CHAPTER 6
HLENGIWE
She opens her eyes slowly, her lashes heavy from hours of crying. For a split second she forgets of her reality and reaches out her hand to the right side of the bed, expecting to feel the presence of Funani’s back. Her hand meets nothing but cold Egyptian cotton.
The memory of the last hours comes back, reminding her that it wasn’t a nightmare. The king of this house is gone. She pulls her hand back and curls into a ball, the silence of the room ringing in her ears.
They have been married for six beautiful, hard-earned years. They survived the dusty streets, the hunger of their early twenties, and the dangerous climb to the top of the business world. Just when they were supposed to enjoy the fruits of that struggle, he is gone.
“Why, Funani?” she whispers into the pillow. “Why did you leave me to do this alone?”
Questions circle her mind, she wonders what those last seconds were like for him. Did he think of her? Was he scared? The image of him at the mortuary yesterday is burned into the back of her eyelids. She had gone there with Gatsha and when they pulled back the sheet, she didn’t see the business mogul the news was talking about.
She saw her teddy bear, the man who used to rub her feet every night without being asked. His face, usually so full of laughter and life, was still and pale. There were small cuts from the glass, and his strong hands that built an empire were cold. Looking at him, she felt a scream building in her chest that hasn’t truly left her since. She kept thinking about the pain he must have felt, the terror of the car failing him.
The shock had been so deep that her body started to shut down. She fainted right there in the cold hallway of the mortuary, waking up hours later in a doctor’s consulting room with a drip in her arm. The doctor told her that her blood pressure was dangerously high, and the stress was putting the baby at risk. They wanted to keep her overnight, but she had fought them. How could she stay in a hospital bed when her husband was lying in a fridge?
She sits up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She rests her hands on her belly. The baby is quiet this morning, almost as if the little one is mourning too.
“How am I supposed to be a single mother?” she asks the empty room. “I don’t even know how to pay the electricity bill, Funani. You handled everything, you were the wall around me.”
A soft knock comes through the door. It opens and Sizakele walks in carrying a tray with tea, toasted bread and a bowl of fruit. Siza looks like she hasn’t slept much either; her eyes are puffy and swollen.
Siza sets the tray down on the dressing table and walks over to the bed. She doesn’t say anything at first; she just sits next to Hlengiwe and pulls her into a tight hug. She collapses into her, the tears starting all over again, hot and fast.
“Good morning, my friend,” Siza whispers, rubbing her back. “I’m so, so sorry. I know words don’t mean much right now, but I’m here.”
She pulls back, wiping her face. “My head feels like it’s going to explode. There is a heavy throb that won’t go away.”
Siza reaches for the tray and brings it closer. “It’s because you haven’t eaten, and you’re dehydrated from crying. You need to eat Hlengi. You have to take your meds, and you have to think about the little one in there.”
“Does it even matter, Siza? Really? What kind of life is this baby coming into? A fatherless home and a mother who is a ghost. I feel like I’m failing before I’ve even started.”
Siza grabs her chin, forcing her to look up. “Don’t you dare say that, this baby is the best part of Funani. This child is a blessing, a reminder of the six years of magic you two had. Funani would haunt both of us if he saw you giving up on his child.”
She takes a shaky breath and nods, reaching for a piece of toast. She nibbles on it, the taste feels like cardboard in her mouth but she forces herself to swallow for the sake of the life inside her.
“The family is coming today,” she says after a moment, “They’ll be here by lunchtime.”
The thought of her in-laws makes her stomach turn. They are traditional, loud, and have always looked down at her. To them, she was the girl who trapped their successful son and kept his money away from the village.
“I’m not ready for them, Siza. I’m really not. They are going to walk in here and start talking about ukuzila (mourning) and clothes and who gets what. I can’t handle their energy right now.”
“You don’t have to,” Siza says firmly. “I’ve already spoken to your stepsister, Balungile. She’s on her way from the airport. Between the two of us, we are going to be the gatekeepers. We will handle the aunts and the cousins. If they want to pray, they can pray in the lounge. If they want to eat, MaMhlongo will feed them but they are not coming up here to stress you out. We’ve got this, Hlengi.”
She reaches out and squeezes Siza’s hand. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’d do exactly what you’re doing now, surviving,” Siza smiles sadly. “Now finish that tea. We need to decide on the service, the flowers, and the cemetery.”
She nods, feeling a small spark of focus. She needs to do this for Funani, he deserves a send-off that matches the way he lived, with dignity and class.
“I’m going to shower,” she says, “When I’m done, we need to look at the private marquee for the family and close friends. I don’t want a circus and we need to find the deeds for the family plot. Funani once told me he wanted to be buried where he could see the city lights.”
“I’ll start making the calls,” Siza says, standing up and taking the empty tray. “Take your time in the shower. Just breathe Hlengi, one step at a time.”
Siza walks out, closing the door softly behind her. She takes a deep breath, clutching her belly. “I’ve got you my angel,” she whispers to her baby. “And your Baba is watching over us. We can do this.”
GATSHA
He paces the driveway, his phone is glued to his ear as he speaks to one of their biggest logistics partners in Durban.
“Yes, it’s true,” he says, staring at a patch of oil on the ground where Funani’s car used to be parked. “The CEO passed away in a tragic accident. No, the operations will not stop. I am stepping in to oversee everything personally. I’ll send out a formal statement by the end of business today.”
He hangs up and immediately dials the next number on the list. For the last few hours, he hasn’t stopped. He has informed the site managers, and the chemical suppliers. He is doing exactly what is expected of him, being the pillar of strength, the loyal second-in-command who keeps the ship steady while the captain is buried.
Deep down, a strange heavy sensation is beginning to settle in his chest. He hadn’t expected the hollow feeling that hit him when he saw the empty garage this morning. As much as he hated being in the shadow, as much as he wanted the money, he and Funani had survived the trenches together. They had shared the same dusty blankets in the back of trucks and fought off hijackers side-by-side.
“I didn’t want it to happen like this, mfethu. But you were going to destroy us with those investigators. I had to choose.”
He says to himself and decides that he will do this one last thing right. He will give Funani the kind of send-off that people will talk about for decades.
A black Mercedes pulls into the driveway, and Zenzele steps out. He looks as composed as ever, adjusting his glasses and smoothing his silk tie. He walks toward Gatsha, his eyes scanning the yard for any listening ears.
When he reaches Gatsha, he leans in close, “You moved fast, I didn’t think you had the stomach to pull it off so quickly after our little chat in the office.”
“I told you in that office that I was taking a pause, Zenzele. I told you it was too risky.”
Zenzele smirks, “And yet, here we are. A brake failure on the M1? It’s a bit cliché, don’t you think? I suppose a coincidence this perfect serves our purpose regardless of the timing. The path is clear now.”
“Read the room, Zenzele,” he snaps, “This isn’t a board meeting, my brother is dead. If you’ve come here to gloat about purposes and paths, you can turn that car around and leave. Today isn’t about that, it’s about the man who built the chair you’re sitting on.”
Zenzele raises his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, “My apologies, I forgot you were the sentimental type. I’m simply here to offer my condolences and check on the widow. She’ll need to sign some preliminary documents for the funeral costs.”
“She’s in no state to sign anything,” he growls.
“I’ll be the judge of that. It’s a lawyer’s duty to ensure the family is taken care of,” Zenzele says smoothly.
He pats him on the arm, a gesture that feels more like a threat than a comfort and walks toward the front door of the mansion. He watches Zenzele go, his heart beating with a heavy ache. He leans back against the hood of one of the cars.
For a second, the mask slips. He blinks rapidly, forcing back the hot tears that threaten to spill over. He can’t afford to be weak. Not with Zenzele circling like a shark, and not with the Nhlapho in-laws on their way to tear Hlengiwe apart.
He takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and pulls his phone back out. There is still a cemetery plot to secure, and a legacy to protect.
“Hello? Yes, this is Gatsha,” he says into the phone, his voice regaining its professional steel.
NARRATED
In the master bedroom, the bed has been dismantled and moved to create space on the floor, as per tradition. Hlengiwe sits on a mattress on the ground, draped in a black shawl, her head bowed. The peace she needs is nowhere to be found.
MaDorothy, Funani’s mother, stands over her, her face filled with so much bitterness that years of distance have only sharpened. “You finally did it, didn’t you?” she hisses, her voice cutting through the room. “You took him from us, hid him in this glass cage in the city, and now he is cold. You successfully killed my son, Hlengiwe.”
Hlengiwe flinches as if she’s been slapped, her hand instinctively moving to protect her belly. Before she can find her voice, Nhlapho Senior clears his throat, his cane thumping against the floor.
“Enough my wife, the boy is dead. Hlengiwe, we are here to take him back to Mayflower. He is a Nhlapho, and he will sleep next to his ancestors where he belongs. The arrangements are being made to move the body by tomorrow.”
Hlengiwe lifts her bloodshot eyes. “No,” she says, her voice trembling. “That won’t happen. Funani and I built our lives here. We struggled here. He told me himself that he wanted to be buried where he could see the city lights of the place that made him. He is staying in Gauteng.”
“You destroyed him! If he was back home, under the protection of his elders, none of this would have happened. You kept him away because you wanted all this, the cars, the house all to yourself and now look!” Dorothy yells.
Sizakele steps forward, “Ma, stop it. Funani didn’t stay away because of Hlengiwe. He stayed away because he couldn’t breathe around your toxicity. He wanted a life, not a bank account for people who only call when they want something!”
The room erupts into a chaos of shouting. The aunts are wailing, the uncles are grumbling about disrespect, and Hlengiwe is shrinking into the corner of the mattress, sobbing into her hands.
The door swings open and Gatsha walks in. He doesn’t say a word at first, but his presence is like a vacuum that sucks the air out of the room. The shouting dies down into an awkward silence. He looks at the mourners and then at Hlengiwe, who is shaking uncontrollably.
“What is going on here?” Gatsha asks.
Siza points at the elders. “They want to take the body to Mayflower, Gatsha. They are bullying Hlengiwe while she is in this state.”
Gatsha shifts his eyes to Hlengiwe. “Hlengi? What do you want?”
She looks up, her face wet with tears, her voice a broken whisper. “I want him here. I want to be able to visit him. He wanted to stay here, Gatsha. Please.”
Gatsha nods, “Then that is exactly what is going to happen.”
Lungisani, Funani’s younger brother, lets out a mocking chuckle from the back of the room. He steps forward, trying to look brave.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re just the ice boy, Gatsha. This is Nhlapho blood we are talking about. You have no say in family matters.”
Gatsha turns his head slowly toward the younger man. “Lungisani, be very quiet. I know exactly who you are. You are the leech who couldn’t even finish a semester of school because you were too busy spending Funani’s hard-earned money on parties. You felt entitled to his sweat while he was alive, so you are the last person who gets to speak now that he’s gone.”
Nhlapho Senior bangs his cane again. “Gatsha! This is a family matter. Respect the elders.”
“I respect the man who is lying in the mortuary,” Gatsha counters, stepping further into the room. “And I respect his wife. Hlengiwe’s word is final. If any of you try to move that body or interfere with the funeral arrangements, you won’t be dealing with me.
You’ll be dealing with Zenzele and a team of lawyers who will have you tied up in court for years. Thread carefully, mkhulu, before we get a court order banning a lot of you from even attending the service.”
The room falls into a stunned, icy silence. MaDorothy looks like she wants to spit on the floor, but the look in Gatsha’s eyes stops her.
Gatsha looks around the room one last time. “Is there anyone else who wants to oppose Hlengiwe’s wishes?”
“Good,” Gatsha says after no one speaks. “Now, all of you, leave this room. Hlengiwe needs to breathe.”
They begin to file out, muttering under their breaths, casting dark looks at both Hlengiwe and Gatsha.
To be continued
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