uGULUVA Chapter 16

PHINDILE GWALA.

A whole Phindile Gwala from KwaMashu… at the airport? Wow. I hold my bag while Ncanezwe adjusts his sunglasses. He looks effortlessly good today—jeans, a plain black t-shirt, black sneakers. MK unloads our luggage and stacks it neatly on the trolley, while the men in black suits linger a little ways behind us. Oh! I didn’t mention this, but he kept his promise: security is tighter than I imagined.

“Let’s go,” he says, and we start moving. MK follows behind, wheels of the trolley clicking softly.

I glance around the busy airport, walking beside Ncanezwe. He seems completely unfazed by the chaos—the noise, the crowd—but of course, he’s used to it. I take a slow, steady breath as we approach the reception desk. Does he even notice me? I don’t even have a passport.

“Good morning, Mr. Cele,” the receptionist greets him, her smile warm and professional.

My eyes flick to her, and I freeze for a moment. What am I supposed to do here? Claim him? Act like we’re a couple? For now, I’ll let it slide—the boyfriend-girlfriend act starts soon enough.

“Morning, Charlotte. Is the flight ready?” His voice is calm, neutral… cold, as always.

I trail behind him, trying not to stumble over my own nerves. Every step feels surreal. The airport feels bigger somehow, almost intimidating, yet… there’s a strange thrill under my chest, like my heart’s trying to keep up with my thoughts.

We reach the check-in desk, and Charlotte is typing quickly on her computer. Ncanezwe leans slightly over the counter, his posture still perfect, still composed. I watch him, studying the way people seem to part around him, subtly, like they can sense the power he carries.

“Everything is set. Boarding starts in twenty minutes,” Charlotte says, glancing at me for a fraction of a second, curiosity flickering across her face. I quickly look down at my shoes, pretending to busy myself with my bag. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to process the reality of what’s happening. My mind races. I don’t even have a passport… and he’s… taking me on a flight?

Ncanezwe glances at me, just for a second, his expression unreadable. My stomach twists. Does he even know how shaken I am? Or does he just… expect me to keep up?

MK steps forward, handing over our bags to the counter staff. The security team stays a discreet distance away, alert but invisible.

“Phindile,” Ncanezwe says softly, his voice low enough for only me to hear, “Just follow my lead.”

I nod, my throat dry. Follow his lead… as if I had a choice. We move toward the gate, the glass walls of the terminal reflecting my own wide-eyed expression back at me. My heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the hum of the airport. And then, through the sliding doors, I see it. The private jet. Sleek, white, and impossibly luxurious. My jaw drops. I didn’t think… I mean, I knew he was rich, but this… this is next level.

I step closer, unsure if I should reach out and touch it, like it might vanish if I blink. My hand hovers over the polished metal, trembling slightly. Ncanezwe watches me, arms crossed, unbothered by my reaction.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he says, his voice calm, almost teasing, and I realize… he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I’m shocked.

I manage a nod, words failing me. He gestures toward the stairs.

“Shall we?”

I swallow hard and take a step forward. My life just changed in ways I can’t even begin to understand.

I step onto the stairs, my hand brushing the sleek railing, and for a moment I hesitate. The door to the jet yawns open before me, a warm golden glow spilling out, and I’m swallowed by the hum of possibility—and fear. Everything smells of leather and polished wood, faintly of citrus, clean and impossibly expensive.

“Come on,” Ncanezwe murmurs, his voice low, smooth, almost hypnotic. He steps past me, effortlessly confident, as if he belongs here—and somehow, he does.

I follow, clutching my bag like a lifeline, my heels clicking softly against the cabin floor. The space inside is smaller than I imagined but somehow even more luxurious: plush cream leather seats, polished mahogany panels, ambient lighting that feels like it’s been tuned to my heartbeat. My pulse quickens. I’m on a plane—his plane—and somehow, he brought me here.

I take a seat, fumbling slightly, aware of the way his presence fills the room without moving an inch. He perches on the edge of the opposite seat, legs crossed, eyes studying me like he’s reading my every thought before I even think it. I try to ignore the heat rising to my cheeks.

“You’ve never flown private before,” he observes, casual, almost teasing.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

“Not… not like this.” My voice is smaller than I intended, betraying the thrill and nerves tangled inside me.

He smirks faintly, leaning back, arms resting comfortably on the armrests, and there’s this unshakable calm about him that somehow makes me feel both exposed and protected at the same time.

“You’re handling it better than most,” he says. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, and I feel a strange shiver crawl down my spine.

I focus on the window instead, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to tell myself I’m just a passenger. But the tension between us… it hums in the air, subtle, electric. Every time our eyes meet, I catch a flicker of something unreadable—something dangerous, yet oddly thrilling.

The engines hum to life, a soft vibration beneath my seat, and I clutch the armrests instinctively. Ncanezwe glances at me again, his lips quirking.

“Relax. Just… enjoy the view.”

I nod, and this time a small, nervous smile escapes me.

Maybe I can. Maybe I’ll survive this… adventure. But deep down, I already know this isn’t just about the flight. It’s about him.

The flight attendants move with quiet precision, gliding down the aisle with trays of crystal glasses and bottles of champagne. I watch them, frozen for a moment, as if I’ve wandered into a dream. One of them offers me a glass, and I accept it hesitantly, my fingers brushing the cool crystal.

The bubbles rise in delicate, teasing streams, catching the cabin lights. Ncanezwe doesn’t take a glass yet. He leans back in his seat, watching me with that same unreadable expression, calm and composed.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, almost conspiratorially. “You’ll get used to it.”

I manage a small laugh, nervous, shaky. “I… I’ve never had champagne on a plane before,” I admit, staring at the golden liquid as if it’s an artifact from another world.

“You’ll probably never forget this flight,” he murmurs, and the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly. There’s something teasing in his voice, but beneath it is that same quiet authority that keeps me tethered, even when my thoughts are running wild.

The cabin door slides shut behind the attendants. A soft chime, then the pilot’s voice comes over the speaker, smooth and professional:

“Miss Gwala & Mr Cele welcome on board, thank you for trusting me with taking you to yoir destination. Please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened. We will be taking off shortly. Estimated flight time to Dubai is seven hours and fifteen minutes. We’ll be cruising at thirty-nine thousand feet.”

I freeze, the glass halfway to my lips. Dubai. I blink. Did he just say Dubai?

Ncanezwe tilts his head slightly, observing me with that same calm scrutiny. My stomach twists. Seven hours… across continents… and somehow, I’m expected to just—go along with this? My pulse races, a mixture of awe, nerves, and disbelief. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself.

“Dubai,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “We’re… going to Dubai?”

“Yes,” he replies, soft but firm. “Everything is ready on your end. Just… follow my lead.”

I take a slow sip of my champagne, letting the bubbles sting the back of my throat. My mind is spinning. Dubai. Private jet. Champagne. Ncanezwe. Every piece of my reality is being rewritten in real time.

The engines hum louder, a gentle vibration through the floor, and the plane starts taxiing. My grip tightens on the armrest, knuckles whitening. I glance at him, and he meets my gaze with that same calm, steady presence. Somehow, just looking at him keeps the panic from overwhelming me completely.

The plane lifts off smoothly, and I press my hand to the window, staring down at the city lights shrinking below. They blur into streaks as we climb higher. My chest tightens—not from fear exactly, but from the impossible surrealism of it all.

Ncanezwe finally reaches for his glass, lifting it slightly in a subtle gesture that could be a toast.

“To new beginnings,” he says quietly, almost to himself, though the weight of it seems meant for me as well.

I lift my glass awkwardly, feeling the heat of the moment, and whisper, “To… surviving this.”

He smirks faintly, that infuriating, calm smirk that makes me feel both small and dangerously aware of his control.

“Oh, you’ll do more than survive,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “You’ll learn to enjoy it.”

I swallow hard, letting the bubbles and nerves mingle, my mind screaming at me to process what’s happening. Dubai. Private jet. Champagne. Ncanezwe. Pretending to be his girlfriend. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to let it sink in—and when I open them again, the city is gone, replaced by the sky, and my heart refuses to calm down. Because in that quiet hum of the plane, with the soft glow of the cabin and the faint scent of expensive leather and citrus, I realize one thing clearly: nothing will ever be the same again.

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