BECOMING
CHAPTER 24
MESULI
The plates clink against each other as I stack them in the sink. I hadf lunch with my small family almost an hour ago. Now Kungawo is napping in his room upstairs and Chulumanco left about twenty minutes ago for her nail appointment. She said it casually over lunch—“I’m doing my nails for tonight”—and I nodded like it was nothing, like my chest wasn’t tightening. She didn’t even look at me when she said it. She just kissed Kungawo’s forehead, grabbed her bag, and walked out.
I turn on the tap. Hot water runs over my hands. Soap foams. I scrub the same plate longer than necessary.
My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Monwabisi.
I dry my hands on the dish towel, heart already picking up speed, and answer.
“Ndoda.”
“Mesuli,” he says. His voice is low, careful. “I’ve got something. Nothing concrete yet. The PI guys are still digging. They need another day or two for proper records like court stuff, social-media archives, and old complaints that might be buried. But they talked to people from Zola’s past today. People who knew him from his high school years until now. And… It’s not good.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “What did they say?”
“He has two separate accusations of smexual harassment in his name. One when he was eighteen or nineteen, it was something about a girl in his matric class. She reported him to the school principal. She said he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he kept cornering her after hours. Nothing formal came of it; there was no police case, but the school moved him to a different class, and he left after matric. The second one was when he was twenty-nine. It’s a colleague at a previous gym. She said he made repeated comments about her body, touched her lower back ‘by accident’ too many times, and asked her out after she said no. She filed an internal complaint. He was suspended for two weeks, then he just decided to leave the job. Again—no criminal record, no court case. But three different people—two women, one guy who worked with him—used the same words: ‘pushy,’ ‘didn’t respect boundaries,’ ‘made people uncomfortable.’”
My pulse is in my ears. “They’re sure it’s the same Zola Skhosana who works at Pulse now?”
“Same name, same age, same career path—personal trainer, gym management. They sent me photos from old staff pages and social media. It’s him.”
I close my eyes. The kitchen feels smaller. The dishwasher hums behind me like it’s mocking how ordinary everything looks while my mind is screaming.
“ And she’s going out with him tonight,” I say. My voice sounds far away. “She’s getting her nails done right now. Preparing.”
Monwabisi exhales. “I know. That’s why I called as soon as I had something solid enough to warn you. I don’t have court documents or official statements yet, those take time, but the pattern is there. Two separate incidents years apart. Same MO. Pushy. Boundary-blind. And he’s older than Chulu by a decade. She’s twenty-seven. She’s new in the city. She’s vulnerable.”
The word vulnerable hits like a fist.
I open my eyes. Look at the clock on the wall: 12:58 p.m. She left at 12:20. The salon is fifteen minutes away. She’ll be there for at least an hour, maybe two.
“I need to get her home,” I say.
“Talk to her first,” Monwabisi warns. “Don’t just storm in and accuse. She’ll shut down. Show her you’re worried and not controlling. Send me any details she’s given you, like his full name, gym branch, anything. I’ll keep pushing the PI. We’ll have more by tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
He pauses. “Mesuli… if this guy is bad news, you tell her straight. No games. No jealousy bullshit. Just the facts. And if she still wants to go, let her. But make sure she knows you’ll be there if anything feels off. You’re still Kungawo’s father. You’re still in her life. Don’t let fear make you disappear again.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “I won’t.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the phone. My thumb hovers over Chulumanco’s name.
I press call. It rings twice.
She answers on the third ring. There is noise in the background.
“Mesuli?”
“Chulu.” My voice is too tight. “You need to come home. Right now. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
A pause. The drill stops.
“I’m in the middle of my nails,” she says. Her tone is calm, but there’s an edge. “I’ll be done in about forty-five minutes. I’ll come straight back after. What’s so urgent?”
“I can’t explain over the phone. Please. Just come home.”
Another pause.
“Mesuli, I’m not leaving halfway through. They’re almost finished. I’ll be there soon. We can talk then.”
“Chulu…”
She hangs up. The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen. My hand shakes. I groan, low and frustrated, and drag both palms down my face.
She’s still at the salon. Sitting in a chair. Letting someone paint her nails for a date with a man who has two harassment accusations behind him.
I can’t breathe properly.
I walk to the dining table, grab my laptop, and open it. Sit. Type “Zola Skhosana Pulse Fitness” into Google.
Nothing useful. Gym website lists trainers but no bios. Social-media profiles are private or non-existent. A few old Facebook posts from years ago, group photos at fitness expos, nothing incriminating. No news articles. No public complaints. Monwabisi was right, the real dirt is buried, and it’s going to take time.
I slam the laptop shut.
The clock says 13:22.
Forty-five minutes until she’s done. Maybe longer if they add gel top coat or whatever women do.
I stand. Pace. Back to the table. Open the laptop again. Search “sexual harassment Pulse Fitness Port Serenity.” Nothing. “Zola Skhosana harassment.” Nothing.
I slam it shut again.
My mind races. I picture her laughing with him. I see him touching her arm. I see her coming home late, smiling, maybe letting him kiss her goodnight at the door.
I think about the night I confessed in the hallway. The way I kissed her forehead and ran. If I had stayed. If I had let her speak. If I had asked her to dinner that same night instead of letting fear win. None of this would be happening.
I drop into a chair. Elbows on the table. Head in my hands.
The house is too quiet. Kungawo’s nap won’t end for another hour. Lindiwe is off today. The only sound is the fridge humming and my own heartbeat.
I stand again. Walk to the basin in the nearest bathroom. I splash cold water on my face. Look at my reflection in the mirror above the basin. My eyes are red, my jaw is tight, looking like a man who’s already lost something he never fully claimed.
I think about calling her again. I think about driving to the salon. I think about waiting at the gate like some desperate ex.
I do none of those things.
I walk back to the table. Open the laptop one more time. Stare at the blank search bar.
I type “how to tell if a man is dangerous for women.”
I read article after article. Red flags. Patterns. Pushiness. Boundary violations. Older men targeting younger women new to the city.
Every word feels like evidence.
I close the laptop.
The clock says 13:58.
She’ll be finishing soon.
I stand at the kitchen window. Look out at the pool. The water is still. The yellow floaties Kungawo wore yesterday are on the edge, drying in the sun.
I think about him calling her “Mama” when she gets home. I think about her kissing his forehead and telling him she’ll be back before ten.
I think about the man who might be driving her home.
I walk to the hallway. Look at her closed bedroom door.
I could wait. I could let her come home. I could talk to her calmly over tea like adults.
But the thought of her getting into Zola’s car, smiling at him, laughing at his jokes, maybe letting him lean in for a kiss at the end of the night—it makes my vision tunnel.
I can’t wait.
I grab my keys.
I’m going to the salon.
**************
CHULUMANCO
The nail technician’s brush glides over my pinkie one last time, sealing the glossy topcoat with a soft, satisfied hum. The colour is a deep burgundy, rich, bold, the kind of red-black that makes my skin glow under salon lights. I flex my fingers, watching the light catch the shine. They feel foreign and perfect at the same time.
My phone lights up on the small table beside the drying lamp.
It’s a text from Mesuli.
Ndise parking lot. That’s what is says.
I stare at the words. He’s at the parking lot.
My stomach flips, and not in a good way.
Which parking lot? The one outside the salon? He came here? Now?
The technician is already wiping down her station. “All done, sisi. It’s beautiful.”
I force a smile. “Thank you. How much again?”
“R480.”
I hand over Mesuli’s card without thinking. The machine beeps. Approved. I sign the slip, gather my bag, and stand. My braids swing against my back, heavy, still fresh, smelling faintly of coconut oil and heat. I thank the technician again, walk past the reception desk, and push open the glass door.
The midday sun hits me hard. The parking lot is busy—cars reversing, people carrying shopping bags, a child crying somewhere near the entrance. And there, three bays down, is Mesuli’s black Hilux. He’s leaning against the driver’s door, arms folded, sunglasses on, watching the salon entrance like he’s been waiting for a while.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
He came to fetch me.
That means whatever he wants to talk about is major.
I walk toward him. Slow and deliberate. My new nails tap lightly against my phone case. He straightens when he sees me coming. Pushes off the door and opens the passenger side before I reach him.
I stop a metre away.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are tired, shadowed. “Get in. Please.”
“I’m not a child, Mesuli. If you have something to say, say it here.”
He exhales through his nose. “Chulu. Please. Not in the parking lot.”
I glance around. A woman pushing a trolley walks past. Two teenagers on phones laugh near a bakkie. There are people everywhere, so I do as he says.
He closes the door gently after I get in and rounds the car. He slides into the driver’s seat. The door shuts with a solid thud. The cab smells like him—coffee, faint cologne, the leather of his seat. He doesn’t start the engine.
He turns to me.
“You can’t go on that date tonight,” he says. “In fact, you won’t.”
I blink. Let the words settle.
Then I laugh. Short. Sharp. No humour in it.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I turn in the seat so I’m facing him fully. “You don’t get to decide who I see, Mesuli. My father left when I was still a teenager. He doesn’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His jaw tightens. “This isn’t about control.”
“Then what is it about?”
He looks straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “Zola Skhosana is a smex 0ffender.”
The words land like a slap.
I feel my breath catch.
“What?”
“I had someone look into him. There are accusations against him. Two separate incidents. One when he was in his teens, another in his late twenties. Smexual harassmen+. Boundary violations. Pushy behaviour. The pattern is there.”
I stare at him.
My mouth opens. Closes.
Then I laugh again—this time it’s bitter, disbelieving.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re lying,” I repeat, louder. “You’re making this up because you’re jealous. Because you can’t stand the thought of me going out with someone else. You’re trying to scare me into staying home. Into staying… what? Available? For you?”
His knuckles go white on the wheel.
“Chulumanco, I’m telling you the truth. Monwabisi’s guy spoke to people who knew him. Schoolmates. Former colleagues. They all said the same thing. He doesn’t respect no. He pushes. He corners. He makes women uncomfortable. And he’s ten years older than you. You’re twenty-seven. You’re new in this city. You don’t know him.”
I shake my head slowly.
“You don’t know him either,” I say. “You’ve never met him. You’ve never spoken to him. You just heard some second-hand stories and decided he’s dangerous. Why would you do that, Mesuli? Why would you lie about something so serious? Something so… horrible?”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.” My voice rises. “You’re jealous. You confessed your feelings, you kissed my forehead like I was your daughter, and then you ran. You left me standing there with everything I wanted to say stuck in my throat. And now that I’m finally doing something for myself—going on one dinner with a man who sees me, who makes me laugh, who doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile, you’re trying to sabotage it. You’re trying to make me afraid. You’re trying to keep me in your house, in your orbit, without ever having to actually step up.”
His face flinches like I slapped him.
“That’s not…”
“It is,” I cut him off. “You’re scared. You said it yourself. You’re terrified of things going wrong. So you’d rather nothing happens at all. You’d rather I stay frozen, waiting for you to decide you’re brave enough. But I’m done waiting. I’m done shrinking. I’m going to dinner tonight. I’m going to wear something pretty. I’m going to laugh. I’m going to see what it feels like to be wanted without five years of guilt hanging over my head. And if you can’t handle that, that’s on you. Not me.”
He stares at me. His eyes are dark, pained. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out.
The silence in the car is thick. Heavy. The air-conditioning hums. Outside, someone laughs. A car door slams.
Finally, he speaks. Quiet. Rough.
“If something happens to you tonight… if he crosses a line… I won’t forgive myself.”
I look at him. Really look.
“You think I can’t take care of myself?”
“I think you shouldn’t have to.”
I shake my head. “That’s not your choice.”
He swallows. Looks down at his hands on the wheel.
“I’m not trying to control you,” he says. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection from a man I barely know,” I say. “I need protection from the man who keeps running from what he says he wants.”
He flinches again.
I open the door and step out.
********
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