uGULUVA Chapter 1

THE NEXT DAY.

PHINDILE GWALA.

She stares at the three slices of white bread on her lap—dry, uneven, untouched. Her stomach tightens, not just from hunger but from exhaustion. With a heavy sigh, Phindile lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her thin frame. This has been her life in Johannesburg for the past two months. Survival. Three slices today. Sometimes two. Sometimes one. Sometimes nothing at all.

She has mastered the routine: wake up early, wash her face with cold water, whisper a prayer, then walk the streets of Johannesburg with copies of her CV tucked into a plastic sleeve. Every day, the same hope. Every day, the same disappointment. But today? Today, her body feels heavier than usual. Her spirit feels tired. Today, she has no strength.

“When will God hear my prayers?” she wonders, blinking back tears.

It is not easy being the last-born child. It is not easy being the one expected to carry everyone. A mother back home depending on her. An older sister who produces babies like she’s producing honey—except even bees rest between seasons. Her sister doesn’t. She just keeps going.

Phindile scoffs bitterly.

“She just… she just—”

Her phone rings. As if summoned by her thoughts. She looks at the screen. Nobantu.Her chest tightens.

“Oh,” she mutters. “Speaking of the devil…”

She answers anyway.

“Mtase, hey,” Phindile says softly.

(my sister)

“Don’t mtase me, Phindile!” Nobantu snaps from the other side of the line. “You said you will send the money today. What do you think Ma is eating, huh? What about izingane zami—my children? Ungangidini, Phindile! Don’t disappoint me! You said you’re going to try life there in Johannesburg. Yizameke, sisi! Try harder, sister! Nxn!”

Nobantu’s voice is sharp, loud, merciless.

Phindile says nothing at first. She presses the phone harder against her ear as if that will stop the words from cutting so deep. Tears slide freely down her cheeks now, warm and uncontrollable. If only Bantu knew…

“Sisi,” Phindile finally speaks, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound strong. “I’ve run out of money. Ngikhuluma nawe manje, anginakudla—I’m talking to you right now and I don’t even have food. I don’t even have money to go look for work today. Please, just bear with me.”

There’s a pause, then—

“DON’T BULLSHIT ME, PHINDI!” Nobantu explodes. “Anginandaba what it takes, uyangizwa? I don’t care what it takes, do you hear me? Find that job and start sending that money. Izingane zilambile—my children are hungry! Nxn!”

The line goes dead. Phindile lowers the phone slowly. Her sob breaks free. This is not how she imagined Johannesburg. This is not what she dreamed of when she packed her bags, kissed her mother goodbye, and promised everyone that things would change. Five months ago, life had finally smiled at her. She remembers the call clearly. A job interview. Then another call. “You got the job.”

After years of unemployment. After years of not studying further because there was no money. After years of feeling invisible. God had finally come her way. Or so she thought. Two months later, she was retrenched.

“The company is full,” they said.

Full. It has been two long, unforgiving months since then. Two months of walking. Of rejection. Of polite smiles that mean no. Of emails that never come back. She has been living off her savings—the money she had carefully put away to one day build her mother a better home. Brick by brick. Hope by hope. Now the savings are almost gone. And still, no job.

Phindile wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks around the tiny room. The peeling paint. The thin curtains. The silence.

“Sitting will not help me,” she whispers to herself, forcing her legs to move.

“Let me go try again.”

She stands up. Because giving up is not an option when people are waiting for you to survive.

.

.

.

Today, luck finally finds me. A stranger heading to Sandton agrees to give me a lift from Soweto. I release a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding as the city changes around me—the dusty familiarity of Soweto slowly giving way to tall buildings, glass walls, and fast-moving lives that don’t seem to notice people like me. I watch everything through the car window.

The clean streets. The people who walk like they belong. The confidence in their steps. Where do I even start? I wonder. I have no plan. No appointments. Just faith stretched so thin it feels like it might snap.

“I don’t know,” I murmur under my breath, fingers tightening around my handbag.

“But let me try.”

When the car pulls over, I thank the driver and step out. My feet hit the pavement with a quiet finality. Sandton hums around me—cars hooting, heels clicking, fragments of conversations floating past my ears.

“Hamba nami, Nkosi,” I whisper.

(Walk with me, Lord.)

I start walking slowly, my eyes scanning every building, every window, every notice board. I am halfway down the street when something bright catches my eye. A poster. I stop abruptly and step back.

A WAITRESS NEEDED — CLUB NOVA.

My heart skips. I move closer, reading it carefully, afraid my hope might outrun reality. The poster lists everything—address, contact number, working hours. Night shifts. Immediate start.

“Club Nova…” I whisper, tasting the name on my tongue.

Before fear can talk me out of it, I pull out my phone. My hands shake slightly as I type the address into Google Maps, then save it on WhatsApp too, just in case. The GPS loads. Sixteen minutes walking. I tighten my grip on my bag.

“Okay,” I tell myself softly. “Let’s go.”

My pace quickens. My heart beats louder with every step, syncing with the GPS voice guiding me through unfamiliar streets.

Every turn feels like a test of faith. Every block feels heavier than the last—but I don’t slow down. This could be it. Or it could be another disappointment. Still, I walk. Because hunger does not wait. Because my mother is counting on me. Because hope—no matter how bruised—refuses to die.

And somewhere ahead, glowing behind neon lights and loud music, Club Nova waits. The bass hits me first. It vibrates through the pavement, through my chest, through the soles of my worn sneakers. Neon lights flicker above a sleek black building, pulsing red and violet like a heartbeat.

CLUB NOVA.

I slow down, staring up at it. This is not the kind of place I imagined myself working in—but desperation has a way of changing dreams. I pull out my phone again and check the GPS.

“You have arrived.”

“Okay,” I whisper, exhaling. “This is it.”

As I step closer, my eyes drop to the screen, rereading the details on the poster—waitress needed, immediate start—when suddenly— Thud. I crash into something solid. Hard. My phone almost slips from my hand as I stumble back, my forehead knocking lightly against a broad chest. Strong. Unmoving. Warm.

“Yho!” I gasp, instinctively reaching out to steady myself. A hand grips my wrist briefly—firm, unyielding—then releases me just as fast.

“Watch where you’re going,” a deep voice hisses above me. “Mind your steps next time.”

I look up, my breath caught in my throat.He is tall. Dressed in black. Sharp jaw. Unreadable eyes—the kind that look through people rather than at them. There is something dangerous about his stillness, something tightly controlled.

“I—I’m sorry,” I blurt out quickly. “Ngiyaxolisa.”

(I’m sorry.)

He doesn’t say another word. He steps around me and walks away, disappearing into the shadows beside the club as if I imagined him. I stand there for a moment, my heart racing.

“What was that?” I murmur, rubbing my arm.

I shake my head. Focus. Straightening my shoulders, I walk up to the entrance. Two bouncers stand guard, their eyes scanning me from head to toe.

“I’m here about the waitress position,” I say, my voice steady despite my nerves.

One of them nods and gestures inside.

“Talk to management.”

The inside of Club Nova is dim, expensive, intimidating. Velvet couches. Gold accents. The air smells like alcohol, perfume, and money. A woman behind the bar looks me over briefly before pointing me toward the back office. Minutes later, I stand in front of a woman in her late thirties—sharp eyeliner, slick bun, no-nonsense expression.

“You have experience?” she asks.

“A little,” I answer honestly. “I learn fast.”

She studies me for a moment, then sighs.

“We’re short-staffed.”

My heart pounds.

“Can you start immediately?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.

She nods. “Good. You’re hired.”

I freeze. “I—what?”

“Come back tomorrow at four,” she continues. “Black skirt, white shirt. Long hours. No nonsense. You mess up, you’re out.”

I swallow hard.

“Yes. Thank you. Ngiyabonga kakhulu.”

(Thank you very much)

I walk out of the office in a daze. Outside, the neon lights feel brighter. The city feels louder. My phone vibrates in my hand, but I ignore it, pressing it to my chest instead.

For the first time in months, something has gone right. Tomorrow, I will work. Tomorrow, I will eat. Tomorrow, my life might finally begin to turn. My name is Phindile Gwala, 25 years of age and I am part of this journey.