BECOMING
CHAPTER 13
CHULUMANCO
The first morning in Port Serenity felt like waking up inside someone else’s dream.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows I had never seen before, painting the bedroom floor in warm gold. The sheets were crisp and smelled faintly of new cotton and something floral, laundry softener, probably. Kungawo was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. His small fingers traced invisible patterns in the air, following the blades. He didn’t look confused or frightened. Just curious.
I reached over and touched his cheek. “Morning, baby.”
He turned to me, eyes bright, and said, “Mama.”
The word still landed like a small gift every time.
I pulled him into my lap and held him for a long minute, breathing in the top of his head, shampoo and the faint sweetness that was just him. Outside the window, the garden was quiet except for birds I didn’t recognize and the distant hum of the city waking up. No roosters. No children shouting down the road. No smell of paraffin stoves or wood smoke. Just clean air and the soft rustle of palm leaves.
Mesuli knocked gently on the open door.
He was already dressed in a navy polo shirt, and khaki jorts. In his hands, he carried two mugs of tea.
“Morning,” he said quietly. “Thought you might want this before the chaos starts.”
I took the mug. The tea was strong, just how I liked it, with two sugars and a splash of milk. He remembered from the few times we’d shared tea on my stoep back home.
“Thank you.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, like he was careful not to crowd us. Kungawo looked at him, then reached out a hand. Mesuli took it without hesitation.
“How did he sleep?” Mesuli asked.
“Like a stone. Didn’t wake once.”
“Good.” He smiled at Kungawo. “You like the big bed, nyana?”
Kungawo nodded once, small but definite.
We sat like that for a while, three of us on the bed, tea cooling in our hands, the fan turning overhead. It felt strange and right at the same time. Not forced. Not rushed. Just… new.
After breakfast, which was toast with jam for Kungawo, scrambled eggs for Mesuli and I, Mesuli took us on a slow tour of the house.
The living room had low couches in soft grey, a big TV mounted on the wall, shelves lined with books, and a few framed photos, mostly farm landscapes, a younger Mesuli with Zinzi and Sonwabile laughing at the camera, one of the whole Rala family under the jacaranda tree back in Entabeni. There were no pictures of women. No trace of anyone else who might have lived here.
The kitchen was open-plan, with granite counters, a double oven, and a fridge that looked like it belonged in a showroom. Mesuli opened it to show me it was stocked: fresh fruit, yoghurt, milk, eggs, and vegetables already washed and chopped.
“I asked the helper to come in yesterday,” he explained. “Her name is Lindiwe. She’ll be here three days a week to help with cleaning, laundry, and cooking if you want. She’s gentle with kids. I thought it might give you some breathing room.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Thank you.”
The garden was next. A lawn that actually stayed green, rose bushes along the fence, and a small wooden swing set in the corner that looked brand new. Kungawo ran straight to it, climbed onto the swing, and looked back at us expectantly.
Mesuli pushed him gently. The swing moved in slow arcs. Kungawo’s face lit up, not a laugh, not yet, but something close to delight.
I stood beside Mesuli, arms folded, watching my son move through air that felt cleaner, lighter.
“There’s a primary school ten minutes away,” Mesuli said quietly. “They have a special-needs unit. Small classes, trained aides. I made an appointment for next week to go and see it. If it doesn’t feel right, we look for another one.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“And there are private therapists in the city, speech, occupational, and behavioural. I’ve got a list. We can start calling tomorrow if you’re ready.”
I looked at him. “You’ve been planning this.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since the day I found out he was mine,” he said simply. “I just didn’t know how to say it until he called me Tata.”
Kungawo kicked his legs, making the swing go higher. Mesuli caught it gently, slowed it down.
“I don’t want to rush you into anything,” he continued. “School, therapy, whatever. We go at your pace. At his pace, actually. But I want you to know the options are here. And I’ll pay for all of it. No question.”
I looked down at the grass. “I’ve been paying for everything alone for so long. It feels… strange. To not have to choose between diapers and Mama’s pills.”
“I know.” His voice was low. “That’s why I want to take that weight off you. Not because I think you can’t carry it, but because you shouldn’t have to anymore.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just watched Kungawo swing, the breeze lifting his curls.
After a moment I said, “I need time to get used to this place. To us being here. To… everything.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “There’s no deadline.”
Kungawo slid off the swing and ran to me, holding up a small white daisy he’d picked from the edge of the roses. I tucked it behind his ear.
“Thank you, baby.”
He smiled, small, but real.
Mesuli crouched down to his level. “Want to see your room properly now?”
Kungawo nodded.
We followed Mesuli back inside, up the stairs, down a short hallway. He opened a door.
The room was painted soft blue, with a single bed against one wall, a low shelf of picture books and wooden toys, and a rug shaped like a road with little cars parked on it. A nightlight shaped as a moon hung above the bed. On the wall was a framed print of animals in a line, elephant, giraffe, lion, zebra, walking toward a sunset.
Kungawo walked in slowly, eyes wide. He touched the bed, then the rug, then the books.
Mesuli stayed in the doorway. “If you want anything changed, colours, toys, anything, just say.”
I shook my head. “It’s perfect.”
Kungawo sat on the rug and pulled a red car toward him. He pushed it back and forth, making a soft engine sound in his throat, the first time I’d ever heard him try to mimic anything like that.
Mesuli and I exchanged a look.
Neither of us said it out loud, but we both felt it: this was the beginning of something.
In the afternoon, I unpacked the Hazel stock in the spare room Mesuli had cleared for me. Shelves already lined one wall, a small desk in the corner with a view of the garden. My laptop sat open on it, the screen glowing with pending orders and messages from customers.
I sat down, opened my email, and started replying.
It felt the same as always, familiar rhythm, familiar work.
But the chair was more comfortable. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of air-conditioning. And when I looked out the window, I could see Mesuli pushing Kungawo on the swing again, slow and steady, the two of them moving together like they’d been doing it forever.
I closed my eyes for a second, just breathing.
This wasn’t home yet.
But it might become one.
And for the first time, that thought didn’t scare me.
It just felt like a possibility.
**************