BECOMING
CHAPTER 10
CHULUMANCO
Chulu stood beside her mother in the swept yard of the Rala homestead, the early morning light still soft and forgiving. The air carried the scent of fresh impepho smoke and the faint metallic promise of the day’s ritual. Kungawo rested on her hip, his small arms looped loosely around her neck, head tucked under her chin. He had slept the previous two nights in Mesuli’s childhood bedroom, as Gogo Jonga had instructed, two full nights so the ancestors could grow accustomed to his breathing beneath this roof, his small footprints on this earth.
Her mother leaned on her stick, dressed in her best black skirt and white blouse, with rosary beads wrapped around her wrist. Chulu had insisted that her family be present, not just as observers, but as part of the circle. This was not only Mesuli’s ceremony. It was Kungawo’s homecoming, and Kungawo carried Chulu’s blood as surely as he carried Mesuli’s. Her mother had agreed without hesitation. “He is ours too,” she had said the night before. “We stand with him.”
The yard had been prepared with care. A small fire burned low in the centre, impepho curling upward in thin white threads. Chairs had been arranged in a wide half-circle beneath the marula tree. The goat, strong, black-and-white, waited tethered near the back, grazing calmly, unaware. A new white blanket lay folded on a low table beside a calabash, candles, and a small bowl of snuff.
Mesuli emerged from the house first, wearing a clean white shirt and black trousers. His eyes went straight to Chulu and Kungawo. He crossed the yard in long strides, stopping a respectful distance away.
“Molweni,” he said quietly to both women.
“Hi,” Chulu replied. Her mother echoed the greeting with a small nod.
Mrs. Rala followed, her face already shining with emotion. She embraced Chulu’s mother first, two older women holding one another briefly, wordlessly acknowledging the shared weight of this moment. Zinzi appeared next, carrying a basket of fruit and bread as an offering. Sonwabile trailed behind, quiet as always, but his eyes softened when they landed on Kungawo.
Gogo Jonga arrived last, staff in hand, blanket draped over his shoulders. He greeted everyone with a slow nod, then walked directly to the fire. He inspected the goat one final time, running his hands along its back, checking its eyes, its teeth.
“It is good,” he announced. “Strong. Izinyanya zizoyamkela.” (The ancestors will accept it.)
The small gathering formed a circle around the cleared space. Chulu stood with Kungawo in her arms, Mesuli to her right, her mother to her left. Mr. and Mrs. Rala and Zinzi stood close behind, Sonwabile beside them. A handful of close elders from both families completed the ring, witnesses to the joining of two bloodlines.
Gogo Jonga began.
He spoke first to the ancestors, voice rising and falling in the old cadence. He named them, those who had come before on the Rala side, those who had watched from Chulu’s lineage. He spoke of blood returned, of a child reclaimed, of balance restored.
Then he turned to Kungawo.
“This is Kungawo,” he said, placing a hand on the boy’s forehead. “Son of Mesuli ka Rala. Son of Chulu ka Msutu. Grandson. Great-grandson. He comes home today. He comes to be named. He comes to be marked.”
Mesuli stepped forward. He took the knife from Gogo, knelt, and, with hands that trembled only slightly, performed the slaughter. The goat fell cleanly. Blood spilled onto the earth. Gogo caught some in a calabash.
He dipped his fingers and drew a line across Kungawo’s forehead, then his chest, then the palms of his hands.
“Be marked,” Gogo intoned. “Be known. Be welcomed.”
Chulu felt tears slip down her cheeks. She held Kungawo tighter. The boy watched everything with wide, calm eyes, no fear and no fuss.
Gogo continued, prayers, songs, the sharing of snuff with the elders. When the ritual reached its peak, he looked at Mesuli and Chulu.
“Speak his name to the ancestors,” he instructed.
Mesuli cleared his throat. His voice carried across the yard, steady and thick with emotion.
“Kungawo Rala,” he said. “Nyana ka Mesuli. Grandson of this house. Come has come home.”
Chulu echoed the name, her voice softer but clear.
“Kungawo Rala.”
The words settled over the gathering like a blessing. Gogo nodded once.
“The ancestors have heard,” he said. “They are pleased.”
The ceremony ended with shared silence, then quiet conversation. Food was brought out, meat from the goat, umngqusho, bread, and tea. People ate slowly, speaking in low voices. Chulu’s mother sat beside Mrs. Rala, the two women sharing stories of their own childhoods, their own ceremonies long ago. Zinzi moved among the small group, refilling cups, offering smiles. Sonwabile sat near the fire, watching Kungawo with quiet wonder.
Chulu kept Kungawo close, feeding him small pieces of bread dipped in gravy. He ate slowly, eyes following the flames. Mesuli sat beside them on a low stool, one hand resting lightly on Kungawo’s back.
After the meal, when the sun had climbed higher and the elders had begun to drift away, Mesuli leaned toward Chulu.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For letting him stay these nights. For being here today. For… everything.”
Chulu looked at him. “He belongs to both of us now. That’s what today was.”
Mesuli nodded. “I know I can’t make up for the years I missed. But I want to be here for the ones ahead.”
She looked down at Kungawo, who had begun to doze against her shoulder. “He’s happy here,” she said. “I see it. He’s calmer. He reaches for you. For your mother. I want that for him.”
Mesuli swallowed. “I want that too.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the fire die down to embers. Kungawo’s breathing deepened into sleep.
Later, when the yard had emptied, and only the family remained, Mrs. Rala approached Chulu.
“Let him stay tonight, too,” she said gently. “One more night. Let the ancestors settle with him here. Then you can take him home tomorrow.”
Chulu hesitated. But she looked at how peaceful, and safe Kungawo was—and nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “One more night.”
Mrs. Rala’s eyes filled. “Thank you, my child.”
Mesuli walked Chulu to the gate when she prepared to leave. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the yard.
“I’ll bring him back tomorrow,” he said. “After breakfast.”
Chulu nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
He hesitated. “Chulu… about the surname. You said you’d think about it.”
She met his eyes. “I have. I want to do it. Kungawo Rala. It feels right now.”
Relief and something deeper, gratitude crossed his face. “Thank you.”
She gave a small smile. “He deserves both of us. All of us.”
Mesuli nodded. “He does.”
Chulu walked home alone under the lengthening shadows. The village was quiet, the day’s work winding down. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, perhaps in years. The ancestors had spoken. The name had been given. Kungawo was claimed, not just by one family, but by two.
**********
Chulu sat on the step outside her house, the evening air cooling against her skin. The walk home from the Rala homestead had been short but heavy, each step carrying the echo of the ceremony, the scent of impepho still clinging to her dress. Kungawo had stayed behind for one more night, as Mrs. Rala had asked. Chulu had agreed, watching as the boy waved from Mesuli’s arms at the gate, his small face calm but tired.
Now the house felt empty. Her mother had gone to bed early, rosary in hand, whispering thanks for the day’s blessings. Chulu had helped her settle, rubbing lavender oil into the bad leg, tucking the blanket around her. “It was a good day,” her mother had said. “The ancestors smiled on him.”
Chulu agreed. Imbeleko had been beautiful and sacred in its simplicity. Standing in that circle with her mother beside her, Kungawo in her arms, she had felt the pull of two families joining. They had shared the meal after, speaking of old times, of how Kungawo’s silence reminded them of a cousin long ago who had found his voice after a ritual much like this. The Rala side had welcomed them, Mrs. Rala embracing her mother like a sister, Zinzi laughing with her aunts, Sonwabile showing one of her uncles the pigs.
But beneath the unity, Chulu felt the shift. Kungawo was Rala now, named, marked and claimed. And she had agreed to it. Officially changing his surname would come soon, papers filed, the boy’s identity rewritten. It felt right, but it tugged at her heart. Five years alone, and now he had another home, another family to run to.
She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The stars were bright tonight. She thought of Kungawo sleeping in that big house, under that roof. He had liked the two nights before the ceremony, reaching for Mrs. Rala’s hand, sitting quietly with Sonwabile, watching the chickens. He had not fussed when she left. That hurt a little, but mostly it relieved her. He was adapting. He was safe.
Mesuli’s face flashed in her mind, the way he had looked at her after the name was spoken, eyes full of gratitude and something softer. He had thanked her again, quietly, when no one else could hear. “For everything,” he had said. “For raising him. For letting this happen.” She had only nodded, words caught in her throat. He was trying, every day he showed up, steady, respectful. He asked about her business, offered to help with deliveries. He sat with Kungawo without pushing, letting the boy come to him. Chulu saw the guilt in his eyes sometimes, the missed years, but she also saw the love growing there, fierce and new.
Her phone chimed softly. A message from Zinzi: A photo of Kungawo asleep in the bed, thumb in his mouth, blanket pulled up to his chin. “He’s good,” the text read. “Sweet dreams.”
Chulu smiled. She typed back: “Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
She pocketed the phone and stood, brushing dust from her dress. Inside, the house was dark. She slipped into bed alone, the space beside her empty. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, her dreams were full of circles—families standing together, ancestors watching, a small boy running between two homes with laughter in his eyes.
******************
MESULI
The morning after the imbeleko, Mesuli woke to the sound of Kungawo stirring. He had slept on a mattress on the floor beside the bed, unwilling to leave the boy alone in the room. His mother had laughed gently at him the night before. “You’re like a new father with his first child,” she had said. “He’ll be fine.”
But Mesuli had insisted. He wanted to be there if Kungawo woke confused or scared. The boy had not. He had slept deeply, only shifting now as the first light filtered through the curtains.
Mesuli sat up. “Morning,” he said softly.
Kungawo blinked up at him, eyes sleepy but unafraid. He reached out a hand, and Mesuli took it, helping him sit up.
“Want breakfast?” Mesuli asked.
Kungawo nodded, a small, definite movement.
They walked to the kitchen together, Kungawo’s hand in his. The family was already up. His mother smiled from the stove. “There’s my boys.”
She scooped porridge into bowls, added milk and sugar. Kungawo ate slowly, spoon in hand, eyes following the conversation around the table. Zinzi teased Sonwabile about a girl in the village; their father discussed the sheep sales. Mesuli watched his son, heart full. This was what he had missed, mornings like this, ordinary and precious.
After breakfast, he drove Kungawo home. The boy sat in the back, buckled into a booster seat Zinzi had bought. He looked out the window, small fingers tracing patterns on the glass.
At Chulu’s gate, she was waiting. She opened the back door before Mesuli could turn off the engine, lifting Kungawo out and holding him tight.
“Missed you, baby,” she murmured.
Kungawo hugged her back, head on her shoulder.
Mesuli stepped out. “He was good. Ate well. Slept through.”
“Thank you,” Chulu said, eyes meeting his over the boy’s head.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Tyhini, molo, Mesuli.”
“Good morning, Mama.”
Chulu sat Kungawo down. He toddled inside, her mother taking his hand.
Mesuli and Chulu stood by the bakkie for a moment.
“The ceremony yesterday…” Mesuli said. “It meant everything.”
“To me too,” Chulu replied. “He’s officially Rala now. I’ll start the papers for the surname change next week.”
Mesuli nodded. “I’ll help with that. Whatever you need, fees, transport, anything.”
She gave a small smile. “Okay.”
He hesitated. “Chulu… I’d like to talk more. About him. About… us. How we do this going forward. Maybe over tea sometime?”
Chulu looked at him, expression thoughtful. “Okay. Sometime.”
Mesuli felt a flicker of hope. “Sometime.”
He drove away, the yard shrinking in the rearview mirror. Kungawo was home with Chulu. But now home had two meanings. And Mesuli was ready to build on that.
***************************
Target: 20 comments. Like and share