uGULUVA Chapter 12

Ncanezwe Cele—the most feared underground lord. A man whose name travels faster than bullets, whispered in corridors where deals are sealed with blood and silence. A man who never allows himself to get attached, because attachment makes men careless. And careless men do not survive. Yet here he is, glancing at Phindile seated beside him as daylight floods the car.

Sunlight slips through the windshield, settling on her face, softening her features in a way that irritates him. His chest tightens—subtly, dangerously. His heart beats faster than it ever does during high-risk deals or brutal confrontations. Her presence unsettles him. Her absence annoys him. He dismisses it instantly. He does not feel. He cannot afford to.

Beside him, Phindile sits quietly, her thoughts running wild. Her mind drifts to her mother—medication schedules, clinic queues, money that never stretches far enough. She replays every decision that brings her here, every boundary she crosses for the promise of stability, of a better life. The shopping bags in the boot feel like a silent accusation. Proof of what she ties herself to. Comfort wrapped in conditions. Gifts that come with expectations she does not dare question.

Soweto unfolds before them in broad daylight—vendors calling out, taxis fighting for space, schoolchildren laughing as they cross the street. Life moves loudly, honestly, unaware of the power sitting inside the sleek car cutting through its streets.

Ncanezwe slows slightly as they enter deeper into the township.

“MaP,” he calls, his voice calm—too calm—but weighted with authority.

Phindile’s fingers curl tighter in her lap. She turns to face him, blinking as she’s pulled from her thoughts.

“Yes?” Her voice comes out polite, guarded. Always careful with him.

“We have to do training. I don’t want any mistakes,” he says evenly. “You’ll take two weeks off from the club. After that, you return once everything is done.”

Her brows knit together instantly. Two weeks? She had only started the job three days ago. Today was her scheduled day off, yes—but this? This didn’t make sense. Her mind scrambles, counting bills, responsibilities, the fragile thread of stability she’d just begun to hold onto.

“I—” she starts, then stops herself.

Before she can even form the words, his voice cuts in.

“Phindile, don’t think about it,” he says, firmer now. Final. “You’re doing it anyway.”

The words snap her back into the room. Her chest tightens. He can’t just issue orders like this without talking to her first. Why does he always do this—throw instructions around as if her opinion doesn’t matter? She exhales slowly, resisting the urge to argue. The car pulls up outside her house. His posture is relaxed, almost casual. As if he hasn’t just disrupted her entire routine. As if her life is something that can be rearranged at his convenience.

“We’ll communicate how we’re going to handle this, MaNzimande. MK, help her,” he says, glancing at his phone.

His tone leaves no room for debate, and a shiver runs down her spine at how firm he sounds. Without a word, Phindile steps out of the car, leaving him behind—no goodbye, no acknowledgment, just the quiet weight of the moment between them.

*

PHINDILE GWALA.

She stepped out of the car, a flicker of irritation gnawing at her. The way Ncanezwe had spoken—it wasn’t disrespectful exactly, but it carried that weight, that edge, that made her chest tighten. She wanted to confront it, maybe even demand an explanation, but fear held her back. For now, she could only let it simmer.

MK carried the shopping bags as they walked through the gate toward her small, neatly kept home.

“Thank you, I’ll handle the rest,” she said as they reached the stoep. She had always guarded her personal space fiercely, and even now, she kept the threshold of her life firmly intact.

MK nodded, his eyes respectful, and offered a small smile before heading back to the car. As she unlocks the bulgar, her phone vibrates in her handbag and he take it out.

“One day I will accompany you in there, and maybe we might end up doing… whatever God knows. See you on Monday, mamacita.”

Her heart skipped. The familiar rush—equal parts frustration and curiosity—flooded her. She looked up, and there he was, standing a few paces away, that infuriating smirk on his face. She let out a soft sigh, ignoring the text, and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

Her rented room in Soweto was modest but elegant, the kind that made you feel at home immediately. Not a backroom, but a place she could afford without compromise. She set her phone, handbag, and keys on the table, then turned to fetch the shopping bags from the stoep.

As she carried them inside, she felt a strange mix of pride and tension. She liked her independence, the way she controlled her space—but Ncanezwe had a way of intruding without even stepping fully into her world. She shook her head, forcing the thought away. Monday was far enough. For now, she would focus on unpacking, fitting, and keeping her calm.

*

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