of that. She hates her siblings and does not see herself reuniting
with any of them, especially Uncle Bheki. What she doesn’t understand is
that this does not affect them, but it affects us the most as we are the one’s
living in Gogo’s house.

“Zamanje!” A gravelly voice snaps me out of my usual daydream. It’s Aisha,

my supervisor. Her face is red, and she’s beyond herself with anger – maybe
it’s salt, sexual frustration does that do a person. “Yes?” I reply,
straightening my uniform and dusting the cash register. “Umsebenzini
lapha, ayikho phola park yaseShowe! Sebenza lapha!” she shouts with her
broken Zulu.

If I ever land a job in my field, I’ll buy this whole spaza of hers that she calls
a supermarket and pay for her BBL with the change!

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Life had a rhythm now, a tiring, repetitive rhythm. Wake up before sunrise,
sweep the yard, boil water in the three-legged pot outside to bathe, pack
lunch if there was any, and rush to catch the first taxi to town. The
supermarket opened at 08:00, but Aisha liked us there by 7:15. Said we
needed to mentally prepare for the day.

Eight hours of fake smiles, counting change, and saying “Thank you, please
call again”, even when I was on the verge of tears. Sometimes the machine
would jam. Other times customers would come in with attitudes already
packed from home.

Today, an older woman in a yellow doek slapped a packet of maize meal

and sugar onto the counter like it had insulted her.

“Your prices are too high! Y’all are thieves!” she shouted, voice echoing
through the store. I tried to stay calm. “I’m sorry really sorry, Gogo, but I
don’t decide on the prices—"

“Don’t talk back to me, wena ntombazane kaMfeka! You think I don’t see
you giving discounts to your friends? You girls with your fancy nails think
you can rob us blind! with your fancy education only to end up working as a
mere cashier! Nx.”

The whole line was watching now. My ears burned, But I wasn’t going to let
her talk down on me like that, not today.

“Ma’am,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level, “I don’t do discounts. This

isn’t my store. But if you have a loyalty card, I can scan it for points. Also,
my level of education should be the least of your worries, how about you
worry about your husband sleeping with every underage girl in the village?”

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Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

She scoffed and stormed off, mumbling insults about disrespectful

children. The next customer, a teenage boy with dyed hair whispered, “You
handled that well, sisi” and winked. I smiled weakly.

But Aisha wasn’t pleased. Of course she wasn’t. She called me into the
back during my lunch break.

“You’re getting too comfortable Zamanje” she said, arms folded, glossed
lips tight. “You don’t talk back to customers. Ever.

“I didn’t talk back. I just—”

“You don’t talk back!” she snapped. “Next time, call me. Don’t act like you
run the place.”

I wanted to argue, but what was the point? She is the manager. I am just
another desperate girl trying to make ends meet

By 17:00, my back was stiff, and my feet were swollen. I waited outside with
other girls from the village, all of us in tired uniforms and faded aprons. The
old Inyathi finally screeched to a stop, coughing black smoke as it groaned
open.

Inside it smelled of sweat, petrol, and tired dreams. The floor rattled with
every pothole, the windows barely closed. But it was R15, and it got me
home.

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The sun was dipping when I arrived. The dusty path from the stop to our
house was familiar, the dogs barking in the distance, kids chasing old tyres
with sticks, women laughing in the communal tap line.

Ma was outside, chopping wood for the fire, her pink doek halfway slipping
of her head.

“Molo ntombi”, she says, not looking up.

“Evening, Ma. Long day.” I sit on the grass mat beside her.

“What happened?”

I sigh. “A customer shouted at me. Aisha wasn’t happy I stood up for

myself.”

She paused, then handed me the axe. “Next time, just smile and apologize.
Some battles aren’t worth fighting. These people already think they are
better.”

“It was MaNgema”

“Kanti ileso salukazi? What does MaNgema want from me? She thinks just
because she has a few goats she is better than me and can shout at my
child? I will go to her tomorrow thula nje! Uzongazi kahle nezimbuzi
ezizacile!” she says ranting,

my mother can fight the whole village if they come for her.

“Imihlola yami dade, sizalela oMaNgema thina! She should be worried

about her daughter who is popping kids left right and centre from different
men!”

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“Anything to eat?” I say trying to change the subject.

She gives me a sad shrug. “We’ll boil rice. I’m hoping Veza brings
something”

Vezamandla is 19 now. He works two hills away, from dusk till dawn,
herding cattle for an old man named Bab’Nxamalala.

Almost on cue, Vezamandla come strolling in, dust clinging to his shoes, a
black plastic bag in hand

“My favourite women!” he says proudly, pulling out a chicken. “Some

woman on my way back asked me to fix her fence and paid me with this.”

We both grin

“I don’t think I can eat, I am very angry. But you can leave a thigh, drumstick
and the feet for me”

Vezamandla gives me a questioning look

“MaNgema happened” I tell him

“Can you believe that woman shouted at your sister at the supermarket in
public? Nx!” Ma says shaking her head

We sit around the fire—Ma, Veza and I, plucking feathers from the chicken
and sharing laughs. The is no electricity, no fancy meals, no security. But
there is warmth. There is family. There is survival.

And that, I suppose, is enough.

For now.

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I’m on my way home from another long day at Aisha’s hellhole, dragging my
tired feet through the dusty path that leads to our yard. The sun is hanging
low, painting the hills orange and gold. Normally, by this time, MaPhumi
would be outside on her grass mat, “sorting beans” with eagle eyes trained
on every neighbour’s gate. But today? The mat is empty. No humming. No
muttered gossip. No sign of her.

Strange.

I push open the door and step into the house. I find Vezamandla sitting on
the couch, staring into space.

“Oh, you’re back early,” I say, taking off my pumps and setting the plastic
with bread and milk on the table.

“Ah, Bab’Nxamalala let me go early. Said something about a family

emergency Olundi,” he mutters, still not looking at me.

“Oh? He trusts you with his cattle but not his house?” I tease.

“Let it go, sisi,” he replies, voice flat.

I shrug, pulling the electricity slip out of my bag. “Fine. I bought electricity,” I
say, handing it to him.

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“Where’s Ma?” I ask finally.

“She went to MaNgema’s house,” he says, eyes still fixed on nothing.

I stop. “She went where?”

He sighs, “MaNgema’s.”

“And you let her!?” I ask, panic rising.

“What was I supposed to do? You know how she gets when she’s ready for
war.”

He’s right.

As if on cue, we hear her before we see her. She is singing.

“Ujesu uyangenelela!

Uma ebona uSathane edlala ngomuntu wakhe!

Ujesu uyangenelela!”

She enters the yard like a victorious soldier, a Khonzekhaya bag slung over
her shoulder and a look of triumph on her face.

“Ma!” I say, standing up.

She throws herself dramatically onto the couch, wiping imaginary sweat
from her forehead like she’s just come from a battlefield.

“What is that, Ma?” Vezamandla asks, frowning.

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“Eyi! Awungiyeke ngemibuzo Vezamandla and close the door!” she snaps.

We exchange looks.

“Close the door? Why?” Veza presses.

She gives him the look — that ancestral stare that has generations of Langa
men shaking in their socks. He flies up and locks the door without another
word.

“Lock it!” she commands.

Now I’m worried.

She places the bag between her legs and starts unzipping it. My eyes
widen.

“Ma… is that a goat!?”

It bleats faintly.

It’s alive.

Legs tied.

“Where did you get a goat!?”

“I went to talk to MaNgema about what she did to you at work yesterday,”
she says casually, as if bringing home a living goat is part of the usual
clapback.

“And?” I ask cautiously.

“She gave me a goat,” she says.

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Now I’m staring at her.

“You expect me to believe that MaNgema, your sworn enemy, just handed
over a goat?”

“As a peace offering,” she says, dusting off her skirt. “She just doesn’t know
it yet.”

It clicks.

“Ma, you stole it!”

She waves a hand. “It was going to die anyway.”

“Veza, take it to the back and slaughter it. Make sure no one sees. Wena
Zamanje, go start a fire.”

“I bought electricity. We don’t need to cook outside.”

“Hhayi! I’m not wasting my electricity on MaNgema’s hardbody goat.

Phuthumani! There’s no time!”

Clap once.

MaPhumi never fails to surprise me.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, she brings home a goat like it’s a loaf
of bread.

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Zwelinzima Langa

Growing up in eDumbe, KwaZulu-Natal, was a life steeped in tradition and

quiet routine. Mornings began early, the crisp mountain air seeping through
our windows as Gogo stirred awake to prepare breakfast thick maize
porridge and fresh-baked bread. Outside, Mkhulu was already deep in his
morning prayers before tending to the livestock. My grandfather or rather,
my father was a deeply religious man, a devoted follower of Unyazi
LweZulu, and in our home, faith wasn’t optional. It was legacy.

He often said I was a gift from Unyazi himself. That’s how I got my name:
Zwelinzima Siphosonyazi Langa. A heavy name, especially for the youngest
of five. You’d think after four children Bhekizitha, Skhundla, Phumelele, and
Phumzile they’d be done. But then came me, the miracle.

My days were simple. Fetching water from the communal tap, helping in
the vegetable garden, and herding the cattle down the familiar dirt paths.
Childhood in eDumbe was not about toys or cartoons, it was duty, family,
and silence about certain truths. The morning of their funeral, I didn’t cry.
Not because I wasn’t sad but because I was still in shock. You see, they
died the same day I found out they were my real parents.

I grew up knowing Bhekizitha was my father and MaNgobese, his wife,

was my mother. It was MaZulu, our neighbour and village gossip, who
dropped the bomb, her voice dripping with glee like she’d been waiting for

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the perfect moment. “Awazi ukuthi uNomvula noSomaphunga abazali

bakho?” she said, casually, like she was commenting on the weather. The
world stopped. Everything I thought I knew about myself shattered in that
moment.

I went home immediately and asked ugogo and that’s when she and
mkhulu decided to sit me down and tell me the truth. They are my parents.

I ran. Literally. Out the yard, down the gravel road, lungs burning, heart
pounding. Mkhulu, sick as he was, must’ve panicked when he saw me go.
He climbed into his old red bakkie, the one that coughed more than it drove
and went after me. But he didn’t make it far. He had a stroke behind the
wheel and crashed near the big turn by the river. Died on impact.

Gogo heard the news and dropped where she stood. A heart attack. Just
like that, they were both gone.

Everyone says I killed them.

No one said it out loud, but I saw it in their eyes. In the way Phumzile looked
at me. In the way Skhundla’s wife didn't leave her kids alone with me.
Phumelele did not even talk to me. In the way they all whispered when I
walked into a room.

Nomvula noSomaphunga. My parents. And I never even got to call them

that.

But Bhekizitha, the man I’d called Baba my whole life, took me in like
nothing had changed. As if the truth hadn’t just wrecked everything I
believed in. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was duty, or maybe, just maybe, he
really did love me like a son. Either way, he made sure I had the best of

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everything. I went to private school in Vryheid, wore polished shoes and

buttoned shirts, while most of the boys back home wore hand-me-downs
and caught lifts on dusty bakkies.

He used to say, “You’re not meant for eDumbe, Zweli”. You think too much,
ask too much. You’re meant for more.”

But even in the comfort of that life, I never stopped thinking about her.

Zamanje.

My cousin. My niece. My something.

Her mother Phumzile, always so fierce. So angry at the world. And Veza, the
boy who barely spoke.

They stayed behind.

They stayed behind when everyone else moved forward.

After Mkhulu and Gogo’s funeral, the house stood like a tomb. Dead quiet.
Cold. Bhekizitha wanted nothing to do with it. He called it a place of
shadows and secrets. “Let the past rot with the dead,” he said. And that
was that.

We never went back.

I would think about that broken gate, the rusted tap, the cracked windows.
Wonder if Phumzile still swept the yard before sunrise. If Veza still chased
the goats down the valley. If Zamanje... still smiled like she used to. Bright,
wide, like she didn’t know what pain was yet.

But life moves fast when you have options.

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I had a bursary by the time I was sixteen. Accounting. Durban. The world
opened for me; clubs, women, money, ambition. I started businesses,
invested early, and before I turned twenty-five, I was living in a penthouse
with views of the ocean and problems that smelled like expensive perfume.

Still, some nights, I’d lie awake and think about the house on the hill.

The girl with the wild hair.

The mother with bitterness in her bones.

The brother who watched more than he spoke.

And I’d wonder if leaving them behind was the price of becoming who I am
now.

Or the mistake that would one day destroy me.

Because blood may dry,

But it never forgets.

Durban never sleeps. Not really. The city hums at a different frequency
money, movement, and momentum. And somehow, I fit right into its
rhythm.

The morning sun cuts through the blinds of my room in my double story
mansion in La Lucia. I sit on the edge of the bed, bare chest damp from the
steam of a hot shower, gold chain resting against my collarbone. My phone

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buzzes; calendar reminders, bank notifications, unread emails from

clients. Another day of being needed. I like that. It means control. And I like
control.

By 06:30, I’m in a tailored navy suit, grey turtleneck underneath, loafers

polished, my cologne subtle but sharp. A reflection of power. I walk out of
the house with a thermal cup of strong black coffee and no breakfast.
Hunger keeps me sharp.

Outside, my black BMW X6 M purrs as I unlock it remotely. I don’t play

music in the mornings. I let my thoughts do the talking.

Sometimes, they drift where I don’t want them to go, back to eDumbe.

Fourteen years.

I haven’t set foot in that village since I was seventeen.

The day they buried Gogo and Mkhulu, I left and only visited once four years
later, and never looked back. Everyone else scattered too, but I ran the
farthest. And the fastest.

And now I’m here — Zweli Langa. Accounting technician. Business owner.
Bachelor. Durban darling with fingers in many pies.

07:30 – Office

The firm is sleek; white floors, glass doors, and silent tension. I greet no
one. I don’t need to. My presence is acknowledged with quiet nods.

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My office has a view of the ocean. I don’t even look at it anymore.

I drown in numbers. Balance sheets. Forensic audits. Risk reports.

Everything predictable. Tidy. Contained.

Then she walks in.

Zakithi.

Head of Legal. Sharp-tongued, always in stilettos. She smells like tobacco,

vanilla, and trouble.

She doesn’t knock. She never does.

“Morning,” she purrs, closing the door behind her. Tight black pantsuit.
Crimson lips. Brazilian hair touching her curved buttocks.

“I need your signature on the Neduma file,” she says, but what she wants
isn’t paperwork. Her eyes wander. So do mine.

We’ve been at this… thing for a while now. She calls it fun. I call it nothing.
She hates that.

“You’re colder than usual today,” she says, arms folded.

“I’m always cold,” I shrug.

“You weren’t cold when you were in my bed on Friday.”

I say nothing. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, she leaves. Frustrated. I get back to my spreadsheets.

Lunch time, I check in at the shisanyama.

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It's near Kwamashu. The music's always loud, the grill always smoking.
Sipho, my manager, greets me with nervous energy. I run the books in the
backroom; costs up, profit margins tight, delivery guy behind on stock.

“Fix it,” I say. That’s all.

From there, I swing by the internet café I opened just outside Inanda. Small.
Functional. Mostly used by job-seekers and students.

Noma, the assistant, smiles too wide. She thinks I’m kind. She doesn’t
know me.

I correct her float count and leave.

Evening settles.

Back in my house, I pour whisky. The city glows beneath me. I stare into it.
Into everything I’ve built.

And still, my thoughts betray me.

I think of her.

Zamanje.

Last time I saw her, she was just a girl, braids too tight and dreams too big. I
wonder what she looks like now. What her voice sounds like.

Does she hate me?

Does she remember how we used to laugh by the river? How I’d sneak her
leftover jellybeans from Gogo’s kitchen?

I shake the thoughts off.

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She’s eDumbe.

That place is dead to me.

My phone buzzes.

Zakithi: “I’m outside.”

I let her in.

I don’t speak.

She kisses me.

We forget. Until morning.

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Chapter 2

Zwelinzima Langa

I dream of them often.

Gogo noMkhulu.

But never their faces. In every dream, their backs are turned. They’re always
walking away, slowly but never turning back. Never acknowledging me.
Bangiflathele.

I wake up with a tightness in my chest. The kind you carry all day, like
you’ve forgotten something important or left a door unlocked somewhere.

Bheki says I need to “let them go.” That it’s just my mind trying to process
grief. But it’s been years. And the dreams haven’t stopped.

Maybe it’s guilt.

It’s been 14 years since I last set foot emagcekeni akwaLanga. I always told
myself that when I was grown and no longer under Bheki’s care, I’d go back.
But after university, I moved from Stanger to Durban, got a job, started a
few businesses, and life swallowed me whole.

I let go of the promise I made to myself.

Maybe if I go back, step onto that soil, breathe that air the dreams will stop.

Maybe then, they’ll finally rest in peace.

Because right now, I know they’re not.

And neither am I.

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The morning sun cuts through the half-open blinds, strips of light slicing
across the room. I blink into the silence, the weight of the dream still heavy
on my chest. I turn my head.

Zakithi.

She’s lying next to me, sprawled under the white linen like she owns the
space. Her dark skin glows in the early light, lashes long, brows perfect. A
stunning woman; successful, smart, confident. A monster in bed.
Everything most men dream of.

But I feel… nothing.

No pull. No warmth. No peace.

Just the same dull ache I’ve woken up with every day for the past month.

I sit up, rubbing my face. My dreams have returned, same one every night.
My parents. Nomvula and Somaphunga. They’re standing in the mist, just
beyond reach, faces turned away. Refusing to look at me. Refusing to
speak.

I can hear the wind in the dreams. Can feel the dirt under my feet. Can feel
their rejection in my bones.

"You're up," Zakithi says, voice thick with sleep.

I glance over my shoulder at her. “Yeah. You should get dressed.”

She raises a brow, a small smile on her lips. “Throwing me out again?”

“I’ve got a meeting.”

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She hums, stretches, and rises from the bed with a confidence that only
women like her possess. She doesn’t argue. She knows what this is. No
promises. No strings. Just heat.

She disappears into the bathroom, and I reach for my phone.

It rings twice before he answers.

"Zwelinzima," Bhekizitha says, his voice low and unimpressed.

“I had the dream again.”

A long silence.

“Bhekizitha.”

“Siyazifaka kulezi zinto, mfana. It’s just a dream—”

“No. They still won’t look at me. It’s been a month, every night. It’s not just a
dream. You and I both know that.”

Another pause. I can hear him breathing, like he’s pacing.

“I’ll call Skhundla,” I say. “You might not care, but I’m not going to ignore it
anymore. Something is wrong. They’re trying to tell me something.”

“Zweli…”

“Don’t,” I say flatly. “Don’t dismiss me again.”

I end the call.

Zakithi walks out in heels and a blazer, spritzing perfume on her neck.

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“Good luck with your demons, Langa,” she says coolly as she grabs her
purse.

I don’t answer. Because deep down, I know it’s not demons I’m fighting.

It’s a curse. A calling. A truth I haven’t faced.

And I’m starting to believe… I’m running out of time.

I get up, groaning slightly as I stretch. The scent of last night still lingers in
the air - sweat, sex, wine, Zakithi’s expensive perfume. I strip the bed,
balling up the sheets and throwing them in the laundry basket. We had a
time last night. She always knew how to help me… release. But this
morning, I still feel tight in the chest. Like there’s something jammed
between my ribs. No amount of sex, whisky, or work can loosen it.

This is bigger than tension. It’s not about desire. It’s something deeper.
Heavier.

I shower, letting the hot water beat down on my shoulders. As I towel off, I
stare at my reflection. There’s something hollow in my eyes these days. Like
I’m walking around wearing a skin I haven’t quite grown into.

I dress in black jeans and a clean shirt, spritz on my cologne, the usual
routine. I was supposed to check on the shisanyama in KwaMashu, maybe
pass by the internet café after. Drop in at the office. Keep up appearances.

But my hands turn the steering wheel before I even realise what I’m doing.

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Instead of heading toward KwaMashu, I take the off-ramp that leads to

Vryheid, and from there, the long winding road toward eDumbe.

I haven’t been back in 14 years.

I told myself I’d never go back. Not after the funerals. Not after the
whispers. Not after being blamed for the very people who gave me life…
dying.

But something is pulling me.

A force I can’t explain.

As I pass familiar hills, patches of sugarcane, and roadside vendors with

crates of bananas and roasted mealies, my phone rings.

Bhekizitha.

I connect the call through the car.

“Sothole,” he says without a greeting.

I stay silent, letting him fill the silence.

“I spoke to Skhundla,” he sighs. “There’s a ceremony that must be done. An

unveiling. For uNomvula noSomaphunga. It’s overdue.”

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I knew it. This isn’t just guilt. It’s
ancestral.

“I’m on my way there,” I say.

Pause.

“You’re what?”
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“I’m driving to Dumbe, as we speak.”

He exhales heavily. “Kodwa Zweli… you haven’t been there since—”

“I know,” I cut him off. “But I have to.”

There’s a long pause before he says, “Skhundla said he’ll call Phumelele.
Let her know we’re coming. He and I will drive down Thursday.”

“Alright,” I say, eyes locked on the road ahead. “I’ll meet you guys there.”

The call ends.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m going somewhere I need to
be. Not just physically.

Spiritually.

Emotionally.

Home.

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Zamanje Mfeka

It’s a Sunday and It’s barely 5AM, and the sun is already biting at my
shoulders as I make my way down the familiar footpath leading to the river.
My back aches from the heavy basin balanced on my head, filled with dirty
clothes and a block of green sunlight soap tucked into the corner. My feet
are in worn-out flip-flops, toes covered in dust, and my face is coated in
white calamine. Hair tied back in messy sleeping braids and an old pink
pinafore hugging my hips.

This isn’t a scene for dreams. It’s a scene for survival.

The sound of rushing water and the smell of damp earth always brings me a
strange peace. This is the part of my life where things make sense. Here, I
don’t have to perform. I don’t have to explain. I just wash, rinse, and
breathe.

I kneel by the rocks and start scrubbing Vezamandla’s shirts first, dust-
stained and sweat-creased. As I lose myself in rhythm, I hear familiar
laughter approaching.

“Zamanje”

I look up and spot Zothile, my childhood best friend, balancing a bucket on

her hip like she was born to do it. She’s wearing a short summer dress and
a brown wedge heel that’s definitely seen better days. Her hair is a mess,
but her face glows with mischief.

“You look like a zombie,” she says, eyeing my calamine and burst into
laughter.

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“Better a zombie than a runaway like you,” I shoot back.

She plops next to me, stealing the bar of soap and dunking her own clothes
into the water.

“Guess where I slept last night?” she teases, eyes glinting.

“Don’t tell me—”

“Siphamandla’s rondavel.”

I gasp. “You’re kidding.”

“Hand to God. I told them I was going to my aunt in Mhlungwane. Next

thing, I’m sneaking through his window.”

“Zothile! You’re playing with fire.”

She grins wickedly. “And what a fire it was, chomi. That man knows things.
My legs were shaking the whole way back.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself.

“You’re going to get caught one of these days,” I warn.

“I’m careful. Unlike you,” she says, side-eyeing me. “Still untouched at
twenty-six. What are you waiting for, Zamanje? A ghost?”

“Not a ghost. A man. A real one.”

She groans, “Here we go again…”

Before I can defend myself, a voice interrupts us from behind.

“Makhosazane.”

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We both turn. Khumbulani Mhlongo. Brentwood pants, shirt tucked in, and
a pair of brand-new brown Carvellas that definitely don’t belong anywhere
near river sand. A gold chain peeks out from under his collar. His cologne is
heavy, the kind that announces you before your mouth even opens.

Zothile immediately straightens up, cheeks blooming red.

“Khumbu,” I greet flatly, already returning to my scrubbing.

“Ntokazi emhlophe,” he says, smiling like he’s God’s gift to women. “You
still pretending you don’t see me?”

“Not pretending,” I reply calmly. “Just… not interested.”

Zothile hides a giggle behind her hand, clearly enjoying the moment.

“You’re wasting your beauty here, girl. I could take you to Johannesburg.
Show you life. Show you love,” he says, crouching beside me.

I don’t even look up. “I have laundry to do, Khumbu.”

He chuckles like I’m joking, then stands, dusts off his pants unnecessarily,
and looks between me and Zothile. “Your friend is stubborn.”

Zothile grins. “She’s a lost cause.”

Khumbu shrugs and walks off, his shoes clicking dramatically on the
stones. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Zothile turns to me, smacking my
arm.

“Are you mad? Do you know how many girls would kill to be with him? He’s
the most eligible bachelor in Dumbe!”

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“He’s a taxi driver in Johannesburg with Brentwoods and a temporary

contract at his cousin’s scrapyard.”

“So what? He’s better than being broke and alone.”

I sigh and rinse the soap from my hands.

“I don’t want better, Zothile. I want what’s mine. A man who sees me. All of
me. Not some peacock trying to impress village girls.”

She gives me a long look, lips pressed.

“You keep holding out like this, you’re going to die a virgin, I swear.”

I laugh. “Maybe. But I believe there’s someone out there for me. And when
he comes, he’ll sweep me off my feet, not try to buy me with chicken dust
and fake gold chains.”

Zothile rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You and your fantasy men.”

“Not fantasy,” I say quietly. “Faith.”

We wash in silence after that. The sun climbs higher, the water cools our
legs, and in that stillness, I realise, maybe I’m not waiting for love.

Maybe I’m waiting for him.

Whoever he is.

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The washing is finally done. My arms ache from all the scrubbing, and my
back feels like it’s aged fifty years, but Zothile’s stories kept the mood light.
We walk up the footpath, buckets balanced on our heads, laundry bags in
hand.

“I’ll see you later,” she says with a wink. “Don’t forget to dream about your
mystery man!”

“Shut up!,” I laugh, waving her off as she turns into her yard.

When I get home, the yard is quiet except for the soft scraping sound of
dried grass being pulled and woven. My mother is sitting under the shade
of the guava tree, working on one of her beautiful grass mats. Her fingers
move with such skill, like they’ve been doing this since birth which,
knowing Phumzile, they probably have.

“I’m back,” I say, setting down the basin.

She looks up briefly. “Sawubona. Uhlulekile yini uKhumbulani nawe? He

passed here earlier, looking like he bathes in cologne.”

I roll my eyes. “He tried again. Anginandaba naye, Ma.”

She chuckles. “You’re too picky.”

“I’m not picky. I just… I’m not settling.”

I love this about my mother, she has never been on my case about
marriage, she says I must enjoy my life and get married when I want to.

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Inside the house, I find a small plastic bag with chicken feet and a packet
of maize meal. Vezamandla must’ve dropped it off while I was gone. My
heart warms a little. That boy, shame, he tries. Always stretching that R50
to make sure we eat.

Before I start cooking, I set up the three-legged pot outside and light a
small fire beneath it. The smoke swirls lazily as the water begins to heat. I
duck into the house to change out of my washing pinafore and wipe off the
calamine from my face. My hair’s still in sleeping braids, but I tie a doek
and head back out.

“Mama,” I say, dropping next to her, “what’s the gossip today?”

She doesn’t skip a beat. “You know Thembelihle? uMaDlamini’s daughter?

The quiet one?”

I nod.

“She’s pregnant. Five months. They say it’s that married security guard
from the clinic.”

My mouth drops. “That old man with three kids?”

“The very one. They say he’s promised to leave his wife. But you know these
men…”

We both chuckle. Phumzile thrives on village gossip like it’s her morning
tea.

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As she weaves, she tells me about Nokwanda being chased from her
boyfriend’s home by his wife, and how Nomcebo's goat caused a scene at
the market, chewing someone’s airtime vouchers.

This is our peace. The fire crackling, pot boiling, gossip flowing. Despite the
struggle, there’s a rhythm to this life; quiet, resilient, soft in its own way.

And tonight, we’ll eat pap and chicken feet like it’s a feast. Because when
you’ve had hunger, you know how to honour the little that arrives.

And in the back of my mind, I can’t help but think: maybe the man I’m
waiting for is already on his way. Or maybe… just maybe… he already
walked into my store.

It’s a random Tuesday at work, and I can’t wait to clock off and go home.
Working here is a nightmare and what’s worse is that it’s just the beginning
of the week. By Saturday, I’ll be as dead as Aisha’s sex life.

I’m slouched behind the till, phone in hand, scrolling through the Umgosi
waseDumbe Facebook page. There’s a post about a girl from our village
pregnant with the bishop’s baby. Hayi, I can’t wait to knock off now. I
already know my mother has the full scoop. Nothing escapes Phumzile.
That one is more updated than the admin of the page itself.

I feel a shift in the air. A presence. Can’t be Anwaar, Aisha’s ex-husband

turned predator. Last I heard, he was rotting in jail for what he did to their
daughter. Five years old. He had the nerve. With his thumb-sized dick. I

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won’t even get into how I know that. Some men with disabilities just
overshare, shem.

I lift my head, expecting some bored customer or maybe a new delivery.

But instead, I see him.

My breath catches.

"Zweli?" I blurt, blinking like my eyes are playing tricks on me.

He smirks. "Ja tonqo, usaphila?"

That voice. Deep. Mellow. Manly. Time has clearly done him favours. He’s
thirty-one now. I haven’t seen him since he was seventeen, the last time
Uncle Bheki dragged him back home for that awkward visit. That feels like
lifetimes ago.

“What are you doing here? How did you even know I work here?” I ask, still
caught between shock and disbelief.

He laughs lightly. “Still the same old inquisitive Zamanje, I see. Come give
your old man a hug.”

Old man? No ways. My knees almost give in.

I hug him. I feel a tingling sensation a strong feeling I’ve never felt for any
man before. Definitely a feeling I shouldn’t have for my uncle! I let go, and
he puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Still short? Kanti ukhula nini?” he says, laughing, and I join in, playfully
hitting his hands. He always teased me about my height.

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He looks good, slim fit black jeans, a white t-shirt, and white sneakers.
He’s done well for himself. He smells heavenly! The last time I stalked him,
he was an accounting technician, he was always obsessed with numbers
and money growing up.

“How’s my sister, uPhumi?” he asks.

“You know she doesn’t like that, to you she’ll always be Aunty Phumzile,” I
say, laughing. He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aunty Phumzile it
is then. And she’s still holding the family fort, I see.”

I nod, feeling a mix of pride and frustration. “She’s stubborn, but she’s
trying. The house is still hers.”

He looks around the store like seeing it for the first time. “This place suits
you… better than the family home maybe?” I shrug, brushing a stray hair
behind my ear. “It pays the bills, but it’s not what I dreamed of.”

He studies me for a moment, then says softly, “I’m here now. Maybe we can
change that.”

My heart skips again. I’m not sure if it’s hope or fear, or both.

I didn’t expect to see Zweli again. Not here. Not now.

The air in the car was tense on the way home. We didn’t speak much after
that awkward hug. He had left to buy umngenadlini, he said he couldn’t
arrive empty handed. He came back to fetch me after I knocked off. We are
driving home, I can feel his eyes on me every few seconds, and every time
they lingered, my skin prickled with heat. Theres not much conversing
happening between us which is weird because we got along like a house on

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fire growing up. I try to focus on the road sign, on the cows crossing the
gravel near the turn to our street. Anything to stop myself from thinking
what I’m thinking.

He shouldn’t look this good. He shouldn’t smell this good.

When we pull into the yard, my mother is standing at the door, arms folded,
stick in hand and lips pursed like judgement itself.

“She’s going to kill me” I mumble

“Still dramatic, I see” Zweli says, chuckling softly

I step out of the car, and she walks closer ready to strangle me to death,
Zweli steps out.

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Phumzile Langa - Mfeka

I am the fourth child of Nomvula and Somaphunga Langa, born right

between chaos and duty.

Bhekizitha, the firstborn, was already off chasing business dreams when I
was learning how to boil maize. Skhundla followed him, wild,
unpredictable. Phumelele came next, the peacemaker. Then me. The “quiet
one.” The “clever girl” who never spoke unless spoken to. I learned early on
that silence is both survival and punishment.

I did what was expected. Married young to a man twenty years older than
me, Mandlekosi Mfeka, at just sixteen years old. My husband and I had
trouble conceiving and I was called every name under the sun by my in-
laws. By the time I had Zamanje at 37 my husband had already brought
three children into our marriage. I got pregnant with Vezamandla seven
years later, but our marriage had already taken a heavy strain, I left my
marriage heavily pregnant, I returned home divorced, humiliated, and
bitter. Gogo welcomed me back like a lost child. She said this house would
always be home. She kept that promise, even in death.

Then came Zweli.

The miracle. Or the curse, depending on who’s telling the story.

Gogo had him at 62, shocking the whole community. They said she was
bewitched. Said she was carrying the sins of her husband in her womb. But
once he was born, all that talk turned into awe. They named him
Siphosonyazi — a “gift”. A sign, a blessing.

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But to me, he was a disruption.

He wasn’t raised here. Bhekizitha and his wife MaNgobese took him.
Raised him like a son in Stanger When Mom and dad passed and I had my
own life to piece together. I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to raise someone
else’s burden.

Still, he was my mother’s lastborn. My sibling.

And I can’t lie… I’ve watched Zamanje light up when his name comes up.
That worries me. Because blood remembers blood. And secrets? They rot
in silence.

I just hope the past doesn’t repeat itself.

My daughter is almost back from work, and I haven’t even started on

supper! I was on the other side of the hill trying to find out what really
happened for Nonhlanhla to fall pregnant by Bab’Sgubudu! A whole bishop,
a man of the cloth! Honestly, I’m not shocked, I knew something was fishy
the moment he started dressing like a twenty-something. Uzzi T-shirts,
Bogart jeans so tight you’d swear he was smuggling chakalaka in them! His
big belly hanging like it’s also committing a sin. Hhayi suka!

I decide to abandon the sugar beans; they take too long to cook and pick
some spinach instead. Quick, simple, nourishing. Just as I’m rinsing the
leaves, I hear a car pulling into the yard.

We don’t have a car.

These city men with their hired Polos and heavy colognes are always
reversing into my yard thinking it’s a rendezvous spot for their underage

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girlfriends. Not today. I grab my stick. The devil works hard, but MaPhumi
works harder.

I stomp to the door, hands on my hips, ready to defend my homestead and

my child’s dignity. The car windows are tinted, I can’t see clearly. The
passenger door opens.

Mameshane! Zamanje steps out. I step closer, my hand now gripping the
stick tighter.

The driver’s door opens. A man steps out.

I freeze. Hhayibo… ngiyalingwa ngisehlane.

Is that… Zwelinzima?

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Zamanje Mfeka

“So, you’re here. Good,” she says eyeing Zweli, stepping aside like he’s just
another relative popping by for tea. “Zamanje, spinach won’t cook itself.
Zweli, firewood is in the shed. Make the fire before the sun disappears.”

No welcome hug. No fuss. Just orders. That’s MaPhumi for you, queen of act
like nothing shakes you, even when it clearly does.

I glance at Zweli, expecting him to argue, but he just nods and-

“WePhumzile ungijwayezwa ubani!?” a shrill voice cuts through the yard, we

all turn.

It’s MaNgema, marching like a storm cloud, waving a knobkerrie and fury
with her doek fastened tightly.

“You stole my goat! When you left yesterday, one goat was missing!” she
screams, eyes wild spit flying.

Ma throws down the bundle of spinach and squares up, grabbing her
pinafore on both sides like she’s about to enter a wrestling ring.

“Yewena Sebenzile mbombo wakho! You come to my yard screaming like a

possessed pigeon! What’s your damn problem?!”

“You stole my goat Phumzile I want my goat!” MaNgema snaps, chest

heaving.

“And why would I take your sickly, tasteless, flat-assed goat?” Ma shouts
back, stepping closer.

“Oh it’s tasteless now? So you ate it? That means you took it!”

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Zweli coughs awkwardly, I nearly break trying not to laugh.

“We are so sorry Gogo—” Zweli tries to chime in

“Gogo? Do I look elderly to you boy?” MaNgema askes directing her

attention to Zweli now

“Ngiyaxolisa nkosazane” he takes out his wallet “I can pay for your goat so
we can maintain peace”

“Don’t you dare Zwelinzima! For all we know she could change the whole
narrative and say you gave her the money as inhlawulo for one of her
bastard grandkids!” Ma says pointing a finger at Zweli, he expels a huge
sigh

“You know what I hope that goat nourishes you! Zilambi!” MaNgema hisses,
turning to leave.

“Izilambi unyoko!” Ma fires back without blinking.

Silence.

Ma takes a deep breath, smooths her pinafore down, and looks at us like
nothing happened.

“Y’all are still standing here? Scatter! Zweli, fire. Zamanje, pot. Ngizosuke
ngithelekele nina ngenduku mina!

Zweli walks off toward the shed, his long strides making him look like he
belongs here already. I’m left holding the wet spinach, heart beating faster
than it should for someone about to cook a simple meal.

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Ma’s eyes narrow, not at the spinach, but at me. The way I’m watching him.
I can feel her reading me like I’m a gossip column, scanning for hidden
scandal. I turn back to the basin, pretending to focus on rinsing the leaves,
but my mind is following the sound of Zweli moving outside, the scrape of
wood, the low hum he makes when he’s busy. The smell of smoke soon
drifts into the kitchen, mixing with the earthy scent of spinach and the
sudden tension in the air. Ma moves around me silently, setting the table,
but I can tell she’s watching. Waiting. Measuring the space between me
and Zweli before it even becomes a thing.

And the problem is… I’m not sure it’s just in her head.

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Chapter 3

Phumelele Langa – Thabethe

Eighteen years. That’s how long I’ve stayed away from the yard where we
buried Ma and Baba. Long enough for the weeds to grow over old wounds,
or so I thought. I built a life in Pietermaritzburg. I taught English for over
thirty years, raised three children who are now older than I was when I
married. Two live overseas, the eldest is in Johannesburg, and between
them they’ve given me five grandchildren. My husband, Mzwandile, says
I’ve earned my rest, but retirement feels too much like waiting for
something I’m not ready to name.

When my parents died, there was nothing left for me at home. My father
always told me to spread my wings, not let where I come from restrict me.
When I turned twenty-three and decided to marry my college sweetheart, he
was more than happy to accept his cows. By then I was a qualified teacher by
profession.

I had my first son, Mndeni, shortly after we got married and the twins followed
two years later; Thokozile and Thokozani. My husband, Mzwandile, works as a
foreman in some construction company. We built a comfortable life for
ourselves.

When Skhundla called earlier, his voice was careful, too careful. “Family
matters,” he said, like those words didn’t have the power to drag me
straight back into the past. I told myself it was probably nothing. But deep
down, I knew. In this family, “family matters” means the past has decided
it’s not done with us.

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Now, as I drive down the road to eDumbe, I see the same hills, the same
stubborn sky. I haven’t seen Zweli since he was a quiet, long-limbed
teenager, barely speaking above a whisper. And I haven’t stood face-to-face
with Phumzile in eighteen years.

I wonder if she’s forgiven me for leaving so soon after the funeral. I wonder
if I’ve forgiven her for staying.

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Zwelinzima Langa

The shed smells the same, dry wood, old smoke, a hint of dust that sticks
to your skin. I stack the firewood under my arm, my fingers remembering
the weight of it like I never left. Fourteen years gone, and still my body
knows the rhythm of this place. I kneel by the fire pit and start arranging the
kindling. The air is cooler here, the late afternoon light stretching long
shadows over the yard. I can hear her inside, Zamanje, the clink of the
basin, the soft rustle of spinach leaves in water. It’s a sound so ordinary, so
domestic, yet it pulls at me in a way I don’t want to name.

Phumzile’s voice drifts out of the kitchen, sharp at first, then dropping to
that low, controlled tone she uses when she’s watching someone closely. I
know she’s watching me. And her.

The match flares in my hand, catching on the thin twigs before the flame
crawls toward the thicker logs. Fire’s an easy thing to understand, you give
it air, it grows; you smother it, it dies. People aren’t so different.

When I glance toward the kitchen window, I catch her looking. Not
MaPhumi.

Zamanje. She doesn’t turn away fast enough.

That look… I’ve seen it before, years ago, from someone else. Back then it
burned everything to the ground.

I tell myself this is different. It has to be. But as the fire crackles to life, I
can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just lit more than wood.

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Phumzile walks toward me, the smell of cooked spinach trailing behind her.
She’s wearing her old floral pinafore, the same kind Gogo used to wear on
Sunday afternoons. And for a moment, I see her, not my sharp-tongued
sister, but a shadow of the woman who raised us.

We all took after Mkhulu, tall, long faces, the same deep-set eyes. But
Phumzile… she’s the only one who carries Gogo’s softness in her features,
even when her voice is anything but soft.

“Siyabonga usakwazi nokubasa, mfana wasedolobheni,” she says, hands

planted firmly on her hips.

I chuckle, leaning back on my heels. “I may have forgotten home, but I’ll
never forget this. Gogo made sure.”

She smiles, a real one this time, and for a heartbeat it’s like we’ve rewound
to a time before everything broke. “Ehhene phela, uMaNyambose
ubengadlali. To her, it didn’t matter whether you were a boy or a girl child.”

We laugh together, the fire snapping between us. But then her smile fades,
and the question comes, sudden and heavy.

“Why are you back?”

I stand, brushing the wood dust from my jeans. My chest feels tight. “Ugogo
noMkhulu, Aunty… they’re not resting in peace. I keep dreaming of them,
always walking away from me, never turning to face me. Bangiflathele,
Aunty. And it’s… messing with my work, my life.”

Her face softens just a fraction, but there’s something else there too, worry,
maybe. Or suspicion.

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Phumzile Langa - Mfeka

I study him for a moment, the firelight licking at his face, softening the
edges. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

He talks about Gogo like she was a saint. Like she didn’t have shadows.
Like she didn’t know how to choose who deserved the fullness of her love.

I was thirty-two when she had him. Thirty-two and still living with the quiet
truth that I was never meant to exist in the way I did. That I was born of a
love so wrong the family forced her to bury it beneath marriage vows to
Mkhulu.

I carried that secret like a stone in my chest, taught to sit straight, speak
softly, and never ever give them a reason to remember why I was different.

But then he came along.

Zweli. The miracle child from uNyazi. The “second chance.” The one she
kissed openly, bragged about to neighbours, fed the sweetest morsels
from her own plate. The love I’d been starved of for decades, he got
without asking.

And when she died chasing after him, that love went with her.

So now he stands here, grown, talking about restless spirits and unturned
faces, and all I can think is what does he expect from me? Comfort?
Forgiveness?

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I clear my throat. “Hhayi, Zweli. Dreams are dreams. The dead… they don’t
always give us the answers we want.”

But when I turn back toward the kitchen, I glance through the doorway and
see Zamanje peeking in our direction, eyes too bright.

And suddenly, the fire between them feels far more dangerous than the one
he’s just lit in the yard.

We are gathered in the sitting room for supper when Vezamandla walks in
from work. His boots are dusty, his shirt clings to him with the day’s sweat,
and I can smell the smoke from Bab’Nxamalala’s kraal still clinging to his
skin. He works as a herd boy for the old man, who lives two hills away.
Every morning at 4 a.m., he leaves in the dark and only comes back when
the sky’s bruised with night.

After he completed his matric last year, we couldn’t send him to college. As
a boy child, he took it upon himself to find work, even if it meant trading
textbooks for a stick and a whistle.

“Mama, kunemoto enswempu kabi la phandle! A very nice car!” he shouts

as he steps in, voice booming through the room.

“Vezamandla, yini kodwa umsindo!” I snap. That boy can be loud enough
to wake the ancestors, louder than his sister even.

“Hlala phansi. Meet your cousin… I mean, your uncle Zweli.”

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His face folds into confusion. “Uncle? Hhaybo Ma, kanjani? He’s the same
age as uSakhile.”

“Ey, Vezamandla, stop asking me stupid questions. Bingelela, uhlale

phansi, siyafa indlala.”

He shrugs and mutters a greeting before dropping into a chair, but before
anyone can dig in, I hear the low hum of an engine on the road outside. This
one’s slower, deliberate.

Tyres crunch over gravel, and my stomach tightens. Visitors at this hour are
rare.

“E! kwaLanga! Sanibona layikhaya!” I know that voice. That measured way
the door of a car shuts, like nothing in the world can rush her.

Phumelele.

When she appears in the doorway, she looks almost untouched by the
years, a neat headscarf, pressed skirt, the same teacher’s posture she’s
probably carried since she was twenty-three. But her eyes… they hesitate,
scanning the room as if weighing whether she’s welcome.

“Sanibonani ekhaya,” she says softly.

For a moment, no one moves. The air feels too still, like the room itself is
holding its breath. Vezamandla looks between us, unsure whether to stand

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or stay seated. Zamanje’s gaze darts quickly from Zweli to her, reading the
tension she’s just walked into.

I rise slowly, my voice flat. “Phumelele.”

She steps inside, sets down her overnight bag with careful hands, her eyes
lingering a fraction too long on Zweli.

“I heard there’s been… movement here,” she says, that calm,

schoolteacher tone never wavering. “Thought it was time I came home.”

Home. The word lands between us like a stone in a shallow pond, ripples,
but no one reaches to touch it.

“Sit,” I tell her, forcing my voice to stay even. “You might as well eat. We
were just about to start.”

But inside, my mind is already racing. If Phumelele’s here, the past is no

longer at bay. It’s walking straight through my front door. And with Zweli
sitting at this table, smiling like he belongs, I can feel the old cracks in this
family ready to split wide open.

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Chapter 4

Zwelinzima Langa

I can’t believe she actually came. Before leaving Durban, I had told
Bhekizitha and Skhundla about my plans to return home. Skhundla, being a
seer, had confirmed my dreams. The old folks are not happy. He told me he
would speak to Phumelele and that we would all head home together to
perform a ceremony.

Zamanje had told me, quietly, how all of this had affected her. And here I
am, living in the city, chasing my own life, while my family struggles under
the weight of secrets and old grief.

We eat in silence. No one speaks. The clatter of cutlery against plates feels
loud, almost accusatory.

“Skhundla and Bheki are coming on Thursday, and the ceremony will be on
Saturday,” Phumelele finally says, breaking the tension.

“Ceremony?” Phumzile snaps, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes. Unveiling for Mom and Dad. Sobenzela itshe here, in their house,”
Phumelele says, her voice steady, even daring. “Is that okay with you?”

Phumzile’s face tightens. “So niyatheleka la nonke nabafowenu, you’re

barging in with your brothers and planning things without even telling me?!”
Her voice rises, sharp and incredulous.

Phumelele adjusts her glasses, calm and precise. “I didn’t realize we

needed permission from you, Mabuya emendweni, return soldier, to
perform a ceremony for our parents in their own house.”

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Phumzile’s nostrils flare. “UMabuya emendweni unyoko!” she seethes,

storming out of the room, leaving a gust of tension in her wake.

I glance at Zamanje, who’s quietly picking at her food, her eyes flicking
between me and Phumelele. There’s a storm brewing, and I can feel it
settling over all of us.

Great. Just great.

The room feels smaller now, heavier. I push my chair back slightly, letting
the silence fill the space. This is only the beginning. Old grudges, unspoken
resentments, and secrets waiting to surface they are all here, and there’s
no going back.

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Zamanje Mfeka

I step outside to the rondavel that now belongs to Vezamandla, preparing it

for Zweli. Midwinter chills bite at my fingers as I fluff the blankets, making
sure he’ll be warm enough. Tomorrow I’ll do the same for Uncle Bheki and
Uncle Skhundla before they arrive on Thursday. Aunt Phumelele will take
my room; I’ll sleep with Ma.

As I dust off the pillows, I hear him behind me.

“Ngiyabonga, MaMfeka. You’re always taking care of me,” he says.

He’s always called me MaMfeka, sometimes teasing, sometimes casual.

But this time… it feels different. Weighted. Serious. I can’t quite put my
finger on it, but my stomach tightens, my hands faltering over the blankets.
I smile and finish up, eager to leave the rondavel and the tension behind.
The fight brewing between my mother and Aunt Phumelele is nothing
compared to this strange electricity in the air.

I turn to leave, and he’s there, leaning casually against the door frame,
arms crossed. His gaze is unfamiliar, intense, searching. It feels like he’s
reading me, peeling back layers I’ve always kept hidden.

I take a cautious step forward, but he suddenly reaches out, his hand warm
on my arm.

“Usuqomile, MaMfeka? Are you dating now?” His voice is calm but probing,
almost teasing.

“Cha, malume,” I murmur, looking down, cheeks heating.

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Without a word, he lifts my chin gently with that same warm hand, making
my pulse spike. “Very good. Keep it that way. Ulale kahle,” he says softly,
then steps further into the rondavel.

For a heartbeat, I’m frozen. His presence, his touch, the way he looks at
me, it’s disorienting. I stagger slightly as I turn back toward the house,
shaking. My heart pounds like a drum in my chest.

Oh God… what is happening to me!?

Every rational thought, every rule I’ve kept for years, feels fragile under his
gaze. And yet, something deeper, something stubbornly alive in my chest,
is stirring in ways I don’t understand or maybe, don’t want to understand.

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Zwelinzima Langa

“Fuck!” I scream, slamming the door behind me and balling my fists. No

woman has ever made me feel like this. I was never the type to care for
attachments. Fuck and move on, that was my rule. But now… now, I’m a
mess.

“Zweli, get a grip, man! This is your niece!” I bark inwardly, pacing the small
rondavel. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I won’t. I can’t.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to think practically. Tomorrow, I’ll take
Vezamandla with me. We’ll buy groceries, some paint for the house. God,
it’s seen better days. Everything must be perfect for Saturday. The
ceremony, the family, the house… it all has to be in order.

I’ll also use the time to bond with my nephew, find out what drives him,
what excites him. Maybe even figure out a school that suits him. He
deserves the opportunities I had, and Gogo’s house, our home, deserves
the care it hasn’t seen in years.

Right now, I need rest. Sleep. Clear my mind. But every time I close my
eyes, her face is there. That look in her eyes, the warmth of her smile, the
way she moves… it’s like fire in my veins.

I can’t fight it. And yet, I have to.

For her. For the family. For Gogo.

Tomorrow, I focus on the house. On Vezamandla. On the ceremony.

Everything else… can wait.

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But sleep doesn’t come easy. And when it finally does, her image lingers,
burning behind my eyelids.

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Phumzile Langa- Mfeka

Nx! Bloody city Delilah! coming here with her fancy glasses and calling me
a return soldier! Me?! Phumelele has the nerve! She got herself an
education and then shoved her brain straight up her arse. Those same
parents she’s now bragging about? They were never parents to me.

They made me get married at a young age. At least she and her brothers got
their education. When it was my turn, baba suddenly said there was no
money, it had all gone into Phumelele’s studies and her big wedding. She
got to marry when she wanted, in her own time. I was forced to marry
Mfeka. I was only sixteen, too young, too unready.

If I could, I wouldn’t even be in this house. But because I have no

education, no job, no prospects because of their precious parents they
have the nerve to look down on me?! They wouldn’t even have the home
they are talking about had I not been here. They left, for 18 years! Now
suddenly it’s ‘their parents’ house’ nx.

“Mama!” Zamanje’s voice slices through my thoughts.

“Yini nkosiyami, Zamanje! What?!” I snap, already irritated.

“I’ll let Aunty Phumelele sleep in my room. Can I take the clean blankets
here for her?”

I glare at her. “Are there no blankets in Pietermaritzburg? Why didn’t she

come with her own? Now they want the return soldier’s blankets?
Imihlola!”

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“Mama, come on, she’s your sister.”

“Ey, awungiyeke Zamanje!” I wave her off and pull my own warm blanket
tighter around me. Bloody snobs. Who even eats spinach and pap with
cutlery? I can’t wait for all of this to be over so they can pack up and leave.

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Chapter 5

Skhundla Langa

I saw this storm long before it broke. The dreams came first loud, clear, and
sharp like the crack of an axe on fresh wood. Zweli standing at the old
house, Phumelele at his side, Phumzile’s face twisted in rage. Ancestors
don’t lie. They showed me what was coming, but even a man who sees
beyond cannot always stop the river from flooding.

Some things are too heavy for me. Some secrets the elders carried are all
shown to me in visions, things they took to their graves, thinking the earth
would keep them. But the earth speaks, and it speaks to me. I was told I
was named Skhundla because my ultimate duty was to fix and mend what
was broken by my family and the elders before me. A noble calling, they
said. But no one tells you how much weight comes with a name.

It’s too hard for me, too heavy of a duty for one man. That’s why, when
everyone left after our parents’ funeral, I took the same loophole and left
too. I told myself I was seeking work, but truthfully, I was escaping.
Escaping the feuds, the half-truths, the blood debts that were never paid.

But you can’t run away forever. Guilt has a long memory. And now it is here,
staring me in the face. Finding out that all of these old secrets, the ones I
ignored, are pressing down on Zamanje… it cuts me deeper than I thought
possible. She’s young yet already trapped in the crossfire of our unfinished
battles.

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I failed Phumzile once, by letting her carry her wounds alone. And now, I
fear I am failing Zamanje in the same way. This ceremony might bring peace
to the old folks, but will it heal the living? That… I do not know.

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Bhekizitha Langa

When Skhundla told me about the ceremony, I didn’t need convincing. I

had been thinking about our parents for months now, how they left without
the dignity they deserved. An unveiling isn’t just for the dead; it’s for the
living too. Maybe, just maybe, it will force us to stand in the same yard
without drawing blood.

Skhundla sounded tired when he called. I could hear it in his voice, the
weight of a man who sees more than he can carry. He’s always been like
that, quiet, watchful, and too deep in his thoughts. Me? I keep things
simple. If there’s a problem, I face it. But this… this is not a fight you can
win with fists. This is the kind that eats families from the inside.

I’ve heard enough about Phumzile’s bitterness to know that walking into
that house will feel like walking into a fire. Still, she’s my sister, and like it or
not, blood doesn’t wash off. I’m not coming to pick sides. I’m coming to
honour our parents and to make sure Zamanje knows there are people in
her corner.

I also want to see Zweli. That boy’s been in the city too long; I want to know
if it’s made him soft or sharpened his edges. Maybe I’ll have a word with
him about responsibility because once this ceremony is over, there’s more
that needs fixing than just a gravestone unveiling.

Saturday is coming fast. And with it… all the things we’ve been avoiding for
years.

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Chapter 6

The Weekend of the Ceremony – Friday

Skhundla Langa

The ceremony is tomorrow. We’ve already bought the cows and a goat. But
before that, we have to perform inhlambuluko as a family, cleansing
ourselves so we approach the ceremony with peaceful, clean hearts. If we
don’t, it won’t be successful.

That’s the challenge. We haven’t gathered together since our parents

passed. Years of squabbles, bitterness, and resentment can’t be healed in
one night. The air was already heavy when Bheki and I arrived yesterday
evening. Phumzile didn’t say a word to us. I heard she had a run-in with
Phumelele the day before, and the two haven’t spoken since.

This morning, I walk into the kitchen and find Zamanje and Zweli together.
They startle when they see me, too much for a simple coincidence. It
makes my stomach tighten. For once, I wish my ancestors were wrong
about the things they’ve been showing me in dreams… especially about
these two. The visions are not clear yet, but I have my suspicions.

“Zamanje,” I call her.

She looks down, fiddling with her hands. “Yebo, Malume.”

“Lalela, ntombi yami. Awukho esikhathini, angithi? You’re not on your

periods?”

“Cha, Malume,” she answers, still avoiding my eyes.

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“Very well then. I need you to clean indlu yabadala, the ancestors’
rondavel. Later today, gather the whole family for inhlambuluko.
Siyezwana?” I fix my eyes on her.

“Yebo, Malume,” she says quietly before walking out.

Now it’s just Zweli and me. I take a step closer, my voice low.

“Try not to be like your uncle Mzobanzi,” I say, then leave him there.

Later in the day**

We are all gathered in the ancestors’ rondavel. This moment had to come
sooner or later. The air is thick with unspoken words and old wounds.

I light the incense and let its smoke coil around the walls, filling every
corner. The scent lingers like memory. I begin the chant, my voice carrying
the weight of generations:

“Siyakhuleka kunina oLanga, oMakhunga, oSodumase! Madevu agqabul’

inkomishi! Sothole! Shiy’abantu! Nyongo yendlovu! Gubazi!

Yithina izingane zenu uBhekizitha, uSkhundla, uPhumelele, uPhumzile

noZweli kanye nabazukulu uZamanje noVezamandla!

Siyanimema, nibekhona nathi! Nicele *inhlambuluko*, nina boGogo

noMkhulu! Sesilapha ke! Sicela nihlanganyele kanye nathi, zindlondlo
ezinkulu!”

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When I am satisfied, I sit down and face my siblings.

“Bafowethu nani bodade, before our parents’ ceremony can commence

tomorrow, we must bury the hatchet. We can’t do that without facing the
truth. Each of us must say what wrong has been done to us, and we must
find peace in our hearts. Otherwise, tomorrow will be for nothing.”

I look from face to face. No one speaks.

“Phumzile,” I say, my eyes fixed on her.

She sits back, scoffing. “Oh? Why am I the only one being singled out? Is it
because I’m always the problem? UPhumzile ohlezi eyinkinga layikhaya!”

Bheki tries to calm her. “Phumzile, no one is fighting you here. Akekho olwa
nawe lana.”

She snaps back, her voice rising. “Thula, Bhekizitha! Uzokhuluma manje
wena? You’re only talking now? Where were you when your so-called father
treated me like an outsider? When I wasn’t sent to school? You were never
home, Bheki! Always disappearing. There was always something with you,
but you were never here when I needed you!”

Bheki’s jaw tightens. “Ungangifaki mina, Phumzile. I worked myself to the

bone to help this family! Ngathatha imithwalo yabantu abadala
ngisemncane, while you sat here blaming everyone for your life. I sent
money home, but did you ever ask where it went? Did you ever think maybe
the problem wasn’t just Baba?”

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Phumzile’s eyes flash. “Oh, now I’m lazy? That’s what you’re saying? You
think I wanted this life? Wena ubuthanda ukuhamba uye edolobheni and
barely came home. while I was stuck here cooking for the same parents
who couldn’t even educate me!”

Phumelele finally speaks, her voice sharp. “Hhayi, Phumzile, you can’t put
everything on the rest of us. We all suffered in our own way. Don’t act like
you carried this family alone.”

Phumzile turns on her. “You? You suffered? Miss Educated! Miss

Pietermaritzburg! At least you got to choose your husband and your life! I
was shoved into marriage like a cow being led to slaughter!”

The rondavel fills with overlapping voices. Zweli tries to speak but gets
drowned out. Zamanje shifts uncomfortably in the corner, her eyes darting
between them.

“Enough!” I shout, my voice cutting through the noise. Silence falls, thick
and uneasy.

“This is exactly why our parents are restless! We speak to each other like
enemies. We treat each other like strangers. If we go into tomorrow with
this poison in our hearts, the ceremony will fail. Our ancestors will turn
their backs on us. Is that what you want?”

No one answers. The only sound is the faint crackle of incense burning.

I look at each of them slowly. “Tonight, we tell the truth, but we also forgive.
We leave this rondavel with clean hearts. Otherwise, we don’t leave at all.”

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Bhekizitha Langa

I sit there, my arms crossed, pretending Skhundla’s words don’t cut deep.
But they do. He’s right, we treat each other like strangers. Maybe worse
than strangers. At least strangers don’t know where to stick the knife.

I want to tell them I never abandoned this family, but the truth is, I did… in
my own way. I ran to the mines, to the city, to anything that kept me from
this house. Every time I came back, there was another fight, another
reminder that no matter how much money I sent, it was never enough to fix
what was broken here.

Phumzile is glaring at me like I’m the devil himself. She doesn’t know half
the nights I slept hungry just to make sure money got home. She doesn’t
know that sometimes Baba refused it, saying he didn’t need “city money.” I
could tell her now, but it would sound like excuses.

I look at Phumelele, quiet now, but her eyes are sharp. She’s always been
the clever one. She knows things I don’t say, and I can see she’s waiting for
me to either confess or explode.

Zamanje… the girl is shrinking into herself, like she wishes she could
disappear. I can’t help but feel a stab of guilt. She’s just a child, yet she’s
caught in all this poison we’ve been passing down like an inheritance.

I clear my throat. “Skhundla’s right,” I say, my voice low. “We’ve all done
wrong here. And maybe… maybe I could’ve done better as a brother. But I
will not sit here and take all the blame.”

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Phumzile scoffs, but I keep my eyes on Skhundla. If there’s going to be

peace tonight, it’ll be because he forces it out of us, and because we finally
admit the truth, even if it burns.

Silence hangs in the rondavel, thick as the smoke from the incense.
Skhundla’s eyes sweep over us like a hawk waiting for a mouse to twitch.

“I’ll start then,” Phumelele finally says, her back straight. “Phumzile… I’m
sorry if I ever made you feel less than me. I thought you didn’t want school.
Baba always said you were happy being at home. I didn’t know you wanted
more.”

Phumzile lets out a short, bitter laugh. “You didn’t know because you didn’t
care to ask, Phumelele. You lived in your books and left me to live in the
kitchen.”

Phumelele’s lips tighten, but she nods. “Then I’ll take that. I was blind. I’m
sorry.”

Skhundla turns to me. “Bheki?”

I rub my hands together. “I could’ve been here more. I could’ve fought

harder for all of us when Baba made decisions alone. I thought sending
money was enough, but money doesn’t raise a family.” My eyes meet
Phumzile’s. “I’m sorry I wasn’t your shield.”

For a second, her expression softens, then hardens again. “And you,
Skhundla?”

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Skhundla exhales. “I’m sorry for leaving after the funeral. I thought the
wounds were too deep for me to heal… but maybe I was just running from
my duty.”

The air is tense but holding, until Phumzile suddenly explodes. “Duty? All of
you talk about duty, but you never talk about the truth! You never talk about
the fact that Langa is not my father!”

The words drop like a drumbeat in the rondavel.

She’s shaking now, voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like to be treated
like a stranger in your own home? To be punished for a crime you didn’t
commit simply because you are a reminder of something no one wants to
speak about? That’s why Mkhulu mistreated me! That’s why I was never
sent to school! But we all keep smiling like everything is fine.”

My throat tightens. The four of us; Skhundla, Phumelele, myself, and her,
know exactly where she heard it: the whispered truth from that relative
after Gogo and Mkhulu’s funeral. But Zweli, Zamanje, and Vezamandla sit
there wide-eyed, stunned, their heads darting between us like they’ve just
walked into a fire they didn’t know was burning.

Phumzile’s breathing is ragged now. “And tomorrow you want me to stand

there, pretend the ancestors have forgiven us, and slaughter cows with a
happy heart? No. If we’re going to cleanse, let’s cleanse properly.”

Skhundla raises his hand sharply. “Enough for tonight. The rest will come
when it’s meant to. For now, we do what we can to make tomorrow stand.”

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But the heaviness doesn’t lift. Even the impepho smoke seems to hang
lower, as though the ancestors themselves are leaning in, waiting for the
real storm.

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Saturday- The day of the ceremony

Zamanje Mfeka

The long-awaited or perhaps dreaded day is finally here. I don’t know

which. I’m busy in the kitchen with Aunty Phumelele and Ma. Surprisingly,
they aren’t at each other’s throats; for now, at least, they’re civil.

The revelation about my mother still shakes me. She isn’t truly a Langa.
Gogo never struck me as the kind of woman to step outside her marriage,
and yet… three children later? How does that even work? Now that it’s
been mentioned, I see it clearly. Mom looks nothing like her siblings; they
all mirror Mkhulu, while she carries gogo’s features. I had always thought it
was normal. Who is her father? I can’t even ask.

I haven’t seen Zweli since inhlambuluko yesterday. He, Uncle Bheki, and
Uncle Skhundla stayed behind after ukubikwa kwembuzi, heading down to
the kraal to slaughter the cows and goat with some village men who take
umqombothi as payment.

I finish serving the people milling around the yard after Uncle Bheki divides
the ugqoko. The married men, including Uncle Bheki and Uncle Skhundla,
sit together, eating and chatting. Zweli, meanwhile, is grouped with
Vezamandla and his friends. He’s still considered insizwa, A bachelor.

I carry a basin of warm water to them, kneeling beside Zweli to set it down.

“Siyabonga, MaMfeka,” he says, half-smiling at me. “They made me sit with

kids. I really need a wife now and I already saw a maiden fit for me” he says
laughing and Vezamandla and his friends join him. Clearly, I missed the
joke.

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I don’t know what to make of that, but his words sting my heart. I force a
smile and take the cloth from him after he wipes his hands, returning to the
kitchen with my chest pounding. Every step back feels heavier than the
last.

I storm into my room, slamming the door behind me. I’m still mad, still
flustered over what Zweli said about needing a wife. Who does he think he
is, saying that to me? I throw myself onto my bed, hugging a pillow tightly,
trying to tame the storm inside me. My heart won’t calm, and neither will
my thoughts.

A soft knock on the door makes me freeze.

“Zamanje…”

I recognize his voice instantly. My heart skips a beat.

“I… can I come in?”

I don’t answer, hoping he’ll take the hint, but the doorknob twists, and he’s
inside before I can stop him. He leans against the doorframe, arms
crossed, studying me with that unreadable expression of his.

“Are you okay?,” he asks quietly, taking a step closer.

I nod avoiding eye contact.

He lifts my chin with his fingers, something about his skin against mine that
does things to me.

“Kwenzenjani mama? What’s wrong? Khuluma nami” he says, his eyes

searching mine. I can feel the heat rising in my chest.

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“Lutho malume” I say almost inaudible. He chuckles “Umalume

uyalumana uyakwazi lokho?” he says still looking deep into my eyes. His
gaze is heavy, intense, and I can’t look away.

There’s a quiet pause, and then, almost without thinking, our faces drift
closer. The room feels smaller, the world outside fading. His hand brushes
mine, and I don’t pull away.

Then, our lips meet. It’s soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters, but it
quickly deepens. My mind spins, this is wrong, it’s crazy, but my body
doesn’t care. I can feel the tension, the anger, the longing all melting into
that single, searing kiss.

When we finally pull back, both of us are breathing a little too hard. Zweli’s
eyes search mine, asking without words if this is really happening, and I
realize… I don’t want it to stop.

He brushes my bottom lip with his thumb, he smiles, and I see his dimple,
it drives me crazy. “Hhave unesikhwele” he says and walks out with his
hands in his pockets.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand still hovering near my lips, where his
thumb brushed me. That tiny touch I can feel my pulse hammering in my
ears, and my chest feels impossibly tight.

“He… he actually kissed me,” I whisper to myself, barely daring to breathe.

My mind is spinning, angry, thrilled, terrified all at once. How can one
person make me feel so exposed with just a look, a touch, a smile?

I hear the distant laughter and chatter from the ceremony outside, the
clatter of cooking, the smell of steaming bread drifting through the window.

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The normalcy of it contrasts sharply with the storm inside me. Part of me
wants to run after him, demand answers, demand more, but another part
knows I’ll just melt if I do.

My hand curls into a fist, resting against my chest. Uncle Zweli… my uncle
by blood, but… why does my body react like this? I shake my head, trying to
push the thought away, but it clings.

I rise slowly, pacing the room. I can’t stop replaying it: the way his eyes
lingered, the way his thumb brushed me, the dimple appearing just for me.
I bite my lip, torn between wanting to chase him and wanting to pretend it
never happened.

Then I hear the soft sound of footsteps outside the door. I freeze, heart
leaping. My mind races, is he coming back? Or is it someone else? The door
stays closed, but the air feels charged, heavy with what just passed.

I sink back onto the bed, my fingers tracing the edge of my pillow, trying to
calm down. But deep down, I know one thing for certain: today changed
everything, and I’m not sure I’m ready… but I don’t want it to end either.

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Zwelinzima Langa

I walk down the passage, hands in my pockets, trying to act casual, but my
mind is anything but. Damn… I actually touched her lip. One brush of my
thumb, and I can’t get it out of my head. Her eyes… that little flash of
surprise and something else, something dangerous, lingered far too long.

I shake my head. Zweli, get a grip. She’s my niece. Family. It’s wrong. I
shouldn’t feel this way. And yet… the way my chest tightens when I think of
her smile, the way my heart races when I remember that moment… I can’t
lie to myself. I want her.

I glance back at her room, half-expecting her to be glaring at me, half-

expecting her to be… waiting. Don’t even think it, Zweli. But my …But my
feet don’t move away. I find myself lingering by her door longer than I
should, my heart hammering in my chest. She’s in there… probably furious.
Or maybe… confused. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself.

My hand twitches, itching to knock, to go back in, to see her, to feel that
connection again. No, Zweli. Walk away. I force myself to take a step, then
another, but my mind replays the moment on repeat: her eyes wide, that
flash of heat, the way her lips moved under my thumb.

I can’t shake it. I stop halfway down the passage, pressing my back against
the wall, closing my eyes. Damn it, Zweli. I should be preparing for the
ceremony, helping with the men, keeping the day moving. Instead, all I can
think about is her, her laugh, her touch, the way she looks at me when she
doesn’t think I notice.

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One moment, one stupid, reckless moment, and now… I’m lost.

I finally tear my gaze from the door and start walking again, trying to focus.
But the pull in my chest doesn’t let me rest. She’s dangerous. She’s fire.
And I… I’m playing with it.

Every step feels heavy, every thought of her intrusive. I need to get a grip
before I do something I’ll regret. Yet a part of me knows, deep down, that
nothing will ever feel the same again.

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Zamanje

Saturday Evening

The ceremony was a success. My aunt, uncles, and mother managed to put
their differences aside, at least for today, and perform the last act of love
for their parents. The yard was full, laughter and singing mixing with the
crackle of the fire, and for a moment it felt like we were truly one family.

Zweli and I, however, have been avoiding each other since that kiss. We
haven’t exchanged more than a few glances, and each one felt like it
carried a thousand unsaid words. Tomorrow morning, they’re all set to
leave. Zweli is taking Vezamandla with him; he’ll have him work at his
shisanyama in Durban until he enrolls him in school next year to further his
studies.

I’m lying in bed now, staring at the thatched roof above me, my thoughts
loud in the silence. This weekend alone has changed my life in ways I never
expected. And now… he’s leaving, and I don’t even know where we stand.

He’s my uncle. Nothing can ever happen between us. And yet… out of every
man in the world, my heart had to choose Zwelinzima Langa.

A hollow ache grows in my chest. I’m sad about him leaving tomorrow. He
promised to check on us often. Same as Aunty and my uncles, and maybe
now we’ll be a closer family. But that thought brings no comfort.

No. I can’t just let him leave like this.

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I throw off the blanket and sit up, my decision made. I have to talk to him
before he goes. I have to know what that kiss meant.

I’m going straight to his rondavel. Tonight.

The air outside bites at my skin as I walk across the yard, heart pounding
like it wants to outrun me. The moon is high now, silver and silent,
watching. I pass the kraal, the fire long dead, and make my way to his
rondavel.

The door is slightly ajar. My breath catches.

I knock once, quietly.

“Zweli?”

A pause. Then his voice, low and alert. “Come in.”

I push the door open slowly. He’s sitting on the bed, shirt off, a light blanket
over his lap. His phone lies forgotten on the small table beside him. He
looks up at me like he’s been waiting.

I step inside and close the door behind me.

We just… stare at each other for a few seconds, like neither of us wants to
be the first to speak. My voice finally breaks the tension.

“We need to talk.”

He nods once. “I know.”

I stand near the door, arms folded, unsure where to start. “You kissed me.”

He meets my gaze. “Yes.”

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“And I let you.”

“I know.”

I swallow. “Why, Zweli?”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Because I wanted to. And
because part of me hoped you did too.”

The silence between us tightens.

“I’m not a child,” I say. “I know what’s wrong. I know what people would say.
But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

He rises slowly from the bed and walks toward me. He stops just close
enough to smell the faint scent of my lotion.

“How do you feel, Zamanje?” he asks softly.

My voice is barely a whisper. “Confused. Angry. Drawn to you in ways I can’t

explain.”

His hand brushes my arm — light, almost afraid. And that’s all it takes.

I reach for him. He pulls me in. The kiss is slower this time. Deeper. Like
we’re both afraid of what we’re starting and too weak to stop. His hands
settle on my waist, mine on his shoulders. We sink into the heat, into each
other, like we’ve wanted this for lifetimes.

I feel the edge of the bed behind my knees. He leans in, and we fall
together.

He kisses my neck, my shoulder, my mouth again. My body burns.

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He takes off my nightgown and I’m left in just my underwear. He leaves

trails of kisses all over my body. I’ve never felt like this before, and my body
wants more, more of his touch, more of his lips against my body. His hand
cups my haven, he pulls my panty to the side I feel his finger on my slit.

But then,

He stops.

Breathing hard, he pulls back slightly, still holding me.

“No,” he says, voice thick with restraint. “Not like this. Not tonight.”

I blink, dazed. “Why?”

He touches my cheek, gentle. “Because if we cross that line, we can’t

uncross it. And I need to know… this isn’t just heat or rebellion. I need to
know it’s real.”

My chest tightens. I nod, slowly. I understand.

We stay like that, forehead to forehead, heart to heart, until the fire in us
softens into silence.

He walks me back to the door. Opens it.

And for the first time all weekend, we say nothing at all.

But the silence holds everything.

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Chapter 7

Zamanje

It’s been three months since that night. The night the air between us shifted
from tension to touch. The night that lives in my body like memory and
warning.

Three months since Zweli left.

He hasn’t called. Not once. Not even to check in like he said he would. I tell
myself it’s better this way. That maybe he regrets it. That maybe I should
too. But the truth is, I don’t regret a single second. What I regret is the
silence that followed.

Life has moved forward, or at least, it pretends to. I still wake up at 5 a.m.,
still walk the gravel road to the supermarket, still smile at customers who
don’t bother to learn my name. Mama’s knee is acting up again, so I’ve
taken on more at home too.

But underneath it all, I feel… paused. Like I’m living on autopilot, waiting for
something to shake me awake.

Sometimes, at night, I still dream of him. Not always the kiss. Sometimes
it’s just his voice, laughing in the kitchen. Or his hands brushing mine as we
pass a plate. Ordinary things that now feel holy in memory.

The supermarket is busier than usual today. I’m stacking shelves near the
fresh produce when I feel eyes on me.

I glance up. It’s Sihle, the new cashier. He offers a shy smile that doesn’t
quite reach his eyes. I nod back, distracted.

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My mind keeps drifting to Zweli, to what could have been, what might never
be. I shove the thoughts aside and focus on the oranges in front of me.

A customer approaches, asking for help finding a brand of maize meal I

barely know. I force a smile, point them in the right direction, and move on.

But the weight of unspoken things drags at me. I fold my arms over my
chest, trying to keep my heart steady.

“Zamanje, you okay?” Sihle asks quietly, stepping closer.

I snap back to the present. “Yeah,” I say quickly, then softer, “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push, just nods, then goes back to his till.

The day stretches ahead, but I’m caught between the here and the
memories between moving on and holding on.

My phones rings startling me, I put down the box of oranges and wipe my
hands on my jeans and reach for it from my back pockets. Zweli. My heart
almost stops. I look around for Aisha before answering.

“MaMfeka” he says ever so gently

“Hello” I respond my voice almost breaking

“How are you?”

How am I? I am not good, I am confused, angry and sad.

“I’m good” I finally answer

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There’s a pause on the line. He doesn’t believe me. I can hear it in the
silence.

“I spoke to Phumzile earlier," he says gently. “She said she’s fine… but she
didn’t sound fine.”

I close my eyes. Of course she’d say that.

“Vezamandla’s worried. Said you’ve been quiet. Said things don’t seem
okay at home.”

I glance around the shop. Aisha’s still helping customers. I turn away
slightly and lower my voice.

"She’s sick," I whisper. "Mama. She’s been sick for a while now. I’m trying to
manage… work, home, everything. But it’s a lot. It’s…" my throat tightens.
"It’s been hard."

Another pause.

"You should’ve said something, MaMfeka," he says, voice thick with

concern. "I’m wrapping up a few things here in Durban. I’ll be heading home
soon."

"For the weekend?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, casual. But my
heart’s racing again.

"No," he says. "I’m moving back home."

My breath catches.

"What?"

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"It’s time," he says. "I’ve got people running things here. I want to extend the
house, be there for the process. It’s long overdue. And I’m thinking of
opening another business in eDumbe… one you can manage, if you’re
interested."

I lean against the shelf behind me, heart pounding.

"Me?"

"You. With flexible hours so you can take care of your mom properly. You
shouldn’t be carrying all this alone, Zamanje."

His voice is firm, warm, and certain. And in that moment, for the first time
in weeks, I feel something like relief settle in my chest. Not because he’s
coming back.

But because someone finally sees me.

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It’s Thursday morning. I’ve been up since dawn. Aisha gave me a day off
today.

The house smells like simmering lamb curry, steamed bread, and roasted
chicken. I’ve swept the yard twice, hung up new curtains in Zweli’s
rondavel, even laid out fresh bedding with the corners tucked in like Mama
used to do when guests came from far.

And he is coming from far. Not just in distance, but in spirit, in time, in
silence.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and check the pot again. My heart is
racing, but not because of the food. He’ll be here any minute.

Behind me, I hear the familiar shuffle of slippers.

“Uyapheka namhlanje, Ntombi,” Ma says from the doorway, arms folded

loosely. I turn, pretending to be busy with the stove. “It’s just... it’s been a
while since we had a proper meal. I’m off today, so I thought…”

She steps into the kitchen, eyeing the pot. “Mmm. Zweli uyafika namhlanje,
angithi? Zweli is coming today?”

I nod, careful to keep my face neutral. “Yes. He said he'd arrive by noon.”

She hums softly, the way she does when she’s thinking but doesn’t want to
say it. Then:

“You even cleaned his rondavel?”

I stiffen. “It was dusty.”

Silence.

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I feel her eyes on my back like heat.

“Jojo khalo, nalu uthi endunu!, be careful!” she says pointing a trembling
finger at me.

My hand tightens around the spoon. “What does that mean?.”

Ma doesn’t respond. Just nods, slowly. Then turns to leave. “Ngiyabonga

ngokupheka,” she says over her shoulder. “But don’t forget yourself,
mntanami.”

Her words land like a whisper and a warning.

I stir the pot harder than I need to. I haven’t forgotten myself.

That’s the problem.

Just before noon, I hear the engine.

I wipe my hands on the towel and peer out the kitchen window. A silver SUV
pulls up, dust kicking behind it. My breath catches.

He’s here.

I rush to the mirror, quickly smooth my edges, check for any flour on my
shirt, then pace to the front door, trying to calm my racing heart. The door
creaks open before I reach it.

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Zweli steps in like he never left. Same quiet confidence, same clean scent
of oud and something I can never name. He’s in dark jeans and a white T-
shirt that hugs his arms just right.

Our eyes meet.

And suddenly the house feels too small.

“MaMfeka,” he says with a slow smile.

“Welcome home,” I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

He drops his bag near the couch and opens his arms. I hesitate, just a
second too long, then step into them.

It’s warm.

It’s wrong.

It’s everything I’ve missed.

We break apart just as Ma appears from her room. Her face is unreadable.

“Zwelinzima,” she says flatly.

“Phumzile,” he replies, respectful. He bows his head slightly.

She walks past us to the kitchen. “There’s food. Eat before it gets cold.”

No “welcome.” No hugs. Just a cold front in a warm house.

Zweli clears his throat. “I’ll put my things in the rondavel.”

“I prepared it,” I say before I can stop myself.

He pauses, and something flickers in his eyes. “Thanks, Zamanje.”

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We don’t say anything else. He walks out with his bag. I stand there, pulse
pounding, Mama’s eyes burning into my back from the kitchen.

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Zwelinzima

The steamed bread is warm and soft, just like Gogo used to make it. The
lamb curry hits the spot perfectly spiced, slow-cooked, tender.

“Food is good,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Really good.”

Phumzile doesn’t look up. “Mm.”

Zamanje nods quickly but doesn’t say anything. She’s barely touched her
food, just picking at the chicken. She’s nervous. I can see it in the way she
holds her fork like it might slip.

I don’t blame her. This whole house is tense. I clear my throat. “I’ll be
starting renovations soon.” That gets Phumzile’s attention.

“Renovations?” she says, eyes sharp.

“I want to extend the house, add rooms. Fix up the rondavel properly. I’ll be
working from home for a while, maybe open something local.”

“You’re settling here… permanently?” she asks, like she’s hoping I’ll say no.

“I am.”

Silence.

I glance at Zamanje. She looks up at me for a second, just one, and

something passes between us. Familiar. Complicated. Phumzile doesn’t
miss it. “I hope you’re not here to confuse my daughter,” she says flatly.
Zamanje stiffens. Her eyes drop immediately.

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I meet Phumzile’s stare, calm. “I’m here to help.”

She scoffs under her breath, then goes back to eating.

I bite into the bread again. No one speaks.

The kitchen is quiet now. Zamanje has gone to her room, and I’m finishing
the last of the peanuts she’d fried earlier a surprise treat from the back
shelf. The back door creaks open.

Phumzile steps in, tying her doek tighter.

“You still eat those?” she asks, her tone casual.

“Some things don’t change,” I reply, wiping my fingers.

She doesn’t smile. Instead, she leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You’ve made a good life for yourself, Zweli. Durban. Business. Peace.”

I nod slowly. “I’ve been fortunate.”

“And now you’re back. Just like that.”

I shrug. “I needed to. The dreams… you know how it is. Skhundla said…”

“Mm.” She cuts me off with a small sound, eyes still watching me.
“Dreams. Yes. But dreams are never just dreams, are they?”

I frown, unsure what she’s getting at.

She keeps her tone light. “Strange, though. Of all times. You stayed away for
over a decade. Even after the funeral, you disappeared. Now you’re here,
wanting to build, plant yourself. Open a business. Stay.”

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“I told you…”

She lifts a hand, cutting me off again. “You told me. But I wonder, Zweli… is
that the real reason you came back?”

My stomach tightens. “What are you saying?”

“I’m just thinking aloud,” she says, walking toward the sink. “Just a mother
asking questions. You know how mothers are.”

She rinses her cup, places it down neatly, then turns back to me.

“Be careful not to stay for the wrong reasons. Some choices… they rot
quietly, like fruit in a dark place.”

Before I can respond, she’s already walking away.

The back door closes behind her.

And I’m left standing there, unsure what she meant, but certain it wasn’t
just small talk.

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Chapter 8

Zwelinzima

It’s been five months since I came home. Almost to the day.

The Shisanyama/Car Wash is doing well, more than well, actually.

Saturdays are packed, the grills never rest, and locals from as far as
Paulpietersburg are showing up just for the vibe. I’ve hired six people
already. One of them is a cousin I didn’t even know I had.

The house renovations are nearly done. Phumzile’s new bedroom is bigger,
with a proper en suite and a view of the backyard. I made sure of that. She
doesn’t say much about it, but I see how she lingers by the windows now.

Vezamandla starts school UKZN next week. He is nervous, but he hides it

well. The kid’s got my drive, maybe even more. That part of this whole
return? It made the mess worth it.

But then there’s her.

Zamanje.

We’ve danced around each other for months. We talk, we laugh, we even
sit together sometimes in the evenings. But she hasn’t set foot in my
rondavel since… that night. The kisses. The touch. The almost.

She avoids it. Like it never happened.

I’ve respected that. Gave her space. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a
little.

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Today, I’m planning to take her to Durban with me. Not just for the day — to
help Vezamandla settle in before he leaves for school. He needs support,
and I want her there too. And also, for the fact that her birthday is
tomorrow.

I want her to see there’s more to life than these dusty roads and tense
silences.

Maybe this trip will bring some clarity for both of us.

I grab my phone and stand up.

I find Phumzile sitting on the porch, gazing at the fading light.

“Phumzile, can we talk?” I ask, taking a seat beside her.

She turns to me, calm but tired.

“I want to take Zamanje to Durban with me. To help Vezamandla get ready
for school and maybe celebrate her 27th birthday?”

She studies me for a moment, then nods slowly.

“That’s a good idea. Vezamandla needs all the support he can get. And
Zamanje… maybe some fresh air will do her good too.”

I hesitate. “I just want to make sure you’re okay with it. I don’t want to cause
any trouble.”

Phumzile’s eyes soften. “You’re trying, Zweli. Just don’t break what little
peace we have left.”

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I nod, relieved.

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Zamanje

It’s 14:00 in the afternoon, and I’m just knocking off, perks of working in a
family business! As I step outside, I spot Zweli’s car parked by the
pavement. He never lets me take taxis to work; he drops me off and picks
me up. He had me get my driver’s license because sometimes the builders
need him home while he drives me. I did get my license, but he still won’t
let me drive myself. What’s the use?

I open the passenger door, throw myself inside, and sigh heavily.

“Hhaybo, Zamanje? What’s got you so tired? You only got here at 09:00!” he
says, laughing.

“It’s still tiring, Zweli!” I say, eyeing him.

“Hhayi, usuyavilapha nje — you’re lazy now! You worked ten-hour shifts for
Aisha, and now a mere five hours has you this tired?” he teases.

Mxm, I wouldn’t expect him to understand. Being a manager, and

technically the owner, is tiring on its own! Actually, he’s the owner, but who
cares? Who wouldn’t be exhausted when everyone’s calling you Mphathi all
day? That’s a heavy responsibility!

“So, your birthday’s coming up this weekend,” he says casually. I had

almost forgotten.

“Do you have anything fun planned?” he asks, turning to face me.

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“What’s fun about turning 27? It just means I’m a step closer to 30!” I sigh,
exasperated.

“I was thinking we could go to Durban tonight. We’ll come back Sunday,

Vezamandla has to move into res, classes start Monday,” he says.

“We’ll celebrate your birthday there. What do you think?” he asks.

I’m so excited! I’ve never been to Durban before. The last time I lived
outside eDumbe was when I was studying at Stellenbosch University. But…

“My mother, Zweli. You know she can be difficult,” I say cautiously.

“Relax. I’ve already talked to uMaPhumi. She agreed,” he replies

confidently.

“Really?!” I squeal and jump on him for a hug. It lingers longer than I expect
— intimate, warm. I pull back and sink into my seat.

“I don’t even have a bikini, Zweli!”

“Then I guess we have to go shopping before the stores close,” he grins.

By 17:00 we are on the road driving to Durban, the road stretches ahead of
us between valleys and sugarcane fields. I’ve never been this far from
home in years, and the closer we get to Durban, the more the world feels…
wider. Louder. Brighter.

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Zweli has one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily by the
gear. I swear I’ve never seen a man that looks so attractive while driving.

He’s humming to some old maskandi song playing on the radio. I don’t
know the lyrics, but the rhythm is soothing. I glance at him; clean, shaven,
relaxed. His beard trimmed to perfection, and he keeps brushing it, short
hair, and that dimple that keeps popping out randomly. I feel foreign
sensations on my northern regions.

“You’re quiet,” he says without looking at me.

“I’m taking it all in,” I answer

He smiles, “Durban’s not ready for you.”

I chuckle. “You sound like I’m about to take the city by storm.”

“Because you are.” He says simply while brushing my exposed thigh with
his free hand.

I look out the window and hide my smile.

I shift in my seat, “Do you think Vezamandla is ready?” I ask, needing to

focus on something else.

“He’ll be fine. I just want him to feel supported. And I thought… maybe it
would be good for you too. To get away a bit.

I nod. “Thank you”

He glances at me then, a long quiet look that makes something twist in my

stomach.

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“Happy almost birthday, Tonqo”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “Stop calling me that.”

“But it suits you, uyitonqo vele, you are a tennis ball”

I shake my head smiling.

La Lucia.

The kind of place where even lawns are trimmed like military haircuts. The
air here smells like pine trees, privilege, and pool chlorine. I try to act
normal as Zweli’s BMW pulls into the driveway, but even the gate moved
smoother than I am used to. I glance at him as he parks, cool and
composed like this is another Thursday. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to
hyperventilate at the sight of glass walls and actual palm trees. I shift in my
sit trying not to be impressed…but my inner rural girl is screaming.

Zweli leans over, smirking.

“Welcome to suburbia, ma’am. Where even birds speak English.”

I sniff the air dramatically,

“Mmm… is that jasmine or generational wealth?”

We laugh. He gets out and rushes around to open the door for me like I’m
the First Lady of eNkandla
“Relax, you look like you’re meeting Beyonce.”

“I might as well be” I mutter. “These houses have accents”

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He laughs.

“Welcome to Durban,” he says.

The front door opens before we even knock. Vezamandla stands there,
grinning, barefoot in shorts and a hoodie. Holding a slice of bread and a
chunk of polony on the other hand like it’s a fine hors d’oeuvre.

“About time,” he says. “I was starting to think y’all took a detour to Cape
Town.”

I laugh as we walk in. The house smells like wood polish and whatever
cologne Vezamandla drowned himself in.

We settle in the open-plan kitchen/lounge. Zweli pours himself a glass of

whisky, offers me juice, and Vezamandla flops on the couch, legs wide like
he owns the place.

“So,” he says, looking at me, “how does it feel to finally leave eDumbe for
more than just groceries?”

“I feel like I just entered a movie,” I admit, still in awe.

Zweli chuckles.

Veza smirks. “Don’t let this soft life fool you. I’m leaving for res this
weekend. It’s over”

“You’ll survive” I say. “You survived that tiny rondavel at home with windows
stuffed with plastic, you can survive sharing a shower”

“Besides, it’s not like you’ll end up with a roommate who cooks chicken
feet in a kettle or eats tin fish religiously every night” I shrug

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He chokes on his laughter. “Oh please! Not everyone is like your first year
roommate Nomfundo!”

“Bro!” I exclaim hands flying up. “I am still traumatized”

Zweli raises an eyebrow from the kitchen island. “She really cooked in a
kettle?”

“Every. Time.” I say, dragging each word with mock horror. “I couldn’t even
make tea without the scent of vinegar and chicken toes haunting me.”

“You should’ve just bought your own kettle”

“That’s the kicker! It was MY kettle!”

Veza is in stitches now. “Yoh! And you let her?”

“She knew how to throw hands okay!” I say

Zweli just laughs into his whisky, shaking his head. “You two need a reality
show.”

Veza points at me. “Episode one: How not to survive Res Life.”

I punch him playfully. “Hey! I made it work okay! I am literally just a girl” I
say swatting my non-existent wig away

The room fills with laughter again.

“By the way,” Vezamandla says suddenly, “I’m going out tonight. Just to see
my boys. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Zweli raises an eyebrow. “Don’t go wild.”

“No promises,” he grins. “You guys behave.”

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He disappears down the hallway, already grabbing his jacket.

Zweli turns to me. “Well… I guess it’s just us tonight.”

Something flutters in my chest. Maybe nerves. Maybe…curiosity.

He stretches a little, and walks to the kitchen counter.

“You hungry?”

I nod. “Starving”

“Okay” he says, pulling out his phone. “Ever had Thai food?” he asks

“No, but I’ve had Zulu food” I say shrugging

He laughs. “I’ve got a go-to Thai place. Has the best Tom Yum soup in
Durban. Although their Pad Thai could be better”

This better be good honestly, I am only comfortable with steak. My second

year roommate, Taki, was Venda and she once made me try Mopani worms.
Not my tongues’ type. Give me beef, chicken and wors? Then I’m your gyal.

Zweli sets the containers on the table, I won’t lie the scent is already
making my stomach flutter.

“This is yours” he says opening the container “This Malady is Pad Thai with
tamarind sauce, and crushed peanuts”

“It’s noodles Zweli”

I am so mad. I distinctly told this man I was starving, and he brings me

noodles that have some green herbs and a bit of something that looks
like…an egg? Is this what rich people eat kanti?

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“Yes but it’s not Maggi. It’s Pad Thai”

“I’m going to defrost some meat. This is ridiculous!”

“Come on Zamanje, those noodles have chicken, veg, egg… it’s a full meal”

“You call this chicken?” I say picking the ridiculously small chicken cube
with a fork.

“Okay, try it first. Then after you can try the Tom Yum Soup, I promise you
will love it”

I huff and take a dramatic bite, and pause.

My tastebuds do a double take.

“So?” he says glaring at me with a smirk

“It’s nice, but I am still frying a piece of steak!” I say going for another bite

“Of course” he says with a smirk

“You can take the girl out of eDumbe, but you can’t take eDumbe out of
her” he mutters under his breath

“Uyakhuluma bhuti wami? Do you want to say something?”

“No, nothing mama” he says raising his hands in surrender

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It’s almost midnight, we are on the couch. Laughing at something, hands

brushing a little too long, eyes lingering just a little too much. He looks at
me. Really looks.

“Come here” he says gently, like he’s asking not telling

I move closer. His hand grazes my thigh, sending shivers up my spine.

“I don’t want to rush you” he whispers, lips barely grazing my ear, “But I’ve
been dying to touch you properly.”
I exhale.
Finally.
Permission meets desire.

He cups my face, his eyes looking deep into my soul.

Then finally.
He kisses me; slow, deep, intentional. Not just hunger. Worship.

He stops, breath heavy. Eyes filled with desire.

“Want to take this to the bedroom?” He asks while planting pecks on my
neck.
“Mmm…” I respond, voice barely above a whisper
Almost instantaneously, he whips me up and carries me upstairs, he
pushes the door to the first room we come across, he dumps me on the
bed, and I let out a giggle while it bounces me up and down.

He hovers over me and kisses me again, this time with hunger only I can
satisfy.

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Clothes don’t come off all at once. No. They peel. Like secrets. Like skin on
fire. And when I am bare, he doesn’t pounce. He pauses.
“You’re beautiful”
The way he takes his time exploring my body, it’s like he is reading me in
braille—learning my every curve, every breath, every moan.

He plants light kisses all over my body, and when he finally reaches my
northern regions, he stops. He takes my feet and kisses them, he works his
way up my legs, to my thighs and finally the top of my haven. My whole
body is trembling with need.

He takes both my legs and puts them on either side of his shoulders. I feel
exposed. It starts with a touch on my clitoris, sending shivers down my
spine. He keeps moving his finger up and down my slit, I am screaming at
this point. Calling out his name like a prayer.

Then finally, he goes down with his tongue, first swipe, I hold his hand, my
thighs are trembling. This man studied my body, and he mastered it. He
worships my mound with his tongue. I am fisting my hands, I don’t know
what to do with myself. I feel something, it’s a foreign feeling, like I have
reached my limit.
“Come for me mama”
That’s all it took.
I fall apart.
I am panting, my whole body is in shock. I don’t know what this is, but I
know I want more of it.

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“I think I’m going to call it a night,” I say softly. “It’s been a long day.”

Zweli nods. “Of course. I’ll go get your luggage downstairs.”

“Thanks.” I pause. “For all of this.”

He gives me a small nod, eyes unreadable. “Sleep well, Tonqo.”

I roll my eyes at the name, but smile anyway and head to the ensuit
bathroom.

The room is simple but beautiful, crisp white sheets, soft lighting, even a
faint ocean breeze slipping in through the slightly open window. It smells
like clean linen and him. I take a well-deserved shower, that feels like it’s
washing my sins away. I wrap a soft white towel I found in the bathroom
around my body and take my phone, I have to check on MaPhumi, I’ve
never been separated from her in a long time.

Just as I unlock my phone, there’s a knock.

“Yes?”

The door opens slowly, and Zweli steps in, holding a glass of water on one
hand and my suitcase on the other. He stops when he sees me standing in
the middle of the room, towel-clad, phone in hand, steam still curling off
my skin.

“Sorry-” he starts, half-turning away. “I didn’t know you were-”

“It’s fine,” I say, voice low. “I was just about to call Ma.”

He looks back at me, eyes lingering just a second too long.

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“I just came to check if you’re okay. If you need anything.”

I nod, placing the phone down on the bedside table.

“I’m good. Thank you.”

But the air shifts. Thickens.

Zweli steps inside and closes the door behind him, not all the way, but
enough. His gaze is steady, and mine isn’t running anymore.

I take a breath. “Zweli… about earlier-”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says quietly, moving closer.

“I want to,” I whisper.

But I can’t seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to my mouth, and
before I can say another word, he’s kissing me.

This one is deeper, more certain. Not hurried, just full of everything we’ve
been trying to pretend isn’t there.

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Chapter 9

Zwelinzima

I couldn’t help myself, not after seeing her wrapped in that towel. I have to
taste her. I’ve tried so hard to control myself for the past five months living
under the same roof as her, but it was torture! With her it’s not about
nutting and moving on, I want her to be the only woman I ever love and
make love to.

As the kiss deepens I push her towards the best and the towel unravels and
my my my… what do I have here! She’s stark naked. Her perky breasts
looking straight into my eyes. I leave trails of kisses on her neck and entire
body. I go down slowly and kiss her inner thighs, she smells so fresh and
so… mine.

I swipe my tongue on her opening and what have we here… she’s already
wet and ready for me. I eat her up with her hand pushing my head deeper
and her sweet moans tearing me apart! I insert a finger, and she twitches, I
understand though, must’ve been a long time since she was touched. I
carry on worshiping her with my tongue until she explodes on my mouth

“Fuck! Zweli!” She curses, music to my ears.

I go back to her face and kiss her lips again and she welcomes me while I
tease her clit. I step out of my shorts and boxers, and my man is already
facing north with a bead of pre-cum glistening on the tip.

“Haaa” she gulps, with a terrified look on her face

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“All this is going inside me?” oh my baby is horrified! I should take a picture
of this moment. I chuckle,

“Every inch mama, now let your man take care of you” I say positioning
myself on her opening

I tease her with my head, running it up and down her slippery folds and she
squirms beneath me.

“I love you Zamanje” I say assuring her

I push my head in her tiny cunt, and she flinches.

I try again, kissing her this time to distract her and she screams in my
mouth.

This is hopeless. I swear it’s like she’s a virgin.

I hold both her hands above her head with one hand and position my dick
with the other.

I place him right in the opening. This is it. There’s no coming back from this.

I enter slowly and I feel something, a membrane blocking me.

“What is this Zamanje? You’re a virgin?!” She nods trying not to look at me.
I’m the happiest man in Durban tonight!

“Should I stop?” I ask her,

“No, please don’t” she says in a low whisper

“Are you sure? Zamanje there’s no going back from this” I say glaring at her.

“I’m sure” she says.

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Zamanje

When he finally enters me, I flinch. I’m in pain, but at the same time I don’t
want him to stop. It’s not just heat, it’s home.

No fumbling. No rush. Just two souls syncing in rhythm and need.

I whisper his name. He groans mine.

And in that moment, it’s not just bodies moving.
It’s hearts. It’s truth. It’s the softest kind of surrender.

He lifts my thigh gently, guiding my body closer, deeper, until I feel every
inch of him. Slow and full. It’s a stretch, but one that makes my toes curl
and my lips part with a gasp.
“You okay?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to mine.
I nod, clutching his back, fingertips digging into his skin.
“Don’t stop.”

He rolls his hips deliberately, drawing out every second. The friction builds
slow and hot, like a match digging across sandpaper—inevitable. His lips
trail down my neck, tongue teasing that sweet spot just below my ear, and I
feel my breath stutter.

I wrap my legs tighter around him. He groans, deep, the kind of sound that
vibrates against your chest.
“You feel insane”, he mumbles, voice thick and uneven.

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The pace quickens, not rushed, urgent. My moans rise with the rhythm, the
bed creaking softly in time. The air is thick with sweat, desire, and the
unspoken.

“Right there”, I breath, nails clawing down his spine.

He shifts slightly, hitting that perfect spot again and again, my back arching
as pleasure coils tight in my belly.
“I’m close” I whimper.
“Let go for me mama” he whispers, kissing my lips, my cheek, my jaw. “I’ve
got you”
And I do.

I come undone with a shudder, thighs trembling, breath ragged. He follows

shortly after, with a deep grunt and a soft curse against my skin, hips,
stuttering as he collapses next to me.

As soon as he collapses next to me, it hits. What just happened. I grab the
towel from the corner of the bed and run to the bathroom and lock myself
in.

This is not how I imagined my first time would go, especially not with a man
I considered family my whole life. There’s alot of things running through my
mind at this moment, but what I am sure of is that I want this as much as he
does.

I get in the shower and open the cold water and sit with my knees pressed
on my chest.

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Zwelinzima

She slips out of the bed so fast I barely register what’s happening until I
hear the bathroom door slam shut and the lock click.

“Zamanje?” I call out, sitting up, the sheets falling around my waist.

Silence.

I run a hand through my hair and get out of bed, pulling on my shorts. My
heart’s beating too fast, too heavy. I walk to the bathroom door, knock
gently.

“MaMfeka… please open the door.”

Still nothing.

I press my forehead against the wood, closing my eyes. My voice lowers.

“Talk to me, please. I need to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Still no answer. I can hear the faint sound of water running. Maybe she’s
crying. That thought guts me.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say softly.

I exhale sharply, resting both palms on the door.

“If you regret it, if you’re scared, I understand. But don’t shut me out,
Zamanje. Please.”

I wait. Still nothing.

“I’m not going to force you to talk. I’ll wait out here if I have to. I just need
you to know…” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I care about you.
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Deeply. You’re not just… someone I slept with. You’re everything I never saw
coming.”

The water stops.

I step back, waiting.

I lower myself slowly, my back against the bathroom door, head leaning
back against the frame.

“Zamanje,” I say quietly, “I love you.”

My voice catches slightly. “Ngiyakuthanda. And I’m not just saying this
because of what happened. I’ve loved you long before tonight. I’ve just
been… afraid to name it.”

Silence. Then, her voice, faint, but sharp.

“If you love me, then why did you do something so painful to me?”

I close my eyes.

“You don’t hurt someone you love, Zweli.”

Her words cut deep.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know you were a virgin. You should’ve told
me.”

“That’s not something you just tell your uncle,” She replies flatly.

That stings. But she’s right. I was her uncle long before I was anything else.
That truth hangs heavy between us, even with a door separating us.

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I sigh. “Please… open the door. We need to talk. I promise, I won’t touch
you. I just want to be near you.”

“You promise?”

“I swear. On my mother’s grave.”

There’s a pause, long enough for me to think she might open it.

Then, sharply: “Don’t bring MaNyambose into this, Zwelinzima!”

I chuckle, despite everything. “Okay, okay. Fair enough.”

A beat of silence. My voice softens.

“Kodwa ngicela uvule, mama. Ngiyacela.”

The handle doesn’t turn. But the door creaks slightly. She’s listening. She
hasn’t walked away.

And for now… that’s enough.

The door opens slowly.

She stands there wrapped in a towel, her hair a mess, eyes red and puffy. A
whole storm of emotion written all over her face. A mess, but still the most
beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Without a word, I pull her gently into my chest and wrap my arms around
her. She doesn't resist.

I press a kiss to her forehead.

“Happy birthday, MaMfeka,” I whisper.

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She leans back slightly, brows furrowed. “It’s after midnight already?”

I nod. “Just past.”

Her eyes widen as she suddenly remembers something. “Ma called!” she
says, rushing to her phone. “I must’ve forgotten to take it off silent.” She
dials quickly and places the phone to her ear.

While she’s distracted, I glance at the bed, and my stomach twists.

Blood stains.

Damn.

She cannot see this. She’ll spiral again.

I move quickly, stripping the sheets as quietly as I can. I shove them into
the laundry basket in the corner and pull-out fresh ones from the wardrobe.
I’m halfway through remaking the bed when she walks back in, frowning.

“Why are you changing the sheets?”

She stands there, towel still wrapped tightly, hands on her hips, just like her
mother.

I blink. “Uh… they were dusty. Haven’t been used in a while.”

She eyes me suspiciously but lets it go. “Phumzile’s not answering. I’ll try
again in the morning.”

She climbs into bed, fluffing the pillow behind her, and watches as I get in
next to her.

“Wenzani, Zweli? What are you doing?”

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I look at her like it’s obvious. “Getting in bed with you. Hhaybo.”

She chuckles, rolling her eyes. I switch off the bedside lamp and pull her
into me again, her back against my chest, my hand resting lightly on her
waist. I kiss her forehead.

“Funny how it’s my birthday but you got the gift of my virginity,” she
murmurs, laughter in her voice.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Umalume uyalumana, I told you.”

Silence settles in. The soft hum of the night air fills the room. She’s warm in
my arms, her breathing beginning to slow.

“MaMfeka,” I say quietly after a while.

She hums. “Sodumase.”

I smile.

“Ngiyakuthanda,” I whisper.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Ngiyakuthanda nami.”

And just like that, we drift into sleep. Wrapped in truth. Wrapped in each
other.

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I don’t know when it happened, when I fell in love with her. maybe it was the
way she walked, quiet but certain. or the way her laughter came suddenly

Like sunlight breaking through a cold morning. maybe it was the way she
looked at people, like she sees the whole of them, even the parts they tried
to hide.

She's not just beautiful, though God knows she is. it's the kind of beauty
that doesn’t [Link] whispers. grows on you. lives in the curves of her
smile. the softness of her voice when she says my name. she's mine in a
way no one else ever was. Not because I own her, but because my soul
recognizes hers. I've known many women. but none like her.

With her... it's not about desire alone. it's peace. it's fire. it's home.

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Zamanje

I am dreaming of fairies and unicorns when I feel someone shaking me

“Baby” he whispers shaking me again

“Zamanje!” He says again

“What! Zweli!?” I respond annoyed

“Wake up” he says

“What time is it?” I force my eyes open and it’s still dark

“I don’t know, 3am I think” he says,

“And you’re waking me up!?” I asked visibly annoyed

“Baby, I can’t sleep… look” he says pointing to his shorts, I look down and
see his man pointing up north like the tent our neighbors The Shabalala’s
put up for their daughter’s lobola negotiations before she fell pregnant with
the guy’s brother’s baby. Ey imihlola! Who has a whole ceremony for lobola
negotiations? I’m not even going to comment on her pregnancy for her
man’s brother, I just slept with my uncle I can’t be judge Judy.

Now back to my Mancle or man/uncle. It’s like he stuffed a baby’s arm in

there.

“Awufuni siphinde? Don’t you want us to do it again?” He asks, his eyes are
red and smaller, he looks funny

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“Siphinda ini Zweli?” I ask

“Hawu mama, I’ve been tossing and turning all night, and you sleeping in
your towel doesn’t help matters”

“You should’ve slept in you room Zwelinzima!” I reprimand

“Baby Ngiyacela, I’ll only put it in, I won’t move. Angeke ngifende” he says,
his had already massaging my butt.

“I’m still sore Zweli” I say hoping he will back down.

“I know mama, but the more you do it, is the better it gets. It won’t hurt the
second time I promise, I’ll be gentle” his finger is already running circles on
my clit.

“Zweli…” I say almost inaudible. His cold hand against my sore mound is
soothing.

“Mmh” he says, his eyes small, but filled with need.

“Ngivumele mama” he says,

“You’re already wet for me, let me help you” he says, his hand still busy
doing things to my glory hole

His finger is thrusts in and out of me and I feel myself tensing up. I grab his
hand and hold it still as my core convulse around it.

“Baby…I… ahh Zweli” I can’t even get my words out, I can feel myself on the
brink, I’m about to explode.

He stops.

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He takes out his fingers and licks them clean.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

“You taste very sweet” he says with a smirk.

He cups my face and kisses me while getting on top of me.

The same mouth that was licking my juices, and surprisingly I don’t mind.

He unwraps my towel and pushes down his shorts. I feel him on my

opening.

He inserts slowly; I flinch.

“Thambisa umzimba, loosen up mama” he says as if it’s that easy.

He pulls out, and starts the process all over again and enters, slowly and
carefully, his eyes are facing down looking at where our bodies meet.

He repeats the process a couple of times, now it’s a feeling of pain

accompanied with pleasure. I’m holding onto him so tight

“Please give this round to me, the next one is yours”

Huh? I’m not familiar with sex slang.

“Ushisa kakhulu mama, I won’t last” he says as he tenses up like he’s

having a stroke, and I feel warmth running down my legs.

“Fuck!” He mutters

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Chapter 10

Zamanje

I wake up to sunlight spilling into the room through the sheer curtains, the
sea breeze slipping in through the slightly open window. I’m warm… too
warm. Not just from the blanket half-thrown over me from him.

Zweli’s arm is draped over my waist, his chest rising and falling steadily
against my back. His breath tickles my neck. He’s still fast asleep, but my
body is very much awake.

Everything aches in the most confusingly beautiful way.

I shift a little and feel it, the slight soreness, the unmistakable reminder of
what we did. Not once. Not twice. But three times.

The first time left me shaky and in tears. The second was slower, sweeter,
like we were discovering each other in a new language. The third? That one
happened just before sunrise. With the world quiet and half-asleep, we
moved like we knew we’d never be the same after this.

I turn gently to look at him. His beard is a little messy, his face so relaxed
it’s hard to imagine he’s the same man who had me wrapped around him
hours ago.

How did I get here?

Three months ago, I was dodging his gaze in the kitchen, pretending not to
be affected every time his hand brushed mine. Now I’ve memorized the
weight of him. The way he whispers my name like a prayer when he’s close.

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I should be terrified. Ashamed, even. But all I feel is this odd sense of
peace, like I’ve finally stepped into something that’s been waiting for me all
along.

I brush his arm off gently and slip out of bed, grabbing the towel on the
chair. I can hear the front gate open. That must be Vezamandla.

Reality knocks. We still haven’t had the talk. What are we now? Lovers?
Just a mistake stretched out too long?

I shake the thought away. Today is my birthday. Zweli’s taking us out for
brunch at some fancy restaurant in Zimbali. I’ll overthink tomorrow.

For now, I’ll pretend I’m just a girl in a pretty towel, who slept too well, and
woke up in La Lucia next to a man who makes her feel seen.

Even if that man is… my uncle.

God help me.

I fling the curtains open and light floods the room. I blink at the brightness
and reach for my phone — 06:30 AM.

06:30!?

My heart skips. Vezamandla at the gate! Who comes back home at 6:30?
Haibo! He’d never dare do that at MaPhumi’s house, she would’ve hunted
him down and given him a hiding that would make headlines in the family
group chat.

Then it hits me.

Zweli.

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Oh no.

“Zweli! Zweli, wake up!” I whisper harshly, nudging him with urgency.

He groans and turns to face the other side, half-asleep.

“Bathong!” I mutter, tugging the blanket.

“Zwelinzima! Wake up!”

He groans again, this time with a teasing smirk. “Yho, I give you the joystick
three times and now you’re waking me up for it?”

Typical.

“That’s not*why I’m waking you up,” I hiss. “Vezamandla is back! He can’t
find you here!”

That gets his attention. His eyes pop open.

“Shit!”

In seconds, he’s out of bed, grabbing his shorts and a T-shirt from the floor
like a man caught doing a prison break.

I turn to rush into the ensuite, but before I get far, his arms snake around my
waist.

He pulls me gently back to him, his hands resting warm on my hips. He

kisses me, slow, deliberate, like he wants it to linger.

“Good morning, Thembalami,” he whispers against my lips. “And happy

birthday… again.”

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Before I can even blush, he slips out the door and vanishes down the
hallway.

I stand there wrapped in my towel, heart racing.

How am I supposed to keep this secret if he keeps doing things like that?

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Vezamandla Mfeka

I was crashing hard at my friend’s place, drunk and half asleep after a long
night at Zweli’s shisanyama. We’d been drinking since the evening, and I
could barely keep my eyes open when my phone rang around 6 a.m. The
screen flashed Uncle Skhundla’s name. Groaning, I answered.

“Where are you, Vezamandla? It’s six in the morning!” His voice was sharp
and impatient.

“I’m at a friend’s house, Uncle,” I mumbled, still foggy from the hangover.

There was a pause, then he shouted, “Why did you leave Zweli and Zamanje
alone at the house? What if something happens?”

I blinked, confused and annoyed. “They were fine when I left them. Zweli
said we’d meet around noon.”

“Still, you shouldn’t leave them like that!” he snapped.

I sighed, feeling the weight of his words but not fully understanding. I told
him I’d be heading home soon.

Dragging myself out of the bed, I felt the pounding in my head as I got ready
to leave. The ride back was quiet, my thoughts heavy and muddled.

I unlock the door quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. The Uber dropped
me off faster than I expected, and now I’m here, with a splitting headache
and two hours of sleep. Friday nights in Durban are wild!

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I kick off my sneakers at the entrance and stretch. The house is quiet, too
quiet. Maybe they’re still sleeping.

I head toward the kitchen, hoping to find some juice

Then Zweli appears, shirt wrinkled, hair slightly messy, and barefoot.

“Yoh,” I say, surprised. “You’re up already?”

He stumbles a little. “Yeah, yeah… was just getting some water.”

“And you? Why are you back so early? I thought you said you’d be back
around 10 or something,” he says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle
of water.

“Your brother Skhundla happened. He called me at 06:00, who does that?

What if I was busy, you know… lying peacefully between some yellow
thighs?” I grumble.

“Skhundla? What did he want?” he asks, suddenly way too interested.

“He was shouting at me, asking why I left you and Zamanje alone in the
house. Like huh? You two are older than me, shouldn’t they be worried
about me instead?” I say, throwing my hands up.

Zweli’s grip tightens on the bottle, and water spills down his hand.

“Yo! You good?” I ask, frowning.

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“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Go get some rest. We’ll head out for brunch around
12, grab your groceries after, and get you to res,” he says.

“Aight, no smoko, Ankel,” I say with a grin, giving him a fist bump before
heading upstairs to crash.

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Zamanje

I’ve just taken a shower and slip into the above-the-knee summer dress
Zweli, and I bought for this trip. It fits perfectly, light, airy, and playful. He
said we’re only doing brunch because of Vezamandla, and after we drop
him at res, we’ll have dinner, just the two of us.

I slide into my flip-flops and tie my hair into a high ponytail. My natural hair
has always been long, it brushes just past my shoulders, and today I let it
flow free with just a touch of edge control. When I walk into the kitchen, I
find Zweli and Veza already seated, dressed in festive summer shirts, vests,
and matching flip-flops. At least they understood the beachside brunch
memo.

“Finally!” Veza says, standing up.

“Shut up. You’re supposed to wait for a lady, you uncultured swine,” I jab,
playfully punching his arm. Zweli chuckles, shaking his head.

We pile into the car and head to brunch, some seaside spot Zweli
apparently used to frequent before moving home. The view is stunning:
waves crashing gently, sunlight catching on the water, and the smell of the
ocean clinging to the breeze.

We chat lightly over a delicious meal. Seafood. Although I would’ve

preferred steak. Veza cracking jokes, Zweli asking about res life, and me
soaking in the moment. For a while, everything feels normal. Warm. Easy.

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After brunch, we head to Oceans Mall. I’ve seen it on TikTok, but nothing
compares to walking inside it for the first time. I’m in awe, designer stores,
polished floors, massive windows letting the Durban sun in like it’s showing
off.

Veza stocks up on groceries and res essentials, snacks, toiletries, even a

small kettle. Zweli grabs me a new outfit for dinner: I can’t wait to wear it.

Finally, we drive to Veza’s residence. The mood shifts slightly, more

sentimental. It’s his first time living away from all of us, and as annoying as
he is, I’ll miss having him around.

“Don’t forget to eat real food,” I say, helping him carry bags from the boot.

“Don’t forget to mind your own business,” he shoots back, and we laugh.

“And condomize Vezamandla! I’m not ready to be an aunt” I say pointing at

him with my eyes squinted

“Okay Ma! Malum’Zweli please take your niece away now” he says

Mxm.

Zweli claps him on the back. “Make us proud, mfana. If you need anything,
you call, no matter what time.”

Veza nods, serious now. “I will. Thanks, guys.”

We watch him walk through the gate before heading back to the car. Just
the two of us again.

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“So… what happens now?” I ask, looking at Zweli when we get to the car.

“Huh?” he glances at me, clearly confused.

“I mean, are you taking me on a tour around Durban? It’s only 16:00 and our
dinner reservation is at 19:00. What are we doing in the meantime?”

“Oh, that,” he says with a smirk. “Simple. We go home, make love… go to

dinner… come back and make love the whole night.”

I blink at him. Really?

“Zweli, please be serious.”

“I am,” he says, his voice dropping low, his hand brushing my thigh. “There’s
nothing I’d rather do right now than be inside you.”

His hand starts heading north and I swat it away.

“Stop it!” I laugh. “No! I want to explore Durban. I don’t know when I’ll be
back, and I need something to remember before I return to my depressing
little life eDumbe.”

He groans dramatically. “Fine,” he says, starting the car. “Where do you

wanna go, Miss Adventure?”

“I don’t know. You’re the Durban guy. Surprise me.”

He looks at me for a moment, then nods. “Okay, okay. Buckle up, MaMfeka.
Let’s go show you the city.”

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He drives us along the coast, taking the scenic route. The ocean glimmers
on our left, and the breeze pours in through the open windows. We cruise
through Florida Road, then make a stop by Wilson’s Wharf to take in the
view of the boats and the bay. I make him buy us soft-serve from a little
kiosk nearby. We sit on a bench and people-watch.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“For the ice cream?” he teases.

“No… for this. For today.”

He smiles and kisses the back of my hand.

“You deserve it all, Thembalami. This is just the beginning.”

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Zamanje

I stand in front of the mirror, still wrapped in a towel, staring at the outfit we
picked out at Oceans Mall earlier. A silky black slip dress with delicate
straps and a low back simple, but elegant. Grown woman vibes. It’s more
daring than anything I’ve worn before, but Zweli loved it the second I held it
up. “That one,” he’d said. No hesitation.

I take a deep breath and start getting ready. Lotion, perfume, earrings. I
straighten my hair a little and let it fall naturally. I apply some mascara, a
nude lip, and call it a day. No need to overdo it not when his eyes already
look at me like I’m a prize.

When I step out of the room, I find him waiting in the lounge. He stands the
moment he sees me. His eyes scan me from head to toe, slowly,
deliberately.

“Yoh...” he whispers, then chuckles to himself. “Ngizofa mina.”

I smile, suddenly shy. “Is it too much?”

“It’s perfect,” he says, walking towards me. “You’re perfect.”

I roll my eyes to hide how his words melt me. “Let’s go before you start
quoting love songs.”

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He laughs, opens the door, and places his hand gently on the small of my
back as we walk out.

Tonight, Durban will know I was here.

Dinner is soft. That’s the only word that comes to mind. Soft lights, soft
music, soft laughter between bites of grilled prawns and buttered rolls.

Zweli leans back slightly, watching me chew. “You still cut your meat like
you’re feeding a toddler,” he says, chuckling.

“I don’t like chewing forever,” I laugh. “Besides, I’m trying to look cute.”

“You are cute,” he says, without hesitation, his eyes catching the
candlelight. “Even with sauce on your chin.”

I quickly grab a napkin and dab at my face. “You’re supposed to tell me that
before I embarrass myself.”

“You’re doing great,” he smirks. “If you start snoring mid-bite like you did at
the Shisanyama that one time, I’ll step in.”

I groan. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Never,” he grins. “You were standing with a plate in your hand, eyes rolling
back, then boom, nap time. I’ve never seen a person sleep standing up.”

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“I was tired!” I say, laughing. “That shift was hell.”

His face softens a little. “I know. I saw it in your eyes that day. You always
carry too much.”

There’s a brief pause, heavier than the rest. I look at him, the way his fingers
run slowly along the stem of his wine glass, his eyes locked on mine like
there’s nowhere else to look.

“So…” he starts, “what would your ideal birthday be, if money wasn’t an
issue?”

I think for a moment. “Hmm… Maybe a small getaway. Somewhere quiet,

with books, hot chocolate, a fireplace.”

“No loud music?”

“No drunk neighbors or people screaming over cards,” I add.

“Got it,” he nods. “Bookish birthday. I’ll keep that in mind.”

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Just as I start to feel full, the waiter returns with a wide, flat plate in hand.

“Dessert for the lady,” he says with a smirk, placing it in front of me.

It’s a mini chocolate lava cake, elegantly plated with strawberries and gold
flakes. But what stops me is the words written in chocolate on the plate:

“Be mine?”

I blink. Then look up at Zweli. He’s watching me, not smiling, just waiting,
nervous in a way I’ve never seen him before.

“Zweli…” I whisper, caught completely off-guard.

“I know it’s complicated,” he says quickly. “But I don’t care. I’ve never felt
what I feel for you before. And I don’t want to keep pretending this is
temporary.”

I stare at him, my heart thudding so loud I can barely hear the soft music
anymore.

“I mean, unless you want to keep fighting your feelings,” he adds, playful
now. “In which case, I’ll just eat the lava cake myself.”

I burst out laughing. “Okay,” I say, still smiling. “Yes.”

His face breaks into the most beautiful smile, and we sit there, both
grinning like fools, while the rest of the world disappears around us.

"Let’s go home," I say, leaning in with a smile.

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“Why? Don’t you like this place?” he asks, brows raised.

“I do,” I say, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “But I want us to
celebrate making this official… properly.” I wink.

He chuckles. “But we are celebrating, mama. I even got you dessert.”

Men are hopeless.

I lean in closer, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s go have sex, Zweli.”

His eyes darken instantly, his hand tightening around his glass.

"Don’t play with me like that sthandwa sami, are you serious?" he asks,
voice low and serious.

I nod, biting my lip.

He doesn’t even finish the last sip of his drink. The waiter brings the bill,
and we’re out the door in record time, hand in hand like two teenagers who
just sealed a high school crush.

In the car, the air is thick with tension, desire, anticipation. His hand is on
my thigh the entire drive, tracing small circles, his eyes focused on the road
but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Mine too.

Tonight, we’re no longer tiptoeing around it. We’ve said it. Chosen it. Us.

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The curtains don’t block out much light. By the time I open my eyes, the sun
is already spilling through, soft and golden, painting his white sheets. I turn
my head and find him beside me, one arm bent behind his head, breathing
steady, chest rising and falling like he’s carrying the whole world under his
ribs.

For a moment, I just watch him. This man who is mine and not mine, who
feels both forbidden and familiar. My uncle. My Zweli.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 5:04 AM.

My body is still wired to Dumbe. At home, I’d be tying a scarf over my head,
balancing a bucket on my hip, and walking toward the river before the sun
had fully risen. Sunday mornings were for laundry, laughter with the other
girls at the riverbank, and cold water that made your fingers ache. But
today, this Sunday, I was in a luxury mansion in the north of Durban, tucked
beside a man who, despite all odds, had managed to carve a space into my
world.

I slide out of bed quietly, pulling one of his shirts over my body. The marble
tiles are cool under my feet as I move to the kitchen. Usually on Sundays I
am up by 5am and making my way towards the river to do laundry. This is a
different Sunday. An easy Sunday.

I get to work. Eggs first, then bacon. I toast the bread, butter it lightly, and
brew the coffee just the way he likes it: three sugars, no milk. My mother
would’ve clicked her tongue and said, Indoda iyalungiselelwa—a man
must be served. I would’ve rolled my eyes, of course. But here I was.
Humming softly to Phakade by Lira. Smiling to myself like a fool.

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By the time he walks in, I’m plating the food. His chain glints in the sunlight,
sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He leans against the counter, watching
me like he isn’t sure if I’m real or part of a dream he hasn’t shaken off.

“You’re domestic today,” he teases, voice low, still heavy with sleep.

“Someone has to make sure you eat more than takeaways,” I reply, sliding
the plate toward him.

He smirks, sits, and picks up a fork. For a while, the only sound is him
eating. I sit across from him with my own plate, trying not to stare, but
failing.

“You know,” he says finally, eyes lifting to mine, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” The words slip out firmer than I expect.

Something flickers in his gaze; guilt, maybe, or something softer. He

presses the fork into the eggs, watching the yolk spill. “Feels… different.
Waking up like this.”

I don’t answer. I sip my tea instead.

He leans back, studying me. “When we go back today… things will change.
You know that, right?”

I nod, but my chest tightens. I know what he means. Dumbe isn’t La Lucia.
There, we aren’t two people sharing a bed and a breakfast table. There, we
are family, bound by eyes that never forget.

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Still, for this morning, with sunlight warming the kitchen and his chain
catching the light, I let myself pretend. Pretend I belong here, in this house,
at this table, across from him.

Even if I know the road waiting for us will strip it all away.

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Chapter 11

Zamanje

We’re driving back home, the Sunday sun casting long golden streaks
across the road ahead. The windows are slightly rolled down, and the wind
teases the hem of my dress, lifting it just enough to tickle my thighs. Zweli
has one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on my knee, his
thumb lazily brushing my skin like it belongs there.

It’s quiet between us, but not in a bad way. It's the kind of silence that
wraps around you, warm and full, like a shared secret. And we do share one
now. Or maybe more than one. Last night… last night changed everything.
Again.

We made love like we had something to prove. Like the hours would run out
on us. I lost count of how many times he whispered my name like a prayer,
how many times I came undone under his hands, his mouth, his body. And I
don’t regret a single moment.

But now, with the highway unfolding before us and eDumbe slowly getting
closer, my heart starts to feel heavier. What does all of this mean once
we’re back in that house? Where the walls know too much, and the air is
thicker with judgment?

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I glance at him. Zweli.

My Mancle.

My love.

Will we survive reality?

It’s around 17:00 when we drive into the yard. We stopped by KFC and
bought some food, MaPhumi loves it. I had called her earlier and told her
not to cook, but here she is, sitting on a grass mat outside, sorting sugar
beans. Legs folded, wrapped in her favourite pinafore, her expression
unreadable. Typical Phumzile.

We step out of the car, and she just looks at us. No greeting, no smile, just
that piercing silence.

“Zwelinzima, since you’re here, please go get me some firewood. We’ve run
out,” she says, eyes still on the beans.

Zweli looks puzzled. “Firewood? But I had a gas stove and an electric one
installed for you.”

She gives him the look. The kind only African mothers have. No words, just
that glare and off he goes without another word.

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I walk toward her carefully. “Sawubona, Ma,” I greet.

“Yebo, ntombi,” she replies with a brief glance.

“Your pinafore looks lovely. When did you buy it?” I offer, trying to ease the
tension.

She gestures at my dress. “That one is nice. When did you get it?”

I do a little twirl for her to see the back. “Ngiyabonga. Zweli and I bought it
before we left.”

“Mmh, how was Durban?” she asks casually.

“It was lovely, Mama. I really enjoyed it.”

“Mmh,” she hums, then her voice lowers, sharp and direct. “Yish dade!
Bekumnandi ngalendlela yokuthi uze wafohlisa indoda esibayeni sikababa
wakho waphisana ngenkomo yami?.”

I freeze. “Huh?”

She looks me dead in the eye. “I’m old, Zamanje. I’ve seen things. You’ve
had sex. Umfasankomo awuwaqambi amanga.”

“No, Ma. I swear that’s not true,” I reply quickly, heart pounding.

“Where is the boy from? Durban? Because when you left here, you were
full, ubuphelele. Don’t play with me, Zamanje.”

“Nothing happened, Mama. I promise.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales. “Alright then. Take these beans
and put them inside. I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

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Phew. That was too close.

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I head to my room after the encounter with Ma. I sit at the edge of the bed,
hands trembling. I really don’t know what to do. One thing about my
mother? She doesn’t let things go. If she suspects something, she will go
digging.

What happens when she decides to test me? What if she wants to check if
I’m still a virgin?

No. Nope. I ned help.

Zothile. She knows these things better than I do. I quickly grab my phone
and dial.

The phone only rings twice before she answers, way too cheerful for the
crisis I’m in.
“Hey chomi!” she sings.
“Can I ask you something?” I say trying to sound casual, but my voice
betrays me.

“Yeah sure” she replies.

“Uhm… can parents tell if you’re not a virgin anymore?” I ask softly.

She chuckles.

"Well, they say they can, but I think it’s all just superstitious bullshit. Why?
What’s going on?"

"Uhm… Zamile from work was asking, so I told her I’d ask around for her."

I say it confidently, but even I wouldn’t believe me.

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There’s a pause.

"Really? Are you sure Zamile isn’t Zamanje?" she asks, clearly not buying it.

"Yho Zothi, come on! What do you take me for?" I try to laugh it off.

She hums knowingly. "Mhmm. Well, from what I know, they can only tell if
they physically test you to see if the hymen is still there."

I feel my stomach twist. I’m screwed.

"Is there… like, a way to bring it back? The hymen?" I ask, my voice now
whispering. "I mean, it only happened a few times. Maybe it healed?"

"Hayibo, Zamanje!" she laughs. "Once it’s gone, it’s gone. That’s not how it
works. But I’ve heard of girls putting things in there to fake it."

I blink. "Like what things?"

"I don’t know, mfazi! Chicken livers, maybe. Something that bursts and
looks the part."

I nearly drop the phone. "Chicken livers?!"

She’s laughing now.

"I’m serious! Don’t ask me how they know that, but apparently it works."

“Thank you so much chomi, you’re the best!”

“Are you sure this isn’t about you? I swear Zamanje if you lost your virginity
and didn’t tell me, I’ll be so mad at you!” she says

“Relax chomi, I would never do that to you. I have to go”

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“Okay pass my regards to your yummy uncle for me” she says giggling

“No Zothile! That’s my uncle hawu” this girl!

“Whatever! Bye, love you!”

“Love you too!” I hang up.

Perfect! Oh, Zweli! I have to warn him; we need to be careful.

I head to Zweli’s rondavel. I knock softly before slipping inside.

He’s seated on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looks
up and stands immediately. “Sthandwa sami, are you okay?”

I sit beside him. “She knows. Or… she suspects. She said I left here full and
came back incomplete.” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. “She
thinks it’s someone from Durban.”

Zweli runs a hand down his face. “Damn.”

“I didn’t know what to say. I denied it, obviously, but… she was watching me
like she could see straight through my skin.”

He reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. “Hey… come here. It’s okay.
She can suspect all she wants. We haven’t done anything wrong. You hear
me?”

I nod against his chest, letting the warmth of him soften the panic curling in
my belly.

Just then, the door bursts open.

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Ma stands at the door. Expression unreadable.

She doesn’t shout, doesn’t even flinch. Just stands there in the doorway
like a statue brought to life, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Kwenzenjani lapha?” Her voice is cold. “Why are you two hiding in the
room like thieves?”

Zweli’s hand slowly drops from my shoulder, but he doesn’t step away.
Instead, he rises to his feet, clearing his throat.

“She just got some bad news,” he says smoothly. “A friend of hers from
university passed away. I was comforting her.”

Ma narrows her eyes at me. “Is that so?”

I nod quickly. “Yes, Ma. I was just… overwhelmed.”

A moment of silence stretches between us like a pulled thread.

She finally sighs. “Hayi, come eat before the food gets cold. Zweli, wipe
your face. You look like someone stole your cattle.”

“Oh and Zamanje, MaNxamalala called. She wants you to be one of the
maidens alongside Nothile for her Memulo next month. You said you’re still
pure right?”

I nod.

“Very well then.”

She walks away, and we both exhale.

“Just great!” I say, sinking onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

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I sit up a little straighter, a mischievous glint in my eyes. “You know what? I

think I’ve found a solution to our dilemma.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly curious. “A solution?”

“Yeah, about my virginity.”

Zweli’s amused smirk grows wider. “And? What’s your brilliant solution,
mama?”

I grin, feeling bold. “I can bring it back.”

He leans forward, folding his hands on his chest, clearly intrigued. “Is that
so? Humour me.”

“We’ll need chicken livers.” I say with the utmost confidence.

He blinks, confused. “Uhm… why? What for, baby?”

I lean in, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a top-secret plan. “I’ll put them
down there. No one will notice the difference. Then I’ll just take them out
when I’m with you.”

Zweli bursts out laughing, tears forming in his eyes. I’m glad he still find
humour in our situation.

“Where the hell did you get that from, mama?” he manages between
laughs.

“A lot of girls do it, they swear by it!” I say, trying to sound serious but failing
miserably.

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He shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’re something else.”

“Let’s go before MaPhumi comes back” he says lifting me up from the bed,
his hands on my waist.

He lands a kiss on my lips

“Whatever happens, I love you okay?” He says

“I love you too” I say, laying my head on his chest.

This is where I want to be.

Phakade. Forever.

Dinner is quiet, but not tense. Just… still. Ma prays a little longer than usual
before we eat. We sit on the table, The air is thick with unspoken things, but
Zweli plays along; offering Ma extra chips, nodding at her stories, even
laughing when she jokes about how soft city boys’ hands are.

I sit beside him, chewing slowly, answering questions when I must. When
his knee brushes mine under the table, I feel it.

The promise in it.

We’re walking a tightrope, but at least we’re walking it together.

After dinner, Ma announces her retirement with a tired yawn and a long
stretch of her arms.

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“Zamanje, don’t forget to lock up after Zweli leaves.” she walks off, her
slippers slapping softly against the floor as she disappears into her room.

As soon as her door clicks shut, Zweli stands. “Let me help you clear up.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, already reaching for the empty boxes and
serviettes scattered across the table.

“I want to,” he insists, collecting the rest and following me into the small
kitchen space.

We work quietly, side by side, moving in sync. He passes the box; I throw it
away. I rinse the cups; he wipes the surfaces. The silence feels intimate,
safe. Until I feel his fingers brush mine as I hand him a wet dish.

I glance up, and he’s already watching me.

Our faces are too close.

“Zama…” he says softly.

I should back away. I don’t.

Instead, he leans in, brushing his lips against mine. Gently at first. Like a
question. But then I answer it by kissing him back—slow, urgent, careful.
My hands are still wet, but I forget everything as I let them fall against his
chest.

Suddenly—CLACK.

A door creaks.

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We both jump apart like guilty children, breath caught mid-kiss.

We freeze.

Silence.

Then the sound of a flush, and a door clicking shut again.

I place a shaky hand over my chest. “Yoh… that was close.”

Zweli runs his hand over his head, exhaling. “Too close.”

“This is risky,” I whisper, voice low. “She already suspects something. If she
catches us…”

“I know,” he says, stepping in just a bit closer. “That’s why you’ll have to be
careful.”

“Careful how?”

“Wait until you’re sure she’s asleep. Then… come to the rondavel.”

I give him a look. “Zweli.”

He smiles, soft and warm. “Just to talk. To hold you. Nothing more if you’re
not ready.”

I sigh, pretending to think it over, though we both know my answer.

“…I’ll knock twice.”

His smile deepens. “I’ll be waiting.”

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Zwelinzima Langa

It’s just after 11PM.

The candle on my bedside table is burning low, casting soft, flickering

shadows on the wall. I’ve been lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, half-
listening to the insects outside, heart thumping steadily.

Then—*two soft knocks*.

I sit up immediately and swing my legs over the bed. My feet barely touch
the mat when I’m already at the door, easing it open just enough to see her.

Zamanje.

She slips in, barefoot, wrapped in a light hoodie over her T-shirt. Her eyes
are tired but warm, and her voice is a whisper.

“She was still telling me about someone’s son who got chased by bees
after stealing mielies. I had to nod through the whole saga,” she says,
rolling her eyes playfully.

I chuckle. “That sounds like MaPhumi.”

“She didn’t even breathe between stories, Zweli.”

She kicks off her slippers and climbs into the bed without hesitation. I
follow her, settling beside her, and she curls up on my chest. Her fingers
immediately find my beard, playing with it slowly, gently.

Silence sits between us for a few minutes, but it’s a comfortable one.

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“You always smell like sleep,” she murmurs. “Warm. Safe.”

I smile, wrapping my arm around her waist. “And you? You smell like
trouble.”

She laughs quietly. “Well… you like trouble.”

“I do,” I admit. “Especially when it sneaks into my rondavel at night.”

She hums, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. “I never thought I’d
fall for someone like you.”

“Why? Too handsome?”

“Too… unexpected,” she says softly. “You’re not what I imagined I’d want.
But you’re exactly what I need.”

I tighten my grip around her, pulling her even closer.

“You make me feel seen, Zweli. Not like the girl everyone’s expecting me to
be. Just… me.”

I don’t say anything. I just kiss the top of her head.

She shifts slightly, tilting her head to look at me. “Are we insane for doing
this under their roof?”

“Maybe,” I say, brushing my thumb over her arm. “But sometimes you have
to be a little crazy for something real.”

She smiles again, softer this time, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Don’t let
go.”

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“I won’t,” I promise.

And I don’t.

Minutes pass. Her breathing slows. Her fingers still.

By the time the candle dies out, we’ve both slipped into sleep—wrapped in
silence, warmth, and something neither of us dares to name just yet.

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Zamanje Mfeka

I’m woken up by Zweli gently shaking me

“Babe, wake up. It’s 4:30, you need to go back inside before your mom
wakes up” he whispers cupping my face and pecking my lips.

I jolt upright, my heart racing.

Quickly, I gather my clothes from where they ended up during our endless
midnight sessions and slip them back on.

Zweli opens the door quietly. The cold outside hits me like a slap, such a
sharp contrast to the warmth I felt in his arms just moments ago.

It’s still pitch dark, not even the birds are not up yet. I tiptoe toward the
kitchen door and carefully let myself it.

The house is quiet. No sign of Ma yet. I sneak down the hallway and slide
into my room, slipping under the covers like nothing happened.

Mission accomplished.

It’s not been too long since I drifted to sleep, I’m jolted awake by a splash of
ice-cold water on my face. I sit up, gasping, only to find Ma standing over
me, her eyes blazing. “Vuka, Mgewu!” she growls.

She rolls out the grass mat beside my bed and sits with an eerie calm. My
heart starts racing.

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“Musa ukungibambezela, Zamanje. Don’t waste my time. Woza,

ngizokuhlola!” she snaps, pointing at me.

I freeze. Panic chokes me. My throat dries. What’s going to happen when
she checks and realizes I’m not a virgin? Oh God, what do I do?

“Khumula, Zamanje! I don’t have all day!” she shouts.

“Ma! Ngiyaxolisa, I’m sorry!” I cry, the truth bubbling to the surface with the
tears in my eyes. There’s no way out.

“You told me everything was fine. That you were still ‘full’, right? Prove it
then!” she fires back, her voice rising.

“It only happened once, Mama! I swear!” I say, sobbing now.

She glares at me, jaw clenched. “Usuyalalwa wena?”

Silence.

“Who is he?” she demands.

“Thabani Mbhele… from Mpisini,” I stammer, grasping at a lie.

“Stop lying to me, Zamanje!” she shouts, slapping her thigh. “I saw you
before you left. Everything was intact!”

She stands abruptly. “We’re going to that Thabani Mbhele’s house. Get
dressed. Phuthuma!”

“Okay! Okay! There’s no Thabani!” I blurt out in a panic.

She stops. Turns.

“Then who is he?”

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I can barely get the words out. “It’s… Zwe… it’s Zweli.”

For a moment, she says nothing.

“Heeeee!” she shrieks. “Hhayi imihlola!”

She grabs her head, pacing. “Zamanje! Uthini kimi? What are you saying to
me!” her voice shaking between rage and disbelief.

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Zwelinzima

~The shadows of my parents stand before me; still not facing me, their
backs turned like a silent wall. The air is thick with smoke. I look around and
see flames licking the edges of the house behind them, fire crackling and
consuming, yet they remain unmoved, silent.

Then, a deep voice cuts through the smoke. It’s my father’s, stern, heavy
with warning: “Zweli, you are eating where you are not supposed to.”

The words echo, burning deeper than the fire itself. I want to turn, to
explain, to plead, but their silence holds me captive. The flames grow, the
heat rising, as if the house is a mirror to the danger of my actions. The
house is on fire, Zamanje is on the other side, I can’t get to her. The fire is
too strong.

I am trapped between the fire and their backs, feeling the weight of their
disapproval, and the threat that what I’m doing, this path I’m on, is
consuming everything I should protect. ~

Then, the sharp ring of my phone pulls me back, the real world rushing in,
but the warning lingers, searing in my mind. It was just a dream.

I woke up just after 4AM to my phone ringing off the hook. One of the
security guys from the Shisanyama was shouting over the noise in the
background, a bunch of drunkards had started a fight, apparently over a
game of pool and a woman. Typical.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on whatever jeans I could find and slipped into
my takkies without socks. No time. The last thing I need is cops showing up
at my place and thinking my business is a hotspot for nonsense.

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I drive back home late in the afternoon, exhausted. After dealing with the
chaos from the early morning fight, I ended up getting stuck with
paperwork, suppliers, and reconciling a few account discrepancies. It’s
been a long day, and all I could think about was a warm plate of food and
maybe a quiet moment with Zamanje.

But as I turn into the yard, I slow down. Something’s off.

Bheki’s bakkie is here. Skhundla’s too. And… Phumzile’s car? I frown,

gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

What the hell’s going on?

I put the car in park and get out, my eyes scanning the scene, trying to make
sense of it.

I see Bheki charging to me

But before I can even close the door

Bang!

I’m knocked straight to the ground.

“What the f—!” I manage, but Bhekizitha is towering over me, rage in his
eyes. My lip is already bleeding.

“Ulawulwa yisende Zwelinzima!? Hhe! You’re controlled by your dick!?” he

roars.

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I’m dazed. Confused. My ears ring.

“Bafo yini manje? What’s going on?” I shout back, pushing myself up, but
he shoves me again.

“Your own niece!?”

Skhundla is by the porch, arms crossed, his face a blank canvas, but his
eyes... they’re cold.

And then I see Phumzile standing at the door.

And behind her, just barely peeking through the curtain,

Zamanje.

My heart sinks.

They know.

My lip is bleeding, my head pounding, and my heart racing as I step into the
house, flanked by Bheki and Skhundla. Phumzile doesn’t even look at me,
she just turns and walks into the lounge, expecting us to follow. I see
Zamanje sitting in the corner, curled into herself, eyes red, cheeks wet.

She can’t even look at me.

Bheki slams the door behind us. The house is quiet, too quiet. The tension
is thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Sit down,” Phumelele says.

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I stay standing.

“Zweli, I said sit down!” she snaps.

I drop into the single-seater. Skhundla leans against the wall. Bheki paces.
Phumelele sits like a judge behind her invisible bench.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” she asks, arms folded tightly
across her chest.

“Someone better start telling me what’s going on,” I say, voice calm but low.

“You don’t know?” Bheki scoffs. “You don’t know that you’ve been sleeping
with your own niece? That you took her virginity under our roof, Zweli!? You
sick fuck!”

“I—” my throat goes dry.

This can’t be happening.

“You could’ve picked anyone in this village. Anyone in Durban. But you had
to go for Phumzile’s daughter?” Skhundla finally says. “We trusted you,
mfowethu.”

I look at Zamanje, but she still won’t meet my gaze. She’s trembling.

“Zamanje, tell them. It wasn’t like that…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Phumzile barks.

She finally stands, walking slowly toward me.

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“Wakhula la Zweli. I cooked for you. I cared for you like you were my own.
You called me Ma. And this is what you do?”

I can’t breathe. My chest is caving in.

“I love her,” I finally say. My voice is small, but steady. “I didn’t plan this. But
I love her.”

Silence.

Bheki throws his arms in the air. “Love? LOVE!? No man, Zweli. You’re not
well!”

Phumzile looks at me like she’s never seen me before.

“If you really loved her, you would’ve stayed away,” she says quietly.
“Because now, everything is ruined.”

“It’s happening again!” Skhundla blurts out, exasperated.

Everyone turns to him.

“Again? What do you mean ‘again’, bafo?” Bhekizitha asks, brows drawn
together in confusion.

Skhundla exhales heavily, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t think it
would get this far. The visions were there. The signs were clear!”

“Talk, Skhundla! We don’t have time for your riddles,” Bheki snaps, pacing.

Skhundla lifts his head slowly, his voice low but intense.

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“Our mother, uMaNyambose... she was in a relationship with her cousin,

uncle Mzobanzi.”

“Huh?” I blink, confused.

“But Ma was married to Baba. To uLanga since she was 18.”

“Yes. But that was after,” he says, voice tightening.

“After she was forced to marry him. Before that, she had an incestuous
relationship with her cousin. She fell pregnant. They forced her to abort the
child and marry Somaphunga Langa.”

“Years later, they met and rekindled their spark. She stepped out of her
marriage and conceived a child”

The room falls dead silent.

“What happened to that child?” Phumelele asks, echoing all our thoughts.

Skhundla looks directly at Phumzile.

“Phumzile is that child.”

Gasps echo across the room. Phumzile’s face drops. My heart sinks.

“Phumzile is a full Mthethwa,” Skhundla continues.

“Both her mother and her father are Mthethwas. The curse was supposed
to be broken with her, but it wasn’t. She was spared. But it jumped... and
landed on her child.”
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“Zamanje,” Bheki whispers.

“Yes. That’s why it’s repeating,” Skhundla says solemnly.

“This is umkhokha, a generational curse. It skips one generation. Because it

wasn’t cleansed in kwaMthethwa, it’s come back through Zamanje. And
now she’s fallen in love with you, her uncle.”

He glances at me, eyes full of sorrow.

“I’ve called uNyambose, Mzobanzi’s son. He’s on his way here. This... this
is beyond us as the Langas. Zweli and Zamanje can never be together.”

I feel my chest tighten. My fists clench.

“Ngingenaphi mina emjolweni kaMaNyambose? What does that have to do

with me? I love Zamanje. I can’t just erase that!”

“Udakiwe mfana!” Bheki explodes.

“You think love is enough to fight bloodlines and curses!? This is bigger
than all of us!”

“We’ll have to arrange a marriage for Zamanje,” Skhundla says with finality.

“Mhlongo’s son, uKhumbulani, has been asking for her hand. I’ll give him a
call.”
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My blood runs cold.

Arranged marriage? For Zamanje?

No. Not while I’m still breathing. Especially not that wanna be bhinca with a
fake gold chain that chases everything with a panty on in this village.

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Chapter 12

Zamanje

It’s Tuesday, just four days before I’m supposed to get married, and
everything feels like a badly planned funeral. My uncles have gone back to
the cites, set to return on Friday. Zweli stormed off on Sunday and hasn’t
been heard from since. No calls. No messages. No “I’m sorry” just to make
me hate him less.

I’ve even checked his old Facebook posts. Still the same bio: God first,
family, business.” Lies.

Ma and aunt Phumelele have become besties overnight. They are up and
down writing a list of groceries and everything that will be needed for
Saturday, making traditional beer and cleaning the yard every second of the
day.

“Zamanje, wipe that table” Ma says without looking up.

I wipe the same table I’ve wiped three times already.

“Zamanje, when last did you fetch water? Go check the JoJo tank.”

“Aibo Ma, I checked it yesterday” I mumble

“Yesterday was yesterday. Today is today. Use those legs God gave you.”

Aunt Phumelele laughs into her bowl of chicken pieces. “She’s right
ntombi, lobola negotiations aren’t for the lazy”

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I sit down for a second and scroll through my phone. Nothing from Zweli.
Maybe his phone got swallowed by the sea. Maybe he got swallowed by the
sea. Or maybe he’s just a coward.

“Still no message from that one?” Aunt Phumelele says, not even hiding the
shade in her voice.

“No” I say trying not to sound wounded.

“Mmmh, maybe that’s a good thing” she says

“I’m going to the shop” I announce.

“Don’t forget the yeast” Ma calls out. “And walk fast. You’re not married yet,
but people are watching, especially the Mhlongos. Don’t embarrass me.”

I grab my bag and leave before I cry or punch a wall.

Outside, even the chickens look like they have got opinions.

As soon as I’m out the door, I exhale sharply and clench my fists. Ma and
her sister are really pushing me today.

I shove my earphones in and blast Sam Smith, the heartbreak classics.

Music has always been my therapy.

I head toward the shop, not because I need anything, but just to escape.
Maybe the sun will melt this frustration off me. Or maybe I’ll bump into
Zweli and slap him with a loaf of Albany. Honestly, I’m open to anything.

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When I get there, old Baba Thwala is half-asleep behind the counter
nothing new. I grab a Coke, and a packet of Nik Naks I definitely don’t need,
but chewing gives my anger somewhere to go.

Instead of heading home, I take the long way around the open field where
kids usually play soccer. That's when I spot three Polos parked under the
big tree. Typical. These city guys really think they run the village.

And of course, Khumbulani is right there, lounging on a camp chair with

some girl on his lap. I’m not even mad, I expected this.

I try to turn back before he sees me, but no such luck.

“Mkami,” he calls out, jogging up and grabbing my hand.

“Please leave me alone, Khumbulani,” I say, already exhausted.

“But that’s no way to talk to your fiancé,” he says, gripping my wrist tighter.
“You’re mine, Zamanje. Start acting like it.”

“You’re hurting me,” I snap, trying to pull away.

“Maybe if you stopped acting like a spoiled brat, I’d treat you with courtesy,”
he growls, then yanks me closer and forces a kiss on me.

I shove him back and slap him across the face, my whole body trembling.

“I’m warning you, Khumbulani Mhlongo, leave me alone!”

He grabs my wrist again, tighter this time. I wince.

“What’s going on here?” a voice booms behind us.

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Vezamandla.

I don’t even think, I run to him and throw myself into his chest.

“Awu, sbali! Good to see you. When did you get back from Durban?”
Khumbulani says, forcing a smile and extending his hand for a shake.

Veza doesn’t move. He just stares at the hand, then back at Khumbulani.

“I asked what’s going on here.”

“Nothing serious, sbali. I was just stealing a kiss from my love,” Khumbulani
smirks.

“By hurting her?” Veza asks, eyebrow raised.

“Hurting? I’d never!”

“Don’t ever put your hands on my sister again, Mhlongo. I’m warning you.”

“I’m paying lobola for her. What I do with her is none of your business,”
Khumbulani shrugs.

Veza’s tone stays calm, but his eyes are sharp. “I’ll gladly return each and
every cow. Touch her again, and I will hurt you.”

He pulls me close, and without saying another word, we walk away.

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The walk home is quiet at first, just our footsteps crunching the gravel. Veza
glances at me every now and then like he’s still calming down.

“When did you get back?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.

“A few minutes ago, when I got home Ma and aunty said you went to the
shop, so I went to look for you,” he says. “Zweli called me on Monday.”

I blink. “Zweli? You two talk?”

Veza shrugs. “Sometimes. He said something about you getting married

and I had to come see for myself. Thought he was exaggerating.”

“So, he didn’t tell you where he was?” I ask, hope slipping into my voice.

“No. Just dropped that bomb and disappeared again.”

I sigh and nod slowly. “He left on Sunday… after everything blew up. He
hasn’t reached out since.”

Veza pauses for a moment, watching my face. “Zama… what’s going on?”

I stop walking and face him. “The marriage… it’s arranged. Our uncles set it
up. I didn’t agree to anything. They just decided.”

He stares at me like I’ve just told him MaPhumi joined a circus.

“What?!”

“They told me on Sunday,” I say, crossing my arms. “They didn’t even ask
me, Veza.”

He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to keep calm. “And Ma? She’s just…
okay with this?”

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“She’s been telling the whole village like it’s a party announcement.
Meanwhile, I’m dying inside.”

“Zama, you’re my sister. How can they just throw you into marriage like
you’re... a livestock handover?”

I laugh bitterly. “Fitting analogy. Cows will be exchanged.”

“I should’ve stayed in Durban,” he mutters. “I knew something was off

when Zweli called. He sounded... broken.”

“Why didn’t you ask him more?”

“I tried, but you know Zweli. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won't. I had to
come back, though. I couldn’t let you go through this alone.”

My chest tightens. I didn’t realise how badly I needed someone on my side

until now.

“Thanks, Veza,” I whisper.

He bumps my shoulder gently. “I’ve got you, sis. And I swear, if that
Mhlongo clown so much as breathes near you again, he’ll regret ever
getting in a Polo.”

We both laugh a little, the tension breaking.

“But seriously,” he adds, “we need to do something. You’re not marrying

that guy.”

“I’ve been trying to think of something… anything.”

“Don’t worry. I’m here now. And I didn’t come back for nothing.”

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We keep walking, heads buzzing with uncertainty, but at least now… I’m not
alone.

We walk into the yard, Veza still fuming, his fists clenched like he’s ready to
fight Khumbulani all over again. Aunt Phumelele and Ma are outside on the
stoep, shelling mealies and chatting like they haven’t just sold their
daughter to the highest bidder.

“Oh good you found her!” Ma says looking at us

“What the hell is going on here?” he snaps.

Both women look up, startled.

“Excuse you?” Ma says her face tightening.

“Don’t play dumb, Ma. You two are busy planning a whole wedding while
your daughter is being manhandled by that bastard Khumbulani!”

Aunt Phumelele blinks. “Manhandled?”

“He grabbed her, tried to kiss her by force, held her wrist like he owned her.
I saw it. With my own eyes!”

Ma clicks her tongue, standing up with her hands on her hips. “So that’s
why you ran off?, to see him Zamanje?”

I freeze. “What?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent now. You said you’re going to the shop meanwhile
you’re off to see your boyfriend.”

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Veza turns to me, confused. “Wait—boyfriend?”

I groan. “Ma, what are you even talking about? He’s not my boyfriend!”

Ma points a dramatic finger. “So you’re just meeting random men under
trees now? Hhawu, Zamanje!”

“Are you seriously making this about me sneaking out instead of the fact
that that man hurt me?”

“Don’t exaggerate, Zamanje,” Aunt Phumelele says calmly. “Men and

women fight sometimes. It’s normal.”

Veza throws up his hands. “Normal?! You’re condoning abuse now?”

Ma steps forward. “What I’m not condoning is you raising your voice at me.
You think just because you’ve got a little beard, and a Durban accent you
can come here and cause chaos?”

“I came here because I care!” Veza shouts. “Clearly more than some
people.”

Ma’s nostrils flare. “You’re just like your father. Full of emotions and no
plan.”

“Oh, we’re bringing up your sugar daddy now?” Veza snaps.

“Guys!” I yell. “Can we please focus on the real issue? I don’t want to marry
him!”

Dead silence.

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Ma sighs. “It’s already arranged, Zamanje. The cows are coming on

Saturday.”

“You can keep the cows!” Veza says. “We’ll buy our own damn cows if it’s
cows you want!”

Ma turns to her sister. “Uyabona lo mfana? One sniff of Durban and he’s
back here acting like Jesus on a donkey.”

Aunt Phumelele hides a laugh behind her hand.

Veza glares. “Laugh now. But I’m not letting this go.”

Ma shakes her head and walks off. “Then don’t. But tomorrow, wear a smile
and something nice. You’ll be representing the family.”

She disappears into the house.

I look at Veza. He’s still breathing hard, his jaw tight.

“Thanks for standing up for me,” I say.

“I’m not done yet,” he says.

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It’s Friday, the kitchen smells like a wedding is on the way. Spices, steam,
and a faint scent of polish from the floor they cleaned earlier. Pots are
bubbling, chicken is frying, and the girls are chopping, laughing, and stirring
like a well-oiled gossip machine.

Zamanje is in the kitchen with her cousins Zenani and Bazamile (Uncle
Skhundla’s daughters) and Thokozile (Aunt Phumelele’s daughter). The
boys; Thokozani and Mndeni (Aunt Phumelele’s sons), Mncedisi, Manqoba,
Mhlengi (Uncle Bhekizitha’s sons) are set to arrive later.

Zamanje stands at the sink rinsing spinach when Bazamile grins at her from
the stove. “So… tell us, how did you and Khumbulani meet? Don’t say
‘church’ or ‘family friend’, give us the real story.”

Zamanje gives a little laugh. “It’s not that interesting…”

“Which means it’s very interesting,” Thokozile interrupts, slicing onions.

“And we have time. Spill.”

Zamanje stalls. “We just… met. By the river.”

Zenani raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Thokozile clicks her tongue. “Yoh, Zama. You’re in love and still protecting
the details? I’d be writing poetry every day if I was engaged.”

Bazamile leans on the table dramatically. “More like a novella. 'Chapter

One: The Day He Picked Me Up in His Polo.'”

They all laugh.

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“Okay okay,” Thokozile says, lowering her voice and leaning in, “but, like…
how is he in bed?”

Zamanje nearly chokes on her spit. “Thoko!”

“What? I’m asking nicely!”

“You’re wild,” Zenani shakes her head, giggling.

“Guys,” Zamanje laughs nervously, “I’m not answering that.”

“That means it’s good!” Bazamile announces like a judge passing a verdict.

More laughter erupts.

“I can’t deal with you guys,” Zamanje says, smiling but avoiding eye
contact.

Thokozile adds with a smirk, “He gives me ‘pull-my-hair-and-pay-my-rent’

energy, though. I can see the vibes.”

The girls collapse into laughter again, Zamanje hiding her face behind her
hands just as the door creaks open and in walks Aunt Phumelele, eyes
sharp like she’s caught them stealing meat from the pot.

“Hay’bo! Is this a kitchen or a tavern?” she snaps.

Everyone straightens immediately, looking very busy all of a sudden.

“Zamanje,” she says sternly. “Come. The elders want to talk to you. In your
mother’s room.”

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As soon as the door shuts behind them, Zenani exhales. “Yhu! That woman
is intense.”

“I swear she smells sin,” Bazamile mutters.

Thokozile leans in. “You guys know what this means, right? You are about to
get The Talk.”

“The talk?” Zamanje asks confused

“Oh yes,” Zenani nods knowingly. “The ‘How to act like a wife without having
opinions’ talk.”

“Ewu, I remember mine,” she continues, mimicking an old woman’s voice:

“'When your husband speaks, you listen. When he shouts, you apologize.
When he cheats, you pray.'"

“'And if he beats you, you keep quiet and make him amadombolo.'”
Bazamile adds with sarcasm.

They all laugh, but there’s an awkward silence after.

Thokozile raises an eyebrow. “Honestly… when are we going to stop passing

this nonsense down?”

Zenani shrugs. “That’s how things have always been done.”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Thokozile says. “Just because something
is tradition doesn’t mean it’s right.”

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Bazamile looks around. “Y’all are brave. I just nod and smile when they give
me lectures. Then I do whatever the hell I want when I get home.”

They all giggle. Zenani sighs. “But don’t worry Zama, Khumbulani seems
like a sensible guy and not too traditional.”

Thokozile nods. “You better brace herself. Because once those aunties
start, they don’t stop. And by the end of the day, you feel like you belong to
a man and not to yourself.”

“Zamanje!”

Aunt Phumelele’s voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife.

“Eish,” Bazamile whispers, “party’s over.”

“She has that voice that makes you return to childhood immediately,”
Thokozile mumbles, straightening up.

As Zamanje starts wiping her hands, Zenani leans close and mutters,
“Brace yourself, sisi. It’s your turn to hear the legendary auntie wisdom:
‘Serve him, feed him, never question him.’ You know… the handbook.”

Thokozile snorts. “More like the trap book.”

“Don’t worry,” Zenani adds, softer now, “we all went through it. Just nod and
survive.”

Zamanje forces a smile, then walks off to face the elders.

The laughter fades behind her as she leaves the kitchen—shoulders

squared, stomach tight.

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Zamanje steps into the room slowly, the curtains are drawn halfway, letting
in streaks of light that dance across the old wardrobe. Ma is sitting on the
edge of the bed, arms folded, her expression unreadable. Aunt Phumelele
stands near the window with a cup of tea. Gogo Maphumulo, Ma’s oldest
cousin, is seated in the armchair, fanning herself slowly.

“Woza,” Aunt Phumelele says, gesturing for her to stand in the middle of the
room.

Zamanje obeys silently.

Gogo clears her throat. “So, you are becoming a wife, ngane yami.”

Ma nods stiffly. “Whether she’s ready or not.”

Zamanje says nothing, keeping her hands folded in front of her.

“Do you know what it means to be a wife?” Gogo asks, raising her
eyebrows.

“Um… to take care of your husband and the home?” Zamanje says
uncertainly.

Ma scoffs lightly. “It’s not a school test, you can’t guess.”

“You need to know,” Aunt Phumelele adds, taking a sip of tea. “Your
husband becomes your king. You serve him. You respect him. Even when
he doesn’t deserve it.”

Gogo adjusts her doek, squinting at Zamanje like she is trying to see
through her soul

“Zamanje” she begins, her voice slow and deliberate

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“Give the man the cookie. Marriage is not built on love alone” Zamanje
shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.

“Even if you are tired, the cookie is not tired” Gogo continues, wagging a
finger

“A man must be kept satisfied if not he’ll start sniffing around like a hungry
dog.”

Ma, not to be outdone, throws in her own two cents from the corner of the
room while folding a blanket.

“Spread your legs like your life depends on it, Zamanje. Because it does. A
clingy husband is better than a cheating husband”

The two sisters nod in agreement.

Zamanje forces a smile, but she’s visibly uncomfortable. Her eyes darting
between the floor and the door, silently praying for a distraction, an
earthquake, anything.

Gogo leans forward. “And most importantly, you don’t embarrass him in
public. If he shouts, you keep quiet. If he’s wrong, you wait until you’re
alone. Wives are not rebels.”

Zamanje’s jaw clenches slightly. “What if he’s hurting me?”

Ma’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying Khumbulani is hurting you now?”

“No…” she says quickly, “I’m just asking.”

“Don’t ask such questions. You’ve been chosen,” Ma says. “You should feel
honoured. Not everyone gets cows sent for them.”

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Aunt Phumelele adds, “When you get to his home, do not go there with this
Durban attitude. You must greet everyone. Wake up early. Cook. Clean.
Don’t expect them to do things your way.”

Zamanje doesn’t respond. Her throat feels tight.

“You’ll learn,” Gogo says, sitting back, “the first year of marriage is not for
the faint-hearted. But if you keep quiet, keep praying, and keep cooking,
you’ll survive.”

Ma gets up and straightens the pillow. “You can go now. And fix your face.
You always look like you’re ready to cry.”

Zamanje nods slowly and leaves the room, blinking quickly as she steps
back into the noisy hallway where the smell of roasting meat and spices
still lingers.

She takes a deep breath.

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Zamanje

Friday night

The rondavel is warm with laughter and low light. Zenani walks in like a
naughty schoolgirl, dramatically hiding something under a giant blanket.

"Bafethu," she whispers, eyes wide, "I come bearing gifts."

She throws the blanket open to reveal two five-litre boxes of wine and a six-
pack of ciders. Thokozile whistles, Bazamile gasps like she’s seen Jesus
himself, and we all erupt into giggles.

"Zenani!" Bazamile scolds half-heartedly. "What if Mamkhulu catches us?"

"She won't. Unless one of you drinks like you’re in a tavern," Zenani warns,
already cracking open a cider.

Thokozile’s on a mattress in the corner, legs crossed, sipping slowly. “Y’all

are too tame. My man once tried to bring whipped cream into the bedroom.
In Sweden, they’re wild.”

We all groan-laugh.

“I’ve been married three years and still don’t know what this G-spot is,”
Bazamile sighs.

“It’s there,” Thokozile says, pointing to her temple. “In the mind.”

Everyone howls.

Eventually, all eyes land on me.

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“So,” Zenani smirks, “how’s Khumbulani? He looks like he got that

strength.”

I nearly choke on my drink.

“We want details!” Bazamile sings.

I laugh, brush them off, pretend to sip. Deep down, I feel sick. I’m tired of
lying. Khumbulani is not the man they think he is. But right now, I just laugh
along and let the wine do its job.

“I’m just saying,” Thokozile slurs slightly, “Swedish men? Top tier. They ask
before they do anything. Consent is like, part of foreplay.”

Bazamile rolls her eyes. “That’s because they’re scared. South African men
will grab you by the neck and then say, ‘It’s love.’”

We all laugh loudly. Too loudly.

“Hayi, shh!” Zenani says, “You want Mamkhulu to come here and ruin our
vibe?”

I’m curled up in the corner, quiet, nursing a half-full glass of red. Not
because I don’t want to talk, but because I don’t know how to pretend
tonight.

“You’re awfully quiet, Zam,” Bazamile says, eyeing me. “Khumbulani

doesn’t wear you out, does he?”

“I knew it!” Zenani snaps her fingers. “She got that soft glow.”

Thokozile sips her drink dramatically. “Is he... skilled?”

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They’re all looking at me, eyes shining with curiosity and alcohol.

I laugh, but it feels tight in my throat. “He’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Zenani nods like a makoti coach. “Just don’t let the uncles rush you into
popping out babies. Let your cookie rest, maan.”

“Now where were we?” Thokozani grins, topping off everyone’s cups like it’s
communion.

Zenani turns to me. “So… when did you know he was the one?”

I fake a small smile and take a sip, stalling. “Uh… I guess when he brought
me a box of chicken Licken at work?”

They all scream. “Yooo, that’s love!” Thokozile claps. “Nothing says ‘I care’
like hot wings!”

Bazamile leans in. “But honestly, do you guys feel safe in your
relationships? Like… emotionally?”

“Safe?” Thokozani snorts. “My man still asks me if I’ve eaten after seeing
me cook three meals!”

“That’s just man default settings,” Zenani says. “They’re like fridges—
useful, but only when maintained.”

We all burst out laughing.

“Do you guys ever think about… what you’re giving up when you marry?”
Thokozile asks. “Like, identity, freedom…”

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There’s a pause.

“Bathong!” Bazamile jokes, “Don’t bring that Oprah energy here, we’re
drinking.”

“No but for real,” Zenani adds. “I had to unlearn a lot. First year of marriage,
you’re basically an unpaid intern in a suit. Smile, nod, serve. I only found my
voice later.”

I look around at my cousins; laughing, sipping, sharing. They make the

heaviness feel lighter.

But deep down, I feel it, the gap between their idea of love and my reality.

A part of me wants to speak. To say I didn’t choose him.

But the other part just wants to pretend, for one night, that I’m like them—
buzzed, flirty, and free.

“Okay,” Thokozile grins, “last question: what’s your drunk text go-to line?”

Zenani jumps up and shouts, “‘Are you up?’ Classic.”

Thokozile: “Mine is ‘I miss your lips’… even if I don’t.”

They all turn to me. “Zam?”

I laugh. “‘Please bring food.’”

Another round of laughter. Just like that, the heaviness passes, for now.

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Just as Thokozile starts another juicy story about how she caught her
husband Googling "how to apologise in Zulu," we hear a loud voice from
outside.

"You girls better be sleeping!" Aunt Phumelele shouts. "At 4am I’ll be here
to wake you up. Trust me, you won’t be laughing then!”

The rondavel falls dead silent for two seconds.

“She’s such a bore!” I groan! This wine is really getting into my system now

“I thought my mom was loud,” I add, pointing at Thokozile with a lazy grin.
“But your mother, Thoko? She’s just like mine!”

The room erupts.

“Touche!” Thokozile raises her cup. “Cheers to loud mothers and even
louder aunts!”

“I blame the genes,” Zenani says, topping up her cider. “It’s like being born
into a choir of warning bells.”

“You know what’s worse?” Bazamile adds. “They act like they were never
young. Please! I’ve seen photos; miniskirts and afros!”

We all burst out again, the room warm with cackles, crumpled blankets,
and the sticky scent of wine.

Outside, crickets chirp and the fire crackles faintly near the kitchen. Inside
the rondavel, the girls lean into one another, drunk on more than alcohol—
memories, laughter, and stolen freedom.

But morning is coming. And with it, expectations.

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Vezamandla

The fire is cracking lazily as the boys circle around it with drinks and tired
jokes. Manqoba is mid-story about how he nearly married a sangoma by
mistake.

“Bruh,” Mhlengi laughs, “you can’t ignore red flags just because she cooked
for you.”

“Exactly,” Mncedisi adds, “next thing she’s burning impepho and calling
your ancestors without permission.”

We all laugh, and then the conversation shifts.

“Veza,” Manqoba says, “what’s your plan with MaNxamalala?”

“Who?” I ask, acting clueless.

“You know who,” Mhlengi smirks. “Nothile. The short girl who was here
earlier. You were looking at her like she’s the answer to your prayers.”

“Guys, please.”

“Don’t ‘guys’ us,” Mncedisi jumps in. “She was peeling carrots with the girls,
and you were already planning the wedding in your head.”

“She’s beautiful,” I admit, shrugging. “But she’s also older.”

“So?” Manqoba says. “She’s a year, maybe two. What matters is if she likes
you back. And from what I saw? She was blushing like crazy.”

“Yebo!” Mhlengi adds. “She even said ‘that little brother of Zamanje is
polite’. I heard it with my own ears.”

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I shake my head, trying to hide my smile. “You guys are making stuff up.”

“Just don’t fumble,” Mncedisi says, taking a long sip. “Good women don’t
hang around waiting.”

The fire crackles, and for the first time tonight, my heart beats a little faster
for a reason that has nothing to do with family drama.

Just when I think the conversation is dying down, Thokozani leans forward,
grinning like he’s about to drop the hottest gossip of the night.

“Guys,” he says, waving his beer bottle for dramatic effect, “let me tell you
about the time I smashed a white girl in a club bathroom. Sweden.”

Everyone turns to him in unison.

“Bathroom?” Mncedisi chokes.

“In Sweden?” Mhlengi adds.

Thokozani nods proudly. “Bro, I met her on the dance floor. We were vibing,
she pulled me into the bathroom, and boom. I didn’t even know her name
until I checked my phone the next morning.”

Manqoba laughs so hard he nearly spills his drink. “International

champion, I see you!”

“I’m telling you bro,” Thokozani continues, “White chicks? Not so different
from these city slay queens from back home. Just faster. No time for small
talk.”

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“City girls are dangerous though,” Manqoba chimes in. “One minute she’s
telling you she loves you, next minute she’s posting with another man in a
soft life vacation.”

Mhlengi groans. “Soft life girls will humble you. I once sent one airtime
every day for two weeks. Found out she used it to talk to her real boyfriend.”

We all burst out laughing.

“Ey, relationships are a trap,” Mncedisi says. “That’s why I only do the 3-
month trial version. Once she starts asking ‘What are we?’ I exit the app.”

They all start throwing in their wildest stories—one-night stands at taverns,

exes who faked pregnancies, girls who ghosted them after dates at
Debonairs. I laugh along but I’m not really in it. I keep thinking about
Nothile. I bet she doesn’t belong in any of these stories.

Manqoba catches me zoning out and throws a chip at me. “Earth to Veza!”

I snap back. “Nah, I’m just thinking... maybe the real flex is being with
someone solid.”

The boys groan.

“Yoh, don’t start with that love speech now!” Thokozani says.

“Next thing, he’ll be writing poems under the moonlight,” Mhlengi teases.

We all laugh, but I feel it—some part of me isn’t here with them. It’s still
with her.

Somewhere out there, Nothile is probably asleep, dreaming of nothing and

no one. But she doesn’t know she’s all I’m thinking about.

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Zamanje

Saturday morning

By 5AM, the air is already filled with the clatter of buckets, gossip, and that
one rooster that never knows when to shut up. I barely slept. Not because
of the excitement, no. It’s the tension. The pretending. The lies. The fact
that I'm about to be sold off like a Pick n Pay Black Friday special, while the
only man I’ve ever really loved is… missing.

“Everybody up!” Ma’s voice booms through the rondavel like a church bell.
“I want to see the whole yard clean; I don’t even want to see a single ant
crawling!”

That’s how we know the day has begun.

Bazamile groans from the mattress. “She’s shouting like we’re getting
married too.”

Zenani throws a pillow over her face. “Speak for yourself. My husband was
snoring in my ear when I left, this is vacation for me.”

Thokozile is already up, brushing her wig like she’s getting ready for a TED
Talk. “At least your men exist. Mine’s in Sweden, six hours behind, and
probably still dreaming about snow.”

I chuckle softly. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in days.

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The girls drag themselves out of bed and soon we’re outside, sweeping the
yard with those stubborn old brooms that feel more like sticks tied together
with hope. The red dust is rising in clouds, the dogs are barking, and
MaPhumi is already directing traffic in her doek and mismatched socks like
she’s managing a stadium.

“Thokozile!” she shouts. “You think you’re overseas? That broom won’t
push itself. Zamanje, sweep near the gate. Guests don’t want to walk into
goat poop!”

I nod and get to work, even though I feel like crying.

My mind drifts back to Zweli. Still no call. No message. Nothing.

I replay every moment from Durban like it’s a movie on repeat. The soft
dinner. The lava cake. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in
the world. And now… silence.

Bazamile interrupts my thoughts. “So, cousin,” she says with a sly smile.
“Tell us the truth. How’s Khumbulani in bed?”

The broom nearly flies out of my hands. “Excuse me?”

Zenani snorts. “Don’t act innocent now. You’ve been so quiet this whole
week. You must be sore!”

Laughter erupts. Even Thokozile is giggling behind her wig.

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“I--I don’t kiss and tell,” I stammer, cheeks burning.

“Ah! So it’s true!” Bazamile claps.

I force a smile. If only they knew.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” Zenani grins. “But I hope he’s good to you. Some
of these men have strong voices but weak knees, if you know what I mean.”

Thokozile whistles. “Amandla but no stamina!”

More laughter. Even Ma shakes her head nearby, pretending not to be

listening.

‘Makoti womnyakazisa mayelele!’ Bazamile starts a song, and they all join
in.

We carry on cleaning, cooking, singing along to the old wedding songs. The
big pot is already on the fire. Aunt Phumelele is marinating the meat like
she’s preparing for the ancestors themselves.

But under all the jokes, something tightens in my chest.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

I don’t know how we got here. One moment I was in love, blissfully in love…
and now, I’m sitting in MaPhumi’s lounge in a dress I didn’t pick, wearing a
doek I didn’t tie, surrounded by women who won’t even look me in the eye.

It’s the weekend of my lobola negotiations.

For a man I’ve never even spoken to properly.

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I hear the deep hum of unfamiliar male voices outside. The goats are
bleating. The fire is already going for the feast later. My stomach is in knots.
Not from hunger, but from helplessness.

MaPhumi walks in, holding her hands together like a proud mother.

“You look beautiful, ntombi,” she says flatly.

I nod. I can’t even speak.

It’s surreal.

No one has said Zweli’s name since that chaotic day. He disappeared after
Bheki attacked him, and no one would tell me where he went. Not even
Veza. It’s like he was swallowed by the earth. And maybe that’s what
everyone wanted, to erase him.

But I remember.

I remember how he looked at me. How he held me like I was made of

something delicate and divine. How he whispered “ngiyakuthanda” like it
was sacred.

I blink back tears. I try to stand but my knees buckle slightly. My cousin
grabs me.

“Don’t embarrass the family,” she whispers.

Too late. My whole life is already an embarrassment to them.

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I peek through the window, there they are. The Mhlongos. They’ve been here
for a while now, shouting out our clan names, announcing their arrival like
they’re royalty. And now? We’re letting them in. Just like that.

I still can’t believe Zweli left me to deal with this mess alone. After
everything. I trusted him with my body, my heart… and he vanished. Like I
meant nothing.

After what feels like hours, I’m summoned to the rondavel. Apparently, it’s
time for me to greet the “in-laws.” What a joke.

A bunch of fat, smug-faced men stuffed into blazers that scream tender
money, their bellies round and satisfied with more than just food.

“Zamanje,” uncle Bheki says, puffing out his chest. “These are your in-laws,
the Mhlongos.”

He points them out like I should care.

“There by the corner is your father-in-law, Vusumuzi Mhlongo. The others

are his brothers, Mlungisi, Ngqongqoshe, and Bhekani.”

I barely glance in their direction. I don't care who they are.

“You can leave now, ntombi,” uncle Skhundla says.

Good. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I slip away and make my way to Zweli’s rondavel. I don’t know why, but
being here always feels like being close to him. His scent still lingers. His
warmth still lives in these walls. I don’t want to go sit with cousins I barely

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know, MaPhumi’s sisters’ daughters, all enjoying this circus of a

celebration.

Then my phone vibrates.

“Tonqo, meet me behind the blue container.”

What?

It’s not a number I recognize… but I know who it is. It has to be him. Zweli.

My heart leaps and stumbles at the same time. What is he doing here? Why
now? I don’t even know if I feel happy or guilty. Maybe both.

The yard is full, people are distracted, and no one notices when I slip out
the back. And then I see him.

Black tailored pants. Crisp white shirt tucked in. Clean white sneakers. His
beard neatly shaped, his hair brushed and tidy. And his cologne, it hits my
senses before he even says a word.

“Hi, wifey,” he says, pulling me into his arms.

And just like that, I break.

Tears fall. All the anger, confusion, loneliness of the past week… it pours
out. I thought he forgot about me. I thought he gave up on us.

“Hey,” he whispers, holding me tighter. “I’m here now. I’m sorry, okay?”

He gently wipes away my tears with his thumb.

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I nod, trying to smile through the emotion.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I don’t have much time, mama,” he says. “I just needed to see you before I
go in.”

“Go in? Where?”

He smirks. “NgisawuMalume wakho, remember? I have to be inside, part of

the negotiations.”

I blink. What?

“Zweli… what do you mean?” I ask, heart racing.

“Relax, Tonqo. I’ve got this. Do you trust me?”

I nod slowly, unsure but hopeful.

“Good,” he says with a wicked grin. “Sizozithatha phela izinkomo zakhe

loskhwama… kodwa yena ngeke ayinuke eyami.”

His hand cups my kitten gently, making me gasp and push him off playfully.

“Behave!” I say, laughing for the first time in days.

“Let me go join the party. We’ll talk later, okay?” he says, pressing a kiss to
my forehead.

And then just like that… he’s gone.

Back into the chaos.

But suddenly… I don’t feel so alone anymore.

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Vezamandla really tried, but there’s only so much he can do.

Inside the Rondavel

Zweli walks into the rondavel like he owns the place, shoulders squared,
confidence dripping off him with every step. Without asking, he pulls a
chair and plants himself next to Skhundla, crossing one leg over the other
as though this were his lounge.

Everyone turns to glare at him.

“Sanibona, Bakhwenyana… in-laws,” he says coolly, nodding once with a

smug grin.

Bhekizitha’s face tightens.

“Zwelinzima! What are you doing here?” he snaps.

Zweli smirks, unbothered. “I’m Zamanje’s uncle… or am I mistaken?” he

says, eyes scanning the room boldly.

“Behave!” Skhundla warns under his breath.

Ngqongqoshe clears his throat. “As we were saying… we unfortunately have

to subtract two cows. The girl is no longer a virgin,” he says matter-of-factly.
The others nod in agreement.

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Zweli leans back and chuckles. “Nikhululeke ke, umnandi yena. Ngiyamazi.
She tastes very nice.” he says, smirking devilishly.

“Hawu!” all the Mhlongo men exclaim in unison, scandalized.

“Zwelinzima!” Bhekizitha barks.

“What?” Zweli shrugs. “You have to test the package before selling it.”

Chaos erupts. Mlungisi stands up, fuming.

“I don’t think we can continue with this nonsense. The Langa family is
clearly taking us for fools! You think this is a joke?” he says, gesturing for
the rest of his brothers. They rise and begin gathering their things, clearly
done with the insult.

Bhekizitha rounds on Zweli. “Zwelinzima! What is your problem? Yini

inkinga yakho?”

But Zweli stands, calm, composed.

“Nisho maseniqedile ukudlala lo magenda eniwudlalayo. When you’re

done with this performance, ask yourselves: how do the Langas negotiate
lobola for a Mfeka child?”

Silence.

He glares at them, tone sharp now. “Phumzile was married when she had
Zamanje. She belongs to the Mfeka household. Not here. Not this clan.

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Niyizidomu, nonke, niqhubana ngamakhanda amakhulu! Nx,” he clicks his

tongue in disgust and walks out.

It dawns on them, he’s right. Dead right.

In their obsession with separating the two, they overlooked the basics. The
truth. Tradition. Zamanje is a Mfeka. They have no right to negotiate on her
behalf.

They scramble to make sense of it all, some already reaching for their
phones ready to call Mfeka.

But before anyone can move, Phumzile bursts into the rondavel, her doek
half hanging off, breathless.

“I just got a call from Mfeka,” she says, voice trembling with shock.

Everyone stares.

“Zweli went there… and paid lobola for Zamanje. They accepted it.”

A heavy silence falls.

What!?

The entire rondavel is stunned, mouths agape, pride wounded, and egos
crushed.

Zweli had played them all.

And he won.

The end.

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Bonus scene

Zamanje – 6 Weeks Later

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, pregnancy test in hand. Two red lines stare
back at me like twin bullets. My hands are shaking. My stomach feels
hollow. This is not how I imagined finding out I’m going to be a mother, not
in MaPhumi’s house, not with the entire village still gossiping about my
lobola scandal, and definitely not while still being treated like damaged
goods.

Zweli’s voice echoes in my mind, “There’s nothing I’d rather do than be

inside you.”

Well congratulations, Mancle. Mission accomplished.

The bathroom door rattles.

“Zamanje!” MaPhumi’s voice. “Wenzani kahle kahle? You’ve been in there

too long!”

I flush the toilet and quickly tuck the test into my pocket.

“Ngiyaphuma, Ma!” I shout, forcing my voice to sound calm.

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But inside, I’m a storm.

Pregnant.

Unmarried.

Still shamed.

Still in love.

And the man I love? He’s the same one I’m being told to stay away from. But
how do I stay away from the father of my child?

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