BECOMING
CHAPTER 21
Sponsored by Mngazi Omuhle
MESULI
The office parking garage is already half-empty when I finally leave at 6:42 p.m. The sky outside is that bruised purple that comes just after sunset, the kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is. I slide into my car, start the engine, and sit there for a moment with my hands on the wheel. My phone has been quiet since the last message from Monwabisi at 4:17— “Supplier confirmed for next week. You good?” I hadn’t replied. I haven’t replied to much of anything today.
I drive home on autopilot. The route is muscle memory now: left out of the garage, merge onto the N2, exit at the Waterfront turn-off, through the estate gates, past the security boom that lifts without me stopping. The dashboard clock ticks past 7:11 when I pull into the driveway. The house lights are on, warm yellow spilling from the kitchen windows, soft glow from the living room lamps. The pool light is still off; Kungawo must be inside already.
I kill the engine and sit for another second. My tie is loosened, top button undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. I smell like office coffee and the faint metallic tang of printer ink. I should shower before I go in, but I don’t. I just get out, lock the car, and walk to the front door.
The moment I step inside, the smell hits me, chicken stew, pumpkin, and the sweet undertone of cinnamon from whatever Chulumanco added to the gravy. My stomach growls. I drop my keys in the bowl on the console table, kick off my shoes, and move toward the kitchen without thinking.
She’s there.
Chulumanco stands at the stove with her back to me, stirring something in a pot. She’s wearing a simple black T-shirt that skims her shoulders and high-waisted jeans that hug her hips and thighs the way jeans are supposed to hug. Her new braids are tied up in a loose, high knot, a few strands escaping at the nape of her neck. The kitchen light catches the gold beads she added to the ends; they glint every time she moves. She’s humming softly—some old gospel song my mother used to sing when we were small. The sound is low, almost private, like she doesn’t know anyone is listening.
I stop in the doorway and watch her.
She reaches up to grab a spoon from the rack above the stove. The T-shirt rides up just enough to show a thin strip of skin at her lower back. She stirs the pot again, hips swaying slightly to the rhythm of her humming. She leans over to taste the gravy from the spoon, blows on it gently, then nods to herself like she’s satisfied. She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder, and turns to grab plates from the cupboard.
That’s when she sees me.
She startles, just a small jump, eyes widening for half a second, then relaxes.
“Mesuli,” she says. Her voice is soft, neutral, but there’s a tiny lift at the end, like she’s surprised in a good way. “You’re home.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Traffic was light.”
She nods, turns back to the stove, and starts dishing up. “Dinner’s almost ready. We are having chicken stew, rice, and pumpkin. Kungawo already ate and he’s sleeping so it’s going to be the two of us.”
I step fully into the kitchen. “Why is he sleeping before his bedtime? Is he okay?”
She glances over her shoulder. “He was just tired. He had a big morning at school. Built a tower with three other kids today. Miss Patel said he shared the blocks without prompting.”
Pride swells in my chest. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” She smiles, a small, real smile that reaches her eyes. “He’s doing really well.”
I lean against the island, arms crossed, watching her move. She’s in a good mood. It’s in the way she hums again while she plates the food, the way her shoulders are loose, the way she doesn’t tense when I step closer to help carry the plates to the table.
“You seem… happy,” I say carefully.
She sets the plates down and looks at me. “I am.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”
She sits across from me, picks up her fork. “I had so much fun at the gym. It was hard, but… good hard. I felt alive. Like I was doing something just for me.”
I nod slowly. “You said you wanted to be outside the house. See new faces.”
“Yeah.” She takes a bite, chews, and swallows. “I should’ve started when we first arrived here in Port Serenity. But it’s fine. It’s not too late.”
I watch her eat. She’s relaxed, shoulders down, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she thinks about the class. There’s colour in her cheeks that wasn’t there yesterday. Her braids catch the light every time she turns her head. She looks… lighter.
I swallow. “I’m glad. You deserve that.”
She meets my eyes. “Thank you.”
We eat in quiet for a while. Not the tense quiet of the last few days. This is different—comfortable, almost gentle. The stew is rich, the rice is perfect, the pumpkin is sweet with cinnamon. I realise how hungry I am.
After a few minutes, she sets her fork down, wipes her mouth with the napkin, and looks at me directly.
“I want to have a serious conversation with you,” she says.
My stomach tightens. I set my fork down, too. “Okay.”
She takes a breath. “I don’t like the fact that you didn’t give me a chance to say my piece that night in the hallway. You apologised, you explained, you promised. And then you kissed my forehead like I was Kungawo and walked away before I could open my mouth. That hurt. It felt like you decided the conversation was over without me.”
I flinch. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She nods. “I was angry. Really angry. I was pacing in my room like a madman. I cried. I called Zinzi. I thought about packing our things and leaving. But I’m past that now.”
I wait. My heart is loud in my ears.
“I’ve decided something,” she continues. “I’m not going to keep punishing myself for feeling things. I’m not going to shrink to make you comfortable. I’m going to be happy. I’m going to live my life freely. I’m going to go to the gym, make friends, laugh, wear what I want, and feel good in my skin. And I’m going to do it here, in this house, because Kungawo needs both of us under the same roof. But you don’t have to avoid me anymore. That thing—the distance—it affects Kungawo too. He asks for you every morning. He waits at the gate some days. He needs to see us okay with each other. So let’s go back to how we were. Polite. Respectful. Focused on him. No more running. No more silence. We put our child first. That’s all.”
Her eyes are steady on mine.
I swallow hard. “You’re right.”
She nods once. “Good.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The kitchen clock ticks softly. The dishwasher hums in the background.
Then she smiles, small, real. “Want to watch a movie after we clean up? We could use something light.”
I blink. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We clear the plates together. She washes; I dry. Our elbows brush once. Neither of us pulls away.
Later, we sit on the couch in the living room. She picks a comedy, some old South African rom-com about a wedding gone wrong. We laugh at the same parts. She throws her head back when the best man trips over the cake. I snort when the bride’s father gives the worst toast in history. At one point, she leans into my shoulder without thinking, then catches herself and sits up straight.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly.
She relaxes again. Not all the way. But enough.
When the credits roll, she stretches, yawns. “I’m going to bed. Early gym again tomorrow.”
I stand. “I’ll be up early, too. I’ll handle Kungawo’s morning.”
She smiles. “Thank you.”
We walk upstairs together. At Kungawo’s door, we both pause, look in. He’s sleeping peacefully, a squeeze ball under his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mesuli,” she says softly.
“Goodnight, Chulu.”
She goes into her room. I go into mine.
I close the door, lean against it, and breathe.
She was even more beautiful tonight. The way she laughed was open and unguarded. The way her braids swung when she threw her head back. The way she spoke to me in the kitchen was clear, firm, no begging, just truth. She was beautiful in her anger last night, in her resolve today, in her quiet joy on the couch.
I want her.
Not just her body—though God knows I’ve imagined that enough times to feel guilty for life. I want her laugh in my kitchen every morning. Her hand brushing mine when we wash dishes. Her voice saying my name like it matters. Her eyes meeting mine without fear or distance.
I want all of it.
And I’m terrified I’ve already ruined my chance.
I change into boxers and a T-shirt, lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles in the dark.
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