uGULUVA Chapter 2

NCANEZWE CELE.

I lean back into the chair again, the leather creaking beneath my weight letting it spin slowly, the ceiling blurring above me.

“Ngiyaxolisa.”

Her voice won’t leave my head. Soft. Careful. Like she was afraid of breaking something fragile between us. The warmth of her wrist under my fingers, the faint cologne clinging to her skin—clean, unfamiliar, dangerous.

“Focus, Ncanezwe.” My mind says.

“You don’t hesitate. You don’t feel.” It continues.

“The shipment will arrive on Wednesday.”

MK’s voice cuts through the noise in my head. I nod, even though my mind is still somewhere else – somewhere I shouldn’t be.

“Bhoza? Uyangizwa?” he asks.

My fingers tighten around the armrest as I stop the chair and lift my gaze to him. MK stands across the desk, arms folded, his stance relaxed but alert. He’s been with me long enough to read the silence. He knows when my thoughts drift too far.

“Ngiyakuzwa,” I say finally, my voice flat, controlled. “Wednesday.”

He exhales softly, tension easing from his shoulders, but his eyes stay on me a second longer than necessary.

“The route is clean,” he continues. “No tails. No leaks.”

I nod once more.

“Double the security,” I say. “Inside and outside. I don’t want surprises.”

MK tilts his head. “And if someone makes a mistake?”

“If anyone breathes wrong—”

“They disappear,” he finishes.

A thin smile curves my lips, not because of amusement but because of confirmation.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “Just like that.”

Silence stretches between us. The kind that carries weight.

*

PHINDILE GWALA.

I am so happy that I found a job, and even though my bank balance is still laughing at me, I decide to celebrate anyway. I don’t need a restaurant or fancy drinks. Right now, a little ice cream date with myself feels more than enough. I earned this.

“Thank you,” I say softly to the cashier over the counter at Milky Lane as they hand me my ice cream.

The cup feels cold against my palm, grounding me. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at it like it might disappear if I blink too hard. I walk away from the counter and take a seat on one of the plastic chairs by the window. The mall hums around me—people talking, shoes squeaking against the floor, laughter drifting from somewhere behind me.

I scoop my first bite and let it melt on my tongue. Sweet. Comforting. Familiar. As I eat, I scroll through TikTok, my thumb moving automatically while my mind wanders. People are dancing, flexing soft lives, showing off groceries and cars and apartments with too much light.

Normally, that kind of content makes my chest tight, but today it doesn’t. Today, I smile. I got the job.

My shoulders relax as I take another bite. I think about how many mornings I woke up not knowing where things were going, how many “we’ll get back to you” emails I pretended not to care about.

Sitting here now, with sticky fingers and cheap ice cream, feels like proof that things can change—even slowly, even quietly. I lean back in the chair, watching people pass by, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel rushed or heavy. Just full. Not just from the ice cream, but from hope.

My phone vibrates in my hand just as I lift another spoonful to my mouth. I barely pay attention at first, thinking it’s another random notification, until I see the name on my screen.

Nobantu. My smile falters slightly. I swipe open the message, my heart already bracing itself before I even read the words.

“Ma’s pills are running out and also I am pregnant for God’s sake, ngiyethemba uwutholile loyo msebenzi!”

(I hope you got a job!)

The spoon pauses halfway to my lips. Pregnant. The word hits me first, heavy and sharp, followed immediately by the familiar ache in my chest at the mention of Ma’s pills. My eyes sting as I reread the message, slower this time, as if the words might change if I look hard enough. I exhale and set the ice cream down on the table. Suddenly, it doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

I glance around the mall, at people laughing, shopping, living as if the world isn’t constantly asking them for more than they have. My thumb hovers over the screen. I want to tell her everything will be fine. I want to promise money I don’t have yet, stability I’m still chasing. But this time, it’s different. I straighten my back and type.

“Ngiwutholile,” I reply. “Ngizoqala soon. Sizolunga, Bantu. Ngiyakuthembisa.”

(I found a job, I am starting soon. We will be okay Bantu, I promise.)

I stare at the message after sending it, letting the weight of it settle. Fear is still there—quiet, patient—but for the first time, hope stands taller than it. I pick up my ice cream again, even though it’s starting to melt, and take a bite. This time, it tastes like resolve.

*

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