ZAMAHLOBO, THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 01
I sink into my office chair and exhale a long, weary sigh. A glance at my wristwatch confirms it’s already half past one. Four hours and 30 minutes to go . Exhaustion clings to me; managing Ngwenya Logistics is no child’s play. People might think it’s all about barking orders, but the reality is a relentless tide of responsibility: recruiting, selecting, orienting, and training employees. It doesn’t end there. I oversee health and safety protocols, ensure legal requirements are met, monitor deadlines, and constantly strive to lead by example. The weight is immense. Yet, if I had to choose again, I’d walk this same path. At twenty-eight, I’m proudly independent, a manager carving her own legacy. I’m grateful I listened to my parents. They aren’t always right, but their guidance steered me well. Speaking of them, it’s been too long since I visited home. I must make time soon.
My telephone shatters the quiet.
“Zamahlobo Qwabe speaking. How can I help you?”
“Zama,it’s Owethu.” Mr. Ngwenya’s personal assistant. Her voice carries a formal urgency.
“Owethu,what’s happened?”
“Mr. Ngwenya is asking for you. He wants you in his office. Now.”
“Okay.I’ll be right there.”
I hang up,a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. A summons from the boss feels too much like being called to the principal’s office—and it’s never good. What could this be about? I mentally scroll through my recent projects, searching for a misstep. Maybe I’m just overthinking.
With another steadying breath,I approach his office and knock twice on the solid wood door.
“Come in,”his voice permits.
I push the door open.
“Mntimande, you called for me?”
“Yes,”he says, rising from his chair. His eyes flick to Owethu, who immediately gathers her notebook and slips out, closing the door softly behind her. My gaze follows her exit before returning to him.
“Please,sit.” He resumes his seat, and I lower myself into the chair opposite his desk.
“Did I do something wrong?”The question escapes before I can stop it.
“No,no. You can relax. I called you here about the event tomorrow.” Ohh yes. The company’s 25th-anniversary gala. Almost forgot. “There’s a special announcement on the agenda—a surprise. I’m retiring, Zamahlobo.”
“What?!”The word comes out louder than intended. “Why?”
Mr.Ngwenya is the best mentor anyone could ask for. For three years under his guidance, I’ve learned invaluable lessons. He is a kind, patient man I’ve come to respect as a father figure.
“I’ve dedicated twenty-five years to this company.It’s time.” He leans forward, his expression earnest. “Don’t tell anyone; it remains a surprise until tomorrow.”
Though a pang of sadness hits me,he’s right. Fifty-eight years is no small feat.
“So, who takes over? Sibonelo?” His son, the Chief Operating Officer, is the obvious successor.
“Actually,no. Sibonelo is brilliant and capable, but he will remain COO. The new CEO will be Mkhontowesizwe. My first son.”
“You have another son?”My statement lifts into a question. I’ve never heard this name.
“Yes. And that is where you come in, maPhakathwayo. I need you to guide him. Fill him in, help him find his footing. I trust you with this.”
“Me?”
“You. You are the perfect person for this. I have absolute faith in you.”
“Uhm…I would be happy to help, Mntimande.”
“Thank you.There is… a small challenge. Kwesinye isikhathi ungukhanda limtshela okwakhe. He can be very stubborn.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
“I hope so.That’s all. Remember, not a word. I’ll make the announcement at the party.”
“Khululeka,Mntimande. My lips are sealed.” I mimic zipping my lips, earning a faint smile.
“You may go back to work.”
–
The Pinetown traffic is a crawling beast. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, inching toward Sindiswa’s flat. She’s helping me find a dress for the party—a task that feels frivolous given the day’s news. Mr. Ngwenya is retiring. The thought dampens any excitement.
Finally,a gap opens. I ease my foot onto the accelerator, but a figure darts from between parked cars directly into my path. I slam the brakes, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. A sickening thud echoes in the silence.
Oh, God. Did I just hit someone?
I fumble with my seatbelt,my hands trembling as I throw the door open and rush to the front of the car. A woman is sprawled on the asphalt. “Dear Lord! Ma’am, are you okay?”
I help her up.She’s disheveled, her clothes worn thin—a person life has left on the roadside. Guilt and panic war within me. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” I apologize instinctively, even though she ran into the street.
She doesn’t speak. Slowly, she lifts her head. Her eyes, clouded yet piercing, lock onto mine with an intensity that freezes my blood. She grabs my right hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and stares at my palm.
Her voice is a raspy whisper,laden with eerie certainty.
“You are the one. You must keep him safe and all who are around him .”
A cold shiver races down my spine.“What are you talking about?”
“You are the one. You have been chosen .You must be his guardian bride .” She repeats it like a sacred incantation, releasing my hand as suddenly as she took it. Before I can react, she shuffles away, the mantra fading with her into the bustling sidewalk crowd.
I stand rooted to the spot,the noise of the city fading to a buzz. My palm tingles where she held it. What just happened? Just a homeless woman, high or confused, I try to convince myself, brushing my hands against my skirt as if to wipe away the feeling.
But the words,“You must be his guardian bride .” echo in my mind, twisting into the forthcoming chaos of a retiring CEO and a mysterious, stubborn heir. I take a shaky breath, climb back into my car, and pull into traffic, the prophecy hanging in the air like a storm cloud on a clear day.
–
THE NGWENYA HOUSEHOLD
The aroma of roasted meat and spices still hangs in the dining room air. MaXulu prefers to cook for her family herself, a ritual of love no maid can replicate. She sits beside her husband, Mandla, awaiting the others. Sibonelo descends the staircase, his hand entwined with his wife Zenzile’s, both wearing contented smiles. MaXulu’s heart swells with pride looking at her accomplished son. They exchange greetings and take their seats. Nelisiwe, her daughter, floats in and joins them. Only one chair remains empty.
Mandla’s eyes scan the room, his expression clouding.
“ Where is Mkhontowesizwe?”
“I’ll get him,”MaXulu says, rising.
She climbs the stairs and knocks gently on his bedroom door.
“Mkhontowesizwe? Dinner is ready.”
“I’m not hungry.”His voice is a muffled barricade.
“Your father won’t start without you. Please come down.”
She raises her hand to knock again,but the door suddenly wrenches open, making her gasp. He looms in the doorway for a silent moment, then brushes past her without a word. MaXulu sighs, a sound heavy with unspoken worry, and follows him down.
At the table,he slumps into his chair. Nozizwe, the maid, quickly dishes food for him before retreating.
“Shall we say grace?”MaXulu suggests. They join hands—all except Mkhontowesizwe.
“Mkhonto,”Mandla says, his voice low. All eyes turn to the estranged son. He lets out a bored sigh, finally taking Mandla’s and MaXulu’s hands, his own grip limp.
“Thank you,Lord, for the food we are about to receive, for the nourishment of our bodies, and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen.”
“Amen!”the family choruses. Mkhontowesizwe’s lips remain sealed.
Silence settles over the meal,broken only by the soft clink of cutlery. Mandla observes his firstborn pushing food around his plate, untouched.
“Baba,the party is still on for tomorrow, right?” Nelisiwe asks, brightening the mood.
“Yes,”Mandla confirms, offering her a warm smile.
“Speaking of the party…”Mandla’s tone shifts, his gaze locking onto Mkhontowesizwe. “I need to talk to you. Now.” It’s a command, not a request. He stands, his chair scraping back.
Mkhontowesizwe shoves his own chair back and follows his father to the study.
“Sit.”
Mkhontowesizwe complies,the picture of defiant indifference.
“What is wrong with you?”Mandla begins.
“Nothing. I’m perfectly fine, Mntimande.”
“I hope you are not back to your old ways,Mkhonto.”
“Well,not yet.”
Mandla sighs,a sound of profound defeat. At thirty-three, this son has already served seven years of a ten-year sentence, released only a month ago for good behavior. Every day, he is a stranger under this roof, isolated in his room, a locked vault of resentment. Yet, he is still his son. Mandla sees the ghost of great potential beneath the cynicism and is determined to reach it.
“You know tomorrow is the company’s anniversary?”
“Not that I care.Why?”
“I’m retiring.”
“So you can spend more time with your new family. Wonderful. Can I go now?”
Mandla takes a deep,measured breath. “I need someone I trust to take my place.”
“You have Sibonelo,your beloved son. You’re covered .”
“I want you to be the CEO.”
Mkhontowesizwe’s head snaps up. A dry chuckle escapes him. He searches his father’s face for a joke but finds none. “You’re joking.”
“I am not.So, you will need to let go of this… attitude.”
“Guilt is making you do all of this am I wrong? Do you think handing me your company will erase all you did to me ? ”
“No . Mkhontowesizwe, you made me a father. I love you.There is nothing a parent wants more than to see their children succeed.”
“You want me to run the company?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want your life’s work to go to ruin?”
“I trust and believe in you. This is not a request. You will become the CEO of Ngwenya Logistics. I am tired of you drifting. You will be at the party tomorrow, and you will be at the office at eight a.m. the following day. Are we clear? You may leave.”