THE RISE OF TUMELO
CHAPTER 01
“15 YEARS AGO”
The sun hung low, a warm glow seeping through the thin curtains. Tumelo lay on his back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Beside him, Zibuyile intretched lazily, hair scattered across the pillow. Two months into their relationship, today was their first time together.
It was 3 PM, the room still buzzing with after‑glow.Tumelo swung his legs off the bed, the floor groaning beneath his weight as he reached for his clothes. Zibuyile watched, a playful glint in her eyes—until she saw the crumpled R100 note he pulled from under the mattress.
“Here,” he said, holding it out, voice a mix of pride and nerves. “It’s all I have right now.”
Zibuyile’s smile vanished. She snatched the note, then flung it back onto the bed with an angry flick. “What am I supposed to do with R100?” she snapped, eyes flashing.
Tumelo’s smile faltered. “It’s… it’s all I have,” he repeated, voice cracking.
“R100?” Zibuyile cut him off, voice rising. “You think that’s enough? I want R500, Tumelo!”
She stepped back, arms crossed, tone shifting from playful to demanding. Tumelo’s heart pounded. He scrambled for words.
“Where am I supposed to get that? I’m still a school learner, I only have this,” he gestured helplessly at the note. Unlike her she’s 22 while Tumelo is 18, Zibuyile was the one that started this relationship to begin with. Tumelo is a book worm, not even that much interested in girls.
Zibuyile’s expression hardened. “Make a plan. Figure it out. Or I’m taking a taxi straight to the police station.”
The threat hung heavy in the air. Tumelo froze, blood draining from his face.
“What? To do what there?” he whispered.
“Are you paying me or what?” Zibuyile retorted, hands on hips, eyes blazing.
He reached out, trying to grab her arm, but she twisted away, I’m sure he’s thinking, ’You’ll pay for this.’
The room grew cold. The weight of the moment pressed down on him like a physical force. He watched her walk out, sandals scraping the floor, the cheap plastic door slamming shut behind her—a gunshot echoing in the cramped space.
He rushed to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to see her disappear into a waiting taxi, its engine humming like a threat. Heart hammering, he fumbled for his phone, dialed her number—ring, ring… silence.
He stared at the screen, reality sinking in. He shoved the R100 back into his pocket, the paper crinkling under his grip. The room felt suffocating, walls closing in. He sank onto the bed, head in his hands, the weight of the afternoon crushing him.
—
“AN HOUR LATER’”
Three police vans roared up to the family home, lights flashing, radios crackling. Boitumelo, Tumelo’s mother, rushed to the door, hands trembling.
“Is everything okay, officers?” she asked, voice shaking.
A stern, middle‑aged officer stepped forward. “Ma’am, your son is said he ràped Zibuyile Maphumulo.”
Tumelo froze. The accusation hit like a punch. He hadn’t thought she’d actually report him—he never raped her.
“Zibuyile…” he faltered, catching a faint, satisfied smile on her face.
“You’ll have to come with us,” the officer said, gesturing toward the van.
Boitumelo dropped to her knees, hands clasped in prayer. “Tumelo, tell me you didn’t do it.”
Tumelo stayed silent, mind racing. He climbed into the van, metal doors clanging shut behind him.
—
“POLICE STATION”
Handcuffed, Tumelo was shoved into a stark interrogation room. A white officer slammed a hand against his face, sending him sprawling. Blood spattered from his nose.
“Get up! Rapist!” the officer shouted.
Tumelo pushed himself up, face burning, but said nothing. He was handcuffed, shoulders tight.
“Sit down, Tumelo,” another officer ordered, voice flat.
Tumelo dropped onto the cold metal chair, eyes fixed on the table. No tears, just disbelief.
“Did you rape Zibuyile?” the seated cop asked, leaning forward.
“No,” Tumelo replied, voice steady despite the chaos.
The white officer scoffed. “We’re clearly wasting our time. All rapists deny. Let’s do the tests and put him in a holding cell until the results come out.”
Tumelo’s mind spiralled. _It’s over…_ He thought about it, the alleged consent, the fact he never used protection. _ ‘I shouldn’t have listened to her.’
“Come, boy,” the officer barked, dragging Tumelo out.
—
“WEEKS LATER – COURTROOM”
The courtroom was packed, faces blurred, tension thick. Evidence was presented—DNA tests, witness statements, Zibuyile’s testimony. The judge delivered the verdict: *15 years imprisonment, with 5 years reduced for time served and good behavior*.
Tumelo closed his eyes, the weight of the sentence settling like a stone. He never imagined his life would come to this—arrested for a crime he swore he didn’t commit, his future hanging by a thread.
The doors swung open, his mother’s sobs fading as he was led away.
—
“PRESENT DAY – NELSPRUIT, MPUMALANGA”
TUMELO
The city hums below, neon flickering against the night. I stand on the balcony, a glass of whisky clenched in my fist, eyes scanning the streets. The clock ticks past 9 PM, and I’m ready to hunt anyone who dares step out after curfew.
Five years ago I walked out of prison a changed man. I’m 33 now, muscles forged in concrete, scars hidden beneath tattoos—ink that covers the pain I never wanted to remember. Growing up, I never liked tattoos, but scars are far worse.
For fifteen years I haven’t touched a woman. Sex is a distant thought, a reminder of the last time I tried it and ended up in prison, ruining my future. I was slim when they arrested me; now I’m buff, veins pulsing with the rhythm of survival. I spent ten years in prison for something I didn’t do; I was the youngest and yet the most abused.
As time went by, I learnt to stand strong and fight for myself. There were times I’d lose a fight and end up in the prison hospital; then there were times I’d fight and win, though each fight left me with many scars.
I hate females with a burning intensity. Only my mother and little sister ever get close to me. The rest can go to hell, I think, tightening my grip on the glass.
Now I’m the biggest gangster in Nelspruit. I command fear and respect. My word is law on these streets.
“3… 2… 1… It’s go time.”
I gulp down the whisky, grab my gun, and step out of my apartment, dressed in black from head to toe, ready to take on the night. The streets are quiet—exactly how I like it. I walk, checking for any movement.
By the corner, a girl in her early twenties walks quickly toward me. Is she testing me? I stand in the middle of the road; her pace slows. She’s not from around here; if she were, she would have turned back already.
“Hi.” She stops, staring at me. I point my gun at her, wishing I can pull the trigger already and shoot her stupid àss. But I love seeing them in pain, so I’ll just aim the gun at her for control.
“The dark belongs to me, are you lost chicken?”
She bends, slips off her heels, and I sense she’s about to run. Before she can, I fire two warning shots into the sky. The sound reverberates, and she drops to the ground, dramatic—she wasn’t even hit.
I walk over, keeping my distance. She’s fainted. I handcuff her, lift her onto my shoulders, and think about how she’ll pay dearly for daring to walk around at this hour.
As I carry her through the deserted streets, the neon lights cast long shadows, and the city’s hum feels like a distant echo.
Arriving at my apartment, I drop her on the cold concrete floor of the basement. The faint echo of her body hitting the slab sends a twisted thrill through my veins. _I love seeing females in pain._ It satisfies a dark hunger inside me, a hunger that’s grown sharper with every year behind bars. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.
I turn away, my boots thudding against the tiles of the hallway as I head toward my room. The dim glow of the single bulb flickers, casting long shadows that crawl along the walls. Just as I step inside, my phone shatters the silence, ringing sharply.
“My handsome brother.”
It’s Puleng‚ my seventeen‑year‑old sister, still in Grade 11. Her voice is a thin thread of innocence that momentarily pulls at the cold steel of my heart.
“What?” I bark, already knowing why she’s calling. She only reaches out when she wants something.
“Mom is refusing to give me money for data.”
“I’ll transfer it,” I say, the words flat and automatic, as if I’m ordering a meal instead of funding her schoolwork. I hang up, toss the phone onto the rumpled sheets of my bed, and stride toward the bathroom.
—
As kid, he didn’t have it all, but his mother scraped together enough to make sure he and his siblings never went to bed with empty stomachs. Those nights of thin soup and stale bread forged a resilience that later hardened into something else entirely.
After his release from prison, his heart turned cold and evil. He began to chant a mantra in his mind: _All females must die._ The world seemed divided into prey and predator, and he chose the latter.
That changed only when his mother sat him down, her hands trembling, and told him, “Not everyone is the same.” The words cracked the ice around his chest, but the damage was already done; the darkness remained, now tempered by a reluctant respect for the woman who raised him.
“Present – Tumelo’s Portrait”
Tumelo Mgwenya stands tall, his skin a deep, unforgiving black that seems to absorb the light around him. Muscles ripple beneath his shirt, each one earned through relentless fights and grueling prison workouts. His lips are small soft pink, a surprising contrast to the harsh lines of his jaw. His eyes are large, almost feral.
Ink covers his arms, chest, and neck—bold, black designs that tell stories of pain, survival, and power. Every tattoo is a badge of his past, a reminder that he’s no longer the “spaghetti” kid who entered jail, but a hardened man who commands respect through fear.
Despite his striking looks, Tumelo carries a short fuse. He prefers solitude, trusting no one, keeping friends at a distance. The aura around him is a dark, electric charge—danger humming just beneath the surface, a silent warning to anyone who dares to get too close.
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