VOID Novel Chapter 6

VOID
©2026 Sanelisiwe Ndlovu Hoko
CHAPTER SIX
SINENHLANHLA
“Bath your father’s child!” Sibongile snaps.
It’s still dark, the winter morning air carves through my skin straight to bone and marrow. The tap spits out water so cold it bites my fingers. My hands shake. So does two-year-old Kayise, shivering in her soiled dress, eyes wide with shame.
“I told you yesterday not to feed her beans,” Sibongile hisses. “But you wanted to spoil her, angithi?”
“She was still opening her mouth when I was feeding—”
A slap cracks across my cheek, sending me stumbling backward into the wall. My skull knocks against brick. Stars burst behind my eyes, silencing me instantly.
“When I speak, you zip your mouth. This is my house angifuni makaka la. If you want to be shitting, I will send you to your mother.”
I nod fast, over and over, massaging the lump rising on my temple. Kayise stares at me, lip trembling. She always cries when I cry. I blink hard, swallowing the lump in my throat like broken glass.
Stupid girl. All she had to do was say she needed the toilet. I wash her quickly then dress her in clean clothes. Just as I think it’s over, Sibongile points to the soiled blankets.
“Wash those too.”
I stomp them in the basin with my bare feet, icy water sloshing over my ankles, while she watches, arms crossed, hurling insults.
“Siphokazi is stressing me, man,” she mutters, shoving me aside. “I can’t be dealing with poop at my age. I just want to enjoy my pension in peace.”
A dog barks, jolting me back to the present. It’s already dark. I’m not sure for how long I’ve been standing alone in the yard, lost in memory, staring into nothing. A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away and take a slow breath, grounding myself.
Footsteps approach and Kayise appears from the small path near the garden. She’s been gone since afternoon. She got a call from someone who needed braiding.
“What did I say about traveling at night?” I ask. “Bring the money here. I don’t want another episode of R10K hidden under the bed.”
“You don’t get to control my money, Sne,” she snaps. “Same way you don’t get to make decisions for me.”
“Calm down. What’s wrong?”
“When were you going to tell me, our aunt was here?”
I freeze. “Which aunt?” I play dumb, heart hammering.
“Don’t you dare make me a fool, Sne. Who is Lihle?”
I gulp. Before I can speak, she cuts in, “Chimney saw her at the meeting earlier and spoke to her. She told him everything.”
“I was trying to protect you, Kayise.”
“Protect me from what? You were just being selfish. Just because something doesn’t work for you doesn’t mean it won’t work for everyone else.”
“It’s not like that. Those people are evil. Why show up now when we’re grown? We don’t need them.”
“Speak for yourself.” Her voice cracks. “What evil have they actually done to us? And don’t give me that ‘they didn’t raise us’ line. Give me one evil act. One.”
I cross my arms. “Fine. Then you tell me one good thing they ever did for you. They’ve never even seen your face, not in a photo, not in person.”
“Exactly! That’s why meeting Lihle would’ve meant everything to me. Don’t you think I’ve ever wanted to meet someone from our father’s side? I had a chance and you took it away. You’re selfish, Nhlanhla.”
“I’m not selfish. When I looked at her, every hunger, every torn shoe, every night I cried myself to sleep, it all came rushing back. I almost strangled her. You’d have done worse.”
“And you stole my chance to even try. When Chimney told me, I ran to the school, but they said she left because she wasn’t feeling well. No one will give me her number. It hurts, Sne. Imagine hearing your blood is near and then… nothing.”
She steps closer, “I’ll never forgive you for this. You’re selfish, just like your mother. I’m not a child anymore. I can decide for myself. And if we’re stuck with devils on this side…” She gestures toward the house. “…then maybe the devils on his side deserve a look too. No one’s holy. No one’s clean.”
I see the ache beneath her anger. She never met our father, never heard his voice, never felt his hand on her head. My memories are faded, yes but I had them. Hers is pure absence and absence breeds hunger.
“I’m sorry, Kayise,” I whisper. “But take it as a blessing. I saved you.”
“You couldn’t save your burning house, now you want to save—”
“Nhlanhla!” Sibongile’s voice slices through the dark from the kitchen doorway.
We both jump. I head inside. I thought they’d gone to bed since they were complaining about being tired.
“I hope you’re not out there talking to boys,” she says, blowing her nose.
“I was talking to Kayise.”
Kayise follows me in but instead of greeting, she blurts: “My aunt was here. And this one,” she jabs a finger at me, “decided not to tell me. She thinks she’s the only child of—”
“Voetsek! Sit down and greet us first,” Methembe growls from the corner, pipe smoke curling around his head. “Aunt here, aunt there, for what?”
Kayise sits, but no greeting comes. That’s her. Always stubborn. Even as a child, she’d do the exact opposite of what you told her, just to prove she could.
We once visited Siphokazi in Bulawayo for holidays. She was fifteen by then if my memory serves me right. The visit lasted less than a week. Siphokazi ordered us to sit on the floor and not couches, while her other kids were allowed to sit and even jump on them.
“Couches are for sitting, not decoration,” Kayise said, plopping onto the velvet sofa.
“You’re making my couches dirty!” Siphokazi snapped.
“Am I dirty? Or are your husband’s kids clean while we’re not?”
“My husband doesn’t like it when you sit there.”
“He likes it when his kids sit, right? What about you, Mother? Do you not like us sitting?”
By morning, Sibongile had fetched us from the suburbs of high-ranking soldiers. I was furious, not because I liked sitting on floors or how Siphokazi’s husband watched me with those dark, heavy eyes, but because I loved that huge television.
Now, Methembe leans forward. “Where did you hear about this aunt? Last I checked, you were born and raised in Bulawayo under my roof. You only have uncles, not aunts.
Kayise doesn’t flinch. “I was raised under your roof only because my father died. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Which father?” Sibongile asks.
“The man who married my mother. Butholezwe.”
“Say that name one more time,” Methembe says slowly, “and you’ll leave this yard faster than you came.”
Kayise stands.
“Butholezwe Ndlovu!” she screams, voice cracking like thunder. “Butholezwe Ndlovu! BU-THO-LEZWE NDLO-VU!”
Tears stream down her face. Her chest heaves. She glares at Methembe like she’s daring him to strike her.
Silence crashes down. Heavy and pregnant with meaning.
“You act like my father was a ghost. You won’t stop me from saying his name. And yes I was raised by you. But I am not your child.” Kayise adds, her chest rising and falling.
“Kayise, stop,” I say, reaching for her.
“No, you stop!” She shakes me off. “Let me be! I want my father! I want my aunt! I want my grandmother!”
Methembe’s face darkens. “You’ll go when I’m dead. After all these years feeding you, clothing you, educating you, you wake up and say you want to run to them? They’ll have to pay me back every cent I spent on you.”
“As long as you have receipts,” Kayise fires back, “you can demand millions I don’t care.”
I don’t agree with her disrespect but part of me wants her to keep going. Because Methembe never paid a single school fee. Never bought us shoes. Never once called us “his.” He wants credit for a debt he never owed.
“Sne,” Sibongile calls, voice suddenly thin. “Give me water for my tablets.”
I stand up. My left leg refuses to move.
I try again. Nothing. I pinch my thigh; I don’t feel the sting. My foot stays frozen, numb and useless.
“My leg,” I say, tapping it harder. “Please, my leg won’t move.”
“Help me please,” I scream louder.
No one answers. They all look at me like I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
How can this happen? I walked here on my own two feet just minutes ago. Out of nowhere, my leg won’t move, not a twitch, not a tremor. It’s there, but it’s not mine. It’s just dead weight.
What kind of sickness strikes like this?