NURSE THEMBENI
CHAPTER 1
People who are not from the Mnweni area think we are God’s favourite people. I don’t blame them, the place is deep in the Khahlamba mountains, and the thing about those mountains, they look like heaven from a distance.
But those people don’t know about the Manzana village, where I’m from. They don’t know that fortune is rare, money is rude, and villagers believe a woman’s reputation is more important than her happiness.
I am the only girl in my family, and that alone feels like a full-time job.
My parents are still alive, just old, tired, and very uninterested in modern dreams. They raised us to survive, not to want more, which is a problem because wanting more is how I survive this rural place.
My three older brothers, on the other hand, are very interested in my life, way too interested, overly invested and annoyingly protective. They treat me like a national treasure that must not be touched, looked at, or breathed on by men.
They say it is love, I call it surveillance.
They refuse to understand that I am a twenty-four year-old nurse that’s broke in ways that education does not fix. They don’t get that I have big dreams, and that I’m tired of checking prices twice before picking anything.
Nursing pays, yes, but not enough for the life I picture when I close my eyes. Love is not on my to-do list, money is.
That is not because I am heartless, I’m just realistic. Love has never paid rent, and romance has never bought peace of mind. I have seen enough women survive on promises to know better. I prefer certainty, I prefer men who show affection with action. Preferably financial action.
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When the time for my shift comes, I already want to go home. I’m standing in the corridor, counting how many floor tiles I can step on before Sister Dlamini notices that I’m stalling. I always do this when I’m tired, which is most days.
Nursing was never a dream of mine, it was a solution, a practical one. Something my marks could get me into, and something my brothers could afford without selling cows or their dignity.
People think nurses are called. Me? I was cornered.
“Eh Thembeni,” Sister Dlamini calls from the station, “stop walking like you’re on a fashion runway and fetch the files.”
I roll my eyes but smile anyway because Sister Dlamini will report me for breathing wrong if I don’t. We trained together, she still loves this job and helping people. Unlike me, she loves wearing scrubs as if they’re designer. I love money and weekends off, we are not the same.
The hospital is full today, I move from patient to patient, checking vitals, handing out pills, writing things I know no one will read.
Around midday, my feet are sore and my mood is hanging by a thread.
“Your favourite patient is here,” Sister Dlamini says, trying not to laugh.
I already know who she means.
“Please tell me she took her meds today,” I say.
“She did, but she’s asking for you specifically. She said you don’t look at her like she’s mad.”
That would be Mrs Ndlovu.
Everyone at this hospital is scared of her. Her problem is that she talks too much, sometimes about things that don’t make sense. People say she sees things, visions. I say she’s an old woman with a rusty brain.
I grab her file and head to her room. She’s sitting on the bed, hands folded on her lap, staring at the wall. She looks calm today and presentable, the medication is doing its job.
“Kunjani, Gogo,” I say.
She turns as slow as she could and smiles when she sees me.
“Ah, nayi ingane engang’sabi.”
(It’s the girl who isn’t afraid of me.)
I’m not brave, I’m just tired.
“How are you feeling, today?” I ask, checking her blood pressure.
“I’m fine, child. Just a little tired.” She says.
I can relate.
“These old bones are nothing like they used to be.” She finishes.
I pull up a chair beside her and take her pulse, then check her vitals. I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary, but she’s always had a way of making me pause. Her eyes are watching me like they know something I don’t.
“You know, Thembeni, my children want to send me to an old age home. They think I’m too much for them to care for now, they say I scare the grandchildren. My own children called me a burden.”
I wonder if she ‘ate ubusha bakhe’ during her youth, because, what is this? Growing old is sad. I’d like to stay young forever, please and thank you.
“I’m sorry to hear that, gogo. You deserve to be with family, not strangers. You’re not a burden. Families just get lazy when caring becomes inconvenient.”
“I want to die in my house where my husband’s spirit knows where to find me.”
That hits somewhere uncomfortable in me, but I ignore it. You can’t survive this job if you feel everything. She grips my hand suddenly, her fingers cold and bony, making my heart skip a beat.
“Child, you don’t know what’s coming for you, do you?” She whispers, her voice slightly trembling.
I spoke too soon. She’s not normal today.
“Gogo, when last did you take your pills?”
“Look at me,” she demands, and I do, even though every instinct in me wants to pull away.
“I see it in your eyes… the path you’re walking… It’s not what you think it is.” She says.
I start to pull my hand back, unsure of what’s happening.
“Lalela ntombazana, something is coming for you. Something bigger than you can control, and it will change your life. You will find yourself standing before it, and you’ll be faced with a choice.”
“Gogo…”
She leans closer, I can smell the mints she sucks on.
“There’s a man in your life, isn’t there? A man who gives you everything you need, but you’ll have to choose, Thembeni. You will have to choose between the life you’ve built and the life that’s meant for you.”
My hand’s still in hers, and I can’t look away from her eyes, even though I want to.
“What life?” I manage to ask, feeling a lump form in my throat.
She smiles that crooked smile again, her gaze distant as though she’s seeing something far beyond the walls of this room.
A chill creeps up my spine, but I laugh, forcing a grin.
“Okay, gogo. I think you’ve had enough of your own drama for today.”
I stand up, brushing off the weird feeling, but her words stick in my head as I walk out. I tell myself that it’s nothing, just a crazy old woman. She’s always been a little out there, people like her make wild claims all the time. Some have come true, she just got lucky once or twice, it doesn’t mean anything.
I shake it off, already thinking about the long shift ahead and the lunch break I’m not going to get. I leave the room unsettled but pretending I’m not.
Coincidences are powerful if you let them scare you. I don’t, I believe in effort, in money and in getting out of this village one day and never looking back.
.
.
By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted and starving. I change out of my uniform, already planning what I’ll spend my next extra cash on. Maybe a new bag. Maybe shoes. Something small. Something that reminds me that this life is temporary.
When I reach the pickup point outside Emmaus Hospital, my body has already decided that today was unnecessary.
It’s raining, not that soft drizzle, but real rain that soaks through shoes and makes you question your life choices. I have been rained on, and my patience clocked out an hour before I did. Qondi and Nala are next to me, equally tired, equally unimpressed, all three of us staring down the road as if Gumede might appear faster if we sigh loud enough.
He is thirty minutes late, again.
“This man thinks we live at the hospital,” Qondi says, checking her phone for the fifth time in two minutes.
“He’s going to blame the gravel roads, watch.” Nala replies.
That excuse has been recycled more times than hospital gloves. Yes, the roads are bad, everyone knows that. That’s why the hospital hired a minibus in the first place, because small cars surrender halfway and go back to town with trauma. When it rains, the journey home stretches longer, the mud gets confident, and everyone suddenly remembers why it sucks staying in the Mnweni region.
Still, that is no excuse for the transport driver to be late. Thirty minutes is disrespect.
“We should start invoicing him for overtime. At this point, I deserve danger pay.” I say.
They laugh, and I let myself smile even though my feet are screaming. Nursing drains you in ways people don’t talk about. You give your body, your energy, your fake empathy, and in return you get a payslip that reminds you to stay humble.
Qondi nudges me with her elbow.
“Once you’re married to the chief, make sure you tell him to fix the roads. We are suffering.”
My shoulders drop immediately.
Since I was born, my life has been spoken about in future tense by people who are not me. I was chosen at an early age, groomed and prepared without consent to be the chief’s wife, uNdlunkulu. A title that comes with cows, respect, and a permanent erasure of personal choice.
The wedding preparations are already moving, fabric has been bought, dates have been discussed. In two months, I will be Mrs Hlongwane, whether I feel romantic about it or not.
“Please, don’t remind me.” I say, rubbing my forehead.
Ever since I was old enough to understand words like destiny and tradition, I’ve been told that I belong to Chief Hlongwane. I did not choose him, his family chose me.
The wedding preparations are already moving like a train with no brakes, and I am expected to smile and wave as it runs over my freedom.
“We live at the foothills of the Drakensberg, Qondi. Right within the mountains. If you want paved roads, move to KwaDukuza or Bergville. Manzana is not changing because of my marriage.”
Nala looks at me sideways, smiling. I know that look, she’s about to irritate me on purpose.
“Chommie, just ditch the chief and move to the Champagne Valley with your boyfriend.”
That’s the suburbs.
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Which boyfriend, Nala?”
“You know exactly who. Mehlokazulu Golide Mthunzi.”
Golide.
That name came from me, not him. I named him after his money, his lifestyle, the way he spends without limits. Gold suits him, he doesn’t know we call him that, and even if he did, I doubt it would disturb his sleep.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind her.
Qondi raises an eyebrow. “We know. He’s your sugar daddy.”
“He’s my blesser, a sugar daddy is an old man. Golide is in his early 30’s.”
They burst out laughing.
“Okay, he’s not old. But he has the sugar, and he definitely gives daddy energy. So the title still stands.” Nala says.
I let it go because semantics don’t pay my bills.
I met Golide six months ago in Winterton, at a mall that smells expensive and reminds you that other people live better lives. I was buying groceries with a very strict budget when he offered to pay. I did not pretend to hesitate, free money deserves respect, and it does not offend me.
We exchanged numbers, he was honest from the beginning. He would take care of me, and I would take care of him. No strings attached, no expectations beyond that.
And we have never crossed that line. We don’t date, we don’t talk about our childhood, or dreams. I don’t even know his laugh, I have never seen him smile. He fetches me when he wants me, drops me off when he’s done, and sends money the way other men send good morning texts.
That is his version of affection and I am not complaining.
“You’re playing with fire, Themi. If Chief Hlongwane finds out that his wife-to-be is giving his cake to another man, this village will explode.” Qondi stresses.
That thought irritates me more than it should.
The chief believes I am untouched, pure and waiting for him. That story comforts people, my brothers especially. They wear my purity as proof that they raised me well, that their sister will sit in the royal seat clean and respectable.
No one ever asked me what I want.
The rain has stopped a little, but Gumede still hasn’t arrived. We are still at the pickup point, three tired women, one leaking umbrella, and a shared hatred for the transport driver. My back is reminding me that nursing is not a calling, it is manual labour with a certificate.
“Looks like we’re sleeping here tonight,” Qondi mutters just as a black Range Rover Autobiography pulls up in front of us. I call it the “Palace on Wheels.”
It’s a statement of both luxury and raw capability to handle the mountain passes.
I look at it without thinking, and recognize the pitch black figure behind the wheel. It’s Golide… Mehlokazulu. He didn’t tell me he was coming.
“He’s not supposed to be here today.”
Qondi turns to me slowly, one eyebrow arched so high it almost disappears into her headwrap.
“What do you mean ‘not supposed to be’? The man is literally parked there.” She says.
These two know my business, too much of it.
“We were supposed to meet tomorrow.” I say.
“Wait. I thought you were having lunch with Chief Hlongwane today.” Qondi.
“Yeah, supper at eight p.m. At the royal house.”
It’s boring as hell compared to what’s waiting in that SUV.
Nala’s mouth drops open. “Golide is right there, waiting. What are you going to do?”
“And the chief is also waiting. So which one are you standing up today, Themi? Because you can’t ghost both of them.” Qondi.
“You don’t say no to Golide.” I tell them.
I don’t want to say no to Golide.
“Does he even know about the chief?” Qondi asks.
“No and he can’t… Ever.”
Golide doesn’t share, not his time, not his space and definitely not his women. We never had to discuss exclusivity because he doesn’t need to say it out loud.
It’s in the way he looks at you when he suspects nonsense, as if he’s already decided your fate and you’re just catching up. That man is possessive in the quietest, most terrifying way.
“Then go, chommie. You’ve kept him waiting long enough. That man does not do waiting.”
Nala is telling the truth.
“No, absolutely not. What about supper with the chief? You can’t just disappear on him like that, you need to know where your priorities are, Themi.”
“My priorities are with money, Qondi. Always have been, always will be. I’m not ashamed of it.”
Nala bursts out laughing and high-fives me so hard my hand stings.
“Yesss, sis! That’s my girl. Team Golide all the way. Money talks, and Golide speaks fluent dollar.” Nala.
Qondi rolls her eyes so dramatically I almost laugh again.
“The chief has money too, you know.” She says.
That has to be a joke.
“The chief has livestock, farms, land, respect from the community.” I say, ticking it off on my fingers. “That’s cute, and traditional, not currency. But Golide? Golide has real money that buys whatever I want whenever I want it. There’s a difference, Qondi. A big one.”
Qondi folds her arms and sighs.
“That is still money, you’re acting confused on purpose.” She says.
Nala clicks her tongue. “Stop confusing her, Qondi. Golide is the right man for Themi, he’s everything.”
I smile despite myself.
Golide is something else, alright. He lives in his own world, but when he says your name? It feels like he’s claiming you, and when those eyes land on you, deep, intense. He looks at you like he already knows all your secrets and still wants more. Every time he looks at me like that, my bank account and my ovaries both stand up and salute.
Qondi is not impressed.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Thembeni. That man is not looking for marriage, he’s playing with you. When he’s done playing, he’ll leave and find another fresh girl. You’re not going to be the exception.”
I don’t need a voice of reason in Qondi. I need a friend who will dare to dream with me.
“Are you saying I’m not fresh anymore?” I ask her, laughing.
“That’s not what I meant, I’m just saying you need to choose someone who respects you. The chief respects you, he’s from a good family, he knows our ways, he’ll do things properly. Golide is just flashy. Money isn’t everything, Themi.”
Nala snorts. “Speak for yourself. Money is literally everything when you’ve grown up fetching water from the river.”
“Nala stop, you are not helping. Themi needs to choose a good man for herself, the future Themi will thank her for it.” Qondi.
I look between them, feeling the pull in two directions. Qondi’s right about one thing, the chief offers stability. But safe doesn’t pay for the life I want, Golide does.
A loud hoot disturbs our little debate, I have kept the man waiting for too long.
“You only live once, so today, I choose money.” I say.
They both sigh in unison, different kinds of sighs. Nala’s is excited. Qondi’s is disappointed.
“And when you get married? What will you do with Golide?” Qondi asks.
“Keep him, Hlongwane will also have his own women on the side.”
I’m tired of Qondi’s tantrums, we’re young. Can’t we live a little? The next thing she will be making me swear under duress to stay loyal to the chief, a man I do not even know.
“Anyway, I’ll deal with Hlongwane tomorrow. Tonight, I have a date with my bank balance.” I say.
I hug them both, Nala squeezes me tight and whispers “get that bag, sis,” while Qondi just holds me a second longer, she’s praying over me.
.
.
My heart is beating faster as I make my way to Golide’s car, I open the door and slide in. I’m addicted to the expensive smell of this car, the leather, his faint cologne. Everything about Golide is in order.
He’s looking at me, expression cold as usual, but today there’s tension in it, something dangerous in his eyes.
“You’ve gotten comfortable in keeping me waiting, now?”
“I’m sorry, we were discussing a patient we lost today. She was a friend.” I lie.
“Stop talking if you’re going to feed me lies.” He says, staring at me for a second too long.
I zip my mouth instantly. He starts the engine and pulls off without another word.
My phone rings from my bag, I take it out and quickly flip the screen. Why is chief Hlongwane calling me? I cannot answer that call here, I just pray the phone gets tired of ringing.
It stops and relief washes through me for exactly two seconds.
“Who was that?” Golide asks, eyes still on the road.
“My brother, probably wondering where I am.”
He doesn’t respond. The phone buzzes this time, now I’m sweating. I know Golide notices, he notices everything.
I hold it up and open the message discreetly.
“I can’t wait to see you tonight.” His message reads.
I think of blocking him, and facing the consequences tomorrow. But I have brothers who will walk from Manzana to the hospital just to drag me to that dinner. The problem is that, they won’t find me here.
Story of my life.
“I’ve been put on night shift, we’re short-staffed.” I respond to the chief’s text.
Lying to him is easy, the chief believes whatever sounds official.
Another buzz, the man is too available. Does he have to respond after one second? No wonder there is no change in our village, our chief has too much time in his hands, which he spends on not making changes.
“I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll speak to the Matron myself. They will let you go, mkami.”
Mxm! This is bad, very bad. I am trapped and no amount of white lies can talk its way out of this one.
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