uGULUVA Chapter 17

DUBAI

MaMofokeng studies her husband from the bed, the city lights of Dubai spilling over his bare back as he stands on the balcony, cigarette between his fingers. No t-shirt, just confidence and quiet power. Her sister chose well. At thirty-four, Mabutho Cele is aging like fine wine—broad shoulders, calm eyes, a presence that fills the room without trying.

“You will make me make a mistake, MaMofokeng—those eyes,” he says, turning to face her.

She giggles, pushing herself off the bed and walking toward him. The oversized t-shirt slides over her hips, revealing fresh thighs as she sways on purpose.

“What if I love the mistakes you make?” she teases.

He chuckles, eyes darkening. “Then maybe we should make them,” he says, pulling her close, hands firm at her waist, kisses pressed along her jaw and neck.

“Hmmmm, Cele, don’t tempt me,” she murmurs, breath already uneven. “We just did it…”

“I love doing it with you, uyazi nawe,” he replies, that slow, knowing smirk curling his lips. Words—this is one of his tricks. And it works every time.

(You also know)

“No, thank you, baba,” she laughs, trying to wriggle free.

“Uyaphi manje?” He tightens his hold, bringing her closer. “Feel that?” he asks softly, pressing his need against her stomach. “Help me fix it. You made this mess.”

She looks up at him, amused, eyes shining. This man never gets enough of her—no wonder she’s two months pregnant.

“I need to rest, baby,” she says gently, softening her voice, the famous puppy eyes deployed with precision.

“Take a cold shower. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

He studies her, torn, because how does a man choose cold water when his wife is right here?

“No, mkami,” he says at last, loosening his grip just a little. “You can rest. But you’ll fix this. Trust me.”

Amanda smiles to herself. She knows exactly what she’s doing. If they start now, they won’t stop—and her in-laws are arriving soon. She needs her beauty sleep, her strength, her calm.

She kisses his cheek, stepping back just out of reach. “Later,” she whispers.

Mabutho exhales, watching her retreat to the bed, already planning how he’ll collect that promise—after the guests, after the formalities, when Dubai finally sleeps. And Amanda closes her eyes, victorious, the city humming outside as the night stretches on.

.

.

Seven hours later, the flight touches down, the gentle thud of the wheels against the runway sending Phindile’s heart into a frantic rhythm. It beats faster than it ever has.

Throughout the entire flight she slept—deep, dreamless sleep—missing everything in between. She hadn’t seen the sky change, hadn’t heard the announcements, hadn’t even felt the turbulence.

Ncanezwe had woken her up twenty-five minutes ago, his voice calm and steady as he leaned close to her ear. We’re landing soon.

And now, here they are.

The plane slows, taxiing along the runway, and Phindile just stares ahead, her fingers tightening around the armrest as she tries to calm her nerves. This is all supposed to be pretending, just an act—but it feels terrifyingly real. Too real. Her chest feels tight, her thoughts racing with everything that could go wrong. She’s scared of saying the wrong thing, of looking wrong, of messing everything up.

“MaNzimande,” he calls.

She turns to him immediately, her eyes wide and attentive.

“Stay calm,” he says quietly. “And don’t mess this up. Remember our rehearsal. Know what to say, and when to say it.”

She nods. That’s all she ever does when she’s scared. Words abandon her completely.

“Asambeni,” Ncanezwe says, sliding his sunglasses back on as if this is just another ordinary arrival.

(Let’s go)

Phindile stands, lifting her handbag with slightly trembling hands, and follows behind him as he leads the way out of the plane. Each step feels heavier than the last. This might be the longest weekend of her life. Or maybe… the longest weekend of both of theirs.

*

AMANDA MOFOKENG — CELE.

Three years down the line, and she has learned how to love a man she once called her brother-in-law. Amanda exhales softly, a small smile forming as she rests her hand on her tummy.

“Daddy is going to be proud of us, baby,” she whispers.

A month ago, she found out she was pregnant. She kept the secret to herself—not because of fear, but because of joy. Their anniversary ceremony was already planned, and she wanted that night to hold one more miracle. One more surprise. She studies her reflection, smoothing the green dress over her hips just as his voice reaches her from outside the bathroom.

“MaNdosi! Qhawe is here downstairs. Let’s fetch them.”

She steps out, and the moment he sees her, his gaze stills—slow, appreciative, dangerous in the way only he can be.

“Well… sawubona, mkami,” he murmurs, his eyes shameless as they travel before returning to her face, his tongue grazing his lower lip.

“Cele, don’t—” she warns, trying to sound stern.

He only glares, amused.

“Keng?” she adds, arching a brow.

“Woza la,” he says, his voice dropping, darkening.

She sighs inwardly. This man will be the end of her. Why is he always like this when he looks at her? She steps closer. His hands find her waist instantly, pulling her in, claiming her mouth in a long, unhurried kiss that steals her breath and leaves her clinging to him.

“Mmm… hi, mami,” he murmurs against her lips, pressing a soft peck as she struggles to steady herself.

“Baby,” she finally manages, her voice barely above a whisper.

She smiles up at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if grounding herself.

“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, though there’s no real complaint in her voice.

“And yet,” Mabutho says softly, brushing his thumb along her jaw, “you married me.”

She laughs quietly, the sound warm, full. Three years. Three years of choosing each other despite the whispers, the past, the complicated beginning that once felt impossible to explain to anyone else. She steps back slightly, smoothing her dress again, this time more for herself than the mirror. Her hand returns to her tummy unconsciously, a secret she carries like a gentle flame.

“Qhawe is waiting,” she says, trying to sound composed. “If we don’t go down now, they’ll think we don’t want them here.”

Mabutho laughs at her comment, that deep, careless laugh that always makes her smile.

“Let’s go then, makoti wako Ndosi,” he says, threading his fingers through hers.

They leave the bedroom together, bare feet padding softly down the stairs of the house they’d rented. It isn’t a hotel—this is privacy, space, luxury without interruption. They checked in two days ago, long before the celebrations, just to breathe, to exist without schedules… and to properly explore both the city and each other.

Dubai had been her choice. She said it was for the fresh air, the warmth, the way the city glows at night—but really, she wanted a place where no one knew them, where laughter could be loud and kisses unguarded. Mabutho hadn’t questioned it. He never did when it came to her. What his wife wants? His wife gets.

The house opens into a wide living area with glass walls that look out over the city skyline. Morning light spills in, soft and golden. Amanda tightens her grip on his hand for a second, instinctively, her other hand drifting to her stomach before she catches herself. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, but says nothing.

“You’re quiet,” Mabutho says as they reach the kitchen. “That usually means you’re hiding something.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Or maybe I’m just enjoying my husband before the world starts demanding him again.”

He pulls her closer, presses a kiss to her temple. “The world can wait. The whole weekend is ours.”

She looks up at him, heart full, the secret heavy but sweet inside her. The weekend, she tells herself. The weekend will be perfect.

And as they stand there, wrapped in calm and stars.

*

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