uGULUVA Chapter 5

PHINDILE GWALA.

It’s 03:30, and my shift ended about thirty minutes ago. The club is still alive—music pulsing, laughter spilling over, glasses clinking as people continue drinking like the night has no intention of ending.

I sit on one of the bar stools, sipping water, my feet aching pleasantly. Zinhle is in front of me, behind tje counter, helping out tonight—mixing drinks, sliding glasses across the counter, and serving the last wave of customers.

“I think being behind the bar is way less chaotic than walking around with a tray and a notepad,” I say, glancing at her. She gives me a look before chuckling softly.

“The bar is less chaotic,” she says while expertly mixing a cocktail, “but it’s also the most flirty place you can be.”

I open my mouth to respond.

“I think it’s—”

“Zinhle, my usual.”

The familiar voice cuts me off.

My body stiffens as the man settles onto the stool beside me. I turn my face slightly— Fuck. It’s the VIP guy. I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of my breathing, of the way my heart starts racing like I’ve been running a marathon. I take a quick sip of water, hoping it will calm the tightening knot in my stomach.

“New girl,” he says.

His voice is calm, confident. Too confident.

I’m about to look away from his gaze, but it feels like it lingers on me anyway. My pulse quickens.

“Hi,” I reply, keeping my face neutral, even as my blood rushes loudly in my ears.

“Your usual, boss. Anything else?” Zinhle asks, placing the same glass he ordered earlier in front of him.

He shakes his head.

“No.”

I keep my eyes fixed anywhere but on him. Let me just finish this glass and leave. I have water at home anyway.

“Zee, please pass me my bag,” I say to Zinhle before she can walk away.

“Oh, please don’t leave on my account,” the man says.

I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on Zinhle, who pauses and gives me a questioning look.

“My bag, manager, please,” I repeat, ignoring him completely.

He lets out a soft chuckle and mumbles something under his breath as Zinhle walks off to fetch my bag.

He chuckles again—low, calm—like he owns the space between us. The sound crawls under my skin, makes me shift on the bar chair. I hate that my body reacts before my mind does. Hate that I can feel him without even looking at him.

“Relax,” he says, lifting his glass slightly. “I don’t bite… unless asked.”

I finally turn to face him, slow and controlled. His eyes are sharp, observant—dark, like they’re always calculating something. He looks exactly the same as he did earlier in the VIP section. Expensive black shirt, sleeves rolled, a watch that probably costs more than everything I own combined. Calm.

Dangerously calm.

“I’m not tense,” I reply, my voice steady despite the war raging in my chest.

He smirks—not amused, more intrigued.

“That’s not what your body is saying.”

I scoff quietly and look away again, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Men like him live off reactions. I’ve spent my whole life surviving by giving none.

Zinhle returns with my bag, sliding it onto the bar.

“Here you go, Phindi,” she says, her eyes flicking between us like she’s watching a scene unfold in a movie.

“Thank you,” I say quickly, grabbing it and slinging it over my shoulder.

I hop off the chair. The ache hits immediately—feet throbbing, legs heavy, the night finally catching up with me. The lights, the noise, the endless movement—it all settles at once.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he says.

I pause, then turn halfway. “Goodbye.”

That makes him laugh properly this time.

“I like you,” he says. “You don’t pretend.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“No,” he agrees, studying me. “You’re here to survive.”

The words stop me cold.

I don’t know why they hit so hard—maybe because they’re true. Too true. I am here to survive, yet life never seems to care about that. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. I turn and walk away before he can say anything else. Can he just shut up now?

“What’s your name?” he calls.

I hesitate. My name feels sacred. Names give people access—and I don’t give access easily.

“Phindile,” I say at last.

He nods slowly.

“MaP,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it. “It suits you.”

“And yours?” I ask before I can stop myself.

A slow smile curves his lips.

“Ncanezwe.”

The name settles heavily in the air—strong, commanding. It fits him far too well.

“I should go,” I say, suddenly aware of the time again.

“Of course,” he replies. “You walking alone?”

I stiffen. “I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He stands, and I realize just how tall he is. “But Gauteng at this hour doesn’t care how strong you are.”

Before I can refuse, he signals to someone near the entrance. A big man straightens immediately.

“MK will walk you to your transport,” Ncanezwe says, like the decision is already made.

“I didn’t ask for—”

“Consider it a courtesy,” he cuts in gently. “Not a debt.”

I search his face for hidden intentions and find nothing—at least nothing he’s willing to reveal.

“…Fine,” I say after a moment. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head slightly.

“Get home safe, MaP.”

I walk away without looking back, my heart racing—but not from fear alone this time.

Outside, the cool night air slaps against my skin, grounding me. MK walks a few steps behind me, silent and respectful. When I finally climb into the staff taxi, I allow myself one deep breath.

I don’t know why that man unsettles me so much.

But I know one thing for sure—

This won’t be the last time our paths cross.

*

NCANEZWE CELE.

He has moved from the bar to the office now, carrying his glass of whiskey with him. It sits heavily on top of the polished table, the amber liquid catching the dim light. His cigarette rests lazily between his fingers, smoke curling upward, while his other hand holds his phone tightly to his ear as he speaks to his younger brother, Qhawe. The bass from the club is distant now, muffled by thick walls, replaced by the quiet hum of power and solitude that always settles in this office.

“Namanje you haven’t found us another MaNkomose?” Qhawe says jokingly.

(Even now)

Ncanezwe scoffs softly, shaking his head. Qhawe knows—everyone close to him knows—how much his brother despises MaNkomose. He hates everything she represents. Qhawe hates her too, but joking around will not hurt them, right? At least that’s what Qhawe believes.

“Nganitshela ukuthi angezelanga abafazi eGoli mina, ngizele ukukhulisa isibongo sakwa Ndosi futhi where is your wife while you’re talking to me at this hour?” Ncanezwe says.

(I told you that I didn’t come to Gauteng for women, I came to grow and elevate the Ndosi surname. And where is your wife while you’re talking to me at this hour?)

He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose as irritation settles in his tone. On the other side of the line, Qhawe chuckles, clearly unfazed.

“Bengisadla inkomo engayikhokhela bafo, she’s asleep after I…” Qhawe begins. (I was still enjoying the cow I paid for, brother—she’s asleep after I…)

“Eyi Qhawe, fusegi! Ngimdala njalo!” Ncanezwe snaps sternly, cutting him off immediately. (Hey Qhawe, stop it! I’m older, remember!)

His jaw tightens as he leans back into the chair. He wants nothing to do with his brother’s bedroom business—nothing at all, not even hearing about it. Qhawe bursts into laughter, the sound loud and careless, before finally calming down. He knows better than to push Ncanezwe when he uses that tone.

“Ayi bafo, awuthi ngilale, sizokhuluma ekseni,” Qhawe says.

(Alright brother, let me sleep, we’ll talk in the morning)

“Yebo,” Ncanezwe replies shortly.

(Alright)

The call ends. Ncanezwe lowers the phone and glances at the time. It’s now 04:00. The numbers glare back at him, reminding him how long the night has been. He needs to get home. MK is still out there, making sure the club is safe and properly closed down, which means Ncanezwe will have to drive himself tonight.

He lifts the glass and gulps down the half-remaining whiskey, the burn sliding down his throat, familiar and grounding. He crushes the cigarette in the ashtray with finality. Taking his phone again, he types out a message to MK, his fingers quick and precise.

“Out. Make sure you deliver the parcel at my house, first thing in the morning.”

He sends it, then slips the phone into his pocket as he walks out toward his car. The cool air hits his face, but it does nothing to quiet his mind. He tries to ignore the thoughts creeping in—unwanted, persistent—about the new girl. Her face, her presence, the way she unsettled him without trying.

“Let’s see how long you will be like this, Ncanezwe,” he mutters to himself.

He opens the car door, slides inside, and brings the engine to life. The headlights cut through the darkness as he pulls away, the road stretching ahead of him, silent and unforgiving, just the way he prefers it.

*

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