ZAMAHLOBO THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 24
The car hums along the highway, the city lights beginning to blur into streaks of gold. Mkhontowesizwe’s hands are steady on the wheel, but his attention is divided. He keeps stealing glances at Zamahlobo . She sits beside him, a silent statue. Physically present, but her gaze is fixed on some distant, invisible point far beyond the windshield. The vibrant woman from this morning is gone, replaced by someone shrouded in quiet dread.
Without a word, he signals and pulls the car smoothly onto the shoulder, the tires crunching on the gravel.
The sudden stillness snaps Zamahlobo back to the present. She blinks, looking around at the unfamiliar, darkening roadside. “Why did you stop?” she asks, her voice faint.
“Are you okay?” Mkhonto’s question is soft, but direct.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“MaPhakathwayo, ngibuke. Look at me.” He waits until her eyes, clouded with worry, meet his. “What is it? What’s sitting so heavily on you?”
Zamahlobo sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “I don’t feel like talking about it. Can we just… let it go? It’s just been a bad day.”
He studies her face for a long moment, sees the wall she’s put up, and decides not to storm it. Not now. He gives a single, slow nod. The engine rumbles back to life, and they rejoin the flow of traffic.
Zamahlobo leans her head against the seat, closing her eyes. But there’s no peace behind her eyelids, only the relentless, terrifying image: Zenzile’s child, and the shadow of death clinging to it. What is the use of a gift that only shows you tragedies you’re powerless to stop? The family’s joy at the pregnancy feels like a cruel joke. The weight of her title—Keeper—feels like a mockery. How can she keep anyone safe when she can’t save an innocent life?
Mkhonto pulls over again, this time into a designated parking area. He kills the engine and gets out. Zamahlobo watches, confused, as he walks around to her door and opens it. He offers his hand.
She takes it, letting him help her out. The salty, briny air hits her first, followed by the rhythmic roar. They are at the Umhlanga main beach. The vast, moonlit ocean stretches before them, its waves crashing and receding in a timeless dance.
“What are we doing here?”
“We are here to walk,”he says simply, lacing his fingers through hers. “You don’t want to talk to me—”
“It’s not like that,”she interjects.
“Let me finish,sthandwa sami,” he says, squeezing her hand. “I know what it’s like to be there. To have a weight in your chest that has no words. I understand. It’s okay if you can’t tell me. Really.”
He positions her so she faces the ocean, standing close behind her, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. “Listen. Do you hear that? The waves. They don’t force anything. They just are. Look at how the water catches the light.” His voice is a low, calming murmur against the noise of the sea. “Close your eyes.”
She obeys, the world shrinking to the sound of his voice and the ocean.
“Breathe in.”
She draws a deep,shuddering breath, filling her lungs with the clean, cold air.
“Now let it go.”
She exhales,and with it, some of the coiled tension seems to seep out of her. She opens her eyes and turns within the circle of his arms, finding him looking down at her with a tenderness that makes her throat tight. A small, genuine smile touches her lips.
“Feel any better?”
“Yes .Thank you.”
He pulls her into a firm embrace,resting his chin on her head. “I love you, MaPhakathwayo. And I promise to always be by your side.” He pauses, then adds, his tone shifting to playful mischief, “…and maybe, sometimes, inside you.”
The unexpected, lewd joke breaks the last of her somber mood. She lets out a surprised laugh, playfully swatting his chest. “Hhayi wena!”
“Ouch!”
“Did I hit you too hard?”she asks, feigning concern.
He grins,shaking his head. “Never.”
“I love you,too,” she says, her voice soft and full. “Thank you. For being the husband that you are. I appreciate you.”
He kisses her forehead, then slips an arm around her shoulders. They stand in silence for a long while, watching the endless roll of the waves, letting the vastness of the ocean put their human worries into perspective. She looks up at his profile, etched against the night sky, and her heart swells. She would never trade this man for anything.
–
The warmth of the beach fades the moment they step into the house. Laughter and chatter spill from the lounge—a normal, familial sound that feels abruptly foreign. The first person Mkhontowesizwe’s eyes land on is Phumelele, seated primly on the edge of an armchair. She offers him a tentative smile. His face hardens instantly.
“Ndodana, Makoti, come here,” Mandla calls from his seat.
Then Mkhonto sees her. A small girl with caramel skin and curious eyes, sitting quietly next to MaXulu. She is a serene, beautiful little thing.
“What are you doing here, Phumelele?” His voice is flat, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere.
“MK, can we please talk?” Phumelele stands, her eyes darting nervously to Zamahlobo. “In private.”
Mkhonto looks at Zamahlobo. She gives a slight, reassuring nod, releasing his hand. He turns and walks out to the veranda, Phumelele following like a shadow.
Outside, the night air is cool. “Start talking.”
“I’m sorry,”she blurts out. “For not telling you about your daughter. I had my reasons.”
“What reasons could possibly justify hiding my child from me for eight years?”
“I was scared, MK!” Her whisper is fierce, laced with old panic. “Do you remember what happened years ago? The threats? I didn’t want to go through that again! He threatened me… and the baby. I had no choice!”
“That was no reason to betray me,”he says, though the memory of that violent past cools his anger by a degree. “How was hiding her protecting her?”
“How were you going to protect us from behind bars?” she fires back, a desperate logic in her eyes. “I did what I thought I had to do to keep us safe.”
“So why come back now?Why, after all this time?”
“Because she needs you now. She needs her father. She asks about you.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?About any of this?”
“Do a DNA test.I’ll pay for it myself. But I am telling you the truth.”
He steps closer,his gaze intimidating. “You better be. You’ve already betrayed my trust once, Phume. If I find out you have any other motive for being here—any scheme, any game—I swear, ngizokuphambanisa nezulu. Do you understand me?”
She meets his eyes,unflinching but pale. “Yes.”
He breaks the stare and walks back inside, the emotional whiplash leaving him unsteady. His eyes find the little girl again. He forces his expression to soften.
“Hey,you,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as he crouches to her level. “Come here.”
The child looks at her mother, who nods with an encouraging smile. The girl slides off the couch and walks over to stand before him. He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping her soft cheek. A torrent of feeling—disbelief, awe, a fierce, sudden protectiveness—washes over him, rendering him speechless.
“What’s your name?” he finally manages.
“Buhlebendalo.”
“Buhlebendalo,”he repeats, the name beautiful on his tongue. “You really are a beautiful nature.” He smiles. “Do you know who I am?”
She nods,her eyes wide and serious. “Yes. Mom said you are my dad. You are my dad, right?”
The direct question undoes him. Without a word, he gathers her into his arms, holding her small, sturdy body close. A wide, uncontrollable smile spreads across his face, a pure reaction before thought can interfere. Over her shoulder, he sees Zamahlobo watching them, her own smile tender and supportive.
He pulls back, holding Buhlebendalo at arm’s length, really looking at her. She has his eyes, the set of his jaw.
“Dinner is ready, madam,” Sizakele announces from the doorway.
“Thank you,Sizakele. Everyone, let’s go eat,” MaXulu says, herding people toward the dining room.
Mkhontowesizwe stands, effortlessly scooping Buhlebendalo into his arms. She lets out a small giggle, settling against him as he carries her to the table.
As everyone finds their seats, Mandla looks around, frowning. “Has anyone seen Sibonelo and Zenzile?”
A quiet falls over the table as they all glance at one another,then shake their heads in unison. Two empty chairs loom large at the table.
–
SIBONELO
The silence in the house was absolute. He found the letter on their bed, the one Zenzile left. The signed divorce papers were a clean cut, but the note… the note was a bruise. He doesn’t know what to feel. He wanted her gone. Now that she is, the emptiness feels more like a verdict than a liberation.
He needs noise, distraction, anything to silence the tumult in his head. He finds himself pulling up outside Club Kenya, the neon lights a garish beacon in the Pinetown night.
Inside, the bass throbs through the floor. He heads straight for the bar, shedding his blazer. “Whisky. Neat,” he tells the bartender. His phone vibrates in his pocket—Ma. He silences it with a sharp jab of his thumb and throws back the amber liquid as soon as the glass touches the counter, welcoming the fiery trail it leaves down his throat. Another follows and then another one again.
“Whoa. Easy there. The night is still young.”
The voice is smooth, feminine, laced with amusement. He turns to see a woman sliding onto the stool beside him. She is stunning, but there’s something familiar in her confident smile.
“Women trouble?” she asks, signaling the bartender for a drink.
“Kinda.” He squints, the gears turning. “Wait. I know you. You’re Zamahlobo’s friend. Sindiswa.”
“I am,” she says, extending a hand. “And you’re the elusive Sibonelo Ngwenya.” He takes her hand, not shaking it, but lifting it to press a light, unexpected kiss to her knuckles.
“The pleasure is all mine, Sindiswa.”
“Likewise.”Her drink arrives. A champagne flute.
“A refill for me,”Sibonelo tells the bartender, his eyes never leaving hers. “So, what brings a gorgeous woman like you to a den of iniquity alone?”
“I was supposed to meet a friend.She stood me up at the last minute.” She shrugs, a graceful movement. “So now it’s just me.”
“You mean,”he says, leaning in slightly, the whisky giving him a bold edge, “it’s just you and me.”
A slow smile plays on her lips.“Yeah. Just you and me.”
He catches himself staring at her. The music, the whisky, the crushing loneliness of the day coalesce into a single, impulsive need. He gently holds her chin, turning her face fully to his. He doesn’t speak, just leans in until his forehead rests against hers for a brief, charged second before closing the distance and capturing her lips in a searing kiss.
Sindiswa freezes for a heartbeat, surprised, then melts into it, her hand coming up to rest on his arm. When he pulls back, she lets out a soft, shaky breath, avoiding his eyes for a moment to compose herself.
He watches her, the taste of champagne .The noise of the club fades to a dull roar. “This place is boring,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble meant only for her. “How about we take this somewhere else?”