BECOMING
PROLOGUE
CHULUMANCO MSUTU
The heat was a living thing that Saturday. It crouched over Entabeni village, thick and wet, pressing against my skin until every breath felt borrowed. Inside our small house the air stood still; even the flies seemed too lazy to move. I sat on the low stool near the door, knees drawn up, staring at the cracked clay floor as if it might suddenly offer me answers.
There was no food.
The last of the mealie-meal had gone into yesterday’s thin porridge. The sugar tin was empty. The paraffin stove sat cold and useless. Mama lay on the narrow bed pushed against the far wall, one arm across her eyes, the other resting on the folded blanket that propped up her ruined leg. Three years since the machine at the textile factory had mangled it. Three years of letters, promises, clinic visits, and nothing. No payout. No apology. Just the disability grant that arrived like clockwork and disappeared even faster.
I was twenty-two. I should have been in my third year at university, sitting in a lecture hall with a notebook full of lesson plans, dreaming of the day I’d stand in front of my own classroom. Instead I was here, washing bandages, boiling water, counting coins, pretending I wasn’t angry every waking minute.
Outside, the village was waking up to celebration. I could hear it even with the door closed: the low thump of drums, women ululating, children shrieking with excitement. Zinzi’s brother had come back from initiation.
I didn’t want to go. My only dress that wasn’t threadbare was the navy one I’d worn to Mama’s last hospital appointment, too formal, too hot, too obviously the only good thing I owned. The rest were faded, patched, humiliating. And even if I’d had something decent, I still wouldn’t have gone. I hated the sideways glances from the villagers. The murmurs that dropped when I came close. The way people would greet Mama with loud pity and then whisper “shame, that child is carrying everything” the moment our backs were turned. I hated it. I hated them for seeing us as a story instead of people.
Mama stirred. “Chulu.”
“Mmm?”
“You should go, Zinzi is your friend. Just for a little while.”
“No.”
“It’s good to be seen. People forget you exist when you stay inside too long.”
“They remember us plenty when they want to gossip.”
She sighed, the sound thin and tired. “Not everyone is cruel.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the energy to argue.
Then came the knock, three quick raps, confident.
The door opened before I could reach it. Zinzi stepped inside like sunlight breaking through clouds, bringing the smell of cocoa butter, new fabric, and the faintest trace of perfume. She wore a bright yellow sleeveless dress that stopped mid-thigh, gold hoops swinging, fresh knotless braids gleaming with oil. Behind her the daylight hurt my eyes.
“Molweni, Mama kaChulu,” she said, dipping slightly in respect.
Mama smiled, the first real one all morning. “Molo, Zinzi. You look beautiful, my girl.”
“Thank you, Mama. And you look like you need some fresh air.”
Zinzi turned to me. Her smile faltered for half a second when she saw my face, then it came back twice as bright.
“Chulu, get up. We’re going.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. It’s my baby brother’s umgidi. You’re coming.”
I shook my head. “I’m not dressed. And I don’t want to.”
Zinzi crossed the room in two strides, grabbed both my hands and pulled me up. “You’re dressed enough for me to drag you. We’ll fix the rest at my house. Come on.”
“Zinzi…”
“No.” She dropped her voice so only I could hear. “I’m not leaving you here to sit in the dark all day while everyone else eats and laughs. You’re coming. Even if I have to carry you.”
I looked at Mama. She nodded once, small but firm.
Traitor.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not staying long.”
Zinzi grinned like she’d won a court case. “That’s my girl.”
She said goodbye to Mama, promised to bring back a plate of food, then tugged me outside before I could change my mind.
The walk to her house took fifteen minutes. Every step felt like wading through soup. Dust rose around our sandals. Sweat collected behind my knees. Children ran past us shouting, trailing ribbons and laughter. I kept my eyes on the ground.
When we reached the gate of the Rala yard I stopped breathing for a second.
There were so many people, and I didn’t like being around many people. There were also so many cars.
Not just any cars, shiny SUVs, a silver double-cab bakkie that probably cost more than our house, two sedans with tinted windows. They were parked haphazardly across the grass, glinting under the noon sun like they belonged to people who never worried about petrol money. Women in colourful doeks carried plastic basins of meat and coleslaw. Men stood in clusters holding beers and talking loudly. Children chased each other between legs.
Everyone was here.
Zinzi didn’t let me stand there gawking. She hooked her arm through mine and pulled me forward.
“Don’t look so worried,” she whispered. “You’re with me.”
Inside the yard it was louder, hotter, more alive. People called Zinzi’s name. She answered every greeting without slowing down, dragging me along like a reluctant kite. I felt the glances slide over me, some curious, some pitying, some indifferent. I kept my chin up and stared straight ahead.
She took me straight to the back veranda where a group of girls our age sat on plastic chairs and blankets. Unmarried girls. The ones still waiting for someone to pay lobola or at least make promises. They looked up when we arrived. A few smiled. Most just nodded.
Zinzi pushed me down onto a chair. “Sit. I’ll get us drinks.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She disappeared into the crowd.
I sat stiffly, hands folded in my lap, trying to disappear into the plastic. The girls around me chatted about who was wearing what, who had come back from Joburg, who was pregnant again. I didn’t join in. I never did because I knew they also talked about me in my absence.
Zinzi returned with two plastic cups of something red and fizzy. “Berry punch,” she said, pressing one into my hand. “No alcohol. Yet.”
I took a sip. Sweet. Cold. My throat ached with gratitude.
She stayed close after that. Wherever she went to greet an aunt, to fetch more food, she pulled me along. She never once left me sitting alone. I knew why. Zinzi had heard the same whispers I had. She’d seen the way certain women dropped their voices when I passed. She never said it out loud, but she protected me in the only way she knew how: by refusing to let me be invisible or cornered.
Hours passed in a blur of heat and noise. I ate, really ate for the first time today. Samp and stew and a piece of grilled meat that tasted like heaven. I drank more punch. Then more. Zinzi kept checking on me, touching my shoulder, laughing too loudly at my small jokes.
Then the men brought out the Castle crates.
Bottles clinked. Laughter grew sharper. Someone started a song and the whole yard joined in. Zinzi’s cousins came to sit with us.
“Chulu is the only one not drinking, she must drink with us,” Sbu, said. “She’s too quiet.”
“I don’t drink,” I said.
Zinzi laughed. “Today you do. Just one. Do it for me, friend.”
I looked at her. She was already a little shiny-eyed, cheeks flushed. She pushed the cup toward me.
“One,” I said.
It burned going down. Like swallowing fire wrapped in sugar. My eyes watered. They cheered.
Another cup appeared. Then another.
I lost count.
The sun slid lower. Shadows stretched. The songs grew louder, bass thumping against my ribs. I danced to the songs, actually danced, because Zinzi grabbed my hands and spun me until I was laughing and dizzy. Faces blurred. Voices overlapped. Someone put a blanket around my shoulders when the evening cooled. Someone else refilled my cup.
I remember Zinzi’s arm around my waist.
I remember her saying, “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”
I remember the world tilting.
Then nothing.
When I woke up the light was grey and thin. Morning.
My head pounded like someone was hitting it with a mallet. My mouth tasted like ash and metal. I was lying on my side, sheets tangled around my legs.
No clothes.
None.
My heart slammed once, hard.
I sat up too fast. The room spun. It wasn’t my room. It wasn’t Zinzi’s room either. Smaller. A single bed. A wardrobe with one door hanging open. A small window with a curtain printed with roses. A side table.
There was a piece of paper on the pedestal
I reached for it with shaking fingers. The handwriting was messy, but I managed to read it.
“Hey
I have no idea how I ended up here with you but because we both naked I assume we did things.
Thank you for the night even though I don’t remember.
Here’s something for your trouble.”
Next to the note lay a thick wad of notes. Twenties and fifties and a few hundreds. Crumpled. Sweaty. Real.
I stared at the money.
Then at my bare arms.
Then at the door.
It was closed.
I was alone.
My skin felt too tight. My chest hurt like I couldn’t get enough air. I pulled the sheet up to my chin and sat there, knees drawn up, trying to remember.
Nothing came.
No face. No name. No moment when I said yes.
Just darkness.
And now this.
The note.
The money.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and tried not to cry.
But the tears came anyway, hot, quiet, unstoppable.
Outside, birds were singing. Life was already moving on without me.
I stayed like that a long time.
Naked and alone. Counting breaths until I could decide what to do nextU