uGULUVA Chapter 10

PHINDILE GWALA.

R150,000 just for pretending? I still can’t believe Ncanezwe. After our agreement, MK—his personal driver—dropped me off at home. It’s 20:30, and I’m curled up on the couch, catching up on The Real Housewives Ultimate Trip, indulging in my snack haven—tomato-flavoured chips—when my phone vibrates.

A message from Nobantu.

“50 hours later, still waiting.”

I sigh deeply. What is it with her and breathing down my neck like this? I quickly exit Showmax and dial her number. It rings once… twice… and she answers on the third ring.

“Ya,” she responds, her usual attitude thick in her voice.

“Bantu, sawubona. Is Ma okay?” I ask.

(hello)

I already know I can’t speak to Ma directly. She took her phone after I bought her a smartphone—apparently she’s too old for one. After that, I bought her a simple cellphone with buttons. Two weeks later, Siminaye accidentally dropped it into a bucket of water, and they only noticed the next day. I sent Nobantu money to replace it, but she said she forgot because Sxova needed money and promised she would replace it. It’s been eight months now.

“How can Ma be okay, Phindile?” she snaps. “Her medication is finished. Kanti yini le oyihlalele lapho eGoli uma kuzofanela ukuthi ngikucenge when you have to buy your mother’s medication?”

(So what exactly are you doing there in Johannesburg if I still have to beg you to buy your mother’s medication?)

I sigh, then clear my throat. “I’ll send the money, sisi. Please use the kids’ grant for her medication for now—I’ll pay it back.”

“Heeeheeee!” she laughs loudly.

“Ngeke ukubone lokho, izingane zami zidleni? Angithi kuyimanje uyahluleka ukondla unyoko? Hayike sisi, khohlwa. And again—send the money kusasa. Angisafuni ukuzwa ama excuses. Nxn!”

(That will never happen—what will my children eat? Isn’t it clear now that you’re failing to take care of your own mother? No, sister, forget it. … tomorrow. I don’t want to hear any more excuses.)

The call ends before I can say another word. I lower the phone slowly as tears stream down my face. I know Ncanezwe will give me the money—but this burden? Her words? They cut sharper than a knife.

At this point, I can say it without doubt: my older sister hates me.

I drop the phone onto my lap, staring at the dark screen like it might suddenly soften her words and play them back kinder. But it doesn’t. Nobantu’s voice still echoes in my ears—sharp, accusing, unforgiving.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, annoyed at myself for crying. Crying won’t buy Ma her medication. Crying won’t silence my sister. Crying has never fixed anything in my life.

I sniff, take a deep breath, and reach for my snack, suddenly tasteless. The women on the screen are still arguing over something ridiculous—champagne, villas, who said what behind whose back. Their lives feel like another universe entirely. I pause the show and let the room fall quiet.

R150,000.

The number floats back into my mind like a ghost.

Ncanezwe Cele’s calm voice. His unreadable eyes.

Pretend. Just pretend.

That’s what he called it. Just playing a role. Just an agreement. My stomach twists. I sit up straighter, pulling my knees to my chest. If I accept this job fully—whatever it truly is—I can solve so much. Ma’s medication won’t be a monthly crisis. Nobantu won’t have to beg. The girls won’t grow up hearing adults fight about money like I did.

But at what cost? My phone vibrates again. My heart jumps, half-expecting another attack from Nobantu. Instead, it’s a message notification—unknown number.

“Did you get home safely, MaP?”

My breath catches. It’s him, it can only be him, he’s the one who calls like this. But why does he always sound like he already knows the answer? I stare at the message for a few seconds before replying.

Me: Yes, thank you. I’m home.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Ncanezwe: Good.

I will send you money tonight.

My chest tightens, pride and relief clashing violently inside me.

Me:

You don’t have to—

The message delivers before I can finish typing.

Ncanezwe Cele: I said I will.

Sleep well, Phindile.

I set the phone down slowly, my hand trembling more than I’d like to admit. The room feels quieter somehow, but the echo of his words lingers. Sleep doesn’t come easily tonight; my mind keeps replaying the conversation, the tone of his messages, the unspoken command beneath the words.

*

NCANEZWE CELE.

I glance at my phone and a slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Two birds with one stone—always the cleanest kind of win. I set the phone down and light up, drawing in the smoke like it owes me something. Her response had surprised me.

I had expected resistance. Tears, bargaining, maybe even a moral lecture. That’s usually how it goes before I remind people who they’re dealing with. I had already prepared the leverage—the things I keep buried for moments like that.

But she folded. Just like that. No fight. No drama. It made things easier. Easier always means faster. I exhale slowly when my phone rings. MK.

“Khuluma nami,” I say, answering without ceremony.

(Talk to me)

“Bhoza,” MK’s voice is tight, controlled but strained. That’s never a good sign.

“We have a huge problem. The shipment is getting delayed.”

I don’t say anything. Silence makes men talk too much.

“Langa and his crew,” he adds.

My jaw tightens. I should’ve killed him the last time. The smoke burns my lungs as I take another drag, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Langa had been allowed to breathe out of courtesy—old alliances, old blood ties, people begging me to be patient. Patience is overrated.

“How delayed?” I finally ask.

“They’re stalling at the border. Using influence. Playing games.”

I chuckle, low and humorless. “He always did like pretending he’s smarter than he is.”

There’s a pause on the line. MK knows that tone. It’s the sound of decisions already made.

“Pull the secondary route,” I continue calmly. “And tell the boys to stand down—for now.”

“For now?” MK echoes.

“Yes,” I say. “If Langa wants my attention, I’ll give it to him properly. No rush. I want him comfortable.”

I end the call before he can ask questions. Another drag. Another exhale. Everything is aligning too neatly—Phindile falling into place, Langa resurfacing like a bad habit. Fate has a strange sense of humour, but I’ve learned how to bend it. I pick up my phone again, scrolling to her name. So compliant. So unaware. I smile. Soon, everyone will understand one thing very clearly— Nothing moves without my permission.

I set the phone down and let the smoke curl around me, watching it twist like a warning. Langa thinks he can play games. Let him. Let him think he’s clever. I’ve been patient enough to let others make mistakes on my time. That patience ends when I say it does.

I scroll through her messages again, my thumb hovering over the last one. Phindile. She is oblivious to just how deep she’s stepping. Most wouldn’t dare. Most wouldn’t survive. But she… she obeyed. She complied. No hesitation, no hesitation to think twice. That kind of instinct—she doesn’t even know she has it yet—can be dangerous if handled correctly.

I pick up my glass of whiskey, swirling it slowly. Amber liquid catching the dim light. I sip. Calm. Controlled. But inside, the gears are turning faster than ever. Plans forming. Contingencies stacking. I never leave a problem unresolved.

MK’s voice still echoes in my head. Langa. Delays. Weakness. Mistakes that will cost someone dearly. I can feel the tension tightening in the pit of my stomach. That tension—I feed on it. It’s the kind of thrill most men can’t stomach.

I tap a few numbers on my phone, sending silent orders. Secondary routes, backup teams, eyes on Langa from every angle. Every man I trust is already moving without question. Langa won’t even see it coming. Then I set the phone down, lean back, and let out a slow breath.

Phindile will be ready. Langa will be exposed. And when the pieces fall, only one question will remain for everyone involved: Who really controls the game? I smile again. This time, wider. The night is mine. It has always been.

*

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