BECOMING
CHAPTER 22
Sponsored by Mngazi Omuhle
CHULUMANCO
The last track of BodyPump ends with a heavy drop, bass rattling the mirrors, and the instructor’s voice booming through the speakers: “Well done, team, see you next week!” My arms tremble as I lower the barbell to the mat with a controlled clang. My thighs are on fire, sweat rolling down my temples, soaking into the neckline of my sports bra. My cropped hoodie is unzipped and pushed back off my shoulders, the neon green tank underneath clinging to my skin like a second layer.
My legs feel like jelly, but the good kind, the kind that means I pushed hard and left nothing on the floor. I take a deep breath, wipe my face with the towel around my neck, and bend down to grab my gym bag and water bottle from the mat.
When I straighten up, Zola is standing right in front of me.
He’s in black shorts and a fitted tank, towel slung over one shoulder, sweat still shining on his arms and chest. His smile is easy, dimples deep.
“Chulumanco,” he says, voice warm. “You’re becoming a regular already.”
I laugh, still catching my breath. “Third day in a row. I think I’m officially hooked.”
He chuckles, nodding toward the empty rack where I just put the barbell. “You looked strong out there. Form was solid. Legs were shaking, but you powered through the last set like it was nothing.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I don’t look away. “Thanks. My thighs are screaming right now, but it felt good. Intense, but good.”
“That’s the best kind,” he says, falling into step beside me as we head toward the exit. The gym is starting to thin out, people wiping down equipment, rolling up mats, chatting in low voices. Zola glances at me sideways.
“So,” he says, “still up for that coffee? The spot across the street is open. No pressure, but I figure we both earned a caffeine hit after that class.”
I hesitate for half a second. Kungawo is at school until one. No Hazel deliveries today. Mesuli is at the office. The day is mine.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “Let’s go now. I don’t have anything pressing.”
His grin widens. “Perfect. And don’t worry about the sweat—I’m in the same boat. We’ll call it gym perfume. Adds character.”
I laugh again. “You’re going to regret saying that when you’re sitting next to me.”
“Never,” he says, holding the door open for me.
****
The coffee shop is small and cozy, with big windows and wooden tables. The smell of fresh beans and pastries hits me the moment we step inside. Zola orders a black Americano. I get a cappuccino with an extra shot. We find a table by the window, two chairs, sunlight slanting across the wood.
He sits first, leans back, and stretches his arms a bit. “So. Chulumanco. Tell me about you. New in Port Serenity, killer form in BodyPump, and you’ve got me curious.”
I laugh, stirring my cappuccino. “Not much to tell. I moved here a few weeks ago with my son. Trying to settle in. The gym is the first thing that’s felt like mine since we arrived.”
He nods. “I get that. Moving cities is hard. Especially with a kid. How old is he?”
“Five. Kungawo. He’s… he’s everything.”
Zola smiles, softer this time. “I hear that. I’ve got two—boy and girl. Fourteen and twelve. Teenagers almost. They’re with their mom most of the time, but I see them every weekend. It’s the best and hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Fourteen and twelve? You don’t look old enough.”
He laughs. “I’m thirty-seven. Started young. Divorced five years ago. Co-parenting ever since.”
Thirty-seven. The number hits me like a small wave. Ten years older than me. I feel a flicker of surprise, but I mask it with a sip of coffee, letting the foam coat my lips. He doesn’t look thirty-seven—fit, confident, no grey in his beard. It doesn’t feel like a barrier, just a fact. I set the mug down.
“And the gym?” I ask.
“Mine,” he says simply. “Opened it six years ago. Wanted a place where people could feel strong, not judged. Especially women. Especially moms. You’d be surprised how many come in feeling like they’ve lost themselves. We try to help them remember.”
I look at him. “That’s nice. Really nice. It’s beautiful in there. Clean, welcoming. I enjoy spending time in it already.”
He shrugs. “It’s personal. I watched my ex lose herself after the kids. I didn’t want that for other women if I could help it.”
I nod. “I get that. I’ve been… finding myself again lately. The move here was for Kungawo—better schools, therapy, specialists—but it’s also been for me. The gym is part of that.”
He leans forward slightly. “You’re doing good. I can see it. You walk in like you belong. That’s half the battle.”
I feel the warmth again, but this time I don’t look away. “Thank you.”
We talk for almost an hour. He tells me about his kids, his daughter wants to be a DJ, his son is obsessed with football. I tell him about Kungawo’s new words, his love for blocks, his quiet focus. We laugh about the chaos of parenting, the small victories, the days you feel like you’re failing. He’s easy to talk to. No pressure. No agenda. Just two people sharing coffee and stories.
When we finish our cups he checks his watch. “I’ve got a class in twenty. But… I’d like to see you again. Tomorrow? No gym pressure. Just dinner or drinks. Somewhere nice. I’ll pick you up if you want.”
I hesitate. “I’d like that. But I need to check if Kungawo’s father is free to stay with him. Our helper doesn’t work weekends.”
Zola nods, no disappointment on his face. “Of course. Just let me know. No rush. Here—” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number properly this time. I’ll text you mine.”
I recite it again. He saves it, sends me a quick “Zola from Pulse ☕” text.
“Done,” he says. “Tomorrow. Hopefully.”
I smile. “Hopefully.”
We stand. He holds the door open for me. We step outside into the bright afternoon.
“See you, Chulumanco.”
“See you, Zola.”
I walk to my car feeling… light. Not guilty. Not stupid. Just light.
****
Later that day, the sound of splashing pulls me outside. Mesuli and Kungawo are in the pool, sunlight glinting off the water. Mesuli is holding him gently, guiding his small arms through the motions.
“Kick, Kunga,” he says, patient. “Kick your legs.”
Kungawo laughs, water spraying as he kicks. “Tata!”
I smile, watching them from the patio. I don’t get in, just sit on the edge, legs crossed, braids brushing my shoulders.
“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” I ask casually.
Mesuli glances up, water dripping from his hair. “Planning to spend time with Kungawo. Maybe more swimming, maybe the park.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Because I’m planning on going out tomorrow night. I’ll be back before ten.”
He pauses, brows furrowing. “Where are you going?”
I meet his eyes, steady. “On a date.”
The silence that follows is heavy, awkward. The only sound is water lapping against the pool tiles, Kungawo’s giggles echoing.
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering for a second, then type a quick message to Zola: Dinner tomorrow night confirmed.
I hit send.
The silence between Mesuli and me stretches, unspoken words hanging in the humid air. I don’t break it. I just sit there, watching my son splash, pretending the knot in my chest.
*******