ZAMAHLOBO,THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 05
SIBONELO
A strange, serene energy hums through him as he buttons his crisp white shirt. He selects a tie—a deep burgundy, the color of quiet power—and knots it with practiced precision. He is whistling.
Zenzile enters, bearing a cup of coffee, her expression a thundercloud. He accepts it with a bright smile.
“Thank you, my lovely wife.”
She rolls her eyes, the gesture heavy with contempt. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you seriously asking me that? Instead of scheming to remove your brother, you’re here smiling, playing dress-up. Are you for real?”
“Zenzile, awume! Please.” He takes a sip, savoring the bitterness. “Dad made him CEO. Not me. Why can’t you accept that?”
“I can’t accept it because it’s wrong. That position is yours.”
“Well,he has it. And I’m perfectly fine with it.” He sets the cup down, his eyes glinting with a secret amusement. “In fact, I’m going to help him. So please, stop putting these ideas in my head.”
Zenzile stares at him as if he’s sprouted a second head. She’s trying to secure their future, and he’s accusing her of putting ideas in his head?
Suddenly, Sibonelo chuckles. Then the chuckle swells into a full, genuine laugh. He doubles over, the sound rich and unnerving in their spacious bedroom.
“Look at your face right now!” he manages between laughs.
Zenzile folds her arms, her frown deepening into a trench of confusion. She waits, silently fuming, for the lunacy to pass.
Finally, he wipes a tear from his eye, the laughter subsiding into a dangerous, calculated smirk. “Now that,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “is what I call an outstanding performance, my dear wife.”
The pieces click into place. Her anger evaporates, replaced by dawning understanding. “Wait a minute… don’t tell me that was all…”
“A performance? Exactly.” He steps closer, his voice low and smooth. “If you believed me so easily, imagine what Mntimande is thinking right now. He thinks his obedient son has accepted his fate. So if, say, the new CEO were to fail spectacularly… who would he suspect? Not his supportive, forgiving son.”
A slow, vicious smile spreads across Zenzile’s face. “You’re going to sabotage him.”
“I’m going to help him,” Sibonelo corrects, the word laced with poison. “Right onto the path of his own ruin. I’ll show Mntimande what a monumental mistake he’s made. He’ll have no choice but to give the company to the son who can actually save it.”
Zenzile throws her arms around his neck. “What a brilliant plan, sthandwa sami. I love you so much.”
He pats her back,his gaze already distant, plotting the first move. “I love you too.”
–
After a breakfast spent playing the role of the contented son, Sibonelo heads to the office. The walk to Mkhontowesizwe’s door feels longer than usual. He knocks twice, the sound crisp against the polished wood.
“Come in.”
Seeing Mkhontowesizwe behind the CEO’s desk is a physical blow. His desk. His chair. A hot wave of rage threatens to break his carefully constructed calm. He swallows it, forcing every muscle in his face to relax into a mask of contrite warmth.
“Bafo,” he says, the familial term feeling like ash on his tongue.
Mkhontowesizwe looks up, his expression unreadable. Sibonelo gestures to a chair, receiving a slight nod before sitting. He leans forward, the picture of earnest reconciliation.
“I wanted to talk to you this morning, but you left early.”
“I had an errand. What is it?” Mkhontowesizwe’s reply is blunt, offering no quarter.
Sibonelo clears his throat, rubbing his palms together in a show of nervous sincerity. “I… I wanted to apologize. For my behavior. It was uncalled for.”
“For what, specifically?” Mkhonto isn’t making this easy.
“For… everything. My reaction. I was wrong.” Sibonelo lets his shoulders slump, a portrait of defeated humility. “I’ve always trusted Baba’s judgment. I have to trust it now. Please, forgive me. And if you need anything—anything at all—my door is right next door. I believe you’ll be a great leader .”
The lie flows smoothly, coated in honey. Mkhontowesizwe studies him for a long moment, then gives a slow, accepting nod. “I didn’t expect that. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Sibonelo’s smile is beatific. He stands and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. In the hallway, the smile vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, determined glare. The game is on.
Mkhonto watches the door close, a faint frown on his face. The apology was… unexpected. Not that it changes anything. Sibonelo is merely a player in a house he never asked to re-enter. Still, if it meant less drama, he’d take it.
Being CEO is a different kind of prison. The paperwork is endless, the decisions weighty and monotonous. He misses the brutal, simple clarity of the streets.
His phone vibrates, a welcome interruption. He has been waiting for it for almost an hour now . He answers immediately. “Tell me.”
“I have him.”Sakhile’s voice is all business.
“Name?”
“Mnqobi,or something. Didn’t care to ask. He’s not in a talking state.”
A grim satisfaction settles in Mkhonto’s chest.“Good. I’m on my way.”
He informs Owethu to clear his schedule, a volatile energy driving him. He shouldn’t care this much. Zamahlobo is just an employee, a stubborn, intriguing woman he’s known for a month. Yet the image of the faint swelling under her makeup fuels a cold, protective fury he doesn’t fully understand. Men who hit women are the lowest form of life—cowards who prey on the vulnerable.
He arrives at an unmarked warehouse on the industrial outskirts. Sakhile meets him inside, a mountain of silent loyalty. They exchange a fist bump, no words needed.
“He’s in the back,”Sakhile says, nodding toward a door. “Got everything you asked for. Have fun. But not too much,” he adds, a pointed look reminding Mkhonto of his parole. “You’re still on a leash.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Mkhonto’s smile is all teeth.
He enters the sparse, concrete room. Mnqobi is slumped in a chair, hands bound, a bruise already blooming on his face. Mkhonto picks up a bucket of icy water and throws it without ceremony.
Mnqobi jolts awake, sputtering and choking.
Mkhonto drags a chair opposite him and sits,a king before a condemned man.
“Who are you? Why am I here?” Mnqobi’s bravado is weak, laced with fear.
“Usithathaphi isbindi sokushaya umfazi?” Mkhonto’s voice is dangerously quiet.
The color drains from Mnqobi’s face. He remembers.
“Ngikubuze umbuzo. Ngithe usithathaphi isbindi sokushaya umfazi [ I asked you a question. How dare you lay your hands on a woman ]?”The question is a whip-crack this time.
Before Mnqobi can form a lie, Mkhonto’s hand flashes out—a sharp, stinging slap that echoes in the empty space. He grabs the man’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Listen here, mfana wami. You will never—ever—lay a hand on a woman again. Do you hear me?” His grip tightens on Mnqobi’s throat, not quite cutting off air, but promising the ability. “You don’t deserve the title ‘man.’ Only cowards do what you did.”
“I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” The plea is a panicked gurgle.
“Of course you won’t. ”
Mkhonto releases him with a shove of disgust. “You’ll do one more thing. You will disappear from Zamahlobo’s life. Permanently. I would end you this instant and enjoy it, but I’m not throwing away my freedom for garbage like you. Stay away from her.” He leans in, his final words a lethal whisper. “ Noma ,ngizwe ungizwe kahle,ngizokuphambanisa nezulu, trust me you.”
The threat hangs in the cold air, absolute and terrifying. He stands, leaving Mnqobi shivering in his bonds, the lesson brutally etched into his bones.
–
ZAMAHLOBO
After Mkhonto’s abrupt departure, the walls of her apartment began to close in. Silence has never been her friend; it leaves too much room for the memory of the slap, the stranger’s prophecy, the unsettling intensity in Mkhonto’s eyes.
She lasts two hours, counting the ticks of the clock, before she calls Sindiswa.
“Hey, girl!” Sindi’s voice is a balm.
Instead of accusations about last night, she hears herself asking how she is. The normalcy is a lifeline. When Sindi suggests shopping, she agrees with desperate relief.
Sindi picks her up, filling the car with chatter about a new client. The mall is a cathedral of distraction, a place to focus on fabrics and colors .
Later, settled in a booth at Pine Creek Spur, surrounded by the comforting chaos of families and sizzling platters, Zamahlobo feels almost normal. They order a feast: ribs, burgers, steak, cold drinks. For the first time today, she’s ravenous.
“Sindi, I’ll be right back. Just need the ladies’ room.”
The restaurant bathroom is empty,tiled in calming beige. She finishes, washes her hands, and glances in the mirror to check her lipstick.
Her blood turns to ice.
She is there. In the reflection. Standing right behind her.
Zamahlobo whirls around. The room is empty. She spins back to the mirror. The woman is still there—tangled hair, intense eyes locked on hers.
“The ancestors demand what is theirs,”the reflection mouths, its voice a dry rustle that seems to come from inside Zanokuhle’s own skull. “ The time has come to fulfill your duties of a wife .”
“No…”Zanokuhle whispers.
“THE TIME HAS COME TO FULFILL YOUR DUTIES OF A WIFE!” The voice booms, echoing, multiplying, filling the tiled room until it’s the only sound in the universe.
Zamahlobo clamps her hands over her ears, a scream tearing from her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, begging for it to stop.
“Please stop ! Please! ”She cries .
A hand touches her shoulder. She flinches violently.
“Zama ! Zama, what happened? Why did you scream?”
It’s Sindiswa,her face pale with alarm, grounding her . Zamahlobo collapses into her friend’s arms, trembling, the echo of the prophecy now a permanent scar on her mind.