ZAMAHLOBO, THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 06
Sindiswa manages to calm Zamahlobo and drives her home, her own mind swirling with confusion. Zamahlobo keeps insisting a woman spoke to her in the restroom, but Sindiswa saw no one. The waiter had to pack their untouched order as Zamahlobo hyperventilated. Now, back in the apartment, Sindiswa returns from the kitchen with a glass of water.
“Zama, here. Drink this.”
Zamahlobo sits motionless on the couch, her eyes fixed on nothing. She stares into a void only she can see.
Zamahlobo. Sindiswa’s voice finally breaks through. She flinches. “Water.”
Zamahlobo takes the glass mechanically, takes a sip, and sets it down with a soft clink. Sindiswa settles beside her, her voice gentle but insistent. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine. ”The reply is automatic, hollow.
“Zama…don’t you think maybe you should see a traditional healer? ”
Zamahlobo turns her head slowly.
“You want me to go to a sangoma? ”
“Yes.” Sindiswa’s expression is deadly serious. “You’re the only one seeing this woman. She keeps telling you ‘It is time to fulfill your duties as a wife and be a protector to a husband you don’t even know.’ This isn’t random. You can’t ignore it. ” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “You know how it is. When the ancestors have a message and you don’t listen… they make sure you hear it. My cousin had a calling from my late grandmother. She ignored it, and her life became a living hell—sickness, bad luck, nightmares—until she finally accepted it and went to a gobela. This feels the same. ”
Zamahlobo swallows hard, a cold dread seeping into her bones. She’s heard the stories. The spiritual realm doesn’t negotiate with those who refuse its summons. But this can’t be for her. There must be a mistake.
–
ZAMAHLOBO
The car ride to the Inanda site stretches in heavy silence. Mkhontowesizwe focuses on the road, his profile stern and unreadable. She leans against the window, watching the world blur past. Two days have passed since the apparition, and the promise she made to Sindiswa weighs on her. She doesn’t believe in these things… does she?
Her thoughts drift to Mnqobi. His abrupt, terrified apology and subsequent disappearance are utterly out of character. She glances at Mkhonto. He has to be involved.
“Just say what you want to say.” His voice cuts through the quiet without him looking at her. What ,he reads minds now?
“I don’t read minds,” he continues, his eyes still on the road. “You’re just an open book. ”
“Did you say something to Mnqobi?” she asks, deciding to be direct.
“Who’s that?”
“My ex-boyfriend. ”Her tone is flat. He knows exactly who.
“Oh,that fool? We had a conversation. He hasn’t bothered you again, has he? ”His eyes flick from the road to her, sharp and assessing.
“No.”
“Good.”
Silence reclaims the space between them, stretching as the urban landscape gives way to greener, lonelier roads. The pressure in her bladder, ignored for too long, becomes urgent.
“Sizwe.”
“Yes?”
“I need to pee.”
He shoots her a look. “MaPhakathwayo, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Can’t you hold it? ”
“No,I really can’t. ”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, and begins to slow down, steering toward the gravel shoulder. He presses the brake pedal. Nothing happens. He presses harder, pumping it. The car doesn’t slow.
“Oh, shit.”
“Mkhontowesizwe,what’s happening?” Alarm spikes in her voice.
“The brakes are gone.I can’t stop. ”
Her heart leaps into her throat. The road curves ahead, and a massive gum tree looms at the bend, an immovable sentinel. Time seems to warp. She is too young for this. They are going to die.
Mkhontowesizwe’s actions are swift and instinctive. He throws the steering wheel to the side, aiming for the softest impact, and in the same motion, he lunges across the console, his body shielding hers as he wraps his arms around her head.
The world explodes in a symphony of shattering glass, rending metal, and her own scream. The violent jolt slams them forward, then everything is still, replaced by an eerie, ringing silence and the acrid smell of spilled fuel.
Dazed, Zamahlobo lifts her head. Mkhontowesizwe is a dead weight against her, unconscious. A dark, alarming crimson stain spreads rapidly across the white fabric of his t-shirt.
“No,no, no… ”She pushes against him, her hands coming away slick. Panic gives her strength. She kicks her door open, the metal groaning in protest, and stumbles out. Her own body screams in protest, but she ignores it. She runs to his side, wrenching his door open, and hauls his limp form out, dragging him by his shoulders onto the grassy verge.
“Mkhonto! Mkhonto, wake up! Please! ”Tears stream down her face, mixing with dust and blood. She presses trembling fingers to his neck. A pulse. Faint, but there. A sob of relief escapes her.
A deafening WHUMP makes her jump. She turns to see their car erupt into a fireball, orange flames licking the sky, consuming the wreckage. The heat washes over her. If they had been trapped inside…
With shaking hands, she fumbles her phone from her pocket and dials for help, her voice a frantic, broken prayer against the crackling inferno. He can’t die. Not like this.
–
MANDLA
The Ngwenya convoy speeds toward the hospital, a caravan of dread. Mandla drives with a white-knuckled grip, MaXulu praying softly beside him, Bongani and a silent Nelisiwe in the back. Sibonelo and Zenzile follow in their own car.
Zamahlobo’s call was a blade to his heart. Mkhonto. Hospital. Accident.
He screeches to a halt, barely parking before sprinting through the hospital doors. He finds her in the third-floor waiting area, a solitary figure pacing like a caged animal. Her clothes are stained, her eyes wild with shock.
“MaPhakathwayo. ”
She collapses into his arms,her body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs. He holds her, murmuring soothing nonsense, until he can guide her to a hard plastic bench.
“Ndodakazi, kwenzekeni?”
“Mkhonto…he’s… he’s badly hurt.” The words are jagged.
“Breathe.Tell me everything. ”
As she narrates the story—the failed brakes, the tree, the explosion—the family gathers, a semicircle of ashen faces. When she finishes, they lapse into a heavy, waiting silence.
Zenzile tugs Sibonelo’s sleeve, pulling him to an alcove near a vending machine.
“What happened? ”he asks, confused by her urgency.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses.
“Tell you what?”
“About your plan!With the car! ”
Sibonelo’s face blanks with genuine shock. “What?!”
“Shh! ”She glares as a nurse glances over.“ Are you not the one who tampered with your brother’s brakes?”
“What?No! I didn’t touch anything! ”
They stare at each other, the same horrifying realization dawning in both sets of eyes. If not them… then who?
“There’s someone else,” Zenzile whispers, her voice tinged with a new fear.“ Someone who wants your brother dead. ”
“We’ll talk later, ”Sibonelo mutters, seeing the family stir as a doctor in green scrubs approaches. He feels a confusing pang. He wants the position, not a coffin.
“Doctor? How is my son? ”Mandla’s voice is strained.
“I am Dr. Shabalala. You are Mkhontowesizwe Ngwenya’s family? ”
They nod in unison.
“How is my brother,Doctor? Will he make it? ” Sibonelo asks, the concern in his voice surprising even himself.
“He is out of immediate danger. He arrived just in time. Surgery to address the internal bleeding and stabilize his fractures was successful. He is still unconscious, but his vitals are strong. He will be fine. ”
A collective exhale of relief sweeps through them. MaXulu clutches Mandla’s arm. Nelisiwe wipes a tear. Mandla’s shoulders sag.
Zenzile,standing slightly apart, allows herself a subtle, frustrated roll of her eyes. Of course he survived.
–
Exhaustion clings to Zamahlobo like a second skin. Back in her silent apartment, she falls onto the couch, every muscle aching. The hospital visit was a blur of hushed voices and sterile smells. They’d been shooed away at the end of visiting hours, with promises of a call if his condition changed.
Her own injuries are minor—bandages, pills, a pervasive soreness. A shower does little to cleanse the day’s trauma. She climbs into bed, hunger absent, and lets the dark claim her, falling into a fitful, haunted sleep.
–
The morning light feels thin, intrusive. Zamahlobo moves through the hospital corridor, her own aches a dull echo of the dread that tightens her throat. The doctor’s words—stable, out of danger—are a mantra she repeats with each step, a ward against the image her mind keeps conjuring.
She pauses at his door, her hand on the cold metal handle. Then she pushes it open.
The room is a silent, sterile capsule. And at its center, he lies.
Mkhontowesizwe is a still life in shades of white and bruise-purple. A ventilator tube obscures the lower half of his face; his eyes are closed, lids a fragile blue. Bandages cradle his head. The only movement is the mechanical rise and fall of his chest, the only sound the soft beep and hiss of the monitors keeping him alive.
Her breath catches, not in a sigh, but in a sharp, painful gasp. A sudden, violent understanding hits her: this man, in one month of shared space has become a coordinate on her internal map.
She drifts to the chair, her movements slow, as if underwater. She doesn’t sit. She stands beside the bed, looking down at him. The distance between her hand and his is mere inches, yet it feels continental. She wants to touch him, to confirm the reality of his warmth, and the desire frightens her.
“ It’s been a week already and you still haven’t woken up . This is unacceptable Sizwe .” She whispers, her voice raw in the quiet. The words are meant to be firm, a replica of her office tone. They come out sounding lost.
A memory flashes, unbidden: him leaning against her desk just yesterday, arguing about a contract, his eyes alight with a challenge that made her own mind feel sharper, brighter.
This feeling she’s feeling now is not safe. It is a vast, nameless thing. It is the hollow behind her ribs seeing him so still. It is the terrifying realization that his provocations, his endless demands, have become the texture of her days, and she craves that texture. She needs the chaos he brings.
“Who will I argue with?” she asks the silent room. “Who will push me until I find an answer I didn’t know I had?” Her fingers twitch. Slowly, carefully, she bridges the continent. Her fingertips come to rest on the back of his uninjured hand. His skin is cool. The steady, weak pulse beneath her touch is a frantic drumbeat answering her own.
A month. Just a month. And yet, the thought of this light going out, of this formidable presence being silenced forever, sends a panic through her so pure it steals her breath. It’s a terrifying, intimate knowledge: she cannot lose him.
“You have to wake up,” she says, her voice dropping to a fierce, urgent whisper. She leans closer, her tears falling freely now, not in sadness, but in a kind of furious, desperate prayer. “Please. You need to wake up .Do you hear me? Wake up Mkhonto please”
She squeezes his hand gently, as if trying to transfer her own will into him through skin and bone.
“I am not ready for you to be quiet. I am not ready to be without you.” The admission leaves her trembling. It is the most profound and frightening truth she has ever spoken. A single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down her cheek. It falls, a tiny, silent splash onto the back of his hand where her fingers rest.
And then, she sees it.
A twitch. The barest, most imperceptible movement of his index finger against her skin.
She freezes. All sound drains away except for the pounding of her own heart. Did she imagine that? She stares, unblinking, at his hand, her entire world narrowed to that patch of skin.
It happens again. This time, a deliberate, slight curl of the finger, a weak press against her own.
Her gaze flies to his face. His eyelids are fluttering, a faint grimace tightening the unbruised corner of his mouth. The ventilator tube seems to irritate him.
“Mkhonto?” she whispers, the name a question, a plea, a prayer.
His eyes open. Not fully, just slits, clouded with pain and medication, but they find hers. There’s a familiar, defiant glimmer in their hazel depths, even now. He tries to speak around the tube, a garbled, breathy sound. He blinks slowly, deliberately, and she understands. He’s fighting his way back.
A nurse, alerted by a change in the monitor’s rhythm, appears in the doorway but hangs back, observing.
Mkhonto’s eyes hold Zamahlobo’s. He makes that effort again, a rasping breath against the machine. With immense effort, he forms the words, his voice a dry, shattered whisper she has to lean in to hear.
“It would take… more than a car crash… to kill me.”
A sound escapes her—a half-sob, half-laugh, a burst of pure, undiluted elation. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “You’re awake.”
The relief is a tidal wave, sweeping away every ounce of her careful control. Without thinking, she leans forward and carefully, so carefully, wraps her arms around his shoulders in a gentle, fervent hug, her face buried for a second in the sterile sheet near his neck. She feels the solid, real truth of him, alive and breathing.
A pained, but genuine, grunt comes from him. She feels the weak, unmoving cast of his arm between them. His voice, still a rough whisper, murmurs near her ear. “Now… you squeezing me… is definitely going to kill me MaPhakathwayo.”
She laughs, a bright, watery sound, and immediately pulls back, her hands flying to her mouth. “Sorry,” she mouths, her eyes wide with apology and joy. She reaches for the call button, but the nurse is already stepping forward, a soft smile on her face.
“Welcome back, Mr. Ngwenya,” the nurse says, beginning to check the monitors. “Let’s get that tube out, shall we? You have a visitor who seems very determined to keep you here.”
Zamahlobo steps back to give the nurse space, but she doesn’t go far. She stands rooted to the spot, her arms wrapped around herself, watching as he blinks up at the ceiling, that defiant spark growing steadier. The foreign, terrifying feeling is still there in her chest, but now it’s fused with a wild, singing hope. He’s back.
–
Before dawn, Mandla’s car winds through the misty hills of the Valley of a Thousand Hills. He pulls into a secluded homestead where modernity seems to pause. A simple four-room house stands to the side, but his destination is the large, thatch-roofed rondavel at the center of the yard. The air is still, sacred.
He removes his shoes at the entrance and steps into the dim, herb-scented interior. Animal skins adorn the walls; cowrie shells and bones lie on a low altar. The figure seated on a leopard pelt does not open his eyes.
“Mntimande. Usufikile. ”The voice is a dry rustle, ancient. “Hlala phansi. ”
Mandla obeys. Nkabinde has been his spiritual guide for decades. He does not summon lightly.
“Nkabinde,you called. What is it?”
“Do not pretend ignorance,Mandla. You know why you are here. It is time.” The old healer’s eyes snap open, piercing in the gloom. “He survived this time. He will not be so lucky next time. Not unless he is bound to her. ”
“Bound?To who? ”
“His keeper.The one meant to protect him. You have done what you can, old friend, but your protection is not enough. The ancestors demand theirs. They want their keeper by his side. ”
“Where do I find her? ”
“You already know her. She is of the Qwabe clan. ” Nkabinde’s words are final, leaving no room for doubt. “You were told years ago what is required. Do what is necessary. ”
Mandla draws a sharp breath. He knows his son. Mkhontowesizwe will never agree to an arranged marriage, to any bond he perceives as a trap.
“They must be joined,Mandla. Bound by blood . And soon. You know the consequences of refusal. Do what is right. The shadows around your son are not all human. ”
–
ZAMAHLOBO
Sindiswa is relentless, practically dragging her from her bed and driving her to the homestead of Gogo Nongoloza, a healer renowned for her clarity and power. The haunting from the restaurant has seeped into Zamahlobo’s dreams; the woman’s voice is now a nightly chant.
An ithwasana, a young trainee, meets them at the gate and leads them to the healer’s hut. Sindiswa squeezes her hand and stays outside. Zamahlobo stands at the open doorway, her heart drumming against her ribs. She takes a deep breath and knocks on the wooden frame.
“Thokoza, Gogo,” she greets, the traditional salutation feeling foreign on her tongue. She takes off her shoes and walks in .
“Hlala phansi,” comes the reply. The elderly woman gestures with her ishoba, a ritual whisk.
Zamahlobo sits on the grass mat, words failing her. The healer’s knowing eyes seem to see straight through her.
“It is true. No mistake has been made. ”Gogo Nongoloza states it as simple fact.
Zamahlobo’s eyes widen. How? She didn’t even say a word to her .
“I know everything,my child. Give me your hand.”
Hesitantly, Zamahlobo extends her right hand. The healer grasps it firmly, then, with a swift, practiced motion, makes a small, clean cut across her palm.
“Ouch! ”
Gogo Nongoloza pays no heed,guiding her hand over a clay pot, letting several drops of blood fall into the mixture inside. She releases her, adding powders and herbs, stirring as she begins to chant, her body swaying, her voice rising and falling in a guttural rhythm.
“Yohhyi! Khulumani nami, bogogo nabomkhulu!
She trembles,the spirits taking hold. You are his chosen guardian bride. You were born to protect him and all who are his! The ancestors have chosen you! It is time! It is time to become what you were born to be! It is time to fulfill your duty and keep your husband safe! Shield him from the evil that seeks him!”
“I…I think you’re mistaken, Makhosi, ”Zamahlobo stammers, interrupting the trance. “I don’t have a husband.”
The healer’s eyes fly open, locking onto Zamahlobo’s with terrifying intensity. The trance is not broken; it is focused.
“Not yet. You must accept this. You must heed the call.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a grave, resonant whisper that fills the hut.“ Or there will be consequences, Keeper. Dreadful consequences. ”
The words hang in the smoky air, not a prediction, but a decree. The path is set. This is not a choice.
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