CHAPTER 10
HLENGIWE
She closes her bedroom door and leans her back against the wood. The cramps in her lower abdomen are no longer just sharp stings but they are deep waves of pressure that make her breath hitch. She reaches for the bottle of medication on her nightstand, but it is useless. She has followed every instruction, done every breathing exercise, and stayed off her feet, yet the pain is winning.
With trembling fingers, she dials her doctor.
“Doctor, ” she says, “The cramps aren’t stopping. They are getting more intense. I’ve done everything you said, but it feels like something is wrong.”
“Mrs Nhlapho, because of your blood pressure and the history of this pregnancy, you are at high risk. I don’t want you waiting another minute. Get to the hospital immediately. I will alert the emergency room to expect you.”
She hangs up and grabs her handbag, checking if everything important is inside before leaving the room. Every step toward the hallway feels like walking through thick mud. The pain pulls at her, demanding she curl into a ball, but she forces herself to move until reaches the guest room where Balungile is still unpacking.
“Balu… please,” she gasps, clutching the doorframe. “Take me to the hospital.”
Balungile drops a stack of clothes and rushes to her side
“Hlengi? What’s happening? Don’t tell me you are in labour, it’s too early for that.”
“I’ve been experiencing cramps since this morning but they are worse now,” she says, her forehead beginning to sweat.
Balungile grabs her car keys, lets her lean her full weight on her shoulder. They shuffle down the stairs until they reach Balungile’s car in the driveway. She sinks into the passenger seat, her hands gripped tightly over her stomach as if she can hold the life inside her by strong will.
The drive feels like forever, every red light is a torture. Every bump in the road sends a jolt of agony through her body. She stares out the window, watching the city blur by, praying silently to a God she feels has already turned His back on her.
By the time they pull into the hospital entrance, she can barely stand. The staff is already waiting with a wheelchair. They wheel her away, leaving Balungile standing in the hallway, clutching her handbag to her chest.
Inside the quiet exam room, the atmosphere is heavy. She lies on the bed, her gown gathered at her waist. She stares at the ceiling, her jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every few seconds, a fresh wave of pain rolls through her pelvis, making her toes curl.
The doctor, a woman she has trusted for years, moves the cold transducer over her stomach. She is usually chatty, asking about her work or the nursery decor, but today she is silent. She moves the probe back and forth, her eyes fixed on the black-and-white monitor. She frowns, clicking a button to freeze an image, then moves it again, searching.
“Doctor?” She whispers. “I don’t hear the heartbeat. Why don’t I hear the beating?”
The doctor doesn’t answer immediately. She tries one more angle, pressing a bit firmer. She winces, but she doesn’t move. She is staring at the screen, looking for that tiny, flickering light that usually dances in the center of the image.
The doctor finally sighs, a heavy sound that tells her everything before a word is even spoken. She wipes the gel off her stomach with a paper towel and turns off the monitor.
“Mrs Nhlapho, there is no easy way to say this,” the doctor says softly, pulling her stool closer to the bed. She takes Hlengiwe’s hand, her palm warm against Hlengiwe’s cold, clammy skin. “I’ve checked thoroughly, there is no heart beat activity. I’m so sorry, but you are having a complete spontaneous miscarriage.”
She feels a strange numbness move from her chest to her fingertips. “But I did everything you asked me to do. I stayed at home. I took the pills for the blood pressure. I did the exercises.”
“I know you did,” the doctor says, “But your body has been under an impossible amount of trauma. Between the shock of losing your husband, the physical stress of the funeral, and your blood pressure spiking to dangerous levels… it created a hostile environment for the pregnancy. Your body simply couldn’t sustain both you and the baby under this much grief.”
She shakes her head, her tears falling down her face. “No doctor, you’re wrong. God wouldn’t take the baby too. He took the father, he wouldn’t take the child. That’s not fair, right?”
“It isn’t fair,” the doctor agrees quietly.
The door opens and Balungile rushes in. She looks at the doctor’s face, then at Hlengiwe, who is staring blankly at the wall. Balungile doesn’t say a word; she just climbs onto the edge of the bed and pulls her into her arms.
The touch breaks something in her and she lets out a guttural wail. She buries her face in Balungile’s neck, her hands clutching at her sister’s shirt as if she’s trying to keep herself from falling into a dark hole.
“He’s gone, Mntase!” She screams, “My baby is gone.”
She sobs until she can’t breathe, Balungile holds her tight, rocking her back and forth, her own tears soaking into Hlengiwe’s hair.
GATSHA
He stands at the head of the long boardroom table at the depot. The room is filled with the managers and senior drivers. He has his sleeves rolled up, his posture commanding. For the last two days, he has been so busy, asserting his authority over every corner of the business.
“Gentlemen,” he says, his voice carrying over the low whispering of the men. “Things are going to look a little different from now on. We are increasing the turnaround times on the Durban route. I want the trackers monitored every hour, not every four. If a truck stops for more than ten minutes without a logged reason, I want to know about it. My partner is gone, but the standards he set are the floor, not the ceiling. Am I clear?”
The men nod, some looking impressed, others shaking their heads. He smiles proudly, he is finally the man in the big room.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, he sees Zenzele’s name popping up the screen and excuses himself, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
“Zenzele,” he says, still riding the high of the meeting. “I’m in the middle of a briefing. This better be important.”
“It is,” Zenzele says, “The formal reading of the will has been scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. The family has been notified and I expect you to be there as a primary stakeholder.”
He frowns, leaning against the corridor wall. “That was quick. I thought we had at least a week before the lawyers started circling. Why the rush?”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line. “Hlengiwe is out of the hospital,” Zenzele says softly. “She suffered a miscarriage two days ago, Gatsha. The stress was too much. The doctors had to stabilize her BP. She wants the legalities over with so she can close this chapter.”
The hallway suddenly feels like it’s spinning. His hand tightens on the phone, his knuckles turning red. A wave of ice-cold air seems to rush into his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He thinks of Hlengiwe’s face, the way she looked when she spoke about the baby being the only thing she had left of Funani.
He did this, a tiny voice whispers in the back of his mind. He cut the brakes and caused grief. He killed the father, and now he has killed the unborn child.
He feels a sharp, stinging pain in his chest, a guilt so heavy he has to close his eyes to steady himself. He wanted the chair, the trucks, and the power, but he never intended for the blood to be spilled this much.
“Gatsha? Are you still there?” Zenzele asks.
He swallows hard, his throat feeling like it’s full of dry sand. He clears his throat, trying to force his voice back into a professional tone.
“I’m here,” he says, his eyes staring blankly at the “CEO” on the door across from him. “Let me know of the time and I’ll be there.”
NARRATED
Balungile and Siza stand by the window, watching Hlengiwe as she sits motionless in a chair. She looks like a ghost. The black mourning dress, tailored to fit her curves just a week ago, now hangs loosely on her body. Her eyes are swollen and look empty, staring at a fixed point on the floor.
“Hlengi, you should be in bed,” Balungile whispers, “You’re too weak for this.”
Hlengiwe doesn’t look up. “I’m fine, Balu. I just need this to be over so that I can heal in peace.”
The front door opens, Nhlapho Senior and MaDorothy walk into the room, followed by a sulking Lungisani.
“What is this one doing in my house? Didn’t you get the restraining order banning you from coming here?” Hlengiwe asks coldly.
“You have a lot of nerve sitting there looking like a victim!” Dorothy shouts, “After what you did to my son? Having him arrested like a common criminal? Throwing his belongings into the dirt and locking him out of his brother’s house? You are a heartless woman!”
Balungile steps in front of her sister immediately. “Don’t you have no shame? Do you not see the state she is in? She lost the baby, MaDorothy! Her child, your grandchild is gone and all you care about is a car and a spoiled boy’s ego?”
Dorothy scoffs, folding her arms. “Losing the baby is her karma for being evil and greedy, wanting to enjoy my son’s hard work alone. I’m not even sure if it was a miscarriage. Maybe she terminated it so she could galavant around the world eating Funani’s money without a burden tying her down.”
The room goes deathly silent for a heartbeat before Siza snaps forward and shoves Dorothy hard. The older woman stumbles back, gasping in shock as she hits the arm of a couch. Siza charges again, her hands reaching for Dorothy’s throat but Hlengiwe is up instantly.
“Siza, no!” She pulls Siza back, her fingers trembling. “Let it go my friend, it’s almost over. After today, they will never set foot in my house again.”
Siza shakes her hand, pointing a finger at Dorothy. “It’s better I walk away now before I strangle this old hag. You are such a witch.” Siza storms out toward the kitchen to cool down.
Nhlapho Senior clears his throat, looking slightly embarrassed. “I am sorry for the loss of the child, Hlengiwe. How are you doing?”
Hlengiwe sighs, returning to her chair. “What do you think? I lost my husband and the only memory attached to him. So yeah.”
Right then, Zenzele walks in, followed closely by Gatsha. Greetings are exchanged and formal. Zenzele places his leather briefcase on the coffee table and opens it.
“Since everyone is here, we can resume,” Zenzele says, looking over his spectacles. “We are here to finalize the estate of Funani Nhlapho.”
Hlengiwe’s phone rings interrupting, she answers, listens for a second, and says, “Let her in.”
A few minutes later, a woman walks into the lounge. She is dressed in a black pencil skirt and a white shirt, wheeling a small leather bag behind her. Hlengiwe frowns, her brow knitting together in confusion.
“Thabile? What are you doing here?” Hlengiwe asks. Thabile was a lawyer Funani had used years ago for minor labor disputes, but she wasn’t their family attorney.
“I am here to inform you of the final will and testament of Mr. Funani Nhlapho.”
Zenzele and Gatsha exchange a confused look. Zenzele stands up, his face hardening. “Excuse me? I am the family’s legal representative. I have the will right here.”
“Actually,” Thabile says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a sealed envelope with a fresh seal. “Mr. Nhlapho contacted me a day before his passing to change his will. We worked on the drafts through the night. It was as if he knew his time was short.”
Hlengiwe feels her heart skip a beat. “Why would Funani do that? Zenzele has always handled our affairs.”
Thabile looks directly at Zenzele, then at Gatsha, her expression unreadable. “After he was attacked in his office by an unknown man, Mr. Nhlapho felt the need to tighten his ship. He mentioned in passing that he no longer trusted his inner circle. He was skeptical about his lawyer’s true loyalties, and he was even more concerned about his business partner. “
An icy, suffocating silence follows after Thabile’s words. Gatsha’s hand that is resting on the back of a chair, begins to twitch. Zenzele’s professional mask drops for just a second, his eyes darting toward the door.
To be continued
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