BECOMING
CHAPTER 5
CHULUMANCO MSUTU
The kitchen was warm with the smell of fresh pap and fried eggs that morning. Sunlight slanted through the small window above the sink, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Chulu sat at the table with Kungawo on her lap, his chubby fingers wrapped around a spoon he wasn’t really using. At five, he still preferred to be fed sometimes, especially when he was sleepy or quiet, like today. Her mother sat across from them, her injured leg propped on a stool, stirring sugar into her tea with slow, deliberate circles.
“Eat, mntanam,” her mother said softly, pushing the bowl closer to Kungawo. “You need strength.”
Kungawo didn’t answer; he never did, but he leaned forward and let Chulu scoop a little pap into his mouth. His eyes, big and dark like hers, followed the spoon with quiet focus. She kissed the top of his head, breathing in the warm, sweet smell of his scalp. These mornings were her favorite: just the three of them, no village gossip leaking through the walls, no orders to pack, no rush. The Hazel business had given them breathing room, R6500 last month, but it was moments like this that kept her going.
Then Kungawo suddenly stiffened.
His small body went rigid against her chest. The spoon clattered to the table. His head jerked back, eyes rolling up until only the whites showed. A low, choking sound escaped his throat, not a cry, not a gasp, something worse. His arms flailed once, then locked straight. He slid off her lap like a rag doll, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Kungawo!”
The scream tore out of Chulu before she could think. She dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she tried to cradle his head. His body jerked violently, once, twice, chest heaving in short, desperate spasms. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. His eyes stayed rolled back, unseeing.
Her mother was already moving, faster than Chulu had seen her in years. She dragged herself to the doorframe, shouting, “Chulu, hold him! Don’t let him bite his tongue!”
Chulu turned him gently onto his side as the clinic nurse had once shown her during one of his earlier “episodes.” Her heart hammered so hard she could barely breathe. “Mama, call the ambulance.”
Her mother was already on the old landline, voice shaking but clear. “Ambulance! My grandson, he’s fitting! He’s five, he’s not breathing right, khawulezani, man!”
The minutes stretched into forever. Kungawo’s body kept twitching, smaller jerks now, but still terrifying. Chulu pressed her cheek to his back, whispering nonsense, “You’re okay, baby, Mama’s here, you’re okay”, while tears streamed down her face. Her mother knelt beside them, one hand on his chest, the other stroking his hair. “Hold on,” she murmured. “Hold on for u makhulu.”
Sirens finally wailed in the distance. Then closer. Tires crunched outside. Boots on the yard. Two paramedics burst in, young, one man, one woman, carrying a bag and a stretcher board.
“Step back, mama,” the woman said gently but firmly. She dropped beside Kungawo, checking his airway, feeling for a pulse. “He’s still seizing. How long?”
“It’s been long, I don’t know,” Chulu sobbed.
The man attached a monitor while the woman slipped an oxygen mask over his face. They worked fast, calmly, and practiced. “Pulse is strong but irregular. Possible cardiac event or seizure. We need to move him.”
They lifted him carefully onto the board. Chulu followed, clutching her mother’s hand. “I’m coming with him.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “Get in the back.”
The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and bumps. Chulu held Kungawo’s tiny hand, his fingers limp now. The paramedics kept talking, vitals, oxygen saturation, ETA. Her mother sat opposite, eyes fixed on her grandson, lips moving in silent prayer.
They reached the small district hospital on the edge of Entabeni in under twenty minutes. They wheeled Kungawo straight through the casualty doors. A nurse took Chulu’s details while another pushed the stretcher into the treatment bay. “Wait here,” she said. “We’ll update you soon.”
The waiting area was cold, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, a fan that rattled more than it cooled. Chulu and her mother sat side by side, her mother’s hand tight in hers. Chulu stared at the scuffed linoleum, replaying every second: the breakfast, the spoon falling, his eyes rolling back. Her chest hurt so much she thought she might be sick.
She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers and dialed Zinzi.
Zinzi answered on the second ring. “Chulu? Everything okay?”
“No.” Chulu’s voice cracked. “Kungawo…he fell off the chair at breakfast. He started seizing. Eyes rolled back, shaking, foam… we called the ambulance. We’re at the hospital now.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Oh God. Is he…?”
“They’re with him. Stabilizing, they said. But I don’t know what’s happening. He’s never done this before, not like this.”
“I’m coming,” Zinzi said immediately. “I’m leaving the shop now. Hold on, okay? He’s strong. Like you.”
Chulu nodded even though Zinzi couldn’t see. “Update you soon.”
“Love you. Both of you.”
Chulu hung up, tears spilling again. Her mother squeezed her hand. “He’s in good hands, mntanam. The doctors will figure it out.”
They waited. Minutes dragged into an hour. Chulu’s leg bounced. Her mother hummed an old lullaby under her breath. Finally, a doctor in green scrubs appeared, middle-aged, tired eyes behind glasses.
“Family of Kungawo?”
They stood so fast the chairs scraped.
“I’m his mother,” Chulu said.
He nodded. “We’ve stabilized him. The seizure stopped about twenty minutes ago. He’s on oxygen and anti-convulsants now. His heart rhythm is back to normal, but we’re monitoring closely.”
Her mother exhaled shakily. “What caused it?”
The doctor rubbed his neck. “That’s the problem. We don’t know yet. Blood pressure was very high during the event, heart rate erratic, like a cardiac arrhythmia triggered by something. But all initial tests, ECG, bloods, are coming back mostly normal. No infection markers, no obvious electrolyte imbalance. We’ve ruled out a classic epileptic seizure pattern so far, but we need more time. We’re transferring him to the paediatric ward for observation and further tests, maybe an EEG, echo, the works.”
Chulu swallowed hard. “Can we see him?”
“Soon. He’s sleeping now, sedated lightly. Come with me.”
They followed him down the corridor, past other patients, the smell of disinfectant thick. Kungawo lay in a small bed, tiny chest rising and falling under the oxygen mask. Monitors beeped softly. His face looked peaceful, but pale. Too pale.
Chulu touched his cheek. Warm. Alive.
“We don’t know what’s wrong,” she whispered to her mother.
Her mother placed her hand over Chulu’s. “We’ll find out. And we’ll fight it. Together.”
Chulu nodded, throat too tight to speak.
But inside, terror clawed at her. Her boy, her mute, beautiful boy, was in a hospital bed, and no one knew why.
*********
MESULI RALA
The Land Rover bumped back onto the main road, dust swirling behind them like smoke. Mesuli stared out the window, Gobela’s words looping in his head: You have a son. Bring him home. The child is closer than you think.
Closer.
In Entabeni.
A son he didn’t know existed.
His father drove in silence, jaw tight. Mesuli could feel the older man’s thoughts churning, shock, worry, the weight of another family secret. The sickness still gnawed at him, chest tight, head throbbing, but now it felt almost purposeful. Like the ancestors had turned the knife to make sure he listened.
They pulled into the yard just as the sun dipped behind the hills. The smell of cooking greeted them, pap, gravy, grilled meat. It was lunch time. Zinzi and their mother were already at the dining table, plates set. Sonwabile was washing his hands at the sink, sleeves rolled up from the morning’s work with the pigs.
Their mother looked up first, eyes sharp. “You’re back. How did it go?”
They sat. Mesuli barely touched the food. His father spoke first, voice low. “Gobela says the ancestors are angry. They want something returned.”
Their mother’s spoon paused. “What?”
His father glanced at Mesuli. Mesuli took over.
“He said I have a son. He’s also around Entabeni. That I fathered him. And until I bring the boy home, introduce him to the ancestors, the sickness won’t leave me.”
Silence fell like a stone.
Zinzi’s fork clattered against her plate. “A son? Mesuli, what?”
“I don’t know,” Mesuli said, voice rough. “I swear, I don’t know of anyone I… impregnated. Especially not close by. No woman ever came to me. No baby. Nothing.”
Their mother reached across, touching his arm. “Then the ancestors are pointing to something hidden.”
Mesuli rubbed his face. “I feel lost, Mama. Truly lost. If there’s a child out there with my blood, how do I find him? And why now?”
His father cleared his throat. “We’ll search. Discreetly. Talk to people. The ancestors said he’s close. That means someone in Entabeni knows.”
Sonwabile spoke quietly. “You’ll find him, bhuti. You always find a way.”
Mesuli managed a weak smile. “Hope so.”
Lunch ended in heavy quiet. Plates cleared. Everyone moved slowly, as if the news had thickened the air. Zinzi caught Mesuli’s eye as he stood. “Bhuti. A word?”
He nodded. They slipped away, down the passage to his old bedroom, still his when he stayed over. Single bed, posters from college days, the faint smell of dust and old books.
She closed the door. “Do you know my friend Chulu?”
Mesuli frowned. “Chulu?”
“The one I always post on WhatsApp status. Selling skincare, glowing in those selfies.”
Mesuli thought back. Zinzi’s statuses were full of bright photos, products arranged like art, her friends smiling. One woman stood out sometimes: quiet eyes, warm smile, a small boy on her hip. Something about her face had tugged at him the first time he saw it. Familiar. Like a half, remembered dream.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “The one with the little boy. I remember noticing her. Felt like I’d seen her before. Why?”
Zinzi studied him. “Just asking.”
She didn’t say more. Just gave him a long look, searching, thoughtful, then opened the door and left.