BECOMING
CHAPTER 8
MESULI RALA
He sat on the edge of his bed in the dim light of his bedroom, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The house had gone quiet hours ago, everyone else was asleep or pretending to be, but sleep refused to come for him.
His mother’s voice still echoed in his skull, calm yet shattering, as she had spoken to him after dinner in the living room with only Zinzi present.
“Mesuli… the child is Kungawo. Chulu’s son. Zinzi showed me the photo. He looks like you. Like you did at that age.”
He had stared at the image on Zinzi’s phone until his eyes burned. The small boy’s face, wide dark eyes, the slight upward tilt of the left side of the mouth, the shape of the ears, had stared back at him like a mirror from his childhood .
Something deep in his chest had cracked open then, sharp and sudden. Shock had held him motionless for long seconds before the wave of disbelief crashed in.
“No,” he had said, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s impossible.”
But his mother had only looked at him with quiet certainty. “It makes sense, Mesuli. You disappeared. Chulu disappeared. She woke up at the Great mountain hotel with no memory of the previous night.
Gobela said the child is close. In the village. And now look at this boy. Also, Mesuli, sundidika, how do you not remember that you slept with that girl?”
Mesuli had handed the phone back as though it burned. He had walked out onto the veranda without another word, stood there until the night air turned cold against his skin, trying to force the pieces to stop fitting. But they did. They fit too perfectly. He now clearly remembered where he knew Zinzi’s friend from. It was her.
Now, at ten minutes past ten, he could no longer stay still. The sickness still lingered, dull ache in his chest, faint tremor in his hands, but it was overshadowed by something far heavier: the knowledge that he had a son. A five-year-old son who had been living near his home for his entire life. A son who was lying in a hospital bed right now, sick, silent, and alone except for his mother.
Mesuli stood. He pulled on a hoodie over his T-shirt, slipped his feet into sneakers, and walked down the passage. He knocked softly on Zinzi’s door.
It opened almost immediately. Zinzi stood there in pyjamas, hair tied back, eyes wide and alert. She had not been sleeping either.
“Bhuti?”
“I need to go to the hospital,” he said quietly. “And I need you to come with me.”
Zinzi searched his face for only a second before nodding. “Let me get my keys.”
They drove in silence. Zinzi was the one driving, Mesuli in the passenger seat, staring out at the dark shapes of huts and trees sliding past. The village was asleep. Streetlights were few and far between. Every kilometre felt like a lifetime.
When they reached the district hospital, the parking lot was nearly empty. A single security guard nodded them through. Inside the hospital, the smell of disinfectant clung to everything.
They found Chulu in the waiting area, curled on three plastic chairs pushed together, head resting on her folded arms. A thin hospital blanket was draped over her shoulders; someone must have given it to her. She looked exhausted, small, and impossibly young. Mesuli’s stomach twisted with sudden, sharp guilt. This woman had carried his child, raised him alone, sat beside his hospital bed for hours, and he had never even known her name until yesterday. And why did it take this long for him to remember where he knew her from?
Zinzi touched her shoulder gently. “Chulu.”
Chulu stirred, blinking up at them in confusion. Her eyes were red, swollen. When she saw Mesuli, her expression shifted, shock, then wariness, then something unreadable.
“Zinzi…” she murmured. Then, quieter, “You brought him.”
Zinzi nodded. “He needed to come. Chulu, this is Mesuli. My brother.”
Mesuli stepped forward, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets because he did not know what else to do with them. “Molo, Chulu.”
She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Hi.”
The silence that followed was thick, and awkward. Mesuli felt the weight of her gaze, the weight of five years he had not lived.
Chulu cleared her throat. “He’s still in the paediatric ward. They’re letting me stay close. You can see him if you want.”
Mesuli nodded. “Please.”
They walked together down the quiet corridor. Chulu led the way, her movements were slow and careful, as though she were holding herself together by will alone. Zinzi stayed close behind.
The paediatric room was lit only by the soft glow of monitors and a small bedside lamp. Kungawo lay still, oxygen mask fogging gently, his small chest rising and falling. Mesuli stopped in the doorway, unable to move for a moment.
Chulu glanced back at him. “You can go in.”
Mesuli stepped inside. Zinzi touched Chulu’s arm. “Let’s give him a minute.”
Chulu hesitated, then nodded. The two women stepped back into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Alone with the boy, Mesuli moved closer.
Kungawo looked even smaller in the bed than he had in the photo. His face was peaceful under sedation, lashes dark against pale cheeks. The resemblance hit Mesuli again, harder this time. The curve of the brow, the shape of the nose, the small hands curled near his chin. They were his. Unmistakably his.
Tears rose without warning. Mesuli did not fight them. They slipped down his cheeks, hot and silent.
He sank into the chair beside the bed. His hand hovered over Kungawo’s for a long moment before gently covering it. The boy’s fingers were warm, soft.
“I’m sorry,” Mesuli whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
The monitors beeped softly.
“I’m here now,” he continued, with a thick voice. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I will. I’ll make sure you get better. I’ll make sure you never have to wonder if anyone wants you. You’re mine, Kungawo. You’re my son. And I’m going to fight for you.”
He sat there until the tears slowed, until his breathing steadied. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to the boy’s forehead, soft, careful, the first time he had ever kissed his child.
When he stood, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and walked back to the corridor.
Chulu and Zinzi were waiting. Chulu’s eyes were searching, guarded. Zinzi looked between them, tense.
Mesuli cleared his throat. “Thank you for letting me see him.”
Chulu nodded once.
He looked at Zinzi. “Can I talk to her alone for a minute?”
Zinzi glanced at Chulu, who gave a small nod. Zinzi squeezed Chulu’s hand and walked a few metres down the corridor to give them space.
Mesuli turned back to Chulu. “I know this is… a lot. For both of us. But I feel it. I look at him and I know he’s mine. I don’t need a test to tell me. But we’ll do it anyway, it can be done tomorrow, the day after or whenever you’re ready. Just to be sure.”
Chulu watched him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “And if it is true?”
“Then I want to help. Anyway, you’ll let me.”
She looked away for a moment, then back. “He’s sick. We don’t know why. The doctors are trying everything.”
Mesuli nodded. “I know. Zinzi told me some.” He hesitated. “I was thinking… would it be okay if we took him to Gobela Jonga? He’s our family traditional healer. Just to try something different. The ancestors spoke to me through him. Maybe they can help.”
Chulu’s expression tightened. “I’m not sure. Kungawo… he doesn’t speak. The clinic doctors said it could be autism. I don’t want anything that could make things worse. I can’t risk it.”
Mesuli’s heart sank. “Has he been diagnosed properly?”
She shook her head, eyes dropping to the floor. “No. I didn’t have the money. The tests, the specialists in town, the transport… it was always something else we needed more. Food. Mama’s pills. I kept putting it off.”
Guilt sliced through Mesuli like a blade. Five years. Five years this child had gone without the help he needed. Because Mesuli had not been there.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have known. I should have been there.”
Chulu looked up at him, eyes glistening. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have.” He swallowed. “But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I want to help. Whatever he needs, doctors, tests, therapy, anything. And if you’re worried about Gogo… we don’t have to do anything you don’t want. But I believe the ancestors are part of this. They brought me here. They’re calling him home.”
Chulu was silent for a long time. She looked back toward Kungawo’s room, then at Mesuli.
“I don’t know if I can trust this,” she said finally. “But… he’s getting worse. The doctors don’t have answers. If there’s even a small chance…”
She exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “We can try. But only if the doctors say it’s safe. And I’m there. Every step.”
Mesuli nodded, relief mixing with the ache in his chest. “Thank you.”
Chulu gave a small, tired nod. “Tomorrow. After the next round of tests.”
He looked at her, really looked. The exhaustion in her eyes, the strength beneath it. The woman who had carried his child alone, raised him alone, fought for him alone.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he said quietly. “Not with this.”
Chulu didn’t answer. But the wariness in her gaze softened, just a fraction.
Zinzi walked back toward them. “Everything okay?”
Chulu nodded. “We’re going to try the healer. After more tests have been conducted.”
Zinzi exhaled. “Good. That’s good.”
Mesuli looked at his sister, then back at Chulu.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said. “As early as they let me in.”
Chulu met his eyes. “Okay.”
He wanted to say more, about the guilt, about the promises he was already making to himself, but the words felt too big and too soon.
Instead he simply nodded.
“Goodnight, Chulu.”
“Goodnight.”
He turned to leave, Zinzi falling into step beside him.
As they walked down the corridor, Mesuli glanced back once.
Chulu had already returned to the chair beside Kungawo’s bed, head bowed, hand resting gently on her son’s.
Their son.
Mesuli felt the weight of it settle in his bones, not crushing this time, but grounding.
He would fight for this child and he would fight for both of them.
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