CHAPTER 4
FUNANI
The venue is a breathtaking glass house situated in the heart of a botanical garden. Emerald green drapes hang from the ceiling, held together by gold-leafed ropes. It looks exactly like the royal dream Hlengiwe described.
He spots Hlengiwe across the room, talking to the florist. She looks so peaceful, her hand resting on her stomach as she points to a bouquet of white roses. Seeing her makes the knot in his chest tighten. He loves her enough to die for her, but right now, he feels like his very presence is bringing a shadow into her light.
“You made it,” Hlengiwe says, her face lighting up as she walks toward him. She takes his hands, her brow furrowing slightly as she feels how cold they are. “You look like you’re miles away, Funani. Are you sure you didn’t leave your brain at the house?”
He forces a soft smile and kisses her forehead. “I’m here, sthandwa. I’m just impressed. You really outdid yourself with this place.”
As they walk through the venue, Hlengiwe points out the different sections, the gift table, catering area and the private lounge. He nods and says the right things, but his mind is drifting back to that file on his computer.
He remembers a rainy night six months ago. They had just landed a massive contract with a chemical plant in Secunda. Gatsha had asked for a week off to go visit family in the Eastern Cape. He didn’t question it but gave him a bonus for the hard work. The image of Gatsha’s face that night flashes in his mind, the way he wouldn’t meet his eyes and how he seemed too eager to leave.
He wasn’t in the Eastern Cape, he was in Mauritius, signing away his hard work.
He thinks of other moments, small things he had dismissed as “Gatsha being Gatsha.”
The way Gatsha would sometimes stay late to double-check the digital manifests. The way he insisted on being the only one to handle the keys to the offshore server room. He saw it as loyalty but now he sees it as a slow sabotage.
“Funani? The caterer is asking if we want the sea food or the lamb for the main course,” Hlengiwe says, pulling him back to the present.
“The lamb is fine, Hlengi. Whatever you prefer,” he says quickly.
“You didn’t even hear the options,” she says and looks at him closely, “Let’s get out of here for a bit. The planners have everything under control. Let’s go have a quiet lunch at that restaurant around the corner. Just the two of us.”
He nods, grateful for the escape. As they walk out to the car, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He looks at the screen and Gatsha’s name pops up.
“Give me a second, Hlengi. It’s the office,” he says.
Hlengiwe sighs and climbs into their car. He walks a few steps away, his back turned from the car.
He answers the call, “Yes?”
“Funani, just checking in, my brother.” Gatsha says on the other side. “ I wanted to let you know that the trash from last night has been fully processed.”
Gatsha is talking about a human being like he’s a piece of industrial waste.
“Good,” he says, “And the accounts? Did you find out who authorized those transfers?”
There is a brief pause on the other end. “I’m still digging. These hackers are clever, using ghost signatures and all that but don’t you worry. I’m on it. I’ve even tightened the firewall on the main server. Nobody gets in or out without me knowing.”
‘Especially me,’ he thinks, feeling the desire to scream through the phone and accuse him right there but he suppresses it. He needs to be the predator now, not the prey.
“Make sure you do. I don’t like people touching what belongs to me.”
“I know that better than anyone,” Gatsha says, his tone shifting slightly. “Are you with the Mrs? Give her my love. Tell her I’m looking forward to the big day.”
“I’ll tell her. Goodbye.”
He ends the call and stands there for a moment, staring at the screen. He wipes his palms on his trousers and heads back to the car.
The lunch at the restaurant is quiet, it is nearly empty, with soft jazz playing in the background. Hlengiwe picks at her salad, watching him as he stares at his glass of water. He hasn’t touched his food. She sets her fork down, reaches across the table and grabs his hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
“Enough, Funani. Stop it,” she says. Her voice isn’t loud, but it has that firm edge that always stops him in his tracks.
He looks up. “Stop what?”
“This thing you are doing. What’s going on? Don’t you dare play that ‘everything is fine’ game,” Hlengiwe says, “You haven’t been yourself since you walked through the door last night. You’re jumping in the shadows. Something is happening, and it’s big.”
“Hlengi, it’s just business…”
“It is never just business when you look this scared,” she interrupts and leans forward, her voice softening. “We built this together, remember? We shared bread and water when we had nothing. If there is a threat to this family, I deserve to know. Is it the police or a rival company? Who is trying to hurt us?”
He looks at her beautiful face, the woman who has been his anchor through every storm. He wants to tell her that their best friend is stealing their life, and that he thinks he tried to have him killed but he looks at her belly and thinks of the stress. He thinks of the danger, if Gatsha knows that Hlengiwe knows, she becomes a target too. He takes a deep breath, squeezing her hand tightly.
“I am not lying to you when I say I’m handling it,” he says, “I don’t have the full picture yet. There are people I thought I could trust who might be playing a double game. I am getting the facts, Hlengi. I am going to make sure we are safe.”
“Who, Funani? Tell me a name,” she demands.
“Soon,” he promises. “I will tell you everything the moment I have the proof in my hands. I won’t leave you in the dark a second longer than I have to. But for today please, just let me be your husband. Let’s finish this lunch and go home.”
She nods slowly. “Fine but don’t think I’m letting this go. If you don’t tell me soon, I’ll go to the depot myself and start asking questions.”
“I know you will,” he says with a weak smile.
GATSHA
He sits in his parked car, the engine is off but his mind is running at a hundred kilometers per hour. He replays the phone call with Funani in his head. The coldness in Funani’s voice wasn’t just tiredness; it was a wall. He knows him better than anyone, and right now, Funani is digging.
“You’re getting too smart for your own good, mfethu,” he mutters to himself.
He reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a spare set of keys. He turns them over in his hand. These keys are his golden ticket. He then pulls out his iPhone and opens an app disguised as a simple calculator. He enters a six-digit code, and a map of Johannesburg appears.
A red dot is moving in Sandton. This is a high-end GPS tracker he had installed deep inside of Funani’s cars months ago. It doesn’t just show location; it monitors engine status and speed. He sees the dot start to move and realises that he has about thirty minutes.
He drives to the Nhlapho estate, parking his car a few streets away in a corner. He approaches the house from the back, moving through the shadows of the tall trees. He knows the security schedule, MaMhlongo has already knocked off for the day. Because Hlengiwe is so fussy about her privacy, there are no cameras inside the house, only outside. A mistake he is about to exploit.
He lets himself in through the side door, the house is quiet, smelling of the vanilla candles Hlengiwe likes. He heads straight for Funani’s study and sits in the chair and turns on the laptop. He doesn’t need to guess the passwords. A year ago, he installed a Key-Logger, a tiny piece of software that records every single stroke Funani makes on his keyboard. He knows the passwords to the bank accounts, private emails and even the hidden folders.
He finds the email almost immediately from an encrypted address.
“Too late, Funani,” he whispers, permanently deleting the email, then goes into the trash folder and wipes it from there too. He moves through the computer like a ghost, erasing any trace that the file ever existed. He then logs out and wipes the keyboard with his sleeve.
Feeling a bit bold, he wanders into the kitchen. He is hungry from the day’s stress. He opens the fridge and finds a bowl of leftover roast chicken and salad. He grabs a fork and starts eating right out of the bowl.
He smirks, thinking about how Hlengiwe would hate him eating her food like this.
Once finished, he rinses the fork and puts it back exactly where he found it. He walks into the massive garage where the luxury cars are lined up like trophies. He walks past the Mercedes and the vintage sports car, stopping behind Funani’s daily private SUV. He heaves a long sigh, looking at the ceiling.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a heavy, adjustable spanner. He crawls under the rear of the vehicle, the cold concrete floor pressing against his back. He knows exactly where the brake lines are. He doesn’t cut them, that would be too obvious.
He simply loosens the high-pressure nut just enough so that the fluid will leak slowly.
He slides out from under the car, dusting off his clothes. He looks at the cars one last time, a dark look in his eyes.
“I’ll take good care of the business, Funani,” he says to the empty garage. “I’ll take even better care of your wife.”
NARRATED
Funani and Hlengiwe step into the house. The tension from lunch still hangs between them, a heavy cloud that won’t just go away. Funani is about to say something to soothe her when his phone rings in his pocket. He looks at it and sees it’s the private investigator. He holds up a finger to Hlengiwe, stepping into the quiet of the lounge to take the call.
“I have it,” the voice on the other end says, sounding rushed. “I found the shell company registration in Mauritius. Your friend isn’t just stealing; he’s been setting up a mirror company to funnel your contracts into. I have the signed documents. We need to meet now. I’m at the warehouse district near the south depot.”
Funani’s grip tightens on the phone, “I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and finds Hlengiwe standing by the stairs, her arms crossed over her chest. Funani walks over to her and takes her face in his hands. He looks at her with a desperate kind of love, his heart heavy with the weight of what he’s about to confirm.
“I have to go, Hlengi. When I get back tonight, I will tell you everything. I promise, no more secrets. Just stay here, lock the doors, and don’t let anyone in, not even Gatsha.”
“Gatsha? Funani, why would you say…”
“Just trust me!” he says, more forcefully than he intended. He softens his voice, kissing her deeply. “I love you. Everything I do is for you and this baby.”
He turns and walks back to the garage, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space. Hlengiwe stands at the door watching him, “Be careful, Funani!” she calls out, but the engine of his private SUV is already roaring to life.
Funani pulls out of the estate, his mind thinking of the years he spent building the empire with Gatsha, the nights they spent planning their future. Every memory now feels tainted, like the hazardous waste they move for a living. He is so consumed by anger that he doesn’t notice the strange, heavy feeling of the steering wheel as he turns onto the main road.
He hits the highway, pushing the car to 120km/h. The road is relatively clear, the city lights blurring past him. He is only ten minutes away from the meeting point when he sees a truck merge into his lane ahead. He hits the brake pedal to slow down but the pedal feels soft.
He frowns, pumping it once again but nothing happens. The car doesn’t slow down, instead, it continues forward at high speed.
“What the…?” Funani mutters, his heart skipping a beat.
He slams his foot down on the brake, but this time, the pedal goes straight to the floorboard. The car begins to swerve as he tries to downshift, but the momentum is too great. Up ahead, the highway curves sharply over a bridge, and the truck in front of him is slowing down.
Panic finally seizes him, the tires lock unevenly, sending the car to spin out of control.
“Hlengiwe!” he gasps, holding on to the steering wheel.
The airbag deploys but the momentum is too strong. The car flips over the edge, tumbling through the air into the dark ravine below. Silence follows the crash and is only broken by the hissing of the radiator and the distant sound of sirens.
To be continued
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