uGULUVA Chapter 4

Club Nova is buzzing with music as waiters and waitresses move up and down the aisles, trays balanced on steady palms, bodies swaying slightly to the heavy bass that thumps through the walls. Neon lights—blue, red, and gold—slice through the dimness, flashing over sweaty faces, glittering dresses, and expensive bottles raised high in celebration.

At the VIP section, underneath the lion-shaped neon lights mounted proudly on the wall, sits Ncanezwe. He leans back on the plush leather couch, one arm stretched across the backrest, the other resting on his thigh. His eyes scan the room slowly, deliberately—like a man who owns the night even if the club’s papers say otherwise. A half-full glass of whiskey sits untouched on the table in front of him, ice melting quietly. This Ncanezwe doesn’t like to be rushed.

Two men sit beside him, laughing too loudly, already drunk. He doesn’t join in. His focus is elsewhere—on movement, on faces, on who belongs and who doesn’t. Club Nova is neutral ground, but even neutral places have ears.

On the other side of the club, Phindile Gwala steps out from behind the staff counter, adjusting the hem of her tight black skirt uniform. The material clings to her body in a way that still makes her uncomfortable. She exhales slowly, reminding herself why she’s here.

Work. Just work.

“Phindi, VIP table,” the floor manager shouts over the music, pointing in

Ncanezwe’s direction.

“Lion lights.”

Her stomach tightens.

Apparently VIP meant better tips—but also sharper eyes, heavier expectations. She lifts her tray, nods, and weaves through the crowd with careful steps. Drinks slosh dangerously close to the rim as bodies bump into her, hands brushing her waist without apology.

When she reaches the VIP section, the air feels different. Quieter. Thicker.

She inhales before she even speaks.

The scent of expensive cologne drifts toward her, sharp and controlled, nothing like the cheap sweat and alcohol filling the rest of the club.

“Good evening,” Phindile says, professional, measured.

Under the lion-shaped neon lights, Ncanezwe lifts his eyes. Their gazes meet—briefly. He looks at her the way he looks at everything else in the room: without hurry, without apology. His eyes move from her face to the tray, then back again, not lingering long enough to be rude, but long enough to be noticed.

“Yes?” he says, voice low, calm.

The bass thumps harder behind her. Phindile straightens her shoulders.

“What can I get for you?” she asks. One of the men beside him laughs loudly.

“Something cold and pretty, hey?”

Ncanezwe doesn’t laugh. He raises a hand slightly, silencing the man without even looking at him.

“Whiskey,” he says to Phindile. “Single malt. Neat.”

She nods, grateful for the simplicity, and turns to pour. The VIP area feels insulated from the rest of the club—less chaos, more control. When she places the glass in front of him, her hand is steady.

“Anything else?” she asks.

Ncanezwe studies the amber liquid for a moment before picking up the glass.

“You’re new,” he says, not as a question.

Phindile blinks, surprised, then recovers.

“First day.”

He takes a slow sip, eyes still on the glass.

“This place doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

“Neither do I,” she replies quietly, surprising herself.

That makes him look up.

This time, really look. For a second, something unreadable passes behind his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or simply curiosity. He sets the glass down.

“Then you’ll last,” he says.

She gives a small, polite nod. “Enjoy your drink.”

As she turns to leave, she feels his gaze follow her—not possessive, not familiar, just alert. Like a man noting a detail he may need later.

Phindile weaves back into the crowd, heart still beating faster than it should.

Behind her, Ncanezwe leans back against the leather couch, lifting his glass once more. Strangers. For now.

*

NCANEZWE CELE.

I come to the club every Wednesday. It’s not written anywhere. No calendar reminders. No calls from management asking me to show up. It’s just something I do—like checking the weight of a gun before leaving the house, or locking the door even when I know I’ll be back in ten minutes.

Routine keeps things alive.

When I moved from uMlazi to this side, this was the first door I opened. Club Nova. Concrete floors, borrowed money, loud dreams. People see lights and music now, see success, but they don’t see the nights when the bass came from rented speakers and the drinks were counted twice because losses meant hunger.

I built this place. Brick by brick. Rule by rule.

Casey runs it well. She understands structure. Numbers. Discipline. Still, no matter how capable the hands are, the head must return now and then. A parent has to come home, walk through the rooms, listen to the noise, and see if the children still remember who raised them. I sit in the VIP section under the lion-shaped neon lights, the symbol I chose myself. Power doesn’t announce itself—it waits to be noticed.

The leather couch sinks under my weight as I lean back, one arm stretched along the backrest, whiskey glass resting heavy in my palm.

I don’t drink fast. Rushed men make mistakes.

Around me, the club pulses. Bodies grind. Laughter bursts and dies. Bottles are lifted like trophies. To most people, it’s chaos. To me, it’s a pattern—movement, gaps, faces that return too often, faces that don’t belong. Neutral ground doesn’t mean safe ground.

Then the waitress comes into my line of sight.

I don’t notice her the way drunk men notice women. There’s no hunger in it, no careless appreciation. It’s instinct. The same kind that tells you when a room has shifted even though nothing obvious has changed.

She moves through the crowd like she understands space. Like she knows when to slow down, when to cut through, when to hold her ground. That already tells me more than any CV ever could.

Her scent reaches me before her voice does—clean, restrained, not mixed with desperation or sweat. When she speaks to another table, I don’t hear the words, just the steadiness in her tone.

I glance at her as she passes, watching how people respond to her presence.

And something moves.

It’s small. Annoyingly small. But it’s there. I don’t feel things. I stopped allowing that a long time ago. Feelings make noise. Noise attracts attention. Attention brings problems.

I exhale slowly through my nose and lift the glass to my lips, letting the burn of whiskey anchor me back where I belong.

That’s when I see MK approaching.

He cuts through the VIP section with ease, nodding at faces, acknowledging respect without demanding it. He leans in close when he reaches me.

“Bhoza,” he says, voice raised just enough to rise above the music.

“MK,” I reply, taking another measured sip before speaking again. My eyes track the waitress as she serves a table near the bar, bending slightly, adjusting her tray, never once losing balance.

“Who is that?” I ask casually and MK follows my gaze.

“New staff. We were short-handed, so I gave Casey authority to bring in another waiter.”

I nod once. Authority is useful. Oversight is essential.

“She fits in fast,” MK adds, almost as an afterthought.

That earns him a glance from me. I don’t comment. I don’t need to.

“Her file,” I say instead. “Tomorrow morning.”

MK nods immediately. No questions. He knows better.

I finally look away from her, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette. I light it slowly, the flame briefly cutting through the dimness. I inhale, feeling the smoke fill my lungs, calm me.

Around me, Club Nova continues to breathe—loud, alive, obedient.

Whatever that shift was, whatever instinct tried to speak—

I crush it under discipline.

People are details. Details are manageable.

I take another drag, eyes scanning the room again, already moving on. For now.

*

100+ comments & 10 shares.