BECOMING
CHAPTER 2
CHULUMANCO MSUTU
The afternoon sun slanted through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across our small living room. I sat on the edge of the bed, with my phone in my hands, the one with the cracked screen that still worked if you pressed hard enough. My heart was racing, not from fear this time, but from something closer to excitement. Or maybe desperation. The R2000 from the hotel note was tucked away in the under the bed, burning a hole in my conscience. I couldn’t just spend it on food or bills; that would feel like accepting whatever happened that night. No, I needed to turn it into something real, something that could pull us out of this endless cycle of scraping by.
I opened the browser app, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed “skincare business opportunities South Africa.” The video I’d seen a few days ago popped up in my mind, the woman with the glossy shelves, talking about freedom and income. I scrolled through results, ignoring the ads for big companies like Avon or Oriflame. Those seemed too corporate, too out of reach. Then I found it: Hazel Skincare. The website loaded slowly, the images flickering in and out with our spotty signal, but there it was. “Join the Hazel family. Start with R500 stock and build your empire.”
I clicked through the pages, reading every word. It was an MLM—multi-level marketing. You buy a starter kit for R500, full of creams, serums, and masks made from natural ingredients like aloe and shea butter. Then you sell them at a markup. But the real money came from recruiting. Get people to join under you, and you earn a cut of their sales. And if they recruit others, you get a piece of that too. It was a pyramid, sure, but not the illegal kind, they emphasized real products, real results. Testimonials scrolled by: “I made R3000 in my first month!” “From stay-at-home mom to boss lady.” My stomach twisted. Was this a scam? Or my way out?
I watched a few videos on YouTube, women unboxing their kits, applying the products to their faces, glowing under filters. One recruiter, a lady named Thandi from Durban, had a live session going. I joined anonymously, listening as she explained the tiers: Bronze for starters, Silver when you hit R2000 in sales, Gold for recruiters. “It’s not about luck,” she said, her voice smooth and confident. “It’s about hustle. Share on socials, talk to your network, and watch the money roll in.”
My network? I almost laughed. In Entabeni, my network was Mama, Zinzi, and a handful of neighbors who barely had money for soap. But online… I had Facebook, Instagram from when I was at uni, even TikTok that I scrolled but never posted on. Maybe that could work.
I messaged Thandi through the site. “Hi, interested in joining. What’s the next step?” Her reply came fast: “Great! Pay R500 via EFT, and I’ll send your kit. You’ll be under my line, I’ll mentor you.”
R500. That left me with R1500 from the mystery money. I hesitated, staring at the transfer details. What if this flopped? What if it was all hype? But what was the alternative? Sitting here, waiting for the grant to stretch further than it ever could?
I did it. Transferred the money. Thandi confirmed: Kit shipping in two days.
Zinzi came over that evening, I told her everything, she also told me that she had blacked out, she does not know what was mixed in our alcohol. I said the money was from an odd job I’d forgotten about. She didn’t question it, just squealed and hugged me. “This is it, Chulu! You’re gonna be a mogul.”
Two days later, the box arrived at the post office. I walked there in the heat, my skirt sticking to my legs, excitement bubbling despite the sweat. The kit was beautiful: ten products in sleek white jars with gold labels. Moisturizer, face wash, acne serum, brightening mask. Even samples and business cards with my name printed, Thandi had asked for details.
I set it all up on our small table, like a mini shop. Mama watched from her bed, her eyes bright. “Looks fancy, mntanam. You think people here will buy?”
“I’ll make them want to,” I said, more confident than I felt.
First sale: To Zinzi. She bought the moisturizer for R100, my markup from the wholesale price. “My skin’s been dry from this heat,” she said, handing over the cash. It felt like gold in my palm.
Next, I posted on Facebook: A selfie with the products, caption “Transform your skin with Hazel! Natural, affordable, effective. DM for orders.” Zinzi took the photo, angling it so the light hit just right, making the jars glow. “Aesthetic matters,” she said. “People buy what looks pretty.”
Three orders that week: A neighbor for the face wash, an auntie from church for the mask, and someone from a nearby village who’d seen my post. R350 profit after costs.
I recruited my first downline a month in, a girl from my old uni class, now back home like me. She bought her kit through my link, and I got R100 commission. Thandi messaged: “Good start! Keep pushing.”
Month one: R1800 total earnings. Not bad, but not enough. I hustled harder. Posted daily on Instagram, short videos of me applying the serum, talking about “glow from within.” Zinzi came over twice a week to shoot content with her phone, directing me like a pro. “Tilt your head, smile softer. Now show the before-and-after.” She edited them with filters, adding text overlays. My followers grew from 200 to 500.
Online customers trickled in: A woman from a big city ordered three items. Another from the same city. I packaged them carefully, adding handwritten notes. “Thank you for supporting my small business!”
Month two: R3200. I paid off a clinic bill for Mama, bought better food, fresh veggies, and meat once a week. Her leg still ached, but she smiled more.
Recruitment picked up. I hosted a small “glow party” at Zinzi’s house with her parent’s permission; her yard was bigger. Ten women came, tried samples, and three joined under me. Commission rolled in.
Month three: R4500. A good month. I felt alive, like I was building something. No more begging for jobs. Customers messaged testimonials: “My acne’s clearing!” “Love the scent!”
Zinzi was my secret weapon. Her photos turned basic jars into luxury. “You’re welcome,” she’d say, grinning. “When you’re rich, buy me a car.”
Month four: R5200. I hit Silver tier. Thandi sent a bonus product pack. Online orders surged, TikTok videos went semi-viral, and 2000 views on one.
Then month five hit differently.
It started with the tiredness. Bone-deep, like I couldn’t shake it off even after sleeping. I blamed the hustle, packing orders late, walking to the post office, and recruiting calls. My breasts ached, tender under my bra. I thought it was my period coming, but it didn’t. Two weeks later. Then three.
I ignored it at first. Periods skipped sometimes, right? Stress, poor diet. I’d gained five kilos, and my skirts tighter. Again, stress eating. Mama’s cooking had improved with the extra money; we had bread with peanut butter now.
But the nausea came next. Mornings mostly, a wave that hit when I smelled the paraffin stove. I threw up twice behind the house, blaming bad water.
Zinzi noticed. “You look pale, girl. Eat something.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
The doubt gnawed. I hadn’t… not since high school. My boyfriend back then, Banzi, we’d been careful, but that was years ago. Before uni, before everything fell apart. And then the hotel. That blank night. The note. The money.
No. It couldn’t be.
But five months since umgidi. Exactly.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore. After a sales call one afternoon, I slipped into town on the taxi, heart pounding. I couldn’t risk going to the local clini. The pharmacy was busy; I kept my head down, bought the test, the fancy one that estimated weeks. R120. It hurt to spend, but I had to know.
Back home, Mama was napping. I locked myself in the bathroom, peed on the stick, and waited the three minutes that felt like hours.
Two lines. Clear as day.
Pregnant.
And the estimator: 20+ weeks.
My knees buckled. I sat on the cold floor, staring at the little window. 20 weeks. That meant halfway. No bump yet, my stomach was flat, always had been slim, but the weight gain, the tiredness, it all clicked. Hiding in plain sight.
The father. Oh God, the father.
It had to be from that night. The hotel. The stranger who left the note and the money. I didn’t remember anything, blackout drunk, insisted into drinks by Zinzi and her cousins. Woke up naked, alone. No face, no name.
Before that? Banzi, but that was over three years ago. No one since. Celibate by circumstance, too busy caring for Mama.
Who was he? Some village boy? A cousin of Zinzi’s? A stranger from out of town?
Stress crashed over me like a wave. What would I do? A baby. Alone. With Mama already depending on me. The business was growing, but R5000 a month wouldn’t stretch to diapers, formula, and doctor’s visits.
I pressed my hands to my stomach, feeling nothing but soft skin. How had I not noticed? Too focused on survival, I guess. Hustling blinded me.
Tears came hot and fast. I curled up, sobbing quietly so Mama wouldn’t hear. A child without a father. Village talk would destroy me: “Chulu, the dropout, now a single mother.” Pity or judgment, both unbearable.
But abortion? At 20 weeks? Too late. Clinics wouldn’t, and even if, I wasn’t sure I could. This life inside, innocent, unplanned, but mine.
I wiped my face and hid the test in my pocket. I’d tell Mama soon. Zinzi too. But first, I needed to breathe. To plan.
The business. It had to grow faster. More recruits, more sales. For us. For the three of us now.
I stood, splashed water on my face, looked in the cracked mirror. “You can do this,” I whispered. But the eyes staring back were scared.
Outside, the village hummed on, oblivious. I had orders to pack. Life didn’t stop for shocks like this.
But everything had changed.