CHAPTER 23
Morning arrives, bright and clear. They are prepared for the day ahead .
“My handbag,” Zamahlobo says, scanning the room.
Mkhontowesizwe grabs it from the chair and passes it to her. “Anything else?”
“No, wait—” She holds up a hand, tilting her head. “Do you hear that?”
A distant, raised voice—a woman’s voice, strained and unfamiliar—filters up from the foyer. They exchange a glance and step out of the room .
As they descend the stairs, the words become clear.
“…have a right to see him! He needs to know!”
They reach the bottom step. The scene in the grand foyer is a frozen tableau of tension. MaXulu stands like a shield, her back to the stairs, facing a woman they cannot see. Mandla, Sibonelo, and Zenzile are gathered nearby, expressions ranging from shock to confusion.
“Ma, what’s happening?” Zamahlobo asks, her voice cutting through the static.
MaXulu starts, then slowly, deliberately, steps aside.
The woman standing there is in her late twenties, her pretty face etched with anxiety and a fierce determination. Her eyes, wide and searching, lock directly onto Mkhontowesizwe.
A jolt of recognition—and sheer, unadulterated shock—electrifies him. His blood runs cold. It is a face from a past life, a chapter he believed was irrevocably closed.
The woman’s tense expression breaks into a tremulous, tearful smile.
“MK… it’s true. You’re out.”
Zamahlobo looks from the stranger’s emotional face to her husband’s pale, stunned one. “Mkhonto? Do you know her?”b
“Yes, she’s…” he begins, his voice hoarse, struggling to form the words.
The woman takes a step forward, her gaze never leaving his. She finishes the sentence for him, her announcement ringing through the silent, stunned house.
“I’m Phumelele. His ex-girlfriend.” She pauses, letting the title hang in the air before delivering the blow that shatters the morning’s peace. “And the mother of his child .”
A deafening silence swallows the hall. Every pair of eyes swings to Mkhontowesizwe. Zamahlobo stares at him ,both in disbelief and discombobulation ,her own question a strangled whisper.
“You have a child, Mkhonto?”
Not one that I know of . Mkhonto says ,he too completely discombobulated.
Phumelele’s voice, now thick with tears, fills the void. “After you were sentenced… I found out I was seven weeks pregnant.”
“Whaaat?!” The word isn’t just a question; it is a gasp of pure, collective disbelief, torn from the chest of everyone present.
A glacial silence follows Phumelele’s announcement, broken only by the ragged sound of Mkhontowesizwe’s breath.
“What?” The word is a blade.
“Yes,” Phumelele affirms, her chin trembling but held high.
“So you’re telling me,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, controlled register, “that for eight fucking years, you hid the fact that I have a child?” He takes a step toward her, the air crackling with his rage. Phumelele meets his gaze, but offers no defense, her silence more damning than any excuse.
“Yah neh. Kulungile.” The switch is abrupt, chilling. He turns and grabs Zamahlobo’s hand. She is still rooted to the spot, her mind a whirlwind of shock.
“MaPhakathwayo, let’s go.”
“MK, what are you saying?” Phumelele cries, desperation slicing through her composure. “You’re just going to leave?”
He spins back to face her, his laughter a short, harsh bark. “What did you expect? That you’d drop this bomb and I’d start singing and dancing? Are you crazy, Phumelele? Are you actually out of your mind?”
“Mkhonto, maybe we should—” Zamahlobo begins, her voice thin.
“No, Zamahlobo .” He cuts her off, his eyes still locked on Phumelele. “She happily waited eight years. I’m sure she can wait a few more hours until I’m done with work.” He closes the distance between himself and Phumelele in two swift strides. His next words are a venomous whisper meant for her ears alone.
“And wena, listen to me carefully. I don’t know who sent you or what you really want. But do me a favor: crawl back into whatever hole you came from. I don’t want to see you when I get back. Or you remember exactly what I’m capable of. I haven’t forgotten your betrayal. ”
He pulls back, the threat lingering in the air between them. Taking Zamahlobo’s hand again, his touch is firm but gentle. “Sthandwa sami, let’s go.”
He leads her out, leaving Phumelele standing alone in the echo of his fury, the entire family staring after them in stunned silence.
–
The car ride is a pressure cooker. Mkhontowesizwe grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, but he’s humming a maskandi tune with forced, unsettling cheerfulness.
“So, are we just going to pretend like nothing happened?” Zamahlobo’s question cuts through the music.
He glances at her. Her face is all serious lines and quiet worry, not a trace of the morning’s earlier warmth. He sighs, a sound of profound exasperation, and abruptly swerves the car onto a quiet gravel shoulder, cutting the engine.
The sudden quiet is immense.
“I’m sorry,” he says, staring straight ahead.
“For what?”
“My ex-girlfriend showing up unannounced. Dropping a nuclear warhead on our morning.”
“Why are you apologizing for her?”
“Aren’t you mad?”
“No. Of course not. Why would I be mad? You said it yourself, she’s your past.” She reaches over, placing a hand on his arm. “But the child, Mkhonto. What about what she said?”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, I do. I get that you’re furious, but—”
“There are no ‘buts,’ mama!” he explodes, finally turning to her, his eyes blazing. “She hid the fact that I have a child for eight years! Eight! She could have written. She could have visited just to say that. She did visit me in prison—to tell me she was leaving me! But a child? That she couldn’t mention?” He runs a hand over his face, the anger giving way to a raw, bewildered pain. “I don’t blame her for moving on. I was gone. But this? Did you expect me to rejoice? To throw a party?”
“That’s not what I meant,” she says softly, but firmly. “Mkhonto, what if she’s telling the truth? Phumelele wronged you, deeply. But that child… it isn’t his/her fault. Do you want him—or her—to grow up hating you the way you hated your father?”
The question lands like a physical blow. He deflates, the fight leaving him. He looks out the windshield, his profile etched with conflict.
“No,” he admits, the word barely audible.
“Then you have to do what’s right. Not for her. For the child.”
–
ZENZILE
The room is just a room now. Empty of meaning. Zenzile takes one last, slow glance around the space that has been her home for three years. Her suitcase handle is cool and solid in her grip. She exhales, a long release of air that feels like letting go of a dream she never really had.
It’s time.
She places a hand on the gentle curve of her belly, a silent apology to the life within.“ I’m so sorry, little one. ”A tear escapes, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, leaving a damp streak. She will not break down here.
Dragging her suitcase behind her, she walks downstairs. In the foyer, she nearly collides with Sizakele
“Sizakele, where’s MaXulu?” She finds herself asking, a last, feeble thread to this family.
“She left a while ago, ma’am. Can I help you with something?” the housekeeper asks, her eyes flickering to the suitcase.
“No. Thank you.” Zenzile’s voice is firm. She continues outside, the sunlight feeling foreign on her skin.
Mondli, the family driver, is leaning against the car, scrolling on his phone. He looks up, startled.
“Ma’am, let me help you.” He springs forward, taking the heavy bag from her. “Are you… going somewhere?”
“Yes. Please, drive me home.”
“Home?” he blurts, then catches himself. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.” He efficiently stows the luggage in the trunk. As she slides into the back seat, the leather cool against her skin, she doesn’t look back at the house. She simply watches it grow smaller in the rearview mirror until it disappears.
–
“Thank you. Keep the change.” Zamahlobo steps out of the Uber, the door shutting with a solid thud that echoes her resolve. It’s her lunch hour, but food is the furthest thing from her mind. The weight of the morning—the vision, the confrontation, the unseen child—presses on her like a physical burden. She needs answers that logic can’t provide.
She stands before Gog’Nongoloza’s homestead. The air here always feels different—thicker, older. Taking a fortifying breath, she walks through the gate.
An ithwasana, a young trainee, meets her with a silent nod and leads her to the familiar, smoke-darkened hut. Zamahlobo toes off her shoes, the dry earth cool beneath her feet. A shiver, one she can never suppress, travels down her spine as she ducks inside.
“Thokoza, gogo.”
Gog’Nongoloza is seated by the low fire. She lifts her head slowly. Her eyes, milky yet seeing everything, fix on Zamahlobo .They are deep pools of knowing that strip away pretense.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” the old woman croaks, no greeting necessary.
Zamahlobo flinches. “How do you know?”
A low, rattling chuckle. “I am an omniscient, child. The whispers of the future are loud to me. Sit.”
Zamahlobo moves further in, settling on the cowhide mat. The scent of imphepho and damp soil closes around her. “I don’t understand. Why is this happening to me? First, it was the homeless woman .Then, when I touched Sibonelo, those flashes… and now Zenzile. What are these visions?”
“If not you, then who?” Gog’Nongoloza’s voice is stern. “You have a gift you refuse to name. The gift of precognition. You are a prognosticator. A see-er of what is to come.”
“What does that mean?” Zamahlobo whispers, dread coiling in her stomach.
“In simple terms,” the sangoma says, her gaze unwavering, “what you see… will come to pass. The shadow you saw on the child… it is a truth waiting to be born.”
“No.” Zamahlobo’s refusal is immediate, visceral. “That can’t happen. Zenzile… for the first time, she was sincere. The child is changing her. She’s becoming someone better. This would destroy her!”
“It is not up to you to bend the river’s course. The vision does not lie.”
“It can’t happen!” Zamahlobo insists, her voice rising with desperation. “She doesn’t deserve that pain. The child can’t die, gogo!”
Gog’Nongoloza’s expression is one of ancient, immutable sorrow. “It is meant to be. The child has to die. Some paths are written before the first step is taken.”