BECOMING
CHAPTER 25
CHULUMANCO
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Zola’s black SUV, windows cracked just enough to let in the smell of wet tar and grilled meat from the street vendors outside. The radio is low, some amapiano track with a smooth bassline that matches the easy rhythm of our conversation. He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. Every now and then, his fingers tap the leather in time with the beat.
We’re heading to this place he’s been raving about since the gym, Chicken Chicks on the corner of Long Street. “Best wings in the game,” he said earlier, eyes lighting up like a kid promising his friend the best secret spot in the neighbourhood. “Trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried the Hot Wings with their special sauce. It’s criminal how good they are.”
I laughed then. I’m laughing again now as he pulls into the busy parking lot. The place is packed, cars double-parked, people leaning against bonnets eating from paper trays, kids running between vehicles with sauce-stained fingers. Neon signs buzz above the entrance: red and yellow, bright against the dusk.
Zola kills the engine and turns to me.
“You ready to have your life changed?”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. “If these wings don’t live up to the hype, I’m holding it against you forever.”
“Deal.”
We get out. The air smells like frying oil, peri-peri, and rain-soaked concrete. He walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush once or twice, but not so close that it feels deliberate. He opens the door for me, a gentleman’s move, nothing pushy. Inside, it’s warm, loud, chaotic in the best way—queues at the counter, families at the tables, teenagers taking selfies with trays piled high. The smell hits harder: spice, grease, sweetness from the dipping sauces.
Zola orders for both of us without asking, two Hot Wings meals, extra sauce on the side, large fries to share, and two cooldrinks. I raise an eyebrow.
“You sure you want to risk me hating these?” I tease.
He grins. “If you hate them, I’ll eat my words and buy you ice cream after.”
We find a small table near the window. The trays arrive fast. Steam rises from the red-orange wings. They look dangerous and delicious.
I pick one up, blow on it, and take a careful bite.
The heat explodes across my tongue—sharp, smoky, and sweet. My eyes widen.
Zola watches me, waiting.
I swallow, then nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “You win. These are ridiculous.”
He laughs, deep, satisfied. “Told you. Never doubt me again.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. Sauce stains our fingers. Napkins pile up. He tells me about the time he tried to recreate the sauce at home and ended up setting off the smoke alarm at 2 a.m. I laugh so hard I almost choke on a fry.
Eventually the trays are mostly bones and sauce smears. We lean back in the plastic chairs, full and content. The restaurant noise fades to the background—kids shouting, tills beeping, someone singing off-key to the radio.
Zola wipes his hands, looks at me.
“So… how’s the city treating you so far? Apart from the gym and killer wings.”
I shrug, playing with a straw wrapper. “It’s different. Louder. Faster. But good different. Kungawo’s happy. The school trial went well. Therapy’s helping. I’m… breathing easier.”
He nods. “That’s big. Moving cities with a kid is no joke. You’re doing it like a pro.”
I smile, but it’s smaller this time. “I’m trying.”
He leans forward slightly. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. You’re allowed to just… be here. Enjoy it. Let someone else carry something for a change.”
The words land softly, but they carry weight. I look at him, like really look. He’s handsome in an easy way: strong jaw, kind eyes, the kind of smile that makes people trust him quickly. He’s listening. Really listening.
I open my mouth to say something—thank you, maybe, or yeah, I’m trying but the words catch when his hand moves.
It lands on my bare thigh under the table.
Light. Casual. Like it’s nothing.
My entire body tenses.
His thumb brushes once—slow, deliberate.
I freeze.
He keeps talking, voice still easy, like he hasn’t noticed.
“…so I told my ex, look, if the kids want to come for the weekend, they come. No negotiation. They’re mine too—”
I reach down, take his wrist, and lift his hand off my leg.
He stops mid-sentence.
I place his hand back on the table between us.
“Uxolo,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
I cut him off with a small smile. Tight. Controlled.
“It’s okay. Just… don’t.”
He nods. “Got it. Sorry.”
I exhale slowly. The moment passes. Or I think it does.
We talk a little more about his daughter’s latest DJ mix, about Kungawo’s new obsession with red blocks. But the ease is gone. I feel it like a splinter under my skin.
Ten minutes later, he does it again.
Same hand. Same thigh. Higher this time.
I remove it faster.
“Zola,” I say. Voice low. Firm. “Please remove your hand. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
He blinks. Looks genuinely surprised.
“You’re so uptight, chill.”
The word uptight lands like a slap.
“By setting a boundary?” I ask. My voice is quiet, but every word is sharp.
He laughs—short, disbelieving.
“Come on, Chulu. I paid for your food, and you can’t even thank me properly?”
My stomach drops.
“You should have said you wanted appreciation,” I say slowly. “I would have thanked you. Not like this.”
He leans back, arms crossed. Smirk still in place, but tighter now.
“But you would have shown appreciation in your own way, right? Not by giving me what I want.”
I stare at him.
“Dude,” I say, voice dangerously calm, “you want me to thank you by letting you disrespect me?”
His smirk fades. Something darker flickers behind his eyes.
“You know what?” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m just going through something and I… I’m sorry, okay? This is not me. This is not how I usually behave. Ndixolele, ndiyakucela.” (Forgive me, please)
The isiXhosa sounds sincere. The apology looks real.
I study his face. Look for the lie.
I don’t see it immediately.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I forgive you.”
I glance at my phone, it’s 8:47 p.m.
“It’s late anyway,” I continue. “I have to get home.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let me drive you.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m already requesting a cab. I’ll wait outside. I want some air.”
He nods. “I’ll wait with you.”
We both get out.
The parking lot is still busy, cars idling, people laughing, neon reflecting off wet tar. We stand side by side near the entrance. Our arms brush accidentally.
He takes it as permission.
He turns toward me, leans in fast.
I duck.
His lips graze air.
He freezes. Jaw clenches. Eyes narrow.
“Even a kiss is too much for you?” he mutters. “Mxm. I’m leaving.”
He walks to his car without another word. He gets in and slams the door. Reverses hard and drives off.
I stand there. Heart hammering. Legs shaky.
But he’s gone.
The fear hits late—cold, sharp, delayed. My hands tremble as I check my phone. The cab is three minutes away.
I wrap my arms around myself. The night air suddenly feels colder than it did ten minutes ago.
The cab arrives. Silver Corolla. The driver is an older man, quiet, polite. He confirms my name and starts the drive.
I sit in the back, staring out the window at the city lights blurring past. My new nails catch the passing streetlamps—deep burgundy, glossy, perfect. I flex my fingers. They still feel foreign.
I block Zola’s number.
The drive is short. Seventeen minutes. The estate gates open automatically. The cab pulls up outside the house. I pay cash, thank the driver, and step out.
The front light is on. Warm yellow glow from the living room window.
Mesuli is still up.
I walk inside.
He’s on the couch, TV on low—some series, muted. He looks up when the door opens.
Our eyes meet.
I don’t say anything at first. I just drop my bag on the entry table, kick off my shoes, and walk past him toward the stairs.
“Chulu,” he says with a low voice.
I pause on the bottom step. Look back at him.
He’s standing now. Hands in his pyjama pants pockets. His eyes are searching for my face.
“How was it?” he asks.
I consider lying. Telling him it was fine. That I had fun. That Zola was nice.
But I’m tired.
And I’m done carrying things alone.
“He tried to touch me,” I say with a flat voice. “More than once. I told him to stop. He got angry. Said I was uptight. Said he paid for my food, so I owed him. Then he tried to kiss me in the parking lot. I ducked. He left. I took a cab home.”
Mesuli’s face changes—shock, then fury, then something deeper. Maybe guilt.
He takes one step toward me. Stops.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have—”
“You were right,” I cut in. “About him. About the pattern. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were just jealous. I thought you were trying to control me.”
He flinches.
“But you weren’t lying,” I continue. “And I’m glad I left when I did.”
Silence stretches between us.
I look at him. Really look.
He looks wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight. Like he’s been fighting himself all night.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to prove it by… whatever you did to find out about him.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me an apology, Chulu. I’m just glad that you’re safe.”
I nod slowly.
We stand there, five metres apart, the TV flickering silently behind him.
“I blocked him,” I say. “I’m not seeing him again.”
He exhales. Visible relief.
I take one step down.
“Mesuli?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel anything for you.”
His breath catches.
I take another step.
“I was angry because you ran. Because you didn’t let me speak. Because you made me feel invisible. But I’m not invisible. And I’m not going anywhere unless you give me a reason to leave.”
He’s frozen. Watching me like I might disappear if he blinks.
I walk the rest of the way down.
Stop in front of him.
Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat.
“I’m going to say something now,” I tell him. “And you’re going to listen. No running. No kissing my forehead and leaving. You stay. You hear me. Okay?”
He nods. Once. Sharp.
I take a breath.
“I feel it too,” I say. “The thing you’re scared of. The thing that makes you pull away. I feel it when you hand me tea exactly the way I like it. When you push Kungawo on the swing and look at me like I’m part of something bigger than just co-parenting. When you apologise and actually mean it. When you stay up late reading to him, even though you’re exhausted. I feel it, Mesuli. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
His eyes are locked on mine. Dark. Intense. Hopeful.
“I don’t want to be safe anymore,” I whisper. “I want to be wanted. Properly. Not as Kungawo’s mother. As me. Chulumanco Msutu. The woman who laughs at your bad jokes, who burns dinner sometimes, who cries when she thinks no one’s watching. I want you to want that woman. Not the version you think you can control or protect or keep in a box.”
He swallows. Voice rough.
“I do.”
“Then show me,” I say. “No more running. No more silence. No more deciding for me. Show me.”
He moves first.
One step. Closes the distance.
His hand comes up—slow, asking permission. Cups my jaw. Thumb brushes my cheekbone.
I don’t pull away.
He leans in.
And this time he doesn’t run.
His lips touch mine—soft at first. Tentative. Testing.
I kiss him back.
And everything explodes.
His other hand slides to my waist, pulls me against him. I rise on my toes, arms going around his neck. The kiss deepens, hungry, desperate, years of waiting poured into it. His tongue brushes mine, and I moan, quiet, involuntary. He groans in response, low in his throat, fingers digging into my hip.
We stumble backward until my back hits the wall beside the stairs. He presses in, body hard and warm against mine. One hand slides up my spine, tangles in my braids. The other slips under my T-shirt, palm flat against bare skin.
I gasp into his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to look at me—eyes dark, pupils blown, breathing ragged.
“Chulu,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head. “Don’t.”
****
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