CHAPTER 7
HLENGIWE
She never thought she would see this day coming where her in-laws become so speechless and gets humbled by someone else. The way they were so confident just a few minutes ago, wow.
Gatsha stands by the door for a moment, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive posture.
“Are you okay, ladies?” he asks quietly. “Do you need me to get you some water? Or maybe tell the kitchen to bring up some hot soup?”
She wipes the last of the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No, I’m fine, Gatsha. Thank you for your intervention. I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t walk in. They were ready to pack his things and leave with him today.”
Gatsha offers a small, tired smile. “I told you, I’ve got you. Funani wouldn’t want them bullying you in your own house. I won’t let it happen again.”
“You should get some rest,” she says, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. “You’ve been on your feet since it happened. Go home, or go to the guest wing. Please.”
Gatsha nods slowly, his hand lingering on the doorknob. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Just a phone call away.” He gives her one last nod and disappears.
The silence that follows is broken by a long, dramatic sigh from Sizakele.
“Yhu! Hlengi, can we just talk about what just happened?” Siza says, tossing a cushion onto the floor and sitting down. “Because that was hot. The way he just walked in and shut everyone up? I felt that in my soul.”
Balungile lets out a bubbly laugh, the first bit of lightheartedness the room has seen.
“No, seriously! Did you see Lungisani’s face? He looked like a puppy that just got kicked. His tail went straight between his legs. Gatsha didn’t even have to raise his voice.”
“It was a total turn-on,” Siza adds, fanning herself with her hand. “The authority, the protection… child, Gatsha is a whole meal.”
Despite the crushing weight of her grief, a tiny smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. It feels strange to smile, almost like she’s betraying Funani, but the banter of her friends is a lifeline.
“Stop it, you two,” she says softly, “Siza, you are in a relationship. Have some respect for your man.”
Siza throws her hands up in defense. “Hey, I’m just complimenting the scenery! I can be a window shopper, can’t I?”
Balungile shakes her head, leaning back against the wall. “Well, unlike Siza, my last relationship ended in tears and a blocked number, so I am officially single. And let me tell you, Gatsha is looking very good lately. Especially in those work overalls with the sleeves rolled up? Hayibo, the man has muscles I didn’t even know existed.”
They share a small laughter, it’s a moment of normalcy that she desperately needed. The door opens again, Simphiwe, Funani’s younger sister who lives in Cape Town walks in.
“Hlengi,” Simphiwe says, “I got here as fast as I could. The flights were delayed, and I felt like I was going to lose my mind sitting in that airport. I wanted to die when I heard the news.”
Siza and Balungile immediately stand up, “We’ll be downstairs if you need us,” Siza whispers, squeezing Hlengiwe’s hand before they both exit the room.
Simphiwe drops her bag and sinks onto the mattress next to her. She reaches out and pulls her into a massive, crushing hug.
“Oh sister…I’m so sorry mfazi ka bhuti. Waze wasizuma u Nkulunkulu.” Simphiwe whispers with a cracking voice.
She doesn’t fight it but buries her face in Simphiwe’s shoulder and sobs.
NARRATED
It’s Friday afternoon, the heat feels so suffocating. This is the day Hlengiwe has dreaded, the day the reality of the funeral proceedings truly begins. The house is no longer a home; it is a station of grief, filled with traditional hymns and the constant movement of people in black.
The convoy of black SUVs pulls up to the morgue. Inside the lead car, Hlengiwe sits between Balungile and her mother-in-law, MaDorothy. The earlier tension between them has settled into a professional truce for the sake of the funeral.
“Hlengiwe,” MaDorothy says, her voice unusually soft as she looks out the window. “We have discussed inzilo (mourning clothes) with the aunts.”
Hlengiwe turns her head slightly, her heart skipping a beat. She knows how heavy the traditional black attire can be, not just physically, but spiritually.
“Because of your condition,” MaDorothy continues, glancing at Hlengiwe’s baby bump, “you will not wear the black clothes. The elders agree that the weight of the mourning attire is too heavy for the child you are carrying. It brings a darkness that a belly should not know. You will wear a simple navy shawl for now.
You must understand that as soon as the child is born and you have healed, the black clothes will be waiting. You will honor your husband then.”
Hlengiwe exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding. A small part of her feels guilty for not being in the traditional black clothes, but the relief for her baby’s sake is greater. “Thank you, Ma. I appreciate the elders’ understanding.”
The car comes to a stop in front of the morgue. This is the moment where the business of death becomes painfully personal. As the family is ushered into the private preparation room, the air turns heavy and makes Hlengiwe’s stomach turn.
The mortuary attendants have already placed Funani on a stainless-steel table, covered by a white sheet. On a side table sits the suit Hlengiwe picked out, a midnight-blue three-piece that he wore to their last anniversary dinner.
“Hlengi, you don’t have to do this,” Balungile whispers, reaching for her sister’s arm. “The aunts can handle the bathing and the dressing. You should step outside. The fumes and the sight is too much for you right now.”
One of the elder aunts from Hlengiwe’s family nods in agreement. “My child, your heart is already broken. Don’t punish your eyes as well. Stay in the waiting room.”
Hlengiwe looks at the shape under the sheet. She thinks of how Funani used to take care of her, how he made sure she never lacked for anything. This is the last act of service she can ever perform for him. It is the final time she will touch his skin.
“No,” Hlengiwe says, her voice cracking as she wipes a stray tear and steps toward the table. “I washed his back when he was tired from the depot. I straightened his ties every morning for six years. I am not going to let a stranger dress him for his final journey. I am his wife and I am doing this.”
The room falls silent as Hlengiwe takes the basin of water and the cloth. Her hands shake violently at first, but as she peels back the sheet to reveal his chest, sorrow takes over. She begins to wash him, cries silently, the tears falling into the basin with soft splashes. She whispers to him as she works, leaning close to his ear so the others can’t hear.
“You look so handsome, sthandwa sami,” she murmurs, her thumb tracing the line of his cold jaw. “I’m putting on your favorite cufflinks. The ones I got you for your birthday. You always said they brought you luck.”
She turns away from the table, her strength finally failing her. Balungile catches her just as her knees buckle, guiding her out of the room.
GATSHA
The funeral service is over. The speeches have been made, the dirt has been shoveled, and the business mogul is now a memory resting under a mountain of fresh wreaths.
He sits alone in the driver’s seat of his car, the engine is off and the windows rolled up. He has finally found a moment of silence.
The black suit jacket feels heavy on his shoulders. He looks at his hands on the steering wheel, and suddenly, the mask he has worn all week cracks. Images flash through his mind, he remembers a winter night ten years ago when they only had one blanket between them in the back of a broken-down truck. They had shared a single loaf of bread, laughing about how one day they would own the whole road. He remembers the look on Funani’s face when they bought their first real tanker, the way Funani had hugged him and called him the brain of the operation.
“We’re going to be legends, Gatsha,” Funani’s voice echoes in his head.
The guilt finally pierces through his greed. He isn’t just the man who took over; he is the man who killed his only brother. A sob breaks from his throat, followed by another. He leans his forehead against the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking as the reality of his betrayal swallows his conscience. He cries for the man he lost, and for the monster he has become to get what he wanted.
A soft knock on the glass startles him. He sits upright, his heart racing. Through the window, he sees Simphiwe. He quickly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, puts on his sunglasses and takes a deep breath, trying to pull his mask back into place. He unlocks the door, and she slides into the passenger seat.
“Everyone is looking for you inside,” she says softly. “The elders want to start the final prayers before they leave.”
He reaches for the door handle to get out. “I’m coming. I just needed a minute of air.”
Simphiwe places a hand on his arm, stopping him. “How are you really doing? You’ve been the one holding everyone up all week.”
He sinks back into the seat, “I’m not okay, Simz. This is harder than I thought it would be. Everywhere I look, I see him. I hear him.”
Simphiwe leans back against the headrest, staring out at the window. “I can imagine, you two were inseparable. Remember when you both tried to fix that old engine in the rain and ended up covered in oil, looking like twin mechanics? Funani used to say you were the only person who knew exactly what he was thinking before he even said it.”
“He almost set the garage on fire that day. He was always so impatient with the small parts.” He says with a soft chuckle.
“And that time you both got lost trying to find that factory in the middle of nowhere?” Simphiwe adds, with a sad smile plasted on her face. “He told me you two stayed up all night talking about the big house you were going to buy your mothers. He loved you, Gatsha. More than any of the Nhlaphos, he trusted you.”
The silence that follows is heavy. The sadness returns, thicker than before. He looks at his lap, the weight of that trust feeling like a stone around his neck.
“What are we going to do next?” Simphiwe asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“We move on,” he says, “The company has to run, Hlengiwe needs to be taken care of. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s what has to happen.”
Simphiwe sighs, looking troubled. “I’m worried about Hlengiwe. I know she doesn’t like me much or any of us really.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Simz,” he says, defending her. “She just got defensive. Your parents treated her like a gold-digger from day one. She’s just protecting herself.”
Simphiwe nods, then bites her lip, leans closer to him. “I’ve always been on her side, but you need to know something. I heard the aunts talking in the kitchen just now. My mother and the elders are hinting at something terrible that I know will drive her crazy.”
“What?”
“They are talking about ungeno. They want Lungisani to marry Hlengiwe. They say it’s the only way to protect the Nhlapho lineage and keep the wealth in the family since she is young and beautiful. They’re planning to spring it on her after the cleansing ceremony.”
He feels his chest getting tighter and his heart beating fast. The thought of the lazy, entitled Lungisani touching Hlengiwe or the business makes his blood boil.
“They want to give her to Lungisani?”
Simphiwe nods, “They think it’s the right thing, especially since they are both in the same age group.”
He stares out at the mansion, his mind already spinning a new darker web. “Over my dead body,” he whispers.
To be continued
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