BECOMING
CHAPTER 18
CHULUMANCO
The rain from yesterday lingers in the air this morning, making everything feel heavy and damp. I wake up with a start, my heart pounding from a dream I can’t quite remember, something about running through endless fields, chasing a shadow that keeps slipping away. Kungawo is already up, sitting at the foot of the bed, playing with his squeeze ball. The colours shift under his small fingers as he squeezes and releases, squeezes and releases. He looks at me when I sit up, his eyes bright and curious.
“Mama,” he says, his voice soft but clear.
I smile, even though my chest feels tight. “Morning, baby. Did you sleep okay?”
He nods, squeezing the ball again. “Tata?”
The word hangs in the air like a question I don’t want to answer. I glance at the clock, 7:45 a.m. Mesuli is probably already gone. He has been leaving earlier these past few days, slipping out before breakfast, before Kungawo can toddle into the kitchen and reach for him. Yesterday, he didn’t even come home until after dinner, mumbling some bullsh1t about a late meeting at the office. He ate quickly, helped tuck Kungawo in, and then disappeared into his room without a word to me.
“He’s at work, sweetie,” I say, pulling Kungawo into my lap. “But he’ll be back later.”
Kungawo frowns, his little brow furrowing. “Tata work?”
“Yes, Tata’s working.” I kiss the top of his head, breathing in his shampoo scent, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. It has been four days now, four days of Mesuli barely looking at me, of short answers and avoided conversations. He still interacts with Kungawo, still picks him up and reads to him at night, but with me? It is like I am a ghost in my own home. No, not my home. His home. The one he invited us into, the one I thought was becoming ours.
I reminded him about Kungawo going to school but it did not seem like he was going to come with us.
“Tomorrow is his first trial morning at ParkWest. They said one of us should stay with him for the first hour. I thought… maybe you’d want to come?”
Mesuli didn’t look up. He kept rinsing the cup, water running over his hands. “I’ve got an early supplier call at eight,” he said. “And then a meeting with Monwabisi at ten. I’ll try to swing by during break time if I can get away.”
I waited for more. For him to turn around, to meet my eyes, to say something like “I wouldn’t miss it” or “Let me see if I can shift things.” But he just turned off the tap, dried his hands on the dish towel, and walked past me toward the living room without another word.
“Tata!” Kungawo called, reaching up with both arms.
Mesuli crouched, scooped him up, and kissed his forehead. “Night, Kunga. Sleep well.”
He carried Kungawo upstairs. I stayed in the doorway, watching their backs disappear around the corner. The dishwasher clicked to a new cycle. I felt something cold settle in my chest.
*************
I dress Kungawo in the khaki shorts and white polo, tie his shoes, pack his small backpack with the squeeze ball, a change of clothes, and the picture card Mrs. Petersen gave him for “more” and “help.” I make him oatmeal with banana slices in a smiley face, just like Mesuli does. Kungawo pokes the banana eyes and says, “Eyes,” proud. I kiss his cheek and tell him how clever he is, but my throat feels thick.
The drive to ParkWest Primary takes eight minutes and I don’t even need to use a gps. Mesuli gave me one of his cars to use. I park near the gate, unbuckle Kungawo, and walk him inside. Mrs. Kumar meets us at reception, her yellow cardigan as bright as ever. She smiles warmly.
“Morning, Chulumanco. And good morning, Kungawo. Ready for your big day?”
Kungawo hides behind my leg. I crouch down. “It’s okay, baby. Mama’s going to stay with you for a little while. Then I’ll come back after lunch.”
Mrs. Kumar leads us to the Grade R inclusion classroom. The room smells like crayons and playdough. Miss Patel greets us at the door, kneeling to Kungawo’s level.
“Hello again, Kungawo. Remember the blocks? They’re waiting for you.”
He peeks out from behind me, eyes wide. Miss Patel doesn’t push. She just points to the block corner. Kungawo lets go of my hand and walks over slowly. He sits on the mat, picks up a red block, then a blue one, places them side by side. Another child joins him quietly. They build together without speaking. Kungawo doesn’t look back at me once.
Miss Patel whispers, “He’s settling beautifully. You can step out if you’d like. We’ll text if anything changes.”
I hesitate. I want to stay. I want to watch every second of his first morning. But I also want to give him space to be without me hovering. I nod, throat tight.
“I’ll be back at twelve.”
I walk out of the classroom, down the corridor, past the sensory table and the noise-cancelling headphones. Outside the gate, I sit in the car and cry.
Not loud sobs. Just quiet tears that drip onto my steering wheel. I cry because he didn’t look back. Because Mesuli wasn’t there to see him place those first two blocks. Because I’m living in a beautiful house with a man who suddenly can’t look me in the eye. Because I said yes to moving here for Kungawo’s future, and now I’m wondering if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.
I drive home, wipe my face, make tea, and sit at the kitchen island. The house is too quiet. Lindiwe isn’t here today. The garden lights are off. The pool is still. I think about the past four days, Mesuli leaving before dawn, coming back late, speaking only to Kungawo, barely nodding when I say good morning. He still kisses Kungawo’s forehead at bedtime, still reads him stories, still pushes him on the swing. But with me? Nothing. No tea in the morning. No “How did you sleep?” No brush of fingers on the patio. Nothing.
I feel like I’m crowding him. Like my presence is too much, my things in his cupboards, my son’s toys on his floor, my voice in his hallway. I keep replaying the move: the way he asked us to come, the way he promised stability, the way I believed him. And now I’m wondering if he regrets it. If he misses the quiet bachelor life he had before we arrived with our boxes and our needs and our complications.
The ache in my chest sharpens. I was starting to feel something for him. Not just gratitude. Not just co-parenting respect. Something warmer, something that made my stomach flip when he smiled at Kungawo, something that made me notice how his shirt pulled across his shoulders, how his laugh sounded when Kungawo said “Tata.” I was letting myself hope, just a little, that this arrangement could become something more. And now I feel stupid for it. Stupid for thinking a man like Mesuli, successful, steady, and handsome would look twice at someone like me beyond what we share in our son.
I pick up my phone. My fingers hover over Zinzi’s name. I call her.
She answers on the second ring. “Chulu! How’s my favourite city girl?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Hey, ntombi.”
She hears it immediately. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow. “I think… I think I need to start looking for a place. Somewhere close to here, but not in Mesuli’s house. Maybe an apartment or a small cottage. Something I can afford with Hazel money and whatever child support he’s going to be giving.”
Silence on the other end. Then Zinzi’s voice drops, serious. “Chulu. What happened?”
“He’s been ignoring me. For days. Barely speaks to me. Leaves before breakfast, comes back late. He didn’t even come to Kungawo’s first school trial this morning. I took him alone. I stood there watching my son place blocks with other kids, and Mesuli wasn’t there. He left a note on the whiteboard like I’m the helper, not… not whatever I thought I was.”
Zinzi exhales slowly. “That doesn’t sound like bhuti. He’s been obsessed with being there for Kungawo. With both of you.”
“I know. That’s why I think it’s me. I’m crowding him. We’re in his space, his house, his routine. Maybe he didn’t realize how much it would change things. Maybe he regrets asking us to move in.”
“Chulu, no. That man begged you to come. He rearranged his whole life.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I know. But something changed. And now I’m regretting saying yes. I thought… I thought maybe there was something between us. Something growing. I was starting to feel it. And now I feel like an idiot. Like I misread everything. I don’t want to be the woman who overstays her welcome. Kungawo needs his father, but he also needs me to protect us both. If Mesuli wants space, I’ll give it to him. I just need a place close enough so Kungawo can see him every day.”
Zinzi is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again her voice is firm. “You’re wrong about what you’re thinking. Bhuti isn’t the type to regret something like this. If he’s pulling away, there’s a reason, and it’s not because you’re crowding him. I’m going to talk to him. And Chulu, listen to me, even if I wanted to help you look for places, you wouldn’t be able to afford anything close to where you are now. Not on Hazel money alone. The rentals in that estate start at twenty-five thousand rand a month. You’d have to move much further out, and then Kungawo’s school and therapy become a problem again. You’re not moving out. Not yet. Let me talk to him first.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “Zinzi…”
“No. You’re not running. Not after everything. Give me a day. I’ll call him. And if he’s being an idiot, I’ll tell him straight. But you are not moving out because you think you’re the problem. You’re not.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Okay.”
“And Chulu?”
“Yeah?”
“Even if he’s acting strange, he’s not doing it to hurt you. That man loves Kungawo more than anything. And he cares about you. Maybe more than he knows how to handle. Just… stay out of his way for now if that’s what feels safe. But don’t pack yet.”
I exhale shakily. “I won’t. Not yet.”
We talk a little longer, about Kungawo’s new words, about Thandiwe’s scones, about how my mother misses us but is proud. When we hang up, I feel a little lighter. Not fixed. But steadier.
I decide then: I will stay out of Mesuli’s way. No more lingering on the patio after bedtime. No more accepting tea when he offers. No more accidental brushes of fingers. I will be polite, grateful, focused on Kungawo. If he wants distance, I’ll give it to him. I won’t crowd him anymore.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I pack Hazel orders at the desk in the spare room, reply to customer messages, post a new Instagram reel of the garden roses with a caption about “fresh starts.” Kungawo naps. I fold laundry. I avoid looking at Mesuli’s bedroom door when I pass it.
He doesn’t come home for dinner. Another late meeting, he texts. I feed Kungawo, bathe him, read him the duck book Mesuli usually reads. Kungawo falls asleep holding the squeeze ball. I kiss his forehead and whisper, “Mama’s here. Always.”
Then I go to my room, close the door, and cry myself to sleep.
********
To be continued
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BECOMING
CHAPTER 18 continuation
MESULI
My phone buzzes on the desk at 3:47 p.m. Zinzi’s name flashes on the screen. I answer immediately.
“Sisi.”
“Bhuti,” she says, and her voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temple. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. Chulu called me crying this morning. She thinks you’re ignoring her. She thinks she’s crowding your space. She’s talking about moving out, finding a place nearby so Kungawo can still see you, but not live under the same roof. She’s regretting saying yes to the move. She thinks you regret asking her.”
The words land like punches. I sit up straight. “She said that?”
“Yes. And she’s planning to start looking. She asked me to help. I told her no, because she can’t afford anything close to where you are, and because I know you’re not the type to push away the mother of your child. But bhuti, if you didn’t want her there, you should have said so from the beginning. I’m going to tell Mama you’re abusing my friend by ignoring her like this. By making her feel like she’s not welcome in her own son’s home.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Zinzi, wait. Abuse? I’m not—God, no. I’m not ignoring her to hurt her. I’m… I’m trying to keep things clear.”
“Clear?” Her voice rises. “You left her to take Kungawo to his first school trial alone. You left a note on the whiteboard like she’s the nanny. You come home late, barely speak to her. What part of that is clear, Mesuli? It’s cruel.”
I close my eyes. “What do you mean I missed the trial?”
“She said you weren’t there.”
“I went during break time. I just stood at the fence and watched him place blocks with another kid. He didn’t see me. I didn’t want to interrupt. I thought… I thought it would be better if he focused on the class.”
Zinzi is quiet for a second. “You went?”
“Yes. I filmed a little clip on my phone. He looked happy. I was going to show her tonight.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her? Why are you acting like she’s invisible?”
I rub my face hard. “Because I’m scared, sisi. I’m scared of what I feel for her. It’s not just co-parenting anymore. I look at her and I… I want more. And if I let myself feel it, if I act on it and it goes wrong, I lose everything. I lose daily mornings with Kungawo. I lose bedtime stories. I lose the way he runs to me when I walk in the door. I can’t risk that. So I thought… if I keep distance, if I keep it professional, nothing changes. Nothing breaks.”
Zinzi exhales. “Bhuti. You’re breaking it anyway. By shutting her out, you’re making her think she’s the problem. She’s starting to regret the move. She’s thinking she crowded you. She’s hurting.”
The words twist like a knife. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just… I panicked. Monwabisi said something similar. That if I don’t make a move, someone else will. That no man will be okay with her living with me. And I… I couldn’t handle the thought. So I pulled back. Hard.”
Zinzi’s voice softens, but it’s still steel underneath. “Sorry bhuti but you are an idiot. You’re pushing away the one woman who’s already chosen to build a life with you, for Kungawo’s sake, yes, but she’s there. She’s in your house. She’s raising your son under your roof. And you’re treating her like a guest you’re trying to avoid. Fix it, Mesuli. Talk to her. Tonight. Apologize. Tell her the truth. And don’t you dare miss another milestone because you’re scared of your own feelings.”
I nod even though she can’t see. “I will. I promise.”
“And one more thing,” she says. “I’m coming to Port Serenity next month. But don’t tell Chulu. I want to surprise her. She needs a friend right now, and I’m going to be there whether you fix this or not.”
I swallow. “Okay. I won’t say anything.”
She hangs up.
I sit there, staring at the harbor through the window. The guilt is worse than before. I left her to handle Kungawo’s first day alone. I let her think I didn’t care. I let her think she was crowding me when the truth is the opposite, I’m terrified of how much I want her close.
I leave the office early. Drive home with the windows down, letting the sea air hit my face. When I pull into the driveway, the house lights are on. The car I gave her to use is there. Kungawo’s yellow raincoat hangs on the hook by the door.
I walk inside. The smell of dinner, chicken stew, pap, and pumpkin hits me. Chulu is at the stove, stirring. Kungawo is at the island on his booster seat, coloring a picture of a lion. He looks up, smiles big.
“Tata!”
I force a smile. “Hey, nyana.”
Chulu glances over her shoulder. Her eyes are tired. She doesn’t smile.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she says quietly.
I nod. “Can we talk? After we’ve put him in bed?”
She hesitates, then nods once. “Okay.”
We eat in quiet. Kungawo chatters, mostly single words: “Lion,” “Yellow,” “More”—and we respond, but the air feels thick.
After dinner, I bathe him, read him the duck book, and tuck him in. He falls asleep holding my finger.
Chulu waits in the hallway when I step out.
I close his door softly. “Living room?”
She nods.
We sit on the couch, not too close. The garden lights glow through the window. I take a breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say first. “For the past few days. For ignoring you. For leaving early, coming back late, and barely speaking. For making you take Kungawo to his first school trial alone. I’m so sorry, Chulu. I really am.”
She looks at me, eyes guarded. “Why?”
I swallow. “Because I was scared. I started feeling things for you. Things that go beyond co-parenting. I noticed the way you laugh when Kungawo splashes, the way you look when you’re reading to him, the way you move around this house like you belong here. And it terrified me. Because if I let myself feel it, if I act on it and it goes wrong, I lose this. I lose waking up to him saying ‘Tata.’ I lose bedtime stories. I lose the family we’re building. So I pulled away. I thought distance would keep things safe. But I hurt you instead. And I hate myself for it.”
She watches me, silent.
“I didn’t miss his first day,” I continue. “I went during break time. Stood at the fence. Watched him place blocks with another kid. I filmed a clip on my phone. I was going to show you tonight. I just… I didn’t want to interrupt. I thought he’d focus better without me there. But I should have told you. I should have been there with you.”
Her eyes soften, just a fraction.
“I’m not going to avoid you anymore,” I say. “I promise. I’ll keep my feelings to myself. I won’t cross any lines. But I won’t disappear either. You’re not crowding me. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re the reason this house feels like a home now. And I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”
She looks down at her hands. I stand.
“Goodnight, Chulu.”
I lean down, press a soft kiss to her forehead, gentle, brief, no pressure. Then I turn and walk away before she can respond. Before I can see rejection in her eyes. Before I can say more and ruin everything.
I close my bedroom door. Lean against it. Breathe.
I meant every word.
But God help me, I still want more.
And I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I don’t.
************
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