VOID Novel Chapter 9

SINENHLANHLA

It’s not that I don’t believe in ancestors, I don’t understand them. From what’s happening to me, they feel less like guides and more like dangerous creatures, sending messages written in fire, silence, and broken limbs. Messages so twisted, even the wind can’t decipher them.

The past forty-eight hours have been pure theatre, tragedy with no intermission. I’ve cried until my eyes are dry. What’s the use? At this point, it feels like some higher power or the ancestors as Chimney swears by, isn’t just watching. They’re harvesting, taking pieces of me. My house, my leg, my face.

They never planted anything in this soil, but now they reap like it’s theirs. Maybe I should stop calling them ancestors and call them harvesters.

Schools close today. Mr. Khabo summoned me for a meeting.

I bath quickly, then put on the dress Siphokazi sent. It hangs off my shoulders like a sack. It’s too big. None of the things she sent fit. I wonder if she did it deliberately or it was purely because she doesn’t know our sizes.

I change into one of Chimney’s dresses instead. It fits like it was made for me. Kayise walks in. We lock eyes.

“You, okay?” she asks.

The question almost makes me laugh. Of course I’m not okay. But I don’t have the strength to snap. Not today. Not when I can barely hold myself together.

“I have to attend the meeting.”

“I can go in your place and tell Mr. Khabo you can’t make it.”

“I’ll be fine. And even if you went, you wouldn’t know what he wants. You don’t know bookkeeping.”

She smirks. “Then I’ll carry you on my back.”

“The crutches work just fine. Don’t you have clients?”

She shakes her head. “Phone is dead silent. Like I’ve vanished from the earth.”

I give her a faint smile. “You’ll get calls soon. Don’t worry.”

I pick up the crutches. They’re Chimney’s old ones, from when he broke his leg playing soccer years ago. Walking in them feels funny. But this is my life now. I learned early how to accept what you can’t change.

The first time Methembe and Sibongile left us alone, the main house was incomplete. No windows or doors. I threw tantrums, begged, told them we were scared, unsafe, that anything could happen to us. Kayise faked a stomach-ache, tears streaming down her face. They left anyway.

Chimney taped cardboard boxes over windows, and installed an old metal door. He also registered our names to NGOs which provided food. 50kg of mealie meal, 10kg beans, five litres of oil. That’s how we survived. Now I see that Chimney has always watched over us. Always known our needs before we spoke them.

However, I hate that he insists everything happening in my life is tied to my father’s family. I hate that he pushes me toward them, like it will bring answers.

Beneath the hate, there’s fear. Part of me knows he might be right. And if he is, then after all these years of suffering, of missing my childhood, my father’s family still holds the power to break me.

What kind of selfishness is that? Showing up decades late and claiming control over my body, my peace, my future? I have no words for it. I don’t know if I can ever accept it.

At school, whispers follow me like shadows. Stares burn into my back, fortunately I was ready for this. When anyone asks what happened, I say, “I fell.” The lie is obvious. But no one dares call me out. I thought the meeting was just with Mr. Khabo and the treasurer, the usual year-end review. Instead, the entire SDC committee sits in stiff rows, faces unreadable.

“Good morning,” I say, steadying my voice which is already weird due to my twisted mouth. Mr. Khabo won’t meet my eyes. His gaze darts between the open file in front of him and the wall behind me.

“We can begin,” he says.

He reads my contract aloud, rules about dignity, conduct, being ‘the face of the school.’ Then he reaches the incident with Lihle. I check out. I already know. I’m being fired. And honestly? I don’t care anymore. I’ve used up all the ‘caring’ life gave me.

This isn’t about the job. It’s the thought that claws at me: What’s next? If they took my house, my leg, twisted my face, what more will they want? My hands? My eyes?

Chimney called it war. But who’s fighting? And why am I the battlefield?

“…for the reasons stated, the school will terminate your contract on 31 December and will not renew it.”

Silence.

All eyes turn to me, waiting for tears, begging, collapse.

“Okay,” I say. “Can I go now?”

Their faces flicker with shock. If they expected me to grovel, they don’t know me. I’ve been to hell and back. I’m not coming back to live a small, frightened life. I’m in hell now and expecting more. So fuck the job. I was going to quit anyway. How could I work like this? What if I lost my hand or eyes mid-meeting and became the school’s laughingstock?

“Sinenhlanhla,” the chairperson says, “that’s not how we do things. You’re supposed to apologise. Try to motivate us to forgive you.”

I scoff. “Motivate you? You already decided. Why waste my breath? I served faithfully for five years. I wasn’t staying forever. Thank you for the experience.”

I stand.

Mr. Khabo hands me an envelope. “Your salary.”

I take it with one hand. “Thank you.”

I don’t ask about the bonus. It doesn’t matter. For all I know, the envelope will vanish before I reach home. It will be taken by the new shareholders of my life, the ancestors.

My crutches echo down the corridor as I walk away. I thought I’d find Gift and ask for Lihle’s number if he got it. Right now, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to go home and cry. No, I want to see Chimney. He has to help me decode this message now.

Before I reach the gate, my phone rings.

“Hey, Gift,” I say.

“You’re sneaking out without saying goodbye?” he laughs. “Girl, come back. I need you. School reports aren’t done, and Mr. Khabo’s on my neck.”

I smile through the ache. Classic Gift. Mr. Khabo should be used to this by now.

“I have to go. I have an emergency.”

“Will you working over the holidays?”

“No. I’m not working anymore. Just got fired.”

He goes quiet. Then, “I’m sorry, Nhlanhla. We’ll come see you later with Olay. Really sorry.”

Minutes later, he texts me Lihle’s number.

I stare at it as tears burn. When I asked for it, I wanted to confront her about the burial, the lies, the past. But now, I have bigger things to say.

I press dial.

“Lihle Ndlovu speaking. How can I help you?”

Hearing her voice shatters me.

Tears flood relentless. Not anger this time. Just pain. Raw, unfiltered pain. She doesn’t hang up.

“Take a deep breath,” she says softly. “I’m right here. However long you need. Yes, love, you’ve got this.”

Within minutes, I’m calm.

“You’re speaking to Lihle Ndlovu from the Department of Social Services,” she adds gently. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen.”

I end the call abruptly.

She didn’t know it was me. All the warmth, it was just her job. I feel like a fool for thinking it was because she cared about me.

She calls back. I reject it. She calls again. This time, I answer.

“It’s… it’s me,” I whisper.

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s Sinenhlanhla.”

“Nhlanhla?” Her voice cracks. “Oh my God! My baby girl. I’m here for you, my love. You don’t have to carry this alone. Aunt Lihle is listening.”

No one has ever invited me to speak like this. No pressure, no judgment. Just space and partnership.

“It’s a lot,” I say. “I don’t know where to start.”

“You can tell me anything you want to share.”

I take a breath. “My house burned two weeks ago. I lost everything. Three days ago, my leg stopped working. Then my mouth twisted sideways, my eye too. Today, I lost my job.”

“Oh, Nhlanhla…” Her voice trembles. “That’s too much for one person. I can’t imagine—”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not asking for help. Or money. I’m just… telling you.”

“Nhlanhla, I feel your pain. Even if you’re not asking, I want to help. Let me- not as your aunt, but as Lihle, a stranger who sees you. Your house burnt down, you need financial help to rebuild. You lost a job, you need to apply for a another one. About your leg, how are you moving around? Do you have someone helping you?”

Her words are a sponge soaking up every drop of my grief. A ray of sun cracking through storm clouds.

“I have Kayise,” I say, smiling despite myself. “She already calls me ‘Nyawana.’ But she helps me.”

Lihle chuckles. “Kayise sounds troublesome. How can she call you that?”

“She forgets I’m older. That I changed her diapers and—”

A sharp pain shoots up my left leg. I look down. The same leg that wouldn’t move. I wiggle my toes. They move. I lift my foot, stomp it hard on the ground, once, twice, three times. It works.

“Nhlanhla? You still there?” Lihle asks.

“Yes,” I say, breathless. “Something came up. I have to go. Bye.”

I grab my crutches, not to lean on, but to run. I sprint down the small path that leads home like a child who just remembered how to fly. I can walk again.

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