BECOMING
CHAPTER 20
CHULUMANCO
The rain from yesterday lingers in the air this morning, making everything feel heavy and damp. I wake up before the alarm, before Kungawo stirs and before the house makes any sound at all. My eyes open to the grey light pushing through the curtains, and the first thing I feel is the ache in my chest from last night, sharp and familiar, like a bruise I keep pressing. Mesuli’s forehead kiss replays in slow motion—soft, careful, final. He said everything he needed to say and left me holding silence.
I lie there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling fan that isn’t turning. Then I sit up. Kungawo is still asleep in his room down the hall, thumb near his mouth, squeeze ball tucked under his pillow. I slip out of bed, pull on the hoodie I wore yesterday, and walk barefoot to the bathroom. The tiles are cool under my feet. I splash cold water on my face, look in the mirror, and decide today is different.
I want to feel like me again. Not the woman who packs parcels in a spare room, not the mother waiting for a man to decide if she’s welcome. I want to move. I want to look in mirrors and like what I see. I want new faces that don’t carry five years of history or guilt. I want to sweat because I chose to, not because I’m stressed.
I dress in yesterday’s leggings and a loose T-shirt, pull my hair into a high ponytail, and go downstairs. The kitchen is empty. It seems like Mesuli left early again. I make tea for myself, two spoons of sugar, and stand at the island drinking it slowly. When Kungawo’s small feet patter down the stairs, I scoop him up before he can say “Tata?” and kiss both cheeks until he giggles.
“Morning, baby. Ready for school?”
“Yes, mama,” he says solemnly.
We eat breakfast together, our usual breakfast, oats with banana smiley face, warm milk for him, and tea for me. He pokes the banana eyes, says “Eyes,” proud. I tell him he’s clever, kiss his forehead. When he’s done, I carry him upstairs, dress him in the khaki shorts and white polo, pack his backpack with the squeeze ball and change of clothes.
On the drive to school, I keep glancing at Kungawo in the rearview. He’s looking out the window, fingers tracing patterns on the glass. When we pull up to ParkWest, Miss Patel is waiting at the gate. Kungawo lets go of my hand the moment he sees the block corner through the window. He walks in without looking back. I stand there until the door closes behind him, then turn away before the tears can start again.
Back home the house is too quiet. Lindiwe arrives at ten, humming while she cleans. I pack Hazel orders in the spare room, answer messages, and post a quick reel of the garden roses with the caption “fresh starts.” My fingers move fast, but my mind is elsewhere.
I open my phone and search “gyms near me.” Pulse Fitness pops up first, ten minutes away, Waterfront complex, modern, classes. I book a trial pass for tomorrow morning, 6:00 a.m. BodyPump. Then I open the banking app. Mesuli’s supplementary card for Kungawo’s needs stares back at me. High limit. I’ve barely used it. Today I don’t care.
I grab my keys. “Lindiwe, I’m running errands. Kungawo’s pickup is at one. Can you watch him if I’m not back by then?”
She nods. “No problem, sisi.”
I drive to the mall. The parking lot is busy but I find a spot close. First stop: Sportsmans Warehouse.
I walk straight to women’s activewear. No browsing. I know what I want.
Black high-waisted leggings with scrunch butt detail—tight, compressive, every curve visible. Matching sports bra, medium support, deep V neckline. Cropped zip-up hoodie that shows stomach when I raise my arms. Bright pink seamless shorts, barely covering the top of my thighs. Neon green tank that clings.
I carry the pile to the till. The cashier, a young girl with box braids, smiles.
“Gym glow-up?”
I nod. “Something like that.”
R3,200. I hand over Mesuli’s card without blinking. For Kungawo’s needs, technically. Today I need this more.
Next is the hair salon on the upper level. I walk in without an appointment.
The receptionist looks up. “Hi. Space for braids today? Knotless, medium, waist-length if we can get extensions.”
She checks the book. “We have a slot with Lihle in twenty minutes. She’s great with knotless.”
“Perfect.”
I sit in the waiting area, scrolling my phone. Twenty minutes later Lihle calls my name.
She’s friendly, quick, and gentle with the parting. We chat easily—city life, rent prices, how hard it is to make friends when you’re new. She laughs when I tell her about Kungawo’s new words.
“Kids are the best motivation,” she says. “My niece just started saying ‘Aunty’ every five seconds. Drives my sister crazy.”
I laugh. It feels good. Normal.
While Lihle is sectioning my hair, another woman walks past carrying a box of hair products. She stops, looks at me in the mirror, and smiles.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Your hair is stunning. How long have you been growing it?”
I glance up. Tall, light-skinned, red lipstick, box braids pulled into a high ponytail. She’s wearing office-smart clothes—tailored trousers, silk blouse, name badge clipped to her bag that reads “Inga – Accounting.”
“Since high school,” I say. “Never really cut it short.”
She nods approvingly. “It’s gorgeous. You should do knotless, waist-length. It would look killer.”
Lihle laughs from behind me. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
Inga smiles wider. “Good choice. I’m Inga. I work nearby, just popped in to get my ends trimmed and buy some products for my sister. I don’t have many girlfriends in the city yet. You look like someone who’d be fun to hang out with.”
I smile back, surprised but warmed. “I’m Chulumanco. I’m still new here too. Making friends would be nice.”
“Perfect.” She pulls out her phone. “Give me your number. I’ll WhatsApp you this weekend. Maybe drinks or coffee?”
I recite it. She types quickly, sends me a quick “New city friend 💃🏾” text so I have hers.
“Got it,” she says. “See you soon, Chulumanco.”
She waves and walks off toward the exit, hips swaying, confident stride.
Lihle whistles low. “She’s stunning. And friendly.”
“Yeah,” I say, still smiling. “She seems nice.”
By the time Lihle finishes, my scalp tingles pleasantly. The braids swing heavy and perfect down my back. Waist-length, neat parts, not too tight. I look in the mirror and almost don’t recognise the woman staring back. She looks… confident.
I pay with the card—R2,800. Lihle hugs me goodbye. “Come back soon.”
I walk out feeling lighter. Lighter than I’ve felt in weeks.
When I get home, Lindiwe is folding laundry. She whistles when she sees my hair.
“Hayi, sisi! You look like a magazine cover.”
I laugh. “Uyayibaxa but thank you.”
Kungawo’s pickup is at one. I change into the new leggings and cropped hoodie, look in the mirror again. The outfit hugs every curve—thighs, hips, waist, breasts. I turn side to side. For the first time in years, I don’t look away. I look at myself and think: this is me. Not just umama ka Kungawo. Not just the woman who packs parcels. Me. Chulumamco Msutu.
I pick Kungawo up at one. He runs out holding a red block, says “Mama!” and hugs my legs. Miss Patel smiles.
“He had a great morning. Built a tower with another boy.”
I thank her, scoop Kungawo up, kiss his cheeks.
When we get back, I feed Kungawo lunch, play with him in the garden, and push him on the swing. He says “Higher” three times. I push higher. He laughs.
I keep checking my phone. No text from Mesuli.
At five, he messages: “Late meeting again. Back for bedtime.”
I stare at the screen. Then I type: “Okay.”
I don’t add anything else.
I bathe Kungawo, read him the duck book, and tuck him in. He falls asleep holding my finger. I kiss his forehead and whisper, “Mama’s here.”
Then I go downstairs. The house is quiet. Garden lights glow. The pool is still.
I sit on the patio with a glass of wine from the fridge. I sip slowly. The new braids brush my back.
I can’t wait to start the gym tomorrow. Something about it feels like I’m claiming my freedom and putting myself out there.
I finish the wine. Stand up. Lock the patio door.
I climb the stairs slowly.
His door is closed.
Mine is open.
I go inside. Close the door. Lock it.
I crawl under the covers and sleep overtakes.
**************
The following morning, I wake up at 5:15 a.m. The alarm is soft, almost like it’s apologetic for waking me up this early. I silence it quickly, so Kungawo doesn’t stir. He woke up in the middle of the night and came to my room. The house is still dark, the only light coming from the hallway night-light I leave on for him. I slip out of bed, move quietly to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull on the new outfit: black high-waisted leggings with the scrunch detail, the matching sports bra, the cropped zip-up hoodie. I look in the mirror. The leggings hug my thighs and hips, and the crop shows a thin strip of stomach when I raise my arms. I feel exposed, powerful, nervous, alive.
I tiptoe downstairs. Mesuli is already in the kitchen, coffee machine humming. He’s dressed for the office—khakis, button-down, sleeves rolled up. He looks up when I walk in.
“Morning,” he says, voice low.
“Morning.”
He glances at my outfit, eyes lingering a second longer than usual on the leggings, then flicks back to my face.
“You’re going to the gym?”
“Yes. First session. 6:00 BodyPump at Pulse.”
He nods. “Good. You’ll like it. They have good instructors.”
I pour myself tea. “I need you to be up extra early tomorrow and the rest of the week. Prepare Kungawo for school, get him dressed, breakfast, and drop-off if I’m still at the gym. Or Lindiwe can sleep over in the helper’s cottage so she can take the early shift.”
He pauses, mug halfway to his mouth. “Okay. I can do mornings. Lindiwe can stay if you need her to.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He watches me for a second. “You look… ready.”
I meet his eyes. “I am.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just nods once, the same careful “okay” he always responds with.
I finish my tea, grab my gym bag, kiss sleeping Kungawo goodbye on the forehead, and leave.
The drive to Pulse is short. The parking lot is already half-full at 5:45. I walk in, show my trial pass at reception. The girl at the desk smiles.
“Welcome! First time? Locker rooms are through there. BodyPump is in Studio 2. Have fun!”
I change in the locker room. The mirrors are everywhere. Women in bright leggings and cropped tops chat, stretch, scroll phones. I catch my reflection, braids are swinging, outfit tight, stomach showing. I look like I belong. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like hiding.
The class is packed. The instructor, a tall woman with a headset, calls out the moves—squats, lunges, chest press, deadlifts. I grab a barbell, add light plates, and follow along. My muscles burn almost immediately. Sweat beads on my forehead, drips down my back. The music is loud, bass-heavy. I push harder than I have in years.
When the class ends, I’m dripping, breathing hard, legs shaky. I feel alive. Exhausted, but alive.
I head to the water fountain. A woman next to me smiles.
“First time? You killed it.”
I laugh, out of breath. “Thanks. Felt good.”
She nods. “Keep coming. It gets addictive.”
I fill my bottle, turn, and almost bump into a man. Tall, broad shoulders, gym bag slung over one arm. He’s in black shorts and a fitted tank, skin glistening with sweat. He smiles, easy, white teeth and he has dimples.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t see you there.”
“No, my fault.”
He looks me up and down, not subtle. “New here? I’d remember that outfit.”
I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “First class today.”
“Welcome to Pulse. I’m Zola.” He extends a hand.
“Chulumanco.”
His grip is firm, warm. “Chulumanco. Nice name. You did BodyPump? How was it?”
“Hard. But good hard.”
He laughs. “That’s the best kind. You should try spin next week. I teach on Thursday mornings. I’ll save you a bike.”
I smile. “Maybe.”
He tilts his head. “You look like you could use a coffee after that sweat. There’s a spot next door. My treat. Just to say welcome to the gym.”
I hesitate. The ring of my phone cuts through the moment. Mesuli’s name flashes on the screen.
I glance at Zola. “Maybe another time.”
He shrugs, still smiling. “I’ll hold you to that. See you around, Chulumanco.”
He walks off toward the weights. I watch him go for a second—broad back, easy stride—then answer the call.
“Chulu.”
Mesuli’s voice is tight.
“Hey, whatsup?”
*****
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