BECOMING
CHAPTER 11
CHULUMANCO
The week after Imbeleko felt like walking on new ground, every step careful, testing whether the earth would hold or give way beneath me.
Kungawo stayed with the Rala family three more nights after the ceremony. Not because I wanted him gone, but because Mrs. Rala asked so gently, with tears already standing in her eyes, that I couldn’t say no. “Just let him breathe this air a little longer,” she said. “Let the ancestors settle with him under this roof.” So I went home alone each evening, kissed my mother goodnight, and lay in the small bed listening to the village sounds I had known all my life, dogs barking far off, a late bakkie rumbling past, wind moving through the mealie stalks, all while my son slept in a different house.
Each morning, Mesuli brought him back after breakfast. He would park his Toyota Hilux bakkie at the gate, lift Kungawo out of the booster seat, and walk him to the door holding his hand. Kungawo always looked calm, not distressed, and that both comforted me and stung a little. He was adapting faster than I expected. He would reach for me the moment he saw me, but he also looked back at Mesuli with something new in his eyes, trust, maybe, or recognition. I didn’t know what to call it yet.
Mesuli never stayed long on those mornings. He would hand Kungawo over, ask how I slept, tell me what Kungawo had eaten, then say he had to get back to his family farm or make calls from his father’s study. He never pushed. Never asked to come inside. Never lingered like he was waiting for an invitation. He just showed up, did what he said he would do, and left again. It made the guilt in my chest twist tighter every time.
I kept Hazel Skincare running. Orders still came in, mostly online now. I packed parcels on the kitchen table while Kungawo played with his blocks on the mat. My mother sat nearby, leg propped on a stool, watching us both with quiet eyes. She didn’t say much about the Rala family, but once, when I was sealing a box of serums, she spoke.
“He’s changing, mntanam. Not just his name on paper. He’s changing inside.”
I looked at Kungawo. He was stacking blocks carefully, tongue between his teeth in concentration. “He’s always been quiet,” I said.
“Not that kind of change,” she replied. “He’s… opening. Like a flower that’s been waiting for sun.”
I didn’t answer. I just sealed the box and carried it to the post office in the afternoon heat, thinking about what she meant.
Mesuli left for Port Serenity on Friday. He had work, contracts to sign, suppliers to meet, a life he had built there before any of this happened. He told me the night before, standing at the gate after dropping Kungawo off.
“I’ll be back Sunday night,” he said. “Monday morning latest. I just need to sort a few things.”
I nodded. “Okay. Drive safe.”
He looked at me a moment longer than usual. “If anything changes with him, if he needs anything, call me. Any time.”
“I will.”
He hesitated, then reached out and touched Kungawo’s cheek, where the boy stood beside me. “See you soon, nyana.”
Kungawo watched him walk to the bakkie. He didn’t wave, but he didn’t turn away either.
The weekend felt strange without the daily rhythm of Mesuli’s arrivals and departures. Kungawo was quieter than usual, sitting on the stoep for long stretches, staring down the road like he was waiting for something. I tried to keep us busy by packing orders, reading picture books, walking to the spaza to shop for milk, but he kept drifting back to the gate, small hands gripping the wire, eyes on the dust road.
Sunday evening, my phone rang. Mesuli’s name was on the screen.
I answered quickly. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice sounded tired, but warm. “I’m on the road. About an hour out. Can I come past when I get there? Just to see him before his bedtime.”
My heart did a strange little flip. “Of course. He’s been… looking for you, I think.”
A small pause. “Really?”
“Yeah. He sits at the gate a lot.”
Another pause, longer. When he spoke again his voice was rougher. “I’ll be there soon.”
He arrived just as the sky turned deep indigo. The bakkie lights swept across the yard as he parked. I had Kungawo on my hip, ready to meet him at the gate. Mesuli stepped out, still in what I assume are his work clothes. He looked road-weary, but the moment he saw Kungawo, his face changed.
Kungawo saw him too.
And then it happened.
Kungawo’s mouth opened. His small body stiffened in my arms. Then, clear as anything, in a voice we had never heard before:
“Tata! Tata! Tata!”
Three times. Loud. Insistent. Joyful.
I froze. My arms went numb. The word echoed in the quiet yard like a bell.
Mesuli stopped walking. His face crumpled in shock, then something raw and bright. Tears filled his eyes instantly.
Kungawo reached both arms toward him, still chanting, “Tata! Tata!”
I sat him down on the ground. He ran, small, unsteady steps, straight to Mesuli.
Mesuli dropped to his knees in the dust, arms open. Kungawo crashed into him. Mesuli caught him, pulled him close, and buried his face in his son’s neck. His shoulders shook.
I stood there with my hand over my mouth and tears streaming down my face.
My mother appeared in the doorway, stick in hand, eyes wide. She made a small sound, half sob, half laugh.
Mesuli lifted Kungawo, still holding him tight, and looked at me over the boy’s head.
“Did he…?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “He said it. Tata.”
Mesuli closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek. He pressed his lips to Kungawo’s temple, murmuring something too soft for me to hear.
Kungawo kept saying it, “Tata, Tata”—like he had been saving the word his whole life and couldn’t stop now that it was free.
I walked forward on legs that didn’t feel like mine. When I reached them, Mesuli opened one arm. I stepped into it. He pulled me close, him, me, Kungawo between us. His free hand cupped the back of my head gently.
“Thank you,” he whispered against my hair. “Thank you for him. For this.”
I couldn’t speak. I just held on.
We stood like that in the yard until the night air turned cool. My mother came down the step, slow and careful, and placed her hand on Mesuli’s shoulder.
“Welcome back, nyana,” she said softly.
He looked at her, eyes shining. “Thank you, Mama.”
Kungawo finally quieted, resting his head on Mesuli’s shoulder, content.
Mesuli looked at me again. “Chulu… I can’t do this anymore. I don’t think I will survive again.”
I frowned. “Do what?”
“Be away from him. I tried. I went back to Port Serenity, sat in meetings, signed papers, but every minute I was thinking about him. About how many days I’ve already lost. I can’t keep driving back and forth. I want him close.”
My heart thudded hard. “What are you saying?”
“I’m asking you to move to Port Serenity. With me. Not just visits. Living there. I have the space, three bedrooms, a garden, and a pool he can play near when he’s older. I also have a helper who can assist you with him. There’s a good school with support for him. Specialists. Therapists. You can run Hazel from anywhere; it’s online. And I’ll make sure your mother is taken care of I’ll send her money every month, a helper if she needs one, and she can visit us whenever she wants. I’m not trying to take him away. I’m trying to give him everything. And give you both a place where you don’t have to carry it all alone.”
I looked at Kungawo. He was watching me with those big eyes, calm now, thumb near his mouth again.
I looked at my mother. She nodded once, small but sure. “Go where he can grow, mntanam. I’ll be fine.”
I looked back at Mesuli. His face was open, vulnerable, waiting.
The guilt was still there, the five years, the secret I hadn’t known I was keeping. But beneath it was something new. Possibility. Hope.
“Okay,” I said, voice trembling but clear. “We’ll come. For him.”
Relief washed over Mesuli’s face like sunrise. He pulled me close again, Kungawo between us, and this time he didn’t let go right away.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Kungawo reached up and patted Mesuli’s cheek. “Tata,” he said again, softer now.
Mesuli laughed through tears. “Yes, nyana. Tata’s here.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed that everything might actually be okay.
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