BECOMING
CHAPTER 19
CULUMANCO
I stand in the hallway for a full minute after Mesuli disappears into his room. My forehead still tingles where his lips brushed it, soft, quick, gone before I can even blink. The kiss feels like punctuation on a sentence he wrote alone, like he said everything he needed to say and then slammed the book shut. No room for my chapter. No space for my words.
Fury rises slow at first, a low simmer under my ribs, then hotter, faster, until it burns my throat. I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. He apologised. He explained. He promised. And then he ran. He kissed my forehead like I was Kungawo, like I was a child who needed soothing, and he walked away before I could open my mouth.
I don’t move right away. I listen to the quiet click of his door, the faint creak of floorboards as he paces inside his room. I imagine him leaning against the wood the way I am now, breathing hard, telling himself he did the right thing. Protecting the arrangement. Keeping the lines clear. Keeping me safe from his feelings.
Safe.
The word tastes bitter.
I turn and walk to my bedroom—my bedroom, not ours, never ours—close the door with careful quiet so I don’t wake Kungawo and lock it. The lock clicks louder than it should in the silence. I lean my back against the wood, slide down until I’m sitting on the carpet, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.
My chest hurts.
Not the sharp ache of heartbreak. Not yet. This is something heavier, angrier. He unloaded everything—fear, guilt, desire, panic and then he robbed me of the chance to respond. He decided how the conversation would end. He decided I didn’t need to speak. He decided my silence was consent.
I press my palms to my eyes until I see stars.
I was ready to speak. I had words lined up in my throat like soldiers. I was going to tell him that I understood the fear. That I felt it too. That moving here terrified me every single day because it meant trusting him with more than Kungawo’s routine, it meant trusting him with pieces of myself I had kept locked away since the night I woke up at the Great Mountain Hotel with a note and money and nothing else. I was going to tell him that the distance hurt more than any confession could. That I missed the small things: the way he used to hand me tea exactly the way I like it, the way our fingers brushed on the patio and neither of us pulled away, the way he looked at me sometimes like I was more than Kungawo’s mother.
I was going to tell him that I was starting to feel something too.
And he didn’t let me.
The fury crests, hot and bright. I stand up fast, pace the room. My bare feet sink into the plush carpet, another luxury I still can’t believe is mine. The room is beautiful: soft grey walls, a king bed with too many pillows, a dressing table, Mesuli had delivered the second week we were here, a wardrobe already half-filled with my clothes and Kungawo’s. Everything thoughtful. Everything careful.
Everything his.
I stop at the dressing table, stare at my reflection in the oval mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed. My cheeks flushed. My hair is loose from the bun I wore earlier, curls falling around my face. I look angry. I look alive.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. My thumb hovers over Zinzi’s name again. I don’t want to cry to her twice in one day. But I need someone to hear me. Someone who will let me finish a sentence.
She answers on the first ring.
“Chulu? Everything okay?”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Talk to me.”
I exhale shakily. “He talked to me. After Kungawo was asleep. He apologised. Explained everything. Said he’s been pulling away because he’s scared of his feelings for me. Said he doesn’t want to risk messing up what we have with Kungawo. Said he’ll keep the feelings to himself and stop avoiding me.”
Zinzi lets out a long breath. “Okay. That’s… good, right? That’s what we wanted. Him to be honest.”
“He kissed my forehead,” I say, and my voice cracks. “Then he said goodnight and walked away. He didn’t wait for me to speak. He didn’t give me a chance to say anything. He just… decided the conversation was over.”
Silence on her end. Then, softly: “He ran.”
“He ran,” I repeat. The word tastes like ash. “After unloading all of that fear and guilt, he ran before I could open my mouth. Like my piece didn’t matter. Like he already knew what I would say, or like he was too scared to hear it.”
Zinzi is quiet for a beat. “What would you have said?”
I laugh, short and bitter. “I don’t even know anymore. I was ready to tell him I understood. That I was scared too. That I’ve been feeling something for him too, something small and hopeful that I didn’t dare name. I was going to tell him that the distance hurt worse than any risk could. That I missed him looking at me. That I was grateful for everything he’s done but that I needed him to see me, really see me, not just as Kungawo’s mother. And he didn’t let me.”
My voice breaks on the last sentence. I press my hand to my mouth.
Zinzi’s voice comes through gentle but firm. “He’s scared, Chulu. Men like bhuti—they carry everything until it crushes them. He’s terrified of losing Kungawo. Of losing the life you three are building. So he’s trying to control the only thing he thinks he can: his feelings. But he’s doing it wrong. And he hurt you in the process.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But it still hurts. I feel… dismissed. Like my voice doesn’t count in my own story.”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” she says. “You’re allowed to be furious. He doesn’t get to decide how the conversation ends just because he’s scared. You deserve to be heard.”
I wipe my eyes. “I don’t even know what to do now. Part of me wants to march into his room and make him listen. The other part wants to pack our things and leave before he can hurt me again. I was starting to believe this could be real. That maybe, just maybe, he saw me the way I was starting to see him. And now I feel like a fool for hoping.”
“You’re not a fool,” Zinzi says fiercely. “You’re human. You opened your heart to possibility after years of carrying everything alone. That’s brave, not foolish. And he’s the one who messed up tonight. Not you.”
I let out a shaky breath. “What do I do tomorrow? Pretend it didn’t happen? Keep staying out of his way?”
“No,” she says. “You don’t hide. You don’t shrink. You be exactly who you are. If he wants to fix this, he has to face you. He has to listen. And if he can’t… then we’ll figure out what’s next. But you are not the one who should apologise. You are not the one who ran.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Thank you, tshomi. For listening. For talking to him earlier. For… everything.”
“Always,” she says. “And Chulu?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re stronger than you think. You raised Kungawo alone for five years. You built your Hazel clientele from nothing. You moved to a new city for your son’s future. You can handle one scared man who’s too afraid to look at his own heart. You’ve got this.”
I laugh through tears. “I don’t feel like I’ve got this.”
“You do. And if you don’t tonight, you will tomorrow. Sleep. Cry if you need to. But don’t shrink. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We say goodnight. I plug in my phone, turn off the lamp, and crawl under the covers. The sheets are cool against my skin. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles in the dark.
I think about his kiss on my forehead. Soft. Careful. Cowardly.
I think about the way he looked at me when he said “You’re the reason this house feels like a home now.” His eyes were honest then. Raw. Scared.
I think about Kungawo sleeping down the hall, safe, loved, speaking more every day.
I think about the life we’re building here, therapy sessions, school trials, garden puddles and bedtime stories.
I think about how much I want to stay.
And how much it hurts to want something from someone who won’t let me give it back.
Sleep comes slowly. When it does, I dream of standing in the hallway again, Mesuli walking away, and this time I call his name. This time he turns. This time he listens.
But even in the dream, I wake up before he answers.
Morning arrives grey and damp. I wake before Kungawo, slip out of bed, and pull on leggings and a hoodie. The house is still quiet. Mesuli’s door is closed. I tiptoe downstairs, make tea, sit at the island, and stare at the whiteboard note from yesterday. I don’t erase it. I just look at his handwriting—neat, controlled, careful—and feel the anger flare again.
Kungawo wakes at 7:20. I hear his small feet on the stairs, then his voice calling “Mama?” I meet him halfway, scoop him up, kiss his cheeks until he giggles.
“Morning, baby. Ready for school?”
He nods. “Blocks.”
“Yes, blocks. And friends.”
We eat breakfast together, the regular oats, banana smiley face, and warm milk. He says “Hot,” then “Cool” when I blow on the spoon. I laugh, but it feels thin.
Mesuli doesn’t come down. No footsteps. No coffee machine. No “Morning” from the doorway. The house feels bigger without him in it.
I dress Kungawo, pack his bag, and drive him to ParkWest. Miss Patel greets us at the door. Kungawo walks in holding my hand, lets go when he sees the blocks, sits down and starts building. He doesn’t look back today either.
I leave at 9:15. Drive home. Sit in the driveway for ten minutes before going inside.
The house is empty. Lindiwe comes at ten. She hums while she cleans. I pack Hazel orders in the spare room, answer messages, post a reel. I keep busy. I keep moving.
Mesuli texts at 11:42:
“Everything okay? How was drop-off?”
I stare at the message for a long time. My thumb hovers.
I type: “Fine. He went straight to blocks. Didn’t look back.”
I hit send.
No reply.
I put the phone down. Go upstairs. Lie on my bed. Stare at the ceiling fan.
I think about leaving. Not packing today. Not tomorrow. But soon. A small apartment. Close enough for Kungawo to see his father every day. Far enough that I don’t feel like an intruder. I could afford something modest, maybe twenty minutes away. Hazel is growing. I could make it work.
But the thought makes my chest ache.
I don’t want to leave.
I want him to stop running.
I want him to let me speak.
I want him to look at me the way he looks at Kungawo—like I matter.
I roll onto my side. Curl into a ball. Let the tears come again.
Quiet. Hot. Angry.
I cry until there’s nothing left.
Then I get up, wash my face, go downstairs, and wait for Kungawo’s pickup time.
When I bring him home at one o’clock, he’s happy, tired, clutching a red block he “borrowed” from the classroom. He says “Block” proudly. I kiss his cheek and tell him how clever he is.
Mesuli isn’t home yet.
I feed Kungawo lunch. Play with him in the garden. Push him on the swing. He says “Higher” three times. I push higher. He laughs.
I keep waiting for Mesuli’s bakkie in the driveway.
He doesn’t come.
Another late meeting, he texts at five. Back for bedtime.
I read Kungawo the duck book alone. Tuck him in. Kiss his forehead. Whisper “Mama’s here.”
I sit on the patio afterward. The garden lights glow. The pool is still. The roses smell sweet and wet.
I think about the kiss on my forehead.
I think about how he walked away.
I think about how much I want to be angry forever.
But I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
I go inside. Lock the patio door. Turn off the lights.
I climb the stairs slowly.
His bedroom door is closed.
Mine is open.
I go inside. Close the door. Lock it.
I crawl under the covers.
I don’t cry this time.
I just lie there, staring at the dark.
Waiting for tomorrow.
Waiting for him to decide if he’s brave enough to stay.
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If I don’t get 25 comments and 100 likes in the last 3 chapters I’m not gonna post tomorrow.