THE RISE OF TUMELO By Author’s Voice Chapter 25

THE RISE OF TUMELO
CHAPTER 25
ITUMELENG
As I arrive at his mother’s house, my heart is racing like a drum, but I know I have to stay strong – for Tumelo’s sake. I can tell he’s not thrilled to be here, and I’m worried his mother might sense his unease. I glance over at him, and he’s staring at the house with a mix of apprehension and reluctance. We step out of the car and head towards the door. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and I can’t help but feel a sense of excitement and nervousness.
As we approach the door, Tumelo lets out a huge breath, his eyes locking onto mine. “Everything alright?” I ask, my voice soft and reassuring. He shakes his head, a faint whisper escaping his lips.
“I don’t want to be here.” His voice is barely audible, but I can sense the uncertainty and fear behind his words.
I squeeze his hand gently, trying to infuse him with confidence. “We’re already here, Tumelo. Don’t disappoint your mother, you’re here because she invited you, obviously for a reason. And you invited me, now please don’t change your mind now because your mother will assume I’m the one who told you not to come – okay?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Tumelo’s eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, I see a glimmer of uncertainty. Then, he nods, his grip on my hand tightening. “Good, now let’s go,” I say, offering him a reassuring smile.
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and knocks on the door. As it creaks open, my eyes widen in awe. The interior is just as stunning as the exterior – old-school elegance with a touch of sophistication. The walls are adorned with beautiful artwork, and the floors are made of rich, dark wood. I can sense the warmth and love that fills this home, and I’m suddenly grateful to be here.
As we step inside, Tumelo’s mother greets us with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Welcome, darling! I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, embracing Tumelo tightly. I feel a pang of nervousness, hoping she’ll like me, hoping I’ll fit in.
As she hugs me, I’m enveloped in a warmth that feels eerily familiar, like a mother’s embrace. “We met again,” she says, her voice filled with genuine affection, her eyes cr crinking at the corners as she smiles. “Glad she brought you along, come sit with us.” She leads us to the dinner table, where the aroma of delicious food wafts through the air, making my stomach hum with anticipation. The table is set with fine china, and a beautiful centerpiece of fresh flowers adds a pop of colour to the room.
I take a seat next to Tumelo, who’s radiating tension like a palpable force. He’s refusing to smile, his jaw clenched in a stubborn line, his eyes fixed on some point ahead with an intensity that makes me wonder what’s wrong. His mother introduces me to his siblings, Puleng, a poised 17-year-old with a quiet confidence, and Tisetso, a cheeky 14-year-old who can’t seem to stop grinning at me. He bears a striking resemblance to Tumelo, a miniature version with an impish sparkle in his eyes – a handsome little man, indeed.
When his mother asks for help carrying the containers, Puleng and I head to the kitchen together, and I marvel at the warmth and love that permeates every corner of this home. The kitchen is a hub of activity, with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the oven. Tisetso chatters excitedly, telling me about his favorites foods and asking me about mine. I laugh, feeling a sense of ease, as if I’ve known him for years.
As we finish, a knock at the door makes his mother hurry off with a beaming smile, her eyes shining with anticipation. Tumelo’s body language undergoes a drastic shift – his neck stretches like an ostrich’s, his eyes fixed on the door with an intensity that makes me curious. His grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the tension radiating from him.
The minute the door opens, a man in his late 50s walks in, and the atmosphere thickens like fog. Tumelo’s jaw clenches, his eyes flashing with a mix of emotions – anger, resentment, and a hint of fear. I glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face is a mask, revealing nothing. The man’s eyes scan the room, landing on Tumelo, and for a fleeting moment, I see a glimmer of uncertainty.
The silence is oppressive, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. I squeeze Tumelo’s hand, trying to infuse calm into him – he should be happy for his mother, not tense like this. His mother, oblivious to the tension, smiles warmly at the man, “Ah, you’re here! Come join us, we were just about to start dinner.”
The man walks in, his eyes scanning the room with a hint of nervousness, but he quickly masks it with a confident smile. “Hello,” he says, his voice firm, as he takes a seat in the chair opposite Tumelo. The air is thick with tension, and the eye contact between them is palpable, a silent clash of wills.
The man clears his throat, breaking the silence, “Tisetso.” Tisetso’s face lights up with a bright smile, and he rushes to greet the man, clearly the most excited to see him. “Puleng… Tumelo,” the man says, his voice a little softer. Puleng greets him back with a polite smile, but Tumelo keeps a straight face, his eyes fixed on the man with a mixture of anger and resentment.
Tumelo’s mother intervenes, trying to ease the tension, “Itumeleng, this is Mandla, the man I’m currently with and our guest too.” She smiles, oblivious to the undercurrents.
I smile, trying to break the ice, “Pleased to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
As we shake hands, I can feel Tumelo’s eyes piercing me, his gaze burning with a mix of possessiveness and warning. I subtly pull my hand back, trying not to draw attention to the exchange.
I help Tumelo’s mother dish up, and we all start eating. Tumelo hasn’t touched his plate, his food staring at him like a challenge. I nudge him with my elbow and shoot him a deadly stare, trying to convey a message. He meets my gaze, his eyes flashing with defiance, but eventually, he picks up his spoon and starts eating.
The room is silent, except for the sound of clinging utensils and the occasional murmur of conversation from Tisetso and Puleng. I try to keep the conversation going, asking Mandla about his day, but it’s like pulling teeth. Tumelo’s mother tries to join in, but it’s clear that the tension is taking its toll.
As we eat, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on beneath the surface. What’s the story behind Tumelo’s animosity towards Mandla? And what’s Mandla’s true intentions? The atmosphere is heavy with unspoken words, and I’m eager to uncover the secrets hidden beneath the surface.
–––
NARRATOR
FOLLOWING MORNING…
The morning after the tense dinner, Itu is relieved that at least Tumelo behaved himself. She’s in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the both of them, the aroma of scrambled eggs and toast wafting through the air. She finishes up and calls out to Tumelo, who’s watching soccer in the lounge, “Breakfast is ready.”
She looks at him expectantly, waiting for his response. “Should I bring it there or you’ll sit in the kitchen?” she asks, her voice a little softer than usual.
Tumelo doesn’t look up from the screen, his eyes fixed on the game. “Bring it here,” he says, his voice low and gruff.
Itu nods to herself, even though he can’t see her, and carefully places both their plates on a tray, along with the glasses of juice. She heads into the lounge, the tray balanced on her hip, and sets it down on the coffee table in front of Tumelo.
He shifts over, making space for her to sit next to him on the couch. She sinks down beside him, feeling a little more at ease now that the awkwardness of the previous night has passed.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as he picks up his fork and starts eating. His eyes flicker back to the screen, but he’s not really watching the game anymore, Itu notices. He’s just trying to avoid eye contact.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the commentary from the TV and the occasional cl cling of their utensils on the plates. The tension from the previous night still lingers in the air, and Itu can sense that Tumelo is struggling to process his emotions.
Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice soft and gentle. “Are you okay?” she asks, facing him, her eyes searching for any hint of what he’s feeling.
Tumelo’s response is immediate, but unconvincing. “Yeah,” he says, his voice flat and unassuring.
Itu’s not fooled. She knows him too well. “You know you can’t lie to me, right?” she says, her voice firm but gentle, as she gently squeezes his hand.
Tumelo lets out a huge sigh, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I don’t like that Mandla guy, there’s something off about him,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Itu’s heart goes out to him, and she takes his hand in hers, holding it tightly. “Can you just give him a chance?” she asks, her eyes locked on his. “Tumelo, you don’t even know him that much, you’re not mad at him. You’re just angry that your mother is in love. Let her be loved, don’t block her happiness.”
Tumelo looks at her, his eyes searching for reassurance, and for a moment, Itu thinks she sees a glimmer of understanding. He nods, slowly, his jaw clenched. “Okay,” he says, his voice still hesitant.
Itu smiles, relieved, but she’s not naive. She knows Tumelo well enough to know that he’s not going to let his guard down that easily. He’ll do his own research, dig up whatever dirt he can find on Mandla, and then make his move. But for now, she’s just happy he’s willing to try.
As they sit there, the TV still blaring in the background, Itu can sense Tumelo’s mind working overtime, analyzing every detail, every word, every gesture. She knows he’ll have to do a background check on Mandla, just to be sure. But for now, she’s just happy he’s willing to give him a chance.
–––
FEW DAYS LATER…
Ntando is officially working at the Shell garage, and he’s relieved that it’s just a 20-minute walk from where he’s staying. No need for taxi fares, which means more money in his pocket to save for the baby’s arrival. He’s determined to provide for his little one, and being a petrol attendant is a start.
As he works, he can’t help but admire the cars that drive in. And then, a white Toyota Hilux GD6 2.8 pulls up, his eyes widening in awe. He loves Toyotas, and this one is a beauty. Tumelo steps out of the car, and Ntando’s eyes meet his, the silence between them oppressive.
Tumelo notices Ntando’s gaze and raises an eyebrow. “What are you staring at?” he asks, his voice neutral.
Ntando’s quick to respond, not wanting to escalate the situation. “I’m not staring at you, but the car,” he says, pointing to the Hilux. He’s not one to back down, but he’s also not looking for trouble.
One of the other petrol attendants, Sfiso, chimes in, “Sorry, grootman, he’s not normal.” Tumelo shakes his head and heads into the garage to grab some snacks, ignoring the comment.
Sfiso turns to Ntando, concern etched on his face. “What’s your problem? You may get into trouble?” he asks, his voice low.
Ntando clicks his tongue, unfazed. “The guy seems disrespectful, I’m not afraid of him,” he says, his eyes following Tumelo as he walks away. He turns back to attend to another car, his movements confident and deliberate.
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80+ comments & 15+ shares.THE RISE OF TUMELO
CHAPTER 25
ITUMELENG
As I arrive at his mother’s house, my heart is racing like a drum, but I know I have to stay strong – for Tumelo’s sake. I can tell he’s not thrilled to be here, and I’m worried his mother might sense his unease. I glance over at him, and he’s staring at the house with a mix of apprehension and reluctance. We step out of the car and head towards the door. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and I can’t help but feel a sense of excitement and nervousness.
As we approach the door, Tumelo lets out a huge breath, his eyes locking onto mine. “Everything alright?” I ask, my voice soft and reassuring. He shakes his head, a faint whisper escaping his lips.
“I don’t want to be here.” His voice is barely audible, but I can sense the uncertainty and fear behind his words.
I squeeze his hand gently, trying to infuse him with confidence. “We’re already here, Tumelo. Don’t disappoint your mother, you’re here because she invited you, obviously for a reason. And you invited me, now please don’t change your mind now because your mother will assume I’m the one who told you not to come – okay?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Tumelo’s eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, I see a glimmer of uncertainty. Then, he nods, his grip on my hand tightening. “Good, now let’s go,” I say, offering him a reassuring smile.
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and knocks on the door. As it creaks open, my eyes widen in awe. The interior is just as stunning as the exterior – old-school elegance with a touch of sophistication. The walls are adorned with beautiful artwork, and the floors are made of rich, dark wood. I can sense the warmth and love that fills this home, and I’m suddenly grateful to be here.
As we step inside, Tumelo’s mother greets us with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Welcome, darling! I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, embracing Tumelo tightly. I feel a pang of nervousness, hoping she’ll like me, hoping I’ll fit in.
As she hugs me, I’m enveloped in a warmth that feels eerily familiar, like a mother’s embrace. “We met again,” she says, her voice filled with genuine affection, her eyes cr crinking at the corners as she smiles. “Glad she brought you along, come sit with us.” She leads us to the dinner table, where the aroma of delicious food wafts through the air, making my stomach hum with anticipation. The table is set with fine china, and a beautiful centerpiece of fresh flowers adds a pop of colour to the room.
I take a seat next to Tumelo, who’s radiating tension like a palpable force. He’s refusing to smile, his jaw clenched in a stubborn line, his eyes fixed on some point ahead with an intensity that makes me wonder what’s wrong. His mother introduces me to his siblings, Puleng, a poised 17-year-old with a quiet confidence, and Tisetso, a cheeky 14-year-old who can’t seem to stop grinning at me. He bears a striking resemblance to Tumelo, a miniature version with an impish sparkle in his eyes – a handsome little man, indeed.
When his mother asks for help carrying the containers, Puleng and I head to the kitchen together, and I marvel at the warmth and love that permeates every corner of this home. The kitchen is a hub of activity, with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the oven. Tisetso chatters excitedly, telling me about his favorites foods and asking me about mine. I laugh, feeling a sense of ease, as if I’ve known him for years.
As we finish, a knock at the door makes his mother hurry off with a beaming smile, her eyes shining with anticipation. Tumelo’s body language undergoes a drastic shift – his neck stretches like an ostrich’s, his eyes fixed on the door with an intensity that makes me curious. His grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the tension radiating from him.
The minute the door opens, a man in his late 50s walks in, and the atmosphere thickens like fog. Tumelo’s jaw clenches, his eyes flashing with a mix of emotions – anger, resentment, and a hint of fear. I glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face is a mask, revealing nothing. The man’s eyes scan the room, landing on Tumelo, and for a fleeting moment, I see a glimmer of uncertainty.
The silence is oppressive, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. I squeeze Tumelo’s hand, trying to infuse calm into him – he should be happy for his mother, not tense like this. His mother, oblivious to the tension, smiles warmly at the man, “Ah, you’re here! Come join us, we were just about to start dinner.”
The man walks in, his eyes scanning the room with a hint of nervousness, but he quickly masks it with a confident smile. “Hello,” he says, his voice firm, as he takes a seat in the chair opposite Tumelo. The air is thick with tension, and the eye contact between them is palpable, a silent clash of wills.
The man clears his throat, breaking the silence, “Tisetso.” Tisetso’s face lights up with a bright smile, and he rushes to greet the man, clearly the most excited to see him. “Puleng… Tumelo,” the man says, his voice a little softer. Puleng greets him back with a polite smile, but Tumelo keeps a straight face, his eyes fixed on the man with a mixture of anger and resentment.
Tumelo’s mother intervenes, trying to ease the tension, “Itumeleng, this is Mandla, the man I’m currently with and our guest too.” She smiles, oblivious to the undercurrents.
I smile, trying to break the ice, “Pleased to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
As we shake hands, I can feel Tumelo’s eyes piercing me, his gaze burning with a mix of possessiveness and warning. I subtly pull my hand back, trying not to draw attention to the exchange.
I help Tumelo’s mother dish up, and we all start eating. Tumelo hasn’t touched his plate, his food staring at him like a challenge. I nudge him with my elbow and shoot him a deadly stare, trying to convey a message. He meets my gaze, his eyes flashing with defiance, but eventually, he picks up his spoon and starts eating.
The room is silent, except for the sound of clinging utensils and the occasional murmur of conversation from Tisetso and Puleng. I try to keep the conversation going, asking Mandla about his day, but it’s like pulling teeth. Tumelo’s mother tries to join in, but it’s clear that the tension is taking its toll.
As we eat, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on beneath the surface. What’s the story behind Tumelo’s animosity towards Mandla? And what’s Mandla’s true intentions? The atmosphere is heavy with unspoken words, and I’m eager to uncover the secrets hidden beneath the surface.
–––
NARRATOR
FOLLOWING MORNING…
The morning after the tense dinner, Itu is relieved that at least Tumelo behaved himself. She’s in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the both of them, the aroma of scrambled eggs and toast wafting through the air. She finishes up and calls out to Tumelo, who’s watching soccer in the lounge, “Breakfast is ready.”
She looks at him expectantly, waiting for his response. “Should I bring it there or you’ll sit in the kitchen?” she asks, her voice a little softer than usual.
Tumelo doesn’t look up from the screen, his eyes fixed on the game. “Bring it here,” he says, his voice low and gruff.
Itu nods to herself, even though he can’t see her, and carefully places both their plates on a tray, along with the glasses of juice. She heads into the lounge, the tray balanced on her hip, and sets it down on the coffee table in front of Tumelo.
He shifts over, making space for her to sit next to him on the couch. She sinks down beside him, feeling a little more at ease now that the awkwardness of the previous night has passed.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as he picks up his fork and starts eating. His eyes flicker back to the screen, but he’s not really watching the game anymore, Itu notices. He’s just trying to avoid eye contact.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the commentary from the TV and the occasional cl cling of their utensils on the plates. The tension from the previous night still lingers in the air, and Itu can sense that Tumelo is struggling to process his emotions.
Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice soft and gentle. “Are you okay?” she asks, facing him, her eyes searching for any hint of what he’s feeling.
Tumelo’s response is immediate, but unconvincing. “Yeah,” he says, his voice flat and unassuring.
Itu’s not fooled. She knows him too well. “You know you can’t lie to me, right?” she says, her voice firm but gentle, as she gently squeezes his hand.
Tumelo lets out a huge sigh, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I don’t like that Mandla guy, there’s something off about him,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Itu’s heart goes out to him, and she takes his hand in hers, holding it tightly. “Can you just give him a chance?” she asks, her eyes locked on his. “Tumelo, you don’t even know him that much, you’re not mad at him. You’re just angry that your mother is in love. Let her be loved, don’t block her happiness.”
Tumelo looks at her, his eyes searching for reassurance, and for a moment, Itu thinks she sees a glimmer of understanding. He nods, slowly, his jaw clenched. “Okay,” he says, his voice still hesitant.
Itu smiles, relieved, but she’s not naive. She knows Tumelo well enough to know that he’s not going to let his guard down that easily. He’ll do his own research, dig up whatever dirt he can find on Mandla, and then make his move. But for now, she’s just happy he’s willing to try.
As they sit there, the TV still blaring in the background, Itu can sense Tumelo’s mind working overtime, analyzing every detail, every word, every gesture. She knows he’ll have to do a background check on Mandla, just to be sure. But for now, she’s just happy he’s willing to give him a chance.
–––
FEW DAYS LATER…
Ntando is officially working at the Shell garage, and he’s relieved that it’s just a 20-minute walk from where he’s staying. No need for taxi fares, which means more money in his pocket to save for the baby’s arrival. He’s determined to provide for his little one, and being a petrol attendant is a start.
As he works, he can’t help but admire the cars that drive in. And then, a white Toyota Hilux GD6 2.8 pulls up, his eyes widening in awe. He loves Toyotas, and this one is a beauty. Tumelo steps out of the car, and Ntando’s eyes meet his, the silence between them oppressive.
Tumelo notices Ntando’s gaze and raises an eyebrow. “What are you staring at?” he asks, his voice neutral.
Ntando’s quick to respond, not wanting to escalate the situation. “I’m not staring at you, but the car,” he says, pointing to the Hilux. He’s not one to back down, but he’s also not looking for trouble.
One of the other petrol attendants, Sfiso, chimes in, “Sorry, grootman, he’s not normal.” Tumelo shakes his head and heads into the garage to grab some snacks, ignoring the comment.
Sfiso turns to Ntando, concern etched on his face. “What’s your problem? You may get into trouble?” he asks, his voice low.
Ntando clicks his tongue, unfazed. “The guy seems disrespectful, I’m not afraid of him,” he says, his eyes following Tumelo as he walks away. He turns back to attend to another car, his movements confident and deliberate.
No stickers & emojies allowed.
80+ comments & 15+ shares.