ZAMAHLOBO ,THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 16
ZAMAHLOBO
She is in the garden later that afternoon. She is ostensibly pruning roses, but her movements are distracted, her gaze distant. The weight of what she suspects about Sibonelo and Zenzile sits heavily on her. She just can’t accuse her infront of the family with no evidence.
“A penny for your thoughts,Makoti,” A voice says, settling on a stone bench nearby.
She sighs,putting down her shears.
“It’s Sibonelo, Baba. Something is… not right with him.”
The man’s wise,weathered face grows solemn. He nods slowly. “I have felt it too. A shadow on his spirit.”
“It’s more than just resentment over the CEO position,” She ventures, choosing her words carefully. “It’s like he’s two different people. One minute clear, the next… clouded. And Zenzile is always there in the clouded moments.”
The man stares out at the horizon,where the sun is beginning its descent. “There are battles, ndodakazi, that are not fought with fists or words. They are fought here,” he places a hand over his heart. “And sometimes, dark tools are used to wage them. Umuthi can bind a man’s will as surely as chains bind his feet.”
“You think she’s using witchcraft on him?”
“I think he is lost in a forest not of his making,” He says diplomatically, but his meaning is clear. “A Keeper’s duty is to protect the family from all threats, seen and unseen. Sometimes, the most dangerous poison is served in a loved one’s cup.”
He stands, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Be watchful. Be wise. The truth, when it comes, will be a bitter medicine. Be ready to help him swallow it. You know what to do.” With that, he walks back to the house, leaving Zamahlobo with a confirmed dread and a reinforced sense of purpose.
“MaPhakathwayo . Zamahlobo?” Mkhontowesizwe’s voice brings her out of her haze .
“Where are you lost?” He asks . She looks around and she’s pruning roses . She stares on her side , the bench is the . Was she imagining everything? It then dawns to her that she doesn’t recognize the man she was talking to and yet she called him baba.
“MaPhakathwayo.” Mkhonto calls out again.“ Love are you okay? ”
“Yes… Yes I’m fine . ”
–
The digital clock on Zamahlobo’s office wall clicks to 5:30 PM. She takes a steadying breath, gathers her handbag, and walks not toward the executive elevator that would take her to Mkhontowesizwe, but down the hall to Sibonelo’s corner office.
His door is slightly ajar. She knocks once and enters. He looks up from his computer, surprise flattening his expression.
“Zamahlobo. Is everything alright?”
“I need a favor,”she says, closing the door softly behind her. Her voice is low, urgent. “I need you to drive me somewhere .”
Sibonelo leans back in his chair, a faint, wary smile touching his lips.
“Drive you? Why doesn’t Mkhonto take you? Or your driver?”
“It can’t be Mkhonto.And I don’t need a driver. I need you.” She meets his gaze, unwavering. “I’ll explain everything in the car. Please, Sibonelo. It’s important.”
Something in her tone—the gravity, the quiet plea—cuts through his initial reluctance. He studies her for a long moment, then sighs, grabbing his keys from the desk drawer.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
–
The silence in Sibonelo’s luxury sedan is thick for the first ten minutes as they leave the industrial park behind, heading toward the older, rural outskirts.
“So?”he finally asks, glancing at her. “Where are we going, and why the secrecy?”
“We’re going to see someone who can help,”Zamahlobo says, watching the cityscape give way to scrubland and scattered homesteads.
“Help with what?Is this about the company? Father?”
“It’s about you,Sibonelo.”
He laughs, a short, nervous sound.
“Me? I’m fine.”
“You’re not,”she says softly, turning in her seat to face him. “The coffee you drink every morning. The one Zenzile makes for you. I’ve been switching it out. For weeks.”
The car swerves slightly as his grip tightens on the wheel. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about umuthi, Sibonelo. In your cup. I’ve seen it. I’ve dreamed it. And I’ve been trying to stop it. But replacing the tea isn’t enough. She’s still in your head. We need to get it out.”
His face pales. He wants to deny it, to call it madness, but a deep, unsettled part of him knows. It knows the fog, the lost hours, the anger that isn’t his and the compliance that feels foreign. He says nothing, but his foot presses harder on the accelerator.
–
When Zamahlobo directs him to turn onto a dusty, secluded road leading to a large traditional homestead, a cold dread begins to pool in Sibonelo’s stomach. He parks outside a weathered but sturdy fence.
“Where is this?” he asks, his voice tight.
“A place of clarity,”Zamahlobo says, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Come on.”
The moment his shoes touch the dry, reddish earth of the yard, a wave of nausea hits him. It’s not a smell or a sound, but a feeling—a vibrational dissonance that seems to resonate in his very bones. The air feels heavier here .
“Zamahlobo…” he starts, but she is already walking toward the large, central rondavel.
He follows, each step feeling more labored. A prickling heat spreads across his skin, starting at the base of his neck. He begins to shift uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as if his blazer is suddenly three sizes too small.
“I don’t feel right,” he mutters, wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow. The tranquil yard, with its grazing chickens and hanging herbs, feels to him like a cage. His heart begins to drum an erratic rhythm against his ribs. The heat intensifies, crawling up his scalp and down his spine, not like a fever, but like a purge—as if something foreign inside him is recoiling, burning under an invisible light.
Zamahlobo watches, her own fear rising. She sees the genuine distress on his face, the way his eyes dart around wildly, seeking an exit. This is more than reluctance; this is a physical revolt.
Just as Sibonelo turns to her, panic etching his features, the bead curtain over the rondavel entrance clacks softly.
Gog’Nongoloza steps out.
She is as still as the ancient earth, her eyes seeing everything. Her gaze sweeps past Zamahlobo and fixes on Sibonelo, who takes an involuntary step back, a choked gasp escaping him. The burning sensation spikes.
“Don’t be scared .,” the old healer says, her voice a dry rustle that seems to still the very air. “You have brought him at last.” Her ancient eyes hold Zamahlobo’s. “You took long. The chains have grown tight. They have buried themselves deep.” She then turns her full attention to Sibonelo, who is now visibly trembling, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. “And you, ndodana… you have been living in a house that is not your own. Come. It is time to evict the tenant in your mind.”