uGULUVA Chapter 6

KwaMashu, KZN.

MaNkabinde sits on the couch, her back pressing into the familiar dip of worn cushions as she feeds her youngest grandchild. Sinalo is eight months old—soft, warm, a tiny weight in her arms that carries none of the burdens of the world yet. Her mother left yesterday, following that shady-looking boyfriend of hers, the kind of man who eats cake he never paid for and somehow keeps producing more cupcakes every year.

Eight months old. And her mother is already pregnant again.

MaNkabinde exhales slowly, a low sound that settles into the quiet of the small living room. The children are not starving—never have been. Her pension, combined with the government grants, ensures that the cupboards always have mealie meal, the stove always has beans, the bread always stacked neatly on the counter. Her medication sits on the sideboard, untouched for now. But none of that excused carelessness from Nobantu. Carelessness had a way of slipping in and leaving holes where responsibility should have been.

“Lihle! Yenza ukudla kwezingane!” MaNkabinde calls out, her voice firm but steady as she wipes Sinalo’s tiny mouth.

(Make food for the kids!)

The past two months had been heavy on her. Phindile losing her job while in Johannesburg had shaken the household. It wasn’t just money—it was the uncertainty, the way it left the house quiet in the wrong places, tense in the right ones. MaNkabinde had stepped in without hesitation, because that’s what a mother does. She had even sent her money through Nobantu, trusting her to pass it along, trusting that she would do what was right.

The door creaks open. Nobantu walks in, glowing, neat, her pregnancy sitting comfortably on her frame like it belongs there. She swings shopping bags from Mr Price lightly in her hands, the rustle of plastic punctuating the quiet. All her pregnancies had suited her—this one? No different.

“Sawubona, Ma,” she says, dropping the bags with a soft thud and sinking onto the couch with ease.

(Greetings, Mom.)

Then, without looking up, she calls out lazily, “Thembelihle! Woza!”

(Come here!)

MaNkabinde studies her carefully. She watches Nobantu stretch her legs, glance at her phone, smile faintly at some message she isn’t sharing. Confidence radiates from her, a sense of entitlement honed over years. And yet, it irks MaNkabinde.

“Nobantu,” she says, measured. “Uyithumelile imali kuPhindile?”

(Did you send the money to Phindile?)

“Yebo.” Nobantu replies without hesitation, unbothered, almost dismissive.

(Yes.)

MaNkabinde nods slowly, letting it sit in the air, thick with unspoken expectation. From the kitchen, Lihle appears, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. She knows not to look up too long—never long enough to earn her mother’s impatience.

“Take the bags to my room, Lihle, then make me food,” Nobantu commands. Her voice is casual, almost bored, as if the world revolves around her little directions. Lihle obeys immediately, shoulders hunched, careful.

MaNkabinde watches her daughter for a long moment before speaking again.

“When will you get tired, Bantu?” she asks quietly, almost more to herself than to Nobantu.

Nobantu sighs, already anticipating this. She pulls out her phone, fingers moving over the screen. Not today, she thinks. Not today, not in the mood for this lecture that will roll out like the old carpet in the hallway—inevitable, heavy, a little suffocating.

“Five children, Nobantu. Awukhathali?” MaNkabinde continues, voice growing stronger.

(Five children, Nobantu. Aren’t you tired?)

Nobantu exhales slowly. What does her mother want from her? Isn’t it enough already that she clearly favors her golden egg, Phindile? That she praises Phindile endlessly while measuring Nobantu’s worth in chaos and children?

“Ma… not today. Please,” she says finally, still glancing at her phone, scrolling past messages, trying to keep herself anchored.

MaNkabinde leans forward, eyes narrowing.

“If not today, then when, Nobantu? Huh?” Her voice sharpens. “Lomfana wakaMbhele is busy planting his seed into you and doing nothing about it! Thembelihle is starting high school soon and he’s still pumping—and nawe uyavuma! Ungifunani, Nobantu?” She stops, chest heaving slightly. “I hope that one is the last one because ngikhathele.” She says, pointing to her belly. “I am tired. Tired of changing nappies, tired of baby cries and the chaos, tired of worrying while you… while you just… continue.”

Nobantu scoffs, leaning back. She only has four children—well, five with the one she’s carrying, not six. She’s done what she could to keep the household afloat. She handed over the grant cards, kept food on the table, did her part. What more does her mother want?

The room falls silent. The children are busy with their own small worlds; Sinalo gurgles in her grandmother’s arms, unaware of the tension settling around them like dust in sunlight. MaNkabinde watches her, older eyes softening ever so slightly, but not enough to forgive. Nobantu sits, phone still in hand, the weight of expectation, love, and frustration hanging between them, unspoken yet undeniable.

In KwaMashu, life continues—messy, loud, and persistent. And so does the argument that has always been waiting, just behind the door.

*

NOBANTU GWALA.

Her fifth pregnancy is no different from the others when it comes to her mother—and that irritates her more than she cares to admit. Is she giving birth with her vagina or hers? The thought has been gnawing at her all morning. It’s the same cycle every time: a new baby, the same old rules, the same old judgments, the same old money that disappears before it even reaches its intended purpose.

Yesterday, her mother handed her R1,500 to send to Phindile, the youngest, who lives in Johannesburg. But did she? Of course not. Instead, she called her boyfriend—Sxova, the taxi driver who always looks just shady enough to keep her heart racing—and they went on a shopping spree. A dare, she calls it. That’s the truth: every time money comes her way, she spends it on him, on something impulsive, something just for herself, while her mother’s worry grows heavier with every passing day.

Nobantu picks up her phone. Phindile is online. Finally, she thinks. Fingers hovering, she types:

“I hope you’re still going to send the money. Your mother needs her medication… unless you want her to die.”

Send. And just like that, the responsibility shifts, if only temporarily. Lihle comes in, tray in hand—white bread sandwiches, juice. Nobantu takes it with a soft “thanks” as the younger girl walks away. Lihle, all innocence and energy, reminds her of the simplicity she can no longer afford in her own life.

A quick mental count: Lihle, twelve years old. Sinakho, now eight years old. Siminaye, four years old. Sinalo, eight months. And now, another boy on the way—six months along, kicking in her belly like he owns the place already. All from the same father. Sxova.

She met him back in high school, Nobantu only in grade eight, him in grade twelve. Love at first sight—or at least that’s what she tells herself. It’s the only reason she keeps giving him the family he wants, the life he wants. Job hunting? Tried and failed. Tried again and failed harder. Eventually, she gave up. That chapter of her life closed before it even really began.

Now? Now, Phindile earns her own money in Johannesburg, lives her life far from the chaos of KwaMashu, and yet Nobantu still expects a lifeline from her youngest sister. It’s unfair, maybe, but it’s the way the family works. Phindile is their mother’s favorite—the responsible one, the sensible one. And Nobantu? She’s tired of bending herself to fit expectations that never truly suit her.

The house is noisy. Sinakho is pulling at the curtains, trying to peek at some imaginary drama outside. Siminaye toddles after her, squealing. Sinalo gurgles from her cradle, demanding attention every few minutes, as if reminding Nobantu that she’s never truly alone.

And then there’s Sxova. He doesn’t ask for much. A smile, a little attention. But somehow, his presence feels heavier than all the children combined. Nobantu loves him in that reckless, exhausting way that leaves her stomach tied in knots, her heart racing and aching all at once. And still, she wonders if love is worth it—or if it’s just a habit now, a pattern as predictable as her pregnancies.

She glances at her phone again. Phindile is still online. Nobantu sighs. The money will probably come through tonight, maybe tomorrow. Or maybe Phindile will forget, like she sometimes does, caught up in her own life in Johannesburg. Nobantu. holds it against her— because Phindile thinks that she’s better than her yet she’s not. She knows what it means to struggle at eighteen, to try and fail, to give up and start again. She’s been that girl too, once upon a time.

But today is different. Today she’s thirty. Mother of four—and soon, five. Keeper of a house that is never quiet, never clean, never simple. And yet, she moves through it like a soldier. Strong, defiant, exhausted, and yet still standing. Nobantu Gwala. Thirty years old. Mother of the nation.

Her fingers brush over her swollen belly. Another life growing inside her. Another chapter, another battle. She exhales slowly, letting the chaos surround her, letting the noise and the cries and the laughter and the mess wrap around her like a familiar blanket. She will survive this, as she always has. She has no choice, but also no fear. Nobantu Gwala. She is enough.

*

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