CHAPTER 1
Inside the master suite bedroom, Hlengiwe stands before a mirror. She runs her hand over the maternity dress, her fingers lingering on the slight, firm curve of her stomach. She is twenty-eight, glowing with beauty that skin products cannot buy. After years of struggle, of smelling like chemicals and grease while they built their empire from a single rusted truck, she finally feels like she can breathe.
“You are staring at it again,” a deep voice vibrates through the room.
Funani, her husband approaches from behind, his reflection joining hers. He wraps his arms around her, his hands resting over hers on her belly.
“I still can’t believe it, my love,” Hlengiwe whispers, leaning her head back against his chest. “After everything we have been through, uNkulunkulu usizwile.”
Funani kisses the side of her neck, “It is the fruit of our labor, sthandwa sami. We didn’t spend those nights sleeping in the yard of the depot for nothing. This child will never know the scent of oil or the fear of a dry bank account.”
He pulls away slightly to check his watch.
“The tankers are moving out to the Durban site today. It’s a massive contract, Hlengi. If we clear this waste by Friday, the bonus alone will cover the entire nursery renovation.”
Hlengiwe turns in his arms, straightening his tie. Her eyes cloud for a brief second with the familiar anxiety of their trade. “Is it safe? I heard the residents near the site were protesting the disposal routes again.”
Funani scoffs, a confident smirk playing on his lips. “Let them talk. We follow the law, and we take the risks they aren’t brave enough to take.” He grabs his leather briefcase from the bed. “I’ll be at the office by nine. Gatsha is meeting me there to discuss the new security protocols for the trucks.”
“Tell Gatsha he is invited for dinner,” Hlengiwe says, following him toward the door. “And tell him if he brings another bottle of expensive whiskey, he’ll have to drink it alone.”
Funani laughs and kisses her. She watches him head out and feels a small kick in her womb. She smiles, patting her stomach. “Your father is a dreamer,” she whispers. “He’s made sure we are safe and comfortable.”
The house feels too big when Funani is gone to work but today she doesn’t mind the silence. She walks through the kitchen and finds MaMhlongo, the house helper, polishing the dining room table.
“MaMhlongo, please make sure the windows in the nursery are opened wide today,” Hlengiwe says, “The scent of that new paint is still a bit too strong. I don’t want the baby breathing in those fumes before they even arrive.”
“Yes Madam, I will handle it right away. Would you like your tea in the sunroom?”
“Yes, please. Put a bit of honey in it today. My throat feels a bit dry.”
Hlengiwe wanders into the sunroom, her phone already in her hand. She settles onto the couch, adjusting the cushion behind her back. She scrolls to her closest friend and the only person she trusts with the intimate details of her life contact and dials it. The phone rings twice before a bubbly voice picks up.
“S’dudla sami! How is the little prince or princess doing today?” Sizakele’s voice is loud and full of life, instantly making Hlengiwe smile.
“The baby is fine, Siza, but the mother is losing her mind,” Hlengiwe laughs, leaning back. “I’ve been looking at the mood board for the baby shower. I’m sending you the updated list of what I want. I changed the theme, no more pastels. I want deep emerald green and gold. It needs to feel royal, not like a nursery school.”
“Emerald and gold? Hlengi, do you know how hard it is to find decor in those colors this time of year? You’re going to give the planners a heart attack.”
“They are being paid to have heart attacks,” Hlengiwe says, “I want everything to be perfect. I’ve worked too hard for this and we’ve waited too long for this baby. I don’t want a generic party where people just come to eat and gossip. This is a celebration of a miracle.”
“I know, I know,” Siza sighs. “I’m looking at the guest list you sent earlier. Hlengi, are you sure about this? You’ve left out Funani’s sister and his mother. If you don’t invite the Nhlaphos, there’s going to be a war. You know how they are. They already complain that you’ve tucked Funani away in this big house and kept him for yourself.”
Hlengiwe’s expression hardens. The thought of her in-laws makes her stomach tighten. “They don’t like me and never did. Even when Funani and I were sharing a single plate of pap and spinach in that shack, they looked down on me. Now that we have money, they think I’m ‘eating’ their son’s wealth. Why should I invite people into my space who don’t have love for me? This is a private moment. I only want people who actually care about us.”
“But the drama, Hlengi, yhu, the drama will be too much,” Siza warns.
“Let them talk, they aren’t paying for the champagne, and they certainly aren’t carrying this baby,” Hlengiwe snaps, “About the gifts, I’ve added a note. I don’t want people stressing about buying expensive strollers or designer clothes. If they want to bring a gift, let it be something small and sentimental. Anything else, Funani and I have already bought it. I don’t want my guests feeling like they have to compete with our bank account.”
Sizakele laughs, “Hlengi, you are talking about a guest list of people who work ordinary jobs. You’re asking them to come to a mansion and see emerald and gold decor, and then telling them not to spend money? They’ll feel out of place.”
“That’s why I’m covering everything,” Hlengiwe insists, her fingers tracing the edge of her tea saucer as MaMhlongo sets it down. “The catering, the transport for those coming from far, the gift bags they’ll take home is all on us. All I want from them is their presence and their silence. No cameras, no social media posts until I say so. I need to know that for one day, I can just be a mother-to-be without the whole world looking at us like we’re a cash machine.”
“You’re being fussy, mngani,” Siza teases. “But I get it. You’ve always been protective of what’s yours.”
“Because I know how easily it can be taken away,” Hlengiwe says as she thinks back to the early days, the smell of the hazardous waste trucks, the chemical burns on Funani’s hands, and the way they had to fight every competitor who tried to run them off the road.
“Calm down,” Siza says gently. “Take a sip of your tea. You’re getting worked up, and the doctor said you need to keep your blood pressure low. I’ll handle the planners, emerald and gold. No Nhlapho relatives, strictly private. I’ve got it.”
Hlengiwe takes a deep breath, “Thank you, Siza. I just want it to be perfect. When Funani comes home tonight, I want to show him the final plan so we can put it to bed. He’s been so stressed with the new waste disposal contracts. I want him to have something to look forward to.”
“He loves you, he’ll agree to whatever you want,” Siza says. “I’ll call you later with the quote for the flowers. Try to nap, okay?”
Hlengiwe hangs up and sets the phone aside. She sips her tea, the honey coating her throat. She walks over to the window and looks at the gate, rubbing her belly one more time, a satisfied smile on her lips.
“Everything is going to be perfect,” she whispers to herself.
FUNANI
He steps out of his black SUV, looks around the yard, his eyes scanning everything. This place isn’t like a normal office; it’s a graveyard for things the world wants to forget. Dozens of massive, specialized tankers sit in rows, their sides stained with the chemicals they carry. Handling hazardous runoff from big factories is a gold mine, but one mistake, leak or one bribe could send him to prison for life.
“The king has arrived!” a voice comes from the loading docks.
Gatsha walks toward him with a wide grin. Gatsha has been his right hand since the days of the single rusted truck, but today, something about his energy feels off. He’s moving too fast, his eyes are darting toward the back gate of the depot.
“Gatsha,” he greets, ” Are the trucks ready to roll out? I want the manifests checked twice. We can’t afford any spills on the N3.”
Gatsha places a hand on his shoulder, his grip a little too firm. “Relax, my brother, everything is handled. I’ve already sent the first three tankers out. We’re ahead of schedule.”
He frowns, his footsteps slowing. “Ahead of schedule? The safety inspection wasn’t supposed to happen until noon. Who signed off on the chemical stabilizers?”
Gatsha waves a hand dismissively. “I did. Why wait for some government inspector to take his time when we have money to make? I found a way to bypass the wait time. We saved four hours of labor costs.”
He stops dead in his tracks and looks at his friend, his heart starting to beat hard against his ribs. In this business, bypassing usually means cutting corners that shouldn’t be cut.
“You bypassed the inspector? Gatsha, if those chemicals aren’t stabilized properly, the pressure in those tanks will rise. If one of those trucks blows, it’s our heads on the block.”
“Trust me, Funani,” Gatsha says, “I’ve got a guy at the department. He gets a little something in his pocket, and we get to move our cargo without the red tape. It’s how the big boys play.”
He feels a cold shiver of discomfort, this isn’t how they built this. He looks past Gatsha and notices a white van parked near the back of the warehouse, one he doesn’t recognize.
“Whose van is that?” He asks, pointing at it.
Gatsha doesn’t look back but steps into his line of sight, blocking his view.
“Just some new suppliers, man. Don’t worry about the small stuff. You’re about to be a father! You should be thinking about baby names and mansions, not checking every license plate in the yard.”
“I worry about everything, that’s why we’re still alive,” he says and feels a sudden need to go to his office and check the digital logs.
He doesn’t like the way Gatsha is smiling, it feels like a mask.
“I’m going to the office,” he says, brushing past him. “I want to see the signatures for the Durban load myself.”
“Funani, wait!” Gatsha calls out, but he is already moving.
He enters the office building at the edge of the yard, sits at his desk and turns on his computer. He navigates to the private server where their secret financial records are kept.
As the files load, his eyes widen. There are three wire transfers from an offshore account he doesn’t recognize. Each one is for a massive amount of money, and each one is marked with a code he’s never seen before.
His hands tremble as he clicks on the last transfer. It was authorized just two hours ago. It wasn’t signed by him but signed using a digital replica of his own signature.
The door to his office open, he doesn’t look up, his eyes still glued to the screen.
“Gatsha, what is this? Who is paying us through a shell company in Mauritius?”
He doesn’t get an answer, instead, he hears the office door being locked from the inside. He looks up, it’s not Gatsha standing there but a man he’s never seen before, dressed in a black suit, holding a silenced pistol aimed directly at his chest.
“Who are you?”
“The problem with being a king, Mr. Nhlapho,” the man says in a calm, chilling voice, “is that you eventually become worth more dead than alive.”
To be continued
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